Jack #2
‘Why don’t you fix it, so?’
The form is bad. Maybe tomorrow, I could go down to the town with him, and we could inquire about renting a television.
Then, we could bring the whole world into our house, and bring ourselves into 1965, and leave everything that has passed behind us.
I think Tom would be glad to hear that I want to come into town with him.
I think they would all be glad to get a television.
Maybe I’ll ask him now. If everybody gets riled up over it he won’t be able to say no.
But just as I open my mouth to speak, he puts out his fag and gets down on his knees, and calls us for the rosary.
‘Would anyone go down to the pub?’
I ask, willing to go and socialise to avoid praying.
‘We offer this rosary for our father, Joseph O’Leary, on his birthday.’
With steel in his voice, he begins his show. I’ve no choice but to get down on my knees and join him. And the girls have no choice but to follow me.
This ritual puts me back in your house, something I know I’m better off avoiding.
Praying the rosary or the angelus, with one of your sisters leading and your father taking it all at a different pace to the rest of us.
Ivory candle lit and dripping. White rosary beads from Knock Shrine passing through your fingers.
Cream walls. Yellow flame. All leading me back to blonde.
I open my eyes and find myself very much in Ballycrea.
Anna grits her teeth. The sky behind her churns.
Peggy quickly closes her eyes and lowers her head, hoping I didn’t catch her.
Praying every word so carefully. I wish you hadn’t taught her that.
Lately, Tom has her saying extra prayers every night, trying somehow to wash away the guilt of her birth.
I wish that I had something else worth teaching her.
A shame I never took on a hobby or a trade.
But I never needed anything like that before.
It was always enough to go out in the van with Tom, and down to the pub with the boys, and call into you in the evenings.
I didn’t need to know anything when my life was perfect.
You were the one who knew everything. Happily teaching Peggy to play the fiddle, and keeping Anna in the group with your friends, always calming her down. Indulging Tom in his deep conversations, making him feel clever. And giving my small life meaning.
We reach the end of the rosary, and while Tom remains in silent prayer, Peggy opens her eyes again and looks to me. She wants to be told that it’s over.
The poor child is exhausted, but she won’t go to bed without the rest of us. I suppose she might be afraid in the new house. When I nod at her, she rushes off her knees and to the sink, where she strokes the chicken.
‘How about that drink?’
Anna says, reaching for her handbag. I forgot that I offered to go to the pub.
‘There’s a bottle of something behind the oats, I’m sure.’
Now that I don’t need to get out of praying, going to the pub is the last thing I want.
Somebody has to bring Peggy to bed and clear up after the dinner.
I know Anna never asked to be a mother, but she is the nearest thing that Peggy has to one.
I wish she would act like it. It’s disappointing that she hasn’t taken to the role better.
It’s a shame that I cannot be everything that Peggy needs.
She deserves a proper mother, not Anna’s cold indifference, not my male shortcomings.
Little Peggy, my Peigín. She deserves an awful lot more than she gets.
Anna sighs, seemingly upset we aren’t going out.
Since when does she want to be out and about?
I can’t keep track of her. All I want to do for the evening is think of you.
It’s terrible, and I’m sure you’d hate it, but all I do is think of you, darling.
Of you in the morning, and you in the afternoon.
You in your black dress, that used to move like water around you.
You sprawled across the sofa, your knees apart, forgetting your manners.
Of where you are now, and where you are not.
To tell the truth, I think of you far more than I ever did when you were still here.
So much that sometimes, it’s like you never left.
If I put my hand out in the air, I swear I almost feel the swell of you against it. I remember you so, so well.
Or rather, I remember you often. And I worry sometimes, because I can’t be sure which of my memories are true to life, and which are just lovely exaggerations that I have conjured up to keep myself going.
Let me say something awful. Sometimes I wonder if I love you more now than I would if you were still here.
If your memory is a better woman to me than you ever really could be.
Because a memory is a very easy-going thing, you know?
A memory can’t be let down, and it can’t let me down.
I loved you, sure you know I loved you, I just wonder if I love you better now.
You’d kill me, but if you were here now, I’m sure that I’d forget to appreciate you.
I would probably have my head turned by pretty girls now and again.
I’d probably stay out drinking with the boys and leave you at home, alone.
I’d spend money where I shouldn’t, and I would disappoint you.
What had we, two summers together? Two years.
Long enough to know you were my soulmate, not long enough to make a mess of things.
Oh, all the beautiful ways we would have let each other down.
Isn’t it silly? I want so much to have the chance to disappoint you.