Eimear McBride - The Lesser Bohemians

I was quite small when I realised things weren’t as they should be. After her third was born there was some kind of breakdown, I think. The word was never used but that’s what it was like. She was definitely very unwell. Maybe it was having three little boys running amok, I don’t know but I remember that time having a very particular ritual. She’d get us up early, dressed and fed, then her sister-in-law would take the younger boys for the day. After that she’d have her pills then sit at the table a while. Everything would slow down, then she’d take me to her room. Shut the curtains. Take her dressing gown off and lie on the bed. I’d have to lie beside and she’d get me to whisper prayers or recite the alphabet or go through numbers. We’d lie that way all morning. Sometimes she’d cry. At lunch she’d make me a sandwich and I was allowed out for a while. After that more pills again and bed. I must only have been four so the staying still was dreadful but I’d get a slapped face if I didn’t or put outside the door. I hated that. I’d panic almost. I couldn’t be without her and she’d always wait until I was all worked up before calling me back in. Then she’d spend ages setting me right, wiping my face, wiping my eyes. I don’t really know what it was about. That whole period was pretty odd. Just me and her for long hours in the dark, like we were on another planet or the only people left in the world.

Anyway, it passed eventually and she began to get up again. Next, the other two stopped getting packed off but she stayed very highly strung. Lots of rules were introduced to help her cope. Everything from the volume you spoke at to not kicking a ball. They got very precise too and more every day. By the time we were at school it was like a military inspection. Couldn’t think of leaving the house without being immaculate. She’d sometimes keep you washing and re-washing your hands until you’d be late. We’d just stand there, every morning, hoping to make the grade because if you didn’t, fucking hell, she was quick with whatever came to hand: dustpan, poker, heel of a shoe. It got much worse over the years and I got the brunt because the other two were their father’s sons while I was hers alone. And she beat the shit out of me. He almost never interfered. Certainly never raised a hand to me himself — not that I ever gave him cause. I wouldn’t have said boo to a goose between those four walls. Though sometimes he’d come home from the pub to find me out on the step in the rain. That would piss him off so he’d bring me in. Then there’d be all kinds of shouting and screaming. She didn’t like to be told what she could or couldn’t do to me. So I got used to having my lip split for nothing reasons and soon learned to say it was my brothers’ fault which — considering they never had a fucking mark — wasn’t all that great. Mostly though the stepfather didn’t notice me. If he ever remarked on a bruise or black eye, it was usually just Annoying your mother again? Good lad! which was weirdly comforting.

But almost worse were the gaps of time when she’d blank me. Completely freeze me out. She’d just seethe around, nursing some imagined slight — like shouting an answer from the hall or forgetting to switch off a light — then suddenly, without warning, all fucking hell would break loose. I’d be accused of everything bar the invasion of Poland and belted until I cried — later on I learned how not to, which had its own reward. Of course the next day was like nothing happened. Everyone played along. Over time I think she actually made herself forget. I remember once mentioning her chipping my tooth and she started roaring I never did that, my God, it scares the things you invent! Her denials were always so extreme that I’d end up wondering if she was mad, or me?

And he checks my eyes. And I check his. I do not cry. I would not do that to him. That much I know for sure.

This’ll probably sound strange but, even after all these years, I still think there was something of love in those beatings. Like, when she hit me, she really felt it — and she can’t have felt much because there always was a lot of medication sloshing around. Plus I know she felt guilt. If it had been very bad, if she’d cut me or burned me she’d come upstairs that night with cake. And lie into the bed with me telling stories while I ate. I always felt better after it but I did eat a lot of cake as a child. Still have a very sweet tooth.

Then he smooths a canine with his tongue, as if naming it the one, some treacherous left behind. The tic again. I love his mouth even as he presses on it now.

The most difficult thing though, as a child, was the food. It’s hard to describe how bad that was. I don’t know if she was anorexic, or phobic, or what but, when I was seven or eight, she started this starving herself and really down to nothing at all and as it got worse — whatever it was — the rest of us as well. It seemed to come out of nowhere because she was beautiful, my mother. At least I always thought she was and then, this thing began and it turned her into I can’t explain but you could almost see through her in the end it must’ve been the anger that kept her alive. It started with just not eating, herself. Then not being able to watch us at it. Then cooking it, handling it — especially meat — and that was bad news for us. That was very bad. I spent years dreading going home for tea — all three of us did — because you wouldn’t know what would be waiting when you got in. We’d hang around out the back until she’d call us. Then we’d troop in, starving, but steeling ourselves against the inevitable slop and it always was you know mince burned to a crisp or chicken that looked like it could defend itself fucking mouldy peas and her going off on these crazy tirades Jesus the number of times I got smacked round the head for just sitting there trying to swallow that awful shit. The fucking anxiety of it every fucking meal. The only thing she could bear to make was cake and that was only once a week. We’d have our tongues hanging out for it by Sunday evening but one little piece, that was it. I just remember being hungry every day, sneaking down in the middle of the night to fill up on stale bread. We were all so underweight there were letters home from school. Even the boys got whacked for that and I got the ruler until my knuckles bled. Apparently it was my fault we were these perfectly turned-out but half-starved boys.

I touch his foot and his eyes come back to smile at that. I think he’s only finding light though for my benefit. Everything else in him seems growing still. Just watch, I promise Wait with him. Don’t let him be alone.

It wasn’t all bad though. Fridays were good because he’d arrive home with fish and chips. Then they’d go out and leave us with the wireless, or later TV and sweets. Plus, every summer we had a week at the seaside — ice cream, running on the beach, all that. She was so lovely then and so easy to be with. You’d wish you never had to leave. It was the only time she ever smiled. Also, she read like anything so there were books all over our house. She taught me to when I was pretty small. She was patient like that and with homework and stuff. She’d probably have made a good teacher if she hadn’t been so fucked up. But then, maybe if she’d done that instead of having me she’d never have had those problems at all.

And what about your father? I say. He shakes his head, like mock and disgust. Another cigarette. Easier though, like these waters are clear and he can see him somewhere far away.

Ahh, my father where to begin? He’s a useless bastard at the very best of times. Five or six marriages I know of. Countless kids. Never understood the point of all the marrying myself but he seems to like it and — not that I’m one to talk — he could never keep it to himself so I’m probably related to most of the North. I’m the eldest I think although that only means I’ve never heard of one older than me. Can’t say much about the rest. Now and then one of them pitches up here and it’s weird to open your door to versions of your father wanting answers to stuff you don’t know anything about, like Why was he in prison? Is he a bigamist? Nothing would surprise me but I don’t know, I never saw him, growing up. There were only a few months when I was about ten and some wife wanted to ‘heal the rift’. Some kind of hippy or something. There was a letter one day. My mother lost her reason of course but was, somehow, persuaded because, from nothing at all, I was suddenly in Liverpool once a month. At first I was excited because he was ‘Oh my son’ and ‘These are the lessons life’s taught me’ but that didn’t last very long. By the third round, he was slinking off down the pub, leaving the wife to instruct me on how miraculous he was but — as the bottle went down — that he was a cunt. So I preferred going out with him, even if it was my job to get him home. Even when he’d pick someone up and talk himself back to hers. Good luck on those days consisted of sitting outside her bedroom door. Bad luck was on the bonnet with them in the back seat. Really bad luck was rain and me in the front desperately turning the radio up. Don’t tell — whoever she was — he’d say after especially if he’d paid. I didn’t give a shit. She got sick of me anyway soon enough, or he got sick of her. Either way the visits soon stopped and he never bothered after that except for birthday cards — mostly one month late. Wedding invites now and then, very much dependent upon my being owned or not. I went once or twice but all I’ll say is that, after my mother, he liked them good and thick. So I didn’t miss him, except in the abstract or when the stepfather’d take his to the Wednesday matches and I’d be left at home. That was kind of shit. Still hate the fucking football now.