The Story of Before (3 page)

It was a sweltering July day in the hottest summer for years. I was ten years old. Mam and Dad had signed the contract for the house that morning in a solicitor’s office on Merrion Square,
leaving me, Mel and Sandra to wait in the car. We were on our summer holidays from school, and for some reason there was no one able – or perhaps willing – to look after us. As soon as
they’d been handed the keys to forty-two Hillcourt Rise, Mam told Dad it was time, and they’d walked quickly along the east side of the square to Holles Street Maternity Hospital,
where, fifteen minutes later, Kevin shot out like a bullet. Well, he was number four. They thought they’d timed it all to perfection and that we’d be nicely settled into our new house
before he arrived. But Kev was impatient to get out into the world and didn’t want to wait any longer. So Dad could be forgiven for being a bit distracted that evening as he drove behind the
removal lorry into the estate.

The events of that day are obviously memorable: new brother, new house, new neighbours. But another thing took place that morning in Merrion Square Park that was to mark the day out in my mind.
Something a lot more strange and frightening. I kept quiet about it at the time; it wasn’t something I wanted to share. The day would come when I’d think maybe what happened had been
some kind of warning. But by then, it was already too late.

Dad had pulled in under the shadowy, dark green tangle of trees that dipped over the park railings, rushing around to help Mam as she tried to heave herself and her ballooning stomach out of the
car. She was making a huge effort to breathe regularly, taking long streams of warm air up through her nose, waiting a few seconds, then pushing them out steadily through the ‘O’ of her
pursed lips. In the last few weeks, her movements had slowed. She tired easily. Often, she went to bed in the afternoons and we had to wait longer for our dinner. Occasionally, Dad even had to make
it and bring it up to her on a tray. When Mel grumbled once that the mashed potato had black bits in it, he was made to do the washing up
and
the drying.

Dad pushed his head through the open window, his chin showing the marks of a rushed shave. ‘Won’t be long. Just have to sign for the new house and get the keys.’ Then, leaning
in further, he whispered, ‘And for God’s sake, behave yourselves. Your mother doesn’t need any of your carry on today.’ He looked at me. ‘You’ll let me know if
there’s been any trouble, Ruth?’

I nodded my head with a mixture of pride and apprehension; while I was used to the role of informer, I was mindful that both Mel and Sandra were bigger and stronger than me, and were expert at
giving Chinese burns.

‘I’m
so
thirsty,’ Mel complained. ‘I’ll
die
if I don’t get a drink.’

‘Pity about you,’ Dad said. ‘But don’t worry. We’ll all go to the funeral.’

I watched the way they crossed the road, Mam using Dad like a crutch and keeping one hand on the underside of her huge belly. The beige smock she wore was one she’d made herself, using a
pattern that came free with
Woman’s Way
. The heat of her body against the even hotter PVC of the car seat had caused a dark stain to emerge on her back. Against the sandy fabric, it
reminded me of an oasis in the middle of a desert. Without thinking, I said as much to Sandra. She frowned at me, her eyebrows straight golden lines above her sea-blue eyes.

‘It’s just sweat, Ruth,’ she said. ‘It’s hot, or haven’t you noticed?’

Her nose was sunburned, a new, pink layer peeping through the curls of peeling
skin. She bit at her bottom lip with her front tooth, the one she’d chipped at my last birthday party, when, in the rush to get the Rice Krispie cakes, someone (we never discovered who, but I
always suspected Brainbox – our cousin, Trevor) pulled her chair from under her as she was about to sit down, and she walloped her chin off the edge of the kitchen table. She blamed me
because it was my party. Mam said she was lucky she didn’t break her jaw. Her lip biting had since become a habit, the sharp edge of the tooth often drawing blood. She’d scraped her
red-gold hair into an untidy ponytail that morning, tying it with a purple bobble to match the bib-front shorts with the heart-shaped buttons she’d begged Mam to make for her. It hadn’t
taken much persuasion; Mam loved to sew. Most evenings she sat in front of the telly in the wickerwork armchair, eyes darting from needle to
Kojak
or
Columbo
or whoever, and back
again, as she hemmed or cross-stitched as perfectly as any machine. She always got it spot on with Sandra; everything she made for her seemed to fit exactly right. I was more hit and miss, perhaps
because I was small, and not as graceful or perfectly proportioned. So I was thankful that the last few months had limited her output to cute romper suits for the new baby and huge tent-like
dresses for herself.

The second Mam and Dad had left to get the keys, Mel started. He began by ficking toast crusts into Sandra’s hair. Because we’d been late leaving, we were allowed to eat our
breakfast in the car, and Mel had saved up his crusts for ammunition. Being the eldest, he had that air of supreme authority that he thought the eleven months he spent as an only child entitled him
to for life. I don’t think he ever forgave our parents for diluting his one hundred per cent share of their attention and he used up huge amounts of energy trying to get it back. He always
got the best reaction from Sandra. He’d given up on me, but my big sister was easily provoked. I saw the relationship she enjoyed with Mel as like a sort of earthquake graph: long periods of
inactivity combined with spells of minor movement that progressed towards massive eruptions. I saw myself as something of a dormant volcano: one whose silence was effectively guaranteed, but should
never really be taken for granted.

Mel and Sandra’s squabble soon reached Wimbledon proportions. Back and forth between the two of them the ball of accusations flew. Mel jumped into the driver’s seat, twisting the
knob that made it recline.

‘Ouch! You’re leaning on my knees,’ Sandra whined.

‘Move over then,’ Mel told her.

‘No, I don’t want to. Lift the seat.’

‘Make me.’

I felt the warmth of the glass against my cheek and wished I’d brought a book. I’d wanted to, but Dad had said we were late already and there was no time to be rummaging around in
tea-chests for stuff that was already packed. Thirty seconds would hardly have made a difference, but I’d said nothing. Dad wasn’t much of a reader – except for newspapers –
and didn’t understand my compulsive need to escape into an imaginary world. I felt he should have though; he knew what Mel and Sandra were like. I thought it unfair that he expected me to put
up with them when I didn’t have the necessary distractions.

Soon, the stuffy atmosphere of the car became too much. Sandra opened a door and jumped out. Mel was next. In seconds, my face was cutting through the morning air as I ran behind them, through
the gates, and into the park. I had on my new Clark’s sandals and a pair of white knee socks, the toes of which quickly became sodden and green from the dewy grass. The sky was clear of
clouds and sort of hazy, with that early-morning promise of all-day blue. It seemed higher than usual, as if it needed to raise itself up to avoid the treetops and the roofs of the four-storey
Georgian terraces lining the square. I knew we wouldn’t get in trouble for leaving the car. I think it was a sense that things were shifting, changing; and punishments were always difficult
to give out when normal routines weren’t being followed.

Mel found a red plastic ball and tried to involve me in a game, but I wasn’t interested. Besides, my open-toed sandals were hardly suitable for playing football. Sandra was willing,
despite their earlier bickering. So I left them to it and wandered off in among the trees and bushes to explore, hoping I might be lucky this time. I regularly dreamed of discovering a hoard of
gold coins hidden in undergrowth, or some priceless ancient treasure stuffed inside a hole in a tree. I climbed in under a holly bush, its waxy, spiked leaves pricking my back through the thin
cotton of my dress. The sound of Mel and Sandra grew faint, drowned out by the thick, green growth on one side and the low rumble of traffic from around Merrion Square on the other.

It was much darker in there. Sunlight barely found its way through. High above, the trees had twined and twisted their branches together and only tiny flashes of blue showed through. It smelled
old and damp and sort of rotten. A crumpled newspaper, a few crushed cans and a broken bottle lay at the base of a tree, and in the middle of a small clearing, hundreds of matches lay scattered
around a circle of blackened stones. I listened. The place was silent. I trudged through last years’ autumn leaves, still crisp in deep, rusty piles under my feet, and was glad when I reached
the railings. I could see out to the square from there. I found a gap in the hedge, squatted down and nestled myself into its cover where I could watch the people passing by.

I felt safe there. I was in a place of my own. Unseen and unheard. The best place. At home, I was used to finding some seemingly inaccessible spot to hide myself away for a while: in the
cupboard under the stairs; on the bottom shelf of my wardrobe; in the space between the back of the couch and the radiator. I think I sometimes needed to find a place away from the constant
tug-of-war of family couplings. Mam and Dad formed one pair, Mel and Sandra the other. In truth, I understood there was no way to break through the intertwining links that had been created well
before I’d been born.

I began counting shoes and legs. Brown shoes, black shoes, bare legs, trouser legs. It was easy enough for a while. But it grew complicated when a group of chattering office girls breezed past
in a criss-cross of rubber platforms, straw wedges, flapping blue jeans and orange nylons. After a while, my legs grew stiff from squatting, so I stretched out each one in turn for a few seconds,
before realizing that I really needed to wee. I was well used to going behind bushes; on Sunday drives, Dad regularly had to pull over someplace for one or other of us. And although I was quite
good at holding it, I didn’t want to take the chance this time. I’d no way of knowing how much longer Mam and Dad might be. And anyway, this was the perfect place to go. I stood up and
moved backwards, away from the gap and further behind the hedge. Then I reached up under my dress, pulled down my pants and bent my knees again.

Just then, a blackbird few down beside me. Even in the murky light, his feathers had a kind of sheen and I could clearly see the bright orange-yellow of his beak and eyes. He cocked his head
left and right then he fluttered up, settled on a low branch about ten feet away, and started to sing. My wee rushed onto the mess of old leaves and undisturbed black earth in a steady, hot flow.
Although there was no one else to hear, the splashing made me feel embarrassed and I was glad the birdsong drowned most of it out. A slight wind swished through the leaves and the screech of an
ambulance siren came and went from somewhere out beyond the square. When I was nearly done, I fixed my eyes on the blackbird, willing him to keep singing for the last few seconds. As my wee slowed
to a trickle, the cold air found its way under my dress, creeping up my legs and around my middle. I shivered. At the very last drop, like somehow he knew, the blackbird stopped and the place fell
silent.

I didn’t move. I was suddenly scared. I was still staring at the blackbird but I couldn’t see him any more; he was just a dark, blurry blob. My gaze had shifted. My eyes were focused
on something behind him now and what I realized I was looking at made my skin start to prickle and crawl. There was movement in the tree. A faint swaying in the branches behind the blackbird.

I wasn’t alone at all.

What I saw was a foot. A large foot. In a muddy black boot that had a strap and a silver buckle. And close beside it, another one, kicking lamely against the tree trunk. Above them was a pair of
mucky, brown corduroy trousers, then, further up, a dark red shirt and around it, a grubby black coat.

The prickle on my skin turned to a burning flood that seeped through my body and thump-thumped in my head. Hard as I tried to convince myself that someone might’ve put together a sort of
scarecrow for a joke, I knew this collection of limbs and clothes had to belong to a person.

A man.

A stranger.

I couldn’t bring myself to look into his face but I knew if I did he’d be looking straight at me. I thought I’d been all alone. Hidden away. But he must have been there the
whole time. Watching. He’d seen me pulling down my pants. And now he had a full view of me pissing in the undergrowth. I shouldn’t have gone off on my own. I shouldn’t have
followed the others out of the car in the first place. I had to get back to them. My wee had stopped but my pants were around my ankles; I’d have to pull them up before I could run. But if I
stood to do that, I’d expose my thighs and maybe my bum and I didn’t want him to see any more than he already had. I’d have to be careful. And quick.

Keeping my eyes down, I reached in under the folds of my dress. I hooked my fingers around one leg of my pants and deftly stepped out of them, leaving them behind, cherry pink against the dark
earth. I was running before I even stood up. Galloping over tangled roots and kicking sprays of crispy leaves in the air, I didn’t look back. I leaped over the circle of black stones but one
of my knees buckled when I landed and I stumbled and part crawled the last few feet. I dragged myself under the holly bush and back out onto the grass. My breath wheezed in and out of my throat and
goosepimples raced up my legs and arms. I felt dizzy and my chest hurt. The sunlight was blinding and I squinted against it as I looked around.

The park was deserted. There was no sign of Sandra or Mel.

The red ball lay in the middle of the grass and I ran towards it, expecting them both to materialize. I tapped it with my foot, but it was burst and bumped only a couple of inches over the
ground.