M. Hyland - Carry Me Down

‘What in heaven’s name is a fistula?’ asks Aunty Evelyn.

Everybody looks at my father, but nobody speaks. I rush out and get the dictionary from the coffee table and take it back to the kitchen. ‘Wait, I’ll tell you.’

I read the meaning once, close the dictionary to my chest, and repeat it from memory. ‘A fistula is a hole in your rectum that bleeds foul-smelling pus and faeces all day long,’ I say.

My father laughs and keeps on laughing. ‘Oh, at times like this I’m so glad of you,’ he says.

Aunty Evelyn turns red. Her ears and neck are as red as cough medicine. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I said the wrong thing when I was only trying to show an interest and now I’ve been ganged-up on.’

‘I know it,’ says my mother. ‘Not to worry.’

Aunty Evelyn takes a deep breath; she will try one more time to have the fight she came for.

‘Well, Helen, it’s a blessing in disguise that you couldn’t have more. I mean, a blessing that you could only have the one, isn’t it?’

My mother frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Better that you only have John, no other kiddies to worry about. I mean, in this place, and all.’

My mother gets up from the table and goes to the sink where, with her back to Aunty Evelyn, she rubs a wet cloth over the draining board. I silently count with her. She rubs the cloth back and forth exactly ten times.

My father leaves the room without excusing himself. Once again, nobody speaks. Aunty Evelyn fiddles with her teaspoon and turns her empty plate round and round. According to the clock next to the window, there is silence for only three minutes but it is as though nobody on earth will ever speak again, and my throat feels full of dry dirt.

‘Well,’ says my mother, turning to face her sister, ‘it’s time to get the tea on.’

Aunty Evelyn looks at her watch. ‘Goodness! What happened to the time?’

‘The same thing that always happens to it,’ says my mother.

‘We will see you on Sunday, then?’ asks Aunty Evelyn as my mother shows her to the kitchen door.

‘Yes. Sunday, then.’

The front door slams and I am alone with my mother. ‘Why did she say that?’ I ask. ‘Why did she say, “It’s just as well you could only have the one child”? I thought you only wanted one.’

‘She had no right to say that. She was angry with your father and she couldn’t think straight.’

‘But still she meant something terrible by saying it.’

‘I don’t care if she did.’ She holds out her arms and I walk to her body and we hug. ‘Good. Now, go and wash your hands for tea.’

There is a picture on the news of starving African children.

‘Awful,’ says my mother, ‘when those poor babies die they’ll just be carted away in wheelbarrows.’

‘Do you want me to turn the telly off?’ I ask.

‘No,’ she says. ‘Leave it.’

When the news is over we sit down to our tea at the kitchen table, and after a few minutes’ silence my father says, ‘Listen up. There go the three blind mice.’

From upstairs comes the sound of the sewing machine and, a moment later, somebody walking across the floor in heels.

‘Walking sticks,’ says my father. ‘Listen.’ He starts to whistle the tune, ‘Three blind mice, Three blind mice, See how they run …’

‘There they go again,’ he says.

‘Meeces to pieces,’ says my mother, her eyes watery.

‘What are you talking about?’ I say.

‘Ask no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,’ says my father.

‘But you do lie,’ I say.

He ignores me, I can’t believe it, and my mother pushes a chip into the yolk of her fried egg. I hate him for ignoring me and the blood filling my neck throbs and makes it hard to swallow.

Something is wrong, and I want to know what it is. I get up from the table and leave my food. They don’t scold me and I’m not surprised. I go to my room and write another letter to the Guinness Book of Records . But when I’m finished, I worry that they might hold the Ballymun address against me and I add a final note:

P.S. I am giving you our temporary Dublin address in Ballymun where we are living for a few months while my father builds our new house in Donnybrook .

It’s Sunday and we’ve been to mass with Aunty Evelyn, Uncle Gerald, the twins and Liam. We’ve eaten our dinner, and now my mother and I are alone in the kitchen listening to the radio.

‘Mam, I was wondering if I could have a radio in my room?’

‘What for?’

‘To drown out the sound of the rubbish chute. I hate the noise and the smell.’

‘You’re like the rich people who always insist on living upwind of the mill smoke,’ she says.

My father comes into the kitchen from behind me. He must have been lying on the settee. He didn’t come to mass. ‘We can’t afford another radio,’ he says.

‘But I hate the noise and the smell and I don’t want to sleep in there any more.’

He looks at my mother.

‘All right,’ he says, ‘You can sleep with your mammy, if you want.’

‘But where will you sleep?’

‘I’ll sleep on the settee. I’m getting quite attached to it.’

‘Good idea,’ I say.

‘There’ll be nobody sleeping on the settee,’ says my mother.

‘All right then,’ says my father as he scratches his beard, which has grown back even blacker and thicker than before. ‘Until we find ourselves a house, you’ll sleep with your mother, and I’ll sleep in the bedroom with the smell of rubbish.’

He winks cheerfully at me, but my mother isn’t sure. ‘Why don’t we talk about this a bit more?’ she says. ‘Maybe later.’

‘It’s not so complicated,’ says my father. ‘I’ll sleep in the small room and you two can share the big bed.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better if somebody slept on the settee?’ she says.

‘I’m not sleeping on the settee,’ I say.

‘Nor am I,’ says my father.

My mother gives my father a mean and cold look. ‘For heavens’ sake, Michael! You’re only after saying you’ve become quite attached to the settee.’

‘I wasn’t serious,’ he says.

‘Well,’ she says as she walks away, ‘that’s that then.’

Last night my father slept on the settee after all, and now the three of us stand before breakfast in the living room in our pyjamas looking down at the mess of blankets and pillows, tissues and toffee wrappers he has left on the floor.

My mother reminds him that he must tidy up and put his bedding away. He says, ‘What the hell difference does it make to this death-hole whether or not it’s tidy?’

My mother shakes her head and tries to smile. ‘It’s not that bad,’ she says. ‘It has its good side.’

‘Where’s that?’ I ask. ‘Has this tower got a fifth side I don’t know about?’

My father punches me on the arm as though to say, ‘Good for you’, and my mother sighs.

Last night I slept soundly in the bed with her. It was warmer and, since she stayed over on her side and hardly moved at all during the night, my dreams were long and clear. And I liked sleeping with her because we talked before she turned out the light and when she’s sleepy her voice is soft and gentle.

When my father gets home from work I ask him what it’s like in the factory.

He shrugs. ‘It keeps me out of trouble,’ he says, which is not at all like the kind of thing he used to say.

‘I suppose you can read on the bus though,’ I say. ‘You can study for your exams at Trinity.’

‘And that’s exactly what I do,’ he says.

But this is a lie. I checked in his bag while he was in the bathroom; there were no books. Maybe he reads at night when my mother and I have gone to bed, but I don’t think so. I think he watches television.