2004 - Dandelion Soup (10 page)

She shivered. She didn’t like to think about the past. She’d hated working in the cannery but she’d loved the people. Ottilie and Carmen, who were sisters, and old Dolores who was nearly blind had been really kind to her and she’d never even had a chance to say goodbye.

Inside the cannery it had been cool and dark and the walls oozed a damp fishy syrup; the floor was always wet and slippery as ice. It stank of salt and seaweed, iodine and fish, blood and guts. The heady smells of women’s sweat: sweet jasmine and garlic; lilac and raw onion.

Ottilie and Carmen had the worst job of all. They had to chop off the heads of the fish and toss them into large wooden barrels. Dancey winced at the memory.

Chop and bang.

Bang and chop.

Steel against soft bone and flesh.

Then old Dolores scooped the headless fish from the barrel and stacked them in crates, their tails sticking out of the back.

Slither and slop.

Slop and slither.

She gagged as she remembered the stink of her blood-spattered overall that came down almost to her ugly boots and made her look like a circus clown without the smile.

For a long time after she’d left the cannery she still had the wedding ring marks made by the scissors on the soft skin of her thumb and finger.

She had always had to take a deep breath and close her ears to the sound of the blades meeting.

Flash and snip.

Silver on silver.

Steel on steel.

Snip and flash.

Rip and snip.

She had cut off each little silver fish tail until the floor around her feet was a carpet of small, mercurial wings and the silver sequins of fish skin.

The storm had started just before the end of the shift. The metal fly curtains on the doorway began to jingle and the air grew cold as if a ghost had walked in through the door.

Dancey had gasped as a sudden fierce gust of wind blew the curtains inwards until they were almost horizontal.

A tiny little man stood in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in a mish-mash of ragged clothes. His eyes met Dancey’s and they glittered brightly. And then he was gone.

The wind grew in strength, swirling the fish tails around their feet and sweeping them up into the air until they whirled and swirled high above the rafters. Thunder rolled far out at sea and a flash of lightning lit up the cannery for a split second.

Ottilie and Carmen made the sign of the cross.

As the three of them had left the cannery the sky was dark as octopus ink and the wind blew in squally gusts off the sea and whipped the driving rain across the cobbles. They had run squealing and splashing through the muddy pools of water that had formed in the ruts where there were cobbles missing.

They had sheltered in the doorway of the church, huddled together and dripping. They’d listened to the dreary voice of the priest and breathed in the smell of candle wax and mouldy linen, incense and dying flowers.

When they’d stepped out from the shelter of the church, above their heads the wide-eyed gargoyles spouted waterfalls of frothy water. It was the last time she had seen Ottilie and Carmen. The storm had been a sign, because the following day Mama had disappeared.

She thought that perhaps if the storm had something to do with Mama going then maybe, just maybe, the storm tonight would bring her back. She wanted to see more of the storm so she pushed open the bedroom door and climbed slowly up the narrow winding staircase that led up to the little room at the top of Nirvana House.

The first thunderclap rattled the narrow windows of the Guardian Angels dormitory. Padraig woke with a start and flinched with pain. Hell, Sister Veronica had taken the stick to the back of his legs when he’d missed the roll-call and now they were agony.

The night beyond the window was dark and starless, the dormitory almost pitch black. He could hear Sister Immaculata moving around up in the attic like a wounded moth against a window-pane. He was really worried about her; she had been looking and acting real odd the last few days, as if something was playing on her mind. At nights she was very restless and he could hear the pad of her bare feet on the floorboards.

No one else in the dormitory had woken. They were all worn out because Sister Agatha had sent them on a run round the famine wall. Five times round it and all because someone had stolen two fig rolls from the visitors’ biscuit barrel.

Another clap of thunder. A lightning flash. A split second of fierce light that lit up the dormitory. Padraig got out of bed and skittered across the cold linoleum towards the window. It was no good though, he’d wake everyone if he tried to climb up and look out.

And then he had a brainwave.

It was brilliant! If he got caught, though, they’d kill him. So what! He could do it. He knew he could. If only he could get downstairs and into the laundry and through the secret way into Sister Veronica’s study.

He knew that her study door was always locked at night but that she left her window open a crack for her cat to come and go as he pleased.

He went back across to his bed, dressed hurriedly then, holding his breath, trying to control his trembling, he opened the door and stepped out into the silent unlit corridor.

Siobhan Hanlon pulled the covers up over her head and tried to stifle her terror. She was afraid of storms. If a thunderbolt were to hit the house they’d all be killed in their beds, or fried alive if it was lightning. She tried to remember all the things that Mammy had told her you shouldn’t do in a thunderstorm: stand under a big tree, speak on the telephone, wear big silver earrings or stand by the window.

Another fierce crash of thunder, right overhead now, seemed to shake the house from the bottom up.

Pulling the covers from over her head, she stiffened with fright. She thought she could hear the skeleton rattle on its stand in Daddy’s study. The china thimbles in the glass cabinet jingled and a draught of wind startled her rocking horse into a creaking canter.

Across the landing she could hear Nora muttering her tearful prayers and the nervous rattle of her rosary beads.

Lightning speared the darkness. For a split second the eyes of her teddy bear shone with a startling brilliance as though he had come to life like Frankenstien. Then the lattice windows of the dolls’ house lit up as if from the inside.

She hated being afraid of things. She was sick of the way Mammy was always putting the fear of God up her.

Don’t talk to strangers, Siobhan!

Keep your dress pulled down over your knees.

Proper little girls don’t do cartwheels.

Make sure you’re wearing a clean vest and pants in case of accidents.

The list of Mammy’s don’ts was endless.

Siobhan took a deep breath, pulled back the bedcovers and got out of bed. She tiptoed warily across the room towards the window. The rain was hurtling down outside and a second flash of lightning lit up the room. She froze, then giggled as she realized it was only her own goggle-eyed reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

She stood half hidden by the curtain and looked down into Clancy Street. The rain hammered down on the cobbles and bounced back up again. The sign outside Donahue’s was clanking wildly. The horse trough was full to the brim. Then she saw him. Honest to God!

Padraig O’Mally was making his way down the other side of Clancy Street! Where on earth was he off to at this time of night and in this weather, too?

She watched him curiously until he was out of sight. He was as daft as arseholes sometimes, considering he was so clever. It wasn’t safe to be wandering around out in the dark like that. He’d be soaked to the skin and catch his death. Anyone could get hold of him and do him in. He was mental. She’d make him tell her what he was up to tomorrow.

Way beyond the trees she could see the outline of the glass dome on the roof of the Black Jew’s house. Daddy had told her it was a tiny observatory where you could take a telescope and look at the night sky. Mammy said the dirty old thing probably watched people undressing from up there. Siobhan wouldn’t mind climbing up there herself and having a good look at the stars.

The thunder rolled again and she wanted to leap back into’ bed and pull the covers over her head, but she was determined not to. If only she could be half as brave as Padraig. Just then a flash of lightning lit up the sky and she caught a fleeting glimpse of a very strange sight indeed.

She stood for a long time hoping for more lightning so that she might look again at the strange goings on in the glass observatory in the Black Jew’s house.

Padraig was drenched to the skin by the time he got to the beach. He looked across at the schoolhouse where a light was still burning. He wondered if Mr Leary was still up and watching the storm. Padraig would have liked to have gone over there and watched the storm with him.

He sat down on an upturned boat and stared out to sea. The weather was wild and the waves were lashing the beach. He felt the sting of the salt spray on his face and the wind whipped sand around his bare legs until they tingled with pain.

He almost jumped with joy every time the lightning flared across the bay. When it came it was like a gigantic firework. God, it was bloody brilliant. If the wind hadn’t been so strong he would have done cartwheels across the beach.

He began to shiver violently. For two pins he would have loved to run up over the dunes and bang on Mr Leary’s door, ask if he could have a cup of sugary tea and sleep the night. Instead, he squeezed beneath an upturned boat and huddled in the tarry, salty hidey-hole while the rain hammered above his head.

It was almost cosy under the boat and he yawned sleepily. He must have dozed off then, for he was woken later by a foghorn that sounded far out at sea. It was time he was off. He crept out from under the boat. The storm was moving on; there were just occasional blasts of rain and the squally wind off the sea now.

The night smelled fresh and lovely like the world had been scrubbed and hung out to dry. The moon was a great wobbly egg yolk, and a million stars were sprinkled across the sky.

He scampered across the beach and up over the slipway, keeping close to the shadows of Clancy Street. All the houses were in darkness except for Donahue’s. He crept up to the window and edged his nose towards the sill. He peered in through the rain-streaked glass. The clock above the bar said five to midnight. Donahue was asleep on a chair, his head resting on a table surrounded by empty beer bottles. A yellowing newspaper beneath his head riffled with each breath he took. A ginger cat slept contentedly on his huge shoulder.

Donahue was a moody old thing but you couldn’t really not like him. Sometimes he looked as if he was going to burst into tears. He was nearly always drunk or dead drunk. He had a shiny black Morris Minor that he kept in his shed at the back of the house. He’d bought it to take his wife out for a spin but after she ran away he’d locked it up and hadn’t used it since.

Padraig turned slowly away from the window. The moon shone down on the water of the horse trough. It was as clear and still as glass. Padraig checked that no one was about, then scurried across the road.

Any minute now the Ballygurry clocks would chime the midnight hour. He spat on his finger and lifted it up into the wind. Yes! The wind was coming from the right direction. That meant the presbytery cockerel would be spinning the right way. He kneeled down and stared into the shimmering water of the horse trough. His wide-eyed reflection stared back at him. He began to tremble. The stars and the wobbling moon were reflected round his face in the water. His heart was beating so furiously he thought he might faint.

Somewhere, in one of the little houses of Clancy Street, a clock tinked the hour nervously. Then a louder bolder chime came from the grandfather clock in Eh- Hanlon’s house.

And then he saw it. A face staring solemnly back at him. He gasped with shock. His startled breath rippled the water and then the face was gone.

Solly Benjamin’s life suddenly took on a whole new meaning. He took a trip out to Rossmacconnarty and bought the child a whole new wardrobe of clothes because he couldn’t bear to see her dressed in the shabby rags she’d arrived in. He bought new shoes, pretty red sandals with cream crepe soles. He chose five cotton dresses in different colours with intricate smocking across the bodices, three cardigans with buttons in the shape of ducks and rabbits. He bought a pink fluffy bolero for best and Wellingtons for wet days. He bought pants and socks and nightdresses and a shampoo that wouldn’t sting her eyes.

As the days passed she gained slowly in strength. The colour returned to her cheeks and the dark rings beneath her eyes grew smudged and then disappeared.

He knew that her name was Dancey Amati; it had been written along with his own name and address on the name-tag that had hung round her neck on her arrival. Apart from her name, though, he knew nothing else about her.

When Solly spoke her name she smiled shyly at him but she did not speak to him at all, although sometimes when she was alone he thought he heard her whispering quietly to herself.

Early each morning while she slept Solly took a walk down to the village to buy fresh bread and other provisions. It was a pleasure now to buy food for two. The child ate hungrily and politely and wasn’t fussy about her food, except for fish. One evening he’d made some toast and opened a tin of sardines and she’d shrunk back from the table and turned quite pale.

On the morning after the storm he walked down the slipway and stepped down stiffly on to the beach. The wind was still wild and as it blew in off the sea it took his breath away. The sea was dark grey tinged with an angry purple and white-capped waves crashed on to the beach, exploding around him and sending up curtains of misty spray.

The beach was empty except for a few wind-blown gulls worrying at empty crab shells, others trying to keep their balance on upturned boats that had been hastily pulled up above the tide line by the local fishermen. Solly walked down towards the water’s edge and stood looking out across the restless ocean, an ocean stretching from the simple shores of Ballygurry all the way to America.