The Story of Before (6 page)

Later on, I slipped both tongue and body into the space beneath the loose bottom of my red satin-lined musical jewellery box.

In the days that followed, I lingered longer on the edge of the green and soon learned the names and faces of all the kids. There was Valerie Vaughan. She was twelve and lived
in number twenty-one with her parents and two younger brothers. Their house had leaded windows, a brass number on a grey marble plaque beside the door, and a white carriage lantern hanging from a
big fancy pole in the front garden. Mrs Vaughan made you take your shoes off at the front door if you were ever asked inside and there was a ‘don’t touch!’ sort of feeling in all
the rooms. Mr Vaughan – Paddy – worked for a big builders’ suppliers, and was always away, ‘sourcing timber products in eastern Europe’ according to Valerie.

She was tall for her age and annoyingly mature. Her full face was spattered with fat freckles like grains of brown sugar, and she wore braces on her teeth. She wasn’t allowed to eat sticky
things like Kalypso bars or Lucky Lumps, insisting, ‘I prefer fruit anyway’, and chomping noisily on apples like a horse, even eating the core. Her thick, auburn hair was always scraped
back off her face into a ponytail that swished from side to side as she walked. Tiny emerald studs sparkled in her ears and she wore her name in swirly gold letters on a chain around her neck, as
if to remind us all who she was. As a rule, Valerie ignored her two brothers out on the green, but she sprang to their defence if anyone upset them. Mrs Vaughan – Nora – paid for her
daughter to take tennis lessons at a local club. Valerie had the most expensive Slazenger racquet you could buy, one with a zipped, navy leather cover, and she practised on the road outside her
house, in full tennis whites, with Tracey Farrell.

There were six children in the Farrell family, Tracey being the eldest, and Mrs Farrell – Geraldine – was pregnant with number seven when we arrived. Tracey was rarely seen without a
younger brother or sister clinging on to some part of her body, leaving her clothes permanently blotched with hardened patches of saliva and snot. Often she was left in charge of the whole litter
on the green for hours, screaming at them crazily for the slightest offence.

She was the bossiest person in Hillcourt Rise. Even more so than Sandra or Mel. Small for her age, and what would be described as ‘painfully thin’, she had limp black hair that was
never allowed to grow past her chin. Her skin bruised easily and pale blue veins ran close to its surface. I couldn’t look at her limbs without thinking about the bones that lay under their
scant covering of flesh. There was something about her that made me imagine Mr and Mrs Farrell in bed, touching each other, and Tracey falling out into the world from between her mother’s
short legs. I could never regard her as being totally clean.

The twins, Tina and Linda O’Dea, lived in number ten. They hated each other, and their older brother David, and it was clear both of them wished they’d been born an only child. They
were identical and very pretty in a Disney sort of way, with large grey-blue eyes that dominated their heart-shaped faces, flushed pink cheeks and rippling, strawberry-blonde hair. They both fought
to be the supreme O’Dea daughter, a battle neither of them was ever going to win. Mel routinely tried to make an impression on them and blamed his cow’s lick for their lack of interest.
He accused Sandra of doing the same thing with Shayne Lawless.

‘You’re such an embarrassment,’ he said to her. ‘Can you not see you’re making a show of yourself? Ask Ruth what you look like.’

It was another blue-sky day. Sandra sat on our garden wall, kicking her heels against the pebbledash, shielding her eyes from the sun. We were waiting for Mam to bring Kev out, so we could wheel
him around the estate while she got some work done. Mel was bent to the ground, carefully lacing up his new sand-coloured desert boots, convinced his choice of footwear would melt one or other of
the twin’s frozen hearts.

‘How would Ruth know? She’s never even properly on the green,’ Sandra said, flicking her hair over her shoulder. I was hoping not to be drawn in, but Mel persisted.

‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’ he asked me.

I chewed at the inside of my cheek, peering down at the teeny red spiders we called ‘bloodsuckers’ racing about on the top of the wall. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘’Course you have! You notice stuff. And you’re always spying on us!’

Sandra slid off the wall, rubbing invisible dust from the bum of her denim skirt. ‘Yeah, you are always spying on us.’ Her eyes narrowed, ready for interrogation. But Mam
interrupted, bumping the pram down the front step. ‘I’m wheeling,’ Sandra announced.

‘Didn’t you wheel the last time?’ Mam said. ‘I think it’s Ruth’s turn.’

Sandra shrugged, giving me her best ‘I-don’t-care look’. ‘Yeah, well,’ she sniffed, ‘but you have to bring him onto the green.’

Mam stood in the garden, arms folded and looking tired with blue-ish half-moons under her pale eyes. The frilly apron she’d made and embroidered the words ‘Home Sweet Home’ on
was tied loosely around her waist, and she wore Dad’s tan suede slippers. On top of her head, as always, three carefully wound circles of hair were held in place with silver, spring-loaded
hair clips. Every evening, before Dad came home, she’d release the clips and run her fingers through the curls they’d created. Then she’d pat some powder on her nose and colour in
her lips with Desert Dawn.

‘He should sleep for a while,’ she said. ‘Bring him back when he wakes.’

If it wasn’t for Kev, I don’t think I’d have ventured onto the battlefield of the green so soon. Perhaps not at all. But that afternoon, I trundled his pram over the daisies
and buttercups like a chariot, screened from the eyes of the assembled gang by its shield of navy and chrome. Some of the kids sat cross-legged on the grass, others sprawled out on their backs, and
it was obvious they’d all just been to the shop – everyone was sucking on a Kool Pop. Tracey Farrell was the first to approach.

‘He’s not supposed to be lying on his back,’ she announced, poking her head in under the hood of the pram. ‘My mam says they can choke and die if they do.’

I turned my back on her and busied myself making a daisy chain, tying it around my wrist. Kev let out a whimper, so I got up to check on him. He looked like a troll version of Dad, with his
jet-black hair and sticky-out ears.

‘What’s his name?’ I heard someone ask from behind.

It was David O’Dea, arriving out of nowhere as if he’d been beamed up,
Star Trek
-style. He tried to smile and ran his fingers through his fringe. At fourteen, David was the
oldest of the green gang. He was always perfectly dressed. He looked like he’d been born to wear a uniform, with his shoes unscuffed and his clothes crisp and spotless, as if they’d
been specially made to fit. He wore his casual check shirts with the top button closed and his Levi’s with creases ironed into the legs. His clear skin was slightly tanned all year round,
with an even covering of fine, bleach-blond hair and chocolate moles of varying sizes dotted across his face and arms. On his right wrist he wore a plaited, red leather strap, fastened with a brass
stud that he kept snapping open and shut when he spoke. David had the best poker face of anyone I’ve ever known. I never really knew what he was thinking. Most of the time, I just had to
guess.

‘Hmm . . . Stairway to Kevin,’ he said, when I answered him. I knew he was expecting me to ask him what he meant but I said nothing. I soon learned David often said strange
things.

‘How old is he?’ he asked.

‘He was born the day we moved in,’ I blurted.

‘So he’s lived here his whole life?’

‘I . . . I suppose so . . . but it’s only been about three weeks.’

‘Still his whole life, though.’

I wasn’t sure if I should disagree, but before I could say anything, he turned and walked towards the gang. I followed, fixing my eyes on the buttoned back pocket of his jeans. Shayne
Lawless spat out the bit of plastic Kool Pop wrapper he’d been chewing when he saw me approach.

‘Hope it’s not goin’ to start screamin’,’ he said, tipping his head in the direction of the pram. ‘Ye can bring it home if it does.’

Sandra laughed and shoved Shayne’s shoulder. Any excuse to touch him. Tracey ran over, two or three little ones dragging out of her skirt. She shook them off and put her hands on her hips,
tossing her hair as if it was long enough to flick over her shoulders.

‘We’re playing chasing,’ she announced, pointing at me. ‘She’s on!’

The gang scattered across the grass and in behind the small trees, shrieking and whooping, then falling quiet. Shayne hung back. Facing me, he held his arms out from his sides, shaking his
hands, palm sides up. ‘Well? What’s the matter?’ he taunted. ‘Afraid ye won’t be able to catch me?’

The others waited at a distance: Sandra, Tracey and the twins, dancing around in a circle; Valerie jogging on the spot; Mel squatting, brushing grass from his precious desert boots. Kev began to
squirm and I held fast to the pram handle. I looked up at the sky. It had never seemed so far away, like one in a Western: overpowering and vast and almost too blue. The sun beat down on
Shayne’s ragged head, his face tilted to the ground, his skittering eyes looking up from under his arched brows.

‘Don’t worry, he won’t bite,’ David whispered, looking into the pram. ‘Shayne’s not as partial to the taste of blood as I am.’ He turned and gave me a
creepy sort of smile and I wheeled Kev away from him. David O’Dea was making me uncomfortable. And he seemed to be enjoying it.

I was just about to start the chase when an ear-splitting cry ripped through the air. Kev was letting me know he was hungry. He wriggled wildly, kicking off his blanket, his face like a
shrivelled tomato. Shayne slapped his hands over his ears.

‘Jeeeesus! Get it out of here!’ he screamed.

I tried rocking the pram gently, but it was hopeless. The game was over before it had begun; I didn’t know if I was disappointed or relieved. I could run as fast as Mel if I wanted to, but
I wasn’t sure if that was speedy enough to catch Shayne.

‘Right! Sandra’s on!’ Tracey shouted. The others readied themselves for the chase, except David, who was lying flat out on the grass now, tracing letters in the air with his
forefinger.

‘By the way,’ Shayne said with a laugh, making sure everyone could hear, ‘how’s me snake? Hope ye looked after it.’

David sat bolt upright, his face as alert as a curious pup’s.

I took a hard, deep breath, puffing myself up to my full height. ‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I took care of it all right. I flushed it down Bridie Goggin’s toilet.’

We’d all just sat down to dinner the next evening when the doorbell rang. Dad rolled his eyes and forked another chunk of liver into his mouth, pushing himself up out of
his chair.

‘God’s sake!’ he moaned, chewing. ‘What time is this to call? Remind me to disconnect that bell, Rose. It’s too shaggin’ loud.’ He tucked his loose
shirttails into his slacks, then wiped his mouth and moustache with the back of his hand.

Since we’d moved in, the doorbell had caused Dad no end of irritation. Back on the South Circular, we’d had a brass knocker in the shape of a horseshoe, which had never proven to be
very effective. It couldn’t be heard from the kitchen and I think Dad liked it that way. But in Hillcourt Rise, there was no escaping the
drrriiing drrriiing
. We could even hear it in
the back garden. And we soon became familiar with the usual suspects who called every week. On Tuesdays, it was the swarthy, sullen pools man, with his chipped front teeth and sellotaped glasses,
and his red pencil stub tucked behind his ear. Wednesdays, it was Pat, the chirpy vegetable man who always added a free cabbage or cauliflower to Mam’s order (never something edible, like a
couple of mandarins, or a Granny Smith). And on Friday evenings, the constantly worried-looking Mrs Shine, collecting the church dues in a nylon bag. Father Feely made it his business to visit his
parishioners on a regular basis too. I usually hid in my wardrobe when I heard his droning voice rising up through the house, terrified he might ask me questions I couldn’t answer or insist I
dance a reel for him which had happened to Sandra the first time he called. She, of course, revelled in Father Feely’s delight, high-stepping her way across the shag-pile, through the hall,
and out into the front garden, while he clapped his hands and
tra-la-la-ed
some awful diddly-eye tune.

‘We’re not buying anything, Mick,’ Mam said over her shoulder, as Dad went to see who it was. He was easily persuaded by door-to-door sellers. Since we’d moved in,
he’d already bought a set of cork tablemats that went all warped and wobbly the first time we used them, and a car air-freshener in the shape of a strawberry that Mam threw in the bin because
the smell of it made her sneeze.

‘I know, I know,’ Dad muttered.

I sliced my liver into thin strips, arranging them in a pattern of squares around my plate. Sandra and Mel swallowed lumps without chewing and, by the looks on their faces, I could tell they
were kicking each other under the table.