A Greyhound of a Girl by Roddy Doyle Page B

Jim was behind the wheel already. He started the engineand we were rolling. Then the car door right beside me opened. I nearly fell out, there were no seat belts in those days. And a greyhound climbed in on top of me. I swear to God. And your mother started to scream, because she hates greyhounds.”
    â€œGod, I do. Hate them, hate them. Always hated them. Everything about them.”
    â€œAnd another one crawled in, after the first one. They were right on top of me. I wasn’t sure if they were licking or biting me. Then something else was climbing in, and it was too fat to be a greyhound.”
    â€œStop that, Gerry.”
    â€œIt was Great-Granny,” said Scarlett.
    â€œThat’s right,” said her dad. “It was your great-grandmother, in all her glory. With another bloody greyhound, and the cup one of them was after winning at the dog track. A big silver thing that she whacked against the side of my head as she was climbing in. Nearly knocked me out. I thought I was bleeding and the dogs would go mad with the smell of the blood. And your mother was still screaming. And your uncle, James the bloody Baby, was whistling ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart.’”
    â€œThat was his favorite, all right.”
    â€œAnd the woman with the cup turns to me and says—”
    â€œâ€˜You’re the fella from Dublin.’”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd what did you say?” Scarlett asked, although she already knew the answer.
    â€œI said, ‘I think so.’”
    â€œWhy didn’t you just say ‘Yes’?”
    â€œBecause there was a greyhound trying to take the wallet out of my inside pocket and another one chewing my tie and Emer’s granny was more or less parked up on my lap and there was another dog whispering into my ear and your mother was still screaming, so, well, I was a bit confused.”
    He stretched his legs. “But it was grand,” he said. “We were all pals by the time we got to the farm.”
    â€œYou’re not nearly a leprechaun, Dad,” said Scarlett.
    â€œOh, I know that,” he said. “But let’s face it, your mother is a bit of a giraffe.”
    Scarlett looked at the giraffe now, her mother, lanky Emer. They were out of Arklow. Gorey was next, she thought, and another crawl up a long, nothing street. Her mother was sitting up, leaning forward, like she was pushing the car, trying to get there sooner. To the housewhere she’d grown up, the house with the straw roof where her granny had reared her because her mother had died of the flu. Her name was Tansey. Scarlett knew all about it. Tansey had walked into the house just after feeding the greyhounds and she had picked up little Emer because she was crying, because she’d dropped an egg, and they sat down in the big chair. And everything started to change—the certainties of her mother’s life vanished, right in front of her eyes. She watched her mother going up the stairs, and it was the last time she saw her. Scarlett knew all about it.
    â€œI want a greyhound,” said Scarlett.

ou’re my grandmother,” said Scarlett.
    And the woman, Tansey, nodded.
    Yes.
    Mary should have been scared. Her mother’s grandmother was dead. She’d died years ago, long before her mother had been born. She’d died when Mary’s granny, her mother’s mother, had been a little girl. Mary knew all this.
    But she wasn’t scared. The way her mother and Tansey were looking at each other, she thought—she knew—there was no need to be scared. At all.
    But she was curious.
    â€œHow does that work?” she said.
    Scarlett jumped.
    â€œGod!”
    â€œSorry,” said Mary.
    â€œNo, no!” said Scarlett. “It’s just a bit of a shock!” She laughed. “A nice one!”
    â€œYou hope,” said Mary.
    â€œYes,” said Scarlett. “Of course! Sorry, Mary, what was it you