Dear Vincent (14 page)

Shanaye dissects the small roast chicken and metes it out with such precision not a scrap is left. Now we help ourselves to boiled potatoes, cabbage and peas. I only take a small amount, worried there won’t be enough to share around. I wait to start, expecting they’ll say grace. They don’t. Everyone dives in, filling up with loads of thick white bread. They talk about the day, teasing and talking over the top of each other. There’s a lot of laughter. I do my best to eat what’s on my plate but I’m seriously flagging now. I push my barely touched bowl of apple crumble over to Helen and she ostentatiously divides it into four to share. Shanaye watches with an amused air while Uncle Royan grins at me and winks.

‘You wait,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow we’ll be back to normal and they’ll be brawling over crusts.’

After dinner and dishes, I’m so tired I can barely think. It’s still broad daylight but I really need to go to bed. ‘Off you go,’ Shanaye insists. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to chat tomorrow.’

I stretch out on the top bunk again and close my eyes. I’m actually in Ireland, in the very room that Van once stayed. It’s so confusing. If the family were as cold and distant as Mum and Dad, it might explain why Van
chose here to take her life. But they clearly loved her, thought of her as their own. It makes no sense.

What was going on inside your head? What flipped the switch?
Tears slide into my hair.

It hurts to see such love, Miss T. To see how family’s work when parents care.

That’s it, of course. It’s like drinking too much water after weeks of thirst. The balance is all wrong; the body just can’t cope. And so we get dammed up inside and all the misery, rejection and unspoken words stagnate until our heads grow so bloated they burst.
The life we lust for is only a mirage — and the more we try to quench our thirst the more we end up choking on sand.

I WAKE IN DARKNESS
, Helen’s breath purring below me. I have no idea what time it is but I urgently need to pee. The house is quiet, except for the rolling snore that floats out of the master bedroom as I tiptoe down the stairs to the bathroom.

Coming out, I notice a light on in the kitchen, and Shanaye ironing a huge pile of clothes. The wall clock says it’s twelve fifteen.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘You’re up late.’

‘It’s my quiet time.’ She stands the iron up and crosses to the bench. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Thanks. I think my body clock’s all up the shoot.’

She laughs. ‘You’re accent is so funny. I’d forgotten how it sounds.’

I draw a chair out from the table and sit down. ‘Is
there anything I can do to help?’

She shakes her head. ‘Just sit and chat.’

My mind goes blank.
Come on, come on
… ‘So. What does Uncle Royan do for work? I hope it was okay for him to take time off to pick me up.’

‘He’s master of his own time.’ She winks. ‘He’s unemployed, lovey, like all the men round here. He picks up the odd job when he can and sees to the littlins, if need be, when I’m at work.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I have four cleaning jobs for rich folks on the other side of town.’

‘I’ll pay my way,’ I say.
Damn it. I should’ve said this at the very start.

‘One more mouth to feed is nothing, darlin’. We’re happy that you’re here.’ She hands me a cup, sips at her own, then returns to her ironing. ‘I’m sorry I was so doolally when you first arrived. Van’s death rocked us. For a long time we thought it was all our fault.’

‘It’s Mum and Dad’s.’ Bitterness hardens my voice. ‘They treated her terribly — and when she begged them to bring her home they refused.’

Shanaye switches off the iron and sits down next to me with a sigh. ‘Some damage never heals, Tara love. We Irish know it more than anyone. People try to bandage over the top, but if they don’t peel back the skin and cleanse the wound it’ll always weep.’

‘That’s why I’m here. I need to make it stop.’

‘Then let us help you, darlin’. Tell us what you need.’

I take a deep, shuddery breath. I’ve thought about it the whole trip over. ‘I need to see her grave. I need to see the place she died. And I need someone to help me
understand why we weren’t ever good enough for Mum and Dad.’ The other goal, lurking behind everything, I push aside for now. Its pull on me fluctuates. I’m still not sure.

Something, possibly pain, flits across her face. ‘The first two are easy, though why you’d want to see the place she did it I don’t know. But your poor Mammy and Daddy are another story. If we open up that can of wrigglers, you’ll never stuff them back. I often wonder if that’s where we went wrong with Van. There’s things it’s just not good to know.’

‘Did she talk to you? Tell you what her life was like?’

‘That she did. We never thought Kathleen would let him rule the roost like that.’ She picks up her cup, staring into its depths. ‘She was the smartest girl in all the school, our sweet Kathleen. Was going to go to university — the first one in our street.’

‘You knew her way back then?’

‘We all grew up round here. The Troubles meant that we were really tight.’

‘What was she going to study?’

‘Lordy, I don’t know! Hold on, yes I do. She wanted to be a doctor.’ She chortles. ‘Now me, I always just wanted to be a mam.’ She yawns, exposing heavily filled teeth. ‘Have you got a boyfriend, darlin’? With looks like yours I’m sure you have.’

I shake my head. Johannes?
In your dreams
. ‘Not really.’

Shanaye rubs a hand over her face. ‘That’s it for me tonight. Plenty more hours to finish this tomorrow.’ She pats my hand, then starts to pack up the ironing.

‘Leave it,’ I say. ‘You go to bed. My sleep’s all mucked up so it’ll be good to have something to do.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘Well then, I’m off. Thanks, love. We’re glad you’re here.’ She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Tomorrow, once the kids are off at school, I’ll take you to see Van.’

I’M WOKEN AT SEVEN
when the family starts their day. Helen chatters as she dresses for school but when she bounces off downstairs I doze a little longer. It’s procrastination as much as tiredness. Half of me’s relieved I’ll finally get to see Van’s grave, the other terrified I’ll crack. Already a lump the size of Pluto blocks my throat. My stomach is awash with nerves.

By the time I’m up and dressed, Uncle Royan is shepherding the kids into the van. After the school drop he’ll do two of the cleaning jobs — that way Shanaye can spend the day with me.

We set off on foot and everything’s far stranger than the pictures I’ve seen online. People aren’t happy here — are really struggling — you can feel it in the air. Shabby houses sprout small shops, sturdy roller doors in place instead of glass. Every second corner hosts a church,
looming over squalid backyards like a hanging judge. There are more of the big murals too, each one with a story Shanaye relates to me as we walk past.

‘That one’s for the Hunger Strikers.’ She points to a huge H surrounded by chains and shackled fists. An in-your-face reminder of Dad’s hero Bobby Sands and all the others who suffered in the Maze.

‘…Oh, and that ballbeg’s Oliver Cromwell.’ In the midst of a battle scene there’s a quote from the great man himself:
Catholicism is more than a religion, it is a political power. Therefore I’m led to believe there will be no peace in Ireland until the Catholic Church is crushed.
I’m not sure how this makes me feel. On the one hand I agree with him: religion still breeds fear not love. On the other, it’s the poor suckers on the ground that pay the price and not the Church.

‘Doesn’t seeing these every day keep rubbing salt into the same old wounds?’

‘Scratch any of us who grew up through the Troubles and you’ll find we’re still as angry as we were when we were young,’ Shanaye says with a wry smile.

We’re passing rows of terraced houses,
graffiti-splattered
and run down. Threadbare clothes clutter small courtyard lines. Grimy toddlers scrabble in bare dirt. I’m swept by the oppression of the place as I take in the litter and potholed roads. By the time we reach the primary school, I’m goggle-eyed. Its fence is topped by razor-sharp palings. CTV cameras capture every movement in or out.

‘My god! It’s like a jail.’

‘That’s nothing,’ Shanaye says. ‘At least we know our wee ones here are safe. When we were snappers we
had to walk past hordes of screaming Proddies to get to school. Armed soldiers at checkpoints too. We braved a war zone every day, not knowing if we’d make it … or who’d be orphaned next.’ I feel a twinge of guilt at how I roll my eyes when Mum says the same thing. Now I’m here everything’s way more real.

She wraps her arms around herself although the day is warm. ‘You’ve no idea, darlin’, how it affects a person. Never a chance to relax with your friends, even at home. Drink-fuelled arguments; secret meetings; no one you can really trust. By the time we finished primary school all of us had witnessed people killed or maimed.’ She points over the street, to another memorial enclosed by brick and steel, a big black and red phoenix worked into the metal gates. ‘It’s for the fallen of this area,’ she says. ‘There are dozens throughout the country. So many deaths.’

‘Why have these reminders when it hurts so much?’

‘It’s our past, Tara, whether the murals and memorials are here or not.’ She shrugs. ‘Anyway, daily reminders of our fragile peace don’t hurt.’

‘It’s safe now, though?’

She shakes her head. ‘We had our hopes, but the recession’s hit everyone hard. And as soon as hard times hit, things bubble back to the surface. Right now, the situation’s sliding backwards fast.’

‘Why do you stay?’

‘We have no choice. Your Ma and Da had their reasons for escaping but we have old ones here who need our help.’

‘So Mum and Dad left you guys all the responsibility?’
That figures.

‘Life’s never that straightforward, pet.’ She nods ahead. ‘Hurry. We need to catch that bus.’

SHANAYE POINTS OUT THE
landmarks as the bus passes through central Belfast. The high-rises and flashy buildings are much like any others, though there are definitely more churches than at home. More CTV cameras and barbed wire too.

‘Are you and Uncle Royan practising Catholics, or do you pick and choose like Mum?’ The passengers around us quieten.
Is this not safe to ask?

Shanaye lowers her voice and leans in close. ‘It’s impossible to live here and not play the game.’ The woman in the seat ahead coughs — or maybe laughs. ‘Though Royan and me surely aren’t fans of our parish priest.’

‘Why? Because of Van?’

Her head nods infinitesimally. ‘Now’s not the best time, love.’

Ten minutes on we’re outside Roselawn Cemetery. True to its name the headstones rise out of well-tended lawns. On first sight it’s beautiful; the avenues of trees and rose beds offsetting the infinity of stones. But as we start to pass the row on row of graves I fumble for Shanaye’s hand. I need her strength.

Time stretches out and slows. I’ve inched towards this moment hour by hour for five long years.

We pass into a section where the headstones are markedly plainer. Shanaye veers off the main pathway
to a small hill where more plots are tiered up the slope. I scan every inscription as we walk by.
In loving memory of … beloved Father … Mother … Sister … Brother … the sacred heart of Jesus … in the arms of the Lord …

I recognise her name just as Shanaye stops. A plain grey stone. No fancy embellishments.
Vanessa McClusky, daughter of Kathleen and Paddy, sister of Tara.
Stark and ugly. No hint of what ended her seventeen short years. Only at the bottom are there any words of love:
Cherished niece and cousin. Died too soon.

Shanaye nudges aside a bouquet of dead flowers from the foot of the stone. ‘We brought those for her birthday.’ She wraps her arm around my shoulders.

‘I should’ve brought fresh ones.’
I’m so sorry.

The inscription shreds the fabric of my heart.
Died too soon.
Like there’s an optimum time to die. The right age order. First Dad, then Mum, then Van then me, all alone.

I slip from Shanaye’s comfort to approach the stone. Bend over to trace the letters with my finger. Lichen is colonising all the grooves, as if to prove that nature always wins out in the end.
Are you here, Van? Does this ground still hold the memory of your life? Your bones?

A vision of her decomposing body flashes into my head. Empty eye sockets accuse me.
Where have you been?
Flesh-hungry worms, Medusa’s snakes, writhe in the hollow that was once her brain.
You promised you’d stay loving me.
Her long bone fingers scratch for air.
You came too late.

The trembling takes me over now. Before my legs
give way I drop down to my haunches. Wrap my arms around my knees and tuck my head into my chest. From deep inside the pain wells up, exploding in barbed sobs that slice and cut. I rock, filled with the death of her, that deep, dark emptiness that’s stalked me from the first. Nowhere to run to now. The evidence lies six feet down — and nothing,
nothing
, I can do will bring her back.

Shanaye strokes my head. ‘No need to mourn this on your own.’ She coaxes me back to my feet. Uncoils me. Envelops me.
This
is how a mother’s embrace should feel. ‘You cry, my love, you let it out.’ She’s crying too. Mum’s never cried with me. Nor Dad. They shut me out. Forced me to tough it out alone.
God damn it, Van, I want you back.

It’s the coldness that sits heavy in my chest. Where’s the
Much loved daughter? Beautiful big sister of … ?
‘Who chose the words?’

‘It’s what your Mammy said to put — except the little bit from us.’

‘Anyone would think she wasn’t loved.’

Shanaye pecks my cheek, then lets me go. ‘I know. I’m sorry, darlin’. We would’ve changed it but it was all we could afford.’

‘
You
paid for the headstone?’

‘It was Royan and me who wanted it.’

‘You’re bloody kidding me? They weren’t even going to cough up for her stone?’ Shanaye can’t meet my eye. It’s clear she’s trying to put a better spin on this but there is none. ‘I hate them. You have no idea.’ I’m shaking again.

‘Shhh now. Shouting won’t help.’ She rubs my back but I’m too furious for comfort. ‘Let’s find a quiet place
to sit. There’re things I need to tell you and it may as well be now.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Just come. It’s better that you know it all.’ She guides me to a wooden bench beneath a splay-armed tree.

Above me something marks the moment, exactly like a clock. ‘Did you hear that?’

Shanaye peers up. ‘A cuckoo. It’s pretty rare this late in the year. Though ironic, in the scheme of things.’

‘Sorry?’

She sighs. ‘I’ve got a big long tale to tell, love, but before I do you have to promise.’

‘What?’

‘That if you can’t make sense of things — feel overwhelmed — you’ll let us know. Van’s death nearly destroyed us, love. We need your word.’

I think about the promise I made to Sandy back at school and mentally cross my fingers. ‘Sure. Okay.’

‘Do you know anything about your mammy’s early life?’

I shake my head. ‘Only that she had it tough compared to us. She told us all the time, like it would help when she was being such a bitch.’

Shanaye grins. ‘If I had a dollar for every time my ma said those same words …’ She peers into the distance, then gives herself a little shake before she carries on. ‘Kathleen and my big sister Annie were best of friends. Lord, how we envied Kathy. She was beautiful and clever — goodness, Tara, you have no idea how much you’re like her. You and Van. She topped the class — everyone agreed that one day she’d make a fine doctor. The whole neighbourhood was proud of her. And when she started
going with Billy they seemed the perfect match.’

‘Billy?’

‘Royan and Paddy’s brother. He was a year younger than your da. Him and Kathy made a right handsome pair.’

‘Dad’s brother?’
Oh yes
. That mention of him in Royan’s letter.

Shanaye inspects her fingernails, one by one. ‘Your mother was born a year after her da was injured in the bomb attacks of Bloody Friday. It made him awful bitter — some said he was a member of the PIRA.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Provisional Irish Republican Army. Much more hardcore than the old IRA. Belfast was swamped by British soldiers at the time and the Provos were threatening attacks on English soil. You have to understand the kind of pressure we lived under: we were all raised dodging bullets and bombs. It does your head in — that kind of fear and horror never goes away.’

‘You think that forgives Mum and Dad’s behaviour?’

‘I wish that’s all I meant.’ In this morning light she looks much older, years of strain etched into her face. ‘But you need to understand the background first; how it affects us all. The only way to survive that kind of constant terror is to shut it out.’

‘That’s why I paint.’
Is it?
My god, I suppose it is.

Shanaye slumps back against the seat. ‘You know, when Van first told us how your ma and da were treating her we weren’t sure we believed her. But the longer she stayed, the more we saw the damage they’d done. Lord, we anguished over telling her the truth. But she was so unhappy — so hurt and rejected — we thought the
truth might free her up. Were we total eejits? I still don’t know.’

A fist clenches inside. ‘What truth?’

‘When Kathleen and Billy were seventeen they went with Paddy and a group of friends to celebrate the Glenanne barracks bombing. On their way home a gang of Proddies cornered them … Things got out of hand.’ She swallows hard. ‘They held Billy and the others down while they took Kathleen.’

I have to force myself to breathe. My heart’s the drum of doom and I fight the urge to block my ears.

Again and again she swallows, unable to form words. ‘Shanaye? What did they do?’

‘They took her — raped her. Brutally. Boy after boy. Billy fought so hard to save her, they knocked him out. Paddy broke free and ran for help — but by the time her daddy got there it was far too late.’

I don’t want to …
have
to … ‘What happened then?’

‘Her daddy took her home to nurse her. Our prick of a priest told them she must have courted it — that they were not to speak of it or everyone would know her shame. When Billy regained consciousness he was wild. No one could calm him, not even poor Kathleen. When she found out she was expecting, he loaded up his car with home-made bombs and drove it at a British checkpoint. Killed himself, two British soldiers and two passers-by. People said the explosives came from Kathy’s da.’

I hear the cuckoo call above us and now the irony connects. ‘The baby was Van.’
Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Ya daddy’s not ya daddy, what ya gunna do?