Chapter Three
The following Saturday, I finish my farm work early and head to the grocer.
Mam’s worked there for as long as I can remember, even when we were little.
I don’t know how she did it all, juggling a job with two kids and a house that’s always falling apart.
As I got older, I tried to make it easier for her where I could, and even Rachel, who would much rather be off daydreaming, always does what she’s told without complaint.
And I know Dad tries. He can’t take her out to dinner or buy her a new car, but every now and then I’ll catch him putting small gifts on the kitchen table or in the pocket of her coat.
Some spring flowers. A pastry from the market.
They’re a team, and they’re a good one, and I can only hope I get to experience something just like it.
This morning Mam looks frazzled, though, and doesn’t even give me time to say hello before she starts talking.
“You’ve terrible luck,” she says. “Sharon couldn’t find the keys this morning so it was forty minutes before we could open.
We’ve been running behind ever since, and wouldn’t you know that today’s the day one of the pipes decides to start leaking.
I’ve got to drop these off to Geraldine and Mrs Fallon.
Your sister has choir, but she should be back straight after, so I’m going to need you to meet her and run to the butcher before your father—”
“I can bring Mrs Fallon her shopping.”
Mam stops, looking confused.
“And Geraldine,” I add. “If that’s easier for you.”
“You don’t have to, love. It’s a long enough walk.”
“I don’t mind.” Mam usually likes to be in charge of the food shopping. The last time Rachel was, she came back with a month’s worth of pork and an empty purse because Phil Murphy was behind the counter and she was trying to flirt with him.
I can tell that’s what she’s thinking now as she hesitates, her hand on her hips.
“It’d be a big help,” she says finally. “If you’re sure.”
I nod, grabbing the bag before she can change her mind. “I’ll be home for dinner,” I say and, just like that, I’m out the door.
It’s hard not to feel like the stars are aligning.
I’d been trying to think of a good excuse to visit Mrs Fallon again, knowing I’d only raise eyebrows if I did it out of the blue.
Before the other week, I don’t think I’ve even said three words to the woman, but I haven’t been able to shake those photographs of her from my mind, and despite the many, many reasons I can think of not to, there’s something I want to ask her.
Last night, I took Rachel to the disco as usual and watched Colleen dance with her friends.
I tried to think of something to say to her.
I even brought some money to buy raffle tickets, but no one seemed to be selling them.
I knew I was doing myself no favors by not putting myself out there, by not going up to her and just trying, but I didn’t want to make a mistake.
I didn’t want her to be disappointed in me.
It wasn’t until the night was coming to an end and half the crowd was tipsy on smuggled alcohol from their parents’ cabinets that I made up my mind. If I couldn’t talk to her like the others could, I’d have to do something else. Something just for her.
And right now, this is the only thing I can think of.
Mrs Fallon’s front door is open when I arrive and the woman herself stands outside, watering the flowerpots.
She doesn’t look surprised to see me.
“You can leave that in the kitchen down the hall,” is all she says, and I step inside with no hesitation this time, heading to a big, bright room at the back of the house.
I put the bag on the table and turn to see she’s followed me.
“You’ll be wanting a cup of tea, I suppose.” The words are a grumble, but she heads straight to the kettle without waiting for an answer.
A minute later, I’m standing in the front room holding an extremely expensive-looking cup and saucer that would probably give my mother a heart attack just by me being near the thing.
“Sit,” Mrs Fallon says briskly, so I do, placing my drink carefully on a side table as she settles into a chair opposite.
I wait for it to cool as she watches me.
She does this for a while. As the seconds tick by, I’m not sure she even blinks, and I almost smile when I realize she probably wants to make me uncomfortable.
Little does she know I could easily go several days without talking to anyone, so I’m not surprised when she’s the first to crack.
“You’re still in school?” she asks abruptly.
“Agricultural college,” I tell her. “But I help my dad on the farm most days.”
“You’re going to take it over?” Her eyes narrow when I nod. “That what you want to do?”
I nod again.
She still looks like she doesn’t believe me. “And what about that sister of yours? The loud one.”
“It changes every few weeks,” I admit. “Right now, she wants to move to London and become an actress.”
“How original.” Mrs Fallon reaches for her cigarette case and lights up another.
“She’s too smart, that one. She’ll need to be careful.
I was smart. Went all the way to university.
Rare enough back then, but my parents had money.
Not that I cared that much about an education.
University is about friends. Life! I met my husband there, you know. ”
It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. “Is he the one you’re dancing with? In the photos?”
“That’s Teddy,” she says, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder. “I was better than he was, but he wasn’t bad. We did well together.”
I take a sip of my tea. It tastes like she put five lumps of sugar in it. “Did you take lessons?”
“To dance?” She scoffs. “Of course not. We just did it. My father taught me when I was a child and then I learned from watching friends when I was old enough. It was all anyone did back then besides drink.” She pauses. “Which I was also good at it, before you can ask.”
I put the cup back down, wiping my suddenly clammy hands on my thighs. “Would you teach me?”
“To drink?”
“To dance.”
Another silence. This one is more confused than deliberate.
“I’d like to learn,” I continue when she just stares at me.
She looks incredulous at first. But then understanding slowly dawns across her face, and she’s back to looking grumpy again. “Which one is it?”
“What?”
“Is it the Crowley girl? Because she’d eat you alive.”
“I—”
She shakes her head, cutting me off. “It doesn’t matter. Trust me, boy, you don’t want to dance. Not like that.”
“Why not?” I protest.
“Because you could humiliate yourself! Pick her some flowers instead. Write her a poem if you like, but those days are gone.”
“No.” The word is blunt. Firm. Even for me. “If you can’t teach me, then—”
“Did I say that?” Her tone sharpens. “That I can’t? I’m an excellent teacher. I’m just trying to save you from embarrassment in front of the whole village. But it’s not my fault that no one ever listens to me. As if I don’t have a lifetime of wisdom to—”
“Colleen.”
“What?” she snaps.
“Her name’s Colleen.”
There’s a long pause. And then: “The Byrnes’ youngest?”
When I nod, she sits back, turning more appraising than mocking as she takes me in.
“Hmm.”
It’s the only sound she makes for a full thirty seconds.
“And how would you intend to pay me for my time as your intrepid teacher?” she asks finally.
“I’d do anything,” I say quickly. “I can clean the gutters. Clear the ivy.”
“What’s wrong with my ivy?”
“Nothing.” I wilt a little under her glare and since I don’t know what else to say, I don’t say anything. Neither does she. And the clock hand ticks five times before she hunches forward, sucking one final puff of her cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray.
“Come on then. Up. Let me see how bad you are.”
I jump to my feet. “Now?”
“Yes, now,” she says, exasperated. “Why? Do you have something better to be doing? Is there a cow waiting to be milked?”
I glance at the records. “Don’t we need music?”
“You won’t be good enough for music yet. Over there.” She points to the middle of the rug. “Feet hip-width apart. Hips,” she says, tapping her cane against my leg. I shuffle my feet out until she nods, satisfied. Or at least as satisfied as someone like Mrs Fallon can be.
“All right. Hand on my waist.”
I gawk at her until she sighs. Loudly. Then she grabs my hand and plants it on her hip and the other one on her shoulder.
She smells like tobacco and lemons, and this close, I can see the mole above her lip is drawn on.
She appears at once to be more fragile and sturdier, her skin frail, but her grip surprisingly strong as she holds me captive in the middle of the room.
“You’ll be standing a lot closer to the girl,” she says. “But only if she lets you. The last thing she wants is wandering hands. For now, just follow me. Can’t lead if you don’t know where you’re going. Ready?”
“Shouldn’t we—”
She starts to move, and I stumble as I follow her steps. Or at least I try to. Forward with the left foot, sideways with the right, then—
“Stop!” she snaps, and my head shoots up. “You have terrible posture.”
“Sorry.”
“Shoulders back. Chin up. You’ll wreck your back like that. You need a haircut.”
“I—”
“And stop scowling.”
I smooth out my brow obediently.
“It’s because you’re concentrating. You can concentrate now, but don’t develop bad habits. You’re dancing a waltz, not flying to the moon. It’s simple. Count to three.”
Easier said than done. But I do my best as we go once more, willing my body to learn the steps, no matter how stiffly and jerkily I do them. But we only go for another few minutes before she stops again.
“All right.” Mrs Fallon steps back abruptly, coughing into her hand. “Keep going,” she snaps when I go to help her. “Just because I can take a break doesn’t mean you can. There’s such a thing as seniority, you know.”
I wait uncertainly, feeling vulnerable now that I’m standing by myself, but as she returns to her chair, I hear her voice ring through my head.
Count to three.
I look down at my feet, only to jump when she bangs her cane on the floor.
“From the start. Arms up.” She lifts a hand as though conducting me. “And … one.”