considering. No one would have paid attention to Dawn if it hadn’t been for Maeve.
They were sitting on the same pew as her sister and parents, the building impressing a strange silence on them after their five years apart and the stiff welcome acted out at the church door. Her mother kept peering over, a confused expression on her face as though she were searching for the right words to sum everything up, to find some kind of bond between them all. Later she might make them stand in a line for a sombre family photo. When would she next get the chance? It wasn’t like they spent Christmas together. A few times she whispered harshly to Dad, who was smiling in Maeve’s direction whenever he could catch her eye.
Well, then, Dad had said when he saw them arriving outside the church, and he’d bent down to speak to Maeve. Dae ye ken who I am?
Dawn had been about to whisper in Maeve’s ear that this was her grandpa, when he’d suddenly blurted, ‘Aren’t you a bonnie wee thing? Just like your mammy was as a bairn!’ Dawn had swallowed her words. Instead she’d kissed Maeve’s fine, shiny curls, breathed in the smell of the baby shampoo. No More Tears.
Now Maeve was scuffing the toes of her new red shoes intothe tiled floor. She’d pressed herself close to Dawn as they’d come in, wary of the strange wrinkled hands patting her shoulders and smoothing her hair. It was the first time she’d been inside a church and here she looked so small it was terrifying. So small a person could be too easily torn away. One single swipe of God, if there was such a thing.
Linda had been less friendly than Dad. She’d briefly placed her arms round Dawn but they’d touched only by accident where Dawn’s tense shoulder blades met Linda’s wrists and could not be avoided. The perfume on her sister’s neck was so strong and sweet it had stung Dawn’s nose. Breaking apart, Linda had waved a pen and held out a tiny card for a wreath, blank and waiting.
There was something insincere about writing messages to the dead, like the stories Dawn told as a girl, when sometimes she hadn’t known, even herself, if they were real.
Dawn was full of excuses, her mother used to say. She’d always found reasons to wander to places out of bounds, and in shops she’d been an embarrassment, putting things in her pockets and forgetting they were there. She’d always been off fighting somewhere, but of course it was the other kids who started it and Dawn never admitted any blame. Her stories had gone on for ever.
Years later Dawn heard herself telling another story, how she’d had a bit too much to drink and walked into a lamppost, given herself a black eye. And that time everyone had believed her, except for Shirley, who had always kept her doubts to herself.
Staring at the blue Biro poised on the wee card, in the end Dawn had settled for ‘Thank you for everything.’ She’d scribbled the words, trying to keep them neat and hold her shaking hands steady. Her sister had hovered, sniffing at Maeve, who’d been uncomfy in the heat, itching in a blouse with a tickly label, wriggling and stuffing her hands down the back of her skirt.
Linda looked nothing like Shirley Temple these days. She’d bleached her hair too many times and it had gone a strange shade, a minty paste, ironed paper-straight. She wore it long and Mother obviously liked it. When she’d come over to say hello to Dawn and Maeve, it was Linda she’d petted, stroking her hand over the flat, milked-out tresses.
Mother had said hello to Dawn, and then she’d looked down at her granddaughter. ‘And what’s your name?’ she’d said, pretending.
Maeve had hidden her face, and Mother turned to Linda with a whisper.
Maeve Dunn by name and ‘may’ve done’ by nature, I suspect, if she’s even a wee bit like her mammy was.
Linda only commented after they’d sat down in the church with Maeve between them.
How old’s she now? Four? Four and a half? And it’s true,
They were sitting on the same pew as her sister and parents, the building impressing a strange silence on them after their five years apart and the stiff welcome acted out at the church door. Her mother kept peering over, a confused expression on her face as though she were searching for the right words to sum everything up, to find some kind of bond between them all. Later she might make them stand in a line for a sombre family photo. When would she next get the chance? It wasn’t like they spent Christmas together. A few times she whispered harshly to Dad, who was smiling in Maeve’s direction whenever he could catch her eye.
Well, then, Dad had said when he saw them arriving outside the church, and he’d bent down to speak to Maeve. Dae ye ken who I am?
Dawn had been about to whisper in Maeve’s ear that this was her grandpa, when he’d suddenly blurted, ‘Aren’t you a bonnie wee thing? Just like your mammy was as a bairn!’ Dawn had swallowed her words. Instead she’d kissed Maeve’s fine, shiny curls, breathed in the smell of the baby shampoo. No More Tears.
Now Maeve was scuffing the toes of her new red shoes intothe tiled floor. She’d pressed herself close to Dawn as they’d come in, wary of the strange wrinkled hands patting her shoulders and smoothing her hair. It was the first time she’d been inside a church and here she looked so small it was terrifying. So small a person could be too easily torn away. One single swipe of God, if there was such a thing.
Linda had been less friendly than Dad. She’d briefly placed her arms round Dawn but they’d touched only by accident where Dawn’s tense shoulder blades met Linda’s wrists and could not be avoided. The perfume on her sister’s neck was so strong and sweet it had stung Dawn’s nose. Breaking apart, Linda had waved a pen and held out a tiny card for a wreath, blank and waiting.
There was something insincere about writing messages to the dead, like the stories Dawn told as a girl, when sometimes she hadn’t known, even herself, if they were real.
Dawn was full of excuses, her mother used to say. She’d always found reasons to wander to places out of bounds, and in shops she’d been an embarrassment, putting things in her pockets and forgetting they were there. She’d always been off fighting somewhere, but of course it was the other kids who started it and Dawn never admitted any blame. Her stories had gone on for ever.
Years later Dawn heard herself telling another story, how she’d had a bit too much to drink and walked into a lamppost, given herself a black eye. And that time everyone had believed her, except for Shirley, who had always kept her doubts to herself.
Staring at the blue Biro poised on the wee card, in the end Dawn had settled for ‘Thank you for everything.’ She’d scribbled the words, trying to keep them neat and hold her shaking hands steady. Her sister had hovered, sniffing at Maeve, who’d been uncomfy in the heat, itching in a blouse with a tickly label, wriggling and stuffing her hands down the back of her skirt.
Linda looked nothing like Shirley Temple these days. She’d bleached her hair too many times and it had gone a strange shade, a minty paste, ironed paper-straight. She wore it long and Mother obviously liked it. When she’d come over to say hello to Dawn and Maeve, it was Linda she’d petted, stroking her hand over the flat, milked-out tresses.
Mother had said hello to Dawn, and then she’d looked down at her granddaughter. ‘And what’s your name?’ she’d said, pretending.
Maeve had hidden her face, and Mother turned to Linda with a whisper.
Maeve Dunn by name and ‘may’ve done’ by nature, I suspect, if she’s even a wee bit like her mammy was.
Linda only commented after they’d sat down in the church with Maeve between them.
How old’s she now? Four? Four and a half? And it’s true,
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