Carmel Harrington - Every Time a Bell Rings

In our cocoon, made of white-and-blue cotton sheets, I suppose the sound of my silence is his answer.

He doesn’t break my silence, doesn’t question me any further, but reaches behind him to his stash of treats and hands me his Club bar. I know he’s been saving this one till last; he loves to suck the thick chocolate off. So I push it back towards him. I can’t take it. But he gives it to me again, insistent.

Neither of us say a word, we just sit there sucking our chocolate bars, lost in our own thoughts of absentee parents.

For weeks I would run to the postman, check through the piles of letters and when I saw a white envelope my heart would soar in hope. But it was never for me.

No reply. No card. No phone call. Nothing.

I look at Jim and hold up Dee-Dee. ‘Until you came, all I had was Dee-Dee. She was my best friend.’

I take a deep breath. I want to tell him something, but I’m afraid that he might laugh. ‘I’m glad that I have you now.’

He looks embarrassed and starts to push his Spider-Man truck up and down the walls made of sheets. But he doesn’t laugh and I catch him peeking at me. I think he looks pleased with what I’ve said.

And even though he doesn’t say it back, I know he thinks it too.

‘Why did you leave their house, if it was so good there?’ he asks when he turns back to me a few minutes later.

‘I had no choice,’ I admit. ‘Joan and Daniel left Ireland.’

‘Oh,’ he says and his eyes are wide.

‘I begged them both to take me with them. Daniel had gotten a job in the US, in some place called the Silicone Valley. They said that they couldn’t take foster kids with them,’ I say.

‘Oh,’ he repeats and his face is like one of those comic books, when it freezes into a shocked look at the end of a chapter.

I wonder what he’d say if I told him about how I pleaded with them the night before Mrs Reilly came to take me away. I feel a flush of shame overtake me again as I remember how much I begged and begged, but how it made no difference whatsoever. I still had to go.

‘You could adopt me,’ I whisper to them. ‘Then you can bring me with you. I wouldn’t be a foster kid any more. I’d be yours. And I’ll be so good. I promise I’ll be good.’

I hold my breath as they look at each other. Daniel looks uncomfortable and starts to fidget and Joan won’t look me in the eye.

I don’t wait for them to answer me, I just get up and walk out of the family room. I know the score. I ignore Joan’s anguished cries that she wishes things were different.

‘Our hands are tied,’ Daniel shouts at my retreating back.

And even though I’m only eight years old, I know already that if they wanted me, if they really did, they could have made it happen.

Better not to tell Jim all that. And I don’t want him to know about the day Mrs Reilly took me away from them either.

Joan cries and tells me that she will always care for me. But I don’t answer her. I can see that my silence is hurting her. I know that she wants me to let her off the hook, to tell her I understand why I can’t go with them.

But I don’t want to make it easier for her. I hate her. I hate Daniel too and I hope that their plane crashes and they die.

Shame floods my body for thinking such a bad thing. And I know that it is my own fault that they don’t want me.

Who would want me? My own mother didn’t.

Mrs Reilly puts me in her car and takes me away. I can feel their eyes watching me as we drive off, but I keep looking forward.

Maybe they’ll change their minds, Dee-Dee says. But we both know that’s not true. So I move into a new temporary home. One where people keep trying to make me talk and unzip my lips.

But I am so tired. What good do words do anyhow? No one ever listens to me. They do what they want to do and send me away.

I turn my back to Jim and pick up my Simon game. I don’t want him to see me cry.

‘Why did you speak to me when you saw me on that first day?’ Jim suddenly asks and his voice is gruff. I can’t help it, I look back towards him.

Because you were the answer to my wish. Because I know that you were in pain and scared and I know what that feels like. Because … Just because.

‘I dunno. Felt sorry for you, I suppose. Loser,’ I say instead, joking to try to banish the tears.

He looks at me for a moment, locks his eyes on mine and even though he doesn’t say anything, I know that he knows the real reason. And in that look, he is thanking me and I am thanking him too.

‘You’re alright for a girl,’ he says.

He looks away and throws his Spider-Man car down to the ground.

‘I feel sorry for you now, Belle Bailey, cos’ I’m about to beat your record on that stupid Simon game of yours. Prepare to be destroyed.’ He replies, picking it up and switching it on.

‘In your dreams, Jim Looney,’ I say.

Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale of all.

Hans Christian Anderson

July 1990

It’s one of those days where the heat is so strong, the air around me looks hazy. And even lifting my hand to move the pages in my book is too much effort.

‘That story is for babies,’ Jim says, flicking my Cinderella book closed as he passes me by.

‘Get lost,’ I reply and kick myself that I’ve not got a wittier retort. ‘I’ll have you know that Cinderella is a story for all ages.’

Strictly speaking, I know that I should have outgrown my Disney princess stage about five years ago, but no matter how old I get, I never tire of this story. My copy is battered and the corners of the book are curled from constant sticky fingers and thumbs working their way through them.

‘You wouldn’t catch me reading fairy tales,’ Jim tells me. ‘They are so lame.’ He demonstrates said lameness by pretending to limp around the room.

I resist the urge to laugh. It only encourages him.

‘You think you know everything, Jim Looney, but you’re a mere ten,’ I sigh and open my book again. He’s such a pain sometimes. I should just go upstairs and hide from his childishness, but I’m too hot to climb the stairs.

‘So does the princess always get the prince in these fairy tales of yours?’ Jim asks, as I stick my nose back into Cinderella again.

I put my book down and give him my best withering look. I’ve been practising it in front of my mirror and think that it’s pretty good. ‘Of course they do. That’s what always happens in fairy tales, you big eejit,’ I reply.

‘And you reckon that one day a prince is going to just rock up here to Drumcondra, on a white pony, and ask you to marry him too?’ he says, as he balances his football on one foot.

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I shake my head. Sometimes I just give up with him. ‘We’ve had this conversation before, Jim. You know what’s going to happen.’

He pretends to put a gun to his head to shoot himself. ‘Not that again.’

‘Haha, very funny.’ I say. ‘But you can’t fight the inevitable.’

As he runs out the back door, I shout after him, ‘I’m going to marry you one day, Jim Looney. You wait and see. I cannot wait for the day when you drop to one knee just like Prince Charming.’

Jim laughs, his usual response to my bold prediction. I’m sure many would be offended by his obvious mirth, but I’m not in the least bit worried by his reaction. First of all, he’s a boy. Second of all, he’s only ten. And okay, I know I’m only two months older than he is, but it’s a proven fact that boys don’t mature as quickly as us girls.

Mind you, I have noticed something. I’ve been telling him he’ll marry me for years now and even though he always laughs, he never says he won’t either.