A Greyhound of a Girl (2 page)

he hated the hospital. She hated walking through it.

She hated everything about it.

Except for one thing. Her granny.

She hated the hospital, but she loved her granny.

ary O'Hara was walking up her street, to the house she lived in with her parents and her brothers. The school bus had dropped her at the corner, at the bottom of the hill. The street was long, straight, and quite steep, and there were huge old chestnut trees growing all along both sides. It was raining, but Mary wasn't getting very wet, because the leaves and branches were like a roof above her. Anyway, rain and getting wet were things that worried adults, but not Mary—or anyone else under the age of twenty-one. Mary was twelve. She'd be twelve for another eight months. Then she'd be what she already felt she was—a teenager.

She came home at the same time most days, and she usually came home with her best friend, Ava. But today was different, because Ava wasn't with Mary. Ava had moved to another part of Dublin the day before, with her
family. Today, some of the neighbors looked out their windows and saw Mary, alone. They knew all about it, of course. These were people who looked out windows. They'd seen the removals lorry outside Ava's house. They'd seen Mary and Ava hug each other, and they'd seen Ava get into their car and follow the removals lorry. As the car moved slowly up the street, they'd seen Mary wave, and run into her house. They might have heard the front door slam. They might have heard Mary's feet charging up the stairs, and the springs under Mary's mattress groan when she fell facedown on the bed. They probably didn't hear her crying, and they definitely didn't hear the softer sound of the bedsprings a little later when Mary realized that, although she was heartbroken, she was also starving. So she got up and went downstairs to the kitchen and ate until her face was stiff.

Today, Mary walked alone, up the hill. She was nearly home. There were just a few houses left before she got to hers. There was a gap between the trees for a while, so the raindrops fell on her. But she didn't notice them, or care.

Someone had once told her that people who'd had their leg cut off still felt the leg, even a long time after they'd lost it. They felt an itch and went to scratch, and remembered
that there was no leg there. That was how Mary felt. She felt Ava walking beside her. She knew she wasn't, but she looked anyway—and that made it worse.

Mary knew: Ava was somewhere else in Dublin, only seven kilometers away. But if she'd been acting in a film or a play and she was told she had to cry, she'd have thought of Ava and crying would have been easy. Feeling angry and looking angry would have been easy too. Mary couldn't understand why people moved house. It was stupid. And she couldn't understand why parents—Ava's parents—said no when two friends—Mary and Ava—asked if it was okay if one of them—Ava—didn't move but, instead, lived with the other friend—Mary.

“You won't have to feed her if she lives with us,” Mary had told Ava's mother the day before they'd moved. “It'll, like, save you a fortune.”

“No.”

“Especially with the recession and that.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Ava asked.

“Because you're our daughter and we love you.”

“Then do the noble thing and let her stay,” said Mary. “If you, like, really, really love her. It's not funny.”

“I know,” said Ava's mother. “It's just so sweet.”

Which was exactly the sort of stupid thing that adults said. They saw two best friends clinging to each other, wanting to die rather than be separated—and they said it was sweet.

“I suppose you think war and starvation are sweet too, like, do you?” said Mary.

“You're being a little bit rude, Mary,” said Ava's mother.

“Whatever,” said Mary.

She stood at Ava's front door. Then she tried to slam it. But she couldn't. There was a thick rug in the hall, and it seemed to grab the bottom of the door. So she'd shouted it instead.

“Slam!”

And she'd stormed off to her own house, where the slamming was easier.

“That's a wet one.”

Someone had just spoken to Mary. But she couldn't see anyone. She was alone on the street, just outside her house.

Then she saw the woman.

She must have been behind one of the trees, Mary thought.

The woman was old. But, actually, she wasn't. Mary
knew what it was, why the woman seemed old. She was old-fashioned. She was wearing a dress that looked like it came from an old film, one of those films her mother always cried at. She looked like a woman who milked cows and threw hay with a pitchfork. She was even wearing big boots with fat laces.

A bird above them must have flown away quickly, because the leaves shook and dropped loads of water on to their heads. Mary laughed—she felt the raindrops this time—but the woman didn't seem to notice. Nothing about her was wet. But—

“It's a wet one, all right,” she said. “Did you get loads of homework, did you?”

“The usual,” said Mary.

“What's the usual when it's at home?”

Mary laughed again. The woman sounded like her grandmother. But, then, that made her sad, and angry again. She was going to cry—she thought she was.

“What's wrong with you?” said the woman.

“My granny's not well,” said Mary.

“Sure, I know,” said the woman.

“Well, why did you ask, then?” said Mary.

“God, you're a rip, all right.”

“What does that mean?”

“You're a cheeky young lady,” said the woman.

“Everyone says that,” said Mary. “That I'm cheeky. But I'm not. I'm just honest.”

“Good girl yourself.”

Mary looked at the woman again. She wasn't old at all. She looked younger than Mary's mother, although it was hard to tell with adults what age they were. Mary was sure she'd never seen this woman before.

Never talk to strangers, she'd always been told.

“But that's stupid,” she'd said, a few years ago.

“Why is it stupid?” her mother asked.

“Did you know Dad when you met him?” said Mary.

“No.”

“So he was a stranger.”

“But—”

“And you spoke to him,” said Mary. “So if, like, nobody spoke to strangers, nobody would meet and get married and the human race would, like, cease to exist.”

“But your dad wasn't a stranger.”

“Yes, he was. He must have been.”

“He wasn't strange,” said her mother. “He was nice.”

“Nice?” said Mary. “The nice fellas are the ones you should be worried about.”

Her mother laughed.

“What's so funny?” said Mary.

“Who told you that?”

“Granny.”

“I should have known,” said her mother. “Well, never mind your granny.”

“Don't talk to strangers, never mind your granny,” said Mary. “I'll have no one left to talk to.”

“But you know what I mean,” said her mother.

“About strangers?”

“Yes.”

“Don't worry,” said Mary. “I won't talk to any.”

But she did—now.

“How do you know about my granny?” she asked the woman.

“Ah, sure, I just do,” said the woman.

She stood back, and shimmered—kind of—as if she were stepping behind a sheet of clear plastic.

“It's life,” she said—and she was solid again, and smiling.

But Mary was a bit scared, and cold.

“I have to go,” she said.

“Right, so,” said the woman.

She didn't step out of the way. She didn't seem to move at all. But, even so, she must have, because she wasn't in front of Mary anymore.

Mary walked quickly to her gate. She heard the woman behind her.

“Do one small thing for me, Mary.”

Mary turned.

“Tell your granny it'll all be grand,” said the woman—she was still smiling.

“How did you know my name?” Mary asked her.

“Sure, half the girls in Ireland are called Mary,” said the woman.

“No, they aren't,” said Mary. “I'm the only one on our road.”

“Well, they were all called Mary in my day,” said the woman. “Off you go, so. I'll see you the next time.”

The next time? Mary should have been worried, even frightened. She
was
worried, and a bit frightened. But not nearly as much as she thought she should have been. This woman had come out of nowhere. She knew Mary's
name and all about her granny—Mary should have been terrified. But she wasn't. Something about the woman, the way she spoke, her face, her smile—she seemed familiar. Mary didn't know her—but she
did
.

She wasn't terrified. But, still, she ran to the front door and rang the bell instead of getting her key from her schoolbag. As she rang the bell, she turned. But the woman had gone.

She heard the door opening.

“Mary!”

It was her mother.

“How was school?!”

“Stupid.”

She went straight past her mother, into the hall.

“What's your hurry?!”

“I'm starving.”

osing your best friend was heartbreaking, but some things about it weren't too bad. So far, Mary had been promised new jeans, two new tops, a trip to the cinema, and French toast for her lunch two days in a row.