Chapter Four
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two—
“What are you doing?”
I look up from my feet to see my sister standing at the entrance to the barn.
For a moment, I’m thrown. Rachel is not quiet.
She announces her entrance loudly either by voice or sheer force of will.
But I didn’t hear her this time. I’ve been concentrating so hard on the steps, I don’t even know how long she’s been standing there.
“Dancing,” I say.
“There’s no music.”
“I’m not at the music stage yet.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. She sounds wary. Like she thinks I’m lying to her but knows I can’t be. I don’t lie. “Mam says you’re to come in,” she adds. “Dinner’s ready.”
“All right.”
“You can’t stare at your feet when you dance like that.”
“I know. I’m not—”
“At the non-stare-at-your-feet stage yet?” She gives me a final look and disappears, running back up to the house. I glance down at the dirt and muck on the floor. At the clear swipes where I’ve been practicing my movements; then I rub them out with the sweeping brush.
Inside the house, the smell of roast meat hits me, making my mouth water as I wash my hands in the cloakroom before hurrying to the kitchen.
“Turn the radio off,” Mam says as Rachel pouts. “Did you do your homework?”
“Almost done,” she says, carrying the plates to the table. “Where’s Dad?”
“With your Aunt Kathleen. Her hip’s been plaguing her, and that new radiator of hers isn’t working again. He’s getting someone out to take a look at it tomorrow afternoon. Sean, you’ll help, won’t you? You know how your father gets.”
I hesitate. I’ve never said no when I’ve been asked to help before. But tomorrow is Friday. And Friday is …
Rachel’s eyes flick to me before going back to her dinner. “But we’re going to the disco.”
“You can go with your friends,” Mam says. “Just this once, anyway.”
“No, Sean has to go, too.”
I stare at her. Mam stares at her. Both of us confused. Though unlike her, I know what my sister is trying to do. I just don’t understand why she’s doing it. Rachel’s default position is to tease me at every opportunity, so I’m instantly suspicious.
“He keeps the lads from crowding me,” she insists at the silence. “I’m very popular.” And then, as if to make doubly sure I’m following, kicks me sharply under the table. Speak, she mouths, when Mam looks my way.
“I’m grand to take Rachel,” I say, clearing my throat. “I can pop in on Saturday and see Aunty Kathleen after I see Mrs Fallon.”
Mam looks skeptical. “You’re spending a lot of time up there. You’re not bothering her, are you?”
“She just needs a bit of help around the house.”
“Well, isn’t that a novel idea,” Mam grumbles, shooting Rachel a look as my sister shoves a potato into her mouth.
*
I should have known that wouldn’t be the last of it. Rachel’s busy with her history essay for the rest of the evening, but we’re barely two steps out of the house the next morning when she starts on me.
“Well?” she asks. “Who is she?”
“Who’s who?” I ask as she skips ahead. She’s always moving. Like she’d die if someone forced her to sit still.
“The girl that you like.”
I frown at the back of her head and don’t answer.
“You never went to the discos,” she continues, unbothered by my silence.
“And when Mam forced you to take me, you used to stand in the corner and make me go home as soon as it was nine. Then, all of a sudden, you wanted to stay as long as possible. Even though you still don’t dance or talk to anyone. So who is it? Who do you like?”
“Shouldn’t you be spending more time talking to your friends than keeping an eye on me?”
“I can do both,” she says. “I’m very observant.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I’m your younger sister. It’s my job to be annoying.” She twirls so she’s facing me and starts walking backward. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
At that, I snort. I don’t trust her to help me at all.
“I mean it! I know everyone. And I’m just going to find out anyway,” she adds, not blinking as we have a stare-off in the middle of the road.
Sometimes, I wish she wasn’t so curious all the time. But I know she could do more damage trying to figure it out than anything else.
“Colleen Byrne.”
Rachel doesn’t even hesitate. “She’s in my Irish dancing class.”
I know, I want to tell her.
“She’s very pretty,” Rachel continues, thoughtful now.
That I don’t need to be reminded of. Anyway, she’s more than pretty. She’s beautiful.
But I say nothing, giving her nothing. Not that it matters. Rachel doesn’t need words. She’s spent too much time with me not to know what I’m thinking.
“You should just talk to her,” she says. “She might like you.”
I still don’t answer. I know her words are meant to comfort, but they prick at something uncomfortable inside. Something I’d been trying not to think about. Because she’s right. Colleen might like me. But she also might not.
And once again, my sister guesses my thoughts perfectly.
Rachel rolls her eyes, swinging around an electricity pole with one hand. “It’s not that strange to consider. Lots of girls like you.”
“You mean Patricia.”
“Not just Patricia. Deirdre. Carmel. It’s very annoying.” She raises her brow at my look. “They think you’re mysterious. They all want to dance with you. They won’t stop asking me.”
“I’m not mysterious,” I say, bewildered.
“I know that. I told them you were just boring, but no one believed me.”
“Then why—”
“Because you’re kind!” she exclaims. “And when you say things, you mean them. They know you won’t talk about them behind their backs.” Her voice trails off to a grumble at the last bit, and she kicks a small stone out of the way.
I come to a stop. “Did Phil Murphy say something to you?”
“No,” she says sullenly. “Not to me.”
“What did he do?” I demand, and she sighs, loud and dramatic. But the reason she knows me is also the reason I know her, and the act she’s putting on is exactly that. She’s hurting. And I bet everything I own that the butcher’s son is the reason. “Rachel,” I warn.
“I overheard him talking to some of his friends last week. About how I wouldn’t go all the way like other girls and how that made me— Sean!” She grabs onto my arm with a laugh, jumping in front of me. “I dealt with it.”
I stare down at her, confused, seeing as how she couldn’t have dealt with it because, as far as I’m aware, Phil Murphy wasn’t walking around with a black eye the last time I saw him.
Rachel shrugs. “I told him I wouldn’t be with him if he was the last man on earth. And then I told his mother where he keeps his cigarettes.” She smiles a little. “I don’t need you to protect me. But I like that you want to.”
“If you stayed in the house, I wouldn’t need to,” I remind her, but she just pats my arm like I’m being silly.
“She’s a great dancer.”
“Who?” I ask, still picturing Phil Murphy with a fist in his face.
“Colleen. Is that why you’ve been learning? So you can dance with her?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m a bright student with a curious mind.”
“Not a single report card has said that.”
“I read between the lines,” she says breezily. “Anyway, if you need my help, just ask.”
It sounds like something she would joke about, but I know for maybe the first time in her life, my sister is completely serious.
“I will,” I say, and she grins.
“She’s nice. You deserve nice.”
“Do I?” I ask, walking on.
“Of course you do.” She catches up with me, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “You deserve everything, Sean. You’re the only one who thinks otherwise.”
*
Another Friday at the disco. Another night with my back against the wall.
I’d debated working up the courage to try a slow song with Colleen, but Dessie barely played anything but hard rock all night.
He spent four hours just standing at the record player, nodding his head up and down angrily before ending with Gilbert O’Sullivan and abruptly turning on the lights.
Afterward, Rachel said his girlfriend broke up with him, which made a lot of sense.
A part of me was relieved I’d have more time to practice, but a bigger part was growing worried that I’d never feel ready, no matter how good I got. Or that by the time I did, someone else would have swept her off her feet and this would all have been for nothing.
It’s all I can think about as I continue my long list of chores at Mrs Fallon’s the next day, alternating between vowing to try harder and wondering if I should just ask her to go for a walk like every other guy would. But walking involves talking, and I’m not exactly—
“What are you doing?”
I jolt at the annoyed voice below me, making the ladder wobble for one heart-stopping moment, as I glance down to see Mrs Fallon glaring up at me.
“What I said I’d do,” I respond, holding up a pile of mushed, dirty leaves in my gloved hand.
“Still?”
I take a breath, reaching deep within for patience. “The gutters haven’t been done in a while.”
“Well, it’s not like I can climb a ladder, is it? With my arthritis? Is that what you want me to do with my time? Fall to my death?”
“I just meant—”
“Come down from there. It’s too cold and the neighbors will think you’re spying.”
“You don’t have any neighbors.”
But she’s already going back inside. I sigh, throwing down the last handful of gunk as I make my way to the ground.
I’m doing my best to hold up my side of the agreement, but it’s a little hard when every time I go to tighten a leaking pipe or fix the paving, she orders me to stop.
At first, I thought I was doing everything wrong, but now I’m starting to suspect that she just likes the company, though she’ll never admit it.
Now, I head into the kitchen, only to find she’s been as busy as me. The table is full of plates. Ham and bread and cheese. Butter and coleslaw. Her interpretation of a sandwich, probably. The fanciest sandwiches I’ll ever have.
“Eat,” she says when she sees me. “Skin and bones. That’s what you are. Doesn’t your mother feed you?” She takes a seat at the table and gestures at me impatiently.
“I need to wash my hands.”
“Then wash them! I’m starting without you.”
There’s even more food by the sink. She must have had a delivery this morning. Cans of food with unfamiliar labels. French, I think. Maybe Italian. I don’t know where she gets them from. Or how she eats it all.
It makes me wonder why she orders so many things from Mam when she seems to like making things herself. Not that I’d ever say anything to her about it. Her order is always the biggest, and I’m pretty sure it would be a big hit to us if she stopped.
Then again, maybe she knows that. And that’s why she does it.
“There you go again,” she calls. “Back in your head.”
I dry my hands. I hadn’t even realized I’d been daydreaming.
“Staying quiet won’t win her heart,” she says as I take my seat. “Wallflowers only get noticed in books. You’ll have to stand up and take the lead, you hear me?”
I nod, taking her seriously. I know this. It’s why I’m here.
“That’s how my husband caught my eye,” she continues. “He was very confident. Not smug, now. But he knew who he was and he knew what he liked. And he just happened to like me.” She smirks a little as she pours a glass of milk and pushes it my way.
I watch her quietly, knowing it’s rude to pry, but unable to help myself. I’ve been curious ever since I first saw her photographs. And surely, it’s better to ask her to her face than behind her back around the town.
“What did he do? Your husband?”
She doesn’t so much as blink. “He was a spy for the government.”
My eyes go wide. “Really?”
“No.” She gives me a look. “Christ, they get stupider every year. He was a hotelier.”
“What’s—”
“He ran hotels,” she says, exasperated. I know she’s not as annoyed as she sounds, though.
Else she wouldn’t have deigned to answer the question.
The more time I spend with her, the more I’m starting to pick up on these things.
Little tells that have me convinced that there’s a lot more to her than the grumpiness she tries to show everyone.
“We traveled all over the world,” she says. “Rome. Paris. New York. Stayed in some of the most beautiful buildings you could imagine.” She coughs and grabs the butter. “That is until he went and got himself into a road accident in London. Died instantly. The funeral cost a fortune.”
“You must miss him.”
“Sometimes. I don’t miss his snoring, though, that’s for sure.” She reaches for the coleslaw and spoons a sizeable portion onto my plate. “I miss the dancing every now and then. You’ve been practicing?”
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
I nod and she raises her brow. “Well, I guess I’ll be the judge of that,” she says and passes me the bread.