‘Why?’
‘Brent’s getting a new house in town to rent for himself. He hasn’t asked me to move in with him. But that’s what I’m working on.’
‘No, Zara.’
‘The more money I can put in—’
‘Oh, darling.’
‘I’m not lumping him if I bring my own money.’
‘It won’t work out with this Brent fella.’
‘Will so.’
‘No, it won’t.’
‘How would you know?’
‘You don’t want that. We’re family. You got family.’
‘You mean Mathew?’
‘Him. Me. All of us.’
‘I should be around him more. He’s probably forgotten who I am. But I’m his mother. You know what? When I’m working I think about that. How I’m his mother and stuff. I want to be that and want to make things right. I used to think a baby’d be shit. It’d be shit and I’d be shit at it. But I’m good at things, Midge. You ask anyone at the supermarket. If I moved in with Brent and I had Mathew, it’d be perfect. Brent and me and my baby, home together. Like normal people. I wouldn’t work so much.’
‘No. You’re better off with us. You can’t think of taking him away from Moira. Let’s let things carry on as they are. Just until Shane gets back and he can sort out Moira.’
‘What you mean, sort out Moira? I want Mathew with me in a new house. I got to work on Brent. He’ll like the idea if he sees it can work. He gets good pay.’
She was jigging on the spot, happy and grinning at the sky as if it was sending down encouragement. Midge wished she wouldn’t look at it that way, like faith lived there and all you did was make a wish and smile.
‘Come down to earth,’ he said.
She was too full of belief to obey. He didn’t have the heart to meddle with her dreaming. For once she looked her age, not a woman but a girl. He was in awe of her innocence. How do you stop innocence? He felt he should but it was too big for a man to stop, and beyond reasoning with. He backed away and let her be in that state. It made her so beautiful he had to look down, ashamed to be old and ugly in such a presence. A cloud passed across the ground and there was a dimming, then a return to bright mud and green glimmers in among the sticks of grass.
Zara took a skip towards him and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt to make him follow her.
‘Come on. Let’s go and see Mathew. Come on. Don’t make a face. Come on. Drive. Let’s go.’
34
You had to hand it to Rory, thought Moira. He hated that recorder but he hated other things more. Being sent to a place for simpletons, for one. It was about time she told him the threat was just a bluff. She should withdraw the other bluff too: about her going to school for the parents-and-teachers session.
The boy sat in the caravan and played and played. He’d changed as a young man in such a short time. Developed, gone ahead. Not so wild in her opinion: not so foul-mouthed and the misfit of Tree Palace, running off lighting fires and belligerent. As though he had a purpose in life. He wasn’t a mother’s boy, he was a father’s. Or as good as that: a Shane’s.
She’d have gone to him and given a kiss in affection, but there was no point in disturbing the peaceful order, having him squirm and wriggle away. She put Mathew down in the kitchen in his little bed and went into the caravan. ‘Good boy. Sounds nice. What is it you’re playing?’
‘It’s called “Mull of Kintyre”.’
‘Whatever it is, it sounds lovely.’
It sounded terrible but he blinked at her, her smiling face, and was fooled into missing the lie. She lifted her hands in soft applause. She gave him his reward, saying, ‘You’re off the hook, honey.’
He asked her twice, double-checking: ‘No place for mentals?’
‘No, honey. You’re off the hook.’
‘No parents–teachers?’
‘Off the hook.’
‘Promise?
‘Cross my heart.’
He said he’d play her the tune again. She wanted to say no. Instead she said, ‘That’d be nice.’
He played and every time he made a mistake he said, ‘No, wait. Hold it,’ and started again. The wag arrived after six mistakes and restartings. Moira used the moment to say, ‘That’s real good, Rory. Play it for Midge.’
She saw Zara was with Midge. The girl was to her like a person you avoided due to a falling-out: ignoring she existed, not exchanging looks, but aware of her every movement. Zara called to her. Moira had got all the way to the house and was almost inside and able to close the door.
‘How’d Mathew find the boots?’
Moira kept quiet and swept her foot across the door mat as if leaves and twigs had gathered.
‘The wind-up boots. Did you show him?’
‘He’s just a baby.’
‘You didn’t show him?’
‘He didn’t like it.’
Zara’s shoulders gave a slump of disappointment. She perked up again on remembering she had a present for Moira. She reached into her bag. ‘Got some smokes for you. PJs are on special this week, so I got you three packs.’
‘I don’t want them. I’ve given up.’
The girl’s shoulders slumped again and she reached into her bag. ‘I been putting money away and here’s twenty bucks to get him something. A warm top or something.’
‘He’s catered for.’
‘Forty bucks, then? I’ll buy him something. What you reckon I should get?’
‘There’s nothing he needs.’
‘Must be something.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Something.’
Midge said, ‘Maybe just let it be, Zara.’
She put the money back in her bag. ‘Can I see him?’
Moira ignored the question.
‘Can I have a peep in?’
‘No.’
‘I think that’s fair enough,’ said Midge. ‘A peep in.’
‘I’ll bring him out,’ Moira said.
‘I want to pick him up, myself.’
‘I said I’ll bring him out.’
‘I got to pick him up sooner or later. I know I been a bad mother. But I been working and earning money. And when I go out at night it’s more than for going out at night. I got this guy Brent and I’m getting closer and closer to him. So he’ll want me to move in with him. Me and Mathew’ll have a real home.’
Moira had her back to Zara and kept it that way. ‘You and Mathew?’
‘Brent knows I got a baby. We don’t talk about it. But he knows.’
The bloom was gone now from Moira’s cheeks. She’d chewed the lipstick off her bottom lips. Her eyes were clenched so narrow the skin was puckered around them. ‘He’s not yours.’
‘He is so.’
The chewed bottom lip was bent down, baring her teeth. Moira had a fist raised as though ready to throw a punch. Zara stepped back quickly and trod on Midge and they made a clumsy dance of standing.
‘Steady on, Moira,’ he said. ‘She’s got a right.’
‘Yeah, I got a right. I want to be in a real home and take care of my baby. I got a right.’
Moira raised her fist again. It was clear to her what side Midge was on, him standing with an arm on Zara’s shoulder and stepping in front of the girl like an amateur policeman. He was up to something, she thought. He had no poker face for being cunning, not to his trant tribe. The cunning always came mixed with guilt and his eyes went wide and the skin on his chin twitched. It was twitching now. He, the man who hated cross words, was not giving way for once. ‘Let her inside,’ he was saying. ‘She needs to get some metho for her arm. She had a nice tattoo done. A nice rose on her arm. You got to dab these things with metho, don’t you, Zara? Come on, in we go. Out of the way, please, Moira. In we go, we got dabbing to do.’
He brushed past Moira and had Zara by the arm. ‘Got to dab these things.’
Instead of going straight to where the metho was kept, he said, ‘Now, Moira, I want you to stand aside, if you don’t mind. Come on, let Zara have a pick up of the little fella. Come on, please.’ He waved for Zara to slip around behind him and go to Mathew. Moira pushed Midge but he wasn’t about to move easily. ‘Fair go. The girl can pick up her own son, for Christ sake.’
She gave him another push, a harder one, and he almost lost his balance but was wild enough at her to stay up and put his arms in front of himself. He didn’t want to push her in return. He leant against her instead, kept her from reaching out and grabbing Zara. The girl was peering at Mathew where he was lying in his little bed. She put her fingertips on his face and felt how spongy to the touch the skin was. She leant and breathed the pure and impure smells of baby breath and bowels. She said, ‘Look at you. You came out of me.’ She touched her stomach. ‘You used be in here.’
Moira shouted, ‘Get away from him,’ white spit flecking her lip.
‘She’s his mother. You can’t stop her having a pick up.’
‘What she going to do, kill him? That’s what she tried to do in the hospital. Don’t let her touch him, Midge.’
Then Mathew hiccupped into crying. Zara lifted him and put his body against hers, his chin over her shoulder. He cried and a splash of pale vomit came with the cry. Moira shoved Midge hard enough that he held his hands in front of his face and expected to be knocked over. She wasn’t interested in him, though. Zara was holding Mathew at arm’s length, puke dripping from his mouth. ‘Sorry,’ she was saying. ‘What’d I do wrong? Sorry, baby.’ She was so worried that she’d taken the wrong kind of hold, she didn’t feel Moira grab the baby from her. She kept her arms outstretched and her hands cupped as if he was still there.
‘Get away from him. You go live with your boyfriend. No way you’re taking this child.’
More vomit came out and Moira hushed Mathew with gentle patting and whispers. ‘I fed you too much before, didn’t I, boy.’
Midge said to her, ‘What was all that
tried to kill him
talk?’
There was no reply.
‘Ah, you really have gone bloody mad, Moira.’
Zara was looking about for something to wipe her shoulder with. She tore off a strip of paper towel. Midge tore off a strip too and helped clean her neck. ‘What was all that about you trying to kill him, Zara? What’s all that about? She’s got so attached to the little fella she reckons he’s hers. Even feeds like she is. You know, off herself, you know.’
‘Off herself?’
‘Yeah, you know, off her, you know.’ He touched his chest and made a cradling motion with his arms. ‘She’s got milk there.’
Moira gave a satisfied smile.
‘I seen it,’ Midge said, in case the girl thought he’d gone loopy himself.
Her face was twisted in a sneer of disbelief. Her mind felt so bent out of shape she was dizzy and thought she too might vomit. Was this Moira’s baby all along? No, this was not Moira’s. It was hers. Here came the empty sensation again. No matter how much she shook her arms she couldn’t shake it away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Midge thought she was speaking to him but she pushed past his comforting hand and said to Moira, ‘I’m so sorry. Can’t I try and be his mother again? Can’t I do that? Please.’
‘Too late.’
‘Please.’
‘You’ll say sorry today, and tomorrow you’ll try killing him again.’
‘No.’
‘Decide you got better things to do than be bothered with a baby.’
‘Please.’
‘You try and take him away and I’ll to go the police and tell them what you did in that hospital.’
‘I won’t have you talking to Zara like that,’ Midge said. ‘Accusing her of horrible things.’
‘You tell him—go on, tell him.’
‘You didn’t do nothing like she’s saying, did you, Zara?’
The girl didn’t answer.
‘Did you?’
Just a sorrowful bow of the head and a silence.
‘I don’t believe you ever would do that. What I believe is, you got Moira convincing you of things ’cause it suits her to have Mathew to herself.’
Zara stumbled outside and Moira told Midge to get out as well. She bolted the door and ignored him standing outside, his finger pointing at her through the window. He was stamping his foot and accusing her of being double-banger disloyal. First to Shane by flirting with Tubbsy, and now to Zara by even suggesting a trant would go to police about family. Trants go to police
never
, full stop, let alone about family.
‘Never heard the like,’ he said, shaking his head and walking in stamping circles around the L-shape. ‘It just don’t happen. Trants don’t go crazy neither, but you’ve gone crazy. I want to get drunk. Rory, shut up with that bloody recorder. Shut up and see if there’s any bourbon under my bed, under the sleeping blanket, should be a bottle. Zara, I’ll disinfect your tattoo with it too. Darling, can I come in?’
No. She told him to stay out and close the tent flap and let her be alone. He could hear her crying.
35
That was a victory, Moira decided. There were no secrets now between her and Zara and Midge. The secrets were in the open and Zara was shamed. It should settle the matter. Let’s see the girl try it again, come in the house to touch Mathew, tricking her about metho.
Yet Midge was right about that disloyalty business. She would never go to police. It was just a thing you say. She wished she hadn’t opened her mouth. Now she had the label of crazy, which put you lower than low. Worse than not reading or writing. Someone you don’t trust. Someone suspicious.
If she’d have just let Zara hold the baby and kept close watch. She should go and say that, but she was too proud. The magic in her must have a bad side. Maybe the bad side of her family was affecting her. Trants are on the outside of everything. Now she was on the outside of them, her own people. She worried the bloom in her was fading. She looked in Shane’s mirror and her face was less shiny and her eyes were normal-dull instead of glinting. Her breasts hadn’t felt as full today. There was still milk in them but not the normal bursting amount.
The thing to do was pretend nothing had happened, there had been no flare-up. It wasn’t dinner time yet but she unbolted the door and leant out and called to Midge in a cheery voice, ‘You want a can of stockpot tonight or spaghetti?’
Rory called out, ‘Stockpot.’
‘Didn’t ask you.’
‘Sorry.’ The boy was in the caravan and his sorry had a lazy, singsong lilt to it, as if he was lying down. He must have had a tipple from Midge’s bourbon bottle.
Midge had drunk plenty and wasn’t communicating. Usually when he drank neat spirits his insides turned watery and he had to sit on the toilet till he sobered up. He seldom drank himself drunk and when he did he was the sentimental kind of drunk, hugging people, even men, kissing them on the cheek and apologising with a belch. He was in a different state at the moment. He’d put on his racing helmet and was riding an imaginary horse to the finishing post. Whipping the air and hissing the horse on.