Himself(21)

When she was distracted she was a doll. Then she lay quiet under you with her chin tilted back and her mouth open. Then you could follow the faint trace of her veins, blue beneath the white of her skin. Then you saw all the details of her. The freckle just under her lip, her upturned nose and the way her baby finger sat crooked on her right hand.

Roll up! Roll up! Did you see bruises the size of saucers on her hips? You didn’t ask in case she told you. In case she said, ‘Ah, now that was where I was held and f*cked by a seventeen-stone farmer for the price of a trip to Ennismore to sit in the dark at the pictures and have a good cry, even though the film was a comedy, ho-ho.’

She never came when he called her. He knew that. He would walk in the forest for long hours with his heart jumping out of him at every sound. He spent long hours sitting in the clearing, panting for her, in the middle of the trees. Sometimes he had the feeling she was watching him, toying with him. He could imagine that, with the mocking little half-smile she threw in his direction, for she never smiled properly at him, not a real smile.

And then she’d just appear. You’d look around and there she was, leant against a tree with her arms folded. Five foot barefoot, two inches taller in her long-gone daddy’s boots lined with newspaper.

But there was a man that Orla let find her time and time again. And she came every time he called.

‘How did you find me?’ she’d ask.

‘I asked my honeybees and they told me.’

He was a beekeeper, so he should know.

He told her about the hives, how he could make the bees dull and dopey with smoke so that he could pull out a frame of golden comb. He said that new honey glowed.

‘But you are my queen bee,’ he murmured, and he made a low buzz on her neck until she laughed.

Once Orla said that if she didn’t want him to find her then he wouldn’t.

He just looked at her and smiled and said he knew the forest better than anyone, better than her even.

He was the only one ever to have seen Tom Bogey. She had once gone to the camp to see if she could catch a glimpse of Tom. When he found out he had beaten her, calmly, regretfully, and told her to stay clear or the next time he’d kill her.

He said that his bees were always watching her.

And she believed him.

Orla looked up. The man was standing over her wanting her again. She almost felt sorry for him as she held out her hand. He handed her the money that was no longer destined for the neat leather coin purse of the missus, or for the rosy tin box on the top shelf of the dresser, or the bright till behind the cosy bar.

This was money that wouldn’t be spent on potatoes and butter, flour and salt, tea and boot polish. It wouldn’t be spent on new curtains, or schoolbooks, or a set of pans needed since last Lent. This was money that wouldn’t be saved against Communion dresses and white leather shoes, Christmas bicycles or stair carpet.

This was the money Orla held fast in her filthy fist as the man took her on the floor of the forest in the thick of the trees. As he lost himself in her the man put one hand on the back of her neck so that she couldn’t look back at him.

When the man was gone Orla counted the money he gave her and the money she took without his knowing.

When she had enough she would buy a new coat and go to America.

Until then she would hide her money in the Blind Room.

Mammy wouldn’t go in there.

Mammy wouldn’t cross the threshold for ten thousand bottles.

In the Blind Room Orla could sleep without dreaming. In the old days Daddy had stacked the peat to waist height there. The air was still haunted by a sweet dark smell. Orla would light the lamp and lie down on the bed. She had made drawers from wooden crates and in them she kept her patent shoes, her good navy dress and her lipstick. She would wear these the day she left. Sometimes she put them on to practise ordering train porters about or waving goodbye from the boat.

On a nail on the wall was the mirror she had stolen from Mother Doosey. Whenever she looked in it she would laugh in delight at the thought of Mother Doosey trying to comb her bit of hair without it. Then she would become distracted, trying her hair over one shoulder or the other. Breathing kisses on the glass and giving herself come-hithers.

For often, when the people were at Mass, Orla would slip down into town for a wander. She would climb through hedges and try back doors. She’d check in at the windows then slip inside. The houses were never locked, but if they were she knew the key would be on top of the doorframe.

The thrill of it! The rooms, waiting on their owners – even the air in these places belonged to someone else. She’d see the signs of recent occupation. The glove dropped under the table in the rush to leave, the cup left unwashed in the sink, the kettle still warm on the hob. The family had been here, only minutes ago, and they would be here again soon. That thought made her grin at her own terrible audacity.

Mostly she would just walk through their houses, trailing her fingers over mantelpieces and opening drawers, looking at family photographs or the dinner standing ready in the pans.

If the mood took her she’d help herself to a tin from the larder or a blanket from the press. She took small things mostly: a pearly handled fork or a handkerchief, a postcard or a new tin of tooth powder.

And she’d leave nothing behind but the faint musky scent of her hair, or a footprint on the clean linoleum, or a sticky kiss on the bathroom mirror.

Father Jim would go mad, if he knew. Maybe he did know. Maybe some little worm had already whispered in his ear. But she didn’t care. She’d near enough had it with his stories and his charity, with Bridget’s cats and barmy ways, with the cups of tea and the dinners round the table – Will you pass the salt, Bridget? I will, Father.