Miriam's Talisman (9 page)

‘You were certainly odd! Always off in a world of your own. Talking about dragons and wizards.' His face had relaxed a little. He even managed a faint smile. ‘You'd go on as if they really existed—anyone would think our garden was overrun with mythical beasts.'

‘Yes, but all children play at make-believe. I just had a lively imagination. Something that—' I nearly said that was something David didn't have. Instead I said, ‘Something that our mother couldn't understand.'

‘No, it was more than that. I think Hannah was
genuinely worried about you and your daydreaming. And I'm sure she blamed Miriam. It was as if you couldn't tell the difference between reality and play. Sometimes you insisted that you'd seen things that weren't there, or even people. Many a time I've seen her reduced to tears.'

As I listened to David, I began to remember. Hannah, her voice raised, almost hysterical, telling me I was lying. And me, stubborn, controlled, calmly insisting that I was right. I took a wicked, almost sadistic pleasure in my power to cause her distress. What had happened to that arrogant, stroppy, little girl? When had I become so furtive? When had I started apologising? David was still talking.

‘Miriam was always pretty cool about it, you know. Hannah would get really wound up and Miriam would say, “Her mind needs to grow as well as her body.” Only one time I ever saw her get angry. I must have been about five at the time, but I remember it very clearly. It was something Richard said. You were only a few weeks old and they were all leaning over your crib trying to decipher your genetic code. You know how they do with babies: he's got his mother's eyes and Aunt Ethel's chin, that sort of thing. Well, they'd decided that, apart from the red hair, you didn't look like anyone. Dad was joking, “No, don't think she belongs to this family. She's so small. What with those rosy cheeks and the little pointed chin, I think she's a changeling. The fairies must have left her.” Well, the old girl went absolutely ballistic! Kept saying something about Chey being ancient and noble.'

‘Chey? Who's Chey?'

‘God only knows, but I'm sure that's what she said.'

‘Or perhaps she said the Sidhe. It's one of those Gaelic words, doesn't look anything like it's pronounced. You say
it like the “shee” in banshee. Yes, that's probably what it was. From what I know of Celtic mythology, the Sidhe are the fairies. They were supposed to be an ancient and noble race, very powerful beings. Still, I don't understand why she should have been so upset.'

‘Well, she went on about it for ages. Kept saying we shouldn't mock this Sidhe, or whatever. Said they would take revenge. She got really upset, and in the end Richard had to apologise to calm her down.'

We both sat quietly for a while. Then I said, ‘She talked about her sometimes, you know. Miriam, she talked about Hannah. About how she was as a child. Nothing like me, apparently. There never has been any closeness between them. I'm sure Miriam did feel some motherly affection for her daughter, but it seems they've been locked in a state of conflict ever since Hannah was young. There was no point of contact, you see. Their natures were too dissimilar for them ever to grow close.'

‘They're different all right,' David agreed. ‘It's hard to believe they're even related. Well, look at them—Miriam in her shambling, old cottage with her books and her research students, and Hannah in her mock-Georgian semi, holding court at Tupperware parties. I bet she does, doesn't she?'

‘Does what?'

‘Hold Tupperware parties.'

‘I've no idea, but I wouldn't put it past her. Can you just imagine it? Miriam always said that she was a difficult teenager. While her friends had dropped out, Hannah had rebelled by going straight.'

By now the tension had dissolved and we were both laughing. Then we fell silent again.

‘You'll be there at the funeral, won't you, David? You'll look after Hannah? I don't think I'll be any help to her. You understand her better than I do. In a way she's right, you know: I
am
Miriam's child.'

‘Yes, I'll be there.' He was silent for a moment, pretending to listen to the house. ‘Do you think it's safe to go back indoors now?'

‘Yes, I think she's had time to finish the washing up.'

I sat on the rug in front of the cold fireplace, hugging my cup of coffee. Hannah leaned back in her armchair and allowed her feet to slip out of her shoes. Her eyes were closed. David had departed in a shower of sprayed gravel, eager to meet up with Cambridge friends and flaunt his new set of wheels. There was a quietness between us that wasn't comfortable, yet it was safer than any words. But I knew something had to be said.

‘Look, I'm sure it's not too late to sort this out. We can get it put right. We'll go and see Uncle Greg. I'm sure he'd know how to get the will changed.'

Hannah opened her eyes and smiled sadly. ‘No, of course not. It's not the money or the house that worries me, it's…well, it's yours now and I'm happy that you should have it. It's just a pity that David was overlooked—he deserved something from her. But I'm not surprised she left nothing to me.'

‘Oh, no. It was surely some kind of mistake. She didn't think it through properly. It was just an impulse. You know how generous she was!'

‘Generous? Miriam? Generous? Chloe, my mother was the most selfish, self-centred bitch I've ever known.'

I felt as if I'd been punched in the chest, the breath knocked out of me. I sat there on the floor, paralysed with disbelief, while Hannah sat up and searched for another cigarette. Eventually, unable to bear the sudden barrier of bitterness that had sprung up around her, I stumbled for words.

‘Perhaps we both knew her differently.' It was a weak, ineffectual statement, meaningless. The silence continued. Then I found another path. ‘What was she like? When you were a child, what was it like living with her? You never talk about it. Can you remember Ireland?'

Hannah blew smoke into the room and tapped her cigarette carefully on the side of the ashtray.

‘It's difficult. Such a long time ago. It was another world, well two worlds really. There was America before that.'

‘You can remember America, then?'

‘Well, not very much of it. I was very small when we left and it must have been so different from the life we had in Ireland. There are just odd things, you know—favourite toys, playing in the garden. There was a swing and a slide, painted bright yellow. A special Christmas present. All the children in the neighbourhood were envious. I didn't have to go to the park, you see, I had my own fairground in the garden. And the sunshine, oh it was so warm! The summers were long. Even in winter, in the snow, it seemed warmer there. I suppose the greatest difference was that my parents were together.'

I watched as Hannah's face relaxed and the faint lines of a smile crinkled her eyes. This was something new. Hannah hardly ever acknowledged the existence of her father. I tried to catch the moment.

‘Were they happy there?'

‘Yes, I suppose they were. Miriam shared in Harold's work. They would sit for hours at the table, their heads pressed close together, engrossed in some small object. Sometimes they would call me to them, gather me into their circle. They would place a shard of pottery or a polished stone in my hands and I'd hold it as if it were a precious jewel. They would explain about its history and about the people who made it. I couldn't understand all of what they were saying, of course, but I knew it was an honour, being allowed to share in their knowledge. It made me important, just as I knew my father and his work were important. “Feel it, Hannah,” he would say. “Feel the lifeblood of our ancestors. Feel it stretching back across the centuries. Feel the weight of time in your hand.” Then they would hold their breath, as if listening to some ancient voice and I would cup my hands around the treasure and try to listen, too.' She drew heavily on her cigarette. ‘But, of course, it was just some sort of game they had got into playing together. Those things were just bits of broken ornaments and old stones.'

‘But what about Ireland? Was it the same there?'

‘Yes, I suppose it was at first. Then my father left and it was just Miriam and me.'

‘Did she ever say why he left? Surely he didn't just abandon you both?'

Hannah shook her head. ‘I don't know all of it. They argued a lot towards the end. She drove him away. But she was determined to stay on. God, how I hated that place.'

‘Why? I thought Ireland was beautiful. I always imagined you were happy there. That's why you hated the cottage so much.'

‘Oh, yes, I'm sure it's beautiful if you're a tourist. They don't have to live there. I can't really remember our house in Boston, but I know it was a palace compared with that hovel Miriam insisted we inhabited in Ireland. And then there was the mud. It always rained. Rain upon rain, until I thought it would never end. It was a land of mud. Everywhere was covered in a thick layer of it. When it dried, it turned to dusty grit that found its way into everything. I always felt dirty. Our house had stone floors with grime between the flags. No bathroom, just that awful tin tub in front of the fire. Only once a week I was allowed to feel clean. And then I had to help bail it out with a tin jug. We would pour it out by the back door and it flowed down the garden, turning the path into yet another river of mud. There was no end to it.'

‘Surely not everyone lived like that?'

‘They were all incredibly poor, the whole country. We must have seemed rich to most of the village people, but that only made it worse. They hated us for it, you see.'

‘I always imagined the Irish were so friendly.'

‘The adults were, I suppose, at least on the surface. But we were different, outsiders. The people lived in tight, enclosed groups, huddled together. They would never really let us in. And of course the very nature of Miriam's writing would make them suspicious. She was humoured and tolerated, but I don't think she was ever liked.'

‘But didn't you make friends? Surely there were children of your own age?'

‘Ah, yes, there were children. That was the worst part, I think, the other children. At first it was just that we were American. It was my accent. They'd gather around me in the playground, tormenting me, calling me the Yankee
girl. “Thinks she's a film star,” they'd say. “Thinks she's Betty Grable.” That was only the start of it. Miriam said to take no notice. They'd soon forget. It would all settle down. But they didn't forget. Then they found other things to use against me.'

‘What sort of things?'

Hannah drew hard on her cigarette till it glowed red, holding her breath for what seemed a long time, her eyes closed. Then smoke rushed from her mouth.

‘We never went to church, you see. The place thrived on religion and religious hatred—it was their lifeblood, whichever church they went to—and everyone went to church. Everyone except us, that is. We were godless! Pagans, they used to call us. They would follow me home from school, hordes of them, chanting “Pagan” and “Devil worshipper”. And they would throw stones and mud. Once someone wrote “Witch's daughter” all over my schoolbook. The nuns blamed me. One of them caned my hand, even though I'm sure she knew I didn't do it. She seemed to take pleasure in it, as if she'd been waiting for an excuse. Nasty, spiteful women, they were, with pinching fingers. So many times I ran away from school. But there would always be someone to catch you and drag you back.'

‘But what about Miriam? You told her, didn't you? She would have done something, surely?'

‘My mother was busy. She had her work. That was all she had and all she wanted. I spent most of my time alone, dreaming about escape. I used to imagine what it would be like living back in America. There was a church hall in the village, and they had films on every Friday evening and Saturday afternoon. I would be allowed to go. Miriam would take me at first, later I would sneak off on my own.
It was the only time I was happy, there in the darkness, watching the people on the screen. They were the real people! For a while I could pretend that I was one of them, wearing nice clothes and living in a proper house, like the one we used to have.'

‘What about your father? Did he never come to see you? Surely you could have joined him in America?'

‘No, no. I was far too young. He left and I never saw him again.'

‘Miriam would never speak about him. When did he die? He couldn't have been very old.'

‘I don't know. She never said.' Hannah stubbed out the last of her cigarette. ‘Anyway, that's all gone and forgotten now. Eventually she did see sense and we moved here.'

She began to collect up the coffee mugs. I was losing her. I scrambled to my feet, anxious to keep her focused on the past.

‘What was that like, moving here, I mean?'