Every Time a Bell Rings. Carmel HarringtonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Reilly took me away from them either.
Joan cries and tells me that she will always care for me. But I don’t answer her. I can see that my silence is hurting her. I know that she wants me to let her off the hook, to tell her I understand why I can’t go with them.
But I don’t want to make it easier for her. I hate her. I hate Daniel too and I hope that their plane crashes and they die.
Shame floods my body for thinking such a bad thing. And I know that it is my own fault that they don’t want me.
Who would want me? My own mother didn’t.
Mrs Reilly puts me in her car and takes me away. I can feel their eyes watching me as we drive off, but I keep looking forward.
Maybe they’ll change their minds, Dee-Dee says. But we both know that’s not true. So I move into a new temporary home. One where people keep trying to make me talk and unzip my lips.
But I am so tired. What good do words do anyhow? No one ever listens to me. They do what they want to do and send me away.
I turn my back to Jim and pick up my Simon game. I don’t want him to see me cry.
‘Why did you speak to me when you saw me on that first day?’ Jim suddenly asks and his voice is gruff. I can’t help it, I look back towards him.
Because you were the answer to my wish. Because I know that you were in pain and scared and I know what that feels like. Because … Just because.
‘I dunno. Felt sorry for you, I suppose. Loser,’ I say instead, joking to try to banish the tears.
He looks at me for a moment, locks his eyes on mine and even though he doesn’t say anything, I know that he knows the real reason. And in that look, he is thanking me and I am thanking him too.
‘You’re alright for a girl,’ he says.
He looks away and throws his Spider-Man car down to the ground.
‘I feel sorry for you now, Belle Bailey, cos’ I’m about to beat your record on that stupid Simon game of yours. Prepare to be destroyed.’ He replies, picking it up and switching it on.
‘In your dreams, Jim Looney,’ I say.
Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale of all.
Hans Christian Anderson
July 1990
It’s one of those days where the heat is so strong, the air around me looks hazy. And even lifting my hand to move the pages in my book is too much effort.
‘That story is for babies,’ Jim says, flicking my Cinderella book closed as he passes me by.
‘Get lost,’ I reply and kick myself that I’ve not got a wittier retort. ‘I’ll have you know that Cinderella is a story for all ages.’
Strictly speaking, I know that I should have outgrown my Disney princess stage about five years ago, but no matter how old I get, I never tire of this story. My copy is battered and the corners of the book are curled from constant sticky fingers and thumbs working their way through them.
‘You wouldn’t catch me reading fairy tales,’ Jim tells me. ‘They are so lame.’ He demonstrates said lameness by pretending to limp around the room.
I resist the urge to laugh. It only encourages him.
‘You think you know everything, Jim Looney, but you’re a mere ten,’ I sigh and open my book again. He’s such a pain sometimes. I should just go upstairs and hide from his childishness, but I’m too hot to climb the stairs.
‘So does the princess always get the prince in these fairy tales of yours?’ Jim asks, as I stick my nose back into Cinderella again.
I put my book down and give him my best withering look. I’ve been practising it in front of my mirror and think that it’s pretty good. ‘Of course they do. That’s what always happens in fairy tales, you big eejit,’ I reply.
‘And you reckon that one day a prince is going to just rock up here to Drumcondra, on a white pony, and ask you to marry him too?’ he says, as he balances his football on one foot.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I shake my head. Sometimes I just give up with him. ‘We’ve had this conversation before, Jim. You know what’s going to happen.’
He pretends to put a gun to his head to shoot himself. ‘Not that again.’
‘Haha, very funny.’ I say. ‘But you can’t fight the inevitable.’
As he runs out the back door, I shout after him, ‘I’m going to marry you one day, Jim Looney. You wait and see. I cannot wait for the day when you drop to one knee just like Prince Charming.’
Jim laughs, his usual response to my bold prediction. I’m sure many would be offended by his obvious mirth, but I’m not in the least bit worried by his reaction. First of all, he’s a boy. Second of all, he’s only ten. And okay, I know I’m only two months older than he is, but it’s a proven fact that boys don’t mature as quickly as us girls.
Mind you, I have noticed something. I’ve been telling him he’ll marry me for years now and even though he always laughs, he never says he won’t either.
I think about going for a kick-about too, but it’s just too hot. Tess has had to go to bed for a few hours. She said she was about to melt.
As it goes, I’m not too bad at football. Jim jokes that I’d give Paul McGrath a run for his money. With every ‘OOH AAH Paul McGrath’ that the whole of Ireland has chanted over the past couple of years, my life has gotten way easier.
The best defender Ireland has ever had, Jim reckons. All I know is that he has made it cool to be black. He’s a legend in my books and one day I’ll tell him so, if I ever get the chance to meet him.
‘Your head is full of nonsense from all those fairy tales you read,’ Tess says, as she walks into the kitchen. I jump at the sound of her voice. Despite her considerable size, she has always had this uncanny ability to sneak into rooms without making a sound.
‘What, you mean there’s no such thing as fairy godmothers?’ I say feigning mock horror.
‘The only fairy you’ll find around here is the one on top of the Christmas tree,’ Tess says, laughing at her own joke.
‘Fairy tales are magic. And magic exists. I’ve seen it. You just don’t believe any more. It’s not your fault, all adults stop believing, it’s out of their control,’ I say.
‘Is that so?’ Tess says.
‘Yes. Fact,’ I reply. ‘But I’ll not stop. No matter how old I get, I’ll always believe.’ I don’t care what anyone says.
‘Well, magic me up my fags, there’s a good girl,’ Tess says, laughing again. She’s a regular comedienne, my foster mother. ‘So one day my prince will come, what?’
She coughs up half her lung laughing again at her quip. I don’t see what’s so hilarious, I mean why can’t there be true love in her future? Tess has always been quite vocal about her feelings on love. She doesn’t believe in it, not one bit. Not the romantic kind, anyhow. In fact, in the two years I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen her go on a single date, now that I think of it.
‘Love only exists in fairy tales and Disney movies. In the real world, here in North County Dublin, there’s no such thing,’ she laments.
I shouldn’t take the bait, I don’t know why I bother arguing with her, because she’s proven to be unmovable in her opinions in the past.