Somebody's Voice Read online

  This wasn’t the only stain on the day. I was disappointed that the baby hadn’t come. I thought it would have stopped my mother being sick, but then I felt guilty because that should have been my first concern instead of wanting it to be an extra present. I’d been given books, because I was one of the top readers in my school class, but Mr Randal had bought them to save my mother shopping, and they seemed too young for me. I didn’t understand why he’d chosen these when he kept saying how big I’d grown. It didn’t strike me that he might want my body to grow up but not my mind.

  We didn’t have a party for me at our house, though when my father was alive we always had, with Bridie and our playmates from the street. I’d been looking forward to inviting friends from school, but I didn’t need Mr Randal to tell me that my mother wasn’t up to it, though he did. I made myself anticipate next year, when I could have a party like that and there’d be one for the baby too. I fancied the baby would bring nothing except good till the day my mother told me that when I came home from school she would be in hospital, and I realised I’d be left alone with Mr Randal. “Can I stay at Bridie’s?” I pleaded.

  “Why would you want to do that?” Mr Randal’s look across the breakfast table seemed to say he didn’t know the answer any more than I should. “No need to trouble them,” he said.

  “I stayed with them when daddy died. You wouldn’t have to make my dinner.”

  Saving him the trouble of me might have meant more to my mother than imposing on our neighbours, because she said “I’ll have a word with them, Malcolm.”

  “I wouldn’t like anyone to think I’m not up to looking after her, Elaine.”

  “I’m certain everybody knows how much you do for her.” I was afraid he’d changed my mother’s mind till she said “But you’ve got your own job. You shouldn’t have to do mine as well.”

  “It’s up to both of us to care for her.”

  “You get some rest while you can, like you’re always telling me I should. You’ll have plenty to do when I come home from hospital, so don’t take on anything you don’t need to now.”

  I didn’t mind this meaning me so long as it protected me from being left alone with Mr Randal. I was while my mother went next door, and he watched me as if he was about to speak. His silence seemed to threaten worse than words even though a smile kept his mouth zipped shut. He’d said nothing by the time my mother came back. “They’re fine with her, Malcolm.”

  “Just tell them if she gives them any problems they can send her back,” Mr Randal said and left me a warning look.

  Did he mean to leave me afraid to misbehave without realising, the way I’d felt at my birthday treat? Now if I did anything wrong, Bridie’s parents might return me to him. At the dinner Mrs Shea made me and Bridie, I was so nervous that I dropped a fork and spilled a glass of orange juice. Bridie’s mother wiped the fork and mopped the table and refilled my glass. “She’ll be anxious for her mam, James,” she told her husband, who didn’t seem to welcome me as much as she wanted me to feel. “You take it easy, Carly. She was fine when she had you, wasn’t she?”

  This only reminded me how much my mother said she’d suffered. While Bridie and I watched cartoons before bed I saw the limousine draw up outside. You couldn’t hear it, which made me feel Mr Randal was creeping home to deliver a surprise. I hoped this would be my mother with the baby, but he got out by himself. Mr Shea answered the doorbell, and I heard Mr Randal ask “How’s my little girl been?”

  “Just a bit fidgety. We’re used to it with ours.”

  “Don’t be afraid to say if you’ve had enough of her.”

  “We said we’d take her, so we will. You and Elaine have enough to cope with.”

  “Let me look in on her at any rate,” Mr Randal said and came into the front room. “I hope you aren’t being troublesome, Carla.”

  “She’s not a bit of trouble,” Mrs Shea declared. “We like having a pair of them in the house, and I’m sure you will.”

  “How’s Elaine getting on?” Mr Shea said as if someone should already have asked.

  “There may be complications. Say a prayer for them both.”

  “We will,” Mrs Shea said, “and tell her she’s in everybody’s thoughts.”

  “I will once I’ve had my dinner. The slop they serve you at the hospital would leave you needing treatment. It’s a good job Elaine’s off her food.”

  “You should have let us know,” Mrs Shea cried. “You could have eaten with us.”

  “We’ve imposed on you enough,” Mr Randal said and looked at me. “I hope you appreciate the kindness, Carla.”

  I did, more than I wanted him to know, but I was eager to ask “Can I go and see mummy in hospital?”

  “Your mother’s not an exhibition. Didn’t you hear what I told Mr Shea? She needs rest and quiet so she’ll be ready for the task God has given her.”

  “Never mind, Carly,” Mrs Shea said. “You’ll see her and the new babbie soon.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs Shea, but I wish you wouldn’t call the child that. It’s the name the swarthies call one of their evil gods.” As though Bridie’s mother had rebuked him for denying me a visit to the hospital, Mr Randal said “For everybody’s information, Elaine doesn’t want the child there making a fuss.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I protested.

  “You do as Mr Randal says,” Mrs Shea said. “He knows what’s best for you and your mother.”

  I felt as if she’d turned against me, and my mother had. I was just an inconvenience, even to Bridie, who complained that night I was taking up too much room in her bed. I went to sleep praying that the baby wouldn’t hurt my mother or make her even sicker and that they’d both be home soon. Bridie kept elbowing me in the ribs, maybe more often than woke me, and the last time she did it was time to get up.

  We were in the kitchen, having a breakfast cereal like a rainbow broken into crisps, when the phone rang in the hall. “Don’t say there’s another problem with the plastering,” Mr Shea said, because he was a builder, and sounded as if he’d like to add some words we shouldn’t hear. He tramped to the phone, and I heard him say “Yes” and “Oh Lord” and “Yes” again a few times, and then he hung up with a note of the bell, which sounded too loud and shrill. “Maddy, can you come here for a minute?”

  When she joined him he muttered “Shut the door,” and I couldn’t hear what they said till their voices grew a little louder. “Does he expect you to tell her?” Mrs Shea said, and her husband grumbled “Seems like we’re always bringing her bad news.” Bridie looked at me as if she couldn’t help wanting to learn the worst, and as soon as her parents came into the kitchen I pleaded “What’s happened to my mummy?”

  “She’s going to be all right, Carly,” Mrs Shea said. “Carla, I should say. And you’ll have a little angel to watch over you, one of your very own.”

  I assumed she hadn’t reached the bad news yet. “When are they coming home?”

  “Your mother,” Mr Shea said, “in a few days, Mr Randal thinks. But I’m sorry, lovey, the baby didn’t manage to be born.”

  “God must have other plans for her,” Mrs Shea said, dabbing at her eyes with a paper towel. “That’s why I told you there’s a new angel.”

  She tore a towel off the roll for me and then saw I wasn’t crying. Though I missed the little sister I would have had, I was mostly relieved my mother hadn’t died and left me alone with her husband. “At least you’re taking it well, Carla,” Mrs Shea said, but it didn’t sound like admiration. “Maybe she needs to let it catch up with her,” Mr Shea said.

  That made me think he wanted me to be caught, and who would do that except Mr Randal? I felt sad when I prayed for the baby who would have been my little sister, but I thought she should have been praying for me, since I’d been told they prayed for us in heaven. I prayed hardest that my mother would come home, but when she did I felt as
if I’d made her leave the hospital too soon. She was thinner than she’d been before she started to swell up, and her colour seemed to have faded. I had a feeling she’d been emptied of more than just the baby, as if the hospital had sent back a hollow imitation of her, which tried to act and sound like my mother but kept running out of the energy it took. I expected her at least to take me to school and bring me home, but Mrs Shea did.

  I thought Mr Randal was encouraging my mother to stay sick instead of trying to help her get better. “You just sit,” he said whenever she went to do housework. I didn’t mind helping if she needed it, but I was afraid it might leave her even weaker, because exercise was meant to make you strong. That was one reason I asked Mrs Shea “Isn’t mummy ever going to walk me to school again?”

  “She’s tired out, poppet. We have to help her get over what she’s been through.”

  “I think Mr Randal is making her tired.”

  “You do have some strange notions, child. He’s doing just the opposite.” Before I had a chance to argue Mrs Shea said “I shouldn’t say this but I will. If anyone exhausted her it was your father, never helping round the house, but she didn’t dare to complain.”

  I thought she was slandering my father’s memory. “Mummy wasn’t scared of him.”

  “I mean she didn’t want to because she thought he had enough to do. But of course she wasn’t frightened of him, any more than anyone could be of your new daddy.”

  I didn’t know why she had to add that, and I wasn’t sure it was true. Last night I’d heard him help my mother climb the stairs, so slowly she sounded reluctant. It made me anxious to hear what happened next, and I strained my ears. In her room that Mr Randal had turned into his, my mother said “I don’t know if we should yet, Malcolm.”

  “It isn’t our decision, my pet. It’s God’s commandment to us. Just make sure you don’t disturb the child.”

  His words did that and made me scared of worse. Soon I heard my mother do her best not to cry out, and blocked my ears so hard they ached. Even her cry wasn’t the one I remembered. Maybe that had expressed some kind of pleasure, but now it sounded distressed if not painful. It left me afraid of going up to bed at night, fearful of hearing, and I tried to fall asleep before Mr Randal brought my mother upstairs, which often meant I couldn’t. I never heard them talking in her room any more, and I imagined them performing a duty in silence, because God said they should. I wondered if my mother could be praying so as not to cry out. I was learning the commandments from the catechism at school, but I didn’t remember any like that. I thought perhaps there were extra ones that weren’t meant for children to read.

  I had to learn the catechism before I made my first confession and communion. Anticipating those gave my mother back some life, but it was Mr Randal who tested me on the catechism every evening. “We’ll see you’re a good girl,” he said, and my mother said “Just you heed your father.” She tutted if I forgot an answer or stumbled over any, and said “Try harder, Carla.” I don’t know if she noticed how Mr Randal seemed to find some answers particularly meaningful. “Are we bound to assist our parents in their wants?” The answer could only be yes, but you had to say “We are bound to assist our parents in their wants.” Of course my mother endorsed this, and being commanded to obey priests and the authorities. The same commandment forbade ‘all contempt, stubbornness, and disobedience to our parents and lawful superiors’, which meant that even if I didn’t think of Mr Randal as my father, God said I had to obey him. His smile at my answer screwed his eyes even smaller, but I expect my mother thought he was just pleased I was doing well.

  He took us in the limousine to choose a communion dress. “You look just like an angel,” my mother told me, and Mr Randal said “That’s our little innocent for us.” I would have liked the white dress better if it hadn’t reminded me of their wedding. “Thank your father for buying you such a lovely dress,” my mother urged. “Just you show him how grateful you are,” and I felt as if she’d delegated me to act out her enthusiasm or even take her place.

  My first communion fell on Guy Fawkes Day. To begin with the fireworks felt like a celebration. I heard some going off in daylight as Mr Randal drove me and my mother to St Brendan’s. Bridie’s dress was longer than mine, but I tried not to be jealous, because that was a sin I’d have to tell the priest in his box another day, and it would mean I couldn’t take communion. I’d made my first confession the day before, and I’d just been able to make out Father Brendan’s face through the mesh between the halves of the box, hiding from me and yet watching me, the way I was led to believe God behaved. Supposedly both of them were listening, and I told them how I sometimes didn’t want to do things Mr Randal said I had to. “What must you do with your father, child?” the priest said, and I had to mumble “Honour him.” Resenting his orders turned out to be worth three Hail Marys and a good act of contrition, which was more than I thought he deserved. Saying how I tried to hear him and my mother in her room would have made me too uncomfortable, and I told myself it wasn’t a sin, particularly since I always ended up doing my best not to hear.

  When Bridie and I and the other children went in a procession to the altar rail I saw Mr Randal and my mother watching nobody but me. Her smile looked determined to pretend her eyes weren’t sad, and his lips were so straight I couldn’t tell what he expected to happen, unless he thought I was going to let him and my mother down. I did my utmost not to fidget while I waited for my turn at the rail, and clasped my hands together so hard my fingers ached. I must have looked as though I was praying, but really I didn’t know what else to do with them and was afraid everyone would notice. When I reached the rail at last I nearly hitched my dress up too high as I knelt down, which left me feeling I’d almost been wicked. As Father Brendan approached along the kneeling line of us he made the sign of the cross over each child and then planted a wafer on their tongue, which gave me far too much time to worry about ruining the moment, biting the wafer though you weren’t allowed to, or choking on it, or starting to cough when he put it in my mouth and spitting it out. You were meant to shut your eyes when the priest came to you, but I couldn’t quite, for fear that the arrival of an object in my mouth would be too much of a shock. I closed my eyes to slits and saw Father Brendan wave his hand up and down and back and forth in front of me, and then reach in his silver goblet while an altar boy stood close to him with a napkin. As the priest produced a wafer I threw my head back and opened my mouth as far as I could, bruising my tongue against the back of my bottom teeth. Father Brendan murmured some Latin, which reminded me of the words my father had made up on the walls in Chester, and I was afraid I might cry or laugh or both. Then the priest said “Amen” and I nearly did too, but he stopped my mouth with a wafer. I was expecting it to taste like meat, since it was Christ’s body, but it tasted of nothing at all and seemed hardly to be there. It was easy enough to swallow without spluttering, and I managed to stand up with my hands still clasped and walk not too fast to my mother and Mr Randal. “Now you’re a proper girl,” he said as I had to sidle past him, and my mother said “You did us proud.”

  I’d only wanted to make her proud, not him. By the time we went to the firework display in the park she’d run out of enthusiasm. It started late as usual, and some children were howling because they had to wait or because their parents were taking them home. I didn’t even fidget, which I hoped would keep my mother proud of me. At last we saw men in safety jackets taking flames across the field. “Look, he’s touching it off,” Mr Randal said as one man poked a flame at the nearest tube stuck upright in the ground. “It’s starting inside now. It’ll shoot up in a minute. Wait, it’s getting ready, it can’t stop now, it can’t control itself, it’s going to explode….” Some of the parents around us stared at him, but I thought he fell silent because he was watching the firework send its dazzling stream into the sky. “Did you like that, Carla?” he said over the next explosion, and when I said
I had my mother urged “Then thank your father for bringing us.”

  He hadn’t even driven us. As we walked home after the display, fireworks died like fiery willows in the sky. When I went to bed I could still hear them, and didn’t want to stop. I didn’t need to block my ears even once Mr Randal and my mother came upstairs, because my mother said “I’m worn out, Malcolm” and he told her “You’ve had a long day, my pet. You go to sleep.” That was all I heard from her room, and I was listening to fireworks when I fell asleep.

  After that she very rarely cried out that way I didn’t like. More often I heard her telling Mr Randal she was tired and a grudging mumble from him. I thought her state was his fault, not least for making her sick in hospital and all the months before. When Mrs Shea brought me and Bridie home I sometimes found my mother asleep in her chair. She often dozed off in it while I was washing up the dinner things, and once I found Mr Randal standing over her with a smile. Some people might have thought he looked affectionate, but he glanced at me as if I’d caught him out. “Don’t disturb your mother,” he said.

  She was snoring in the chair the first time he took me upstairs. Though she hadn’t said good night to me, he wouldn’t let me waken her. “Brush your teeth,” he said and stayed in the bathroom while I did, and when I used the toilet as well. “Nothing wrong, is there, Carla?” he said, looking at me in the mirror. “Say your prayers and you can go to sleep.” I might have imagined he was telling me to pray on the toilet, but I didn’t start till he followed me into my room. He didn’t speak while he watched me kneel, but when I said “God bless the baby” he waved a hand almost in my face, like a sloppy version of the sign Father Brendan made. “Her name is Hilary,” he said. “That’s my mother’s name.”