A Greyhound of a Girl (17 page)

“This'll be the second bend.”

“You're right there,” said Tansey. “And if we ignored the bend and kept going straight we'd come up to the Furlongs'.”

“That's right. It's coming back to me.”

“It never left you.”

The ground was very uneven and Mary's feet slapped it because she couldn't judge exactly where her feet were going to land. But she held on to Tansey's hand and that made her feel more sure-footed. While she walked beside Tansey she knew she was going the right way.

There were tall hedges on both sides of the lane.

Emer coughed.

“Are you all right there, Emer?” Tansey asked.

“I think I'm after swallowing a leaf,” she said.

“Would you like a little rest?”

“Not at all,” said Emer. “This is great.”

As she spoke, one of the hedges seemed to fall away and they could see much more clearly.

“The low field.”

“That's right.”

“Exactly where we left it.”

Mary could make out the fence, and the field behind it, and the hill that went down to—

“What's that down there?”

“That's a bit of the Slaney.”

“The river?”

“The river.”

“Cool.”

The Slaney was in her geography book. It was one of the major rivers of Ireland and it was flowing near her. It flowed past the farm where her granny and her great-granny came from—and, in a way, where Mary came from.

“That's amazing.”

“Sure, it's only a river.”

“What's in the field?” Mary asked.

“Only muck, by the look of it,” said Emer. She coughed again.

“What grows in the muck?”

“It used to be barley,” said Tansey.

“And it might still be barley.”

“Bend number three coming up!”

They'd walked past the field and there were hedges on both sides again and trees that touched each other over their heads, so it was dark and even darker again. Mary could hear the branches rasping and complaining in the wind. She was glad she wasn't alone, although she liked the sound and she always had.

“We used to think that the people who were gone lived up in these trees,” Emer told them.

“You mean, people who'd died?” said Mary.

“The very same,” said Emer. “The noise of the leaves—that was them whispering, and the like.”

“Was that you?” Mary asked Tansey.

“Was what me?”

“Were you up in the trees when Granny was a girl?”

“I was not, faith,” said Tansey. “I'd have more to be doing than shaking around in trees.”

“I was only asking,” said Mary.

“And I was only answering,” said Tansey. “But I'll tell you. It's the right kind of sound, all the same.”

“The leaves?”

“The leaves.”

“It's nice.”

“It is.”

“Bend number four!” said Scarlett. “I remember!”

“We'd better be quiet from here on in.”

“Is Mammy asleep?!”

“I am not.”

“Sorry!”

“No harm.”

“Shhhhh!”

Mary could smell the cows. It wasn't an old or a distant smell, as if the cows were in a field a good bit away. It was a new, fresh smell, like the cows were right beside—

She screamed.

There was a face, hanging, right in front of her.

“Ohmygod!”

It was a huge face—huge eyes staring at her, and a tongue that was going to—

“It's only a cow,” said Tansey.

“Well, what's it doing there?!” said Mary.

“And why shouldn't it be there?” said Tansey. “The poor ol' thing is only looking over the hedge.”

They heard Emer snort, as if she'd suddenly woken up.

“It was exactly the same as when I was a girl,” she said.

“And me!” said Scarlett.

“Shhhh!”

“And the exact same place.”

“It can't be the same cow, surely,” said Emer. “Or can it?”

“Not at all,” said Tansey. “Sure, the creature would be nearly a hundred if it was the same.”

“It must have learnt the habit, so,” said Emer. “The cows passed it on, through the years.”

“Cow to calf.”

“Maybe it's the ghost of a cow.”

Mary could feel the cow's warm breath on her face.

“No,” she said. “It's real.”

She looked at Tansey.

“Do you breathe, Tansey?”

“No, thank God,” said Tansey.

They heard Scarlett laughing.

The cow's big face was still hanging there, in front of Mary. She could see much more now, the hedge and the rest of the cow behind it. So, the face made sense. It had become funny, even sweet. The big eyes were beautiful.

Mary could see the moonlight in them, two tiny moons, one in each big eye. She patted the cow's nose.

“He's kind of soft.”

“She,” said Tansey. “That beast's a girl.”

“Oh, all the best beasts are girls,” said Emer.

Mary patted the cow again, and the cow pressed its face closer to Mary's hand. Saying hello, welcoming her—that was what it felt like.

“Off we go,” said Tansey—she whispered.

“Bye, cow,” said Mary.

She had to walk around the cow's head, because the cow hadn't moved. She could hear her mother whispering ahead of her.

“Bend number five!”

Mary and Tansey still held hands. Tansey's hand was very cold but nice—soft and gentle. Any time Mary was about to step into a hole or trip on a stone, Tansey's fingers seemed to squeeze hers slightly, to warn her.

The trees were gone from over their heads, so Mary could see a bit more. There was pale, weak light that seemed to be behind the hedges, as if it couldn't climb over and light the lane properly.

“Bend number six!”

“Nearly, nearly there.”

Mary had never walked into a farmyard before. She'd never been on a real farm.

“Bend number … seven!”

But, still, she felt she knew where she was going, that she'd done this before, that the smell—cattle, hens, machinery, oil, dogs—was very familiar.

She almost bumped into her mother.

“Sorry.”

Her mother, with
her
mother still on her back, had stopped at the gate to the yard. Mary stood with Tansey, just as a cloud shifted in the sky above and the moon lit the yard, just for them.

“Oh, Lord.”

It wasn't a nice surprise.

The gate was hanging from the post; it hadn't been closed in years. The yard was empty. There were huge weeds, like bushes, growing everywhere. There were no animals, and no noise. The place was silent. But the biggest, shocking silence was at the far side of the yard.

The house.

The roof—the straw thatch—was gone. There was nothing in its place.

They wouldn't go any nearer. The moon was out, and it told them that there was no glass in the windows. Nothing shone, or winked. The front door was gone; it was just a door-shaped hole. The weeds would be in there too, inside the house, breaking through the floor, climbing the walls, grabbing the banisters, pulling the place down to the ground—where it had started nearly two hundred years before.

“That's a surprise.”

“And not a pleasant one, faith.”

“'Twould make you want to cry.”

“I am crying!” said Scarlett.

“Me too,” said Mary.

“Good girls,” said Emer. “Cry for us all.”

She patted Scarlett's shoulders and Scarlett let her gently down to the ground. Emer was standing now. She put her arms around Scarlett's waist.

“We'll cry,” she said.

“And then we'll stop. Because it's only a house.”

“She's right,” said Tansey. “'Tis a pity, but nothing else and nothing more.”

She stood at the gate and sobbed—although ghosts weren't supposed to. And Mary understood: it wasn't the
old house they were crying about. Not really. It was for themselves they were crying, their endings and starts. There were four of them tonight, but who knew how many there'd be tomorrow night? Two of them had lived in that old roofless house. Two of them now lived in a different house, a house with a roof, in Dublin.

Things changed.

Four of them stood together, holding one another. But only three of them actually lived.

They cried, and they stopped.

“No greyhounds either,” said Emer.

“You never liked the greyhounds,” said Tansey.

“Ah, sure, I liked them enough,” said Emer, “now that they're gone. I'd prefer to see them here than not see them here, even though they did frighten me. But, sure.”

She pulled Mary to her, and hugged her. “That's life.”

t was three in the morning when they got back to the car.

“Tired?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“D'you know what?” said Emer from the back of the car as Tansey helped her with her seat belt.

“I'm as tired as it's possible to be. But, still and all, I'd love to have a whiff of the sea. So, Scarlett, my lovely daughter …”

Mary looked at her mother's smile as it got bigger and took over her face.

“Yes, Mammy?!”

“Can you get the sea to come to us?” Emer asked. “Or would it be easier just to drive to the sea?”

Scarlett started the car.

“Let's drive!” she said. “It's on the way home!”

“Will there be corners?” asked Tansey.

“Yes!” said Scarlett. “And bends!”

“Hear that, Emer?” said Tansey. “There'll be bends.”

“More bends,” said Emer. “They'll be the death of me.”

Mary heard the two old women in the back laughing as her mother did a U-turn across the empty road.

“Courtown!” said her mother. “How does that sound?!”

“I always liked Courtown.”

“And Courtown always liked you, Emer.”

“Did you ever bring me to Courtown?” Emer asked Tansey.

“The once,” said Tansey. “We did. With your father. Before James the Baby—sorry, James the Man—was born.”

“Did we have a nice time?”

“Oh, we did. We had a great time altogether. Although, now, you threw your sandwich at a seagull.”

“Did I?”

“You did.”

“Did I hit him?”

“You did,” said Tansey. “Right on the head. But no harm. He picked up the sandwich in his beak and flew off with it, not a bother on the creature. And you ran after him, wanting the sandwich back. And you fell, and the
squeals out of you! Half of Wexford thought the English were after coming back.”

They laughed and giggled, and stopped. Mary turned and saw that her granny was asleep. Her head was leaning against Tansey's shoulder. Tansey smiled at her, and Mary smiled back. Then Mary looked in the rearview mirror, to see her granny leaning against nothing.

“Weird.”

“What is?!”

“Nearly everything.”

Emer missed all the corners and bends to Courtown—it took about forty minutes. But she woke just as Scarlett stopped the car, in a car park right in front of the sea.

“Oh, look.”

The moon was a silver line on the water, all the way across the Irish Sea to Wales.

“It's like a magic road.”

“Too straight for my liking.”

They sat there for a while, then got out of the car and walked across a little bridge, across another narrow road, and up a few steps—Mary helped her granny up the steps—so they could see the sea properly and smell it, and feel the wind. It was chilly, but not too bad.
Mary and Scarlett had their jackets, Emer was wearing her dressing gown under her coat—and ghosts don't feel the cold.

They sat on the steps, side by side by side by side—Mary with Scarlett, with Emer, with Tansey.

“I always loved the smell of the sea.”

“And the sound of the waves!”

“That too.”

“Boring,” said Mary. “I'm being cheeky.”