All That I Leave Behind (26 page)

‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he says dully.

‘Where did you get them?’ I repeat.

He lifts his head up now and I see a flash of defiance in his eyes, a flicker of mischief. The old John-Joe returns just for a moment, the John-Joe I remember, and I want to pull him to me and kiss him, hard. He puts his hand to his chest and sucks in a deep breath. ‘I won them, fair and square.’

‘You won a pair of goats.’

‘I did. There was a quiz in Prendergast’s and they were second prize.’ He beams. ‘Who’d have thought it? Just when we were looking for a pair, the Lord provides. It’s a miracle,’ he says with a wink.

I’m about to say something, when I hear the bedroom window open above me and a little head sticks out. It’s Pi and he turns and whispers, ‘I knew it, MP, there’s a pair of sheep in the garden, look!’ Mary-Pat’s head appears now, a tumble of curls. ‘For God’s sake, Pi, they’re goats, you big eejit.’

With the audience, I can’t say anything to him. I can’t hiss at him, ‘How the bloody hell do you expect us to look after a pair of goats, when we can hardly look after ourselves? What’ll we feed them on, John-Joe, thin air?’ Instead, I just stand there, and so does he.

‘I’ve fucked up again, haven’t I?’ he says eventually. ‘I don’t get it, Michelle. You spend two years going on about shaggin’ goats, about the cheese and the milk and shite, about how the kids will end up with effin’ rickets if they don’t get enough calcium, and I bring you two goats and you’re not happy. You’re never happy, no matter what I do. I can’t do anything to please you.’ He sounds like a sulky child.

I curl my bare toes and clench my fists. ‘Most people don’t go to the pub and come back with a pair of goats, John-Joe. Where will we put them? How will we feed them?’

‘I’ll put them in Colleen’s old kennel and sure they’ll eat any old crap, you know that, scraps and the like.’

Now I’m properly angry. ‘Scraps of what, John-Joe? Leftovers, is that what you mean? Sure, we’d have to have food to have leftovers, wouldn’t we? And to have food, we’d have to actually do some work instead of sneaking off to the pub, and then God knows where.’ I hiss the words, because I don’t want the kids to overhear and be upset, and yet I wonder who on earth I’m fooling. We both know what I mean by ‘God knows where’. We mean to a cottage half a mile down the canal or to a council house up the town, and they’re only the two I know about.

Bridie told me about the girl in the council house, even though I didn’t want to know. I just didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to hold my hands over my ears and shout ‘la-la-la’ at the top of my voice. But she made me listen. ‘Michelle, you need to wake up and face reality. He can’t go around like that. He can’t do that to you and the children.’ Her mouth was pursed in a thin line. ‘I mean, the girl is still in a school uniform, heaven help us.’

‘Oh, God,’ I managed, trying to avoid the feeling of nausea which hit my throat at the thought of it.

‘I’ll get Maurice to talk to him,’ she said, crossing her arms, her eyes glittering at the mention of her husband, a big, softly spoken bear of a man with a certain stillness to him that makes others wary. ‘He can’t be making a fool of you around the town. It’s a disgrace, Michelle.’ And I hear the unspoken accusation: why can’t you keep your husband in check? Why can’t you keep him under control? Because it’s what women do: they keep their husbands’ base instincts in check; they apply a tight pull of the reins if they threaten to misbehave. I never believed that, that men were some kind of animal that had to be kept on a leash. Maybe that’s my mistake. That I let him be free.

At the accusation, he steps backwards, and his silver earring flashes in his ear. He purses his lips and clicks his teeth. ‘“God knows where”, eh? Well, anywhere would be better than here, with you, listening to you go on and on at me. Nagging, carping. “Why haven’t we got firewood, John-Joe? Why haven’t you dug the potato troughs? Why don’t you get up off your lazy arse and get a job? Why aren’t you good enough for me, John-Joe?”’ He mimes my voice, a sour expression on his face. ‘Well, you know what, love, at least I’m good enough for someone else.’

‘I’m going to bed. I have an early start. I’m going to Wexford in the morning, in case you’ve forgotten. And you said you’d come.’

He looks blank for a moment, and then his lip curls into a sneer. ‘Oh, of course, the nuclear demonstration, as if the world can’t do without heroic Michelle making her stand. The moral majority herself. Oh, such principles!’

‘The last time I looked, you used to have principles, John-Joe.’

‘That was before I realised they made shag-all difference.’ He lights a cigarette now and blows the smoke out in a cloud above our heads. He flashes the kids a grin and a little wave, as if we’re just having a nice little chat and not spitting insults at each other.

I don’t say anything for a long while, before I blurt, ‘Well, it’s a bit more productive than shagging half of Kildare.’

There’s a sudden, deathly silence, during which I can hear his breathing, a little snort in and out of his nose. He’s really drunk, and one of the goats shifts a bit and gives a little forlorn bleat. Poor goats, I think, ending up here. And then he’s beside me, so close that he has to tilt my head to one side, as he grabs my hair and twists it into a tight knot.

‘You’re hurting me,’ I wail.

‘Shagging half of Kildare, is that it, pet? Well, you’d probably know more about that than me, now, wouldn’t you? With your boyfriend across the way there. Does he have a nice big bed or a little hard single one for a bachelor? Is it a bit of a tight squeeze, eh? Or maybe he’s into sheep shagging or the like?’

I have to twist my head to face him, my scalp now burning from where he’s pulling at my hair. I murmur, ‘Oh, I don’t think so, John-Joe. This seems to be all your idea, this free love. What’s the matter? Are you jealous?’

‘Piss off,’ he hisses, and I can tell that I’ve got him and I feel a dart of triumph.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I hiss. ‘A fifteen-year-old? And it’s illegal, in case you didn’t know.’

His face goes as white as a sheet and he stumbles backwards, knocking into one of the goats, who gives a forlorn bleat. And I feel like bleating forlornly as well. His hands are down by his sides now and he looks defeated.

J
une
told herself that it was as if she were possessed, as if someone else, not June, was sitting up into the Land Rover, Pilates gear and gym bag on the seat beside her, and driving down to Monasterard. She always stopped at the bridge, though, and looked out for Mother Duck. If she saw her, she’d drive on. And she always went to see Mary-Pat anyway, so that, in some small part of her brain, she could tell herself that that was precisely why she’d come, and not to spend half an hour in the dingy office of a mechanic’s garage. Half an hour. They didn’t exactly chat, herself and Dave.

That first time, they hadn’t discussed the car. There hadn’t been time. Dave’s hands, large and hairy, had been on her bottom and then on the tops of her thighs, just under the seam of her knickers. ‘Is this what you want, June?’ He’d leaned over her, his breath hot in her ear. She’d tried to ignore the smell
of Nescafé and cigarettes on it, tried to concentrate as he’d fumbled at the top of her blouse with his left hand, his right staying put as they’d bent over his desk, a grubby receipt book, stained with oily fingers, and a half-open packet of Marlboro Lights the only two things left on it. She’d thought suddenly of the stains his hands would make on her silk top – would she ever get oil out of it? She’d have to Google it, she thought as she allowed him to push her skirt up and pull her knickers down.

‘Why did you come here?’ Dave had asked her after, as they’d draped themselves over his desk, a pile of invoices pushed to the floor along with June’s handbag and shoes. Neither of them had fully undressed, and Dave’s overalls had hung around his knees. He’d passed the cigarette he’d lit over to her and she’d taken a big pull on it, the way she used to when they were teenagers, but she was out of practice and had ended up coughing and spluttering, Dave banging her back.

‘God, I don’t know.’ June had pulled herself up to a sitting position, pulling her blouse closed over her bra, tugging at a loose strand of hair. Dave wouldn’t be offended by the truth – he’d always been like that: thick-skinned, oblivious to insult, unlike Gerry, who’d take offence at the slightest comment. But the truth was, she
did
know. Mary-Pat had said it once: it was because Mammy had left that she was so ‘buttoned up. You think you have something to hide.’

‘Will I see you again?’ Dave’s voice had been hoarse and when she’d turned around, her clothes neatly rearranged, her handbag on her arm, he was still lying on his desk, cigarette in hand, a big grin on his face as if all his Christmases had come together. Oh, what have I done? June had thought. What on earth have I done?

‘Get dressed,’ she’d said, before turning on her heel and walking back out to the car.

Now she was in Mary-Pat’s kitchen, pale autumn sunlight streaming in through the windows – what was visible of the windows anyway, with the row of knick-knacks along the windowsill, the walls full of china plates and photos of the kids, and that awful dog, who was currently lurking in the bathroom on his ‘special’ mat. A dog, in a bathroom. Mary-Pat said it was his favourite place, but it made June shudder. She insisted on using the upstairs bathroom, even though it was coming down with potpourri. But now, she felt grateful for the clutter. It made her feel safe, as if she were in a little cave. And she needed to feel safe these days, when everything seemed fraught with danger.

What I was afraid of all along – it’s finally happened, she thought. She’d been running away from it for her whole life, and it had caught up with her anyway, Dave or no Dave.

It was that feeling that had always been with her, that she was the only person in the whole world and that, one day, she’d end up alone. She knew it didn’t make sense logically – she was a twin, for a start, and didn’t they say that twins always had each other? But she’d never been that close to Pi. She’d always felt that there was something between them, a distance, as if they didn’t really understand each other. Didn’t speak each other’s language. Maybe she was jealous because he’d been Mammy’s favourite. Maybe that was it. Mary-Pat had always been beside Mammy when they were children, helping her with the washing-up or with straining that foul-smelling goat’s milk through a muslin cloth to make yoghurt. She was Mammy’s helper and, God knows, Mammy, and then Daddy, had needed her. And Pi made Mammy laugh; June could still remember the two of them, heads tilted slightly towards each other, snorting with laughter at some shared joke. When she’d ask them what the joke was, they’d just shake their heads. ‘It’d take too long to explain,’ Pi would say, but June knew what he really meant: ‘You’re too thick anyway.’ She seemed always to have been standing on the edge of things, looking in.

Everyone in the family knew what to do, who to be, except her. She didn’t know who she was.

‘Where is that brother of ours?’ Mary-Pat broke into her thoughts. ‘I have to go up to PJ’s in an hour to take over. He’s off to Dublin to some fishing expo.’ Mary-Pat had made a huge pot of tea and was slicing big slabs of fruit brack, which she liberally slathered with butter. June felt her stomach heave. There was no way she could touch that stuff, even though normally she looked forward to it. There was no fruit brack at home, or any other treats for that matter, unless you counted a fridge full of kale, which was Georgia’s latest wheeze, the sight of which June found terribly depressing.

‘Is Rosie coming?’ June asked quietly.

Mary-Pat stopped pouring tea into their mugs and put the pot down on the table. She shrugged.

‘You didn’t ask her.’

Mary-Pat looked guilty. ‘I’m used to it just being the three of us.’

That’s not very nice, June thought, but she couldn’t help but feel relieved.

‘I don’t know what she’s going to do about that fellow,’ and she nodded her head in the direction of the window, as if he was lurking in the back garden and not six thousand miles away. ‘I asked her if she was thinking of going back, but she looked at me as if I had six heads.’

‘Has she said anything more about Daddy?’

‘She has not. And we’ve let the subject drop.’ Mary-Pat shot June a warning look over the top of her ‘I Love Mum’ mug. Have we? June thought. How exactly could we have done that? But she knew better than to quiz her sister.

‘You’re looking very fresh these days, Junie,’ Mary-Pat was saying, lighting up a cigarette and blowing a big cloud of smoke out into the kitchen.

‘For goodness’ sake, MP, everyone goes outside to smoke nowadays.’ June tutted as she got up to open the window.

‘My home is my castle,’ Mary-Pat said nonchalantly, taking a big drag. ‘Tell me something, is Gerry on the Viagra? You look as if you’re getting plenty.’

‘Mary-Pat!’ June felt her stomach flip. She’d seen that ‘look’ before, but on other women’s faces. Doreen Carmody had it when she was having sex with that dentist, and Susie had it too, with that personal trainer in the gym. June had been horrified when Susie had told her, eyes bright, face flushed with guilt and excitement. June knew what she was doing was wrong. So wrong, and if Gerry found out … And yet, she felt it, even as she thought about him, about what they did in the ‘office’ behind the garage, a surge of electricity, a jolt of energy that ran through her. It must be written all over her face.

June blushed bright red at the thought of it. What would her sister think if she knew that June had been pressed against the wall of Dave’s office, her skirt up around her waist, breasts hanging out of that expensive bra she’d bought herself for her fortieth birthday. The thought of it made her squirm in her seat.

‘Are you all right, June? You look a bit flushed.’

‘I just need to use the bathroom for a second,’ June said,
getting up and quickly running to the toilet, nearly tripping over the dog in her haste to get to the bowl, which she gripped in both hands as she heaved up the contents of her stomach, what little there was of them. She flushed and rinsed out her mouth, patting it dry with a towel. And she looked at herself in the mirror, two spots of red on her cheeks. ‘You are committing adultery,’ she mouthed, to see what the words would look like spoken from her own lips. They didn’t look good.