Dawn. There’s only you in her. No clues there. Shirley said she didn’t know who the F.A.T.H.E.R. was. She spelt it out and raised an eyebrow, the skin beneath it eye-shadow white, gleaming against the fake tan.
Linda had been seeing Warren for a while after Dawn left. ‘Seeing him’ was how Shirley had put it. At the time Dawn hadn’t cared. But now the thought of them together floated in front of her eyes, flesh pink and cranberry red, their mouths black and open like the holy singers on the stained glass window. Dawn felt a stab. She didn’t know what to believe.
The minister faced the crowd and the keyboard music stopped. Everyone waited. He gave an introduction and pointed to a board with a list of hymns. He announced the first one. Hymn number 121.
Maeve tugged at Dawn’s clothes, and when Dawn didn’t look down she poked her hard in the belly.
One. Two! One. Two!
Shhh! Dawn quieted her, but Linda heard.
What’s one two? she whispered.
Angels.
Oooh! Like that one? Linda said, pointing to a painting, a milky white scene of Heaven and a glowing woman with long caramel curls. She looked like an advert for conditioner.
Maeve frowned.
Dawn had never heard about the angels before. She looked down at her daughter, who was whispering again.
One. Two. One. Two.
Angels, Linda said. That’s nice.
The minister had a hard job summing up Shirley’s life. All he had to go on were the dry facts Dad had offered up, Shirley’s simple, sensible tastes, which everyone knew about already. Dad’s memory didn’t seem up to much either. He couldn’t mind what his sister’s first job was (and even Dawn knew that), why she’d briefly gone to Aberdeen, or what she was like as a child. He probably didn’t know if Shirley had ever been to a rock and roll concert or had a boyfriend. But to be fair, it was hard to imagine Shirley being young, dressing up, doing the twist, falling in love. She’d never mentioned those things herself.
After a single sob at the mention of Shirley Temple, Linda squeezed out a few tears. She dabbed her eyeliner and snuffled into a tissue, then tucked her hair behind her ears. It didn’t seem right that Linda was the one to cry, but Dawn had always been so much the stronger one. She could sit through the weepiest of films with dry eyes. Warren had called her an Ice Queen, and sometimes she’d wondered if there was something wrong with her. A blockage. But here, next to her snivelling blonde sister, Dawn was pleased she could lift herself above grief, up to the rafters where the hymns echoed.
Dawn’s curls were black like Maeve’s, a natural jet black with just a few grey hairs these days. She was born with it, black hair reaching right down her neck. It was one of those stories Dad had always told the same way.
I said, God Almighty! That’s nae a babbie, that’s a black craw! That’s what I said the second I laid eyes on the bairn!
He joked about it.
Would you ken something about this, Wilma? Been seein some Italian feller? Naebody in my family’s got beetle-black hair like that!
Dad wasn’t mean, though. He’d never wanted to upset her. If she looked upset at him he’d pull her close and swing her through the air in his arms, telling her she was bonnie.
Every beetle’s bonnie in its daddy’s eyes, eh?
When Maeve was born with that same beetle-black hair, Dawn thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world. She’d been pleased to have her all to herself.
Linda looked over with watery eyes. She held out a clean tissue, as if being without one might have been holding Dawn back.
I could have lent you something from my wardrobe, Linda sniffed. You didn’t have to come like that.
Dawn was still wearing the black cardigan. Cigarettes in the left pocket, matches in the right. She sucked air through her teeth as if she’d just lit up. The day she starved into Linda’s size it’d be her own funeral. She looked past Linda to Dad. By the looks of things he’d barely
Linda had been seeing Warren for a while after Dawn left. ‘Seeing him’ was how Shirley had put it. At the time Dawn hadn’t cared. But now the thought of them together floated in front of her eyes, flesh pink and cranberry red, their mouths black and open like the holy singers on the stained glass window. Dawn felt a stab. She didn’t know what to believe.
The minister faced the crowd and the keyboard music stopped. Everyone waited. He gave an introduction and pointed to a board with a list of hymns. He announced the first one. Hymn number 121.
Maeve tugged at Dawn’s clothes, and when Dawn didn’t look down she poked her hard in the belly.
One. Two! One. Two!
Shhh! Dawn quieted her, but Linda heard.
What’s one two? she whispered.
Angels.
Oooh! Like that one? Linda said, pointing to a painting, a milky white scene of Heaven and a glowing woman with long caramel curls. She looked like an advert for conditioner.
Maeve frowned.
Dawn had never heard about the angels before. She looked down at her daughter, who was whispering again.
One. Two. One. Two.
Angels, Linda said. That’s nice.
The minister had a hard job summing up Shirley’s life. All he had to go on were the dry facts Dad had offered up, Shirley’s simple, sensible tastes, which everyone knew about already. Dad’s memory didn’t seem up to much either. He couldn’t mind what his sister’s first job was (and even Dawn knew that), why she’d briefly gone to Aberdeen, or what she was like as a child. He probably didn’t know if Shirley had ever been to a rock and roll concert or had a boyfriend. But to be fair, it was hard to imagine Shirley being young, dressing up, doing the twist, falling in love. She’d never mentioned those things herself.
After a single sob at the mention of Shirley Temple, Linda squeezed out a few tears. She dabbed her eyeliner and snuffled into a tissue, then tucked her hair behind her ears. It didn’t seem right that Linda was the one to cry, but Dawn had always been so much the stronger one. She could sit through the weepiest of films with dry eyes. Warren had called her an Ice Queen, and sometimes she’d wondered if there was something wrong with her. A blockage. But here, next to her snivelling blonde sister, Dawn was pleased she could lift herself above grief, up to the rafters where the hymns echoed.
Dawn’s curls were black like Maeve’s, a natural jet black with just a few grey hairs these days. She was born with it, black hair reaching right down her neck. It was one of those stories Dad had always told the same way.
I said, God Almighty! That’s nae a babbie, that’s a black craw! That’s what I said the second I laid eyes on the bairn!
He joked about it.
Would you ken something about this, Wilma? Been seein some Italian feller? Naebody in my family’s got beetle-black hair like that!
Dad wasn’t mean, though. He’d never wanted to upset her. If she looked upset at him he’d pull her close and swing her through the air in his arms, telling her she was bonnie.
Every beetle’s bonnie in its daddy’s eyes, eh?
When Maeve was born with that same beetle-black hair, Dawn thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world. She’d been pleased to have her all to herself.
Linda looked over with watery eyes. She held out a clean tissue, as if being without one might have been holding Dawn back.
I could have lent you something from my wardrobe, Linda sniffed. You didn’t have to come like that.
Dawn was still wearing the black cardigan. Cigarettes in the left pocket, matches in the right. She sucked air through her teeth as if she’d just lit up. The day she starved into Linda’s size it’d be her own funeral. She looked past Linda to Dad. By the looks of things he’d barely
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