The Other Ida (21 page)

“I know. I told him you wouldn't want to sell anything. Except the painting maybe.”

“Maybe.” Ida had boasted to him about the painting so many times she couldn't bear to tell him it had already been sold.

“I'd love to see it,” he said.

She didn't reply.

“Guess what,” he said, “this'll cheer you up – I've got the best bloody gossip ever.” He climbed off the bed and sat opposite her on the floor.

“What?”

He put his hands on her arms forcing her to stop sorting through the papers and look at him. “They haven't bloody done it.”

“What?” Ida laughed, not quite understanding.

“Shagged! They haven't shagged! We went for a couple of pints over lunch and Tom let on. He says he supposes it's because your mother was so ill.”

“Bloody hell,” Ida said, laughing.

“He wanted me to talk about you, in the sack, I could tell he did.”

Ida wasn't sure that was true, Tom struck her as being far too nice for that. “And did you?” Ida was kind of hoping he had.

“No. Thought you might kill me if I did. Gave the impression you're a goer though.”

She punched him on the shoulder, aware that she was blushing.

“You're bright red, you slag!” Elliot said gleefully. “Lucky I came down or Tom would have had his wicked way with you.”

Ida sent Elliot down for food, crackers and cheese, and she could hear Alice's voice as she tried to convince him they should both come downstairs. Ida knew she'd hate them missing supper, she was so fucking controlling.

He brought up the food and closed the door. From his pocket he took out his tin, picked out some pills and swallowed them without water. Ida didn't ask what they were. He didn't offer them to her and she knew it was his way of showing he was trying to be better, that although he needed something small to get by, this wasn't a time for recreational use. There was weed in the tin though, Ida could smell it.

“Skin up, will you?” she said.

“You sure? I suppose we can do it out the window. Your sister can't get too cross about that. Hand me something to roach it with though?”

She handed him a seventies copy of
Vogue
, the last item from her mother's top drawer.

He lit the joint and walked towards the window, struggling to open the stiff metal catch. Ida stood up, and stamped on her right foot. Her legs had gone to sleep and it was agony. She took a moment, and then, realising she was cold, walked to her mother's wardrobe and picked out a pale blue cashmere cardigan, felted from washing and full of holes. She tried it on and laughed. “It's so tight. I feel like the Incredible Hulk.”

Elliot turned, holding out the joint. “You look sexy, like some fifties nympho.”

She reached for a puff and then handed it back. She didn't need it really, she felt more relaxed about everything with Elliot there, like in some small way he could protect her from the worst of it, and she flicked through her mother's jumpers with the tips of her fingers.

“She had some lovely stuff. Shame she couldn't afford dry cleaning or mothballs. Well, she could have afforded them. The older I get, the less money I have, the more I realise she was pretty well off. Only not as well off as she thought she should be. And she liked the decrepit glamour of it all, Miss Havisham chic.”

The sliding door of the wardrobe stuck halfway and Ida nudged it with her elbow. Something was blocking it and she leant down. She pushed the bags and shoes away from the runner but still it wouldn't work.

“Come here and take this, I'll do it. You've always been crap with stuff like that,” Elliot said.

Ida knew he was right. She lacked patience and she'd end up breaking it. She stood up, walked to the window and took the joint, holding it out of the window as she turned to watch him struggling with the door.

“There's something stuck,” he said.

He leant further into the cupboard, his arm bent awkwardly as he scrabbled at something with his fingernails.

“There,” he said, pushing the door, hard. In his hand was a big brown envelope, stuffed full. He opened it and began to flick through the contents.

“It's crap, just bills and receipts but here… a certificate of baptism,” he said, pulling it out and holding it up as he tried to read the handwriting. “I thought you always said your grandpa was some fancy engineer?”

Ida reached down for the certificate. It was crumpled and brown at the edges but in pretty good condition, the slanted black fountain pen faded with age.

The Holy Sacrament of Baptism

St Michael's R.C Church

This is to certify:

that: Brigid Catherine Adair

child of: Thomas James John-Paul Adair (TINKER)

and Brigid Theresa Catherine Adair formerly O'Donnell

born in: Tipperary

on: 2
nd
August 1937

baptized on: 20
th
September 1937

according to the rites of the Roman Catholic Church

by: Rev. Joseph Lehmann

the sponsors being:

Elizabeth O'Donnell

Fidelma Hogan

“Tinker. It does say tinker, doesn't it?” Ida asked.

“It looks like it,” said Elliot.

“And place of birth. She always said London, but Tipperary? Is that a real place?”

“Ha. Your mother the gypsy – explains a lot about you.” He stuffed the envelope back in the cupboard.

“And look at her birthday. I always thought she was pretty old when she had me... for back then. But she was even older, thirty-two. She'd been married to Da for years. She really put it off,” she said.

“Well she wasn't the most maternal, was she?”

Ida sat on the floor next to him reading and re-reading the certificate in her hand.

“So she was my age, not twenty-five, when she wrote the play.”

“Maybe there's hope for you yet, Irons,” said Elliot.

It felt like something she should show her sister alone, and Elliot gladly took Tom to the pub.

Alice didn't take the hint at first and tried to protest, but after a few pointed glances realised something was up.

“You can take my car,” she said to Tom. “Don't get hammered and smash yourself up.”

“I'll look after him, you have my word, we won't get pissed,” Elliot said, winking.

“And don't go far, maybe just to the Hogshead?” Alice shouted after them as they walked outside.

“Don't worry, sweetheart,” Tom shouted back. “I love you.”

Alice closed the door and turned towards Ida. She looked sweet in a green spotty dress and cardie, like some sort of elf, and her un-brushed hair fell in waves round her face. “What is it then? What do you want to talk to me about? There is something isn't there.”

Ida reached into the pocket of her trousers and pulled out the folded certificate. She handed it to her sister. Alice looked confused and as she unfolded it, her eyes glinting with suspicion.

“It's nothing bad,” Ida said. “At least I don't think so.”

“Let's go into the light,” Alice said, peering at it.

They walked into the sitting room and Alice held it under the standard lamp.

Her brow was creased with concentration. She looked somehow too young to be so worried and under the light her gaunt face looked almost transparent.

“A tinker?” Alice said, looking up. She still looked confused and almost angry as though Ida was playing some kind of trick.

“Yep. Well that's what it says. And have you seen the place of birth? She wasn't born in London after all. She is – was – Irish. Properly Irish.” Ida walked behind Alice and looked at it over her shoulder, pointing out the place.

Unexpectedly Alice reached up and touched her hand. “I don't know why we're surprised; she always made stuff up. Well, made ‘stories better' as she said.”

“I know. I get that. But it seems like this is one story she actually made more boring,” Ida said. “Shall we sit down?”

The revelation had been a leveller of sorts, which Ida was surprised about. Neither of them knew much more than the other so they couldn't claim superiority and apart from a few minor snaps at each other, had remained relatively calm, drinking cups of tea while they tried to work it all out.

They supposed it made sense that she might have hidden her past, gypsies were far from popular even now, but it was hard to see their mother as someone who would have been ashamed – shamelessness had always been one of her dominant traits.

“It's odd she ended up with Dad isn't it,” said Alice. “Well, she didn't wind up with him in the end, but you know. He's so kind… and simple. That sounds bad. Straightforward.”

“You've gone for someone like Dad,” said Ida.

“Thanks,” Alice said, annoyed. “What, simple?”

“No, Tom is nice. He's really nice. But he suits you. You're not Mum.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“Elliot's not good for you, you know,” Alice said.

“Piss off,” Ida said.

“Sorry.”

“No, I mean… I'm sorry,” Ida said, more quietly. “I do know. A bit. But who else would put up with me?”

Alice didn't reply and they both laughed.

“I've been thinking, about everything. Do you think she was Ida, from the play?” Ida asked. “Not literally, of course. But you know, her hair, and how cruel she could be. And now with the Irish stuff too.”

“Perhaps,” said Alice. “I always kind of thought it was a version of her. And us… we were both the poor, drowned sister.”

“Even me?” asked Ida, surprised. “But I've got her name!”

“You especially,” said Alice.

By the time they heard the Mini outside it was nearly midnight, but both women were wide awake from the combination of caffeine, speculation, and the beginnings of shared indignation that the men had stayed out so late.

At the sound of the car they both sat upright. They heard the men's footsteps as they stumbled up the garden steps and Tom fumbled with the spare key.

“Oh God, they're completely wankered aren't they,” Alice said, looking very much like she was close to tears.

“It'll be okay,” said Ida, standing up and touching Alice on the head. “You stay here.”

In the hall the two men were doubled over with laughter, the front door still open.

Without smiling Ida walked past them and slammed it shut.

“Will you two sort it the fuck out?” Ida whispered. “Tom, your fucking girlfriend's lost her mother and she needs you to not be a pissed twat.”

“I'm really sorry. He made me,” Tom mumbled, straightening up. “He gave me shots.”

She turned to Elliot. He didn't look too drunk – he was used to drinking a lot. “You could have looked after him Elliot, he's obviously a lightweight.” She couldn't keep the anger out of her voice as she spoke.

“You're right sweet pea,” said Elliot, talking as though Tom couldn't hear him. “But he was buying the drinks.” He tapped Ida on the nose. “Anyway, don't be arsey with me. I'm sick of your arseyness – you're a bloody hypocrite and a drama queen.”

“Oh fuck off. Go and sleep in my room, together, go on.” She walked to the study door and opened it. “You can puke on each other. Get yourselves in there. I'll sleep in bed with my sister. And Elliot, get him some water.”

She turned to see Alice in the doorway, tears rolling down her face, but she was smiling as well.

“You look almost as mental as me,” Ida said. “Did I do the right thing, making them sleep in there?”

“Yes,” said Alice. ”It would be nice to be with you. And he probably will be sick you know.”

Ida walked towards her and hugged her. “We'll be alright, Ally.” She heard her mother's voice as she stroked Alice's face. She smelled different, cleaner, but her hair felt the same as it had done when they were young.

“I know,” said Alice. Her words were muffled against Ida's jumper.

“Go upstairs and put your pyjamas on, I'll make us a medicinal hot toddy or we'll never get to fucking sleep.”

“Yes please,” said Alice. “Sorry about all the snot.”

They lay together looking up at the ceiling. Hundreds of glow-in-the-dark stars were still stuck up there, Ida had loved those. She wished she had some in the flat.

She was trying to count them but it wasn't working. “I can't sleep,” she said.

“Me neither. Concentrate on your breathing,” said Alice. “It helps.”

“I'll laugh.”

“No seriously. I can guide you through some meditation.”

“Ha. What are you? A hippy now?” Ida asked.

“No.” She paused. “I was in a treatment centre, for my eating. Or my lack of eating. It was a holistic one Terri found. Dad paid.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. I'm better now, mostly. Meditation helps. We're so full of things, you and me. Problems and thoughts and crap. I suppose that's why I starved myself, to feel empty for a bit. And you… I remember why you left, you know. Meditation can make you feel empty. In a good way.”

Ida turned towards her sister and tried to make out her profile in the dark. “That sounds horrible. I don't want to be empty.”

“Are you sure?” Alice asked. “You seem like you do.”

Chapter twenty-three

~ 1984 ~

The kitchen was boiling and sweat was dripping down Ida's arms into the scalding water. She didn't normally show her arms in public, they were scarred and embarrassing, but there wasn't much choice when she was washing up. The chefs weren't interested in her anyway, or at least not the way she looked. They were always stoned or drunk, and now Ray stood humming reggae and staring into space, his dreadlocks swinging as he plated up side salads, not fully aware of where he was let alone Ida standing a few feet away from him.