Page 64 of Merrily Ever After
A dark blue dress, shiny black shoes. Her hair is curled like they wore it twenty years ago, and there’s a string of large white beads around her neck. I try not to stare, but it’s a lot for someone who, as far as I know, rarely leaves the house anymore. Mam doesn’t even dress this fancy for Christmas mass.
“Who are you?” she asks, eyeing me warily. Her voice is as raspy as I remember it, probably due to that stubby cigarette between her fingers. Rachel says she smokes like a chimney.
I hold up the shopping bags. “I have your order.”
“Where’s Mary?”
“She had to go into town for Mr Deegan,” I explain. “She asked if I could drop this up to you.”
“Mr Deegan?” She huffs. “That con artist?”
“He’s unwell.”
“He’s always unwell. Your mother does too much for people.” She says it like it’s a bad thing. I don’t point out that she is also one of those people.
“You’re her eldest,” she continues.
I nod.
“The boy.”
I nod again.
“I have a bowl I need to give back to your mother. Come in.” It’s an order, not a question. And she turns without waiting to see if I’ll follow. Mam didn’t say anything about this bit, and I hesitate on the doorstep, staring at the polished wooden floors of the hallway. It’s a pause that seems to irritate Mrs Fallon immensely.
“I don’t pay that girl to wash it for nothing,” she snaps. “It’s just mud.In. You’re letting the heat out.”
I step over the threshold, still getting that creeping sensation that I’m doing something wrong. I’ve never felt more aware of myself and not in a good way. My footsteps echo as I walk, and a strange smell of polish and musk fills my nose, so different from the coal and food scents that make up my own home.
Mrs Fallon leads me into the front room just to the right of the entrance and turns so abruptly that I almost trip over my own feet.
“Wait here,” she barks.
And then she leaves me just like that.
I don’t move from my spot, even though there are lots of places to sit. Stiff-backed settees and dark wooden chairs.Footstools and large wicker baskets. For a room so big, it somehow feels cramped. Heavy drapes. Large furniture. The floor is covered in faded, patterned rugs and an old-fashioned record player sits in the corner. I’m disappointed she doesn’t have a television. At home, we have a black-and-white set with one channel and I don’t think that’s going to change any time soon despite Rachel’s pleading.
A minute ticks by, but I still don’t move, distracting myself with all the stuff around me. And there is a lot of stuff. Knickknacks, as my mother calls them. Small gold boxes and dusty glass vases. Porcelain figures and photographs. Lots and lots of photographs. On the tables. On the shelves. The mantelpiece. Dozens of faces stare back at me. Images of strangers at weddings and parties, in gardens and homes. Only one figure is present in all of them. A young woman with a sharp smile who looks strangely familiar.
It takes me a second to realize it’s because it’s Mrs Fallon. A younger version of her, but her, nonetheless.
“Pretty, wasn’t I?”
I glance over my shoulder as she shuffles into the room. I’d been so focused on the pictures that I hadn’t even heard her cane.
“They’re very nice photos,” I say politely.
“That was in London,” she says, pointing to a group shot. “And this one in Dublin. Banba Hall.” She plucks it from the shelf and brings it over to me. “That was when people danced properly.”
“They still do.” Some of them, at least. One of them. I stare at the image, at the girl in her dress. Her arms are held like Colleen sometimes does and her skirt is mid-motion, as though she’s in the middle of a twirl.
Somewhere in the house, a clock starts to chime, and Mrs Fallon snaps into action, putting the photo back on the shelf before jerking her head to the front door. Time to go.
On the doorstep, she presents me with the blue baking bowl Mam makes scones in but grabs my other hand as soon as I take it, shaking my wrist until I relax my fingers. When I do, she drops a few coins into my palm. Coins I can only stare at it. It’s more money than I’d usually see in two weeks.
“That’s for you,” she says. “Not for your mother. Buy yourself a toy.”
“I’m nineteen.”
