21

In the morning, Mister Phelan slips me ten pounds for Jack Daniels and I ask him if he knows anything about getting a job?

I should. I had enough of them. What do you want to know, Matilda?

Mister Phelan knows my grandmother from the shop. He knows I was in the convent and he knows without me telling him that nobody will give someone from an industrial school a job. He calls to Mister Stacey in the next bed, Hey, Stacey, didn’t you work in an office?

Forty years.

Mister Phelan tells me to get an application form and bring it here. We’ll handle the rest.

Thanks, Mister Phelan.

You must tell your grandmother you were talking to me. Frank Phelan. Tell her I was asking for her.

I don’t see her anymore, Mister Phelan.

Oh?

These things happen, don’t they?

Mister Phelan must see from my face I don’t want to talk about it. I wonder can he see from my face that I hardly think of her anymore unless someone mentions her name. That she’s gone from my life for good and that’s the best place for her.

He nods and changes the subject.

Try one of those big American companies, Matilda. Never work for an Irishman. The minute an Irishman gets his foot on the ladder, he’ll use the other foot to kick the next man back.

I’ll try, Mister Phelan.

A week later, Thursday, I’m getting ready for work when the doorbell rings at the same time as the bells for seven o’clock evening mass. I know it’s not Danny because I gave him a key. Someone must have made a mistake. I look out the window but I don’t see anyone. The last of the shoppers are heading home and down the street there’s already a queue outside the Regina cinema for Kramer vs. Kramer.

Downstairs there are two letters on the hall floor addressed to me. This is definitely a mistake. I start to open one at the same time as I’m opening the door and there he is on the footpath, carrying a guitar in black leather case and bunch of withered flowers I know he picked from someone’s garden. The beard is gone but the hair is as long as ever but thin and wispy on top. He takes a step forward so I can’t close the door. His huge shoulders spread wide across the doorframe blocking the light.

He’s polite when he talks. He heard I had my own place. He’s disappointed I hadn’t invited him for dinner. Daughters should invite their fathers for dinner. Aren’t you going to ask me in?

I can’t do anything but stand aside. I bring him upstairs and make an excuse about not inviting him for dinner. I meant to invite you, Daddy, but I work nights and I haven’t been around much.

He hands me the flowers. I leave them by the sink that somehow doesn’t seem like my sink anymore. I leave the letters in the press that doesn’t seem like my press. The wooden chair groans with his weight when he sits at the table. He leaves his canvas knapsack on the table and the guitar on the floor beside him and all I’m wondering is, what’s he doing with that guitar?

He folds his arms and lies back in the chair. He looks strange without the beard. His face looks bigger. His cheeks red and raw as if he’s just shaved with a blunt razor, but he’s still a handsome man and I can see what my mother would have seen in him.

You’re seeing me now. What would you have for dinner? Ribs and cabbage would be nice. Ribs, cabbage and boiled potatoes.

I’ll get them.

When?

Saturday. I’ll make dinner this Saturday.

What time?

Six o’clock.

Where’s your guitar? I don’t see it.

I left it in the convent. I didn’t have anywhere to put it before.

You’ll go back for it.

Of course.

When?

I’ll go tomorrow. Look, I’m late for work, I’ll have to rush.

He ignores me and tells me to sit across from him. He even points to the chair. I sit but I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands. I lay them on the table. I can feel my pulse beating off the wood. He rumbles through his knapsack for the little pamphlets he hands out when he’s preaching and his voice is sweet and calm.

Here’s one about Elvis Presley, Matilda. Elvis was given his voice to praise the Lord but, when he turned his back on the Lord and lived a life of sin and gluttony, the Lord punished him. Just as he punished Jim Reeves in that plane crash. Pat Boone, on the other hand, turned to the Lord. He gave away the wild life and the Lord has repaid him with a good marriage of forty years.

He lets the pamphlet on the table and tells me to read this later. He has another pamphlet, about giving and receiving. It is better to give than to receive but you must give with a good heart. You’ll read this too.

Yes, Daddy.

I’ve done the wrong thing living on my own. He’s going to spoil this too. The flat feels cramped. My legs feel cramped. I find it hard to breathe because he knows where I live and he’ll be back.

I’m getting nervous all over when the door opens and Danny walks in with the front-door key in his hand. I can see the way my father looks that he didn’t recognize him straight away. He’s grown since last year. His shoulders are bigger, rounder, and there’s a wisp of hair above his top lip that teenage boys get. I can see in his eyes, he’s surprised my father’s here but tries not to show it.

Danny takes his coat off and leaves it on the back of a chair. He kisses my father on the cheek and sits in the armchair by the window under the photograph of the five of us as kids, his body shaking, and if I can see it my father can too.

My father takes the shiny wooden guitar from the black leather case and hands it to Danny. Danny’s wearing clean pressed black pants and shiny black shoes. His hair is shiny and brushed across his forehead, so I know he’s just come from serving as altar boy.

I bought you this for your birthday, Danny. You’ll learn to play.

Thanks, Daddy.

How are you doing in school?

Danny’s round brown eyes stare down to the floor and his cheeks turn pale. The heel of his shoe starts tapping on the wooden floor. The light of the evening sun through the window catches the glass frame of the photograph. I look at myself, a little girl’s face in a head of black hair trying to understand what was happening to her. We were going to Ireland to live with our grandmother. Our new beginning.

My father stands up and pulls his chair across and sits in front of Danny. Danny’s eyes plead with me over my father’s shoulders and I can’t just sit and do nothing.

You leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s terrified? I’ve said it calmly. I didn’t want to provoke him. Maybe I should have said nothing.

He turns around and there’s that glare. I’m sick of people looking at me like nothing. Sick of my father thinking he owns us. Anger drives me out of my chair. He stands up to meet me and we’re so close I can smell him, soap and cod liver oil. I was never this scared but I can’t stop my finger pointing to his face.

Leave my brother alone. He’s not doing anything to you.

Sit down and mind your own business, Matilda. Don’t back answer your father. Don’t be stupid all your life.

I know what you’re up to. You’re not doing to him what you done to the others. And don’t ever call me stupid again.

He snorts, grins, talks to me like he’s giving me this one chance because I’m stupid and don’t know any better.

I won’t warn you again, Matilda.

Good.

I feel his whole body stiffen. Whiff that cod liver oil. My eyes are in line with his chest. The plain white T-shirt ripples across it like a flag. My toes touch the leather tip of his Moses sandals. I want to pull back but if I do I’ll lose. Surrender before I start. I’m tempted to look at Danny, but I won’t take my eyes off my father’s hands. They’re by his side but I know how dangerous they are. I feel his toes tightening; even his toes are solid. His huge open hand reaches up almost touching the light bulb. Ready to strike. Ready to beat me again. The light bulb sways and I yell, Hit me. Go on. Do it. I look him straight in the eye. I dare you.

I hear the cobbler downstairs pulling the metal shutter down over the window, locking up for the night. I feel my throat tightening, drying, ready to let me down just when I need it more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life. I keep staring straight into his yellow eyes; my eyes are still with me. My eyes won’t let me down. I’m daring him and, for the first time, I see something I never saw in his eyes before.

He’s thinking. He’s thinking what he’s going to do next. Wondering if I’m still afraid of him and what does he do if I’m not.

His eyes narrow; his cheeks lose colour. I can feel his rage. I hear him breathe. I’ve gone too far. My legs feel hollow and my head heavy with blood, but I’ve been here before. I’ve been kicked and punched all my life.

I point to the floor.

This is my floor. Mine. And I want you off it.

The veins in his temples are swollen and purple. His mind is made up and I know what’s coming. Even before I see those long straight fingers curling into that fist, I know what’s coming. I feel it before it lands. I see everything as clearly as I see the guitar on Danny’s lap. The yellow eyes, the long narrow eyebrows, the long straight fingers curling into that fist, the photograph on the wall, the smell of cod liver oil. I take a step back and duck.

His fist swipes above my head. I pull the guitar from Danny’s lap and crack it against the side of my father’s head. I feel the sting shoot through my arms like I’ve hit an iron pole. He hardly budges. There’s a blunt pain in my side but I blank it out. He caught me with his other fist under the ribs. I can’t think about it. If I think about it I’ll feel the pain and I can’t afford to feel anything. I swing the guitar again and smash it against his temples. The strings twang and snap. His head wobbles. There’s no look on his face. It’s as if all the muscles have gone limp. His face sags. His body sags. He drops to his knees in front of me like he’s praying to a statue and I still see everything clearly.

I see the five of us as kids being torn from each other’s arms outside orphanages and I hit him.

I remember how close the five of us were and I hit him.

I remember caravans, nuns, beatings, nights of terror and I hit him.

I remember Danny jumping off the convent wall and hiding in terror and I hit him. I remember a little girl being led upstairs by her uncle and I hit him.

I remember Mona’s legs covered in blood and I hit him.

I remember Pippa falling on her face in the mud and I hit him.

I feel a hand tearing at my arm. I hear Danny yelling my name and dragging me away.

Stop, Matilda. Jesus Christ, will you stop.

My father is lying on the floor covered in chunks of guitar and the stub of the handle is still in my hand. Danny pushes me against the wall and pins my arms to my side. My father’s satchel is at my feet and I kick it towards him and yell at him.

Get out and don’t come back. Tramp.

He groans and crawls along the floor by the wall. He reaches for the doorknob and pulls himself up slowly. His fingers leave a trail of blood on the door. I don’t want him to get up but I don’t want him to lie there either. I pull away from Danny and make a kick but Danny pulls at my arm and I kick at fresh air.

My father stands at the door rubbing the blood from his forehead with the back of his hand and there’s a blood smear across his face. He stares at his hand. He stares at me but I don’t care because I’ve been here before. He stares at Danny who’s still pulling at my arm. My father could kill me now. We both know it. But when I look at him now, there’s no fear. Just pity.

He stays at the door a while. Should I give him another chance? We’ll start again, Daddy. I should say something. I can’t just leave him standing there.

Get out. And shove your pamphlets up your arse.

I walk to the corner and take the sweeping brush and begin sweeping the floor as if everything is finished and there’s nothing more to say.

He lifts the strap of the canvas satchel over his shoulder and turns and closes the door behind him leaving his blood on the doorknob.

I wait and listen to his footsteps fading down the stairs. The whirr of traffic as the front door opens, then silence when it closes.

I send Danny out on to the landing to check he really has gone and I collapse onto the chair. I’m shaking all over.

I won’t cry, but I can’t go to work like this. Danny comes back to say our father is gone and I send him to ring the Matron that I’m sick. When he goes, I don’t know what to do. I sit down, then stand up, walk around the room. I have to do something. Do anything, keep going, wash cups, saucers, plates. Clean away the blood. I open the window and take deep breaths. The evening air is warm and sweet and down the street the queue for Kramer vs. Kramer has gone in.

I take the letters from the press and sit at the table. The first is from Sheamie and my heart nearly leaps out the window. He’s working on a building site in Manchester. He’s been offered a job as an apprentice electrician and he’ll probably take it. The wages are poor to begin with so he’ll need to have savings. He spent enough nights on park benches when he came here. He’s put off the idea of finding our mother. He needs to find himself first, but he’ll be home for Mona’s wedding. He’s happy she’s not inviting any of my father’s family, otherwise he wouldn’t come, even for Mona.

I smile. It sounds just like Sheamie.

PS Mickey Driscoll turned up here and stayed a few days before heading off to look for work in London. He says he has contacts. By the way, it was Mickey who robbed our money. He told me when he was drunk. Hardly matters now. Love from Sheamie.

I leave the letter on the table. I’ll read it again when my head clears. The second letter is from the factory. Would I please call for an interview at ten o’clock in the morning.

Interview? What’s an interview? No one ever told me about interviews.

Mister Phelan’s unopened whiskey is in my press and he’ll hardly mind if I take a sip. I drink it straight from the bottle and it’s like lightning through my body till my toenails feel on fire. One swig becomes two and then three till I don’t care about interviews anymore, but in the morning the inside of my mouth feels like it’s grown a beard. I’m on the floor wrapped in a blanket and Danny is laughing down at me from the bed. He lifts himself up on his elbow and does an impression of Gabriel wagging her finger.

How many times have I spoken to you about fighting, Matilda? How many times have I told you to turn the other cheek? What am I going to do with you? By the way, that Matron said she wants to see you today.

I jump and, Jesus, there’s pain. Like hot coals on my forehead.

Am I in trouble, Danny?

Don’t know. I told her you were sick last night and couldn’t work.

And?

And what?

And what else, Danny?

Nothing else. Just call to see her today.

I get showered and there’s a bruise the size of a saucer under my ribs. I get dressed ready for the interview and, as I’m walking out the door, Danny sits up in the bed and calls me back.

Matilda, thanks for standing up for me.

I feel embarrassed and I don’t know what to say, only, Go back to sleep, Danny. I’ll see you later.

The man in the factory wears a suit and tie and a bright yellow shirt. He has an office as big as a field with three phones on his desk. All red. He says they’re a big American company making games and jigsaws and my application was excellent, the job is mine. Machinist. All I have to do now is see Mister O’Leary through that door there and if I come through that test I’ll be sent for a medical.

Test? No one told me anything about tests.

Mister O’Leary wears a white coat and has a stopwatch in his hand. He tells me I’m to put those different-shaped bricks there in the matching holes on that board on the table.

More bricks. I should have known there’d be bricks.

Matron is sitting behind her desk when I go in and she’s not smiling, but there’s nothing new about that. She leaves me standing while she writes what she has to write and phones who she has to phone then looks me up and down and tells me I look pale. Are you ill, Matilda? We don’t want you carrying infection in here. Now, I’ve been giving some thought to your position. As you know, I only took you on trial, however I’ve decided to make you permanent. She’s certain I’m pleased. Make the most of this opportunity and who knows how high I can rise. In a few years I might even be in charge of my own vacuum cleaner.

But, Matron…

Not now. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.

I get to the ward and Mister Phelan’s bed is empty. Sheets stripped from it and lying in a bundle on the floor, and I know I could never work in a hospital. Seeing people you’ve come to care about die. Even if my mother was a nurse, this could never be for me.

There’s a cough from behind the screen and I think I’m seeing things when Mister Phelan pulls back the curtain and walks towards me pulling up his trousers. He has one sock on and the one in his hand he leaves on the bed.

Matilda, he says, they told me you wouldn’t be in today. Isn’t it grand now you’re here? What’s up, girl? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

Mister Phelan. I thought, ah, I thought you were dead.

By, Jasus, no. There’s fight in this dog yet. Mind you, if it wasn’t for yourself I’d a died a thirst, ha, ha. Tell me, do you have that message?

Of course I do.

Slip it in under the mattress there before that bitch turns up.

Are you going somewhere, Mister Phelan?

A walk. Can’t a man go for a walk in this place without twenty bloody questions? Tell me, did you get any news?

I did, Mister Phelan. I went for an interview this morning.

Out with it. Are yeh listening there, Stacey?

Mister Stacey sits up in the bed and fixes his pillow behind his head. I am, he says.

Go on, Matilda. What happened?

By now, all the old men are sitting up in their beds listening and my face is as red as a slapped arse in the middle of the ward.

I had to do a test, Mister Phelan.

And?

They said I had the fastest hands they ever saw.

Of course they did. And did you get the job?

What did you say in the application form, Mister Phelan?

Ask Stacey there, he’s the expert. He might be half-dead in the bed but the brain is still operatin’. Isn’t it, Stacey?

What did you write, Mister Stacey?

Mister Stacey beckons me over with his finger. A bit closer, girl. A little bit more. I don’t want the world to know our business.

Tell me, Mister Stacey.

I done what everyone else does, Matilda.

He laughs out loud and calls me closer till his mouth is almost touching my ear. I can feel his breath in my ear-hole. Then he shouts so the whole ward can hear.

I lied!

The ward is in uproar when Matron with her Sergeant-Major walk barges in. What’s this ruckus? Then she looks at me. Why are you still here?

The ward is silent. The old men lie back in their beds, their ears deaf and eyes blind. Mister Phelan, who was doing a jig between the beds, is frozen. One leg off the floor, the one without the sock.

I need to talk to you, Matron.

I told you already, tomorrow.

I won’t be here tomorrow.

And why not?

I’m leaving.

What do you mean you’re leaving? You can’t leave. You can leave to go back to the Holy Shepherd for yourself and work in the laundry till someone feels good and ready to take you out but that’s about as far as you’ll be travelling, young lady.

I got a better job.

Oh, you did, did you? We’re not good enough for you now. Is that what you’re saying?

It’s not like that, Matron. I wouldn’t do that.

We were good enough to take you out of the Holy Shepherd but we’re not good enough for you now. Is that what you’re telling us, Miss all-of-a-sudden-high-and-mighty?

I’m really sick of people who think they have it over me. I’m ready to give her an earful, that I’m leaving and that’s all there is to it, but there’s a roar from Mister Phelan that makes me smile. He’s fired up and ready to go, so I just leave him to get on with it.

Bollox this, he says. He stomps his foot on the floor, the one without the sock, and tells Matron to leave that girl alone. Do you want to keep her here till she’s dried up and withered like the rest of us, you included, and only fit for a bed herself? She’s seen enough misery in her life. Then he looks at me. Well, Matilda, haven’t you?

I suppose I have, Mister Phelan.

You’re to call me Frank.

Oh, says Matron, so it’s Frank now, is it?

Mister Phelan shoves his big purple nose close to Matron’s face.

It’s still Mister Phelan to you.

Matron pulls her head back. Well, she says, backing down, I wouldn’t have it said I stood in anyone’s way, but I do have people to answer to, as well you know. I have my orders.

By now, the ward is silent. You can hear the rustle of starched sheets as Mister Stacey sits up in his bed to listen.

Matron pulls back from Mister Phelan’s nose and straightens her blue skirts and tidies her hair. She nods her head that I can leave and turns on her heel and heads back up the ward in her soft white shoes, while she’s reaching into her pocket for her rosary beads.

There are tears behind my eyes and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry and even Mister Phelan’s purple nose sniffles when he tells me, Call up an’ see an old man sometime, Matilda.

I say I will, and try not to let it show that some day I’ll call and they’ll tell me he’s gone for good.

He sits on the edge of the bed and puts his sock on, then slips his feet into his shoes. He bangs his heel on the floor to make sure they’re tight then stands up and pulls his braces over his shoulders. He offers me his hand, but I kiss his cheek instead and, as I’m walking out the door, I hear him tell the other men, By Jasus, lads, I never lost it.

Walking back to the flat, I feel strange. I don’t know if something is over or something is beginning or is it just another day? Danny will be out in a year or two and he’ll need a place to live. I don’t want him coming out to nothing. I walk past the Infirmary where my father carried me in his arms to have stitches in my leg.

I have time to kill, so I walk out the Cork Road past the green in front of the houses where I trained with the other kids before I raced. It’s empty, bar a little girl in a summer frock playing with her doll and pram. I stand beside a wooden bench at the edge of the green and watch her play, trying to imagine what that feels like.

I walk towards town past the convent then past the Apple Market. Umbilical Bill waves to me and I wave back from the other side of the street. I’m walking against the crowd but hardly notice them. It’s like back-walking over my life, trying to make sense of everything, but I could walk for ever and never make sense of it.

Back at the flat, Pippa is waiting by the door with her hands in the pockets of a shabby brown coat with a cheap fur collar. The crowds are passing by and I walk up behind her and tap her on the shoulder.

You’d want to be careful, Pippa. You never know who you could run into.

She lifts her head. Her cheeks are pale and she looks fed up.

I hear your flat is the safest place to be these days, she says.

I knew there had to be a reason you were here.

Ha, ha. Very funny.

You asked for it.

Sorry, Matilda. Don’t be like that. Mona was here. She’s sorry too.

Mona was never sorry for anything in her life.

She waited for ages.

What for?

She wants the three of us to meet up tomorrow to pick out her wedding dress. We didn’t go to Kilkenny. We wouldn’t go without you. You know that, Matilda.

Do I?

We’re just not used to you being out. That is, I’m not. Everything’s a mess. I don’t know where I belong. I rang the hospital and they said you left hours ago. You’re my sister, Matilda. I don’t have so many I can afford to lose one.

I take the key out of my jeans pocket and slip it in the lock and, when I open the door, the sunlight stretches along the hall floor. I walk to the end of the stairs and call back, Are you coming in or not?

She comes in and closes the door behind her and follows me upstairs. Danny locked the windows before he left and the room feels stuffy. Koala is sitting on the window ledge.

Pippa waits by the door of the flat like she’s not sure whether to come in or not.

Come in, Pippa.

She takes her coat off and sits at the table and fumbles for a cigarette in her purse. I fill the kettle and plug in the flex and lift the bottom window sash. The fresh air seeps in with the beeping of a car horn and the garble of the people below me on the street. A light breeze gently lifts the netted curtains and lets them drop. Pippa lights a cigarette and drops the burnt match into the saucer on the table. She looks at me with her blue eyes and the teardrops on her eyelashes hanging like raindrops on a leaf. You just couldn’t be angry with her. How can I blame her for wanting to feel safe?

Aren’t you talking to me, Matilda?

I move back to the window and sit on the windowsill with one foot on the window ledge and the other on the floor. Koala is in my arms and my chin resting on my knee and I’m looking out on the traffic and the people heading home with their parcels and carrier bags. The world is getting ready for the weekend. I’ve never had a weekend. One day has always been the same as another.

Pippa says, I like the flat, Matilda. You’ve done well. I’m stuck with that Missus Schultz. I’m fed up living in the country. And she keeps calling me Vippa. Vippa, have you the brekvest ready? Vippa, vare are you now? I swear, Matilda, she’s driving me veckin’ vonkers.

I was thinking of getting somewhere bigger, Pippa.

Really? Can you afford it?

I thought you’d like to share.

Me?

No, the koala. Yes, you.

I have no money.

You could get a job in one of the factories. It’d be a lot better than where you are. Then we’d have a place for Danny to live when he gets out. I don’t want him coming out to nothing.

I look back and her face is brightening. We can be a family, Pippa.

The pink glow comes to her cheeks and that makes me feel good. I could never be angry with my brothers and sisters. They’re the most important people in the world. The past doesn’t matter now. I won’t let it.

The kettle boils and Pippa takes the mugs from the press and I turn back to look out the window.

The sun is setting and the clouds are a lovely shade of pink. There’s a warm breeze on my skin that lifts my hair and lets it drop.

Pippa wants to talk and make plans. But there’ll be time enough tomorrow. Today, I just want to be a girl having a cup of coffee with her sister.