Siobhain?”
He turned stiffly to face her, a pale pink blush spreading over his neck and face. “No,” he said, his eyes open wide, his bottom lip twitching.
“Has Una had her baby yet?”
Liam looked confused and the blush receded. “No. What’s that to do with anything?”
Maureen smiled to herself. “Never mind,” she said. She’d definitely know if he was lying. “Ye know, that sort of poetic sorrow can be very seductive. If you like Siobhain at least make sure you fall for her, not just her tragic past.”
“Maureen, I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” said Liam, and pulled out very fast into the street.
As she climbed the last weary flight of stairs Maureen felt certain she could hear Jim Maliano watching her through the spy hole in his door. It was a horrible habit of his. She turned around and stared at the door, looking straight into the spy hole, mouthing, “Fuck off.” She had said it ten times when she heard him creeping, tippy-toed, along the carpeted hall, a hand brushing the papered wall as he steadied himself. Inside her own door the answering machine blinked at her. She went into the kitchen, unscrewed the lid from the whiskey bottle and drank. It tasted like a longed-for deep breath. She was going to get dead drunk tonight. The answering machine had a message from Hugh McAskill, asking her to call him at home, and one from Kilty checking in to say hello. The last was the usual forlorn weekly message from Winnie.
When Winnie was drinking she had been a shameless phone pest. Since Maureen had cut contact with her Winnie could phone six, sometimes seven, times in a day. Her personal best was a round and magnificent fifteen. Each time she rang she’d be at a different stage of drunkenness and sounded like a completely different person. Her moods ranged from heart-wrenching sadness to apocalyptic anger, and every call was aimed at getting Maureen to phone her back. Maureen had cut off nearly a year ago, when it had become clear that the family no longer believed that Michael had abused her. Winnie had gone to AA and got sober in the intervening period and now phoned once a week, every Friday at five o’clock when Liam would have told her that Maureen was still at work, and repeated the same three sentences: “I love you, I miss you, I want you to contact me.” Maureen appreciated the kindness of phoning when she would be out. She found herself wondering about sober Winnie, fantasizing about talking to her, the two of them reminiscing about the good times. Liam was closer to Winnie now that he had softened and she was sober. He said she was deeply sorry for all the grief she’d caused but really didn’t understand the extent of it. Winnie was the funniest person Maureen’d ever met. She found herself imagining an idealized mother in place of Winnie and it became hard to remember what was true and what was fantasy. Liam told her that Winnie was almost prepared to consider the possibility that Michael had abused Maureen, and knew at least that it wasn’t a deliberate, malicious fabrication.
A sudden unfamiliar, officious-sounding knock at the door made her jump. She looked out of the spy hole, expecting to see Aggie Grey, the woman with ŁŁs to spare. It was a man, dressed formally in slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, holding a brown envelope. He was slim with dyed blond hair and a badly sunburned face. The brown skin was peeling off his chin and neck, leaving patches of brilliant pink. His forearms were going as well and, as he waited for her to answer the door, he pulled a tin of Vaseline out of his pocket and rubbed it on his forearm. The skin came away beneath his fingers, rolling into greasy, gray little cigars. He made a disgusted face and brushed it onto the floor, picking at the bits stuck in the hairs. Maureen frowned at the door, wondering why Aggie Grey would send someone who looked like a courier. Suddenly it hit her: the illegal fags. It might be a warrant to
He turned stiffly to face her, a pale pink blush spreading over his neck and face. “No,” he said, his eyes open wide, his bottom lip twitching.
“Has Una had her baby yet?”
Liam looked confused and the blush receded. “No. What’s that to do with anything?”
Maureen smiled to herself. “Never mind,” she said. She’d definitely know if he was lying. “Ye know, that sort of poetic sorrow can be very seductive. If you like Siobhain at least make sure you fall for her, not just her tragic past.”
“Maureen, I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” said Liam, and pulled out very fast into the street.
As she climbed the last weary flight of stairs Maureen felt certain she could hear Jim Maliano watching her through the spy hole in his door. It was a horrible habit of his. She turned around and stared at the door, looking straight into the spy hole, mouthing, “Fuck off.” She had said it ten times when she heard him creeping, tippy-toed, along the carpeted hall, a hand brushing the papered wall as he steadied himself. Inside her own door the answering machine blinked at her. She went into the kitchen, unscrewed the lid from the whiskey bottle and drank. It tasted like a longed-for deep breath. She was going to get dead drunk tonight. The answering machine had a message from Hugh McAskill, asking her to call him at home, and one from Kilty checking in to say hello. The last was the usual forlorn weekly message from Winnie.
When Winnie was drinking she had been a shameless phone pest. Since Maureen had cut contact with her Winnie could phone six, sometimes seven, times in a day. Her personal best was a round and magnificent fifteen. Each time she rang she’d be at a different stage of drunkenness and sounded like a completely different person. Her moods ranged from heart-wrenching sadness to apocalyptic anger, and every call was aimed at getting Maureen to phone her back. Maureen had cut off nearly a year ago, when it had become clear that the family no longer believed that Michael had abused her. Winnie had gone to AA and got sober in the intervening period and now phoned once a week, every Friday at five o’clock when Liam would have told her that Maureen was still at work, and repeated the same three sentences: “I love you, I miss you, I want you to contact me.” Maureen appreciated the kindness of phoning when she would be out. She found herself wondering about sober Winnie, fantasizing about talking to her, the two of them reminiscing about the good times. Liam was closer to Winnie now that he had softened and she was sober. He said she was deeply sorry for all the grief she’d caused but really didn’t understand the extent of it. Winnie was the funniest person Maureen’d ever met. She found herself imagining an idealized mother in place of Winnie and it became hard to remember what was true and what was fantasy. Liam told her that Winnie was almost prepared to consider the possibility that Michael had abused Maureen, and knew at least that it wasn’t a deliberate, malicious fabrication.
A sudden unfamiliar, officious-sounding knock at the door made her jump. She looked out of the spy hole, expecting to see Aggie Grey, the woman with ŁŁs to spare. It was a man, dressed formally in slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, holding a brown envelope. He was slim with dyed blond hair and a badly sunburned face. The brown skin was peeling off his chin and neck, leaving patches of brilliant pink. His forearms were going as well and, as he waited for her to answer the door, he pulled a tin of Vaseline out of his pocket and rubbed it on his forearm. The skin came away beneath his fingers, rolling into greasy, gray little cigars. He made a disgusted face and brushed it onto the floor, picking at the bits stuck in the hairs. Maureen frowned at the door, wondering why Aggie Grey would send someone who looked like a courier. Suddenly it hit her: the illegal fags. It might be a warrant to
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