Mammy. Cry out. I had a terrible dream. Shush now. She comes. She sits with me down. Those aren’t real love. Just made up in your head that can’t harm you really, now you’re awake. Now there. There now. Nothing bad will ever happen you. Mammy can I sleep in your bed?
In her mother arms I lay feel now and then her jolt awake. Leg jostling. A little snort. A little choke. Her eyelids flicker in the night. All such usual things to me and good to sleep against. She that always keep me safe. Our nylon nighties static cling. Tiny ribbons on the neck and hands. Matching roses. My sunshine. Only. But Mammy leave the hall light on. I need to see it through the dark.
PART II. A GIRL IS A HALF-FORMED THING
1
The beginning of teens us. Thirteen me fifteen sixteen you. Wave and wave of it hormone over. Like hot flush cold splash down my neck. Spilt with new thoughts, troublesome that is and things that always must be said. Spill it out. Spill it down.
Where’s that father? Mine? Who belonged to was part of me? I think of. Where is he? Imagination of fathers sitting by me on the bed. Stroking my hair you’re my girl, belong to me pet. I have heard of seen those things somewhere on the telly. And I say will you ever tell me what he said about daughters before I was born?
She says I’ve something to tell you after all. Your father’s hmmm. Your father’s, sit down. What? Shush. Dead. A while ago I got a letter from his mother, once it was over and done. She said he took a stroke. Quick. Probate won’t be long. But you never told us? Why didn’t you tell us? There wasn’t much I could say, not like he loved you, us I mean, and now he’s dead. You’re provided for. It’s time to go about our business. What’s that? Moving house. Why? Because he bought this and I don’t want it anymore. But I don’t want to move Mammy. Don’t start. But we’ve always lived here. We’re. Moving. House. Because. That. Is. What. I’d. Like. To. Do. And. If. You. Don’t. Too. Bad. Because. I’m. The. Mother. And. You. Will. Do. What. I. Say. As. Long. As. You. Live. Under. My. Roof. You. Will. Always. Do. What. I. Say. O. Kay.
We scour a house. Sniff all over. See if it’s a good bed down. I don’t understand marching around thinking upstairs downstairs toilets good bad indifferent, that is fungus that’s not foam. Are those rotten windows is there a draft under that door? My ocean insides wallowing about. Look at you you not that bothered, calmer but hear at night you pound the wall saying where’d he go? Where’d he fecking go?
Pack up. Teeth feeling itchy in my head. I’ve eczema, a load of spots, then a bleeding, Jesus, period one day. Thinking, walk around the house at night saying bye to you thing and you and you.
You ripping bookshelves off the wall. Crash it. Throw it on the carpet. Snap. Stop that. Accident I pulled too hard. I’ll pack these, snap these knitting needles of hers. That stinking wedding cake ornaments she has. I’ll break them stick them in her drawer as if she cares as if she’ll see and wonder where it’s from.
Pack it. Throwing out this bike. Was that his? I ask you. Yes you stupid bitch and whose else would it be? Can we keep it? No. His umbrella and binoculars too? I want. Something. Like you knew him, like you know anything or ever saw him even. Give you a slap scratch. But you’ll give me bloody nose if you can, you can’t I can run away.
Box it she says or in a black bag. That his briefcase and letters and magnifying glass and this pen. Whose is it? I ask. Chuck it away she said.
She said I like this place you will. You will. There’s your room. There’s your bed. And don’t you give me a face like that. Get up stairs and make up your beds. Rumble tumble.
Have this yours mine his hers whose that and what’s the matter don’t you care at all? I’m sorry if you feel. Tell me something good that he done once? Your bloody father’s dead and gone. Much good he was he left a will oh don’t worry it’s all for ye not me. Feed you clothe you all that stuff oh yes you’ll be fine but there’s no good old story. I haven’t that to give. Your bastard father. Your bastard. Yours. You and him. Get out of my sight and don’t forget to say your prayers.
Hail Mary full of grace the lord is with thee. Say it. Blessed art thou among women. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.
Holy Mary mother of god pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.
Do you like that? Do you like the look of that school? There. That’s where you’ll be going. Both. Now. For the first time. Isn’t that nice? At the same time. Yes different years. But still. You’ll mind each other. You’ll mind each other. You will. My family is love.
We sliced through that fug school bus. So misfortunately new. Thicken soup-ish teenage sweat and cigarette boys slop always at the back. Held tight my rucksack filled with rattling tins of pens. Fat drizzle blotch through the polyester skirt I sideways slope to walk in. Felt my hormones long to slink quiet out of these hard eyes. Do not be seen. Do not see me. But I must turn myself to the great face of girls.
Raw red in the cold snow air. Blow puffs of exhalation in tea smelled breath up the window panes and gaggle. Birds and beast they. In damp army jackets and sweat sunk skirts. They’d be faggy if they could. Full of perms and baggy T-shirts. They may wear their shirttails out as I may not. Cerise talons itch for. I am home- style hands still cleaned and trim. Neat on the cuticle. White at the tip. I may not be that girl. And I may not say there are rosary beads slipping in my pocket on my thumb. I have them talisman against all wrong they’ll do me. I know they will.
I be new girl. I could wish to be dead but for the wrong of it. To have to be saying again again where I come from. Who I am. And I’m from some place so much littler than this. That redneck culchie. Backward. Farmyard. I am all these things to the great girl face. Those herd. Such bovine singing heifers. Come don’t hate me. All your walkmans fizz in tune, in time with conversations, pointing graffiti’s on the bus, love this one that one. New girl stinks.
I’ll let my heart walk away. I’ll think of home. I’ll feel all their smells converge around me to that bit I can’t attach. That’s the inside of where they all are. That they have smelled each other all their lives and know the way. And know the way it is. They say I’m proud. Stuck up. I’ll dream myself up above there. The roof of the bus and looking down. I think I’ll see them down there where they fart and blame some other one. Where they itch between their mucky legs. Where clammy thighs catch their tights right in and give them sore spots little ingrown hairs. I see you through those eyes. Antennae. Newness. Shocking as a stranger. I see you. Back, unaware meander arms and legs into the pool of sharks. See them stretch out to snap you. Chew and spit. On that bus. And shout come down here new boy. You, I see, see me but pass off. Climb the ruckle of school bags. Balance yourself on the backs of the chairs. Your feet are drowning when it sets off. Gunk you. Throw you over. With a hard knock on your face. On your knees. Hefty drop from which you can’t get up. Well. No escape from bus muck on your hands. In a slobber on your face. They’re roaring sniffing. See your blood pouring down the aisle to them. Snapping. Chewing at your hands and feet. Ha ha ha breathe out Spastic. Spastic fall over. Can’t spastic walk? I feel you on the inside, that blast of it. Done wrong. I ponder will I help with those new girls around? Their great faces birch derision down. Scalder up my neck my throat to me and my head. I say are you alright in the muffle of my coat hood. Where I can hardly be seen to feel you matter. And you say — spring up — I’m fine. I’m fine. You laugh away think they won’t know it was not fun for you to fall sprawl. Bus bumps. Bus grind over the bridge look out. Turn my head from your catch of throat of tongue, on the wrong part of the word to be free and easy. Hear you shuffle on down to at the back. I know they have you off down there. That you’ll be butt and crib of jokes. I leave you there to your fate and soon. I hear you going all the wellie, telling — no one laughing — tales of where you’re from. They are leery. Laughing underhand at your frizz hair. Your little gut that rolls a bit on your band. That does you down that you don’t see or worry, will be against the cool of them those pitchfork farmer boys with their green wellies on. With their rank stories of strung-up cats and slit-ear pups from that big litter had last spring. They’ll throw a bat against the wall to see if mush flap squeal or die. Stick a blue tit in the range so it will squeak burn. You said tit. Burning tits they like that. And say that word to all the girls if they can. How’s your tits? Have you any eggs you fucking bitch. We are. What are we are doing here? In this place that is full of that. Is over-brimmed of torture.