Being Emily. Anne Donovan
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they’re climbin up her legs like squirrels, cuddlin her and sayin, Mammy, you’re hame.
They’re nearly as bad wi ma da, but he puts on that helpless look and Mammy says Bobby, but no in the tone she says Fiona, mair like, well what d’you expect, he’s a man.
As usual, the second the door slammed Mona started haulin the cushions aff the couch in the livin room. We’re tigers and you’re our prey. She growled and clawed at me.
Let’s go tae the swing park, ah said.
Don’t want tae go tae the swing park. Want tae kill wur prey. Rona bit ma leg through ma jeans.
Hey, pack it in. Ah’ve got Smarties for yous.
The twins’ll dae anythin for chocolate and Patrick’ll dae anythin for a quiet life so he gies me money tae buy sweeties.
Gimme, gimme.
After we’ve been tae the park.
At the swing park the twins climbed up the chute the wrang way while ah read ma biography of Emily. Her brother and sisters and her all lived in this hoose on the edge of the moors; they went out for long walks and made up their ain imaginary world. Their brother Branwell got a box of toy soldiers so they each picked wan and made up stories aboot it, wrote them doon in wee booklets.
The wumman next tae me on the bench said, Are they your wee sisters?
When ah looked up Rona was hingin upside doon fae the chains on the swing and Mona was shovin a toddler aff the baby chute. Ah shut ma book.
C’mon, we’re gaun hame.
How?
Dinnertime. Anyhow, it’s startin tae rain.
* * *
Later in the efternoon, ah got out paper and felties and scissors. Ah cut the paper intae squares and folded them so they were like wee books, then sat Mona and Rona doon at the table.
Are we playin a game? said Mona.
We’re gonnae write stories about your Barbies.
But we’ve got stories about them. In the Barbie comic.
Ah know, but new stories, wans we make up wursels.
The twins have got loadsa different Barbies but they each have a special favourite they drag aboot wi them. Rona’s is called Bendy Barbie because, due tae some accident, she has a big bit missin fae her leg and it bends round as if she’s double-jointed. Mona’s is called Bubbly Barbie cause she’s always greetin.
Ah’ll dae the writin. You just tell me the words tae put doon.
The twins looked at each other then Rona said, Okay.
Ah’ll start, ah said. It was the first day of the summer holidays.
Bendy Barbie went tae the park, said Rona. She was playin on the chute.
Ah printed the words, dead neat.
Along came Bubbly Barbie. She pushed Bendy Barbie aff the chute. Mona whacked Rona’s Barbie wi hers. Bendy Barbie started greetin so she was Bubbly Barbie noo.
Are you sure this is what you want in the story? ah said.
Rona hit Mona’s Barbie back, then the two of them started batterin each other. Just then Patrick appeared in his stripy jammies.
What’s this – Blue Peter?
A zebra, a stripy zebra. Tigers kill zebras! shouted Rona.
She and Mona stood up on their chairs, started clawin at Patrick and growlin.
Then suddenly a miraculous change came over the twins’ faces. They smiled sweetly, sat doon and started tae cuddle the dolls. They must be like dugs, can hear things humans cannae, for the next second there was Mammy.
Clear that stuff aff the table, would you, Fiona?
The twins rushed to switch on their music.
Just because we’re married
Don’t mean we can’t fool around.
Let’s walk out through the moonlight
And lay the blanket on the ground.
Should they be listenin tae that? said Da, who’d just come in the door.
What? said Mammy, stirrin the mince.
Never mind, said ma da.
Efter tea Mammy took the twins tae their line dancin. They’re the youngest in the class but they’re stars. For the displays they wear cowboy hats and waistcoats wi shiny fringes; it’s like watchin wan person, as they step and birl, turn and clap, spot on the beat.
It was dead quiet without them. Patrick, ma da and me sat in a row on the couch. There was a decoratin programme on the TV and a guy in an orange tee shirt was witterin on aboot paint effects. Patrick watches this every week and Da just sits in fronty anythin that’s on the box. Ah looked up from ma book.
Da, what’s consumption?
Consumption no be done aboot it?
Da?
Whit, hen?
It’s the Brontës. There was six of them at the start and the two big sisters died of consumption. Whit is it?
It’s a disease.
Ah know that – whit kind of disease?
Some kind of pneumonia or that. They’d all kinds of diseases in they days we don’t really get noo. Your granny had scarlet fever when she was wee. My God, would you look at the colour he’s puttin on that wall.
Pistachio, said Patrick.
You’d need tae be well pistachio-ed tae paint yer livin room like that.
Ah could hear Mammy and the twins outside. If ah got out the road quick ah’d miss their bedtime. Ah slipped through the close, away tae the far endy the back court and hunkered doon at the wall. Mrs Flanagan’s washin was still out, her enormous great drawers and her man’s gigantic tartan boxers saggin fae the line. Ah think if ma bum was as big as that ah’d dry ma washin inside. In the bin shelter the Jacksons’ grey cat slithered round the edge of a wheelie bin, its tail skitterin against the plastic.
Ah leaned on the wall, took Wuthering Heights out ma pocket and opened it at ma favourite bit.
‘My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath, a source of little visible delight, but necessary.’
Patrick came doon the path carryin a plastic binbag.
Mammy’s wonderin where you are. Better get inside.
Okay. Patrick, are there any moors round here?
Moors?
Aye. Emily used tae wander aboot the moors.
Ah don’t think you want tae dae that. You might get consumption.
Consumption no be done aboot it?
Patrick stood leanin against the washin pole, swingin the bag fae side tae side. The grass was all worn and patchy under his foot.
If you like, ah’ll teach you tae bake bread.
Really?
Ah’ll bring hame some yeast the morra. Mammy’s no workin so you won’t have tae watch the twins. You can watch yer dough risin instead.