My Mother's Children: An Irish family secret and the scars it left behind. by Annette Sills (epub e reader .TXT) 📗

the bride was running on the pavement opposite in her wedding dress. I started to shake uncontrollably and stood with my hands over my ears waiting for the explosion. Then a booming Yorkshire accent came from nowhere as a group of teenage boys jostled past me to get on the bus.

“Oi, lads, can’t you see the lady’s not well?”

A pair of tattooed arms plucked them out of the way and before I knew what was happening, I was being led to the bus shelter by a large woman with a peroxide head of frizz. She said her name was Mandy. As I sat on the seat my heart felt like it was about to explode out of my body. It crossed my mind that it might, that it was now my time, that I was going to die the same way as Mikey. I closed my eyes and saw him writhing in the middle of the road in Old Trafford, his face ashen.

“My heart,” I said, clutching my chest.

“It’s OK, pet. I’m a nurse,” said Mandy. “I can’t be sure but I think you’re having a panic attack. I get them too. They’re horrible.”

She was right. She gave me a bottle of water from her bag and stayed with me until my breathing had returned to normal. Then she flagged me down a taxi.

I was still shaking as I stumbled through the front door. I didn’t understand. I’d been back to Deansgate scores of times since the bomb and I’d never I experienced anything like that. Why it was it happening to me now?

Chapter 27

As if having a panic attack in the middle of Deansgate wasn’t frightening enough, the next day I bumped into Bryonie Phillips. I was jogging in The Meadows. I hadn’t been running since the day Mikey died but I thought some exercise might help my mental health. I’d also heard it was a healthier sleep aid than copious amounts of marijuana and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc every night.

The Meadows was the local name for Chorlton Eees Nature Reserve, the conservation area on the edge of Chorlton that hugged the River Mersey. Tree-lined paths led you through woodland and fields teeming with wildlife. It was my haven. I loved being deep in the woods away from the sounds and smells of the city. On my walks and runs there I’d spotted a water vole, a brown hare and one time a kingfisher. Despite days of continuous rain that had left the area muddy and treacherous, the path by the river was busy with dog-walkers.

I dragged myself along at a snail’s pace, my calves stiff and in need of oiling. It felt like they were carrying the weight of both my body and troubled mind, but I plodded on regardless, past sunflowers battered and bruised by the wind. The river was swelling, the sluggish brown water rising and curling. After a while, I stopped by a willow tree to rest and watch a heron swooping for fish in the river.

I spotted Bryonie about twenty feet ahead. She was wearing a yellow raincoat with matching polka-dot wellies and was being dragged along the path by her tawny-coloured spaniel, imaginatively named Brownie. I suddenly felt exposed, like I was standing there stark naked for all the world to see. I recalled her laughter that day at the Barbakan Deli and shuddered. It wasn’t one bit rational but I became convinced Bryonie knew all my dirty secrets. She knew about Joe and Karen and she relished telling everyone in Chorlton about my fucked-up life. I was sure of it.

I glanced around for an escape route as she headed towards me, smiling and waving and grappling with her beast. The only thing to do was to head down the bank at the side of the path and into the woods so I went for it. But the incline was steep and I lost my footing in the mud. I plunged onto my backside in the sludge. I got up but slipped again, this time rolling down the incline and landing beside a nettle bush. When I looked up Bryonie was standing on the path. Charcoal clouds drifted above her head and she had one hand over her mouth trying not to laugh, the Hound of the Baskervilles barking at her feet. It was a cameo that summed up just about everything about my life. I kept falling on my arse again and again while the world laughed. Stung, I limped away, leaving my dignity in the nettle bush.

The next day was Bank Holiday Monday. Determined to keep up with my daily exercise, I drove up to Alexandra Park in Whalley Range, parked and went for a walk. Families were gathered around the pond feeding the ducks. As I passed by I thought of Sundays there with Tess and Dad shortly before he died. We’d throw old breadcrusts into the water, buy 99 cones from the ice-cream van near the café and Dad would kick a ball about with Mikey. At four years of age my brother was already showing sporting talent. An image came to me of Tess lying on the grass beside me in a pink summer dress. Her blonde hair was piled messily on her head and I was putting lipstick on her full smiling lips. The memory warmed me and I clung on to it. What happened to her was not her fault. At times she was the best of mothers and we were a happy normal family once.

As I drove home, families everywhere seemed to be piling into cars with bags of food, foil-covered sandwich trays and bottles of something or other. Many were probably dreading a day with in-laws, parents and siblings in damp back gardens or overcrowded front rooms. Christ, how I envied them. I’d have given anything for a dull afternoon with Dad, Tess, Mikey, Paddy or Peggy. I thought of the empty rooms waiting for me at home.