park.’
When Chrissy
reached the street, it had started to spit. She stopped and
fastened her jacket and turned her collar up. A big car was parked
along the road under a street lamp, its soft velvet grey touched
with drops of rain. When she reached the corner she turned to see
Neil open the back door of the car and slip inside.
Neil MacGregor
had lived along the road from Chrissy until his father finally
chucked him out of the house for good. His father was a wide boy
himself and there wasn’t room for two wide boys in the same house.
Mrs MacGregor had enough on her hands looking after one.
Neil’s father
liked a wee drink. A wee drink taken frequently and especially on a
Thursday night when half the population of the street was in the
pub while the other half were at the bingo; or in Chrissy’s mother
case at something in the chapel.
If ever a man
was prayed for, Chrissy thought, it was her father.
Chrissy’s
mother called Neil a wee toe-rag, but there was something about him
that would ‘get him a jeely piece at any door’.
When Neil’s big
brother joined the parachute regiment and was sent to Belfast,
Neil’s mother and Chrissy’s mother had their own line of candles in
the chapel for him. It didn’t stop him being killed, his stomach
blown out and splattered on a woman with a pram who was walking by.
Neil’s father liked a wee drink even more after that and Mrs
MacGregor lost sight of Neil in her endless trips to the
chapel.
Chrissy laid
her face against the bus window and watched the drops of rain skid
off in annoyance. Neil hadn’t changed much. The dark hair and blue
eyes (shanty Irish her mother used to call him), and the grin that,
in another city, might have made him a movie star.
The bus began
to crawl up through St George’s Cross and onto Maryhill Road. On
the right a block of flats loomed out of the rain.
Chrissy and
Patrick had been two of the few on her street ‘to make good’,
outside the ones that joined the army. Chrissy’s three other
brothers existed on handouts from her, Patrick and the State.
Sometimes she thought they were the lucky ones. If she hadn’t been
giving away so much of her wages she could have moved into a flat
of her own and she would have been headed there now instead of
sitting on the bus back to Maryhill.
Chrissy knocked
her head against the window. If there was one thing she’d learned
in chapel, it was to suffer in silence. Father Riley had taught the
weans that well. Even Neil had kept his mouth shut. Old Riley was
gone now. Not to a better place but to an old folks home for
retired priests. Not much chance of a wee fuck in the back room
there.
When the bus
stopped at the terminus, Chrissy sat until everyone else got out.
She didn’t want to walk along with anyone and have to talk. She
needed time to rehearse her speech to her mother about how the
letter about Patrick was all bullshit (she’d have to find another
word for that because she wasn’t allowed to swear, even in a house
that had heard the word ‘fuck’ more often than the Pope said his
prayers). Patrick was seeing a girl, that’s what she would tell her
mother. She’d met her, and he was even talking about bringing her
up to the house soon. Her name was Teresa, so she must be one of
us. If Chrissy got it right her mother could miss her
candle-lighting trip tonight and maybe even sit down with a wee
sherry and watch the telly.
Convincing her
brothers, Chrissy knew, would be another matter.
Chapter 9
Sean was gone.
All that remained was the clatter of his feet on the stairs, the
bang of the outside door and the retreating hum of the taxi. Rhona
stood silently in a room that still echoed with his anger.
‘This is
stupid, Rhona. First you’re not going, then you’re going, then
you’re not going. What the fuck is going on?’
‘I don’t want
to go, that’s all.’ She knew she sounded unreasonable.
‘But you told
Chrissy you were going. You took time off to
When Chrissy
reached the street, it had started to spit. She stopped and
fastened her jacket and turned her collar up. A big car was parked
along the road under a street lamp, its soft velvet grey touched
with drops of rain. When she reached the corner she turned to see
Neil open the back door of the car and slip inside.
Neil MacGregor
had lived along the road from Chrissy until his father finally
chucked him out of the house for good. His father was a wide boy
himself and there wasn’t room for two wide boys in the same house.
Mrs MacGregor had enough on her hands looking after one.
Neil’s father
liked a wee drink. A wee drink taken frequently and especially on a
Thursday night when half the population of the street was in the
pub while the other half were at the bingo; or in Chrissy’s mother
case at something in the chapel.
If ever a man
was prayed for, Chrissy thought, it was her father.
Chrissy’s
mother called Neil a wee toe-rag, but there was something about him
that would ‘get him a jeely piece at any door’.
When Neil’s big
brother joined the parachute regiment and was sent to Belfast,
Neil’s mother and Chrissy’s mother had their own line of candles in
the chapel for him. It didn’t stop him being killed, his stomach
blown out and splattered on a woman with a pram who was walking by.
Neil’s father liked a wee drink even more after that and Mrs
MacGregor lost sight of Neil in her endless trips to the
chapel.
Chrissy laid
her face against the bus window and watched the drops of rain skid
off in annoyance. Neil hadn’t changed much. The dark hair and blue
eyes (shanty Irish her mother used to call him), and the grin that,
in another city, might have made him a movie star.
The bus began
to crawl up through St George’s Cross and onto Maryhill Road. On
the right a block of flats loomed out of the rain.
Chrissy and
Patrick had been two of the few on her street ‘to make good’,
outside the ones that joined the army. Chrissy’s three other
brothers existed on handouts from her, Patrick and the State.
Sometimes she thought they were the lucky ones. If she hadn’t been
giving away so much of her wages she could have moved into a flat
of her own and she would have been headed there now instead of
sitting on the bus back to Maryhill.
Chrissy knocked
her head against the window. If there was one thing she’d learned
in chapel, it was to suffer in silence. Father Riley had taught the
weans that well. Even Neil had kept his mouth shut. Old Riley was
gone now. Not to a better place but to an old folks home for
retired priests. Not much chance of a wee fuck in the back room
there.
When the bus
stopped at the terminus, Chrissy sat until everyone else got out.
She didn’t want to walk along with anyone and have to talk. She
needed time to rehearse her speech to her mother about how the
letter about Patrick was all bullshit (she’d have to find another
word for that because she wasn’t allowed to swear, even in a house
that had heard the word ‘fuck’ more often than the Pope said his
prayers). Patrick was seeing a girl, that’s what she would tell her
mother. She’d met her, and he was even talking about bringing her
up to the house soon. Her name was Teresa, so she must be one of
us. If Chrissy got it right her mother could miss her
candle-lighting trip tonight and maybe even sit down with a wee
sherry and watch the telly.
Convincing her
brothers, Chrissy knew, would be another matter.
Chapter 9
Sean was gone.
All that remained was the clatter of his feet on the stairs, the
bang of the outside door and the retreating hum of the taxi. Rhona
stood silently in a room that still echoed with his anger.
‘This is
stupid, Rhona. First you’re not going, then you’re going, then
you’re not going. What the fuck is going on?’
‘I don’t want
to go, that’s all.’ She knew she sounded unreasonable.
‘But you told
Chrissy you were going. You took time off to
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