One o’Clock

The diary told me I had until one o’clock that day.

It was quite unusual really, the morning playing out exactly as I’d read the night before. Rosaleen waking me, telling me to stay home, and it seemed so obvious then‑the second time round‑that she just didn’t want me visible to the rest of her little world. Imagine the horror and shame of having to tell people that Mum and I existed; that a man had taken his life, the worst sin of all. I’d felt angry about that and had to fight my desire to demand I go to mass too but I stayed under the covers, and as I listened to their car drive away in the sepia‑coloured day, here’s where my day differed to the diary. It was unusual, having things happening that I felt had technically already happened, but I was sort of getting used to it.

Instead of falling back asleep after Rosaleen and Arthur had driven off, I got dressed and ran downstairs. I was sitting on the garden wall when the yellow Cinquecento came flying down the road, with the window rolled down.

‘Ah!’ Sister Ignatius’ eyes lit up. ‘Just the girl I wanted to see. Are you coming to mass?’

I looked in the car at the four nuns squashed together.

‘Oh, you can sit on Sister Peter Regina’s knee,’ she teased, and I heard a ‘pah’ from inside. ‘We sing at all the morning masses. You’re part of a choir, you should join us if the laryngitis isn’t still at you.’

Can’t, I mimed, grabbing my throat and opening and closing my mouth.

‘Gargle some salt and you’ll be as right as rain,’ she glared at me, then brightened. ‘Thanks for the book, by the way.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I broke my silence. ‘I picked it especially for you.’

‘I thought so,’ she chuckled. ‘You know at the beginning, I didn’t like her, Marilyn Mountrothman. She was stuck up and expected far too much, but by the end I grew to love her. Just like Tariq. It didn’t seem an obvious pairing but the way he knew just what she was thinking all the time, particularly when she was crying about the message from her father but wouldn’t tell him. Oh, that got me, I must admit. But he figured it out. He knew that she loved him. Smart man! I suppose that’s how he made his millions and became the oil tycoon. I like it when they put the photos of them on the front covers. It helps me visualise them all the way through. Him with his hair slicked back and all those muscles…’

‘You actually read it?’

‘Oh, yes, of course I did. Sister Conceptua has started it now.’

The woman in the front passenger seat twisted around. ‘Don’t tell me what happens. He’s just chartered the private plane to Istanbul.’

‘Oh, you’ve the best bits to get to yet,’ Sister Ignatius clapped her hands. ‘Two words‑Turkish delight,’ she said.

‘I said sshh,’ Sister Conceptua snapped. ‘You’ll give it away.’

‘We have to go,’ Sister Mary barked from behind the wheel. ‘We’ll be late.’

‘Think of coming next week, okay?’ Sister Ignatius said to me then, seriously.

‘Okay,’ I nodded. ‘I’m thinking of going back to bed for the morning. If you see Rosaleen, you might just let her know that?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes, I’m really thinking about it.’

‘I see. What are you getting up to?’

‘We really have to go,’ Sister Mary started up the engine.

‘Wait,’ I panicked slightly. ‘I just need something from you. A name.’

Moments later I was watching them fly around the corner, no indication or brake lights visible, but Sister Ignatius’ arm high in the air in a salute.

It was ten o’clock.

I had my priorities in order and Mum was top of my list. I flicked through the phone book and searched for the name Sister Ignatius had given me. The phone rang once, twice, three times, then just as it went to answering machine a man answered.

‘Hello?’ he croaked, then cleared his throat. ‘Hold on.’ I could hear he was out of breath and he fought with trying to turn the answering machine off.

I cleared my throat. Tamara Big‑Girl had work to do.

‘Hello, I’m calling to make an appointment with Dr Gedad.’

‘Uh, he’s not here.’ He sounded half‑asleep. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘Em…no…will he be back before one o’clock?’

‘His surgery isn’t open on Sundays.’

I paused. There was something familiar.

‘It’s actually a house call.’

‘Is it an emergency?’

I held my breath. Then: ‘Weseley, is that you?’

‘Yeah. Who’s this?’

Lie, Tamara, lie, make up a name.

‘It’s Tamara. Sorry for waking you.’

‘Tamara.’ He sounded a little more awake now. ‘Are you okay? You need a doctor? He’s my dad.’

‘Oh…it’s not for me, it’s for my mum. But it’s not an emergency or anything. Do you think he’ll be back by one?’

‘I don’t know. They go to mass and then the market. Usually they’re back at around one.’

‘What is it with the bloody mass and market here?’

‘I know, they all love it.’ He yawned. ‘I think my dad goes just to hand out business cards to anyone that coughs.’

I laughed. ‘Did you stay out much later last night?’

‘About another hour. Didn’t you hear us?’

‘It took me about a half‑hour to climb back into my bedroom. I closed the window by mistake and broke all my nails prying it back open.’

He laughed. ‘You should have come back, I’d have helped you get in. I know where Arthur’s secret stash of tools are. Do you want me to get my dad to call around at one?’

‘No, it’s okay. Before one suits me best.’

‘What about tomorrow?’

I would have to wait another week for Rosaleen and Arthur to leave. Unless…I had one small window of opportunity when Rosaleen called to her mother.

‘Between ten and eleven tomorrow?’

‘I’ll run it by him. I’ll get him to call you.’

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘He can’t call here.’

‘Well, do you have a cell?’ he teased.

‘No.’

‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘It’s far too early in the morning for me to have to think. Give me a second.’

I waited.

‘Right, I take it you don’t want Rosaleen and Arthur to know, so when my dad gets back I’ll find out if he’s available and then I’ll meet you at the castle at two to let you know.’

I smiled. He could have phoned; he wanted to see me again.

I rang off, feeling fired up. One thing almost crossed off my list.

Mission two was to explore the bungalow. Or at least to have a look in the back garden; I didn’t want to scare the life out of the old lady. With my alibi prepared, I emptied a few berries into a bowl, I boiled the kettle, toasted a few slices of bread, scrambled a few eggs…very badly, managing to burn the bottom of the pan. I soaked it in the sink and dreaded the look on Rosaleen’s face when she saw it. I put everything on a tray and covered it with a tea towel just as Rosaleen did each morning. Feeling proud of my first attempt of breakfast, probably ever, I left the house and made my way, very slowly, so as not to spill the cup of tea I’d prepared. With two hands holding the tray, climbing over the gate without being able to lean on the pillar was difficult. The towel became soaked with tea but I pressed on. I passed the net‑curtained living room and walked down the side passage. Again, my vision was taken from me as a bright light shone directly at my face. I closed my eyes tightly, then tried to balance the tray against the wall on one side so that I could rub them. I almost dropped the tray, making a racket as cups and plates collided. When the light had left my eyes and my vision returned, I continued on, choosing to look at the ground as I walked. As soon as I reached the end of the passageway, I stepped into the back garden and prepared to be blown away, prepared to see a little old lady tending her garden, giant mushrooms and fairies and unicorns and an entire magical world that Rosaleen was hiding. But I saw nothing. Nothing but a long grassy field, with trees on either side. Rosaleen’s mother didn’t have green fingers, that was for sure.

The back of the bungalow was as deserted‑looking as the front. Again, each window was covered by lace net curtains. There were two windows and a back door. I knew one was the kitchen, as I could just about make out the tap on the sink. The doorway seemed like the newest addition to the house. It was brown with yellow‑tinted obscured glass. The second window gave nothing away.

I turned my attention to the workshed, where the object in the window continued to glisten and beckon me forward. I ignored the bungalow and began to make my way towards it. Halfway down I realised I should have left the tray, but I continued. On closer inspection, what glistened so much appeared to be a twisted piece of glass, hanging from a piece of twine. It spiralled elegantly and smoothly to a sharp point, the same shape as a bunch of grapes and was about sixty inches in length. As the draughty window blew it, it spun in circles, twirling and giving the illusion that it was spiralling down, catching the light at different points over and over again. It was hypnotising.

As I was staring at the glass, something else caught my eye. A movement. Thinking it was a reflection in the grass, I turned to see who was behind me but there was nothing but the trees moving in the breeze. I thought I’d imagined it but on further inspection, there it was again. A figure inside the shed. I moved slowly closer to the workshed, trying not to make much noise with my tray and really wishing I hadn’t bothered with it now, as the eggs and tea would surely be cold and the buttered toast would be soft. The workshed windowledge was shoulder height. I stood at the corner on my tiptoes to see inside. I didn’t dare look round the rest of the room, but kept my eyes on Rosaleen’s mother in case she saw me and came at me with a sharp piece of glass.

I could see only her back. Her figure, in a long brown cardigan was hunched over a workbench. She had long scraggy hair, more brown than grey, which looked like she hadn’t brushed it for a month. I watched her for a while, trying to decide whether to knock or not. I didn’t even know her name. I didn’t even know Rosaleen’s maiden name to be able to address her. Eventually I built up the courage. I knocked gently.

The figure jumped and I hoped I hadn’t given her a heart attack. She halfturned, slowly and stiffly. The side of her face that was towards me was covered mostly by her long tatty hair. Over her eyes were a pair of oversized goggles, protective glasses that covered half her forehead and pinched her cheeks. She was all hair and goggles, like a nutty professor.

I balanced the tray on one knee and while the cups and plates clinked and slid, wobbled and spilled, I quickly waved, giving the biggest smile I’d ever given a person just so she’d know I wasn’t here to kill her. She just stared at me, no expression, no registering of any kind. I lifted the tray as high as I could, then balanced it on my knee again to quickly make an eating motion. There was still no response. I knew then that I was going to be in big trouble; it had not gone to plan. Rosaleen was right: her mother was not ready for perfect strangers and even if she was, I should have waited for Rosaleen to introduce us. I took a few steps back.

‘I’m leaving this here for you,’ I said loudly, hoping she’d hear me. I placed the tray down on the grass and backed away. As I was moving backward, I glanced down past the workshed at the rest of the garden. My mouth dropped and I sidestepped to take a closer look. Rows of washing lines filled the lawn. There must have been between ten and twenty lines. On each line were dozens of glass mobiles, all different shapes, glass twisted and turned to make unique shapes, some ridged, some smooth, dangling in the breeze, catching the light, sparkling and silently swaying. A field of glass.

I passed by the workshed and went into the back lawn to further investigate. They were all far apart enough not to hit against one another. If they had been even a centimetre closer I’m sure they would surely have smashed. The lines were pulled tight, attached to a wall at the bottom of the garden and run tightly all the way to a pole at the other end. They stood taller than me so I was constantly looking up, seeing the light of the sky through the glass. They were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Some appeared to drip, full and fluid, from the twine like giant tear drops but instead of falling, they’d frozen mid‑air. Others had fewer swirls and curves, and were rigid spikes, more angry and sharp, hanging like icicles, like weapons. Each time the wind blew they swayed from side to side, I walked down the middle of one row, stopping occasionally to examine them. I’d never seen anything like them, so clear and pure. Some had bubbles trapped inside, others were completely clear. I held my hand up and looked at it through the glass, seeming obscured in some, perfectly as it was in others. Fascinating and beautiful, some distorted and disturbing others pretty and so fragile, as though touching them would shatter them.

I was going to go further and investigate the other lines when I turned round to make sure I was still alone and I saw Rosaleen’s mother had all of a sudden moved to a window that overlooked this second half of the garden. She was looking at me, her hand pressed up against the glass. I stopped walking and stood in one row, feeling like a Cabbage Patch girl in a field of glass, and smiled back, wondering how long she’d been watching me. I tried to make out her face, to see her features, but it was impossible. She was yet again showing only her silhouette, her long hair falling to her shoulders, not grey as I had thought earlier, but a mouse‑brown with white streaks. She seemed to be ageless, faceless, even more mysterious to me now than she was before I’d seen her.

I left the field of glass mobiles, taking them all in as though I’d never see them again as punishment for trespassing. Once I’d passed into the other garden, I could see her watching me still, not at the window but further away, deeper in the room.

I waved again, pointed to the tray on the grass, made eating gestures, as though it was feeding time in the zoo. She continued to stare at me making no reaction. Completely uncomfortable‑hot sun, good win, very dead‑I turned round and quickly walked away from the garden, not looking back once but feeling as I used to feel as a little girl, running from my friend’s house to my own house in the dark, and thinking there was a witch behind me.

It was twelve o’clock.

I paced the living room, back and forth, up and down, left and right. Sat down, stood up. Made my way to Mum’s room, then stopped and went back to the room again. I wrung my hands and looked out the window now and then, expecting to see Rosaleen’s mother come racing across the road on her wheelchair, doing wheelies and cracking a whip. I also expected Rosaleen and Arthur to round the corner at top speed too. Rosaleen had lain traps around the bungalow: I’d tripped a wire, a blade of grass was out of place, I’d walked through a beam and triggered an alarm in her handbag. She was going to tie me to a bed, break my legs with a sledgehammer and force me to write her a novel. I couldn’t do that. I could barely keep a diary. I don’t know‑I felt something, anything could happen. I broke the rules at home all the time, here it was different. Here it was all so strict and ancient, like living on an excavation site and everybody was tiptoeing around, not walking here, but only walking there, speaking quietly so as not to crumble the foundations, using little brushes and tools to scratch at the surface and blow away dust, but never going any deeper and I’d arrived stomping through the place with a shovel and spade and I’d ruined everything.

And now I’d have to go back and get the tray or else Rosaleen would know what I’d done. I hoped I hadn’t poisoned her mother‑oh God, what if I had? Eggs could be dangerous things and I’d forgotten to wash the berries. Was salmonella lethal? I almost picked up the phone and called Weseley again but I resisted. After spending far too long frantically worrying, I realised nothing was going to happen‑not immediately, anyway‑and I really hadn’t done anything wrong either. I’d tried to be nice to an old woman. So shoot me. I hoped she was enjoying my eggs.

I calmed down then. Next on my list was the garage at the bottom of the garden. I opened the back door which led from the kitchen to the garden, and ran down the lawn, then through Rosaleen’s vegetable patch, which ran along the bottom. I looked up at Mum’s bedroom window, which was empty as she continued to sleep on.

As garages go, it was a fine one. It was clad in the same limestone as the house, or near enough to it, and looked better built than any of my dad’s developments. I say that with the greatest respect to my dad who was proud of what he built, I just don’t think he cared much for architecture. It was more about space and how to give the least possible amount of it to everybody. The garage almost filled the full width of the garden, twenty‑five metres long. To the right of the house, on the other side of the neatly manicured hedge was a tractor trail, yet another path that meandered around the grounds. But before it left the house’s vicinity there was a turn‑off which led to the garage’s double doors. I’d never seen Arthur park the tractor inside. Perhaps Rosaleen was correct, perhaps there wasn’t room inside for our possessions. I favoured this way into the garage because I wouldn’t be visible from the house, but there was a bigger door to open, a bigger lock to pick. I looked in all of the windows but I couldn’t see anything. They’d been covered on the inside by black sacks. I tried the single door, which was locked and then I went round to the double doors again. I pulled and pushed, I kicked and banged. I used a rock to continuously hammer at the lock, but that did nothing but dent the metal.

It was twelve‑thirty by the time I returned to the house, none the wiser on the garage. I washed my hands and changed my clothes, which were filthy from my breaking‑and‑entering attempt. I checked on Mum, who was finally awake and taking a shower. I took my time getting dressed, knowing exactly how long I had until Rosaleen and Arthur returned. I sat on my bed and looked across to the bungalow. Something caught my eye.

On the pillar by the front gate was the tray. I stood up, examined the garden, the house. Nobody was in the garden, nobody watched from the window. I checked to see if Rosaleen had returned but the car was still gone.

It was 12.50 p.m.

I ran downstairs and outside, across the road. The tray was covered by the tea‑cloth as I had laid it down. Underneath, the food was gone, the tea cup was empty. They gleamed as though they had just been cleaned. On the plate sat the tiniest version of one of the glass mobiles that I had been studying. Like a small tear drop, it was soft and smooth and fit perfectly into the palm of my hand. There was nothing else. No card, nobody to tell me it was for me. I waited, but nobody came. It was dangerously close to one o’clock and I couldn’t wait any longer. I couldn’t risk Rosaleen returning to find me on the wall with a tray and a glass tear drop. I put the piece of glass in my pocket. I ran across the road as quickly as I could without shattering the contents of the tray. Just as I closed the front door behind me, I heard Rosaleen and Arthur’s car return. Shaking, I placed the cleaned cups and saucers, and plate back in the kitchen cupboards. I put the tray back where it belonged. I grabbed my book from the living room, ran upstairs into my Mum’s room and dived on the bed. Mum, who was coming out of the bathroom, looked at me in shock. Seconds later the door opened and Rosaleen looked in.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, as Mum tightened her towel around her.

She stepped back further from the door so that she could only see me.

‘Tamara, is everything okay?’

‘Yes thanks.’

‘What did you do all morning?’ It wasn’t an interested enquiry, it was a concerned one, and not concern for my boredom either.

‘I was just here with Mum all morning, reading my book.’

‘Oh, very good.’ She stalled a bit, always afraid to leave a room, ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’

She closed the door and when I looked at Mum, I realised she was looking at me and smiling. She laughed then and shook her head and I almost felt like cancelling Dr Gedad.

The door opened again. Rosaleen looked at Mum’s breakfast tray.

‘Jennifer you didn’t eat again.’

‘Oh,’ Mum said looking up while putting on another of her cashmere lounge robes. ‘Tamara will eat it for me.’ Then she smiled sweetly at Rosaleen.

‘No, no,’ Rosaleen said hastily coming inside and taking the tray. ‘I’ll take that away.’

Mum kept watching her, blue eyes shining.

‘Tamara, your lunch will be ready soon,’ Rosaleen told me nervously, and backed out of the room.

I looked at Mum in confusion, for an explanation, but she had disappeared again, back into her shell. Turtles either disappear into their shells because they’re scared or because danger lurks and they’re protecting themselves. Either way, as soon as those shells grow, they never lose them because they’re physically a part of them.

During that summer if ever people tried to convince me that Mum was never returning to the way I remember her before Dad died‑and some people hinted at it‑I kept thinking of those turtles. She would keep the new shell she’d grown over the past few months, and she would carry it around with her for the rest of her life but that didn’t mean she would disappear into it. I saw proof that day that Mum hadn’t disappeared for good, I saw it in her eyes. I remember the exact moment when I saw her again. It was at one o’clock.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 705