A Greyhound of a Girl by Roddy Doyle

like them—people that old, and married—kissing like that, like they
liked
each other, fancied each other.
    She looked out the window, but it was all the same. Fields and trees; the Wicklow Mountains, or something, on one side; nothing much on the other side.
    Her father was going bald. And her mother, lanky Emer—she should have been ashamed of herself. A woman her age, doing that, kissing, whatever age she was—ancient, fifty-five or something. Her mother had been over forty when she’d had Scarlett, five years older than Scarlett’s father. That was disgusting too.
    It was hot in the car, even with the windows open. Her father had lit another cigarette. Little specks of ash landed on Scarlett’s arm. But she said nothing. She was hoping they’d forgotten she was there. They probably had, anyway, the way they’d kissed, right in front of her, their own daughter.
    Her father was always more excited before they went. He’d be packing the car for days. He’d even put Bilko, their dog—Scarlett’s dog—into the back of the car a whole day before they were due to leave—this was a few years ago. He said it had been an accident, that Bilko hadsneaked in when he wasn’t looking, and it didn’t really matter, because Bilko couldn’t drive. Scarlett refused to remember laughing; she was positive she hadn’t.
    Bilko had died, a few months ago. Old age, they said—the vet and her parents. He’d been older than Scarlett, who was fourteen. There was a shed in the back garden, and Scarlett had found him behind the shed, lying down, with blood coming out of him. They’d made her go to school, and when she got home Bilko was gone. He’d been put down.
    â€œIt couldn’t wait,” her mother had said.
    â€œYou made me go to school!”
    â€œThat was a mistake,” said her mother. “But when the vet said poor Bilko was dying, I had to make the decision. Waiting would have been cruel. Scarlett, love, I’m really sorry.”
    â€œYou did it on purpose!”
    Her mother had grown up on the farm; death was nothing to her. Dead lambs, dead cattle, dead pups, sacks of dead kittens, dead crows—Scarlett had heard about them all. Her mother was crying now, but Scarlett didn’t care. She got out of the kitchen, up to her room. She searched the floor for Bilko’s hair.
    They’d promised her another dog. She’d said she didn’t want one, that it was disgusting to even think about replacing Bilko, as if he were a lightbulb or something. She told them she’d never forgive them, she’d never let them forget. They’d killed her dog—
her
dog—without letting her say goodbye.
    They were coming into a town. She thought it was Arklow—or some other dump.
    Her father had never been on a farm until he met her mother. He’d told Scarlett this loads of times, because she’d asked him to tell her. She remembered that. How he went to the farm, nervous about meeting her mother’s grandmother.
    â€œShe doesn’t like the Dublin fellas, at all,” her mother had told him. “She thinks Dublin fellas are nearly English.”
    â€œThat’s just thick,” he said. “What’s wrong with being English?”
    â€œIt’s just the way she is,” said Emer.
    â€œAnyway, I’m not English.”
    â€œAh, sure, I know that. She just doesn’t like Dublin.”
    â€œBut she let you move there.”
    â€œOh, she knew where the jobs were,” said Emer. “You don’t have to like carrots, even though you know they’re good for you.”
    â€œI do like carrots,” said Gerry—Scarlett’s future father. “They’re all right.”
    â€œI’m only saying,” said Emer—Scarlett’s future mother.
    This had happened in 1961, five years before Scarlett was born. They were on the train. Emer’s brother was