When we were silent, p.5
When We Were Silent, page 5
I did know. I saw her around the estate, eyes glazed and empty as she wandered the streets.
“I want to apologize,” says Joe.
I rub my fingers roughly under my eyes, across my cheeks.
“And I want you to tell me everything.”
9
September clings to summer, sun-dappled days that chill into night, the pear trees by the tennis courts still heavy with their wares. There is still light, ephemeral and transient, and it’s easy to linger in its dying glow before October comes and cloaks everything in its drab reality. The Leaving Cert exam pressure, the scramble for college points, the everyday business of living, will take over soon and these in-between days will fade into memory.
I watch the last gasp of it from the 6A form room, the girls lying on the grass beside the tennis courts, barefoot, skirts and blouses hiked up for optimal tanning. Even from this distance, I can spot the glossy white of Shauna’s hair, the discarded purple sash on the grass beside her. I imagine the caress of the sun on her skin, the calming warmth of it. Aisling’s lying next to her and I’m gutted I’ve missed the chance to spend lunch with them, their senses softened and their guards down.
“Louise, are you paying attention?”
Sister Mullen clasps her hands together and rests them on the gray pinafore that covers her knees. She sits upright next to me, her feet crossed at the ankles and tucked under her chair. It’s a performance of calm, this controlled pose she adopts, even when she’s reprimanding insolence from the podium in front of the whole class.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to focus on the text in front of me.
“Lady Macbeth,” she says, jabbing her finger on my copy. “What do you think she means when she says, ‘Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty’?”
I’m getting English grinds from Sister Mullen at lunch every Tuesday and Thursday. In most subjects, I’m ahead of the pack as I’ve already done most of sixth year at Santa Maria, but the English syllabus changes each year so I’ve a new Shakespeare play and two novels to learn before June.
“She wants to be more like a man,” I say. “More violent so she’ll have the strength to kill Duncan and take the crown off him.”
“Take the crown from him, Louise, not off him. She’s not literally going to pick the crown off his head now, is she?”
She can do what she likes, I think, he’ll be dead. I shrug and she sighs like a disappointed parent.
“Did you study grammar at Santa Maria?”
“Em, not specifically.”
She nods her head as if she’d hardly expect any more from such a dump of a school.
“I think we need to do a class on grammar and deportment,” she says, “although I fear you may already be lost to solecism.”
She looks at me with such weary malaise I can’t work out why she’d give up her time to help me only to slag me off. The conceit of it stings, the assumption that my upbringing has failed me—I got an A in my Inter Cert English and she knows it. Maybe it’s simply her vocation, that inherent drive to help those less fortunate than herself.
“If you want people to take you seriously—and I presume that is why you came to Highfield—you need to be able to speak with authority,” she explains. “That means no mumbling, no slang and no lazy grammar. We have high standards here and we expect you to meet them when you’re representing the school.”
I fight the instinct to push back against her measure of worth because there’s a part of me that knows she is speaking the truth, that the only way I can get them to listen to me is if I sound like them.
“Actually, I would like that.”
* * *
THERE ARE TEN MINUTES OF lunch left after we’ve finished with Lady Macbeth and I run down the stone staircase to catch the girls on the lawn. I’m walking over to them, Shauna sun-splayed on her back, Aisling propped up on one elbow beside her, when I see Mr. McQueen waving from the entrance to the sports center. I look over my shoulder, but no, it’s me he wants. As I get closer, I see he’s holding something up between his thumb and forefinger. Something yellow, cylindrical. It’s a Bic lighter. My stomach clenches and I feel the fluster rising through my chest.
“I believe this belongs to you, Lou,” he says with a smile. “Come on in and we can chat about it.”
He leads me into the sports center and along a narrow corridor as I pull nervously at the sleeves of my jumper. His office is a small, windowless space, the walls lined with filing cabinets and framed photos. Mr. McQueen with the president, with the archbishop, with the Irish Olympic team. He closes the door, motions to a plastic seat on one side of an uncluttered desk while he takes the leather chair opposite. He opens a drawer, takes out the ten-pack of Silk Cut and puts it on the desk in front of him with the lighter.
“You don’t need me to tell you this is a serious offense.”
I open my mouth to say something, feign ignorance or make an excuse, but I get the feeling that’s not where this is going.
“However … I don’t think you deserve to be suspended, not in your first few weeks of school.”
I exhale heavily and he leans forward, arms folded on the desk.
“What you do with your body is your own business.” He pauses, his dark eyes locked on mine. “But I would like to see you put it to good use. Have you thought about trying out for one of the hockey teams? The seniors could do with some fresh blood.”
I wouldn’t mind having a go, but the matches are all over Dublin and beyond and, with no car at home, I don’t know how I’d manage it.
“It’s a bit tricky,” I say, shifting in my chair.
“It’s OK,” he says. “I understand you have … challenges.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spoke to your mum on the phone. Don’t worry”—he holds his hands up—“it’s all in complete confidence.”
I feel exposed and my cheeks flush with it.
“I know Rose doesn’t have a car so if you want to play—and I really hope you do—I can talk to the parents of your teammates and organize lifts. How does that sound?”
It’s her name that throws me, the familiarity with which he uses it, as if he knows us already.
“Yeah, OK,” I say. “Thanks.”
He stands up, hands me the cigarettes and the lighter, and I take them with the unsettling sense that this is our little secret. As he leads me out of his office, he lays his hand on the small of my back in a way that’s so fleeting I barely notice he’s done it.
* * *
MAM HAS ALREADY LEFT FOR work when I get home so I put all thoughts of homework aside and lie on the mottled brown carpet of the living room floor with the stereo up to eleven. It’s The Smiths, The Queen Is Dead, a record that came after Tina, one that doesn’t crack under the weight of unbearable sadness.
All music is divided into before and after. There are records that are so full of her I can no longer navigate them in this uncharted territory of grief. The synth pop songs of our first discos, full of hormones unleashed and intoxicated. Echo & the Bunnymen’s Songs to Learn & Sing and the gig in the SFX only last Christmas. It could have been a decade ago.
It was music that drew us together that first year at Santa Maria. Duran Duran’s Rio and a mutual appreciation for John Taylor. Later, we’d pool our babysitting money, buy Siouxsie and the Banshees and Cure albums and tape them for each other. This was the music that predicted how we’d move through the world, the one that was within our perception. We weren’t under any illusions; we’d both lost fathers—Tina to prostate cancer when she was only ten and me to the fact that Mam couldn’t go through with the abortion. We thought we understood the light and shade of it, that we could hold hands in the dark.
After, I submerged myself in Depeche Mode’s Black Celebration, the album we’d listened to on her last night. It was supposed to be a peace offering, my attempt to cross the unimaginable void her secret had opened between us. I’d brought it round and put it on the tape deck in her room and we sat on the floor smoking, her orange shag-pile rug melting under the ash that fell unheeded from her cigarette. I remember every song, the soundtrack to our final bloodshot moments together. “A Question of Lust” as she started to open up, her freckled beauty raw with her tears. “A Question of Time” while she told me of her pregnancy and begged me to help. “Stripped” when I walked out and left her, exposed and alone.
I want to rewind the tape, remember what it’s like to breathe without thinking. Before every song was filled with her absence. I can’t bring her back, I know that. All I can do is retrace her steps, find out what happened and make sure it never happens to anyone else again. If I can save a life, maybe I’ll have a chance to reclaim my own.
10
The hockey trials are a mess of endeavor and adrenaline as I do my best to keep pace with Stephanie Burke, her long, easy stride and smug metal grin. Stephanie’s an A player but I make the Senior D, not bad for a beginner in a school that has teams all the way down to H. The details are posted on the notice board in the sports center and I’m running my finger down the list of Saturday morning’s matches when Melissa sidles up to me.
“Please tell me the school vacuum hasn’t sucked you in.”
“What do you mean?”
“It comes for everyone. First it’s swimming, then hockey, choir, debating. And if you’re no good at any of that, there’s always”—she sticks two fingers in her mouth—“charity work.”
“Well, at least I’ve dodged that,” I say, and she squints at the lists, looking for my name.
“Um … congratulations?” she says before turning to me, eyebrows raised. “Lou, are you seriously going to be playing hockey on Saturday morning?”
“Yeah, looks like it.”
It’s in Clonskeagh and I’ve no news yet on how I’m going to get there.
“You know Rockdale is on Friday night?”
Of course I do. There’s been talk of little else all week, but it’s not really my scene, slow sets and rugby players. Shauna is still undecided and I’m not sure I want the hassle of it if she isn’t going to be there.
“Oh, yeah. Are you going?”
“Of course. It’s on at half eight so that means the party starts in my house at seven.”
I’m trying to think of an excuse when Shauna and Aisling come through the door speaking in whispers, their short purple skirts and polo shirts touching with their closeness. I smile instinctively at Shauna and I could swear her face lights up too.
“Drinkies at mine before Rockdale tomorrow,” says Melissa. “See you around seven?”
“Sorry,” says Shauna. “We have an early start on Saturday. The Leinsters are next month and training’s going to be insane until then.”
“You’re not coming at all?”
Melissa does her best to harden her eyes, but I see the disappointment hidden in them. I know that feeling well, the resentment and guilt of losing your best friend to success.
“We might come to Rockdale for a couple of hours, but no way will we be getting pissed.”
She looks at Aisling, who nods in agreement.
“OK,” says Melissa. “Suit yourself.”
She grabs hold of my arm and directs me into the hall.
“We’ll just have to drink twice as much to make up for your uselessness, yeah, Lou?”
I must roll my eyes or grit my teeth because Shauna grins and I smile back as Melissa drags me away.
* * *
PE IS VOLLEYBALL WITH MISS Aherne, a short, sinewy woman with cropped hair and boundless enthusiasm—her first mistake. Her second is being barely older than us, a sure sign she must be clueless. She’s well able for the backchat from the usual suspects but the sexual innuendo is harder to tackle.
The class is set up on two adjacent courts and I’m at the net with Stephanie looming over me from the other side. Miss Aherne is behind me, her arms around Mary Connolly as she helps her with her serve.
“Lezzer,” coughs Stephanie into her hand, and a couple of the girls around her snigger their support.
Behind them, Shauna shakes her head and I stare at Stephanie, hands on hips.
“Have you got something to say?” says Stephanie to me.
“Yeah, grow up.”
Stephanie takes a step closer to the net and peers down at me.
“Maybe you’re OK with being felt up by a perv, but it’s not my scene,” she whispers.
“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you make a complaint? I’m sure Sister Shannon would be horrified to learn one of her teachers is sexually abusing the students.”
Stephanie returns only a withering look.
“OK, OK, girls,” shouts Miss Aherne as she claps her hands and jogs in between the two courts. “We’re going to play up to ten points and then we’ll swap teams. Are you ready?”
I sure am, ready to spike the arrogant grin on the other side of the net. I look back at Mary as she serves and I stay low as the ball soars over my head. It’s bumped mid-court and then set by Shauna and I keep my eye on it as it falls to Stephanie.
I wish I could say I see it coming but I don’t stand a chance. It’s so beautifully choreographed, such strength and agility in the twist and turn of Stephanie’s body as her legs propel her into the air and her arm rounds the ball with all the power of her muscular shoulders. I’m still marveling at the follow-through when the ball smashes into the side of my face and I give in to it, limbs folding, the ground coming at me, cold against my skin.
“Lou, Lou, can you hear me?”
Miss Aherne’s voice is distant and I’m in no hurry to move toward it.
“Shit, Carol, go and get Matron. Run.”
“But I have a note for running, my doctor says…”
“Jesus, fuck’n … Shauna, please, as fast as you can.”
Miss Aherne smells of fresh grass and ginger, her hands soft against my face. She rolls my head gently until light starts to filter through the gray fuzz and she’s closer, her voice thin and raspy.
“Lou, can you hear me?”
I flick open my eyes and she’s so close I see the pores on her nose and the flare of her nostrils as she sighs with relief.
“Oh, thank god. Are you all right, Lou? Are you feeling dizzy?”
“No.”
I’m feeling calm, serene almost, but there are too many faces above me. One of them is Stephanie’s and, even though she looks concerned, I don’t want any more attention from her. I try to get up but it’s only in motion that I feel the rolling pain in the side of my head, and I put my hand to it.
“Does it hurt, your head?” asks Miss Aherne.
“A bit.”
“You got a fair whack of the ball. Are you sure you’re not feeling faint or confused?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Good. Matron’s on her way and I’m going to send you to the infirmary, just to be safe.”
Shauna arrives back with Matron, a cheery woman from Manchester with pale skin and red lipstick. Her blue uniform is tight across her chest, as if it can barely contain her compassion.
“Shauna, can you stay with Lou and make sure she’s OK?” says Miss Aherne.
Matron leads me to the bench that runs along the wall and Shauna sits beside me, the bare skin of her thigh smooth and warm against mine. I feel the rhythm of her breath on my cheek as Matron crouches in front of me, checks my eyes and moves a stubby finger in an arc in front of my face.
“I think you’ll live, Lou,” she says, “but I want to keep an eye on you in the infirmary until lunchtime, OK?”
“OK.”
I stand up a little too quickly and I stumble sideways. Shauna puts her arm around my waist and I let her hold me for several seconds.
“Are you all right?” she says, her hand still firm against my hip.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, and she links her arm through mine.
As we walk away, someone wolf whistles, and it’s probably Stephanie but I don’t care.
* * *
MY HEAD IS FINE BY hockey practice on Friday afternoon but I still haven’t heard from Mr. McQueen about a lift to my match. Afterward, I seek him out at the swimming pool, a place I’ve managed to avoid so far. Even the thought of it triggers that engine in me, the low hum of anxiety and inertia. It’s not just the memory of water that fills me with dread, it’s the whole stifling environment—the air thick with chlorine, the ghostly echo of shifting sounds.
My heart pounds as I tread carefully through the stands, and he’s there, the squeak of rubber soles piercing the air as he sets up for evening training. He gives no indication he’s seen me, his back turned as he pulls the lane ropes into place. I hold fast to the wall between us and breathe, trying not to remember.
I was just nine when it happened. A natural-born water baby, Mam says, never out of the pool. It was our first time at Mosney holiday camp and I’d only ever swum in the sea before that, the paralyzing chill of Sandycove or Killiney beach. So I’m sure I loved it, long afternoons in the indoor pool, playing with a constant supply of kids as Mam sat at the window of the bar next to it, making friends of her own.
None of them were there when she needed them. When the night and the drink had taken her away from herself. I’d been watching her in the bar long after she’d sent me to bed, waiting for the droop of an eyelid or a slump of the head, a sign it was time to help her back to the chalet. I thought she was at the toilet when I saw her, barely conscious, teetering around the darkened pool enclosure in her shiny jumpsuit and knee-high boots. She didn’t hear when I banged on the glass, when I screamed her name as she lurched forward and flopped into the water.
What I remember most is the unreality of it, when she didn’t resurface, when the people around me just stood and stared through the window as if they were watching a film. But they were half-cut themselves and I knew not to reason with booze. I ran out by the toilets, down the stairs and along the corridor, rattling one door after another until I found her point of entry and threw myself into the pool after her.
