Photo by K. Mitch Hodge
Aoife
Muiread O’Hanlon
She stood gazing at the Mournes, purple mountains in the morning drizzle, waiting for Elizabeth to arrive to drive her to the train station. If you can see them, it’s about to rain. Her daddy’s voice. If you can’t, it already is. A hint of a smile at the memory. She watched a bluebottle headbutt the windowpane, desperate. A wasp lay on the sill, defeated. Why are some bluebottles green, she’d asked her mummy once. They’re the Irish ones, so they are. A wink.
Mr. McGrady from number forty was walking through the park, his flat cap low on his brow. She heard his breathing through the window crack as he came up the hill, saw him stumble on the curb, not a man used to exercise. She reached and picked up the brown envelope that sat on the table next to the window. As Mr. McGrady passed, she raised it to greet him. A quick nod, and he looked away.
When she was small there was a bog at the bottom of the hill with a wee ditch that they collected frog spawn from in jam jars. Her and her sisters, the Peters, the McGradys, the Smiths, the Burns, all played together. Her daddy would tell them to get away home for their tea on his way back from work, and Mrs. Smith would holler from her gate halfway up the hill. They’d been happy then she supposed. Innocent.
One time they’d found a man lying in the ditch, his hat covering his face. He’s dead, said Johnny, giving him a prod. Give over, laughed Thomas. The man’s hat had fallen off onto the bank beside him, scaring the shite out of them all, and they’d run to her mummy to tell her he was dead. Later they heard her tell daddy the man was a tramp, stotious. He’d gone when they next went down but they found a bottle that smelled of whiskey. She’d always liked that warm smokey smell.
The Peters had moved to Lisburn to be closer to their daddy’s work and his car had exploded one morning when he turned the ignition. Last year Thomas McGrady had blown himself up with a bomb at the border. He was seventeen, the same age as her. The Smiths were still there; Johnny yelling Fenian bitch at her when he scaled lampposts to fly flags for the twelfth. The Burns had moved to Australia to get away from all the nonsense. Everything had changed and nothing had changed. Now she was leaving herself. Off to university. Across the water.
The bluebottle was quieter now so she placed the envelope on the glass to guide it towards the open window. Mother of God, she said as it flew off in circles around the room, yer all het up about getting out and when I give you a hand you fuck it up. The fly landed on the painting above the mantelpiece. It was only when her granny was dying that she had really studied it, the house at the foot of the mountain, trees with branches like arms wrapping themselves around it, the wind billowing clouds across the sky. Imagine the people in that wee cottage, the priest had said, with the storm blowing a hooley around the house, through the trees. Do you think they’re sat round the fire telling stories? She’d conjured up a party herself, until the bleakness of the boggy landscape settled in her. He’d mentioned the name of the artist, but it’d gone. She shuddered, the prospect of them trapped there.
A letter from Wales, her mummy had said, handing her the brown envelope at the breakfast table. She’d taken it, turning it over, weighing it up in her hand. I’m minded to open that thing meself, her mummy said the next day, when it still sat, unopened, next to the toaster. I’m after applying to university there, she’d said.
She’d applied in secret. Wrote her application at school and sent it off. Maybe they wouldn’t offer her a place, she’d thought. The decision made for her. But then the letter had arrived.
What was she thinking? She hadn’t even applied to Queens or to Jordanstown. And she had her job at the garage where she’d worked since she was thirteen. And everyone she knew was here. Yea, every buck eejit, every frigging bigot, she thought.
Why’d you want to leave, they’d said. Sure, it’s a right laugh here. Remember when we hid under the counter that time, Elizabeth had said. Aye, when they hurled bricks through the plate glass window. John, the owner, had been ages coming. What’re you playing at, the peelers had asked, when they found the planks of wood and saws, hammers and nails in his van. They only let him through, said Elizabeth, when one of them recognized him. Said it would cause ructions if they let the twelfth bonfire be at the petrol station. The flutes and drums had played as they boarded up the windows and the crowd sang the sash as John locked the pumps. They’d laughed as they talked about it.
They would find another Saturday girl easily enough to mop the floor and stack the shelves.
Once she was at uni, life would be different. She’d be Aoife, never Eveline. Christ, what were they thinking. She’d insisted on Evie since she was five, and then Aoife, although she knew she’d be saying “it’s ee-fa” over and over whenever anyone read her name.
She would be safe there, unjudged. Unknown. At eighteen she’d be able to do what she wanted, go where she pleased. No more restrictions. Not that pub, squaddies drink there. Not that street, it’s full of Provos. Not that club, it’s on Sandy Row. Not that shop, the doorman was shot yesterday. Her brother’s in prison. They’re in the Orange Order. That’s a mixed marriage, his ma’s a Protestant. Tattle. Here, everyone knew everyone’s business. When she was wee, she hadn’t understood it all, but she knew it kept everyone in their place. Tarred and feathered into silence. You don’t want to be talked about. Don’t do anything worth talking about.
She’d been stopped by the army on her way home in her boyfriend’s car. They’d appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the road with a torch. Her boyfriend had slammed on the brakes and the seatbelt burned on her neck for weeks. Tell them nothing, her daddy had always said. Where’re you going? Where’ve you been? What’s your name? They peered in through the window, guns pointing in the back. Gobshites. Don’t worry, you’ll be out of here soon, her boyfriend had said.
These little moments of normality she wouldn’t miss. Being patted down to enter the city center, or pawed over depending on the patter. Opening bags to get in and out of shops, her messages being judged. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.
Her boyfriend had said he’d visit, but she wondered if he would. She had worked hard to pass her A levels, to get her place, to get away from all this. She’d miss him and he said he’d miss her. But he was set on Queens and she hadn’t applied there.
Her new life was to be in Wales, surrounded by mountains and water. At least that would be familiar. A neighbor’s daughter had been there for three years. It’s lovely, she’d said. Good craic. Lots of pubs and the union’s great. Get good bands on. She’d laughed and said, the police station isn’t surrounded by concrete and barbed wire with a steel door. It’s not? Aoife’d asked. How do they get in then? The door’s left open! She shook her head, bewildered. What a place. That had sort of sealed it.
When her daddy heard she was going to Wales, he’d eaten the head off her. Why don’t you go up to Queens like your cousins? You can live here and travel up like they did. God forbid. I start in October, she told them, marine biology.
God give me strength, he’d said. You’re a real character aren’t you. Here’s me trying for a better country, fighting for civil rights since you were a wean, and here’s you turning around and saying you’re off. You’re having a geg. And then, after a moment, we need clever girls like you here, Aoife. You’re our future. Then more softly, sure you’ll be grand over there, it’s not so far. Her mummy had said little, no advice, no strong feelings, but no barriers.
The thought of leaving had filled her with dread, there was a lot she loved about here. She gazed out at the street, where her friends lived, where she’d played as a child. Her throat tightened. Her boyfriend, her friends, her family. She would miss them all.
You ready? Her mummy’s voice rang through the house. Aoife continued staring out the window, a pastel rainbow stretching across the sky. The bluebottle was gone. Free, she thought, and reached to close the window. From the kitchen radio she heard Tom Lehrer singing about a girl killing her family. She remembered her daddy singing it when they were little and they’d all giggled about lying being a sin.
Elizabeth pulled up at the gate and walked up the path. You alright, she mouthed at Aoife through the window. Aoife nodded. Ah, you’ll miss her, she heard her say to her mummy in the hall. And then, louder, for Aoife to hear, Christ, what’ve you got in this case anyway? Here, away and take that out to the car, her mummy said to her youngest sister. A thump as the case was dragged out of the house. Pick it up, shouted her mummy, or it’ll bust before she’s even set off.
The memories were choking her now. She remembered how they’d go to the seaside on the bus, buckets and spades and a picnic, the whole family. They’d find a wee hollow in the dunes to set out their towels. Sand sandwich, her daddy would ask as he handed out lunch. They always laughed. Families who drove there parked right on the beach and every time a tractor had to come and rescue a car out of the water. She smiled. Then the time she’d run home because she’d heard gun shots and told of the two policemen outside the shop. They’d looked at each other and told her it was a car backfiring. In the morning, her mummy said it had been on the radio. And her daddy telling them stories at bedtime. He’d sit on the end of the bed when they were little and make them up. Something about a rabbit and a hare. She’d loved those stories. She wished she could remember them now.
A door banged upstairs, making her jump. She needed to go, now. She was ready to start her new life.
They stood in Central Station in Belfast looking at the departure board. Be good, said her mummy. Ring when you get there. It’ll be gone midnight! Well, tomorrow then. Right Aoife, watch those wee Welsh fellas, said her daddy, pressing some notes into her hand. And write. See you at Christmas, said Elizabeth. We’ll go out on the tear.
As she boarded the train she turned and waved. They had already gone. The train was busy and she weaved through the carriages, lugging her suitcase until she found a seat and sat staring out as the countryside flew past. She hadn’t been to Dublin for years, and never alone. And now she had to find her way to Dún Laoghaire to get the boat to Holyhead. What was she playing at, she wondered.
The boat loomed before her and a press of people carried her forward. Catching sight of herself in a window she saw how pale and gaunt she looked, wide eyed. She blessed herself and touched her finger to the St Christopher her granny had given her when she was wee. Looking around, she saw families, mothers holding little hands, fathers carrying weans. People her own age, some carrying suitcases, some with rucksacks on their backs. A group of men in suits laughing loudly and drinking beer. She couldn’t do this. It was out of the question. She turned and pushing against the throng, her hands clutching the railings, she squeezed herself back down the gangway.
Terror-stricken, she sat in the departure lounge. A girl approached, rucksack on her shoulders. You OK, she asked. I’m off to university, said Aoife. I don’t think I can do it. The girl smiled. Your first time, she said. Come with me.
Muiread O’Hanlon
She stood gazing at the Mournes, purple mountains in the morning drizzle, waiting for Elizabeth to arrive to drive her to the train station. If you can see them, it’s about to rain. Her daddy’s voice. If you can’t, it already is. A hint of a smile at the memory. She watched a bluebottle headbutt the windowpane, desperate. A wasp lay on the sill, defeated. Why are some bluebottles green, she’d asked her mummy once. They’re the Irish ones, so they are. A wink.
Mr. McGrady from number forty was walking through the park, his flat cap low on his brow. She heard his breathing through the window crack as he came up the hill, saw him stumble on the curb, not a man used to exercise. She reached and picked up the brown envelope that sat on the table next to the window. As Mr. McGrady passed, she raised it to greet him. A quick nod, and he looked away.
When she was small there was a bog at the bottom of the hill with a wee ditch that they collected frog spawn from in jam jars. Her and her sisters, the Peters, the McGradys, the Smiths, the Burns, all played together. Her daddy would tell them to get away home for their tea on his way back from work, and Mrs. Smith would holler from her gate halfway up the hill. They’d been happy then she supposed. Innocent.
One time they’d found a man lying in the ditch, his hat covering his face. He’s dead, said Johnny, giving him a prod. Give over, laughed Thomas. The man’s hat had fallen off onto the bank beside him, scaring the shite out of them all, and they’d run to her mummy to tell her he was dead. Later they heard her tell daddy the man was a tramp, stotious. He’d gone when they next went down but they found a bottle that smelled of whiskey. She’d always liked that warm smokey smell.
The Peters had moved to Lisburn to be closer to their daddy’s work and his car had exploded one morning when he turned the ignition. Last year Thomas McGrady had blown himself up with a bomb at the border. He was seventeen, the same age as her. The Smiths were still there; Johnny yelling Fenian bitch at her when he scaled lampposts to fly flags for the twelfth. The Burns had moved to Australia to get away from all the nonsense. Everything had changed and nothing had changed. Now she was leaving herself. Off to university. Across the water.
The bluebottle was quieter now so she placed the envelope on the glass to guide it towards the open window. Mother of God, she said as it flew off in circles around the room, yer all het up about getting out and when I give you a hand you fuck it up. The fly landed on the painting above the mantelpiece. It was only when her granny was dying that she had really studied it, the house at the foot of the mountain, trees with branches like arms wrapping themselves around it, the wind billowing clouds across the sky. Imagine the people in that wee cottage, the priest had said, with the storm blowing a hooley around the house, through the trees. Do you think they’re sat round the fire telling stories? She’d conjured up a party herself, until the bleakness of the boggy landscape settled in her. He’d mentioned the name of the artist, but it’d gone. She shuddered, the prospect of them trapped there.
A letter from Wales, her mummy had said, handing her the brown envelope at the breakfast table. She’d taken it, turning it over, weighing it up in her hand. I’m minded to open that thing meself, her mummy said the next day, when it still sat, unopened, next to the toaster. I’m after applying to university there, she’d said.
She’d applied in secret. Wrote her application at school and sent it off. Maybe they wouldn’t offer her a place, she’d thought. The decision made for her. But then the letter had arrived.
What was she thinking? She hadn’t even applied to Queens or to Jordanstown. And she had her job at the garage where she’d worked since she was thirteen. And everyone she knew was here. Yea, every buck eejit, every frigging bigot, she thought.
Why’d you want to leave, they’d said. Sure, it’s a right laugh here. Remember when we hid under the counter that time, Elizabeth had said. Aye, when they hurled bricks through the plate glass window. John, the owner, had been ages coming. What’re you playing at, the peelers had asked, when they found the planks of wood and saws, hammers and nails in his van. They only let him through, said Elizabeth, when one of them recognized him. Said it would cause ructions if they let the twelfth bonfire be at the petrol station. The flutes and drums had played as they boarded up the windows and the crowd sang the sash as John locked the pumps. They’d laughed as they talked about it.
They would find another Saturday girl easily enough to mop the floor and stack the shelves.
Once she was at uni, life would be different. She’d be Aoife, never Eveline. Christ, what were they thinking. She’d insisted on Evie since she was five, and then Aoife, although she knew she’d be saying “it’s ee-fa” over and over whenever anyone read her name.
She would be safe there, unjudged. Unknown. At eighteen she’d be able to do what she wanted, go where she pleased. No more restrictions. Not that pub, squaddies drink there. Not that street, it’s full of Provos. Not that club, it’s on Sandy Row. Not that shop, the doorman was shot yesterday. Her brother’s in prison. They’re in the Orange Order. That’s a mixed marriage, his ma’s a Protestant. Tattle. Here, everyone knew everyone’s business. When she was wee, she hadn’t understood it all, but she knew it kept everyone in their place. Tarred and feathered into silence. You don’t want to be talked about. Don’t do anything worth talking about.
She’d been stopped by the army on her way home in her boyfriend’s car. They’d appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the road with a torch. Her boyfriend had slammed on the brakes and the seatbelt burned on her neck for weeks. Tell them nothing, her daddy had always said. Where’re you going? Where’ve you been? What’s your name? They peered in through the window, guns pointing in the back. Gobshites. Don’t worry, you’ll be out of here soon, her boyfriend had said.
These little moments of normality she wouldn’t miss. Being patted down to enter the city center, or pawed over depending on the patter. Opening bags to get in and out of shops, her messages being judged. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.
Her boyfriend had said he’d visit, but she wondered if he would. She had worked hard to pass her A levels, to get her place, to get away from all this. She’d miss him and he said he’d miss her. But he was set on Queens and she hadn’t applied there.
Her new life was to be in Wales, surrounded by mountains and water. At least that would be familiar. A neighbor’s daughter had been there for three years. It’s lovely, she’d said. Good craic. Lots of pubs and the union’s great. Get good bands on. She’d laughed and said, the police station isn’t surrounded by concrete and barbed wire with a steel door. It’s not? Aoife’d asked. How do they get in then? The door’s left open! She shook her head, bewildered. What a place. That had sort of sealed it.
When her daddy heard she was going to Wales, he’d eaten the head off her. Why don’t you go up to Queens like your cousins? You can live here and travel up like they did. God forbid. I start in October, she told them, marine biology.
God give me strength, he’d said. You’re a real character aren’t you. Here’s me trying for a better country, fighting for civil rights since you were a wean, and here’s you turning around and saying you’re off. You’re having a geg. And then, after a moment, we need clever girls like you here, Aoife. You’re our future. Then more softly, sure you’ll be grand over there, it’s not so far. Her mummy had said little, no advice, no strong feelings, but no barriers.
The thought of leaving had filled her with dread, there was a lot she loved about here. She gazed out at the street, where her friends lived, where she’d played as a child. Her throat tightened. Her boyfriend, her friends, her family. She would miss them all.
You ready? Her mummy’s voice rang through the house. Aoife continued staring out the window, a pastel rainbow stretching across the sky. The bluebottle was gone. Free, she thought, and reached to close the window. From the kitchen radio she heard Tom Lehrer singing about a girl killing her family. She remembered her daddy singing it when they were little and they’d all giggled about lying being a sin.
Elizabeth pulled up at the gate and walked up the path. You alright, she mouthed at Aoife through the window. Aoife nodded. Ah, you’ll miss her, she heard her say to her mummy in the hall. And then, louder, for Aoife to hear, Christ, what’ve you got in this case anyway? Here, away and take that out to the car, her mummy said to her youngest sister. A thump as the case was dragged out of the house. Pick it up, shouted her mummy, or it’ll bust before she’s even set off.
The memories were choking her now. She remembered how they’d go to the seaside on the bus, buckets and spades and a picnic, the whole family. They’d find a wee hollow in the dunes to set out their towels. Sand sandwich, her daddy would ask as he handed out lunch. They always laughed. Families who drove there parked right on the beach and every time a tractor had to come and rescue a car out of the water. She smiled. Then the time she’d run home because she’d heard gun shots and told of the two policemen outside the shop. They’d looked at each other and told her it was a car backfiring. In the morning, her mummy said it had been on the radio. And her daddy telling them stories at bedtime. He’d sit on the end of the bed when they were little and make them up. Something about a rabbit and a hare. She’d loved those stories. She wished she could remember them now.
A door banged upstairs, making her jump. She needed to go, now. She was ready to start her new life.
They stood in Central Station in Belfast looking at the departure board. Be good, said her mummy. Ring when you get there. It’ll be gone midnight! Well, tomorrow then. Right Aoife, watch those wee Welsh fellas, said her daddy, pressing some notes into her hand. And write. See you at Christmas, said Elizabeth. We’ll go out on the tear.
As she boarded the train she turned and waved. They had already gone. The train was busy and she weaved through the carriages, lugging her suitcase until she found a seat and sat staring out as the countryside flew past. She hadn’t been to Dublin for years, and never alone. And now she had to find her way to Dún Laoghaire to get the boat to Holyhead. What was she playing at, she wondered.
The boat loomed before her and a press of people carried her forward. Catching sight of herself in a window she saw how pale and gaunt she looked, wide eyed. She blessed herself and touched her finger to the St Christopher her granny had given her when she was wee. Looking around, she saw families, mothers holding little hands, fathers carrying weans. People her own age, some carrying suitcases, some with rucksacks on their backs. A group of men in suits laughing loudly and drinking beer. She couldn’t do this. It was out of the question. She turned and pushing against the throng, her hands clutching the railings, she squeezed herself back down the gangway.
Terror-stricken, she sat in the departure lounge. A girl approached, rucksack on her shoulders. You OK, she asked. I’m off to university, said Aoife. I don’t think I can do it. The girl smiled. Your first time, she said. Come with me.