In County Waterford the weather held as fine as at home. For Jane McArdle the holiday had gone very much like any other except that she was conscious, at the start of this one, of feeling more carefree than other years. Thankfully the three older children were well and truly past the clingy, dependent stage and Ruthie, just turned four, was prepared most of the time to trek off in their care. It left Jane free for what she desperately needed: time to herself.
Jane was aware how Sheena felt about being lumbered with Ruthie. Her daughter was always complaining that her little sister cramped her style with boys, but Jane was just as pleased with anything that put a halt to Sheena’s gallop. Girls grew up far too fast these days. Teenage years should be as they were intended, happy and carefree and unclouded, in so far as possible, by money considerations or sexual pressures. There would be enough of these in the years ahead.
Even with Ruthie determinedly tagging along, Sheena was still the most popular girl on the holiday site.
‘Quite the belle of the ball,’ Eddie remarked to Jane with a pleased grin. Jane had grinned herself, amused to see that her husband took his daughter’s success with the opposite sex as a personal compliment to himself.
Now they were into the last hours of the holiday. In a little while Jane knew she would have to begin the chore of packing up. ‘But not yet,’ she told herself, clinging to these last precious moments by the sea. She dug her hips more comfortably into the sand and draped her cardigan about her shoulders. The day was becoming decidedly cooler. Pity, but it would be less of a wrench heading off next day.
Jane did not really mind going home. These few weeks had been pleasant enough, but she was a city girl at heart and became restless when too long away from the bustle of town. She only regretted not bringing Claire on holidays with them. The sea air would have done the child good, Jane thought, and she, in turn, would have been good for all of them. It was an undeniable fact but the children behaved far better when Claire was around. She would, besides, have been a help with Ruthie.
Not that Jane was looking for a mother’s help, but she was aware how popular Claire was with her youngest child and, indeed, all her children. Even with Terry, for all his pretence to the contrary. Jane had seen the way her older son showed off in front of Claire, airing his knowledge and making witty remarks at her expense. Typically male, Jane thought with a sigh, and so like his father.
She reluctantly reached for her book and marked her place. Better get moving. She gathered everything up and, shading her eyes, spotted her children dashing in and out of the waves and called strongly. ‘Time to be going.’
As they came running back Jane was reminded again of Claire. Yes, she really regretted not asking her along.
Hugh was sorry too when he learned how near his mother had come to inviting Claire. Oh, if only she had, he thought. He took from its hiding place the photograph Sheena had snapped of Claire holding the little black and white pup she loved best, and which he had wanted her to keep.
‘She’s so pretty,’ Hugh told himself, gazing at it. And she was really nice too, which was even more important. So many girls were full of themselves, he thought, but not Claire. She always had time for him, even though he was so much younger. Hugh rather thought he loved her.
In September Claire’s mother declared her intention of going back to teaching. She had applied for a vacancy in a privately-run Montessori school teaching six-year-olds. It was time to take it up again, Annette said, before she became too rusty.
‘It will be nice,’ Annette said, ‘although I expect it will take some getting used to.’ She shrugged and sighed. ‘You get out of the way of small children.’
Claire wondered if she was thinking of the baby. She would have been three that year, just starting play-school.
‘I’m getting to be a right old lazybones,’ Annette said. ‘Should have gone out and looked for a job months ago. ‘So it’s back to school for both of us,’ Annette smiled. ‘In a way I’m quite looking forward to it.’
So was Claire. August without Sheena had been lonely, and with all the rush of buying their uniforms and books for the new term they had met only twice since she returned from holidays. School started in less than a week and there were too many things to be done.
Claire had grown three inches since June and the hem of her gymslip, which had already been let down twice, was way above her knees. Her mother had considered adding on a false hem but, to Claire’s relief, decided against it.
‘Just as well I’m going back to work,’ Annette said. ‘We never needed money more.’ Claire nodded, knowing how much her mother dreaded September with all the extra expenses to be met. At least, Chris still had another year to go at the National School. Annette had applied to several secondary schools and would be required to sit the entrance exams in the spring. With a bit of luck, he would be admitted to one of them. Christopher didn’t care which one, so long as they had a good football team.
Claire knew that Hugh McArdle did not have this dilemma. He had been in the prep school at St. Gabriel’s, Terry’s school, since he was eight and when the time came would automatically pass into the senior school. Like herself, Hugh had shot up a few inches over the summer and he had acquired spectacles. Claire thought they looked out of place on his chubby face and gave him an elderly, slightly scholarly air. Christopher expressed relief that he didn’t have to wear glasses. They would have interfered with football. Once the term started he was never home before six o’clock in the evenings, either training or playing matches with other schools.
Claire did not care much for sport, preferring to go straight home after school and get her homework done so that she could tuck up early with a book. Normally she dreaded the winter term because of having to play hockey. All those fierce Amazons hacking at her shins as they flew down the field unnerved her, but this year she viewed it less fearfully because Sheena would be playing alongside her.
The day of their first inter-school match Claire was surprised to see Eddie watching from the sidelines in the second half. It never occurred to her parents to come to watch her matches, though her father sometimes went along to see Christopher play soccer on Saturdays. She had seen Eddie only once since the night he’d given her the cross and chain, driving through his gates one evening as she was returning from the corner shop with the evening paper for her father. He had waved casually to her and gone inside.
She peeped at him out of the corner of her eye as she hovered, stick in hands, waiting for a piece of the action. When the ball came her way she surprised herself by the fearless way she tackled the full-back, slipping past her guard and neatly tapping the ball to the waiting centre-forward. She felt like cheering as the other girl sped it past the goal-keeper, scoring a goal and bringing the score up to two all. Claire was normally a timid player but now, conscious of his eyes upon her, she felt supercharged, darting from the wings again and again, to tackle and harass her opponent.
The days grew colder as September gave way to October. Claire had got in the habit of calling over to Sheena’s after school and doing her homework with her. The heat in her own house was never switched on until Annette came in and it was nice and cosy in the McArdle’s front room, she and Sheena sitting at opposite sides of the big mahogany table, their heads bent over their work. Sometimes in her kindly fashion Teresa Murray, Jane’s receptionist, brought them in steaming mugs of cocoa which made it all the more cosy and companionable. Claire was not so happy about, though, about the way Sheena unashamedly copied her maths homework.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Sheena asked, the first time she did it, already drawing the copy to her side of the table.
Claire shook her head, but she did. Claire had a natural aptitude and loved spending time working out problems and neatly setting down the answers. By contrast, Sheena’s work was hasty and erratic, pages of her copybook disfigured by numerous crossouts.
Claire tried hard not to let it affect their friendship and even went to the bother of explaining to Sheena how to work out a ratio problem, jotting down an example on a sheet torn out of her notebook.
‘Thanks but it’s a waste of time,’ Sheena brushed it aside. ‘Fling us over your copy.’ When Claire hesitated she held out her hand, impatiently wiggling her fingers. Suddenly, Claire wanted to slap her for being so careless and ungrateful and selfish. ‘No!’ she wanted to shout. ‘Go and work it out for yourself.’ Maybe I should tell her out straight, she thought. She stood up and gathered her books into her satchel. Sheena did not even notice her going.
For the next few days Claire kept away from Sheena’s house, her homework at her dressing-table, but it was chilly in her bedroom and lonely. By the end of the week she was back across the street again.
A few days before Halloween, Eddie came in unexpectedly one afternoon and said he needed Claire’s help. He didn’t say what it was about but he laughed and winked at Sheena as if he had already discussed it with her. He was dressed in sweater and pants, not the dark suit he wore to the hospital, and Claire thought he was very jolly and relaxed.
‘Just you, Claire,’ he said. ‘I won’t keep you long.’
Sheena went back to her books, a little smile playing about her mouth.
Claire got obediently to her feet. She wondered what he was doing home so early.
Eddie went out the door, leaving it ajar. He seemed in high good humour. She followed more slowly, uncertain as to where they were going.
In the hall he reached for her school gabardine and handed it to her.
‘Better put it on,’ he said. ‘It’s cold out.’ He opened the front door and stepped aside to let her go before him. His car was in the driveway. He motioned for her to get in.
Eddie drove out the gate and turned on to the road. Claire fastened her seat-belt and leaned back. She watched absently as the roads became narrower and darker. They passed Daly’s farm, where Hugh had got straw for the pups, and went on up the mountainside.
‘Where are we going?’ Claire asked.
‘You’ll see in a minute.’ He kept the nose of the car steeply climbing. Every so often he glanced at her and chuckled. Once he put his hand lingeringly on her knee and squeezed it. She shivered at his touch.
Eddie turned down a dirt lane and brought the car to a halt outside an old farmhouse. He got out and crossed the yard to knock on the door. A man came out and led the way to one of the outhouses.
Claire waited, wondering what it was all about. When they reappeared, Eddie was carrying a box, which he placed on the back seat. She twisted around to see half a dozen globular orange-coloured fruits.
‘What are they?’ she asked, curious.
‘Don’t you recognise pumpkins when you see them?’ His tone was light, almost gay. He got into the driver’s seat and drove back along the lane. Then, instead of returning the way they had come, he drove on up the mountain for about half a mile. He turned off the road and parked amongst the trees.
It was very dark. Claire could just distinguish his features in the gloom. He moved her closer to him so that his arm was cradling her. She grew rigid.
‘I’m not going to touch you,’ he whispered, ‘unless you want me to.’
She wasn’t sure what she wanted. She was excited and afraid as he aroused her with the deft touch of his fingers. That part of her yearned to be stroked and, almost of their own volition, her hips lifted towards him. When he slipped his hand between her thighs and gently caressed her she involuntarily arched towards him, sickened by her own shame and desire. He angled her on the seat and continued to stroke her. She moaned with pleasure, feeling dizzy, light-headed almost. She heard herself as if from a very long way off.
‘How is that... good, is it?’ He sounded pleased.
She struggled up but he firmly held her and pushed himself against her, hurting her, but not unbearably, until a hot drenching pleasure juddered her lower limbs. He sighed, ‘Claire... little Claire,’ and it was over and he was driving down the mountain again, moving quickly through the darkness to come out into the lighted suburbs. Rain bespattered the car windows, making it difficult to see.
The house was ablaze with light. Jane was home. They carried the pumpkins into the house, Eddie taking most of the weight, Claire shyly supporting one side of the box, for the look of things.
Hugh and Ruthie ran out to meet them, having been alerted earlier by Sheena as to where they had gone. Ruthie was wearing the bottom half of a furry brown monkey suit Jane had made for her out of old car seat covers. She carried her tail in her hand to prevent it getting wet.
‘Can I have one?’ Hugh cried, reaching into the box for a pumpkin.
‘All in good time.’ Eddie playfully swung the box out of reach of his son’s clutching fingers and carried it, on high, into the kitchen where Jane, helped by Sheena, was preparing the tea. Jane swung around from turning sausages in the pan, her face flushed from her exertions and the heat of the stove.
‘Goodness!’ she said, staring in surprise at all the pumpkins. ‘Where did they come from?’ Terry, hearing the commotion, strolled in to find out the cause. The children clustered round the box, excitedly laughing and chattering. Unobserved, Claire retreated to the hall and slipped quietly out of the front door. The sound of their merriment faded behind her. As she ran home, she felt sudden aching loneliness.
Six pumpkin faces, with hollowed out eyes and jagged teeth, lit by guttering candle stubs, lined the ledge over the McArdle’s garage. Claire could just see them from her bedroom window. Earlier, Sheena had run over to invite her to the Halloween party but she had not wanted to be in the house when Eddie was there and pleaded a headache.
Now darting eerily about the garden were three sheeted figures, carrying torches, and one small capering monkey. The children’s excited shouts carried faintly on the night air, tantalising Claire. She thought she recognised the in-between figure of Hugh but couldn’t be sure.
Clouds scudded past the moon. Two taller sheeted figures came out of the house to join the others. They all joined hands and danced on the grass in a collapsing circle. After a while they disappeared round the side of the house and, a little later, there was a high-pitched whine, followed by the sharp crack of fireworks. It went on all evening.
When Claire fell asleep she dreamed she was in the kitchen when a huge serpent reared against the window, battering the glass with its head, seeking a way in. She rushed to close the windows but she wasn’t quick enough. Then they were all about her, in a seething mass on the floor and the only way she could get out of the kitchen was to kneel on one chair and, with another in front of her, push-drag herself down the hall. The snakes entwined themselves about the chair legs but she managed to escape. When that dream ended another began. She was running upstairs pursued by a rampaging black bull and only just managed to gain the safety of her bedroom. When he charged the door with his horns she ran to the window and climbed breathlessly on to the sill, jumping the moment he came crashing in.
She awoke feeling tired, played out. For a long time afterwards she could vividly remember every detail of her dreams.
Annette talked all the time about the children she was teaching, recounted the clever things they said, and was happier than she had been for a long time. She finished work at two o’clock but usually bussed it into town to ‘unwind’ as she called it, before returning to cook the evening meal. She might have been taking a Leaving Certificate class, Claire often thought, and not a bunch of infants.
These days there was a more cheerful atmosphere in the house. It was not enough to encourage their father to spend more time there but Claire found her mother more approachable and less inclined to irrational outbursts. It was possible to mention that she needed a textbook for school without encountering either a stony stare, or else, lists of domestic articles claiming priority. Claire was even able to ask for, and be given, a new fountain pen, something impossible before. Sheena, who had two of everything, had loaned her one for the first few weeks of the term.
There was less tension in the atmosphere but she and Christopher suffered more in other ways. These days they lived on hamburgers and chips, Annette having invested her first week’s wages in a new deep-fat fryer. Sometimes she substituted fish for meat but the end product was much the same - a plate heaped high with fried food. Christopher loved it but Claire’s stomach had begun vaguely to trouble her again. She put it down to too many greasy, indigestible fries. As Annette’s interest in housekeeping further declined, the airing cupboard was in a worse state than ever before. It took half a day to find anything and continually provoked their father to violent language.
In an attempt to combat chaos Annette wrapped bundles of drying clothes in damp towels, to make ironing easier (whenever she got round to it, only she never did) and left household detergents and disinfectants strategically dotted about the house, as aids to on-the-spot cleaning.
Claire was the only one who took the hint and adapted to this new do-it-yourself regime. She rinsed her school blouses and hung them over the bath to drip-dry. Her father’s socks and hankies were always a crackling bone of contention between her parents: ‘For God’s sake, Annette! Just a few clean hankies and socks. Surely, it’s not too much to expect.’
It didn’t take Claire all that much longer to wash them with her own. It was a small price to pay for harmony.
One evening, her father came home while they were still having their tea. This was unusual and Claire could not remember the last time it had happened. Jim was very flushed. He sat at the table with a glass of gin in his hand, and watched them eat, cracking jokes, making them laugh.
Annette got up and went out to the kitchen. She came back with a slice of cheese and tomato pizza on a plate and pushed it briskly across the table. ‘You should eat something,’ she said. ‘It’s not good to drink so much on an empty stomach.’
Claire looked at her father. He was watching the television flickering in the corner, the sound turned down. But it’s only one drink! But perhaps he’s already had a few, she thought, and stayed in the pub till now and wishes he hadn’t come home.
Annette sighed extravagantly. ‘That’s right ignore me. Don’t pay any attention to what I say. Get an ulcer, if that’s what you want.’
Claire, too, looked at the television. Christopher knocked over his glass. It hit the table with a thud. He walked his fingers uneasily through the spilt orange.
Jim said, ‘Don’t exaggerate, Annette. I’m just not hungry, that’s all.’
‘You mean you’re not hungry for pizza.’
‘No, since you ask.’
‘Well, what do you expect?’ Annette said bitterly. ‘You come home when it suits you. Walk in without letting me know. You’re lucky to get anything.’
‘I don’t want anything,’ Jim said. ‘I told you I’m not hungry.’ He was frowning. ‘Stop making a big production out of this, Annette. Let the children finish their tea.’
‘I’m not preventing them.’ She stood up, her eyes angry and tear-bright.
‘Please stop it,’ Claire whispered to them.
Jim set down his empty glass and pushed back his chair. He went across to the drinks cabinet. Annette watched him intently. He lifted the gin bottle and set it down with a bang. ‘Nothing,’ he said in disgust. ‘Not even a drop.’
‘I suppose that’s my fault too,’ Annette said, beginning to cry. He left the room.
‘The one evening he comes home,’ Annette said, through her tears. ‘The one evening!’ She struggled to control herself, succeeded, and began clearing the table.
The next morning Claire woke up a five o’clock, having dreamed that she was in a pet shop choosing a puppy from a tea-chest full of squirming animals. She wanted a black and white one and looked and looked but couldn’t see one anywhere. One puppy, jumping up, seemed to be saying, ‘Take me, take me,’ but for some reason she felt this particular one would mean trouble, so she burrowed down deeper and lifted out another pup with silky blue fur. She was cuddling it in her arms when all at once it became the curly-headed baby sister who had died, looking up at her with brimming eyes.
She lay awake, watching the sky growing pale beyond the curtains.
For weeks Claire kept away from the McArdle’s house, opting to do her homework in her own house. She had not been back across the street since Halloween. She was afraid of her feelings when she was with Eddie. She told herself it wouldn’t happen if she never allowed herself to be alone with him again, both sorry and relieved at the prospect.
One evening Claire was doing her homework in the sitting-room when there was a ring at the door. She went out, thinking it was the milkman collecting the milk money on Friday night, but when she opened the door Jane was on the step.
‘Claire dear,’ she said, ‘Can I come in a moment? You haven’t been over in a long time. Is there anything wrong that you have abandoned us?’ Jane spoke in her usual light, affectionate way but her eyes were concerned.
‘N...no...n...nothing,’ Claire stammered, taken aback.
‘Ruthie is always asking for you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Jane put out an arm to hug her. ‘Claire... Claire... you don’t have to apologise. It’s just that we’re fond of you and miss you, that’s all.’
Claire said nothing.
‘But that’s not why I came,’ Jane said. ‘I wanted to see your mother.’
‘I’ll call her,’ Claire said, but at that moment Annette came into the hall. She stopped short at the sight of Jane.
‘Well, look who’s here?’ she said. ‘What a nice surprise.’ But there was an edge to her voice. ‘Why don’t you come into the heat.’
Claire stepped back to allow Jane precede her into the living-room.
‘I’ve been meaning to drop over for ages,’ Jane said, as she sat down. ‘You know how it is... you work yourself, Annette. Weekends are the only time to get anything done.’
‘Oh yes,’ Annette said vaguely.
Jane smiled. ‘Oh well, I never was a very organised person, was I? Look, Eddie and I are having a few friends to supper next Saturday night and we’re hoping you and Jim will come.’
Annette brightened. ‘That sounds nice,’ she said. ‘Can I let you know?’
‘Of course,’ Jane said expansively. ‘No rush. I’m doing a fork plate... rice and something or other, so a few more or less won’t make any difference. And that’s another thing.’ She looked at Claire. ‘Would you be a love and give Sheena a hand with the serving, Claire? I’d be eternally grateful.’
Annette said: ‘Of course, she’ll be glad to. Won’t you, Claire?’
Claire could hardly say no.
On the evening of the supper party Claire went across to the McArdle’s house early. They had strung up fairy lights in the macrocarpa tree. Claire thought they were very pretty.
She met Hugh in the hall. Of all the McArdles she had missed him the most. She smiled at him shyly.
‘Hero’s in trouble,’ Hugh said glumly.
‘But why?’
‘She tried to bite the postman.’
‘But she’s so gentle,’ Claire protested. ‘She wouldn’t hurt anyone.’
‘It wasn’t her fault,’ Hugh said. ‘The bastard is always hitting her with his bag. It’s making her vicious.’ He looked like he was going to cry and Claire ached for him. She went on into the kitchen where Sheena was.
‘Why didn’t you change?’ her friend wrinkled her nose at Claire’s school uniform.
‘Didn’t have anything decent to wear.’
‘You should have told me,’ Sheena said. ‘I’ve loads of things would fit you. Let’s go up quick and have a look.’
‘No really, it’s all right,’ Claire said embarrassed, wanting to get off the subject. ‘Honestly. Anyway I’ll be in the kitchen most of the time.’
Sheena looked as though she were going to protest then shrugged. ‘Okay have it your way. Give us a hand with these,’ she indicated a bowl of grapes she was stuffing with cream cheese. Claire stood beside her, slitting grapes with a sharp knife. There was a big pot simmering on the stove.
‘Beef Stroganoff,’ said Sheena, lifting the lid and releasing an appetising aroma. ‘Hope there’s some left over for us.’
Claire eyed the pavlova and the temping array of mousses laid out on a sidetable. She could have given the stroganoff a miss, desserts she adored.
The first couples began arriving soon after eight-thirty. Claire peeped into the cosy drawing-room. Flames licked about a freshly placed log, and lamps glowed at opposite ends of the room. Centre ceiling, the unlit Waterford Glass chandelier shimmered palely. Beneath it, the guests stood about, glasses in hand, their laughter as tinkling as the translucent lobes overhead. Jane had deliberately left the velvet curtains open so that the fairy lights were visible through the patio window. In front of it stood a huge vase of chrysanthemums, perfuming the air.
Claire and Sheena went about offering little bowls of crisps and peanuts. Claire shyly and Sheena with gay impudence. No-one seemed to take offence at her bluntness and only laughed when she said, ‘Go on, make yourself fatter.’ One or two of them admired her dress and the velvet bow in her hair, as they scooped up fingerfuls. ‘Quite the young lady,’ a man said to the woman beside him.
Claire might have been invisible in her school uniform. She looked about for her mother and father but, despite having such a short distance to come, they had not yet arrived. She wondered if, after all, they might not come.
Then she saw Eddie standing by the mantelpiece, head bent, talking to a woman in a black dress. He looked very tall and handsome. The woman laughed up at him, a jewel glinting at her throat. Claire swallowed hard, her own throat dry and constricted.
Her parents were still absent. She and Sheena took it in turns, betweens trips with fresh drinks or canapés, to stir the beef stroganoff. Every so often one of the younger McArdles, usually Ruthie, would run into the kitchen. She helped herself to so many cheesy grapes that Claire was afraid she would be sick.
Ruthie loved the house filled with people. She clung to Claire’s skirt, anxious to be in on the excitement as more and more guests arrived. There must have been fifty. A few people to supper!
Claire peeped into the oven. Any minute the garlic bread would be ready to take out of the tinfoil and place it in the baskets Jane had left ready. She turned and caught Ruthie with her hand in the pavlova, her lips rimmed with cream.
‘Oh Ruthie,’ Claire sighed fondly. She picked up the little girl and Ruthie squirmed in her arms as she ran the tap and washed away the evidence.
‘But it’ll all be gone when I get up,’ Ruthie wailed.
When Jane came in to put her to bed Ruthie was reluctant to go, then with a tired little sigh she suddenly capitulated, holding up her arms for Claire to carry her. She placed one small hand in a proprietary fashion on her mother’s silk-clad arm, and the three of them went upstairs to her room.
The tigers and lions, the giant pandas, on the wall were the same, yet somehow the room looked different. Claire told herself what happened that night had been a dream, another of her fantasies, that she had never actually lain there with him, done what they did on the bed. She was only a schoolgirl. How could she have?
‘Can Claire-bear tell me a story,’ Ruthie pleaded. It was her pet name for Claire.
‘Would you be an angel?’ Jane was anxious to return to her guests. When Claire nodded, she kissed Ruthie and slipped away, turning off the light as she went.
Claire sat reluctantly on the bed. Party sounds filtered through the ceiling: laughter, the hum of voices, doors opening and closing. She heard Jane welcoming the last of the guests, her mother’s nervous laugh, her father’s deep voice. The drawing-room door closed over.
Claire decided to tell Ruthie one of her favourite Rufty-Tufty tales that she had read many times to the little girl, the one where the golliwog floated high in the sky holding on to a balloon and came to rest in a faraway garden. Ruthie listened, thumb sleepily plugging her mouth. Claire heard the light footfall outside the door and looked up. Ruthie heard it too. Sleep banished, she bolted up in the bed.
‘Daddy come in and sit down,’ she cried, patting the coverlet imperiously.
‘What! Are you still awake?’ He pretended to be cross but his manner was playful. ‘This won’t do at all, young lady.’ He came in and sat on the end of the bed. ‘Go on,’ he gently prompted Claire, ‘Don’t let me spoil your story.’
Haltingly, she continued, aware of his quiet breathing beside her. Quickly she brought the story to an end.
‘Quite a guy that Rufty-Tufty,’ Eddie approved. He got to his feet and bent to tuck Ruthie in. ‘Go to sleep now, poppet.’ He disengaged her clinging arms. ‘Claire must go down and you must get your beauty sleep.’
He stood aside politely for Claire to precede him on to the landing.
Claire was happiest in the classroom. There, somehow, her other life did not impinge upon her at all and she could lose herself in her schoolwork. In fact, she came out near the top of the class in the mid-term exams.
She was not unfriendly with the rest of her class but kept remote from them. She shuddered when they giggled about dirty old men.
June Kelly’s next-door neighbour was always trying to feel her up, she said. Some of the other girls had similar experiences. They shrieked and made faces. Sheena laughed along with them.
‘There was this man on holidays,’ she began, choking so much with laughter that she could not go on. ‘If you’d only seen him!’
‘Go on... go on,’ they urged her.
‘Pulled down his pants and showed his thing!’ gasped Sheena. More delighted shrieks. Sickened, Claire turned away. Was that what Eddie was?
Eddie didn’t seem old to her, not like her own father, or some of the other girls’ fathers. If he hadn’t been Sheena’s father she might have told Sheena about him. It would have been a relief to have told someone. Her own mother perhaps, if she had been at all like Jane, or Jane herself if she wasn’t his wife. It seemed unfair that the only people she might have talked to were out of the question.
Hero was in trouble again. She attacked the postman again and although the bite was not severe, the man’s trousers were torn and he had gotten a bad fright. He complained to the Gardaí and Eddie received a summons to appear in court. When he did the judge ruled that Hero be put down.
‘She’s not really vicious,’ Hugh told Claire earnestly. ‘I’ve a good mind to find out where that judge lives and bring Hero along to his house. Then he’ll see how gentle she is.’ He was almost in tears.
Claire listened to Hugh’s anguished plans and wished there was something she could do to comfort him. She felt as miserable as he did.
As the date of execution drew near Hugh insisted that he would do the job himself and in his own way. Jane and Eddie tried to dissuade him, thinking it was too fraught a situation for an eleven year old boy to handle but after they saw how determined he was, they withdrew their objections.
Hugh decided he would get chloroform from the vet and choose his own time. Mr Halligan gacw it to him, telling him, If you feel you can’t handle it, bring her to me.’ Hugh still kept putting the moment off. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Eddie secretly tried for a repeal of the sentence. He offered to muzzle the dog and keep him chained, anything to save him for Hugh. But it was no good. The judge refused to reconsider.
‘I’m sorry, son,’ Eddie said. ‘I did my best.’
Hugh nodded. It meant a lot to him that his father had tried again. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘There are only another few days left,’ Eddie said. ‘Best get it over with quickly.’
‘Your father is right, Hugh,’ Jane said gently. ‘You’re only prolonging the agony and causing yourself unnecessary pain.’
‘Okay...okay,’ said Hugh. ‘I’m going to do it. Don’t go on about it.’
‘Right.’ Eddie brought the discussion to an end. ‘No more delay. You’ve got until tomorrow or I’ll bring him to the vet myself.’
Hugh listened in silence. He knew he couldn’t bear for Hero to be put in a cage and given an injection by a stranger. Next morning when his father drove away he got the chloroform and steeled himself for the grim task ahead. He had to be the one to do it, he told himself, as he went to release Hero. He owed her that much.
Hero was delighted to see him. She frisked about, glad to be free after weeks of being chained up. When she came back to him he patted her and clipped the leash on to her collar. Hugh went up the back road, past the stables where he had got the straw for Hero’s puppies, and kept walking until he reached a rutted track, high above his home.
He took his dog into a field and let her off the leash. Hero tore about, enjoying her freedom. When she calmed down, Hugh threw sticks for her and watched her race and fetch, her paws skidding in the mud. Together they rolled and romped on the damp grass.
After a time, Hugh took the bottle from his pocket. Hero watched her young master, her eyes bright and intelligent, ready to spring forward whenever he threw what he was holding. While Hugh hesitated she whined with excitement and jumped up against him, muddy paws scrabbling his gabardine.
Hugh ran his hand caressingly over Hero’s head and down her flanks. ‘Good girl,’ he whispered. He gritted his teeth and grabbed her in a fierce necklock. Hero looked trustingly up at him and whined, believing this was some new form of play.
Hugh grimly reminded himself that the vet had assured him this method was quick and painless, no matter how terrible it seemed. He prised open her jaws and prepared to pour the chloroform down her throat, as Mr Halligan had instructed, but she moaned and struggled so frantically in her efforts to get free that the bottle was knocked from his grasp and fell into the long grass. Although badly shaken, Hugh still kept a tight grip on the moaning, struggling animal, feeling her paws scrabbling at his bare legs, drawing blood, but counting the pain as nothing compared to what he was suffering in his heart. He knew then that he couldn’t do it, and let her go.
Hero tore off down the field and vanished through a hole in the hedge. In a state of near collapse Hugh blindly felt about in the grass for the half-empty bottle and, hardly aware of what he was doing, screwed the cap back on and stuck it in his pocket. His breath rasped painfully in his chest and the muscles in his arms and shoulders trembled with the shock and effort of the ordeal. He hadn’t enough breath in him to emit more than a feeble whistle as he went in search of Hero. When he found her eventually on the roadway, she wouldn’t come near him but slunk along at the far side of the road. He went slightly ahead of her down the mountainside, calling repeatedly. He should have listened to his mother, he thought in anguish. There was no use in hoping for a miracle or messing about any longer. He had only succeeded in putting Hero through further distress. He was stricken when he remembered the stark look of terror and dismay in the dog’s eyes.
Now he whistled sharply, and Hero came reluctantly towards him, her tail between her legs. He clipped the leash on her collar and, going down on his hunkers, made a great fuss of her, stroking her and praising her, and feeding her the lumps of sugar he always kept for her in his pocket, until gradually she perked up a bit.
At the end of the road, Hugh resignedly turned in the direction of the vet’s house. He paused outside the gate bearing the familiar wooden sign, then he braced his shoulders and with an encouraging word to his dog went up the path and rang the bell.
The vet greeted him warmly, taking in his pinched white face and dejected expression. He brought Hugh through the empty waiting-room to his surgery and, with a kindly pat on his shoulder, sat him down.
Ned Halligan chatted away easily as he placed a bowl of water on the ground for Hero and ran a gentle hand over her silky coat. Then he turned away to fill a syringe with 10 ml. of Euthatal.
When Hero had finished drinking she collapsed back on the floor in her favourite position between her young master’s knees. Her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth and she panted noisily, tired from her recent exertions. Hugh stroked her head, feeling choked and sad and desperately guilty. Halligan indicated that he should lift her up and hold her in his arms.
Hugh settled Hero as firmly as he could across his knees, petting her and whispering to her all the time. The dog whined a bit as though sensing what was to come.
‘Now, the thing to do is to hold her leg steady for me, there’s a good lad,’ the vet advised, as he approached with the syringe. With his free hand he fondled the dog’s floppy ears before moving lower and gently parting the animal’s fur in his search for the vein in his leg. ‘Don’t let her move on me now,’ he murmured. He withdrew the needle and straightened up with a relieved grunt. ‘That’s it. Good dog now.’
Hugh felt Hero jerk in his arms and saw her eyes rolling sightlessly in her head and her paws wildly paddling the air, before her head fell heavily against him. He cradled the shuddering animal fiercely against his chest, and his heart was unbearably stricken as he watched her in her death throes. After a few minutes Hero gave a last convulsive heave and lay still. Halligan went out closing the door after him.
Hugh buried his face in the dog’s warm coat that he had always taken such a pride in and, as the familiar smell and feel of her filled his senses, the dam of feeling broke inside him and he sobbed into her fur.
In the period leading up to Christmas Claire did not see Eddie at all. She stopped back after school most days to rehearse a review her class were putting on in the New Year. Unexpectedly she found herself drawn into a group consisting of June, Imelda and Sheena, all of whom had aspirations to be actresses. They chose to do a skit on Fawlty Towers. Sheena, as Sybil Fawlty, wore an auburn wig and padded herself out in one of Jane’s bras. Imelda, who was the tallest of them, was just right for Basil and blonde-haired June for Polly. Claire was blonde too but was unsurprised to find herself cast as Manuel. She discovered she had a natural ability to play comedy, which was strange because she was the shyest of the four.
Rehearsing for the review helped take her mind off the worsening situation at home. For a time after the McArdle’s party her parents had seemed more in accord but during the Christmas holiday period, without the saving trips to work or school to distract them, there had been one acrimonious dispute after another.
One afternoon in January her mother called over to the McArdle’s house for coffee and a chat. Claire was playing cards with Ruthie and heard Jane saying, ‘You could just leave, you know. Take the children and start again. You’ve got a job and he’d have to pay something towards their welfare.’
‘I can’t see myself doing it,’ Annette said.
‘Why not? You’d be better off.’ Jane sounded angry. ‘No one should have to put up with that kind of situation.’
‘I never thought it would turn out like this,’ Claire heard her mother say tiredly, ‘I expected better somehow. But there it is, the luck of the draw.’
And now her parents were in the middle of another dispute. They had moved into the dining-room for privacy, but the door was not quite shut and Claire could overhear what they were saying. She sat with her head deep in her book, wishing she wasn’t there but unable to get up and leave.
‘So I’m getting strident, am I?’ Annette demanded. ‘Well if I am it’s because I can’t seem to get through to you any other way.’
Claire felt a sense of inevitability sliding over her. The knot in her stomach tightened. Lately her father and mother acted as though they hated each other.
‘I have tried,’ Annette went on, ‘It’s not easy going back to work after so long. But there’s not much use in me trying if you won’t.’
‘We’ve been into all that,’ Jim said.
‘I know but I just can’t believe you... you say one thing and then you go right on doing the other.’ Her mother sounded agitated, Claire thought.
‘It means nothing,’ Jim said. ‘I’ve told you.’
Annette banged the table with her fist. ‘You keep on saying that. But I can’t accept it. I mean it must mean something or you’d give her up.’
This is awful, Claire thought. She turned the pages of her book but she hadn’t read a line. If only she had somewhere to go. She glanced towards the door but she didn’t want to go up and sit in her cold bedroom. She could go over to Sheena but he would be there, so she stayed with her head bent over her book.
Their review went down very well on the night. After they had finished their act Claire and Sheena changed out of their costumes and slipped down to the back of the hall to sit with Hugh and Terry. The four of them sucked lemon drops and watched the rest of the programme. In the front row Jane sat with Annette as Eddie had a medical dinner which prevented him coming. Her own father had promised to be there. ‘You can book me a seat in the parterre,’ Jim had joked, but although, at the start of the night, she had peeped through the curtain and anxiously eyed the darkening rows, there had been no sign of him. Claire was not really surprised.
Hugh thoroughly enjoyed the review. He thought that Claire was the best and funniest actress, but then he was prejudiced. Inspired by the stage show, he made a whole series of sketches, colouring the costumes in pastels and mounting the lot on cardboard. He hung them on the walls of his bedroom and when his father remarked on them, he flushed with pleasure. After that he began to take his drawing more seriously and spend more time at it.
Hugh propped his one and only photograph of Claire against his transistor radio and made several pen and ink drawings of her holding the pup, but he wasn’t really satisfied with any of them. She was far nicer, he knew.
Hugh was too shy to show the drawings to Claire. He kept them hidden in a box under his bed, knowing that if his brother ever found them he would never stop ragging him.
Towards the end of January Eddie and Terry began planning a duck shoot, as they did every year at this time. For days their conversation was totally centred on the most ideal locations and conditions, the best guns and cartridges. Terry, like his father, was a natural with firearms, as he was with anything needing co-ordination and skill. Hugh had no interest in blood sports and invariably found his attention wandering at the first mention of guns, until one evening, when sprawled behind the couch reading a comic, he heard them mention his name and sat up and took notice. Eddie was saying: ‘How about taking Hugh along with us on the shoot this year?’
‘Oh Dad! Do we have to?’ Up to this their sporting confraternity had been exclusively limited to his father and himself, and that was how Terry liked it.
Eddie laughed. ‘We don’t have to bring him but he’s old enough I think.’ Eddie had noticed how low the boy’s spirits were since Hero’s death, and he was looking for some way of making it up to him.
‘He’ll probably cry when we kill anything,’ Terry said in disgust. ‘He’s such a wimp.’
Hugh reared up from behind the couch at that. ’No, I’m not,’ he protested.
‘Of course not. Our Hugh’s no weakling,’ Eddie said staunchly, but with a sly grin at Terry, which seemed in Hugh’s hyper-sensitive state to imply there might just be some truth in it.
The night before the shoot Eddie insisted on the boys watching him as he cleaned and oiled the guns. Then he loaded up, slipping the cartridges into the breeches and snapping the gun closed.
‘Never point it at anyone,’ Eddie told them. ‘That’s the first rule. And the second, always keep the safety-catch on until you’re ready to take aim.’
Terry looked bored. ‘I know all that, Dad,’ he said. ‘You’ve told me billions of times.’ He wanted to impress on Hugh just how often he’d been through it all before.
‘It can never be repeated too often,’ Eddie said sternly. He emptied the shotgun and handed it to Hugh. ‘Now let me see you loading up.’
Hugh took it from him gingerly.
‘Treat it with respect but don’t be afraid of it,’ his father advised.
Hugh fumbled for the cartridges and dropped some on the floor.
‘Clot!’ Terry said automatically.
Hugh bent to pick them up and hit the gun off the table. He flushed and looked at his father.
‘Go on,’ Eddie encouraged him. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’
When Hugh had the gun loaded his father made him empty it and do it all over again, until he was able to do it without faltering. By this time Hugh felt more confident although he knew that it was not the loading, but the shooting of the gun that troubled him. He only prayed he would not look a fool before his father.
Next morning they rose at 3.30 a.m. and drove to Wexford. The sky was still dark when they reached the sloblands and parked the car by the side of the road.
Three times that morning they heard honking and the furious beating of wings overhead. Eddie and Terry brought down seven birds between them and all Hugh’s shots went wide. His dejection increased with his brother’s derision, his father’s laughter. Hugh went out several more times with Eddie and Terry but though his aim improved and he even succeeded in hitting ducks once or twice, the whole business of killing sickened him He was careful, however, not to allow Eddie see his revulsion and, whenever he could, made excuses to get out of going.
In February when Christopher had sat the entrance exam for his new school and been accepted for the following autumn, Claire’s father told her that he and Annette were going to separate.
‘Oh no!’ Claire wailed, thinking with her mother more cheerful lately everything had seemed to be going better between them. When they had all gone out to New Year’s Day lunch in a restaurant, Annette and Jim had drunk a bottle of wine and been full of jokes and laughter in the car on the way home. And she had tried so hard herself. She had really thought she was succeeding. It was ages since he’d complained about having no hankies or socks. She stared miserably at her hands.
‘Just for six months,’ her father said, ‘and then we’ll see.’
‘But what about us?’ She was nearly crying, ‘Chris and myself?’
‘Your mother and I need time away from each other to think things out. Decide what’s best for all of us.’
‘But what about the summer holidays?’ They were to have gone camping in France this year. Oh how could they do it? Claire felt sick and trembling, her confidence all gone.
‘It won’t be so bad.’
How could he say that? It would be terrible. Some of the girls in her class were from broken homes. They had the lowest marks in the class and were always in trouble. Claire hated to think that she now numbered in that unenviable statistic.
Christopher blamed Annette for everything. ‘She shouldn’t have gone back to work,’ he told Claire shrilly. ‘That’s what it’s all about, you know. Dad hates her working. I’ve heard him say so. Mothers should stay at home or they shouldn’t be mothers.’
In the past their father had said something of the sort. While Claire honestly felt their home life would have been much easier if this were the case, she was struck by how unfair such a view was. After all, it wasn’t Annette who stayed out late every night and only shared family mealtimes on Sunday. Her mother always encouraged them to study and, if needed, was there to hear their homework. If lately she had lapsed it was only because she was finding her return to work a strain. And why shouldn’t her mother work? Claire thought. With the right kind of back-up support from their father and help in the house once or twice a week, she could have easily managed to keep the household running smoothly. At the same time, Claire loved her father. No one was entirely to blame for anything. She had learned this from the books she read. Her father and mother were made up of both good and bad. Young as she was Claire could make these distinctions. The pity of it was that they could not bury their differences and live in harmony. But she kept these thoughts to herself. Like Christopher, she felt despondent and rejected.
Claire’s father moved out on a Sunday. Before he went away they all sat about the dining-table and ate their last meal together.
Annette sat, red-eyed and withdrawn, at one end of the table, ladling soup into bowls. For the occasion she had cooked their favourite dinner of roast beef, parsley stuffing and roast potatoes. Claire toyed with her portion, too full of tears to eat. Her father looked at his loaded plate as though he didn’t know where to begin.
‘Will you say grace or shall I?’ Annette asked.
He shrugged, ‘Whatever you like,’ and left it to her.
Grace? When did they ever say grace, Claire thought. But Annette was determined to bless this last supper. ‘For what we are about to receive Oh Lord...’ she began, the words fluid and familiar on her tongue. Suddenly her voice died in her throat. She bowed her head and a tear fell on her hand. Claire looked away uncomfortably. Please God don’t let her cry, she silently begged. Her father cleared his throat.
‘Now don’t start that,’ he said.
‘What?’ Annette found her voice.
‘This emotional blackmail.’
‘If you can think that there’s no point in saying anything more.’ She spoke with painful dignity.
‘Annette, just what are you trying to say?’ He was frowning, but he strove to be patient. What he would really like to do, Claire thought, is slap her about.
‘You must allow me some emotions after fifteen years of wedded bliss,’ Annette said ironically. ‘I’m not apologising for my feelings, nor am I using them as a means of getting back at you.’
‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘I’m sorry. I spoke quickly, without thinking. I was afraid you were going to cling on to me. Make it all so much harder.’
‘I suppose I might if I thought it would make any difference,’ Annette said very quietly.
Christopher had been eating all this time but now he threw down his knife and fork with a clatter. He swallowed a sob and fisted his eyes. Like he used to do, Claire suddenly remembered with a pang, when he was a little boy. Centuries ago.
Claire laid down her fork, unable to swallow any more food. Christopher’s sobs continued jerkily. The tears flowed in dirty rivulets down his cheeks. He had been playing ball in the garden before lunch and neglected to wash his hands. Jim moved his chair over beside him.
‘We’ll go to a football match very soon, Chris old man,’ he said, putting an arm about him. ‘I’ll get tickets and call over for you one day. We’ll have a great time.’
Christopher tried to speak but only succeeded in making an unhappy sputtering sound.
‘Stop now... for pity’s sake, stop!’ Jim shaded his eyes with his hand.
But Christopher could not stop shaking. He began to hiccup. Claire too found she was trembling and sick. When it was time for her father to go she threw her arms around his neck, and began to cry.
‘There now,’ Jim soothed her, and tried to joke. ‘Isn’t it a pity I have to be leaving home for my family to show any affection.’ Christopher moaned faintly.
Jim left the room. They heard his footsteps heavily climbing the stairs. Annette went to the window and fidgeted with the curtain. Claire and Christopher sat slumped at the table, not looking at each other.
Jim came downstairs again, carrying his case, and passed the dining-room. Annette turned impulsively from the window and took a few hurried steps forward as though to call him back. Then as the front door closed she sighed and stood still.
Christopher put his head down on the table and sobbed inconsolably. ‘He’s gone... he’s gone... and I really liked him.’ Claire sucked on her knuckles till they bled. Annette stared at her children, then gave a despairing cry and rushed out of the room.
Later that evening as Claire passed along the landing she saw her mother in her room, just sitting on the bed, so she went in.
‘I’ve just been sitting here and thinking,’ Annette said.
‘What about?’ Claire asked cautiously. She didn’t really want to know her mother’s thoughts, but felt she must ask.
‘About the last fifteen years.’ Annette smiled wanly at her, not really seeing her, still in the past. Claire noticed the small pile of snapshots on the bed.
‘Pictures of you and Christopher when you were little... and Bella.’ It was the first time she had mentioned the baby in a long time. Bella was their pet name for her. Arabella Angela Shannon. After Annette’s mother and an aunt of their father’s.
‘Can I see?’ Claire felt a sudden desire to look at her sister once more. Annette fumbled amongst the photographs and extended one to her. Claire gazed at it for a long time.
‘She was a dote, wasn’t she?’ Annette peered over Claire’s shoulder. ‘When I was a couple of months pregnant I nearly lost her. I got a show and had to stay in bed. Do you remember?’
‘No,’ Claire lied. She did not want to hear any gory details.
‘She was such a little angel when she was born. I suppose I always knew she was too perfect to live,’ Annette began to weep, slow painful tears. ‘Maybe it would have been better if I had lost her earlier. Better for all of us. I wouldn’t have known what I was losing.’
Claire didn’t answer. She wished her mother would stop. She turned away.
‘Oh my baby, my baby.’ Annette sobbed, putting out her arms blindly to hold Claire. She sat quietly in her mother’s embrace. Why can’t I feel more than I do? she thought. She was not entirely unmoved by Annette’s tears but felt disassociated from them, as though witnessing a stranger’s grief. After a time Annette stopped crying.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said. ‘I just felt so low. It seems I’ve made a complete mess of things.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ Claire said staunchly. ‘You’re not to blame.’
Annette hugged her tearfully. ‘What a funny girl you are,’ she said, ‘and there I was thinking you had no feeling in you at all. But you do care, don’t you?’
There was nothing to say. Claire stood up, suddenly longing to be in her own room, on her own. Her mother went sniffling to the dressing-table and scooped up tissues to mop her eyes. Claire hesitated.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
Annette turned around. ‘Do I look all right?’ She attempted a laugh.
Claire regarded her gravely. ‘Yes, you look fine.’ Her mother did look better as though the tears had released some of the awful strain of parting. She hung awkwardly in the doorway, waiting to be dismissed.
‘Off you go,’ Annette said, patting her averted cheek. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right now.’
Claire nodded and turned away. She shut the door of her bedroom with an overwhelming sense of relief.