Swift Pure Cry by Siobhan Dowd

Author:Siobhan Dowd
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯), General Fiction
ISBN: 9780375891557
Publisher: David Fickling Books
Published: 2008-09-09T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-eight

December arrived, misty and cool. Trix hung up the advent calendar from two years ago, the last one Mam had bought them, on the wall again. Shell had re-shut the doors with sellotape and every morning, Trix and Jimmy took turns to open one with the nail scissors. They counted down the days to Christmas.

‘Are the presents bought, Shell?’ Trix asked.

Shell blinked. ‘Presents?’

‘Last year we had chocolate money. And bath cubes.’

Shell remembered how Dad had surprised them on Christmas morning with some last-minute gifts. There was no chance of him doing the same this year, going by his current doom-laden looks. If there were any presents to be bought–or stolen–she’d have to do it.

‘Santa will surely bring something,’ she promised.

‘Huh.’ Trix shook her head. ‘Santa’s stupid.’

‘Who says?’

‘Jimmy says. He says only stupid people believe in him. Or flying reindeer. Or God.’

‘Does he?’

‘Yeh. He says they’re all pretend.’

Shell looked at the angel peaking out from behind a cloud through the advent calendar window. The angel, Santa, Jesus and the Virgin Mary all seemed to float away to the land of fairy tales.

‘Is he right, Shell?’ Trix eyed her challengingly.

Shell pinched her chin. ‘Dunno, Trix. All I know is, there’s nothing wrong with being stupid. Stupid people are sometimes right.’

Trix frowned, considering. Then she put her hand out to touch Shell’s belly.

‘Will it come for Christmas, Shell? Our secret? Like Jesus did?’ Her eyes glistened.

‘Dunno, Trix. Don’t think so. January, more prob’ly.’

‘January?’

Shell nodded.

‘January?’ Trix turned away, her lips wobbling. ‘’S ages away.’

Shell stroked her neck. ‘Whisht, Trix. Santa will have something else for you before then, wait and see.’

Every morning she walked Trix and Jimmy to school, climbing up the back field, around the copse, and down the side of Duggans’ field. Jimmy went first, Trix next and Shell last, hugging her vast middle. They were like the three kings with no star to follow. Shell was winded by the top of the copse, and in the frosty air her breath came out in white balloons. At the turn-off to the village, she shooed them on to the last lap without her.

Dad stayed away in Cork, mostly. Shell had a notion he’d a woman there. One morning, while spying in his wardrobe, she’d found lipstick on his shirt collar. The money in the piano had shrunk down to the last hundred.

One day, she thought, he’ll go off to the city and never come back.

In the day time she’d go into town for messages. She’d take the bus from the stop beyond the village, going in at lunch time, when no one was about. Then she’d come home, sweep the floor and maybe bake something if the humour was on her. In the dim afternoons she’d shuffle out of her shoes and sit on the armchair. She lit the electric-bar fire, listening to the fizz as the metal elements glowed red, then orange.

The baby jostled when she was still.

Kevin. Hughie. Paul. She shook her head. No. Gabriel. She smiled.

What if it was a girl?

Her mind went blank.

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