The Fall Girl (12 page)

I want to listen to what they're saying about me, but my ears feel clogged up from crying. I'm holding a tissue to the side of my eye to stop the tears from stinging the abrasion. The Blessed Virgin is staring down at me from a picture on the wall, her hands upturned like someone who's checking to see if it's still raining, or simply asking – What can you do?

Lesley says the only thing standing between me and my freedom is a yellow belly. If only I could ring her now and tell her what I've done! I know she'd be proud of me.

After a long session of listening to my mother, my father is climbing the stairs; I can hear his knees cracking. He knocks on the door and comes in before I get the chance to tell him that he
can
come in. I'm dreading this confrontation more than the one I had with my mother. He glances at me sideways and drags my dressing-table stool across the floor. I sit up on the side of the bed and lean my elbows on my knees, keeping my eyes downcast. There's a pots and pans orchestra being conducted in the kitchen just so my father won't forget who's most upset over this row and whose side he should be on. Letting out a laboured sigh, he sits down in front of me.

‘What's got into you at all at all, Frances? And what sort of ludicrous hairdo is that?'

I look up at him, finger my gluey hair and snigger.

‘Sorry,' I say, trying to sound as serious as he looks. ‘For laughing, I mean; I just couldn't help it.'

He's staring at me as though I'm someone else and not his daughter, as if he has a whole lot of questions to ask, but now that he sees my face, the words won't pass his lips, because I couldn't possibly be the same girl he'd said goodnight to on the landing only the night before. He sighs again, scratches his head, then swallows hard, his Adam's apple bouncing inside his neck like a ping-pong ball. I imagine a string of question-marks sliding down his oesophagus and into his stomach, where they are broken down by enzymes and no longer form questions at all.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the broken rosary beads, holds them out in his hand and says, ‘This is hardly a laughing matter.'

‘Neither is this,' I say, wincing as I touch the cut on the corner of my eye.

‘She told me about that and explained that it was an accident.'

‘And you believe her?'

‘She's never lied to me before.'

‘It was no accident, Daddy, believe me. I swear,
she
lashed out at
me
.'

‘The poor woman was in a state of shock. She was climbing the walls all evening worrying about you; both of us were. What you did was cruel. For all we knew, you could have been attacked and left lying dead in a ditch.'

There are tears welling up in his eyes and he has to pull out his handkerchief and blow his dry nose into it, just so that he can wipe them away before they roll down his cheeks and make him look weak.

‘Wait till you have children of your own,' he says. ‘Then you'll understand how distressed we were.'

‘I didn't mean to hurt
you
, Daddy.'

‘But you did.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘And what about your mother?'

‘She banged my skull off the doorframe, you know. My flipping head is still throbbing.'

‘Because you pushed her.'

‘No, I was trying to get past her.'

‘She says you pushed her up against the sofa.'

‘Daddy, will you lis—'

‘Well, did you, or did you not?'

‘Yes, but –'

‘God Almighty, Frances, that's no way to treat your mother.'

‘Oh.' I let my head flop back, grit my teeth and make fists of my hands. ‘I hate her guts,' I say, looking at the ceiling.

‘Don't say that.'

‘Why not?' I level my face with his. ‘It's the truth.'

‘There's a thin line between love and hate, you know,' he says, his droopy eyes pleading for my surrender.

‘Well, she crossed it first.'

I cannot hide the tear that stings my cut and runs down the side of my face. Now I look weak.

‘Your mother doesn't hate you. I've never met a woman more dedicated to her family.'

‘Is that why ye sleep in separate bedrooms?'

‘That's a matter for your mother and me, young lady,' he snaps, ‘and quite frankly none of your business.'

‘I know, I'm sorry. It's just that she's trying to make out that it's all my fault, so that you'll be on her side.'

‘Well, to be fair, Frances, in this instance, it
is
your fault. You took it upon yourself to go off and get your hair done without telling either of us where you were going, what you were doing or how you were getting home. How
did
you get home, by the way?'

‘Lesley's mother.'

‘Lesley who?'

‘A friend from school. It was her sister who did my hair.'

‘And a right muck she made of it too. What on earth possessed you to do all this without getting permission from your mother?'

‘Because there was no fecking point in asking her, was there? She wouldn't have let me go.'

‘If you needed a haircut, you should have told your mother and she'd have taken you into town for it on Saturday afternoon … and don't you say “feck” when you're talking to me.'

‘I'm sorry, but I'm fed up with my poxy life. I feel like a right moron being escorted by Mammy everywhere I go. I'm sixteen years old, Daddy, and I'm not even allowed into town on my own. There's ten-year-old kids in this village with more freedom than I have.'

‘Yeah, and a cheeky bunch of corner boys they are too.'

‘Ah, for God's sake, Daddy.'

‘What?'

I thought of what Sandra said about him being young once too. ‘What were you doing at sixteen?'

‘Working in my father's barber shop.'

‘And did you have friends?'

‘Of course I did.'

‘And where did you go with your friends?'

‘Football matches, the pictures …'

‘And did your father tag along to keep an eye on you?'

He slaps his hands down on his knees, stands up and starts pacing the room with long strides. My mother has sent him up to sort me out, and sort me out he must, because there'll be a price to pay for letting her down. She won't be satisfied unless he drags me puffy-eyed into the kitchen, begging for mercy and promising never to step out of line again.

But I know he's thinking now, and considering both points of view, because he's frowning and his lips look like they've been pulled together by a drawstring.

‘I didn't really need a haircut, Daddy; I needed a friend.'

‘I thought you were friendly with that young Mulcahy lassie from out beyond Corfinn,' he says, stopping and leaning his elbow on the chest of drawers.

‘Not any more. I'm friends with Lesley Kelly – remember her from Irish dancing?'

‘Oh yeah, the English lassie – a gobby wee one.'

‘That's her.'

‘They're a wild bunch, them Kellys, according to your mother.'

‘And what would she know about them?'

‘Ah now, you'd be surprised what goes about. People talk. Anyway, what's wrong with young Mulcahy? Now there's a lassie from decent stock; I believe they're a highly respectable family.'

‘She's a twit … and a lezzie.'

‘What?'

‘She's a lesbian, Daddy.'

‘Good God Almighty!'

‘Yeah, well, it's the truth, if you must know.'

‘Good bless us and save us. Keep well away from that one, whatever you do.'

‘I fully intend to. The last thing I need is everyone thinking that me and her are … you know.'

‘Don't even talk like that.'

He buries his hands in his pockets and starts pacing again. The pots and the pans have stopped fighting and the smell of dinner is floating up the stairs and in under the bedroom door.

‘I think, begod, I'd better have a chat with your mother about this Mulcahy lassie.'

‘And while you're at it, you can tell her that the only true friend I have is Lesley. You know, I'm not popular, Daddy. The other girls look at me like I'm a freak. If they have to sit beside me in class, they moan and roll their eyes to heaven, as if sitting next to me is some sort of punishment.'

‘Why didn't you …' He sits on the stool again and looks at me with watery eyes.

‘They call me
Mousy
, all of them except Lesley. She treats me with respect. She
likes
me, Daddy; Lesley Kelly
likes
me. And I don't care what you or Mammy say, I'm staying friends with her and that's that.'

Reaching across, he squeezes my hand gently, nodding his OK. Tears start brimming in my eyes again, but I don't care if I look weak any more because my father's on my side and wants to make things better for me, just like I did for him many years ago when I found him crying in the middle of the night.

‘I'm tired of being lonely,' I sob.

‘I didn't know,' he says, handing me his handkerchief.

‘I know.'

‘I'll talk to your mother and see if she'll cut you some slack.'

‘OK.'

‘Honestly, I didn't know how difficult –'

‘It's all right.'

‘But you'll let us know from now on where you're going and what you're doing?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Good lassie.'

‘Dinner's ready,' my mother shouts up the stairs.

‘Do you think she'll listen?'

‘Maybe if you apologized to her, she'd be in a better mood for listening.'

‘Do I have to?'

‘Well, it'll make it a lot easier for me to persuade her to allow you more freedom, if you assure her that you're sorry and that you'll not disrespect her again.'

‘OK, but I'll do it for you, Daddy, not for her.'

‘I dare say it doesn't matter whom you do it for, love, so long as you do it,' he says, heading towards the bedroom door. ‘Are you not coming down?'

‘I'm not hungry. I'll just do my homework and go to bed.'

‘Your hair, I –'

‘What about it?'

‘Arragh,' he says, half smiling.

‘So you really don't like it, then?'

‘I'll put it to you this way, love – don't be one bit surprised if you're greeted at the bus stop in the morning with a cock-a-doodle-doo.'

After he closes the door, I bring the stool back over to the dressing-table and sit looking into the mirror. Leaning my face towards the glass, I open my mouth, exhale a big puff of breath on its surface, making a cloud of condensation, and write with the tip of my nail,
Mousy Fall RIP 10/10/1979
.

A couple of hours later, not having eaten since lunchtime, I tiptoe downstairs for a glass of milk and some biscuits. Neither
of my parents passes any remark as I scuttle through the living-room, where they're watching the nine o'clock news. I've no idea what, if any, conversation has taken place between them since dinnertime, only that, so far, no one has raised a voice.

Around ten o'clock, I'm sitting up in bed reading the second chapter of
Silas Marner
for my homework, when I hear the first rumblings of an argument coming from downstairs. I can't catch what they're saying; all I know is that my mother is doing most of the haranguing. I'm waiting to hear my father storm through the hall and out the front door, like he usually does when my mother verbally slaughters him, but he doesn't leave the room. He continues to respond to her in a low and patient tone.

When I wake up the following morning, I think that the row must have gone on into the small hours. The last thing I remember from the night before is checking the clock: it was half eleven. On my way downstairs, I notice that my mother's humming is chirpier than usual and I don't know what to make of it.

‘By the way, I'm sorry,' I mumble, entering the kitchen and heading straight for the cutlery drawer to get a spoon.

She doesn't answer. She has a dishcloth in her hand and is wiping everything in sight – the draining-board, the counter-top, the cupboard doors, the cooker. I sit at the table and pour out my cornflakes. Just in case she hasn't heard my apology, I say it again. ‘I'm sorry.'

Leering at me with a tight-lipped grin, she leans her hands flat on the table and narrows her eyes. ‘Oh, you will be, madam,' she says, nodding her certainty. ‘You will be.'

The spoon slips out of my hand and into the cereal, splashing milk over the side of the bowl.

‘But Daddy …'

‘But Daddy what?' she sneers, wiping up the milk around the bowl, her mocking face threateningly close to mine.

I push my chair back and dash into the hall where I pull my coat from its hanger and grab my schoolbag. Finding it still open, I get down on my hunkers to fasten the buckles. I don't cop, until I stand up again, that she has crept up behind me.

‘If you think that hideous hairdo is going to do wonders for your popularity,' she says, ‘then you're a bigger gulpin than I thought. That Lesley Kelly was out to make a laughing-stock of you, and you'll see for yourself when you get to the bus stop that that's exactly what she's done.'

Daunted by her remarks, I walk out the front door and slam it shut. What if she's right? What if they do laugh at me? My mother, not in the habit of making unlikely predictions, would never risk being proved wrong, would she? The thought of being ridiculed fills me with dread. As I approach the bus stop, I look back and see her standing outside the front door staring down the street after me, arms folded across her chest.

Attracta and Angelina Reilly are crossing the street and smiling.

‘Love your hair,' Attracta says, and Angelina agrees.

Susan Scully looks me up and down and says, ‘Since when did you go all funky?'

One of the lads says he thinks it makes me look tarty, but I don't mind because that's better than looking mousy.

The bus pulls up. The driver asks to see my ticket because he thinks I'm new and wants to check that I have paid up for the term like everyone else. The boys at the back whistle as I step over bags that are strewn all down the aisle. I find an empty seat and sit down. Susan Scully sits next to me and says, ‘Who did your hair anyway?'

‘Sandra Kelly.'

The bus pulls back out on to the street.

‘The colour's rockin'.'

‘Thanks.'

My mother is eyeballing me as we approach the house. Do it, I think, my heart skipping a beat.

Vroom vroom
. She's gone.

‘Am I fucking seeing things,' Susan says, nudging me, ‘or did you just give your mother the fingers?'

I gave her the fingers all right; just like I did the day I took the baby.

You didn't think I'd be a good mother – fuck you!

I pull in at a shopping centre. I need stuff – a car seat, bottles, nappies, formula, clothes. That will do until I have time to sort myself out and decide what to do. The baby is awake again and moaning. I must be doing something wrong. I didn't know a child could be so restless.