It feels like forever has passed. I close my eyes and sing to myself. The songs that Mammy sings with me. I don’t sing them too loud in case he hears me and thinks I’m having fun in here. That would make him angrier. In this place, fun and laughing makes them angry. We are not here to be leaders, we are here to serve. This is not what my daddy taught me, he said that I was a natural leader, that I can be anything I want to be. I used to go hunting with him, he taught me everything, he even let me walk first, he said I was the leader. He sang a song about it. ‘Following the leader, the leader, the leader, Fergus is the leader, da da da da da.’ I hum it to myself but I don’t say the words. The priest won’t like me saying I’m the leader. In this place we’re not allowed to be anybody we want to be, we have to be who they tell us to be. I sing the songs my daddy used to sing when I was allowed to stay up late and listen to the sing-songs. Daddy had a soft voice for a strong man, and he sometimes cried when he sang. My daddy never said crying was only for babies, not like the priest said, crying is for people who are sad. I sing it to myself now and try not to cry.
Suddenly the door opens and I move away, afraid that it will be him again, with that leather strap. It’s not him but it’s the younger one, the one who teaches the music class with the kind eyes. He closes the door behind him and crouches down.
‘Hi, Fergus.’
I try to say hi but nothing comes out of my mouth.
‘I brought you something. A box of bloodies.’
I flinch and he puts a hand out. ‘Don’t look so scared now, they’re marbles. Have you ever played with marbles?’
I shake my head. He opens his hand and I see them shining in his palm like treasures, four red rubies.
‘I used to love these as a boy,’ he says quietly. ‘My granddad gave them to me. “A box of bloodies,” he said, “just for you.” I don’t have the box now. Wish I had, could be worth something. Always remember to keep the packaging, Fergus, that’s one bit of advice I’ll give you. But I’ve kept the marbles.’
Somebody walks by the door, we can feel their boots as the floor shakes and creaks beneath us and he looks at the door. When the footsteps have passed he turns back to me, his voice quieter. ‘You have to shoot them. Or fulk them.’
I watch as he puts his knuckle on the ground and balances the marble in his bent forefinger. He puts his thumb behind and then gently pushes the marble; it rolls along the wooden floor at speed. A red bloodie, bold as anything, catching the light, shining and glistening. It stops at my foot. I’m afraid to pick it up. And my raw hands are paining me still, it’s hard to close them. He sees this and winces.
‘Go on, you try,’ he says.
I try it. I’m not very good at first because it’s hard to close my hands like he showed me, but I get the hang of it. Then he shows me other ways to shoot them. Another way called ‘knuckling down’. I prefer it that way and even though he says that’s more advanced I’m best at that one. He tells me so and I have to bite my lip to stop the smile.
‘Names given to marbles vary from place to place,’ he says, getting down and showing me again. ‘Some people call them a taw, or a shooter, or tolley, but me and my brothers called them allies.’
Allies. I like that. Even with me locked in this room on my own, I have allies. It makes me feel like a soldier. A prisoner of war.
He fixes me with a serious look. ‘When aiming, remember to look at the target with a steady eye. The eye directs the brain, the brain directs the hand. Don’t forget that. Always keep an eye on the target, Fergus, and your brain will make it happen.’
I nod.
The bell rings, class over.
‘Okay,’ he stands up, wipes down his dusty robe. ‘I’ve a class now. You sit tight here. It shouldn’t be much longer.’
I nod.
He’s right. It shouldn’t be much longer – but it is. Father Murphy doesn’t come to get me soon. He leaves me there all day. I even do another wee in my pants because I’m afraid to knock on the door to get someone, but I don’t care. I am a soldier, a prisoner of war, and I have my allies. I practise and practise in the small room, in my own little world, wanting my skill and accuracy to be the best in the school. I’m going to show the other boys and I’m going to be better than them all the time.
The next time Father Murphy puts me in here I have the marbles hidden in my pocket and I spend the day practising again. I also have an archboard in the dark room. I put it there myself between classes, just in case. It’s a piece of cardboard with seven arches cut in it. I made it myself from Mrs Lynch’s empty cornflakes box that I found in her bin after I saw some other boys with a fancy shop-bought one. The middle arch is number 0, the arches either side are 1, 2, 3. I put the archboard at the far wall and I shoot from a distance, close to the door. I don’t really know how to play it properly yet and I can’t play it on my own but I can practise my shooting. I will be better than my big brothers at something.
The nice priest doesn’t stay in the school long. They say that he kisses women and that he’s going to hell, but I don’t care. I like him. He gave me my first marbles, my bloodies. In a dark time in my life, he gave me my allies.
2
Breathe.
Sometimes I have to remind myself to breathe. You would think it would be an innate human instinct but no, I inhale and then forget to exhale and so I find my body rigid, all tensed up, heart pounding, chest tight with an anxious head wondering what’s wrong.
I understand the theory of breathing. The air you breathe in through your nose should go all the way down to your belly, the diaphragm. Breathe relaxed. Breathe rhythmically. Breathe silently. We do this from the second we are born and yet we are never taught. Though I should have been. Driving, shopping, working, I catch myself holding my breath, nervous, fidgety, waiting for what exactly to happen, I don’t know. Whatever it is, it never comes. It is ironic that on dry ground I fail at this simple task when my job requires me to excel at it. I’m a lifeguard. Swimming comes easily to me, it feels natural, it doesn’t test me, it makes me feel free. With swimming, timing is everything. On land you breathe in for one and out for one, beneath the water I can achieve a three to one ratio, breathing every three strokes. Easy. I don’t even need to think about it.
I had to learn how to breathe above water when I was pregnant with my first child. It was necessary for labour, they told me, which it turns out it certainly is. Because childbirth is as natural as breathing, they go hand in hand, yet breathing, for me, has been anything but natural. All I ever want to do above water is hold my breath. A baby will not be born through holding your breath. Trust me, I tried. Knowing my aquatic ways, my husband encouraged a water birth. This seemed like a good idea to get me in my natural territory, at home, in water, only there is nothing natural about sitting in an oversized paddling pool in your living room, and it was the baby who got to experience the world from below the water and not me. I would have gladly switched places. The first birth ended in a dash to the hospital and an emergency caesarean and indeed the two subsequent babies came in the same way, though they weren’t emergencies. It seemed that the aquatic creature who preferred to stay under the water from the age of five could not embrace another of life’s most natural acts.
I’m a lifeguard in a nursing home. It is quite the exclusive nursing home, like a four-star hotel with round-the-clock care. I have worked here for seven years, give or take my maternity leave. I man the lifeguard chair five days a week from nine a.m. to two p.m. and watch as three people each hour take to the water for lengths. It is a steady stream of monotony and stillness. Nothing ever happens. Bodies appear from the changing rooms as walking displays of the reality of time: saggy skin, boobs, bottoms and thighs, some dry and flaking from diabetes, others from kidney or liver disease. Those confined to their beds or chairs for so long wear their painful-looking pressure ulcers and bedsores, others carry their brown patches of age spots as badges of the years they have lived. New skin growths appear and change by the day. I see them all, with the full understanding of what my body after three babies will face in the future. Those with one-on-one physiotherapy work with trainers in the water, I merely oversee; in case the therapist drowns, I suppose.