Being Emily. Anne Donovan

      

      Anne Donovan

      THROUGH IN THE livin room Patrick was paintin the fireplace while Mona and Rona practised their line dancin. Silver bells and golden needles they won’t mend this heart of mine. Step two three, cross two three, turn. It’s threads, no bells, says ma da, weavin his way through their routine.

      Mona and Rona are twins. At first the doc thought it was gonnae be triplets and Da wanted tae call them Mona, Rona and Shona. Mammy says she’s thankful for small mercies – ah’m no sure if she means havin two babies at once insteidy three, or if it’s the name. The neighbours doonstairs have a dug called Shona, it’s a sheltie.

      Patrick’s on the nightshift at the bakery, and when he gets hame the back of six he’s wired up, cannae sleep for hours. That’s when he paints the fireplace. He’s done it three times – first white but that was too borin, then dark red, but Da said it hurt his eyes. Noo he’s tryin a marbled effect wi lilac and pink through the red. When everybody else gets up, we have cornflakes and Patrick has bacon, egg and tattie scones, then he goes tae bed and we go tae school. Except this was the first day of the summer holidays so we werenae.

      Ah was at the sink in the kitchen, washin the dishes wi Spirit of Haworth propped up behind the taps, practisin bein Emily Brontë. Ah’d read that she baked the family’s bread and learned German at the same time, book in fronty her. Since then ah’d developed a new interest in housework, so long as you could dae it while you were readin. Up till then ah thought if you were gonnae be a poet you had tae float aboot in a dwam or lie on a couch all day.

      I wander’d lonely as a cloud

      That floats on high o’er vale and hill

      If you’re a poet it’s dead important tae know how tae use apostrophes when you miss out bits of words to make it scan. Last year ah wrote a poem for the school magazine that started: ‘I wander’d ’mongst the flow’rs fair’.

      Mammy put a knife in the soapy watter.

      Watch you don’t get that book all wet, Fiona.

       D’you think ah could start bakin our bread?

      Your brother brings hame three loaves fae his work every day. If you’ve spare time on yer haunds there’s plenty other jobs round the hoose.

      Usually ah skived aff at this point but since ah’d discovered Emily, ah just smiled and said, Okay, Mammy.

      Da was pointin out the windae. Oh my God – would you look at that!

      Mammy and me followed his finger but all ah could see was Mrs Flanagan next door hingin out her washin in her yellow velour tracksuit. It looks as if she’s stuffed it wi newspapers, lumps and bumps jigglin round as she bends and pegs.

       What?

      Can yous no see thon pig, over there, just up above the roof … look at its wings flappin.

      Very funny.

      First time ah’ve heard Princess Fiona here volunteerin tae dae a tap round the hoose.

      Well, be thankful. Everyone is gonnae have tae pull their weight this holiday. Ah don’t know how these weans have tae get six weeks aff anyhow.

      The first day of the summer holidays Mammy always does her spiel aboot how they’re far too long and we get intae lazy habits. Da sloped aff tae his work efter the first sentence. Ah trailed ma haund in the soapy bubbles, cairried on readin ma book. Miss Hughes had lent me it for the holidays. She was ma English teacher last year, first year of secondary, and she was the wan that got me interested in Emily.

      Ah done the hooverin wi the book in wan haund then went and made the beds wi it stuck up on the headboard. Patrick’s room’s dead neat and when he started work he bought hissel a new downie cover – navy blue wi a cream stripe through it. When ma granny was alive she’d say he should join the forces he’s that tidy and Mammy’d get really mad at her.

      They have tae fight, you know – it’s no a fashion parade.

      It’s a good life for a boy. He’s that good wi his haunds too, he’d learn a trade.

      Have another cuppa tea, Gran, said ma da. Patrick’s no really the type.

      Patrick never said anythin, just went on wi his jigsaw or his model makin or whatever he was daein wi his long fingers. He looks dead different fae the resty us; fair straight hair and skin that pale and thin you can near see through it, while we’re all brown and curly-haired. Like tinks, ma gran’d say when she was in a bad mood.

      Patrick appeared at the door.

      You finished? Ah want tae go tae bed.

      Our room’s a guddle of Barbies and scrunchies, My Little Pony and Animal Hospital toys, hauf of them broken or twisted fae bein left on radiators or ootside in the rain. The wardrobe door was hingin open and a long red scarf ah’d started knittin in Primary Seven and never finished, still on its needles, trailed out, wrapped round one of the twins’ pleated navy school skirts. The three beds are hunched thegether wi only a few inches between them. Ah don’t know where they’d of put Shona if she’d arrived. Mona’s bed has a Princess Barbie cover, Rona’s has a Horse Riding Barbie cover and mines has a purple and lime green Groovy Chicks one with a shiny blob on it where ah spilled some glittery nail polish. Mammy was really mad at me.

      That cover’s split new, Fiona.

      She’d scrubbed it for ages but the stain never came aff. Ah quite liked it but; at night when the twins were asleep and ah was readin in bed, the mark glinted in the light of the torch.

      Ah climbed over the other two beds and sat on mines, the wan nearest the windae. Emily would of liked the purple background; purple was her favourite colour and she had a frock that was purple wi lilac lightnin patterns on it. She had a room of her ain but, a toty wee wan just big enough for a bed; she’d sit there in the cauld of winter wi her notebook on her lap, writin Wuthering Heights. Wuthering Heights is the best book ah’ve ever read, but Emily was a poet too and ah’d learned some of her poems aff by heart.

      No coward soul is mine,

      No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere

       Fiona, are you finished?

      Nearly.

       Will you bring the washin through, hen?

      Mammy stuffed the washin in the machine afore she went out tae her work. She does part-time in Boots, starts at ten three days a week.

      Don’t forget tae take that washin out when it’s done. She opened the fridge and put in the mince she’d just cooked. That’s for the night. And make sure the twins eat fruit for their lunch.

      Although the twins were in the next room ah knew they were makin the silent vomitin noises they always done when the word fruit was mentioned.

      And keep them quiet while Patrick’s sleepin – take them tae the swing park. You could read your book while they’re playin.

      Aye that’ll be right. See, she thinks the twins are wee angels and when Mammy’s around they nearly always are, but the minute she’s out of sight they turn intae monsters. You can almost see the change comin over them as she puts on her coat, like the way you smell thunder in the air afore the storm actually breaks, then when the door closes behind her the devils dance out their eyes and they start. The number of times she’s come hame tae an upside doon settee, earth fae a plant spilled all ower the carpet, and turnt tae me and said, Fiona, in that