November 1998 – Running for a ball in the playground my face collided with Mr. Belson’s leg. I fell, tore both trouser and skin. He spilt coffee, shouted, then gave me detention. So now I’m late walking home and the cool air breathing through the hole over my knee is dimpling my skin.
The traffic rumble of the high-street hushes as I turn onto our terraced street. The cloud-filled sky is still, the trees only twigs and branches. I slow my steps and think of what’s coming. This is the third hole this term and it’s not even December. What will she say? Anger met the September hole, tears the October one.
My legs swung from a chair at the kitchen table as she patched the previous hole. Tall, brown hair tied back, she stood, sky blue in her cleaner’s tunic, steam rising and reddening her cheeks. She stitched and stirred as her eyes flicked back and forth to a coursebook on the countertop. The pot bubbled, my trousers dangled from her forearm.
I kick at an empty can and it rattles ahead, tumbling from the curb outside the house. Key in the door and I step inside, the warmth stinging my face. The lights are off but plastic shopping bags cluster a leg of the kitchen table. Her voice carries through the stillness, she’s thin mam but she’s always been thin. I keep by the door, head down, and wait for her to finish.
Her footsteps come slow and the words fall out of me as she places the cordless phone on the table and clicks on the light. She pulls two bottles of wine from a bag, clinks them into the fridge and says she’ll patch the hole over the weekend. Everything loosens, my toes uncurl, my head rises.
Laughter ripples through the house and keeps me from sleep. I kick at the heavy sheets and step to the door.
Brown carpet stretches thin and worn across the landing, a glow from the living room below softens the darkness. It is from here, cross-legged and nose poking through the rails of the bannister, that I watch my mum and her sister seated beneath.
My aunt is talking, arms moving with every word, her blonde hair golden in the lamplight. She sits on an armchair with both bare feet tucked beneath her, wine glass full and untouched on the coffee table, life pouring from her as she tells one of her many stories. Mum watches from the opposite sofa, feet also tucked under her, wide-eyed and with smiling lips, her chin pressed to the rim of her wineglass.
The conversation rests and quietness spills over the two sisters. I clench the rails of the bannister and pull myself closer.
‘Mam is worried you know,’ Mum says leaning forward and placing her empty glass on the table.
‘I’m sure.’
‘You should tell her.’
My aunt drops her head and runs fingers through her hair.
‘Does it itch?’ asks my mum.
‘Not at all.’
My aunt curls her fingers to a fist, pulls the hair from her head and lets it hang from her hand. Mum tilts her head to one side, her lips crumple. My aunt drops the wig and steps across the space between, taking my mum in her arms. A glass sliding door that looks out on the garden is black under the blanket of night and it is in its reflection that I watch both sisters tremble in each other’s arms.
The sky blue of my mother’s tunic will darken to the navy of a nurse’s. Trees will lend leaves to our terraced street before the autumn air tugs them loose. And time and again I will look into the glass of that back door to find my aunt’s silent figure, mouth moving and arms moving, life pouring out of her.
Pádhráic Quinn grew up between Galway, London and Boston but now calls Barcelona home. It is where he set up and currently runs a language school dedicated to teaching language through the arts. This is his first time submitting a piece of work to a literary journal. Find Pádhráic on Twitter at @QuinnPadhraic.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.
Brilliant to see this story here.
Colorful detail, emotional. Excellent 👍