PhotoRóisín Keane is a published poet and short story writer based in Dublin. Her poetry has previously been translated into Spanish and she has been involved in intercultural art projects such as collaborative painting and poetry.

 

Edie

 

By Róisín Keane

Edie walked quickly into the house. The door that was shut behind her had small lettering, ‘SWN’, on the glass panels – ‘Shelter for Women in Need’. She went straight up to her room and took off her clothes. They peeled off like the skin peels off an uncooked chicken. She dropped the soaked mess in a pile and stood, cold and pale white, in front of the mirror. She saw her body from the shadows of her ribs up. She took a step back to see below the shadows.

Liz, who had let her into the house, was now knocking on the bedroom door with that incessant little know-at-all knock: “Edie, Can you come talk to me for a sec?” and “Edie, I gave you a few minutes but it’s really important that we talk now”. Edie went to put her chair against the door knob. Don’t even let us fucking lock ourselves in, the mean bastards. She stopped in the process. That chair hadn’t worked last week, the door opens out, remember. The fat bitch, Mary, was always barging in on her. Edie gave her some exercise recently, though, lighting ciggies, putting them out, and moving rooms. Mary followed the smell like a sniffer dog. “I know who’s been breaking the house rules” said Holy Mary at dinnertime. But no one believed her because Edie didn’t smoke.

What a stupid idea to come back just because she had the urge to see herself. Well, she knew they all thought she was a nutcase. She’d had enough of it. Women’s refuge. Refugees of their own lives. She would migrate.

* * * * *

Edie touched her face and fixed her hair down. She was thinking it had been sticking out to one side all morning but had had to wait till the window cleaners were done. Eventually they finished and Edie saw through the shining glass that the mannequins were all fixed up in a new display. She only ever fixed her hair in this window. The glass was cleaned every weekday morning, for one. But she liked the mannequins too. They changed a lot. Sometimes they had ovals for faces, others were just like plastic humans, and for a while last month they had horse heads.

She stood for a minute in the warm air blowing out of the shop door. A body started to make its fat way towards her and she walked on. The street was getting too busy now. Earlier, in the sharp new sun she had walked along the canal to the playground with the good swings. Everywhere was full of space and air and stillness. With her cold hands tucked under her jacket she could feel the warmth coming from her body. Her stomach twitched when the iciness met it. She swayed slowly back and forth on the swing and studied the clouds coming from her mouth and rising up in the air, disappearing slowly. She could see a jet, way up, making a faint white streak across the blue sky.

* * * * *

Some flattened boxes had been left out in a pile for recycling outside a newsagent’s. Edie looked through them and found a smaller one that hadn’t gone soggy over night because it was stuck in between the rest. She tore off a piece about a half metre long. She folded over the torn edges to make it a better square. With it tucked under her arm she turned the corner to the pedestrian street. It wasn’t raining. The man she had seen yesterday was back again beginning to scrawl words on the pavement. She didn’t have any trouble borrowing a stick of green chalk from him but he would chat to you till your pulse slowed to a stop. She just wanted the chalk. The sky was starting to get pretty cloudy now. He probably won’t even get to finish the rhyme; he’s a bloody long way off anyway. The man gave up talking shortly. “I’m just saying you should take care for yourself in this climate, love,” and he went to kneel back down.

She sat for a while on the street that ran along by the college. It was cold enough now but she’d found a sheltered spot across from the phone box where she could rest her sign – Please donate for bread. The doorway just opposite already had an occupant, a sack full of sand. Edie patted and smoothed and managed to shape a comfortable pillow for her bum and back. It was almost like sitting on a show couch in that big department store on Main Street. Down the street Edie saw more sandbags lining the steps of doorways. After a while she counted the coins collecting below her sign and figured she must nearly have enough. She placed the change back in and waited. Not long after, she saw a pair of red converse double back past her and then go by a third time. This time a buttered roll in a see-through bag was placed in front of the sign, “here you go”, and the shoes moved on quickly. Edie grabbed it and beamed.

As she walked towards the square she crumbled the roll in her hands. The outside broke up easily, fresh and crusty. The inside was too moist with the butter. She’d have to take it out to break it up into smaller pieces. The square wasn’t full with legions of pigeons like it normally was. She distributed the crumbs as evenly as she could and shook out the bag to get the last bits out. They were caught in a sudden gust and blew spectacularly up and around in the air, carried right down to the end of the square.

* * * * *

The wind was beginning to pick up as Edie progressed along the boardwalk and towards the bridge. This made the journey more effortful as her body bent to the oncoming mist and cold blasts of air. Today was Saturday and into town people bustled – shopping, protesting, smoking cigarettes outside pubs.

The sky had been a watery red that morning so she wasn’t much surprised that there was a change in the weather. Strangely though, the river was well up to nearing capacity and water had been swept onto the boardwalk in places. She couldn’t remember seeing that before. She came to the end of the boardwalk and stepped back up onto the footpath. Each footstep made a splashing sound. There were mangled umbrellas sticking out of all the bins. She stopped to examine a bright red and purple one that didn’t look damaged. The metal hadn’t bent or broken. Just the cover of it had blown inside-out. It was stuck among the others but came out after a few tugs.

Misty rain was nagging at her now and she continued her journey with more haste than intended. Every soul about was in motion. Bodies were running in front of cars whose headlights were on full even though it could only have been midday. At the bridge she crossed the street and turned the corner. The blast of air that hit her left her stationary mid stride. She closed her mouth to catch a breath, pulled her billowing coat around tightly and battled on against the force of the wind. The sun wrestled with heavy clouds and eventually gave in. Looking down the river, towards the sea, sky and water were one. Dark grey reflected in both. The colour was assimilating far away buildings too.

* * * * *

Winter descended on the day. There was not a living soul on the streets Edie moved through now. There were other kinds of souls around, rushing past, carried on the wind at speeds, up and up and around and sweeping past again. Lonely souls that she had known, now moving together. And Edie. She crouched in a doorway. The only doorway on the street without sandbags. The street ran along the docks. The docks were brimming, bubbling over like soup left too long in the microwave. She stared at it exploding in pops and splashing out.

Underfoot was getting wet. Edie realised she was squatting in water. She used the umbrella to hoist up her tiring body. She could feel the coldness of the water reach every bone. Her back ached from it. The wind seemed even to be coming through the door she stood against. She turned. It wasn’t a door at all but wooden planks shoved up against the doorframe. She pushed and heaved. They didn’t budge. The water was rising and Edie felt desperation suddenly begin to cling at her sides, clawing in at her ribcage. She pushed and pushed but nothing. She grabbed the umbrella and wedged it between two of the planks. She thought she felt one slide across. She tried again. After several huge intakes of breath she had moved it enough for an Edie-sized entrance, almost. She thrust in the umbrella first. The concrete scrapped her back and arms as she elevated her body and pushed her way through the opening. It was so dark that she could barely make out any shapes. For her first steps she kept close to the wall using the umbrella to feel her way forward. The rafters creaked and rubble, or slates, or dislodged wood were warning of their decent. As her eyes adjusted she saw a tall dark shape in the centre of the floor. She made a dash to it. The banister of a stairs. She took a few deep breaths, tapped around with her new walking cane, and climbed up the stairs carefully. The first room she found was large and empty with two tall windows that still had the glass in-tacked. There was a pile of thick material, like old curtains, beside one of the windows. She bunched it up and sat down, pulling her legs up close to the rest of her body. Leaning one arm on the window sill, she rested her head. She looked through the greasy glass at the dizzying shop lights flashing and dangling from their fixtures in buildings close by. Edie closed her eyes.

* * * * *

Edie tried to get passed what was blocking her. She pushed the ruffles of a large thick skirt out of her face and looked up the tall bodies all around her to the faces and hands moving above. Ash scattered down from somebody’s hand. Edie batted it away quickly from her nose and mouth. There was noise and the smell of drink and people standing about everywhere, in the way. ‘You’d think someone would’ve noticed before it all went up’. ‘How did the young one escape it?’ ‘Unrecognisable, they say.’

She was lifted and put on a couch. She squirmed as two old women squashed in beside her. She had to shake hands with the line of people passing through the room. Some of them were holding soggy tissues. After a while, a girl with her hair tied behind in a huge red and purple scrunchie stood in front of Edie. They were both put in the corner with some baby toys, colouring books and crayons. Edie pushed some colours and one of the books away from her and towards the girl so that they wouldn’t have to sit close together. They turned the pages until they found pictures that hadn’t been filled in yet. Edie’s was a picture of Gulliver lying on his back on top of tiny mountains and fields. She scribbled in black all over his head so that you couldn’t make out his eyes, his nose, his mouth any more. ‘That’s what my Da looked like when they found him.’ ‘How’d they know it was him? Could be anybody.’