One of the evenings Mary was accompanied by a man, tall if he wasn’t so stooped over, and handsome if it wasn’t for his pained expression. His arms were long and bent awkwardly at the elbows, his hands curled inwards as if collapsing in on themselves. He wore an old suit of crumpled black material and he reminded Tom of a spider.
Tom would later find out that he was Mary’s husband and that he suffered from chronic arthritis.
The couple sat at a table in Ryan’s bar, side by side facing the same point on the wall. They didn’t turn to each other once and they didn’t speak. After a time, Mary left him and made her way around the bar. She wore a flimsy dress, the type which ended above the knee and hinted at what lay underneath with every movement of her hips or legs. Her hair was tied up on her head, revealing the paleness of the skin at her neck. The women in the bar reacted differently to Mary than the men. They had little time for her. They offered blunt, unsmiling greetings and immediately found distractions to prevent a conversation following. The men would watch her though, bouncing on heels, shouting witty lines and straightening their backs. And she would lay a hand on their upper arms when talking to them, press against them as she laughed, play with her hair when listening.
She made her way towards a group which contained Tom’s grandfather and he tried to move her on with a couple of curt lines. He was in a drinking mood that evening. As he had been for the last couple of evenings. The boyish joviality which had come on him in Rossboyne was gradually evaporating to reveal his true self.
‘I want to borrow your grandson,’ Mary said and winked at Tom. ‘I’ve a few jobs that need doing.’
‘You’ll have him worked to the bone Mary,’ a member of the group shouted, his chin slimy with spit and drink, a toupee rotting on his head.
‘I’m a hard boss,’ Mary folded her arms. ‘I’ll get the boy up and about no bother.’
She moved closer to Tom. ‘Ten sharp tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And don’t be late or you’ll be a sorry boy.’
The group cheered and whooped at this.
Tom’s grandfather moved to the bar to get another drink. He had started on the whiskey by that stage.
Tom left the bar early that evening but he would wake during the night to find his grandfather crying. Tom had never seen his grandfather cry before. Even at his grandmother’s funeral the man had kept an unwavering hold on his emotions, merely nodding and grunting at the offered hands and condolences.
‘She’s gone,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t you understand?’ He swayed near the door of the horsebox, rummaging in his pockets. ‘She’s gone.’
Tom remained still and quiet, hoping the darkness would conceal the fact that he was awake.
‘Where’s me keys?’ His grandfather staggered forward. ‘I need them.’
He sat down on the floor of the horsebox, muttering to himself.
The next moment he was asleep.
Tom climbed from his bunk and removed his grandfather’s boots. He placed a blanket over him and gently tilted his head so he was facing to the side.
When Tom woke the next morning he lay as still as he could, tense, listening.
He only relaxed when he could make out the steady sound of the old man breathing.
The dirt of the windows diluted the morning light and gave the kitchen a muddy quality. Mary was next to the cooker, her hair wild, a blonde halo of frizz surrounding it. She had no make-up on and she was lacking the smiling, carefree nature that she usually had in the bar. There was a greyness and lifelessness to her skin which made Tom think of dry, crumbling leaves.
She has aged, Tom thought. In a single night the woman had become old.
The kitchen smelled of grease and the air was warm from cooking. A pot sat on the hob with a dirty silver base and blackened interior rim, the slow plop of bubbling porridge coming from inside. There was a vase on the table, flowers drooping over the side, petals stained brown on the surface. There were net curtains on the window, dead flies and insects caught in the threads. The place had a poverty that Tom had not expected, the way the wallpaper was peeling at the upper edges, the way the bulb hung naked from the ceiling and the dark tiles on the floor were chipped and cracked.
It was an unloved room, a divorced and neglected type of room.
Mary scooped a splodge of porridge into a white bowl.
‘Eat up,’ she said and left.
Her footsteps were loud on stairs without carpet. The echo of her clumping feet dampened as she moved from stairs to landing. Tom listened carefully and tried to imagine the layout of the house. He played with the sleeve of his jumper. He was nervous and the smell of the porridge was turning his stomach slightly. A deep voice sank through the upper floorboards to his position at the table. Tom’s heart raced suddenly. It was her husband.
A low thumping sound soon followed, then the noise of something heavy sliding across the floor.
Tom’s imagination ran wild.
He pictured the man dragging his wife from the room, his spider-like arms flipping her into the air and rolling her in fine silver strands.
Round and round.
Up and down.
Covering her body and legs and moving towards her face, faster and faster, spinning until her whole frame was shrouded in layers and she resembled a butterfly in the pupa stage.
I will be next, Tom thought. He will hear the click of spider legs scuttling down those wooden steps. He will see the crooked shadow grow tall on the wall. He will spy the black hairy body through a crack in the door. And soon, he will be covered, trapped and suffocated, devoured in this dusty building.
Tom listened carefully for more movement.
For a time it was quiet upstairs.
Then the steps began again. Her steps.
Each time he detected her near the stairs his heart would give a slight jolt and the tempo would increase.
Rumpa-thump.
He wasn’t sure what work she had planned for him. There was no end of things that needed to be done. But he prayed it would be a job in the garden, cleaning the windows or pulling the weeds.
Perhaps her husband would watch while he worked, he thought.
Perhaps they would both watch him, size him up, figure him out.
Rumpa-thump.
Rumpa-thump.
What if he wasn’t here for work? What if she wanted him here for something else?
She moved down the stairs.
Tom sat upright and taut. The support of the chair was hard against his back. He folded his arms and tapped his foot rapidly until she appeared at the door.
She was still unsmiling.
Was this the same woman he had seen naked at the window?
‘He’s asleep,’ she said and walked over to the hob. She stirred the porridge. ‘You make sure you don’t disturb him with your noise, won’t you?’
Tom was quiet. He nibbled on the inside of his bottom lip.
Mary turned from the hob.
‘Sure you won’t?’ she repeated, louder.
‘I’ll be as quiet as I can.’
Her face darkened and she approached the table.
‘You’re not eating your porridge,’ she stood with hands on hips. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Tom inched to the edge of his chair.
‘But you’ve always liked porridge.’
‘Eat your porridge,’ she ordered and returned to the pot.
She turned off the gas, slopped some porridge into a bowl and sat down next to him. She took a spoonful from the bowl, blew on it before shoving it into her mouth. The spoon clacked against her teeth as she brought it out.
Tom held the spoon above his own bowl. The mixture was grey and lumpy. It no longer steamed as hers did. He dipped the spoon in, gathered a small amount and brought it upwards.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Tom asked quietly.
She arched an eyebrow.
‘About what?’
‘What work do you need me for?’
‘I’ll ask your father what needs doing,’ she said and stirred the porridge in her bowl, blowing on it at the same time.
‘My grandfather,’ Tom corrected.
‘What are you talking about?’ she snapped. She glanced down at his bowl. ‘Eat your porridge.’
Tom nervously played with the porridge. He was aware of the perspiration on his brow and the sharp sting under his armpits, the trickle of sweat down his side.
She stopped stirring and looked at his bowl again.
‘Why aren’t you eating your porridge William?’ Her anger brought colour to her cheeks.
Tom dropped the spoon. It slowly submerged in the porridge mixture. He pushed his chair back without looking at her and stood.
‘William,’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’
Tom briskly walked through the kitchen door and into the hall.
Rumpa-thump.
Rumpa-thump.
‘Answer me William,’ her voice grew louder. ‘William!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t walk away from me.’
Tom opened the front door. He felt the blood pumping in his head, a coldness across his back, the looseness of his shaking hands.
‘William,’ she called after him. ‘Don’t you walk away from your mother.’
Tom stepped outside the house and when he felt the cool air on his face he ran from the garden. He ran until his heart seemed to rattle in his neck and head, until his lungs felt like flames in his chest.