He must have sounded less than enthusiastic, because she scolded, “It’s a great honour. You’ll remember tomorrow for the rest of your life.”
Vincent’s mum is a patriotic Irish immigrant. And she says he’s full of contradictions.
“The Echo’s full of it,” he says, slapping the newspaper onto the table.
She balances the spoon on the rim of the pot and turns to him. Her face is flushed from the heat of the pot; or maybe it’s excitement. She wipes her hands on her apron and picks up the paper. “Well, go and change out of your school uniform. You can tell Cathy, tea’s almost ready. And wash your hands before you come down.”
For once, he doesn’t complain.
He tiptoes past his sister’s bedroom door and sidles into his room like a burglar. He shuts the door, then slides the carry-all under his bed. He untucks the blankets from his mattress and lets them hang. They are grey army surplus, not made for luxury, and the drop finishes a good three inches clear of the floor. He steps back to the door to inspect his handywork. He can just spy one corner of the bag. He casts about the room and his eyes snag on a pile of laundry his mum has been on at him to fetch downstairs. He smiles. Given the choice between picking up his dirty socks and eating worms, Cathy Connolly would reach for a knife and fork. Smiling to himself, he heaps the ripe-smelling jumble of dirty clothing on top of the bag.
He says hardly a word at the dinner table, evading his mother’s questions about the rehearsal by shovelling great spoonfuls of stew into his mouth. All the while, his sister looks at him from under her lashes, with that smirk on her face that says she knows something. He tries to ignore her, gulping down his meal so fast it scalds his throat, pleading homework to get out of washing the dishes.
His mother might be gullible, but she’s no pushover.
“You’ve plenty of time to do your homework after you’ve done the dishes,” she says.
“But Cathy could—”
“It’s not Cathy’s turn. And she has more homework than you do, but you don’t hear your sister whining about doing her fair share.”
Cathy widens her eyes and flutters her eyelashes at him, enjoying her beatification.
He stamps up the stairs twenty minutes later, grumbling to himself under his breath.
“Where were you?”
His heart does a quick skip. Cathy, waiting to pounce on the landing.
“When?”
“Well, I’m not talking about when God was handing out brains, ’cos we both know you were scuffing your shoes at the back of the queue, that day.”
He scowls at her, but his sister is armour-plated and his scowls bounce harmlessly off her thick skull.
“Mary Thomas said you went home sick at four.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Is.”
He tries to barge past, but she’s got long arms and she is fast on her feet. “You’re a little liar, Vincent Connolly.”
“Am not.”
“Are. How would you know if the dress rehearsal went well. How would you know dress rehearsal finished early, when you missed the dress rehearsal?” She adds spitefully, “It’s a shame, really. Miss Taggart says you make a lovely little dancer.”
He feels the familiar burn of humiliation and outrage at the intrusion. She’s no right to talk to his class teacher like he’s just a little kid. He sees the gleam of triumph in her eyes and hates her for it.
Cathy is fourteen and attends the convent school on Mount Pleasant; she’ll be at the big parade, too. But while she gets to keep her dignity, playing the recorder, Vincent is expected to make a tit of himself, prancing about in an animal mask. In an animal mask in front of the queen.
“Get lost, Cathy.”
Cathy pulls a sad face. “Now Miss Taggart says you won’t be able to be in the pageant.”
“You can have my mask, if you like,” he says. “Be an improvement.” Silly moo doesn’t know she’s just made his day. He makes a break for his room, and she gives way; it doesn’t occur to him that she let him pass. He’s thinking he’ll buy that Chopper bike with the money in the bag, take his mum shopping, buy her a whole new outfit. He’ll get his dad a carton of ciggies — the good ones in the gold packs. As for Cathy, she can whistle. No — he thinks, shoving open his bedroom door — I’ll get her a paper bag — a big one to fit over her big fat ugly head. No, a tarantula — no, two tarantulas — no, a whole nest of tarantulas. Six of them — a dozen — big enough to eat a bird in one gulp; evil creatures with bone-crushing jaws and fat bodies and great goggly eyes on stalks. He’ll make a cosy den for them under her pillow and stay awake until she comes up to bed — a whole hour later than him, by the way, cos Cathy’s a big girl—
He loses the thread of his fantasy. His bed has been carefully remade, the blankets tucked in. The dirty linen he’d used to camouflage the bag is folded neatly at the foot of the bed. And the bag has gone. He feels its absence like a hole in the centre of him.
Horrified, he whirls to face the door, but Cathy has slipped quietly away. Her bedroom door is shut. He boots it open.
Cathy is sitting cross-legged on her bed, the bag in front of her.
“You bloody—”
“Thief?” she says, in that pert way that drives him crackers. “Takes one to know one, doesn’t it, Vincent?”
“You give it back!”
She puts a finger to her lips and cocks her head. The front door slams. It’s Dad. She whispers, “Anybody home?”
Their father’s voice booms out, a second after, like an echo in reverse: “Anybody home?”
Her eyes sparkle with malicious good humour. “What would Dad say if he knew you’d been thieving?”
Vincent clenches his fists, tears of impotent rage pricking his eyes. He considers rushing her, but Dad would hear and come to investigate.
“Give me it. It’s mine.”
“Now, Vincent, we both know that’s not true.” She plucks at the zip and he wants to fling himself at her, to claw it from her grasp.
She shouts, “Is that you, Dad?” putting on her girly voice just for him.
Their father’s footsteps clump up the stairs. “How’s my girl?” he says.
“Just getting changed.” She raises her eyebrows, and reluctantly, Vincent back-heels the door shut.
Their father passes her door and they hear a heavy sigh as he slumps onto the bed to take off his shoes.
Cathy is smiling as she unzips the bag, and Vincent wants to kill her.
First, she looks blank, then puzzled, then worried.
“You can turn off the big act,” he whispers furiously.
Only she doesn’t look like she’s acting. And when she finally turns her face to him, her expression is one of sick horror.
“Oh, Vincent,” she whispers.
His stomach flips. The anticipated wealth — the bundles of cash, the glittering treasures of his imagination — all crumble to dust.
Carefully, reverently, she lifts a bible and a set of rosary beads out of the bag. The beads are dark, solid wood; a serious rosary, a man’s rosary. She holds it up so the silver crucifix swings, and he stares at it, almost hypnotised.
She reaches into the carry-all again, and brings out a small package, wrapped in brown paper. Three words are printed in neat block capitals on the front of it: ‘FOR FATHER O’BRIEN’.
They stare at it for a long moment.
“Vinnie, you robbed a priest.”
“He isn’t,” Vincent whispers, his voice hoarse. He feels sweat break out on his forehead.
Wordlessly, she holds up the rosary, the Jersusalem Bible.