I watch the way Mam and Maeve pack closely this time, Maeve’s staff and Mam’s knives no farther away than their fingertips. They do it the way they do everything else, the two of them moving together, a team, a world unto themselves. I feel already small stirrings of the panic I get when I’m alone here.
“We’ll only be gone a night,” Mam says. “Then it’ll be the three of us packing up to go.”
I want so badly to say to them to take me now, but I’ve said it a million times before and I stop myself. Mam hears it anyway.
“You are coming with us, all right? We’ve agreed. Next time.” There’s a sharp edge to her voice; it’s rare enough for her. She doesn’t want to let it happen, even still, she wants me to stay here on the island. It was Maeve who talked her round.
“We’ve not stayed overnight anywhere near the coast in a while,” Maeve says now, her voice trying to be softer than Mam’s and failing. It’s strange, to see her try to explain things when my mother won’t. “We want to call over and make sure it’s okay for you to come next time. We’ll be back before you know it, this time tomorrow.”
I help; I bake spuds and wrap them up with apples from our store, and boiled water in plastic bottles I’ve scrubbed with hot water and soap. Truth is, they could be gone days with no food and it’d be no bother to them.
I watch them pack, so calm you’d never know they weren’t just heading off out to feed the hens or to the woods for the afternoon. They’ve such control when it comes to this island, and themselves, and they’ve no fear of Ireland. Love wells up within me, and I bunch up my knuckles to fight down the feeling so it doesn’t show. I’m more scared than usual, even, but what harm? What difference? Anyway, if they’re not scared of getting off Slanbeg, I shouldn’t be either, or afraid of staying on my own. Not this time.
“Do you know exactly where you’re going?”
“What will you do when you get there?”
“What will I do if you don’t come back?”
These are the questions I do not ask because I know Mam would sigh and say nothing and Maeve would nearly growl. There is so much we cannot say in this house. There is so much knowledge I cannot have.
“Come down with us,” Maeve says, nodding to the packs.
I keep my thoughts to myself, watching them move easily toward the water. I try to be like them, but I can’t be, I’ve no pal the way they’ve each other. I’ve nothing to work with.
The old barrow with its big wheel is handy for hauling their packs down toward the water. I drag out our sturdy little boat, hidden in the trees, to the water. A skiff, they tell me. Maeve ruffles my hair, and Mam pulls me close to her for a hug. I allow myself one big breath of her, then wriggle free when I feel the tears start up. I help them push off, and I smile at them till I’m sure they’re away.
Alone, I walk through the village. The whole island feels different without Mam and Maeve on it; the silence is so aggressive. The noises, from the wind or a bird, are threatening. On my left now is the big shop. I’ve been inside it before and know there’s nothing good left. After the Emergency, something went badly wrong inside. You need a torch to see anything, but there’s only bones covered in stained and smelly cloth. When I was a child, I was fascinated by the death in there, the battle that had been.
Beware people. Maeve. That was all she’d to say on the matter.
And being alone, I add for myself.
Outside, back on the main street, I walk slowly on, kicking weeds and plastic and moldy paper out of my way. The road beneath my feet is rough. The hard blue surface is split and uneven, giving way. Weeds grow through the cracks, some as high as my waist.
At the top of the little rise, I look to the east. From here you can see what remains of the old bridge, a long road over sea between our island and the mainland, built with cement and steel and wire. It used to stretch the whole way to Ireland, and even now it’s packed full of cars, like massive dead beetles, relics from a time long past, all quiet and finished but not a single one empty. The cars are mostly facing toward the island. Everyone thought a little place like this was a good idea, across water, away from the cities and towns. The bridge is ruined, chopped in half by something so big, something disastrous.
I watch the curve of the ruined bridge run straight out into the sea and hold up my hand against the glare of the sun. I try to catch sight of the skiff, but it is gone.