Authors: Anne Donovan
WE SPILLED OUT
the minibus, glad tae stretch wur legs after being cooped up for what seemed like forever. We’d set aff at six which felt like the middle of the night, and maist of us had slept till the stop in a motorway café for breakfast. Mr Lyons had been driving but Ms Harris took over for the last stage to gie him a break.
The air felt fresh and cold and there were wee patches of white on the surrounding countryside, though the sun shone in a bright blue February sky. A sign in the corner of the car park read ‘The Parsonage’. I felt a quiver in my stomach. Here at last.
The trip to Haworth was a big surprise, a fluke.
Karma
, said Jas but I didnae believe in that. The English class were supposed to be gaun tae Stratford to see
Measure for Measure
and
The Tempest
– two nights in a B&B and a visit to Shakespeare’s birthplace. We’d paid deposits and the dates were all sorted. Then something went wrang. We never got tellt what it was – mibbe someone screwed up the booking or the grant to subsidise the trip never came through – but one Monday in January Ms Harris sat us all doon and tellt us the trip was cancelled.
Oh naw, Miss
, said Kevin.
I was soo looking forward to seeing
the plays
.
Getting three days off school, you mean
, said Alice.
Kevin pouted.
You just don’t understand my feelings about
culture
.
I’m really sorry about this
, said Ms Harris,
and I’m trying
to arrange an alternative visit to Haworth, birthplace of the
Brontës
.
Is that the only other possibility, Ms Harris?
asked Hassan.
The only other feasible one would be the Lake District – we could
see some of the sights associated with the Romantic Poets. But the
accommodation would be a little more expensive, and since Fiona is
studying the Brontës the Haworth trip would be of benefit
.
Jas smiled at me while everyone else seemed to be looking at their feet. I knew maist of them were bored rigid by the very idea of the Brontës, but a trip was a trip.
Kevin piped up.
What about the rest of us, but? Can we no go
somewhere we could find out about our writers?
I don’t think the school is likely to subsidise a trip to the US,
where most of the novels are set … and Shelley travelled extensively
in Europe which rules him out too
.
What about thon ‘Lord of the Rings’ place? Could we no go there?
You already spend most of your time there, Kevin
.
Whit’s she on aboot?
Alice patted his haund.
In a fantasy world
.
Of course
, added Ms Harris, looking at Lucy,
We could always
go to Wigan Pier
.
Lucy smiled.
I’d rather go to Haworth, Miss
.
I’d assumed it would be a dead gloomy place. All the books went on about how it was that remote and isolated and the villagers were all dying aff of cholera. But as we heided up the steep main street I was amazed at how cutesy it was, loupin wi tearooms and souvenir shops.
The Heathcliff Café, the Brontë Tearoom
, Jas muttered.
I wonder
if they dae Branwell Buns?
Wi laudanum insteidy raisins?
I giggled.
Haw Miss, can we stop for a can of juice?
Later, Kevin. We have a booking at the Parsonage at eleven thirty.
It’s just up here
.
At the top of the street the tourist stuff petered out. We took a turning intae a wee lane that ran along the side of the churchyard, and all of a sudden there it was. Bigger than I’d imagined – prettier too, wi neat windaes recessed in the pale stone.
We huddled intae the narrow hall. On one side was the parlour, but you couldnae get right in as it was blocked aff. I fumbled wi the rope as Jas and me stood looking round the bare space, reading wee labels on the bits of furniture, maist of which wasnae really their furniture, just like something they would of had. Then I seen it, black shiny surface wi the stuffing spilling out.
Jas
, I whispered.
Jas, that’s it
.
What?
The sofa Emily died on
.
Oh so that’s the sofa Emily died on
. Kevin’s voice was loud in my ear.
It looks very comfy
.
Get knotted, ya tube
.
Miss, she’s calling me a bad name. Miss, Miss
.
Opposite was the auld man’s study, the desk where he wrote his sermons and the piano Emily had played. I pointed it out to Jas.
A lot of lassies learned cause they were gonnae be governesses …
but Emily was really good
.
Jas and me waited in the back kitchen tae let Kevin get round the top flair afore us. I knew her bedroom was there and I couldnae bear tae have him wittering on in my ear when we seen it.
Narrow camp bed. Plain white walls with wee drawings on them, fae when they were weans and used tae play wi Branwell’s toy soldiers, make up stories and magazines. One windae, looking out on the graveyard.
Imagine looking out on that every day
.
And night. Quiet neighbours but
.
I’d seen photies of the graveyard afore but nothing could of prepared me for it. Layer on layer of gravestones falling over each other; stringy trees, staunding gaunt as though they too had consumption, guarding the plain stone church beyond.
Must of been dead creepy at night, the wind moanin
.
And didn’t Branwell walk up every night from the pub? Nae
wonder he took stuff
.
But she loved it here, Jas. She hated to be away, got homesick –
and no just sad, physically ill
.
He took my haund.
C’mon, we’ve still the museum bit to see
.
Afterwards we ate packed lunches sitting in the minibus, then set aff across the moor.
We won’t go all the way
, said Ms Harris.
It’s too cold. But it’ll
give you a flavour of what their life was like here
.
It was hard tae imagine what it would of been like for them. Walking alang a neat path wi Kevin daeing impersonations of Emily dying on her sofa behind Ms Harris’s back, kinda took away some of the atmosphere. And we never went as far as the waterfall, turned back when the sky threatened rain.
Can’t have you lot getting consumption, can we?
smiled Mr Lloyd.
Ms Harris gied him a look.
Now, folks, you’ve an hour to
wander around the village, get a coffee or look at the shops. Meet us
back here and we’ll go and have a look at the steam railway
. She put her haund on my airm.
Fiona, I wondered if you would prefer
to go back to the Parsonage. I spoke to the curator and you can use
the library there if you like. I know you won’t have much time but
even a couple of hours …
Thanks
.
D’you want me to come with you?
Jas took my haund.
It’s cool. You go with the others
.
In the end I didnae spend long in the library. There was that much stuff I’d nae idea where tae start and anyway maist of it was things other folk wrote about her. I looked at a few manuscripts in her spiky writing, then returned to the museum, stood in the wee room trying tae feel what it must of been like for her, alone with the light of a candle and the ghosts in the graveyard outside, her heid filled with Heathcliff and Cathy.
We had tea in a fish and chip place in Keighley. Everyone was exhausted as we’d been up so early but as usual Ms Harris looked as if she’d had ten hours’ sleep.
So, what did you think of Haworth?
Weird
, said Alice.
I mean, their lives were soo weird. No wonder
their books were so intense
.
I hadn’t realised the brother had ambitions to be an artist
, said Mr Lyons.
Ms Harris nodded.
Everyone thought Branwell would be the
golden one of the family, but he ended up dead at thirty, an alcoholic
drug addict, who never achieved anything
.
From what I saw, he wasn’t much of an artist anyway. I was
surprised how good Emily’s work was – her drawings of the hawk
and the dog were really sensitive. And when you think how little
training she must have had – it’s impressive
.
I know
. Ms Harris turned tae Kevin, who was resting his heid on the table, eating chips sideyways.
So Kevin, how was it
for you?
I’ll never forget the sofa that Emily died on
.
Night, girls. I’m just next door if you need anything
. Ms Harris closed the door firmly.
D’you think that’s a gentle hint?
said Alice.
How d’you mean?
asked Lucy.
Telling us she’s next door so we won’t try and sneak into the boys’
room
.
As if
. Sana peered in a hand mirror.
Why do spots always come
in the most obvious places?
It has been known
. Alice pulled her hair back in a pony tail.
But then, Hassan would rather study, Lee has been going with Nicole
since they were in Primary Four, Kevin has a mental age of eight,
Danny prefers boys
.
Danny’s gay?
Lucy looked confused.
I’m not sure if he knows it himself yet. But trust me, he is
.
Alice, you’re winding us up
.
Wait and see
.
That leaves Jas
, said Katie.
Mibbe she’s worried about you two
lovebirds, Fi
.
I could feel my face colouring.
You’re just jealous
, said Alice.
Dead right
, said Katie.
He’s gorgeous, clever, polite, mature. For
years everybody fancied him and he never went out with anyone –
then along comes Fiona and ten minutes later they’re love’s young
dream. I just wish he had a brother
.
He has
.
Really. Could you arrange a double date?
He’s a lot older
, I said.
Twenty-five. Lives in London
.
Even better
.
Brothers aren’t always alike
, said Sana.
Look at mine
.
Yeah, look at them
, said Katie.
They’re both gorgeous too
.
This is so superficial
, said Lucy.
I mean, how would you feel if
guys were discussing us like that, just our looks
.
They do, though
.
That doesn’t mean we should do the same. Personality’s more
important
.
I just wish I’d the chance to find out – no one’s ever interested
in me
.
Aw you wee soul
.
What is it like, though, Fiona?
How d’you mean?
Well, you and Jas have been together, what … six months?
Aye
.
So … I mean?
Oh shut up, Katie – you’re embarrassing Fiona
. Sana put her mirror away.
I’m shattered – put the light out would you, Alice?
Sure, kids. Nightie night
.
Lying awake in the dark, a splinter of light falling across my pillow – even though I was exhausted, I couldnae drop off. Katie’s questions kept running in my heid. She assumed, all
of them probably assumed, that me and Jas slept thegether. Or at least had sex somewhere – in a car, in the park, in the house when everyone was out. And we never. But it was mair than that – it was that we never talked about why we never. I’d nae idea whether he thought I didnae want to or if he didnae want to or what. There was this invisible unspoken barrier between us. Of course the official line was that sex is only for when you were married, but could it really be that bad if you loved each other? I was sure Jas and me would always be thegether but getting married was something far in the distance. Did Jas believe we could wait till after uni, after we’d got jobs, afore it happened?
I turned on my side, put my cheek on the cool scratchy pillow. It felt so weird – the first time I’d spent the night under the same roof as Jas. A few feet away, through thin walls, he was lying on a bed like this, his cheek on an identical pillow. Lying, asleep mibbe, or awake, thinking of … what? My face flushed again at the thought of him, of us. And though the weariness of the travelling, of the day, seeped through me, it was a long time afore my mind could let go enough for me to fall asleep.
IT WAS COMING
up Easter, make or break time. If I didnae go this week, it was a mortal sin. Even Da said,
Make sure you
get tae confession afore Good Friday, girls
.
It was easy when Mammy was alive. Everything had a routine then, she held it all thegether. Ten o’clock mass every Sunday, confession the last Saturday of the month, slipping intae the dark cool chapel at five o’clock, hoping there wouldnae be too long a queue because if there was we’d miss
Blind Date
on TV. We all went, the six of us, in the same order every month; first Mammy, then Daddy, then me, Patrick and the twins when they were old enough. When Patrick started working he didnae always go with us tae confession but he went tae mass on Sunday right enough, and Mammy always worked out which mass he could go to on Holy Days
of Obligation, depending on his shift. Whatever else happened we had tae get wur souls cleaned.
When I was wee I used tae imagine my soul like a cross between a cloud and a honeycomb; it had the insubstantial shape of a cloud drifting across the sky, but when you looked closely it was made of wee hexagonal shapes all joined thegether. It was in your chest, just underneath your simmet, but naebody could see it except God. I thought God’s eyes must be like a microscope. Miss Mackay once showed the class pictures of wriggling beasties which live inside your skin but you can only see with a microscope. But that couldnae be right either because the soul was huge, spreading out towards your sides under your oxters. However he did it, God could see your soul and he could tell by its colour whether you were good or bad.
Someone who was perfect, like a saint, had a shiny white soul, like new net curtains. The mair sins you committed the mankier your soul became till it looked like a greasy auld flaircloth, washed too many times. That’s if they were venial sins of course. Commit a mortal sin and your soul turned pure black instantly. My granny said if you died in a state of mortal sin you’d go straight tae Hell, a place I found hard tae imagine because it was supposed to be like a fire so hot you were just burning up all the time. That was afore we had the central heating and I could never imagine being too hot. Hell would of seemed mair real if it was like the cold draught doon your back when you were in the bathroom or the freezing sheets when you got intae your bed in the winter.
I didnae think I’d ever committed a mortal sin but was all too aware of the wee grey smudges of venial sins defiling the purity of my soul. Every night I knelt doon beneath the statue of the Sacred Heart and the grey plastic replica of the Lourdes
grotto with its figures of Our Lady and Bernadette glowing luminously in the dark, and examined my conscience.
I never got out of bed right away when I was called, I never ate
all my cornflakes that the starving children in Africa would of been
grateful for, I dawdled on my way tae school, I laughed when James
McCluskey wet hisself at gym, I didnae help my mammy in the hoose
.
Each day was a catalogue of things done and undone, sins of commission and omission. Every night afore I went tae sleep I prayed that next morning I’d wake up and find mysel a new-born baby again. I closed my eyes tight, imagined mysel in my cot, able tae start all over again and this time I would be perfect. All my sins wiped out. If only I had another chance at life I could make a much better job of it.
It was that simple then. But with her gone, things had got intae a guddle. We still went to mass, but no necessarily thegether. Sometimes Da was too hungover fae the night afore to get up for ten so he’d go tae night mass, creeping guiltily out the house at hauf six. Sometimes we’d sleep in and have to go tae a later mass, twelve o’clock mibbe, which meant the rest of the day limped along as if haufy it had been lost. We went tae confession the last Saturday of the month as we always had – the days were still marked out on the calendar in the kitchen for us – but after a few month that stopped. The twins pretended they went at school and I’d given up on my da. I did go tae confession a few times by mysel. I wanted to talk about how I felt about the baby and my mammy, but I couldnae, and after reciting a list of faults like lossing my temper and being jealous and no concentrating hard enough at mass I’d leave the wee box feeling worse than when I went in. I couldnae believe God would forgive me for sins I hadnae the courage tae confess. So I stopped gaun. But it was Palm Sunday the morra, and next week was Easter. And if I didnae go by then it was a mortal sin.
Anyway, surely it couldnae be that bad. Father O’Hara was a fire and brimstone kind of preacher, using the word hell more often than was considered normal these days, and in nearly every sermon he talked about the necessity for Catholics to produce mair missionaries. Since Catholics in Scotland could barely scrape up enough young men to cover their ain parishes, this seemed unlikely. But in the confessional he was gentle and undemanding, saying softly,
God bless you child
. Da said it was because he was deif and couldnae hear yer sins, but whatever the reason, it’d be better tae get it over with. There was extra confessions on after mass this week and it’d be even busier than normal so he probably wouldnae even know it was me.
But next day, insteidy Father O’Hara bumbling about on the altar there was a new wee priest started at St Clare’s. He looked like a sixth-year pupil in his neatly pressed trousers, fair hair cut short round his ears and I kind of assumed he’d be a bit mair modern in his outlook.
Afore the mass started he tellt us that Father O’Hara had went intae hospital for a routine op and was expected to be convalescent for a while. A wave of muttering passed through the congregation then everything carried on as normal. And when the young priest took the lectern and produced a magazine which he waved in fronty him, the parishioners settled doon with interest. Mibbe we were in for some parallels between the life of Jesus and an article on one of the latest beauty treatments – beauty for the soul or some such.
Brothers and sisters, this magazine was given to me on a recent
visit to Boots, placed in my bag along with my purchase of razor
blades and toothpaste. Usually I would ignore such reading matter
but I found myself flicking through it in order to help throw some
light on contemporary life. And as well as the expected lamentable
interest in expensive products designed to so-call improve bodies and
faces that God in his infinite wisdom and love has created, I came
across this particular article
.
He opened the page and waved it at the congregation.
‘Me Time’, it’s called. Addressed to women, the main thrust of the
article is that modern women have no time to relax, are stressed out
by the demands of running homes and careers and need to carve out
‘me time’. The article is full of suggestions as to how they may do
this, some of which, like going away to spas and health clubs, cost
thousands of pounds, and all of which involve being selfish
.
And that’s not my word, that is their word – it’s screamed at us
in bright pink letters. BE SELFISH – you deserve it. So degraded
has our society become that even a magazine handed out in a chemist’s
shop encourages us to be sinful. Even worse – uses the words of sin
as something we should strive for.
Be selfish. Shut your children out of your bedroom and take some
‘me time’ – chill out with a magazine and a glass of wine. Get a
babysitter and go and have your nails done. The most precious gifts
of God are not as important as trivial, superficial rubbish.
Would the Blessed Virgin have shut Jesus out of her room to take
some ‘me time’? Can you imagine Our Lady dumping her child on
an irresponsible teenager in order to beautify herself?
Brothers and sisters, it may look as if I am addressing myself to
women and giving them a hard time. I am not. If men did not
collude in such ideas then the women would not feel obliged to spend
time beautifying themselves for they would know that their husbands
saw their inner beauty. If husbands worked to support their families
instead of spending their money in bars or on toys like expensive
cars and suchlike, then women could spend more time with their
children. If children were regarded as precious gifts of the Lord then
we would have no babies sent to nursery every day from morning
till night, no children farmed out to grannies so their mothers could
spend Saturdays trawling the shops for designer clothes to look good
at a party
.
Brothers and sisters, in this season of Lent, just before the most
precious and holy time of the church’s year, let us remember there is
no such thing as ‘me time’, only ‘the Lord’s time’
.
At the end of mass, I sloped out, trying to make mysel invisible. How could I go tae this guy and tell the truth, and if I didnae tell the truth what was the point in going? I could only pray that God would forgive me anyway.