Page 17 of Pyg

BLACK OUT

A s if life wasn’t already difficult enough, in the wake of our mother’s departure it became invariably tougher. The only reprieve was school — and that was saying something.

“My mother says your mother’s a tart.” The taunts stung as much as the blows.

“Shut your stupid mouth!” Bernard’s anguished yells reached me before I rounded the corner into the playground.

“Oh Christ, Bernie,” I muttered under my breath, clenching my fists in preparation.

My brother gripped the collar of pale-faced Johnny Malone and pushed him against the wall. Johnny’s thin lips snarled and then he barked laughter in the face of the younger, much smaller boy. The gang of Johnny’s mates pressed closer.

“Go on, hit me, you little wimp.” Johnny turned his head and presented his pockmarked jaw, feathered with pubescent fuzz. The crowd of boys jeered, and Johnny laughed again.

I elbowed my way through the boys and held Bernard’s primed arm.

“Don’t waste your energy, Bernie. He’s not worth it.”

“Get off me!” Bernard’s high-pitched squawk prompted a boom of laughter from the boys, gathered and grunting like baying baboons.

“No, come on.” I pulled my brother back by the shoulders, his small frame easily yielding.

“Aw, I wanted him to hit me like your mammy’s head hits the headboard when she’s shagging the priest, and probably anyone else who wants a go.”

In one swift move, I shoved Bernard away and swung my arm until my fist connected with Johnny Malone’s face. Two cracks followed: Johnny’s nose breaking, and his head hitting the brick wall.

Johnny cupped his bleeding nose and slid to the ground; his mates crowded in. Adrenaline pulsing, I weaved and ducked out of the scuffle, grabbing the open-mouthed Bernard by the sleeve and tugging him away from the scene.

* * *

“Shit, shit, shit.” I peered around the enormous oak tree at the edge of the field.

Bernard stared up at me. “I think you broke his bloody nose, George.” A smile widened across his face. “I actually heard it crack.”

“Me too, but that’s not a good thing. We’re in deep shit now, Bernie.” I swallowed, my mouth as dry as sawdust.

“Yeah, but that’ll teach him for talking rubbish about Mum.” Bernard bounced on the balls of his feet, fists up as if sparring with an imaginary adversary.

“Not rubbish though, is it?” I muttered.

“What was that?” Bernard threw a right hook.

“Nothing.” I huffed and slumped against the tree, watching as my brother bobbed around throwing punches at the air, apparently oblivious to both the truth and the trouble we were in.

Nearly two months Mum had been gone and not a word from her. Not a phone call or letter, or even a message via our grandmother. We’d quickly given up asking to avoid the grim satisfaction that lit up the otherwise sour features of our grandmother’s face.

“That’s what stray bitches do, abandon their little bastard pups. Just be grateful I’m still willing to put a roof over your heads and food in your stomachs.”

It’s the least you can do, I thought, but kept my mouth shut.

Between us, Bernard and I picked up most of the housekeeping chores, aside from the cooking. We’d tried and failed — resulting in one pot of inedible burned potatoes and one burned finger, Bernard’s, which Grandmother roughly lathered in margarine as she snapped at him to “stop snivelling like a sissy.”

Thereafter, a dowdy little woman called Miss Bray, who wore a crucifix so big it looked like it might snap her scrawny neck, came in to cook three times a week. She showed up with grocery shopping, purchased from the miserly budget Grandmother afforded her, and left behind a refrigerator full of evening meals, which I heated and served.

The three of us ate together, sitting around the kitchen table in silence, except for when Grandmother lectured us on our eating etiquette and table manners, or lack thereof.

We’d taken to shutting Pyg in the studio during school hours, keeping her out of Grandmother’s, and harm’s, way. At night we waited until the old woman heaved her creaky frame upstairs to bed and then we’d sneak Pyg into our bedroom; ninja-stealth mode. We fed her scraps from our own lean meals — cold cuts and stale bread — her eyes glistening as she hungered for more.

“Sorry, girl, that’s all there is,” I would say, stroking the soft downy fur of her head and ignoring the growl of my own stomach. Where are you, Mum?

“George?” A voice pulled me from my thoughts. Bernard had slumped down next to me, his back resting on the oak tree and his head on my shoulder. “What did Johnny mean by what he said about the priest?”

“Huh?”

Bernard’s light eyebrows drew together as he concentrated. “You know, he said that Mum was?—”

“Just stupid rumours, Bernie.”

“Did he mean Father Higgins? Because he’s been gone a while now, too.”

I shrugged. Fucking Higgins.

The shrill school bell signalled the end of lunch and stymied Bernard’s line of questioning. I jumped to my feet and lowered an arm to pull Bernard up, wincing as he gripped my hand, my bruised knuckles a throbbing reminder of the deep shit we were in.

“Come on, let’s get this over with.”

I’d barely walked through the main entrance before I was met by Sister Evelyn’s haughty voice.

“George Shaw. Father Sutherland’s office, immediately.” Her words quavered like her jowls.

Bernard shot me a doe-eyed look of apology and slunk off to his classroom. I took a calming breath and trod heavy steps in the direction of Father Sutherland’s office. I gulped at the trail of dried blood dotted along the dingy corridor. No doubt Johnny Malone’s. And I berated myself for defending our mother’s honour.

Why bother? The rumours were true, weren’t they? At least where Higgins was concerned. And now she’s off, shacked up with him somewhere. I shook my head to expel the thought, to dismiss the delirious grin that always lit up Mum’s face in the presence of Higgins.

The bloody trail continued past where I came to a stop at the wooden church pew. I sat waiting to be summoned; waiting to receive Father Sutherland’s wrath, and no doubt his ruler across the back of my legs. As if my knuckles weren’t sore enough, the sadistic old bastard would make sure I couldn’t sit down for a week without wanting to cry.

And all for what? A mother who’d abandoned us. Still, the crack of Malone’s nose had been quite satisfying. I flexed and clenched my fingers.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, and the white-haired head of the priest peered out. “Come on in, Mr Shaw.”

With leaden legs, I hung my head and sloped into the office like a dead man walking. But I accepted my fate; I’d always defend my mother and Bernard against bullies like Malone. For that, I wasn’t sorry.

The musty room smelt of cigarettes and furniture polish, and dust motes swirled in the light of the low sun streaming from the window behind the priest’s desk. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, which housed tomes that were probably heavier than Bernard.

“Take a seat please, Mr Shaw.”

I tentatively perched on the bench in front of the desk. Already dwarfed by the towering man, in the low seat I felt like I’d been shrunk to Lilliputian proportions. Defiantly, I lifted my gaze to meet the priest’s sunken blue eyes. I was surprised not to see a face contorted in anger, like it had been the last time I’d entered this room, but a soft expression.

“I understand that things haven’t been easy for your grandmother since your mother went on mission.”

“Mission?” My voice came out as tiny as I felt.

“Yes, the Catholics of Mercy Project in East Africa.”

“Africa! She’s in Africa?”

“Yes, with Father Higgins.”

I frowned. “Wait. Isn’t this about Malone?”

“Malone?”

“Johnny Malone.”

“No, it’s about your grandmother.” Father Sutherland slowly closed and opened his eyes. “We, the church that is, should’ve given your grandmother more support. And now, I’m sorry to say, she’s had a nasty fall. Earlier today, she was in the garden burning some rubbish?—”

“What rubbish?”

Sutherland drew a breath through his bulbous nose. “I don’t know. That’s not the… listen, she’ll be in hospital for some time, I’m afraid. The good news is that Miss Bray has very kindly?—”

“The lady from church?”

The priest raised his fingers to his temples. “Yes, Ruth— Miss Bray — is a lay sister. Lucky for you, she’s very fond of your grandmother. She’s offered to live in and watch over you and your brother, at least until your grandmother is out of hospital. It may be a while, as she sustained some burns on her arm and will need an operation.”

I blinked rapidly, my thoughts sprinting too fast for me to keep up with them. I had so many questions, but I could sense the headmaster’s thinning patience, so I tried to focus on the most important ones. “You said my mother’s in Africa? I’d really like to speak with her. It’s been months. Do you know how I can reach her?”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“If I were you, I would save all my thoughts and prayers for wishing your grandmother well. Your mother has given herself to another purpose now. It’s unlikely you’ll be hearing from her again.”

“What? No, she said she would send for us.” Panic clutched at my throat, and I sprung to my feet, now the same height standing as the priest was seated.

Father Sutherland shuffled through the paperwork on his desk. When he spoke again, he did so without meeting my eyes.

“You’re dismissed, Mr Shaw.”

“But—”

“Miss Bray will keep me updated on your and Bernard’s behaviour, so ensure it’s at its best, or else we’ll have to come to some other, less favourable arrangement.”

“But—”

“Please close the door on your way out.”

Rooted to the spot, I stared at the priest for a moment, but he acted as though I’d already left and continued to busy himself at his desk. I darted out and raced along the corridor, skidding to a stop outside Bernard’s classroom. I inhaled a fortifying breath before opening the door. Thirty young heads swivelled in my direction as I edged into the room. I gulped when met with the incendiary glare of Sister Mary Assumpta.

“Yes, Mr Shaw?” said the nun without blinking.

I cleared my throat, which had decided to seal over at the sight of my audience.

“I need to speak to Bernard, please.”

“Can’t it wait until after school?” She still hadn’t blinked.

“No, it can’t, sorry. Bernard, get your things. We have to go.”

Bernard started to rise to his feet.

“Sit down, Bernard.”

“Come on, Bernie,” I said. The poor lad stood frozen in a crouch.

The nun’s eyes bulged so much I thought they might pop out. Bernard’s head whipped between Sister Mary and I, before he made a split-second decision and dashed for the door.

“Get back here.”

“Sorry, Sister,” Bernard called over his shoulder.

We ran along the corridor and out through the main school doors.

“What’s going on, George? We’re gonna be in so much trouble,” Bernard panted.

“We have to get home. I’m worried about Pyg.”

“Shit.” Bernard stopped in his tracks.

“What?”

He clutched his arms around himself. “I forgot my coat.”

I quickly whipped off my jacket and thrust it at my brother. “Here, have mine.”

“Won’t you be cold?”

“I don’t care, let’s go.”

* * *

I slid my key into the lock, but before I’d turned it, the door edged open. I looked around at Bernard, who stared back with wide eyes. I tentatively pushed my way inside and an eerie silence met me instead of the usual shriek of Grandmother from the drawing room.

Several pairs of muddy footprints had been trodden along the parquet floor and the smell of smoke lingered, like the time we’d burned the potatoes, only stronger.

Bernard followed in my wake as I walked the muddy trail in reverse, along the hallway, into the kitchen, through the unlocked back door and out into the garden, where smoke filled the air with an acrid stench and a swirling grey haze.

Sutherland said she’d been burning rubbish.

A lead weight sunk in my stomach with the realisation.

No, no, no — she wouldn’t have, would she? I put an arm out to stop Bernard.

“Maybe you should wait inside?”

“No,” Bernard whined. “I want to check on Pyg. She’s my dog too.”

I sighed and dropped my arm. We continued along the path together, the smoke growing stronger with every step. Then, through the grey haze, the shape of the studio emerged. The remnants of the door hung from its hinges and the small window had shattered in its charred frame. Thick blue-grey smoke poured out through the gaping holes.

“Pyg,” Bernard cried out, darting past me.

“Bernard, wait.” I bolted after him, blinking my watering eyes against the smoke and following him into the blackness.

Beyond the charred door, the studio had been gutted. Water dripped from the blackened remains where the fire had been doused. Embers flashed like the eyes of tiny demons, still aglow in the wooden beams, cracking and popping as the fire died.

Everything was gone. Destroyed. Ruined. Our books, the transistor, Mum’s paintings, the cushions and blankets she’d made by hand, her smell, the memories. It that instant, it struck me that I’d never see my mother again. She’s gone. And the hope drained out of me, swirling away like water down a plughole.

“Pyg? Pyg?” Bernard’s panicked voice called out. “George, where’s Pyg?”

Then he was at my side, coughing and tugging my arm.

We left her in here to keep her safe… because the dragon never leaves its cave… because the dragon… the dragon…

I hope the dragon fucking dies.

“George,” Bernard screamed, but I felt so far away. I wanted to answer. I wanted to tell my little brother that Pyg was alright. That our mother was alright. That I’d light the stove and make hot blackcurrant. We’d turn on the little red radio. Pick of the Pops would be on, and I would laugh as Bernard made up dances to the new songs and Pyg would bark and swish her tail. And everything would be alright. Because I didn’t know what to do if it wasn’t.

And then I stumbled, spluttering, falling. I dropped to my knees. Bernard was crying, and I wanted to hold him, stroke his hair and smooth down the stubborn tufts at his crown, because that’s what Mum would do. I wanted to rub those black smudges off his face.

But I couldn’t feel my arms. And then, there was black. I sunk into the darkness, swallowed by its depths.