Belinda McKeon - Solace

As he took the handles of the pushchair and steered it out of the shop, Pamela was still watching him, a faint smile on her lips, her eyebrows raised. He nodded to her, another goodbye, and she nodded back, but he could see it on her face: all that he had not told her, all that he had not admitted to, all that he had tried to hide.

It was raining outside, and the night had fallen completely now, the Christmas lights high over Main Street in their gaudy yellows and greens and reds. The sound of the rain splashing against the footpath seemed to calm Aoife, and he stood by the bright shop window with the slickly dressed mannequins, rocking the pushchair back and forth, until his mother emerged with a shopping bag and they headed for their cars.

*

It happened again that night. The wailing drifted into their room, angry, jagged, catching on itself like an engine trying to start in the cold. Maura pulled on her dressing-gown, left the room without turning on a light. She called out to the child as she moved along the landing.

Then Tom could hear Mark’s voice along with hers, puncturing the clamour of the child’s hunger. A door opened and the cries grew louder for a second, nearer, then more distant; they were taking her downstairs. Tom lifted himself slightly to look at the clock; it was almost six. He stared into the half-light of the room. Already his mind had stretched open to sleeplessness, to the blankness of an hour too early to use. He thought about going down to the kitchen, but Maura would be fussing over the child. The tiles would be cold under his feet. He pushed his knees together and drew them closer to his chest; he pressed the quilt between his shoulder and his chin. He wondered if the dog, in the back kitchen, would be confused now, if the noise had made her think it was time to get up, time for the day’s work to begin. Footsteps sounded on the landing again, and the bedroom door opened quietly. A blade of light fell over the pillow beside him, then vanished as Maura shut the door. He kept his eyes closed as she eased back into the bed, kept them closed as she pulled the quilt to her. He did not open them until he felt her shuddering her way back to sleep. Then he heaved himself out of bed and dressed quickly in the clothes he had taken off the night before. As he closed the door behind him, he heard a sudden rustle of the bedclothes. Maura, he knew, had jolted awake again.

The child seemed to be quietening as he made his way down the stairs, and when he reached the kitchen the crying had stopped completely. Mark stood facing the window, the bottle jerking in his hand as the child sucked. He looked at Tom’s reflection and nodded a greeting.

‘Did she waken you?’

Tom shook his head. He looked at the tiny Christmas tree with its scattered ornaments, its thin lengths of tinsel as frayed as old twine.

‘I’d be up soon anyway,’ he said, pulling at a small silver bell on the tree. It came away in his hand. He set it down on the counter beside the sugar bowl.

Mark glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘You must be busy,’ he said evenly.

‘Busy enough.’

‘Six o’clock in the morning in the dead middle of winter?’ His voice was careful.

‘What needs doing needs doing.’

Mark said nothing. He held the bottle away from the child for a moment, watching as she dribbled milk on to her chin, her mouth moving as though the teat was still in it. He wiped at the white spittle with a cloth. She whined.

‘Can’t you let her suck at it when she’s hungry?’ Tom said.

Mark raised the baby high on to his shoulder and rubbed her back, the white folds of her sleepsuit sliding up and down with his hand. ‘She makes herself sick if she drinks it all at once.’

Tom watched Mark’s fingers travel over the child’s shoulders, the skin of her neck, the fluff of her hair. She burped. He lowered her back into the crook of his arm, touching her lips again with the cloth. As she started to kick and whimper, he eased the teat into her mouth. She sucked. Her eyes were wide open and locked on Mark’s.

‘When’s her mother coming down?’ Tom said.

Mark looked at him. ‘Joanne,’ he said. He did not answer the question.

‘Yiz won’t be here for the Christmas,’ Tom said, and Mark shook his head.

‘We won’t,’ he said. ‘We’ll be down again after Stephen’s Day.’

‘Yeah,’ Tom said. He handled the small bell again and placed it on a branch of the tree. As soon as he took his hand away, it fell. He caught it before it clattered to the counter, closing it in his fist. The child watched him. For a moment, he thought about offering her the bell. But she would probably just choke on it. He put it back on the counter.

‘She doesn’t see too much of the mother, I’ve noticed,’ Tom said.

Mark raised his eyebrows. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What are you talking about?’ There was a warning in his tone.

Tom let the silence stretch out another moment before giving an answer. ‘Joanne,’ he said then, and Mark exhaled. ‘She doesn’t be up at Caldragh too often when yiz are here. Herself and the mother don’t get on, is that it?’

Mark sighed. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said, looking at the child.

Tom laughed. ‘Nothing’s complicated with Irene Lynch. Nothing was complicated with the husband either. Either they had a use for you or they didn’t.’

Mark shook his head. ‘That’s your concern, not ours,’ he said. ‘Not mine and Joanne’s. We don’t know anything about what happened between you and her parents.’

‘You don’t know?’ Tom said. ‘You know bloody well. You were here, weren’t you?’

‘I was a kid.’

Tom snorted. ‘You had eyes. You had plenty of sense.’

‘Well, Joanne doesn’t know anything about it,’ Mark said. ‘It has nothing to do with us. And it definitely has nothing to do with Aoife. So leave it. Forget about it.’

‘I haven’t much of a chance of that now,’ Tom said, and he let Mark see him looking at Aoife as he spoke.

‘Cut it out,’ Mark said, and his voice was quick, hard.

‘I’m only saying what everyone around here is saying.’

‘Fuck everyone around here.’

‘It’s easy for you to say that. We’re the ones that has to live here after you making a show of us. Your mother and me.’

Mark seemed to shiver. Then he moved forward so quickly that Tom began to raise his hands to protect himself. But Mark went past him, heading for the stairs, and Tom caught sight of himself in the window’s black mirror, his hands hanging uselessly in the air. He turned. Against Mark’s chest, the child was fumbling with her fists, moving her head from side to side. Mark pressed his lips to her hair.

‘That’s enough, now,’ Mark said quietly. ‘Don’t say any more.’

‘I’m only saying what’s the truth of things,’ Tom said, slamming a hand down on the counter.

‘You don’t know anything about truth,’ Mark said. ‘You’ve been living in your own world for years.’ He sighed. ‘I’m going back upstairs,’ he said. ‘You should go back up too.’

‘I have work to do,’ Tom said, but his heart was beating hard. He wanted to take a hold of what was happening. He wanted to turn it back. Mark’s footsteps sounded on the staircase, and then there was nothing in the room but the buzzing of the fridge and the fluorescent light overhead. Tom found that he was shaking. The light was making his eyes ache. The drip of the tap was itching his brain. He walked quickly out into the back kitchen, where the dog was awake and waiting. He thrust his feet into the cold tubes of his wellingtons and pulled on his coat and cap. Stepping outside, he blew on his hands and rubbed them together before reaching for the stick that stood in its usual place against the wall. Above him, in a sky still far off dawn, the stars glinted like shards of steel.