I learned all about ‘Béal Feirste’ while sitting here with Nan as she sipped her coffee. She’d tell me the tales of Old Ireland. Of warriors, faeries and battles. And cows. I recall cows being very critical in ye olde Irish myths.
Nanny Bet has barely aged since I last saw her. Her pure white hair falls loose over her shoulders and her dark green eyes are sharp as always. We stand in the garden while she and Mum have a brief conversation. I think Mum is a bit scared of her. Not that Nanny Bet is scary, but she’s very direct. ‘Politeness is just dishonesty in drag,’ is one of her favourite quotes. Mum isverypolite. I am too. We got so used to walking on eggshells at home, worrying about setting Dad off.
Mum picks at her fingers as they talk about work, the move, the weather, Nanny Bet’s cat Fergal (‘He’s a bloody arsehole, but I love him’) and the sunflowers she planted. They talk about everything except Dad.
Standard.
Mum eventually leaves us to it.
‘So,’ says Nanny Bet as she sits down beside me on her patio chair, her opal beads clacking like pebbles in a stream, ‘how’re you doing?’
I shrug. ‘Fine, you?’
She rolls her eyes and shrugs dramatically. ‘Fine, you?’ It’s an adequate impression of my accent and I snort.
‘That’s better.’ She winks. ‘Now, how are you really? What’s going on in that head of yours?’
I’m possibly losing my mind.
I stop myself shrugging again. ‘I’m OK.’ She doesn’t break her gaze. She needs more than that. I swallow. ‘I…I’m finding the move tough. I miss my friends and…I’m worried I’ll not fit in here.’ The heat of shame tingles at the base of my neck.
‘Fitting in is overrated,’ says Nanny Bet, with a glance towards her neighbours’ house. I know she’s seen as a bit of an eccentric on the estate, and the Kellys next door are not on her Christmas-card list. ‘You’re special. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake. You don’t know yourself at all.’
I don’t know what to say to that, because I’m pretty sure I do know myself. The problem is, I’m not a big fan.
‘What’s going on?’
I stare at my feet. ‘I don’t like all this change.’
She sighs and squeezes my hand, her skin soft as ever. ‘Change isn’t easy. But you’ll get through it. A wise woman once said, “When one door closes, another opens – but the hallway between the two is a pain in the hole.”’
I snort again, which sends Nanny Bet off.
‘That’s better,’ she says, her twinkling eyes creased. ‘The years fall off you when you smile. You were such a happy little thing, running around this garden. Not a care in the world.’
I remember one summer out here. Playing football – the first and only time in my life I played any sort of ball sport.Dad in goal. Me scoring and Mum lifting me up in celebration. Dad tickling us until the three of us were rolling about laughing. Nanny Bet watching from the back door, cigarette in hand (she finally quit about five years ago). Fresh-cut grass, sunblock and smoke fill my senses, and, of course, Dad’s aftershave.
My stomach thuds.
Nanny Bet watches me. ‘You’ll be happy again, Jack. You know that, don’t you?’
What?
‘You just called me Jack,’ I say.
Nanny Bet knots her brow. ‘Did I?’ She laughs. ‘My head’s away. Doesn’t help that you’re the spit of him. Well, apart from that mop of McCutcheon red hair.’
‘I guess.’
‘It’s true.’ She looks at me then, but not really at me. Her smile falters and my stomach lurches again. I can’t handle seeing her upset.
A silence settles between us. The buzzing of a lazy bee and the shouts of children on the street fill the space. There’s something else here, someone else. Dad is an invisible presence that can’t be ignored.
One of us has to say something.
