The Story of Before (13 page)

‘You can hardly blame my dad for that.’

He screwed up his face. ‘His fireworks were crap, so they were. Everyone said so.’

‘You’re just jealous.’

‘Think what ye like.’

‘It’s true. Just because your uncle Joe didn’t turn up. You should be grateful, not blaming my dad that your uncle Keith’s gone. It’s not his fault.’

‘Ye think he’s great, don’t ye? Ye’d swear he was bloody Superman the way yer goin’ on. And me ma said he was a rubbish painter too. Look at the state of
it.’

I waved the torch around. Dad’s paintwork did look shabby in places. Behind the sink was flecked with splatters of dirty water, and I made out a pattern of black scuffmarks beside the back
door, as if someone had kicked at the wall.

‘That’s nothing to do with him and you know it,’ I said. ‘Paintwork doesn’t keep itself clean.’

‘Yeah . . . well . . . believe what ye like.’

‘She got it done for nothing, didn’t she? And all because of a stupid snake.’

‘All because you lied about havin’ it, ye mean.’

‘I gave it back, didn’t I?’

‘Too late, though. If ye’d given it back earlier yer da wouldn’t’ve been down here paintin’, would he? Did ye ever think of that? And me ma said he was aaawful
slow. Said he could’ve been finished in a day if he’d wanted –’ he narrowed his eyes – ‘but for some reeeason . . . he took aaages . . . like he was
draaaggin’ it out.’

I didn’t like what he was saying. Liz’s blobby bosoms came into my head. And the way Mam had accused Dad of staring at them in The Ramblers.

‘I . . . I have to go,’ I said. ‘My dinner’ll be ready.’ I felt guilty for mentioning food, even though he’d been mean to me. Bad and all as steak and kidney
pie was, it was a lot better than a bowl of Rice Krispies in a cold, dark, dirty kitchen.

‘Right,’ he said, slapping his bowl on top of the tower in the sink and clattering his spoon in after it. ‘Anyways, it was just as well me uncle Joe didn’t turn up. I
didn’t want him to see the tongue was missin’.’

I felt even worse when he said that. I almost blurted out that I still had it, that it was safe at the back of my underwear drawer. But there was no point. It was no good to anyone now.

I stepped outside, stuffing my hands into the sleeves of my cardigan. He shone the torch down the passageway as I left, dipping my face down to escape the biting wind. Then he whispered loudly
after me, ‘What’re ye havin’?’

‘What do you mean?’ I called back.

‘For dinner. What are ye havin’ for dinner?’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Steak and kidney pie.’

He said nothing, just shone the torch directly into my face for a couple of seconds then switched it off and everything went black.

December came and by Christmas Eve the excitement in the house was high, but, as usual, it was flattened out a bit by the arrival of Auntie Cissy and Uncle Frank. We always
knew what our presents would be. Each year, without fail, they gave me some kind of storybook, and Sandra got a doll that fell apart by Stephen’s Day. Mel, being their favourite, always
received an expensive set of Dinky cars that none of us was allowed to touch.

Frank was, like Cissy, tall, thin and pale, and he never wore any colour but brown. His trousers flapped about his ankles and slid up his legs whenever he sat down, revealing large portions of
white skin, curiously free of hair. He did everything very slowly. Even when he blinked, it took ages for his paper-thin lids to wash over his chocolate-button eyes. And when he ate, his teeth
– also brown – chewed in a circular way, like a cow’s, forever and ever, until he finally swallowed his food with a huge gulp that made his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Mam
referred to Frank as ‘The Drip’, and said it had to be more than simply a coincidence that fixing them was his profession. ‘And always touting for business,’ she’d
complain. ‘Does he ever go anywhere without that blessed ladder strapped to the roof of his car? Sure if we wanted him to take a look at our gutters, wouldn’t we just ask?‘ Dad
said Frank had to be like that because roofs and gutters weren’t things you thought about every day and if people weren’t reminded, they’d never get them seen to at all. There was
never any harm in him taking a quick look, he said.

When they arrived, Mam took the presents from Cissy and did her usual trick of pretending we couldn’t have them until the morning. After listening to our protests, she ‘gave
in’ and handed me the bag. Frank and Cissy’s presents were the only ones we were allowed to open before Christmas Day. Cissy seemed to put a similar amount of effort into wrapping our
presents as she did into choosing them. She didn’t use any tape, just bundled a sheet of paper around each one, the way they wrapped the meat in Boylan’s.

‘
Stories for Girls
. Thanks, Auntie Cissy,’ I said, flicking through the newspapery pages of tiny words and spidery black and white drawings.

‘Thanks for the doll,’ Sandra said. Then she whispered in my ear, ‘It’s exactly the same as the one they gave me last year.’

She was right. It was a cheap version of a Sindy with ridiculously long legs, both of which were bound to fall off before teatime. Mel was delighted with his haul, as usual, and sat cradling his
box of shiny new cars.

Uncle Frank insisted on having a look at the roof, so while he went outside with Dad, Mam poured a glass of sherry for herself and Cissy. After a few minutes, Dad returned. Frank trailed behind
with a long face.

‘Well, the gutters are sound as a pound,’ Dad said. ‘Nothing for Frank to do there.’ He laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but rolled his eyes at Mam behind
Cissy’s back.

‘That’s great news altogether,’ Mam said, in spite of The Drip’s disappointment. ‘Will you have a glass of whiskey, Frank? And a mince pie?’

‘We left the ladder up, Rose,’ Dad said. ‘Frank wants to take a good look at the roof before he goes. Thought a couple of slates might be a bit loose, didn’t you,
Frank?’

After he took a sip of whiskey and swallowed a bite of well-chewed pie, Frank nodded, then no one said anything for ages. I was so bored, I started reading
Stories for Girls
. Sandra began
undressing her doll. Mel opened his box of cars, then thought better of it and carefully closed it again. I wished Kev wasn’t asleep; at least he’d liven things up a bit. I was trying
hard to make myself concentrate on a dull story about an injured sheepdog when, from somewhere outside, we heard thumping, followed by a muffled clatter, then something smashing to the ground.

Frank looked up from his whiskey glass. ‘Sounded like a tile falling,’ he announced cheerfully.

Dad went over to the window and peered through the blind. ‘That’d be a bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t it?’ he said. ‘Can’t see anything, but I’ll go and
take a look.’

‘Maybe it’s Santa and the reindeer!’ Mam said, smiling at us. ‘Checking up on you three before tonight!’

Before we got to the front door, we heard shouting.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ Dad was yelling when we got outside. ‘Get down off my roof now! Do you hear me? Now!’

‘What on earth’s going on, Mick?’ Mam asked.

‘It’s that bloody Lawless kid, I know it. Up Frank’s ladder if you don’t mind! Would you shaggin’ credit it? He’s after knocking down a loose slate! What sort
of a . . . He could’ve killed someone.’

‘For God’s sake!’ Mam said. ‘Are you sure it was him?’

‘He was forever messing on my ladder when I was doing that job for his mother. You don’t know the half of it. This’d be his idea of a joke.’

‘Is he still up there?’

‘Not for long he’s not. I’m going up after him.’

‘Sure what good is it going up to him? Let him come down himself. He can’t stay up there for ever.’

‘I’ll shaggin’ well throw him over my shoulders and carry him down if I have to.’

‘Be careful, Mick. Do you hear me? Take it easy.’

‘Jesus, woman, what do you take me for? I’m up and down ladders every day of the week. I think I know what I’m doing.’

‘But you’ve had a few drinks.’

‘All the better to steady my nerves then.’

Mam had her arms folded across her chest and a stormy look on her face. ‘That little . . .’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Nothing but trouble.’

Cissy joined us. ‘What’s going on? Is everything all right, Rose?’ she asked in her sleepy, flat voice. I’d often thought if tortoises could talk, they’d sound
exactly like Auntie Cissy.

‘Fine, Cissy. Everything’s fne,’ Mam said. ‘Go on back in to Frank. Finish your sherry and then we’ll . . . Jesus Christ! Oh my God! Mick!’

Like all of us, Mam was watching as Dad’s foot slipped from the third step of the ladder. He managed to hang on for a second or two but then he lost his grip. He let out a low moan when he
hit the ground. Mam ran over to him. ‘Don’t, Mick, don’t,’ she said, when he tried to get up. ‘Lie still.’ She told Cissy to go inside and phone Dr Crawley from
Churchview Park. Cissy’s mouth dropped open and her eyes grew all cloudy, so Mam told her to leave it and asked Sandra to phone instead. She ordered Mel upstairs to get a pillow and a cover
for Dad, and instructed me to stand at the bottom of the ladder and wait to see if Shayne came down.

Dad lay on the driveway covered with Sandra’s frilly-edged yellow eiderdown. Cissy stood beside him saying ‘Oh God’ over and over and clutching at her throat with her bony
hands. Then Frank finally came to the door, glass in hand, and slowly surveyed the scene.‘You’ll be needing a few slates replaced, then?’ he said, and took another sip of his
drink.

‘Go back inside and sit down, Frank,’ Mam snapped. ‘You too, Cissy. There’s nothing we can do till the doctor gets here.’ She stroked Dad’s hand and told Mel
to go inside and keep them entertained. ‘Is there any sign of him coming down yet, Ruth?’ she asked.

I ran my eyes up the length of the ladder, along the roof’s edge and across to Bridie’s. All I could see, perched on top of our chimney, was the dark shape of a bird. Shayne was
nowhere to be seen. He’d managed to escape without us noticing. He’d probably jumped down to the garage roof. From there it would’ve been an easy enough drop to freedom. Before I
could tell Mam he was gone, Dr Crawley arrived. He made a big deal of getting down on his hunkers and he prodded and poked at Dad for ages. Mam kept asking him questions but he answered none of
them until he’d finished his examination. Then he stood up and declared there was no major damage done and that Dad would be as right as rain with a few Disprin and a bit of rest.

‘Oh, thank God,’ Mam said, tucking the eiderdown tighter around Dad, as if he was going to be sleeping the night out on the driveway.

We couldn’t get rid of Cissy and Frank for ages. They seemed to think they had to stay longer than usual because of Dad’s accident, even though Mam kept saying
things like: ‘Looks as if it could get icy out there tonight’ and ‘God, I can’t wait to get into my bed. I’m exhausted’.

‘You’re not going to let him get away with it, are you?’ Cissy kept asking. ‘Surely you’ll go and have a word with the lad’s mother?’

‘Look,’ Mam said. ‘It’s more trouble than it’s worth. That woman wouldn’t listen. We’ve no proof who it was anyway. And I won’t have our Christmas
destroyed. Let’s be grateful Mick is all right and leave it at that.’

‘I wouldn’t stand for it,’ said Cissy.

‘Shouldn’t be allowed to happen,’ said Frank.

‘We’d have been down to complain straight away, wouldn’t we, Frank?’

‘That we would. Straightaway. Sure you could’ve been killed going up after that . . . that . . . hooligan.’

‘Well, if you hadn’t been so anxious to find something wrong with our roof in the first place . . .’ Mam said, her voice sounding cross and impatient.

Frank stiffened, picked up his glass, drained it in one gulp and thumped it down hard on the table. Then he stood up and buttoned his jacket. ‘Well. We’ll be off now. Are you right,
Cis?’

Cissy looked wounded as she fussed about with her hat and gloves. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she sniffed. ‘Hope you’ll feel better soon, Mick.’

Mam and I saw them to the door. When we went back inside, Mel was sitting with his legs crossed like Uncle Frank, the empty whiskey glass to his lips, and Sandra was nodding her head like Auntie
Cissy. Dad told them to stop because his back hurt when he laughed. Mam tried to look angry but we all knew there was a smile hovering on her lips. ‘Go and check on Kev, Ruth,’ she
said. ‘Bring him down if he’s awake.’

I went upstairs and tiptoed in to the room. It was almost dark, sort of dusty-grey, and I was sure I could sense he was awake. But when I looked in the cot, he was fast asleep. As my eyes
adjusted, I made out the rise and fall of his little chest and heard the short, shallow sound of his breathing. The faint sound of a choir singing ‘Silent Night’ filtered up from the
telly downstairs and I softly hummed along, running my finger over the curve of Kev’s cheek. He looked so peaceful. I was glad he’d slept through all the commotion earlier on.

I heard Dad laughing and the others talking. I strained to hear what they were saying but their voices were just a low hum mixed in with the sound of the telly. I wished Kev wasn’t asleep.
I wanted to take him downstairs and have fun with him. I tickled his neck and under his arms and he started to squirm and stretch. He always got cranky if he woke up too quickly, so I looked out
the window to give him time.

Through the slats of the blinds, Christmas trees twinkled from the halls and sitting rooms of Hillcourt Rise. I thought about what might be happening in the houses. I imagined all the Farrells
running around like mice, and Geraldine flicking them away with a tea towel while she tried to stuff the turkey. And in the Vaughans’, Valerie, cool and unexcited, reading some boring book by
the fire. I wondered where Shayne was now. And what about David? An icy quiver ran down my spine as though I could sense someone’s eyes on my back. But not like when I imagined the man
watching me from behind the wallpaper. It was different to that. It was closer. More alive.

I turned to look at Kev. He yawned, then kicked his legs like crazy and let out a muffled little squeal. I reached in to pick him up.