Weekend reading

In this instalment of Family Lines Lucy continues to write to her missing sister, updating her on her boyfriend troubles.

15 June 1980

So, Sis, here’s today’s news : Me and Marty have split up. There were no big speeches, which was probably part of the problem. We ran out of things to say – and I know you’d say he was never exactly chatty – but even the sex got boring.

Last Saturday night when I said I was tired and wanted to go home after the pub he flipped. I don’t know what got into him but he laid a big trip on me about someone telling him I was seeing someone else. I said it wasn’t true but he didn’t believe me. Then he hit me. There’s a nice rainbow over my eye to prove it. I was too shocked at first to even cry. He went all remorseful then, pawing me and saying sorry and trying to kiss me but that made me feel sick. I picked up my jacket and walked off.

  When I was half way down the road the tears flooded my face. I could feel the blood welling in my eye till I thought my skin would burst like a ripe plum. I had to lick the tears and the blood because I had no hankie. And yeah I had to use my sleeve too. Well, strictly speaking your sleeve. I was wearing your denim jacket, the one I always liked, with the embroidery on it. I figure there’s no harm in wearing it when you’re not here.

It upsets Ma so I sneak it out of the house and put it on later. I kinda feel closer to you when I wear it. Plus it looks good on me. Don’t worry I’ll wash the blood off it before you get back. When you get back. If you get back. You are coming back aren’t you? Aren’t you?

  To postpone the grilling at home I went around by the waste ground. There was a bonfire lighting behind the ruined house. Two fellas and a girl sat against a wall, passing a flagon. I knew them to see, the crowd from the new crescent. A third fella was standing pissing against the tree. As I approached one of the other fellas passed me up the flagon.

  Cheers, I said and took a long swig.

  The pisser swaggered back into the circle adjusting his balls. He glared at me and sneered, So what have you brought to the party?

  Just my pretty face. I tried to smile.

  We’ve already got one of those, he squatted and put his arm around the girl.

  She was very small and her scarlet hair clung to her head like a bathing cap.  

  Hi, I gave her a little wave, for wimmin’s solidarity.

  She tried to raise her hand but it flopped into her lap.

  The friendly fella handed me up the flagon again but before I could take another swig the pisser leapt forward and swiped it from me.

  It’s not a fucking free for all, he said.

  She can have some of my share, said the friendly one.

  It’s okay, I said to him. Your mate’s right. I didn’t pay my way.

  I said you can share my share, sit down here. He patted a space beside him on the old car seat.

  So I sat.

  He put his arm around me and gently his fingers touched the bruise over my eye. I winced. He leaned across and brushed it with his lips.

  You’re lucky I didn’t turn into a frog, I said.

  I had a pet frog once, he grinned.

  I was afraid to ask him what you do with a pet frog.

  The pisser belched and, slumping against the girl, began to chant “We don’t need no education . . .”

  My protector, who told me his name was Daire, murmured in my ear, I prefer the Pink Floyd version.

  It was cosy getting drunk there, watching the flames dance. Every so often Daire shoved a plank into the fire, sending a spray of sparks into the branches of the tree. Following their spiral between the leaves I got the notion that I could pin my letters to you on that tree. I know, I know, not very practical but I was a bit pissed and it is a helicopter tree.

  I heard a witch used to live here, Daire said.

 Julia? I shook my head. She wasn’t a witch. Just an old woman with a wart on the end of her nose. When we moved out her we used to bring up scraps for her hens. Sometimes she gave us eggs to bring home—

  And yous went to school barefoot with lighted sods in your pockets.

  How did you guess? Only the sods weren’t in our pockets.

  He laughed and, looking intently at me, said, You’re all right.

  The fire sank but there was no more wood to feed it.

  Pisser rolled over and snored.

  Giving him a light kick, the girl stood up and wobbled off into the dark. The other fella stood shakily and followed her, calling her name, Orla, Orla, Orla, all down the lane.

  I didn’t want to move. My head was throbbing and the dried tears stiffened my cheeks. I leaned against Daire’s chest and dozed, until the thump of his heart became a train carrying me across an endless sierra.

  But when I woke I was still here in this dirty ol’ town.

  Are you ok? Daire asked.

  Yes, I said and winced again. I’d forgotten about Marty and my shiner until I tried to open my eye.

  C’mon, I’ll walk you home, he stood and hauled me up.

  The pisser was gone.

  Dawn light stole over us. A wisp of smoke rose feebly from the dead fire. The empty flagons were scattered on the ground, one melted to a brown lump.

  The only other creatures on the street were two magpies scoffing the end of a doner kebab. They clattered up from their feast as we passed.

  When we stopped outside our house Daire tilted my chin and said, You’d better put a raw steak on that eye.

  I tried to laugh. I’ll be lucky if there’s a raw sausage in the fridge.

  See you round, he kissed me quickly on the lips, and walked off.

  Yeah, sure, thanks. I stood and watched my knight in faded denim dissolve into the dawn.

  Da was sitting at the kitchen table when I got in. He looked like he’d been there all night. Hoping for a fish.

  I braced myself for the row.

  What happened to you?

  Nothing.

  You call that nothing.

  Yes, no, I cupped my hand over my eye. A door banged into me.

  Do you want a mug of tea?

  Yeah, that’d be great thanks.

  Clean your face before your mother sees you. And come up with a better story.

  Sure, I nodded cradling the warm mug between my hands.

  This was worse than a row.

  It’s time you started to show some consideration for us, Lucy. He scraped back his chair, carried his mug to the sink, rinsed it and left the room.

  I sat on alone with my guilt, my bruise and my milky tea.

  Some tactician, our old man.

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