About Matilda (29 page)

I am, Officer Flannery. Oh, I am indeed.

Gabriel shows Officer Flannery to the door and when she comes back tells me to stop your bawling. The officer is gone. Don't forget Confession this Friday.

I won't, Mother.

Gabriel dips her fingers in the little holy water font hanging on the doorframe and says that in all the confusion she forgot to say there was a phone call earlier and the caller seemed annoyed. I hope you haven't done anything out of the way, Matilda?

Rita phoned Gabriel to say she'll collect me at six o'clock Friday evening. I don't want to go. The older I get, the more ashamed I am of the things Uncle Philip makes me do, and I can't understand why it's Rita that rang and not Philip himself. She never rang before. It worries me she's found out, but surely if she had she'd be down here yelling at me? I don't know. I'm scared but I can't think of a reason not to go and if I don't go she'll be down here asking me why. Is there a problem, Matilda? Is there something you'd like to tell me? There's a pain in the pit of my stomach telling me, run, just run anywhere and it'll go away but I can't run when there's nobody to run to.

Uncle Philip lives in one of the big houses on Ballybricken where the cattle mart used to be. Nowadays, there's a wide green with benches for people to sit after the trudge up from town. It's a strange house. The furniture is new. The porch door is new and made with small squares of glass and every square of glass a different colour. The kitchen door is old and has a metal latch instead of a handle. There's a smell of fresh paint from the skirting boards but the wallpaper is faded and the walls are covered in holy pictures and every flat surface has a holy statue on it. Even the mantelpiece has a bottle of holy water in the shape of Our Lady of Lourdes wearing a blue cap for her veil. It's as if they're changing the house bit by bit, only you can't tell which bit they're changing.

Philip is gone for the night and there's only Rita and me. Her Christmas tree twinkles in the front window and her
Christmas cards hang from tinsel above the mantelpiece and along the walls.

Rita puts me sitting in the armchair in front of the blazing coal fire and hands me a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and a can of orange, and when she turns on the table lamp the whole room glows warm and pink. She sits on the sofa against the wall. She crosses her legs and lays her hands on her knees and smiles over at me. Rita has huge teeth when she smiles and you can see her top gum. She looks like she wants to say something, but she just sits there smiling and staring.

Is she waiting for me to say something? The longer she stares the more certain I am she knows everything. I can't keep still in the seat. The harder I try the more I shake. My arse is tight and my face is on fire and I look away. I hold the cool can of orange to my cheeks and hope she doesn't notice. Why doesn't she talk? Why the fuck doesn't she say what she wants to say and get it over with? I know what she's doing. She wants to sit here and watch me sweat until I can't stand it anymore and admit everything. That's why the fire is so hot. She's even got the coal scuttle full. Ready to heap it on the moment the heat begins to fade. Why doesn't she say something? Even the holy pictures on the walls are staring. I want to get up but I wouldn't even get my poncho on before she'd accuse me. Scream at me like my grandmother did because there's no use telling someone who was almost a nun, He made me do it. That he said nobody would believe me if I told because I'm a Shep. Nobody would care. I'd be fired out of the Holy Shepherd and on to the streets where all the men in the world could do what they liked to me.

She wouldn't believe me if I told her how sweet he could be when I did what he wanted. How he told me I was special and how good that made me feel because I was never special to anyone. Would Rita understand if I told her about the
morning I woke up drenched with sweat and understood what I was doing was wrong? Would she understand the times I sat in steaming baths trying to scrub him away with soap and water but couldn't because the dirt was on the inside like a mortal sin? She'd never believe that about Uncle Philip. Not her Philip who sits at the front of the chapel every Sunday and receives the Body of Christ. My Philip isn't like that. My Philip is decent, respectful. And what could I say to her? That she's right, he is decent. That he has a good job and nice house and you don't see him hanging around the toilets in the park. How would I make her understand that they done what they done because they could, because we were nothing to them? Because we had no one to mind us, no one to care what happened to us. We're Peter's children, God love them.

Now Rita talks.

It's terrible how things turned out for all of you, Matilda. Philip's heart is broken, but God is good and with his help and the power of prayer everything will turn out right in the end. Tell me, Matilda. Did you see your father lately? He loves you all very much, you know.

I know, Rita. That's all I can say and I feel my voice shudder when I say it.

Have you a boyfriend yet, Matilda?

No, Rita.

A pretty girl like you? The boys must be queuing up.

What she's up to? Why doesn't she just come out and say it? Get it over with. I watch her out of the corner of my eye when she leans forward to turn on the television.

Do you like
Kojak
, Matilda?

When the nuns let us stay up late, I do.

That Telly Savalas is just gorgeous. Isn't he?

He's bald, Rita.

But he's so, so manly. You needn't be shy with me, Matilda.

I'd wonder what way is this for someone who was almost a nun to talk but I know she's building up to tell me what she really wants me here for. I can feel it coming. It's in her voice. She moves in the seat and it's like she's winding herself up and I feel my hands grip the arms of the chair. I close my eyes and wait for it but she says nothing and, when I open them again, there she is relaxed on the sofa watching
Kojak
.

Is that it? She hardly asked me here to find out about boyfriends. Maybe my grandmother put her up to it. Especially after all the trouble there was with Mona.

I finish the crisps and the can of orange and Rita hands me more. I say, No, thank you, but she presses them on me.

Thank you, Rita.

You should call more often, Matilda. I don't see much of you these days unless it's tearing through Grace's supermarket like an Olympic sprinter. You spend quite a bit of time there.

Not really, Rita. I… I, I'm not let out much.

Doesn't seem like that, Matilda. And now that you've brought it up…

Who, me? I didn't bring anything up.

The point is we need to discuss the matter. It's been bothering me a long time and now seems as good a time as any to get it out in the open. Woman to woman, so to speak.

There's a lump in my throat the size of Kojak's lollipop and I feel the crisps jar in my stomach. I'm ready to admit everything when she leans so close to me I can smell her lipstick.

I know what's been going on, Matilda. It's very wrong and your grandmother would be very upset if she knew. She worries a great deal, and if she finds out…

I start bawling, for real.

I didn't mean it, Rita. Honest I didn't. I was made to do it.

I jump up ready to run for the door but she tells me to sit down. This must be sorted out before Philip comes home.
He's up in your grandmother's. Your grandfather is ill. They don't expect him to last out Christmas. That's why I wanted to see you on your own, Matilda. We don't want to upset your grandmother, she has enough on her plate.

But… I…

Rita leans closer and puts her hand on my shoulder.

I know you've been stealing, Matilda. It's wrong and, if you get caught, I could lose my job.

What?

Stealing, Matilda.

Stealing! She's worried I get caught and she loses her job. I'm so weak with relief I don't care what she says now. I tell her, I'm sorry, Rita. I won't do it again.

I know it's not you, Matilda. You're far too nice. You're just mixing with the wrong company in that convent and I know very well they made you do it.

You do?

Of course I do. You must try to find other friends. It's not easy but you must make the effort. Think of your future.

It's no use telling Rita the convent kids are my family. It's easier to agree and go home.

I will, Rita. Thanks for telling me.

Good girl, Matilda. I'm glad we got that out of the way. Aren't you?

I am, Rita, thanks.

Now, would you like tea and toast before bed?

No thanks, Rita. I can't stay. I have a race in the morning.

No, no, you're staying for the weekend.

What?

Philip arranged it with Sister Gabriel.

No one told me, Rita.

Philip wanted to surprise you. I'll be working in the morning but Philip will be here. He'll be delighted to see you.

But I can't. I… I… I have a race. Gabriel should have known. It's important.

Rita stands up to go to the kitchen. She straightens the front of her dress and buttons her wool cardigan.

Of course you can stay, Matilda. I won't hear another word. We can sort something out with the race. Perhaps Philip will bring you. You look pale, Matilda. Are you ill?

I am, Rita. I think I have the flu. I better go home to bed.

Let me have a look at you. Oh, you're flushed and trembling all over. That's very strange. I don't think you'll be racing tomorrow. I'm sorry, but you're staying here.

She unscrews the blue veil from Our Lady of Lourdes on the mantelpiece, makes the sign of the cross on my forehead with the holy water and tells me to sit back in that chair. I'll make you a nice warm cup of tea.

It'd be better if I went home, Rita. If I have the flu, you'd get it.

It's too late to worry about it now, Matilda. Philip has the car and I wouldn't have Sister Gabriel ringing me to say I let you out on a bad night like this, and you as weak as a puppy. You're staying here and that's the end of it.

I'm in bed with the light on, a big soft feather bed with brass knobs that belonged to Rita's dead mother. There she is staring at me from the wall with her black eyes accusing me. An old woman in a shawl sitting in a wooden rocking chair on Ballybricken in olden days, when men smoked little white pipes and the children had no shoes.

I pull the quilt over my head when I hear the front door open and close. I know it's Philip. I know the quiet way he has with doors. I hear the sitting-room door open and close and Philip and Rita's voices drifting through the floorboards.

What do I do? Do I turn the light out and pretend to be
asleep? No, that never bothered him and I don't want to be alone with him in the dark. I'll lie here until I hear them go to bed. He won't bother me with Rita here.

I hear the footsteps climbing the stairs and I know they're Philip's. I've heard those footsteps so many times on my grandmother's stairs when we've stayed for holidays and weekends. He stops outside the door and I think about jumping out the window or hiding under the bed. I don't have time to do anything. He taps on the bedroom door, then walks in and smiles at me when he sees I'm still awake and I know he thinks I was waiting for him. I feel so stupid.

Philip stays by the door and checks out on to the landing to see if Rita is following. He's wearing a grey suit and red tie. His hair combed back and his face blue from the glare of the lampshade. His shiny black shoes squeak when he moves to the side of the bed.

I told Rita I was coming up to say goodnight and to talk to you again about the stealing. What she doesn't know, won't trouble her.

He sits at the side of the bed and puts his arm around me and there's a strange scent of perfume that isn't Rita's. I look straight ahead at the picture on the wall of Rita's dead mother and I don't know if it's her watching me, or Philip himself making my stomach retch. I watch Philip out of the corner of my eye and, as he opens his belt buckle, my whole body stiffens. Maybe if he sees how scared I am he'll let me alone. Maybe with Rita downstairs he won't go too far. Maybe I should know better. He takes my hand in his, rubbing it.

Do you know how pretty you are, Matilda? Do you know how I feel about you? I know it's wrong but I can't help it. Believe me, I've tried. I just can't help myself.

His hands are large and soft and I pull my hand away but he tells me, It's all right, Matilda. Don't be nervous.

I sit up in the bed trying to look like I got a fright.

Stop, Philip. There's someone there.

Then he jumps up. He did get a fright. He goes to the bedroom door and peers outside to the landing and smiles to himself when it's empty and comes back to sit beside me on the bed. He whispers, Shush, Matilda, it's okay. There's nobody there. He's still smiling when he pulls the quilt back but he frowns when he sees I'm still wearing my jeans. He holds my hand again and leaves it between his legs and moans and begins opening my jeans. I tell him I have to go to the bathroom but he begs me to stay.

I'll be here all day tomorrow, Philip. I promise I will. I have to go to the toilet now, honest.

He stands up and straightens his pants and I jump out of the bed and run.

The bathroom is cold and has mirrors everywhere. The walls have green tiles and the floor has white tiles. There're goose bumps on my arms and legs and a hard lump clogging my stomach. I feel tears, loads of them, starting between my legs and gushing to my eyes. Rita is on the stairs shouting, Is everything all right up there, Philip? The green tiles are spinning around me. There's cold sweat dripping from my forehead and stinging my eyes. Oh, Jesus, help me. What am I going to do? Voices in my head. My grandmother screaming I made him do it. My father beating me. Rita shouting, You're a thief, a liar, look what you made your uncle do. My stomach heaves and splashes into the toilet– tea, orange, crisps, toast. I feel my feet running and I can't stop them. Black loafers running on white tiles. The metal tips clicking faster and faster. Please, Jesus. Please help me. I can't live like this anymore.