But Scarlett didn’t think so. There was something about Mary’s voice when she spoke about this Tansey. It was different, less matter-of-fact. The imaginary friends had always been real to Mary, as real as the bed and the shelves in her bedroom, as real as the rest of her family. But there was something in her voice when she spoke about this Tansey: doubt. Mary wondered if she’d really met this old woman who was actually quite young. The doubt in Mary’s voice made Scarlett almost certain that Tansey did exist.
She existed. But what was she?
“You’re out looking for me.”
They heard her before they saw her. She seemed to have come out from behind one of the trees, although they hadn’t seen her do it.
Mary wasn’t surprised.
“Hi, Tansey,” she said.
“Hello, yourself,” said the woman.
She was dressed the same, the old-fashioned dress, the big boots covered in shining mud.
She looked at Scarlett.
“I know you,” she said.
“I know you too,” said Scarlett.
he hated it, and she refused to remember a time when she hadn’t. Traveling with her parents, going places—anywhere—just made her want to vomit. Really vomit—she could feel it in her throat.
She hated this.
“Are we there yet?” said her mother.
And her father laughed, again.
They were going to her mother’s old house in Wexford. They did it every summer, for two weeks, and the day after Christmas, for a few days. For as long as Scarlett could remember. And she hated it.
She hated it now. She could tell—she could see it. Her parents were getting excited. Like kids. Her mother leaned over in her seat and kissed her father. He turned and took his eyes off the road so she could kiss him on the mouth. It was disgusting, people like them—people that old, and married—kissing like that, like they liked each other, fancied each other.
She looked out the window, but it was all the same. Fields and trees; the Wicklow Mountains, or something, on one side; nothing much on the other side.
Her father was going bald. And her mother, lanky Emer—she should have been ashamed of herself. A woman her age, doing that, kissing, whatever age she was—ancient, fifty-five or something. Her mother had been over forty when she’d had Scarlett, five years older than Scarlett’s father. That was disgusting too.
It was hot in the car, even with the windows open. Her father had lit another cigarette. Little specks of ash landed on Scarlett’s arm. But she said nothing. She was hoping they’d forgotten she was there. They probably had, anyway, the way they’d kissed, right in front of her, their own daughter.
Her father was always more excited before they went. He’d be packing the car for days. He’d even put Bilko, their dog—Scarlett’s dog—into the back of the car a whole day before they were due to leave—this was a few years ago. He said it had been an accident, that Bilko had sneaked in when he wasn’t looking, and it didn’t really matter, because Bilko couldn’t drive. Scarlett refused to remember laughing; she was positive she hadn’t.
Bilko had died, a few months ago. Old age, they said—the vet and her parents. He’d been older than Scarlett, who was fourteen. There was a shed in the back garden, and Scarlett had found him behind the shed, lying down, with blood coming out of him. They’d made her go to school, and when she got home Bilko was gone. He’d been put down.
“It couldn’t wait,” her mother had said.
“You made me go to school!”
“That was a mistake,” said her mother. “But when the vet said poor Bilko was dying, I had to make the decision. Waiting would have been cruel. Scarlett, love, I’m really sorry.”
“You did it on purpose!”
Her mother had grown up on the farm; death was nothing to her. Dead lambs, dead cattle, dead pups, sacks of dead kittens, dead crows—Scarlett had heard about them all. Her mother was crying now, but Scarlett didn’t care. She got out of the kitchen, up to her room. She searched the floor for Bilko’s hair.
They’d promised her another dog. She’d said she didn’t want one, that it was disgusting to even think about replacing Bilko, as if he were a lightbulb or something. She told them she’d never forgive them, she’d never let them forget. They’d killed her dog—her dog—without letting her say goodbye.
They were coming into a town. She thought it was Arklow—or some other dump.
Her father had never been on a farm until he met her mother. He’d told Scarlett this loads of times, because she’d asked him to tell her. She remembered that. How he went to the farm, nervous about meeting her mother’s grandmother.
“She doesn’t like the Dublin fellas, at all,” her mother had told him. “She thinks Dublin fellas are nearly English.”
“That’s just thick,” he said. “What’s wrong with being English?”
“It’s just the way she is,” said Emer.
“Anyway, I’m not English.”
“Ah, sure, I know that. She just doesn’t like Dublin.”
“But she let you move there.”
“Oh, she knew where the jobs were,” said Emer. “You don’t have to like carrots, even though you know they’re good for you.”
“I do like carrots,” said Gerry—Scarlett’s future father. “They’re all right.”
“I’m only saying,” said Emer—Scarlett’s future mother.
This had happened in 1961, five years before Scarlett was born. They were on the train. Emer’s brother was going to meet them at Enniscorthy station.
Now, fourteen years after Scarlett had been born—it was July 1980—they were heading back to Wexford in her dad’s car. They were in Arklow now, going down its one crummy street, and the car was hardly moving. There was a tractor in front of them, crawling.
“How come every time I drive out of Dublin I get stuck behind a bloody tractor?”
No one answered.
“It’s the same tractor as well,” said her dad. “Waiting to ambush me.”
“Poor Gerry.”
“Poor bloody me.”
They were embarrassing.
More ash was landing on her arm. She wished it hurt, so she could scream—because she really, really wanted to.
She remembered her dad telling her about that first time he went to Wexford.
“Right,” he said—Scarlett was sitting beside him, in his big chair. “Where was I? So, we got off the train in Istanbul—”
“Dad!”
“Okay. We got off the train in Enniscorthy.”
“Which, by the way, has a lot more going for it than Istanbul,” said her mother, who was sitting in her corner.
“Mammy!”
“Is there a strawberry fair in Istanbul, is there?”
“Mammy!”
“Or a Vinegar Hill?”
“Mammy!”
“Okay,” said her dad. “We got off the train in Enniscorthy. It was dark.”
“It was,” said her mother. “It often is at night.”
“Your uncle Jim—James the Baby—was there, waiting. A nice fella.”
“He is. A fine man. It’s a mystery how he never found himself a woman.”
“Mammy!”
Her father spoke over Scarlett’s head, to her mother.
“It took you a fair while to find yourself a man, missis,” he said.
“And what a man I found, God love me.”
“Ahem,” said Scarlett. “I’m here.”
“Cheeky as ever.”
Her dad looked down at her.
“So, anyway,” he said. “We got into your uncle’s old Ford.”
“I sat in the front,” said her mother. “Because I’m taller than your dad.”
“And significantly older.”
“So, I needed the legroom.”
“So, anyway,” said her dad. “I got into the back. Because, like your mother said, I’m a bit of a leprechaun.”
“I said no … such … thing!”
&nbs
p; “Well, actually, you did.”
“When did I ever call you a leprechaun?”
“The first time we met.”
“I didn’t.”
“You bloody well did.”
“When did I say that?”
“At the match,” said her father. “At Croker—Croke Park. Dublin against Wexford,” he told Scarlett. “That’s where I met your mother. And we won—Dublin did.”
“You were lucky.”
“I was standing on Hill Sixteen and I asked the tall woman standing in front of me to shift a bit so I could watch the Dubs trounce the bog men, and she turned to me and said—”
“Don’t listen to him.”
“‘Why?’ she said,” said Scarlett’s father. “‘Are you some class of a leprechaun?’”
“I said it before I knew what I was saying. It’s too late to apologize, I suppose.”
“Scarlett,” said her dad. “Have you ever heard the sound of twenty-five thousand people laughing at you at the same time?”
“No.”
“It’s a horrible experience,” he said. “Still, though,” said her mother. “You thought I was gorgeous.”
“Well, that’s true,” he said. “I’ve always had a thing about giraffes.”
“Can we get back to the story, please?” said Scarlett.
“So, anyway,” said her dad. “I threw our cases—I carried the cases, mind you—I threw them into the boot of Jim’s jalopy and got into the backseat, all set to go. And Jim was behind the wheel already. He started the engine and we were rolling. Then the car door right beside me opened. I nearly fell out, there were no seat belts in those days. And a greyhound climbed in on top of me. I swear to God. And your mother started to scream, because she hates greyhounds.”
“God, I do. Hate them, hate them. Always hated them. Everything about them.”
“And another one crawled in, after the first one. They were right on top of me. I wasn’t sure if they were licking or biting me. Then something else was climbing in, and it was too fat to be a greyhound.”
“Stop that, Gerry.”
“It was Great-Granny,” said Scarlett.
“That’s right,” said her dad. “It was your great-grandmother, in all her glory. With another bloody greyhound, and the cup one of them was after winning at the dog track. A big silver thing that she whacked against the side of my head as she was climbing in. Nearly knocked me out. I thought I was bleeding and the dogs would go mad with the smell of the blood. And your mother was still screaming. And your uncle, James the bloody Baby, was whistling ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart.’”
“That was his favorite, all right.”
“And the woman with the cup turns to me and says—”
“‘You’re the fella from Dublin.’”
“That’s right.”
“And what did you say?” Scarlett asked, although she already knew the answer.
“I said, ‘I think so.’”
“Why didn’t you just say ‘Yes’?”
“Because there was a greyhound trying to take the wallet out of my inside pocket and another one chewing my tie and Emer’s granny was more or less parked up on my lap and there was another dog whispering into my ear and your mother was still screaming, so, well, I was a bit confused.”
He stretched his legs. “But it was grand,” he said. “We were all pals by the time we got to the farm.”
“You’re not nearly a leprechaun, Dad,” said Scarlett.
“Oh, I know that,” he said. “But let’s face it, your mother is a bit of a giraffe.”
Scarlett looked at the giraffe now, her mother, lanky Emer. They were out of Arklow. Gorey was next, she thought, and another crawl up a long, nothing street. Her mother was sitting up, leaning forward, like she was pushing the car, trying to get there sooner. To the house where she’d grown up, the house with the straw roof where her granny had reared her because her mother had died of the flu. Her name was Tansey. Scarlett knew all about it. Tansey had walked into the house just after feeding the greyhounds and she had picked up little Emer because she was crying, because she’d dropped an egg, and they sat down in the big chair. And everything started to change—the certainties of her mother’s life vanished, right in front of her eyes. She watched her mother going up the stairs, and it was the last time she saw her. Scarlett knew all about it.
“I want a greyhound,” said Scarlett.
ou’re my grandmother,” said Scarlett.
And the woman, Tansey, nodded.
Yes.
Mary should have been scared. Her mother’s grandmother was dead. She’d died years ago, long before her mother had been born. She’d died when Mary’s granny, her mother’s mother, had been a little girl. Mary knew all this.
But she wasn’t scared. The way her mother and Tansey were looking at each other, she thought—she knew—there was no need to be scared. At all.
But she was curious.
“How does that work?” she said.
Scarlett jumped.
“God!”
“Sorry,” said Mary.
“No, no!” said Scarlett. “It’s just a bit of a shock!” She laughed. “A nice one!”
“You hope,” said Mary.
“Yes,” said Scarlett. “Of course! Sorry, Mary, what was it you wanted to know?”
“Well,” said Mary. “How does it work, like? How can Tansey be your granny?”
“Can you guess?” said Tansey.
“Guessing isn’t fair,” said Mary. “Just tell me.”
“Well,” said Tansey. “I’m a ghost. It sounds a bit daft, but I’m the ghost of your great-granny.”
She looked at Mary. “Are you surprised?” she asked.
“Not really,” said Mary. “If you are my great-granny, then you have to be a ghost or something, like. Because she—you’ve—been dead for ages.”
“Clever girl,” said Tansey.
“Prove it,” said Mary.
“Prove that you’re a clever girl?”
“No,” said Mary. “Prove you’re a ghost.”
“All right, so,” said Tansey. “Just a little thing. Look now.”
Mary and Scarlett watched Tansey disappear. They watched as she faded, and became see-through. They could see the tree trunk behind her—through her. She was nearly gone. But just when Mary began to think they’d never see Tansey again and she started to feel a bit frightened, the fading stopped. The color came back, and the hair and the eyes and the features of her face. Tansey coughed, and became a solid woman again.
“That was cool,” said Mary.
“What does that mean?” said Tansey.
“What does what mean?”
“‘Cool.’”
“She means great,” said Scarlett. “Or impressive.”
“Oh, then, grand,” said Tansey. “The fading bit is easy enough, but coming back can be a bit tricky.”
“Is that why you coughed?”
“That’s the reason,” said Tansey. “It feels like my lungs are filling up with air. As if I’m alive, you know. It’s always a bit of a shock.”
Tansey turned to Scarlett.
“You look nice,” she said.
“She is nice,” said Mary. “Kind of.”
The two women with her smiled and, now—suddenly—Mary felt scared. She stepped back, and nearly tripped on the root of a tree that had broken through the concrete path. She steadied herself, and looked again.
“What’s wrong?” said Scarlett.
Mary said nothing.
“What’s wrong?”
Mary looked from one woman to the other. She felt as if she was going to cry.
It made no sense.
“Mary?” said Scarlett. “What’s the matter?”
“You look the same.”
Scarlett smiled.
“Well,” she said.
“That’s what I was always told! That I looked just like my grandmother!” She turned to Tansey. “Like you—”
She stop
ped smiling, and she understood why Mary was worried.
“You look exactly the same,” said Mary.
“Yes.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Tansey asked. “Sure, wasn’t I a ringer for my own mother? God be good to her.”
“Change yourself,” said Mary.
“Mary, don’t be rude,” said Scarlett.
“I’m not being rude,” said Mary. “She’s too like you, Mammy. I’ll mix you up.”
Then a thought hit her. “That’s what she wants.”
“What do you mean?” said Scarlett.
Mary grabbed Scarlett’s arm. “Come on, I want to go home.”
It was important—vital. Mary had to separate them, get her mother home as quickly as possible.
“Wait,” said Tansey. “Wait.”
There was no sound from anywhere, not even a car far down the street, or someone’s shoe on the footpath at the corner, or a distant siren—a police car or an ambulance. There were just the leaves above them, whispering, and the branches groaning. For the first time, Mary knew what a frightening street she lived on—if she let it, or if she wanted it to be.
But she didn’t want it to be frightening. So she didn’t run. And she let go of her mother’s arm.
She looked from Tansey back to Scarlett. They were still exactly the same. Even their dresses, the old-fashioned dresses, looked as if they came from the same shop. Only the boots were different. If Mary had just arrived, it would have been the only thing she could have been sure about: one of them wore red boots that belonged to her mother. But it wasn’t necessarily her mother who wore them.
“Mammy?”
Only one woman spoke.
“Yes?”
The woman with the red boots.
That calmed Mary.
There were other little differences—she could see that now. The wind shifted a branch above them and the streetlight lit the two women. The dresses weren’t the same at all. Her mother’s was newer, less faded, with zips. Her hair was darker—her mother’s color. The little black freckle just beside her mouth was exactly where it should have been. She was definitely looking at her mother. Tansey—the ghost—was different enough now, and herself.