Freckles(62)

George’s boat shoe slips off and he trips over his own feet, falls back, his weight too much for the gate that is already hanging on one hinge, and the door falls inwards, towards Decko who is bent over picking up the barbecue.

I call out but it’s too late. It bashes against his back, he lets out a yell and along with the sound of the gate against the metal barbecue, it sends Mammy into further distress. George and Daisy’s wicked, twisted sense of humour perceives this Laurel-and-Hardy-like scene of devastation to be hilarious.

I look around the mess, the sound of Mammy crying, the sound of George and Daisy laughing uncontrollably, Decko groaning as he attempts to straighten his back, it’s all horrific. Paddy’s face.

Stop, guys, I say, but they don’t hear me. They’re still snorting at what has happened. They’re trying not to, of course, they know it’s wrong, but that only makes them laugh more.

Stop it, I yell at the top of my voice.

Everybody stops doing everything. Daisy and George stop laughing. Mammy stops crying. Decko pauses fixing the barbecue, Paddy stops comforting his mammy. Everyone stares at me.

I think you should both leave now, I say to them, quieter now. More in control.

They look at each other and giggle again but I can see Daisy is changed. Something nasty in her stare.

Freckles, I don’t even know why you brought me here, you said Paddy wasn’t even your friend, she says, eyes wide again.

Paddy’s face. It breaks my heart.

I leave through the hole in the wall where the rotten door was.

On the bus, I try to think of a message of apology to send to Paddy but I’m too embarrassed. There are no words that can fix what happened. He invited me into his world, I brought them into his world. I’m responsible. In my drafts in Instagram I have the photo of me and Daisy against the rustic gate along with the caption: old friends. New beginnings.

I delete it.

You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.

I do not want to be like her.

I unfollow Daisy.

And I’m back to having one out of five.





Twenty-Three


I drag myself out of bed after pressing the snooze button three times. Pops called me during the night. It was still dark so sometime before 4 a.m. I’m grateful that this time it’s not about the mice in the piano, though he’s not sure if they’re still there because he hasn’t played recently, which worries me. I feel that his music would ground him again but he says he’s had no time. He’s been busy. He rages about another post office being closed.

They’re ripping the heart out of Ireland, he says. Don’t they realise, they’re not just closing down a post office, they’re closing down communities. I’ve joined a group. We’re going on a march. In Dublin. I’ll let you know when. We’ll begin at Trinity College and make our way to Government Buildings, where I’ll demand to speak with the minister. The island’s being decimated, how is this place to attract a hub of new business if we don’t even have a post office. They’d want to fix the Wi-Fi for a start.

And on and on it went, all pretty lucid until: I’ll start a pigeon carrying service, that’s what I’ll do. First the closure of the transatlantic cable communications, that chased my family away from this island, and now the post office. What next. No car ferry. Will the islanders have to swim next. No no. I have to do something about this. No wonder the rats and mice are all moving in, they think the place is deserted, it’s like the scavenger birds on a hunt. They’re circling, Allegra, they can smell the rotting of community and of human decency … And so on.

After I’ve pressed the snooze button, I just lie there. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. My head is heavy and my body is weary. I’m physically and mentally drained. I want to stay in bed all day. I want to hide from the world. I want it to leave me alone. I’m trying, I really am, to get my shit together and be someone. Someone that I like. But I can’t even do that. I’ve messed up at home, nothing there to return to. I’ve messed up with Daisy. With Paddy. I’m afraid to step outside in case I’m confronted by Becky about the alarm being set off yesterday. I have to babysit tonight and how can I face them. I’m afraid for Pops. I’m relieved the mouse hunt has ended, happy he has found a new goal. Joining a group means human interaction, even if it’s a small fringe group. But I don’t know. I’m exhausted from it all. My careful life that I always worked hard to have under control is turning to shit.

It’s Monday morning. Maybe everybody has the same fear. Maybe everybody wakes up and moves around with the same dread that this isn’t what they had in mind. This life isn’t going to plan and what was the fucking plan anyway. And then a cup of coffee and it’s fine, a news story and it’s fine, a favourite song and it’s gone. An online purchase and it’s no longer there. A chat with a friend and it’s buried. A scroll through social media and remind me what was the problem again.

I check the postbox even though I know the postman hasn’t been yet. You never know, Amal Alamuddin Clooney, Katie Taylor or the Minister for Justice and Equality could have quietly hand-delivered their replies during the night. There’s nothing in the postbox and I feel the rejection three times. Boom, boom, boom. In the gut.

My sluggishness leads me to missing the man in the business suit, the jogger, Tara and her human, and the old man and his son. Missing them doesn’t knock me off as it usually would, it seems fitting to my current mood. As I walk over the humpback bridge into the village I realise that I feel different. Lighter, but not spiritually. I’ve forgotten my backpack with my lunch and my wallet. I picture it sitting on the counter where I left it. I don’t have time to walk back before my shift begins. Maybe I can go back at lunch but for now, no coffee. No waffle. No sugar-coating. No Band-Aid. My mood worsens.