Chapter 53
CHAPTER 53
Maura
The revolving doors of the dull gray building at RTé studios spit us out into the chilly midnight air. Sharon, Nuala, and I stand with our arms folded and our heads bowed, like three convicts on early release from Mountjoy Prison for good behavior. Just like reformed criminals, we are free but forever tainted by our sins.
Gay Byrne and the producers let the open-ended show run over by almost an hour. The debate was heated, and tempers and tantrums no doubt made for good television. After the show, we were guided into a small room in the back and someone handed us a cup of tepid tea each. It wasn’t long before Gay came in to shake our hands.
“Good luck, ladies. You have your work cut out for you. But I see no better women for the job. Perhaps you’ll revisit us here at RTé and let us know how you get on?”
And that was that. It is over. Or it is just beginning. It is overwhelming in every way. A starry sky hangs overhead and my cardigan is no match for the night wind. We look from one to the other and none of us are quite sure how to pick our lives up from here. One thing each of us knows for certain is that nothing will ever be the same again.
The last of the people from the audience are making their way out the main gates of the landscaped studio grounds. Everyone is feeling the chill, with arms wrapped around themselves or hands stuffed in pockets. Heads are down, and the pace is fast. Thoughts are most likely on catching the last bus or getting back to their car before the parking meter runs out.
“Let’s go,” Nuala says, slipping her arm around mine, taking care not to knock against my crutches. She links Sharon like a crochet hook on the other side. “It’s bleedin’ freezing.”
We begin walking in tandem, leaving the studio and our sins behind us.
“Alley cats,” someone shouts, followed by a loud whistle.
“Who said that?” Sharon whispers.
“I don’t know,” Nuala says.
She seems rattled. I didn’t know Nuala could be rattled. But I suppose, despite her clever vocabulary, confident shoulders, and large strides, she is still trying to make her way in a dangerous world.
I spin around, trying to match a body with the sound. The grounds are dimly lit and large. Too large. Darkness and uncertainty hide in the corners where the moon and stars don’t shine. I pick up my pace and the others copy.
We’re almost at the guest carpark when a group of teenagers appear as if they’ve been waiting, hiding behind the last remaining cars. They’re about eighteen or nineteen, certainly no older than their early twenties. They stride forward and encompass us in a messy circle. I count heads. They outnumber us two to one.
“Shame on you,” the tallest of the young men shouts. Angry saliva sprays past his pursed lips. “Your mothers must be ashamed of you.”
A shorter man with a nose much too large for his face lunges forward until his giant nose is almost touching mine. “Haven’t you ever heard of a disprin? Hold it between your knees. That’ll solve your problems.”
Nuala seems particularly disgusted by his comment and I have to ask her what he means.
“If you’ve a disprin pill between your knees, you can’t open your legs, can you?”
The image pops into my head and try as I might, I can’t shake it out.
The large-nosed chap points at me. “The cripple looks like she enjoys it.”
Sharon jams her hands on her hips. “Wash your mouth out.”
They laugh. It’s loud and ugly.
“Whores, harlots, sluts,” they chant.
My heart beats ferociously. It’s all I can feel. The pound and the rhythm of it, as if it might beat its way through my chest at any moment.
“Get out of our way,” Nuala shouts, louder than any of them.
Their laughing continues, as if there is anything funny about any of this.
“I said move.” She tries again, even louder.
“Make us,” the tall fella says.
My stomach flips. I see Christy in this young man’s eyes. An entitled boy, confident that his value is greater than ours. I place my hand on Nuala’s shoulder and try to guide her back, but instead I feel her edging forward.
“Is everything all right here, ladies?” A voice travels through the air to reach us.
We turn around to find a man in a black uniform with a baton in his hand. Studio security , I think, never having been so relieved to see a man in uniform before.
“Are these lads giving you trouble?” he asks.
“They were just leaving,” Nuala says.
The group doesn’t budge. Not until a second security guard appears from the shadows, waving his baton above his head. “Go on. Get,” he shouts.
The chaps scarper, almost falling over their own feet. When they run around the barrier, out the gate, and turn the corner, I press my hand against my heart as relief pounds in my chest.
“You all right?” the first security guard asks.
“Yes. Fine,” Sharon says.
“Thank you,” Nuala adds.
I nod and smile, past words.
“Don’t mind them. It’s their mothers who should be ashamed, raising a bunch of bullies,” he says. “I’m sure your mothers are very proud of you.”
I don’t like to think what my parents will have to say about all this. I don’t like to think about it at all.
“I’m Pat, and this is Gary.” He points toward the guard beside him, who has broad shoulders and a round belly.
“Hello,” Gary says, catching the peak of his cap and tilting it toward us.
“Hello,” all three of us say in unison.
“We watched tonight’s show,” Pat says, pointing toward a small timber hut next to the entrance barrier. “We always watch the show in there. Gary has a windup telly, you see. It’s a bit small, but it does the trick.”
Gary nods. “It’s portable.”
I’m not sure what to say. The windup box appears to be of great importance to them both.
“I’d rather spend me Saturday nights at home with my Nancy than this chap right here.” Gary knocks his shoulder against Pat’s and they both laugh. “But this work right here pays the bills.”
I smile. I think of Pat and Gary in the depths of winter huddled in their hut, keeping up with current affairs.
“You were brilliant tonight, you know. Each and every one of you,” Pat says.
There’s a brief, awkward silence before Nuala accepts their sincerity and says, “Thank you.”
“Nancy and I had no more after our Katie. Five children was as many as Nancy could manage, you see. And our Katie was a big baby. It left Nancy in a bit of a bad way for a while. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the bones of my children. But I miss sharing a bed with my wife. Katie is fifteen now. It’s been fifteen years and I still miss my Nancy. Makes me damn well mad when I think about it, if I’m honest. If you ladies can change that for younger chaps coming along behind me, then hats off to you.”
My mind wanders toward Bernie and Dan. It’s hard to fast-forward to a time when their girls will be teenagers, but I try. And I am so glad that Bernie and Dan don’t have to make that journey in separate bedrooms, living separate lives, joined only by the roof over their heads.
“C’mon,” Pat then says, tilting his head toward a black car parked next to the hut. “It’s late. How about you let this old man give you a lift home?”
“Thank you, but I have my car with me,” Nuala says, fishing her keys out of her pocket. They jingle and clank in her hands.
“My, my. Your own car.” Pat nods. “You’re something else, you are. Something else indeed. I admire you to no end, young lady. And I am keeping my fingers crossed that you can change this backward old country of ours for the better.”
“We’re going to try our best,” Nuala says.
Sharon and I follow Nuala to her car. We sit in and close the doors and Nuala passes each of us a cigarette. Sharon kicks off her white knee-high boots and rests her feet on the dash. There’s a hole in her nylons and her big toe peeks out through the gap. She wiggles her toe as she lights up her cigarette, takes a long, hard drag, and says, “Fucccckkk.”
I laugh. Not because her profanity is particularly humorous. It’s not. In fact, I can’t abide swearing. I laugh because right now, there is absolutely nothing more appropriate to say.