The Deportees (16 page)

Alina loved the baby. She loved everything about the baby. The tiny boyness of him, the way his legs kicked whenever he looked up at her, his fat – she loved these things. She loved to bring him out in his pram, even on the days when it was raining. She loved to sit on the floor with her legs crossed and the baby in her lap. Even when he cried, when he screamed, she was very happy. But he did not cry very often. He was almost a perfect baby.

The baby's pram was very old. Alina remembered visiting her grandmother when she was a little girl. She had not met her grandmother before. She got out of the car and stood beside her father in the frozen farmyard. They watched an old woman push a perambulator towards them. The pram was full of wood, branches and twigs and, across the top of the pram, one huge branch that looked like an entire tree. This old woman was her grandmother. And the baby's pram was very like the old pram she saw her grandmother push across the farmyard. Her father told her it had been his pram, and her aunts' and her uncle's, and even the generation of babies before them.

Now, in 2005, in Dublin, she pushed a pram just like it. Every morning, she put the baby into the pram. She wrapped him up and brought the pram carefully down the steps of the house. She pushed the pram down the path, to the gate. The gateway was only slightly wider than the pram.

—Mind you don't scrape the sides, the baby's mother had said, the first time Alina brought the pram to the steps and turned it towards the gate and the street.

Alina did not understand the baby's mother. The mother followed her to the gate. She took the pram and pushed it through the gateway. She tapped the brick pillars.

—Don't scrape the sides.

She tapped the sides of the pram.

—It is very valuable, said the mother.

—It was yours when you were a baby? Alina asked.

—No, said the mother. —We bought it.

—It is very nice.

—Just be careful with it, said the mother.

—Yes, said Alina. —I will be careful.

Every morning, she brought the baby for his walk. She pushed the pram down to the sea and walked along the path beside the sea wall. She walked for two hours, every morning. She had been ordered to do this. She had been told which route to take. She stopped at the wooden bridge, the bridge out to the strange sandy island, and she turned back. She did not see the mother or the father but, sometimes, she thought she was being watched. She never took a different route. She never let the pram scrape a wall or gate. She was drenched and cold; her hands felt frozen to the steel bar with which she pushed the pram, despite the gloves her own mother had sent to her from home. But, still, Alina loved the baby.

The little girls, his sisters, she was not so sure about. They were beautiful little girls. They were clever and lively and they played the piano together, side by side, with a confidence and sensitivity that greatly impressed Alina. The piano was in the tiled hall, close to the stained-glass windows of the large front door. The coloured sunlight of the late afternoon lit the two girls as they played. Their black hair became purple, dark red and the green of deep-forest leaves. Their fingers on the keys were red and yellow. Alina had not seen them play tennis – it was the middle of December – but the mother assured her that they were excellent players. They were polite and they ate with good manners and apologised when they did not eat all that was on their plates.

They were not twins. They had names, of course, and they had different ages. Ocean was ten years old and Saibhreas was almost nine. But Alina rarely – or, never – saw them apart. They played together; they slept together. They stood beside each other, always. From the first time Alina saw them, three weeks earlier, when she arrived at Dublin Airport, they were side by side.

The next morning, Alina's first working day, they came up to Alina's bedroom in the attic. It was dark outside. They were lit only by the light from the landing below, down the steep stairs. Their black hair could not be seen. Alina saw only their faces. They sat at the end of the bed, side by side, and watched Alina.

—Good morning, said Alina.

—Good morning, they said, together.

It was funny. The young ladies laughed. Alina did not know why she did not like them.

Every morning, Alina brought the baby for his walk. Always, she stopped at one of the shelters at the seafront. She took the baby, swaddled in cotton and Gortex, from his pram and held him on her lap. She looked at the changing sea and bounced him gently.

She spoke to him only in English. She had been instructed never to use her own language.

—You can teach the girls a few words of Polish, the mother told her. —It might be useful. But I don't want Cillian confused.

The shelter had three walls, and a wooden bench. The walls had circular windows, like portholes. Alina held the baby and lifted him to one of these windows, so he could see through it. She did it again. He laughed. Alina could feel his excitement through the many layers of cloth. She lifted him high. His hat brushed the roof of the shelter.

—Intelligent boy!

It was the first time he had laughed. She lowered him back into his pram. She would not tell the mother, she decided. But, almost immediately, she changed her mind. She had the sudden feeling, the knowledge; it crept across her face. She was being watched.

She walked as far as the wooden bridge, and turned.

Every morning, Alina saw mothers, and other young women like herself. These women pushed modern, lighter baby-conveyances, four-wheeled and three-wheeled. Alina envied them. The pram felt heavy and the wind from the sea constantly bashed against its hood.

One thing, however, she liked about the pram. People smiled when they saw it.

—I haven't seen one of those in years, one woman said.

—God almighty, that takes me back, said another.

One morning, she pushed past a handsome man who sat on the sea wall eating a large sandwich. She kept pushing; she did not look back. She stopped at the old wooden bridge. She would never bring the pram onto the bridge. She looked at its frail wooden legs rising out of the sludge. The mutual contact, of old wood and old pram; they would all collapse into the ooze below. She could smell it – she could almost feel it, in her hair and mouth. She walked quickly back along the promenade.

The handsome man was still there. He held up a flask and a cup.

—Hot chocolate? he said. —I put aside for you.

He was a biochemist from Lithuania but he was working in Dublin for a builder, constructing an extension to a very large house on her street. They met every morning, in the shelter. Always, he brought the flask. Sometimes, she brought cake. She watched through the portholes as they kissed. She told him she was being watched. He touched her breast; his hand was inside her coat. She looked down at the baby. He smiled; he bucked. He started to cry. The pram rocked on its springs.

One morning in February, Alina heard her mobile phone as she was carefully bringing the pram down the granite steps of the house. She held the phone to her ear.

—Hello?

—Alina. It's O'Reilly.

O'Reilly was the mother. Everyone called her by her surname. She insisted upon this practice. It terrified her clients, she told Alina. It was intriguing; it was sexy.

—Hello, O'Reilly, said Alina.

—The girls are off school early today, said O'Reilly. —Twelve o'clock. I forgot to tell you.

—Fine, said Alina.

But it was not fine.

—I will be there at twelve o'clock, said Alina.

—Five to, said O'Reilly.

—Yes, said Alina.

—Talk to you, said O'Reilly.

—Your mother is not very nice, Alina told the baby, in English.

She could not now meet her biochemist. He did not own a mobile phone. She would miss her hot chocolate. She would miss his lips on her neck. She would not now feel his hands as she peeped through the porthole and watched for approaching joggers and buggy-pushing women.

She arrived at the gates of the girls' school at ten minutes to twelve. They were waiting there, side by side.

—But school ends at twelve o'clock, said Alina.

—A quarter to, said Ocean.

—We've been here
ages,
said Saibhreas.

—So, said Alina. —We will now go home.

—We want to go along the seafront, said Ocean.

—No, said Alina. —It is too windy today, I think.

—You were
late,
said Saibhreas.

—Very well, said Alina. —We go.

The biochemist waved his flask as she approached. Alina walked straight past him. She did not look at him. She did not look at the little girls as they strode past. She hoped he would be there tomorrow. She would explain her strange behaviour.

That night, quite late, the mother came home. The girls came out of their bedroom.

—Guess what, O'Reilly, they said, together. —Alina has a boyfriend.

O'Reilly grabbed Alina's sleeve and pulled her into the kitchen. She shut the door with one of her heels. She grabbed a chair and made Alina sit. She stood impressively before Alina.

—So, she said. —Tell all.

Alina could not look at O'Reilly's face.

—It is, she said, —perhaps my private affair.

—Listen, babes, said O'Reilly. —Nothing is your private affair. Not while you're working here. Are you fucking this guy?

Alina felt herself burn. The crudity was like a slap across her face.

She shook her head.

—Of course, said O'Reilly. —You're a good Catholic girl. It would be quaint, if I believed you.

O'Reilly put one foot on the chair beside Alina.

—I couldn't care less, she said. —Fuck away, girl. But with three provisos. Not while you're working. Not here, on the property. And not with Mister O'Reilly.

Shocked, appalled, close – she thought – to fainting, Alina looked up at O'Reilly. O'Reilly smiled down at her. Alina dropped her head and cried. O'Reilly smiled the more. She'd mistaken Alina's tears and gulps for gratitude. She patted Alina's head. She lifted Alina's blonde hair, held it, and let it drop.

Alina was going to murder the little girls. This she decided as she climbed the stair to her attic room. She closed the door. It had no lock. She sat on the bed, in the dark. She would poison them. She would drown them. She would put pillows on their faces, a pillow in each of her hands. She would lean down on the pillows until their struggles and kicking ceased. She picked up her own pillow. She put it to her face.

She would not, in actuality, kill the girls. She could not do such a thing – two such things. She would, however, frighten them. She would terrify them. She would plant nightmares that would lurk, prowl, rub their evil backs against the soft walls of their minds, all their lives, until they were two old ladies, lying side by side on their one big deathbed. She would – she knew the phrase – scare them shitless.

—Once upon a time, said Alina.

It was two days later. They sat in the playroom, in front of the bay window. The wind scratched the glass. They heard it also crying in the chimney. The baby lay asleep on Alina's lap. The little girls sat on the rug. They looked up at Alina.

—We're too old for
once upon a time,
said Ocean.

—Nobody is too old for
once upon a time,
said Alina.

The wind shrieked in the chimney. The girls edged closer to Alina's feet. Alina thought of her biochemist, out there mixing cement or cutting wood. She had not seen him since. She had pushed the pram past the shelter. Twice she had pushed; three times. He had not been there. She looked down at the girls. She resisted the urge to kick their little upturned faces. She smiled.

—Once upon a time, she said, again. —There was a very old and wicked lady. She lived in a dark forest.

—Where? said Ocean.

—In my country, said Alina.

—Is this just made up?

—Perhaps.

She stood up. It was a good time for an early interruption, she thought. She carried the baby to his pram, which was close to the door. She lowered him gently. He did not wake. She returned to her chair. She watched the girls watch her approach. She sat.

—From this dark forest the wicked lady emerged, every night. With her she brought a pram.

—Like Cillian's? said Saibhreas.

—Very like Cillian's, said Alina.

She looked at the pram.

—Exactly like Cillian's. Every night, the old lady pushed the pram to the village. Every night, she chose a baby. Every night, she stole the baby.

—From only one village?

—The dark forest was surrounded by villages. There were many babies to choose from. Every night, she pushed the pram back into the forest. It was a dark, dark shuddery place and nobody was brave enough to follow her. Not one soldier. Not one handsome young woodcutter. They all stopped at the edge of the forest. The wind in the branches made – their – flesh – creep. The branches stretched out and tried to tear their hearts from their chests.

The wind now shook the windows. A solitary can bounced down the street.

—Cool, said Ocean.

But the little girls moved in closer. They were now actually sitting on Alina's feet, one foot per girl.

—Every night, said Alina, —the wicked old lady came out of the forest. For many, many years.

—Did she take all the babies? asked Saibhreas.

—No, said Alina. —She did not.

Outside, a branch snapped, a car screeched.

—She took only one kind, said Alina.

—What kind? said Ocean.

—She took only – the girls.

—Why? Ocean asked.

—Why? Alina asked back.

—Why did the old lady take girls and not boys?

—They probably taste better, said Saibhreas.

—Yeah, Ocean agreed. —They'd taste nicer than boys, if they were cooked properly.

—And some girls are smaller, said Saibhreas. —So they'd fit in the oven.

—Unless the old lady had an Aga like ours, said Ocean. —Then boys would fit too.

Alina realised: she would have to work harder to scare these practical little girls.

—So, she said. —We return to the story.

The girls were again silent. They looked up at Alina. They waited for more frights.

—It is not to be thought, said Alina, —that the old lady simply
ate
the little girls.

—Cool.

—This was not so, said Alina.

—What did she do to them?

—You must be quiet, said Alina.

—Sorry, said both girls.

They were faultlessly polite.

Alina said nothing until she felt control of the story return to her. She could feel it: it was as if the little girls leaned forward and gently placed the story onto Alina's lap.

—So, she said. —To continue. There were none brave enough to follow the old lady into the dark forest. None of the mothers had a good night's sleep. They pinched themselves to stay awake. They lay on top of sharp stones. And the fathers slept standing up, at the doors of their houses, their axes in their hands, at the ready. And yet—

—She got past them, said Ocean. —I bet she did.

—Why didn't they have guns? said Saibhreas.

—Silence.

—Sorry.

—And yet, said Alina. —The old lady pushed the pram—

—Excuse me, Alina? said Saibhreas.

—Yes?

—You didn't tell us what she did with the babies.

—Besides eating them, said Ocean.

—You do not wish to hear this story?

—We do.

—And so, said Alina. —The old lady took all the baby girls. She carried every baby girl deep into the forest, in her pram. Until there were no more. Then she took the girls who were no longer babies.

Alina saw that Ocean was about to speak. But Saibhreas nudged her sister, warning her not to interrupt. Alina continued.

—She crept up to the girls in their beds and whispered a spell into their sleeping ears. The girls remained sleeping as she picked them up and placed them in the pram. She pushed the pram past the fathers who did not see her, past the mothers as they lay on stones. The wicked old lady took girls of all ages, up to the age of – ten.

Alina waited, as the little girls examined their arms and legs, wondering how the old lady had done this. She watched Ocean look at the pram. Above them, a crow perched on the chimneypot cawed down the chimney; its sharp beak seemed very close. The wind continued to shriek and groan.

—But, said Alina.

She looked from girl to girl. Their mouths stayed closed. They were – Alina knew the phrase – putty in her hands.

—But, she said, again. —One day, a handsome woodcutter had an idea so brilliant, it lit his eyes like lamps at darkest midnight. This was the idea. Every woodcutter should cut a tree every day, starting at the edge of the forest. That way, the old witch's forest would soon be too small to remain her hiding place. Now, all the men in this part of my country were woodcutters. They all took up their axes and, day by day, cut down the trees.

—But, Alina, said Ocean. —Sorry for interrupting.

—Yes? said Alina.

—What would the woodcutters do afterwards, if they cut down all the trees?

—This did not concern them at that time, said Alina. —They cut, to save their daughters.

—Did the plan work?

—Yes, said Alina. —And no. I will tell.

She waited, then spoke.

—Every morning, and all day, the old lady heard the axes of the woodcutters. Every morning, the axes were a little louder, a little nearer. Soon, after many months, she could see the woodcutters through the remaining trees.

She looked down at Ocean.

—One night she left. She sneaked away, with her pram. So, yes, the plan worked. But—

Again, she waited. She looked across, at the pram.

—She simply moved to another place. She found new babies and new little girls, up to the age of – ten.

—Where? said Saibhreas.

—You have not guessed? said Alina.

She watched the little girls look at each other. Ocean began to speak.

—You forgot to tell us—

—I did not forget, said Alina. —You wish to know why she took the little girls.

—Yes, please, said Ocean.

—Their skin, said Alina.

She watched, as the goose-bumps rose on the arms and legs of the little girls in front of her.