Free The Fall Girl by Denise Sewell Page B

tells me that while my mother went to collect me at my dance class, Xavier and he carried Aunty Lily downstairs to the armchair in the sitting-room specially for my visit.
    ‘She said she didn’t want you to remember her as the woman who was always sick in bed,’ he says. ‘I swear she’d have done a jig with you if she’d had the strength. As soon as you left, we carried her back upstairs to bed. She was exhausted. Not a single word did she utter for the rest of that day.’
16 October 1999 (evening)
    Aunty Lily is gone but not forgotten.
The row
    It’s Saturday, a bustling day in the village. My mother has allowed me to go out the front with my skipping-rope. These days she seems anxious to get me out from under her feet. I’m sticking to the rules and staying between the butcher’s shop, which is fifty yards or so to one side of our house, and Scully’s shop and post office, which is roughly the same distance to the other. I like watching the comings and goings. People stop to chat with me, especially the older women. Some days they buy me sweets or, if it’s sunny, an ice cream. So far today, I haven’t got anything, even though I’ve smiled and said hello to everyone. Nuddy Neary’s bike is parked outside the butcher’s. He’s a nosy old bachelor who lives alone out the back of beyond, wherever that is: I’ve never been. He cycles into the village at least twice a day to catch up on the latest gossip and then spreads it round like a heap of manure.
    The butcher’s shop door is open. Nuddy is inside spinning a yarn and making tracks in the sawdust with his wellies. The other customers are laughing.
    ‘Jaysus, you’re a gas man, Nuddy,’ the butcher says. ‘If you hung around for the day, I could charge the customers an extra few bob for the entertainment.’
    ‘At least I’d give them val-ya for their money,’ Nuddy says, ‘not like you, ya dear cunt ya.’
    They’re all in stitches, even the man he has insulted. Hehas to step away from the meat-slicer to regain his composure.
    Everyone says Nuddy is harmless, except for my mother, who claims he’s dead fly and not half as simple as he looks.
    I turn round to look up the street when I hear a car coming. It’s Xavier’s. He’s driving much faster than usual. Madeleine, his daughter who’s been over from London since the funeral, is in the passenger seat. My mother isn’t expecting them. When I think they can see me, I start waving. I don’t bother speaking to the man who’s passing by. With the visitors arriving, I’m sure to get my sweets now. Madeleine is waving back, but Xavier isn’t. It’s as if he doesn’t see me. He looks odd. His hair is untidy and his eyes are glassy, like marbles. When he goes to get out of the car, Madeleine puts her hand on his shoulder. She’s trying to tell him something, but he won’t listen: he can’t get out quickly enough.
    I take a few paces back and it’s just as well, because he slams the car door shut and starts banging on our front door, shouting at my parents to open up.
    My father comes round the side of the house with a spade in his hand.
    ‘What the … Xavier!’ He stops in his tracks. He seems as baffled as I am by his brother-in-law’s behaviour.
    ‘Look at him.’ Xavier staggers and points an accusatory finger at my father. ‘Honest Joe himself.’
    My mother opens the front door. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’
    ‘Come on, Dad,’ Madeleine pleads, ‘this isn’t the right time. We can come back when you’re sober.’
    Xavier shrugs her off. ‘I’m not drunk. I’m angry.’
    ‘What’s wrong with him?’ My father looks at Madeleine.
    ‘He’s upset,’ she says, ‘and not without cause.’
    My mother’s head is darting right and left. ‘Will you gethim in off the street,’ she scolds my father, ‘before he makes a holy show of us?’
    ‘Hah!’ Xavier snorts. ‘We wouldn’t want that now, Rita, would we?’
    ‘Dad!’ Madeleine says.