The smell of rotted animal manure or fermented hay has made itself at home in my grandmother’s bedroom and her question seems covered in dirt.
‘Yes. I saw them sleeping.’
‘Were they both sleeping? Sleeping together?’
There is mucus welling in my throat, around the back of my mouth. ‘I saw Da sleeping on the floor,’ I say.
‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘His back is giving him trouble again. Like last year when he slept in the living room for a week. But leave him be. He hates to have sympathy for it. Do you understand me? Don’t talk to him about his back pain, or about his sleeping on the floor. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
She’s lying. There is something happening between my mother and father and I should know what it is.
I go to my room and read the second book I have borrowed from the Wexford library about lie detection. From this book I learn that in ancient China people suspected of lying were asked to spit out a portion of rice. Dry rice indicated the dry mouth of a liar. I wonder if I might ever have an opportunity to use this trick. I make a note of it in The Gol of Seil, which I keep hidden under my mattress, along with the money I took from Granny’s purse.
I now have three headings: Major Lies (Rojam Seil) and Minor Lies (Ronim Seil) and White Lies (Etihw Seil). But white lies backwards isn’t a good word, so I’ve changed white lies to Etuh Seil.
I keep The Gol of Seil under my mattress, and as an extra precaution I also use code names for my family: Mother is Romtha, Father is Hafta, Grandmother is Mogra, Uncle Tony is Tolac, and Uncle Jack is Jatal. Although there are no entries for her yet, Aunty Evelyn is Lonev, and there’s a page headed with her name, Lonev, waiting for the lies she will tell.
6
It is Sunday, a week since my father lied about the kittens, and I am reading a book about Sherlock Holmes investigating the Jack the Ripper murders.
My mother and father sit with me on the settee and I read parts of the book out loud to them. My father says, ‘It’s ridiculous and anachronistic to have Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper in the same place.’
‘How can it be anachronistic,’ says my mother, ‘when Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character and the other isn’t? A fictional character can live in any time he wants. And besides, I think they were around at the same time.’
‘What does anachronistic mean?’ I ask.
‘It means historically inconsistent,’ says my father. ‘It would be like Jesus Christ sipping Coca Cola before he went on the cross.’
My mother says, ‘I’ll get the dictionary. Let’s see what the dictionary says.’
She leaves. My father stands to move the coals in the fireplace, then leaves, suddenly, without speaking. My mother doesn’t return with the dictionary. I read the book alone
When it’s over, I go to the kitchen. My father is at the kitchen table with my grandmother. I don’t go in. Instead, I stand at the edge of the doorway where they can’t see me.
My grandmother is reading a letter and, when she finishes, she looks up at my father. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’ she asks. ‘I wasn’t put on this earth solely for your benefit.’
My father speaks in a low voice. ‘What about John? What about your grandchild?’
My grandmother presses her lips together before speaking.
‘You might be the jew in this family,’ she says. ‘But you’ve no right to be giving out to me about money. And what kind of example are you for your son? A man should earn his keep.’
‘All right, then. I’ll get a job, if that’s what will make you happy. To see me miserable.’
My grandmother holds on to the table. ‘I’m in a fast-sinking boat,’ she says. ‘All day long I can feel it pitching and sagging and taking water. You have no idea what it is to face death. I want to live, but my living is almost done. If I want to spend what my husband left then that’s my right. You will not tell me how to use up my last years.’
‘You asked us to come here.’
‘I invited you to stay until you could find some work and instead you descended on this home like locusts,’ she says, so angry that she spits at him.
My father looks down at his clenched fists.
‘When did I say you could stay here forever?’ she continues. ‘You haven’t worked for three years. Oh yes, so you can do all those tests and puzzles. For what? And all that study, for what? You spend all your time proving you’re clever, and no time putting it to good use!’
Before my father has time to answer, she heaves herself up from the table and walks towards the door. I try to sneak away, but she catches sight of me.
‘Hello, John,’ she says. ‘I thought you were watching the television.’
‘I got hungry,’ I say.
‘Well, so. Out of the way and let the dog see the rabbit.’
She grabs my arm and pulls me aside as though I am a piece of furniture in her path.
I go outside. My mother is getting in the car.
‘Where are you off to?’ she says.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I’m going to get some flour and sugar from Keating’s and I’m feeling too lazy to walk.’
‘Can I come? And then can we get fish ’n’ chips in town?’
She frowns. ‘We can’t do that,’ she says. ‘We won’t have enough time. I need to do some sewing for the puppets this afternoon.’
‘I’ll just come to the shop then.’ I get in the car and we drive towards Keating’s. My arms are hot and my heart is thumping.
‘You don’t want us to do things together any more,’ I say. ‘You’ve changed towards me.’
‘I don’t think I’m the one who’s changed. I think something’s come over you.’
‘Nothing’s come over me,’ I say.
I want her to keep looking at me but I say, ‘Stop looking at me.’
She smiles. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me. We have no secrets.’
‘I heard Granny and Da arguing about money and about us living in her cottage.’
She sighs. ‘Don’t worry about that. That’s not something for you to worry about.’
‘But it sounds serious. She’s going to throw us out.’
My heart thumps hard in my chest and I take a gulp of air to stop it, but it goes on thumping.
‘Your granny has no intention of doing that. People say things they don’t mean when they argue.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘They say more of what they mean.’
I hadn’t planned these words and I wonder if it’s a lie to say something if the words come out before the thought.
‘That’s a big thing to say,’ she says.
‘It’s true,’ I say.
‘Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t. In this case, they don’t mean what they say. There is no danger of us being thrown out. Your granny loves you far too much for that and they will make their truce soon enough.’
She’s not lying, and I am calmer. My chest has stopped its hard beating and my palms are dry again. She drives slowly and sings.
‘Do you ever get a thumping heart and sweaty palms?’ I ask.
‘Sometimes. When I’m nervous.’
‘When do you get nervous?’
‘When I’m afraid, I suppose, or feel somebody is watching me like a hawk.’
‘I get nervous when I’m by myself sometimes. Does that ever happen to you?’
‘Not usually,’ she says.
‘Because a person shouldn’t scare their own self?’ I say. ‘Because it takes two people to make one person feel bad?’
‘I suppose.’
We stop at the crossroads and wait for a slow lorry and a tractor to pass. I look out the window at a dog scratching itself against a fence post.
‘That dog is going to cut himself,’ I say.
‘He’ll be all right. He has a thick layer of fur.’