Freckles(69)

There’s a sound from the bushes and we both look. Nothing.

Should have put the steak in one of your bowls, I say and, despite himself, he laughs.

I’m not used to him being so quiet, but he seems weary.

Why do you make bowls, I ask suddenly.

Well that … he thinks long and hard, is a very big question.

Is it, I laugh.

Did you know there are seven different types of soup bowls.

No.

There’s the soup plate, the coupe soup bowl, the soup-cereal bowl, covered soup bowl, lug soup bowl— That’s very interesting but I don’t recall asking, I interrupt him.

Bowls are fascinating things really, he continues with a smile, and I think he’s enjoying my ambivalence. So much more interesting than you first think, so much depth to them.

Not to your bowls. You couldn’t fit a Weetabix in one.

He laughs. There’s more to them, on closer inspection, he says, looking at me. Like most things.

He’s doing it again. I look away, focus on the steak.

Anyway I thought they were vessels.

Inspired by soup bowls, I’ll admit at least that.

I try not to laugh, who gets inspired by soup bowls.

Remember the soup kitchens in Ireland during the genocide, he says.

I smile. During the famine.

You say famine, I say genocide. Potato, potato. Pardon the pun.

Yes, I say, they were set up to feed the poor.

Not the poor. The deliberately starved. By 1847 there were three million people being fed every day. But they shut them down, expecting the next crop of potatoes to be good, which it wasn’t. They told people that instead of the soup kitchens they could go to the workhouses. So the soup kitchens effectively became the workhouses, which became prisons for people who were being systematically starved to death. The local workhouse in the town where I grew up is the local library now. In its day it had housed eighteen hundred people when it only could accommodate eight hundred. Bad conditions, diseases spread, the places were hellholes. It became a private home then, to a rich noble family. My grandparents worked for them. My grandmother in the kitchen, my grandfather in the gardens. Right where their ancestors lay starving. One million people starved to death, while we were still exporting food from the country. So, I make soup bowls, he says simply, lest we forget.

Vessels, I want to correct him, but I don’t.

He barely allows me to digest that humdinger before saying suddenly, It’s you.

What are you talking about.

I have a solo exhibition coming up in Monty’s Gallery.

I feel myself twitch at the mention of it.

I’m thinking of calling it Hunger, he says. All the ways in which we feel hunger. Hungry for love, hungry for power, for youth, for money, for sex, for success, for connection.

Sounds good, I say nervously. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Maybe you should call it scavenger. After our friend the fox.

I don’t think he hears me. He wants to say what he wants to say. It’s inevitable.

I was in there during the week to look at the space. I saw a few paintings in there, sketches, portraits from a live session that had just finished. They were all different of course. Each artist had a different perspective but as a collective, there was something distinctive about them.

Come on fox, come and rescue me. Appear and make him change the subject.

You’re an intriguing character, Allegra, he says, on closer inspection.

He says it gently, then leaves.

A strange creepy girl, I whisper.





Twenty-Five


I take the day off work. I can’t face anyone today. I finally build up the courage to call Paddy and ask him if we can switch zones for the next few days, which he agrees to. I can’t be near Casanova. I can’t be near Cockadoodledoo Inc.

I’m sorry about your barbecue, I say to him.

You weren’t to know.

I shouldn’t have brought them. Well, I didn’t know George would show up. But I shouldn’t have brought Daisy. Did they leave when I left, I ask, afraid to hear more. I never heard from Daisy again after that.

They stayed for a bit longer.

How long.

Around eleven.

Jesus, Paddy, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell them to leave.

Well I couldn’t really. They stayed outside. In the sun. Too much sun probably, mixed with the alcohol. Not a good combination. She was sick.

I bury my head in my hands, mortified. I had no idea, Paddy. I’m sorry. I haven’t spoken to Daisy since. She and I, we’re not friends.

Funny, you said the same thing about me.

My heart pounds. I feel my cheeks blazing. I said it, I admit to Paddy, hearing the guilt in my voice. But not in the way you think I meant it. She thought that we were together, together, and I was trying to tell her that we weren’t. That we just worked together.

That we weren’t friends, he says. Good to know.

His usually happy tone has lost its warmth. He’s flat and cold. Which is what I deserve. I’m so embarrassed.

Paddy, I’m so sorry.

He’s silent for a moment and I think he’s hung up.

I think, he says finally, taking his time, that we won’t be seeing each other much going forward anyway.

Why not.

The transfer will be coming up soon.

What transfer.

We’ll be moved. It happens every now and then. Wardens are moved around periodically.