When we go back into class, the first thing my twin does is check her phone.
I pay attention, take notes and try not to worry about things that mightn’t happen. Focus on the things I understand.
6
Calendula
It’s a pale autumn day, bright skies and sharp winds that sliced through the green wool of my jumper earlier, as I gathered mint for the water jug. I was almost grateful to the chill. I needed a distraction from Catlin, who woke me up this morning with an enthusiastic, ‘Morning, Maddy. Would you like a coffee? Let me tell you about the sexy dream I had featuring Lon. In detail.’
And then she did.
She is the worst person I have ever met, and I would sleep for a hundred years rather than re-hear that. I don’t like the idea of her meeting someone right away. She shouldn’t get a safety blanket when she’s supposed to be my one. I need help interacting with the tiny group of people who live here. It’s weird there are so few. Aren’t villages supposed to be, like, communities, where everyone knows everyone’s business and things? I suppose they probably know all our business already. We just haven’t learned theirs.
People are always going in and out to Mamó, sometimes with mysterious boxes and eyes full of tears. That’s probably half of what they pay her for. To keep their dirty small-town secrets like a crap priest. I legitimately saw someone handing her a brown envelope yesterday. It looked like it was full of old dry leaves. She glared at me as she stuffed it in her pocket. I was peering from a turret window so she couldn’t have known I was there. And it’s not like she has resting glare face. She was just glaring in case someone was watching. For fear they’d feel un-small for even a second.
Catlin brought up Lon eighteen times today. I started counting after number five. Now, in fairness, they have been messaging on the regular. I did not reply to the single message he sent me.
Hello Maddy. This is Lon. Now u have my number. And three smiley-face emojis.
I don’t trust people who smile too much. They’re either too happy, or lying. I’m glad he had the good sense not to show up in my dreams, rescuing me from things. But that’s kind of not on him, that’s on my lovely sensible subconscious that doesn’t go wild over people within seconds of meeting them. I don’t really get the whole fancying-people thing. I mean, there are people I prefer seeing to other people. And people who smell better than other people. But I’d generally prefer to read a book, or complain about something. Which is fine, like sexuality is different for different people. And for me it is mysterious and intimidating and possibly another way to fail. When you’re attracted to a person, your brain releases chemicals. You lose your appetite, you might not sleep. Your heart rate increases and you feel what sounds a lot like panic. Catlin doesn’t mind that sort of thing – she wants to be swept up, to fall and burn. But burning is a horrible sensation. And falling’s not much better. Some people die of fright on the way down.
I have spent a good part of the day watching Catlin prance about in an old smoking jacket she found in the attic. She is always finding things in the attics here. Brian’s dad bought up a lot of estate sales, so the castle is full of boxes of old things; Brian says he doesn’t know the half of it, in that voice he gets when he talks about his dad. The deeper one. Our stepdad clearly has daddy issues. He is lucky to have ended up with someone like Mam. And we’re probably lucky to have ended up with him, even if it’s only so Catlin gets to live in a flea market where everything is hers for the taking.
Catlin is grumpy that nobody from school has messaged her or added her on anything. ‘Not even Layla,’ she moaned, as if it is a truth universally acknowledged that Layla is terrible. ‘And she’s staff.’
‘Layla’s all right,’ I tell her. ‘And she doesn’t work for us. Her dad works for Brian. That’s a different thing.’
Catlin might need to check her brand-new privilege. We’ve only been living in a castle for about fifteen seconds. What is she at with her ‘staff’? I don’t like the idea of people having to be nice to us because our stepdad is rich. People should be nice to us because Catlin is charismatic and I’m also there. It is the way of things. At least it was.
Instead of scavenging cool things from our stepdad’s house, I have been spotting old women. One very particular old woman. Every time I visit my plants, it seems Mamó is in the garden, looming. And then I have to say an awkward, ‘Hi,’ and she might nod at me if she feels like it, maybe. My skin gets all crawly around her. Like I’m slightly allergic. And who knows? Maybe I am. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to have happened. I’m pretty sure I heard her call the raven ‘Bob’ earlier. While feeding it a piece of raw meat. It’s finger-tongue reached out from the beak to stroke the meat before it gobbled it and croaked its thanks. I’m not sure why I got the urge to spy on her a little. It’s like when you have a big spot, and you hate it, but throughout the day your fingers keep coming back to it. Pressing against it, feeling the little ache. The new disgust. Mamó is a big spot on the face of my life here. And I need to stop picking at her. Or find a good concealer.
At least we have a library, where Catlin flops down on the fainting couch with a deep sigh of existential dread. ‘Ballyfrann is a ridiculous place and I want to go home. Where is my butler?’
Brian doesn’t have servants. Just Layla’s dad, a lot of dust-cloths and a cleaner we never see, who comes for two hours a day. Catlin is very disappointed.
‘Higgins would have ruined both his career and your chances with the beautiful Ultan,’ I tell her. ‘It is hard right now, but you’re better off this way.’ I nod my head as though I am an expert on juggling imaginary boyfriends. Which in fairness I could well be. They are imaginary.
She’s draped despairingly along the couch, like an old-timey woman in crisis. I run my fingers through her hair, untangling snares like roots, like an old-timey maid who isn’t sure what to do in said crisis, but knows the importance of good hair. I do what I can.
‘Everybody hates me. Except Lon.’
Fecking Lon and his constant messaging.
I grit my teeth. ‘I think you mean that they don’t love you yet. Except Lon,’ I say. ‘They will though. It’s a given.’
‘No, it’s not, and Lon doesn’t love me – he’s just being, like, welcoming or something.’ She waggles her eyebrows and flashes of sexy fireman Lon reappear in my subconscious.
I shudder. Pointedly.
‘Stop,’ she says. ‘He’s nice, and kind of hot, and he works in Donoghue’s so he’s probably our best chance for alcohol and shenanigans.’
‘Who says shenanigans?’
‘I do. I say shenanigans now.’ Her voice is full of the certainty that comes from not second-guessing every word that leaves your mouth, or regretting that you haven’t.
Donoghue’s is the local pub, and it does not look like a shenanigans sort of place unless you enjoy yelling at GAA players and singing Republican ballads. Which I, as a rule, do not.
‘He’s fifty-seven,’ I tell her.
‘He is not! He’s probably, like, nineteen? Maybe twenty.’
‘He’s eighty-three,’ I say. ‘He showed me his ID. It was sepia. And the date-of-birth part just said “yore”.’
‘Stop it. He’s four years older, five tops.’ There is a pause. My sister smiles. ‘He’s … mysterious. Intriguing.’