I can not recall Liam in any detail. All I know is that he looked completely different dead, while Charlie looked very like himself. And, as I wondered at the stupid, second-hand paisley pyjamas, I realised that this is why we were hauled up those stairs in Broadstone at the age of eight and just nine–because Ada had seen this day coming. She knew all along. She wanted us to be prepared.
Or maybe her grief was so large that she had to drag everyone into it, even us children. Maybe she wanted the whole world to witness, and be horrified.
I wasn’t horrified, I just felt lonely. Not because Charlie was gone–I didn’t care about Charlie, I hated Charlie, I hoped he was heaving with maggots under that suit. But because I didn’t want to be in that room, and nobody cared. My feelings were not relevant–not just to the occasion, but to the whole business of being alive.
The rosary churned on in the stairwell, as Liam stepped back and I stood there and refused to move. Liam’s hand on my forearm, already livid with decay; Ada behind my shoulders, whispering me forward.
I did not go.
My grandmother had no patience. She moved on my behalf and put her hand on the corpse; once on the wrist, briefly, and then–impulsively, it seemed–along the line of his jaw. She laid her hand from his ear to his chin, cupping the length of bone.
It was a while before we realised that she was stuck. And another while before someone came up behind her and pulled her palm away from the cold cheek, looking over his shoulder, as he did so, to say, ‘That’s enough now.’
Like it was all our fault–this embarrassment of dead flesh, and the still-breathing love that was in Ada’s body, a love that did not know where to go.
‘That’s enough.’
Mr Nugent. Of course.
And now I remember Nugent there at the end, I must remember him in the room all along, sitting by the side of the wardrobe, so the fly, when it lifted from Charlie’s neck went right past him, before curling around to the light of the window and the blind. He was leaning forward, when we first came in, with his elbows on his knees and his rosary beads dangling towards the floor, and the mahogany behind him was nearly as dark as his black suit.
I have never trusted men who pray. Woman have no option, of course–but what do men think about, when they are on their knees? I do not think it is in their nature to pray: they are too proud.
But there he was, sighing through the Hail Marys as we trooped in the door: me, who was supposed to be in charge, my brother, gangly and raw in his grey school jumper, and Kitty coming up behind. And now of course I must add Kitty in from the start, my little sister, trailing up the stairs behind us, because she must have been there too. Kitty did the business like she did her Holy Communion–with her head down and her face piously cocked. Did she lay a daisy on Charlie’s chest, a childish buttercup on the pillowslip? No. As I recall, Kitty stepped forward, said, ‘Bye bye,’ and turned to leave the room. She was six. She loved her audience. I should know, I had to twist her hair into rags every night, to keep the ringlets tight.
Nugent was there all along: for Liam’s bravery and Kitty’s cutey-pie piety and for the huge bubble of selfishness rising and bursting in my chest. The big, miserable fucking roar of it, telling me that I was alive.
I remember that all right. I remember Kitty’s hair rags, though I can not, for the life of me, turn the memory of my sister around to look at her six-year-old face. I can not, for the life of me, remember Liam’s face, though I will never forget his nine-year-old hand touching Charlie’s dead hand–Liam’s mottled purple while Charlie’s was clear, because his body had already forgotten that it was winter, in that cold house. There are photographs. There is the hint of my brother’s smile in my own mirror, a tone of voice I sometimes hit. I do not think we remember our family in any
Or maybe her grief was so large that she had to drag everyone into it, even us children. Maybe she wanted the whole world to witness, and be horrified.
I wasn’t horrified, I just felt lonely. Not because Charlie was gone–I didn’t care about Charlie, I hated Charlie, I hoped he was heaving with maggots under that suit. But because I didn’t want to be in that room, and nobody cared. My feelings were not relevant–not just to the occasion, but to the whole business of being alive.
The rosary churned on in the stairwell, as Liam stepped back and I stood there and refused to move. Liam’s hand on my forearm, already livid with decay; Ada behind my shoulders, whispering me forward.
I did not go.
My grandmother had no patience. She moved on my behalf and put her hand on the corpse; once on the wrist, briefly, and then–impulsively, it seemed–along the line of his jaw. She laid her hand from his ear to his chin, cupping the length of bone.
It was a while before we realised that she was stuck. And another while before someone came up behind her and pulled her palm away from the cold cheek, looking over his shoulder, as he did so, to say, ‘That’s enough now.’
Like it was all our fault–this embarrassment of dead flesh, and the still-breathing love that was in Ada’s body, a love that did not know where to go.
‘That’s enough.’
Mr Nugent. Of course.
And now I remember Nugent there at the end, I must remember him in the room all along, sitting by the side of the wardrobe, so the fly, when it lifted from Charlie’s neck went right past him, before curling around to the light of the window and the blind. He was leaning forward, when we first came in, with his elbows on his knees and his rosary beads dangling towards the floor, and the mahogany behind him was nearly as dark as his black suit.
I have never trusted men who pray. Woman have no option, of course–but what do men think about, when they are on their knees? I do not think it is in their nature to pray: they are too proud.
But there he was, sighing through the Hail Marys as we trooped in the door: me, who was supposed to be in charge, my brother, gangly and raw in his grey school jumper, and Kitty coming up behind. And now of course I must add Kitty in from the start, my little sister, trailing up the stairs behind us, because she must have been there too. Kitty did the business like she did her Holy Communion–with her head down and her face piously cocked. Did she lay a daisy on Charlie’s chest, a childish buttercup on the pillowslip? No. As I recall, Kitty stepped forward, said, ‘Bye bye,’ and turned to leave the room. She was six. She loved her audience. I should know, I had to twist her hair into rags every night, to keep the ringlets tight.
Nugent was there all along: for Liam’s bravery and Kitty’s cutey-pie piety and for the huge bubble of selfishness rising and bursting in my chest. The big, miserable fucking roar of it, telling me that I was alive.
I remember that all right. I remember Kitty’s hair rags, though I can not, for the life of me, turn the memory of my sister around to look at her six-year-old face. I can not, for the life of me, remember Liam’s face, though I will never forget his nine-year-old hand touching Charlie’s dead hand–Liam’s mottled purple while Charlie’s was clear, because his body had already forgotten that it was winter, in that cold house. There are photographs. There is the hint of my brother’s smile in my own mirror, a tone of voice I sometimes hit. I do not think we remember our family in any
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