The Edge of Elsewhere

I saw him over Alice’s shoulder while she was sitting at my kitchen table talking about her lawn. A young guy in my garden, track suit and ponytail, no-one I knew. Alice was saying something about getting new seating and lighting and canopies, paving most of it over and having plants in pots. I scraped my chair back said ‘Alice....’

The guy was going into my shed, then he was out again with my hammer and box of screwdrivers. I opened the patio door and asked him what he was doing, and he looked at me calmly and said, ‘We’re just going through here...’ —like something was arranged that I didn’t know about, or like he was talking to someone else. I said, ‘No you’re not! Who are you?’ And Alice gave a little shriek, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ But while we were squaring up to him a child slipped in the patio door and went through to open the front. I saw them then around the corner, a load of others getting out of a people carrier parked in the drive, and when I ran into the house they were piling in with bags and chatter, like a bunch of relatives arriving.

I looked for my phone but they’d got it. I looked for Alice, but I’ll be kind and say she ran for help. Ran, anyway. It was a shock to see them in the hall, going up the stairs, but I knew already. They were taking over.

Well, I wasn’t leaving. I counted ten of them, four adults including Ponytail, who looked about eighteen. Their track suits were clean and they sounded civil, the parents with foreign accents, the children without. ‘We’re sorry to disturb you,’ the father was saying, ‘but we have nowhere else to go.’ It didn’t matter what I said. Ponytail had pocketed the fob for my alarm, the panel of which he was prising off the wall. There was nothing to do but breathe and say this is happening, this is the present moment, and at least he’s put the hammer down.

They were arguing over rooms now, who would sleep where. The mother said there would be no trouble, and I could still have my own bedroom.

‘What are you talking about...? Get out of my house this minute!’

They didn’t react at all. It was pointless. I watched the kids explore the house and run around the garden, delighted that both were so big. The lawn was a perfect football pitch, and the pond held possibilities. Meanwhile I discovered a young woman breastfeeding an infant on the sofa and was just going soft over the baby when I got a grip on myself.

            ‘This is trespass. This is an outrage!’

            ‘You have plenty of room,’ she said pleasantly. ‘You don’t want me and my baby sleeping on the street?’

            ‘Certainly not! I support the homeless, but—’

            ‘Well, isn’t that perfect? We really appreciate— ’

            ‘But I like my privacy! And I’m entitled to it!’

            ‘Privacy’ she said, looking at the infant in her arms. ‘I know what you mean! We used to like it too.’

            ‘Huh? How long were you planning to stay?’

            ‘Just till we get our own place,’ the mother said. ‘Don’t worry, I’m a good cook.’

            ‘You? In my kitchen?’

            ‘Of course. You hardly want to cater for all of us.’

            I was stuck in a lock jawed gasp.

            ‘Ok, tell me, why do you pick on widows? It’s not fair!’

            ‘We don’t really, just anyone in a big house with spare space. Come on, it makes sense.’

            A girl called down the stairs, ‘Is ours the only room with no bathroom!?’

            Her mother shouted something sharp.

            ‘We looked at quite a few places in Tall Oaks,’ the father was saying. ‘Yours was the best.’

            ‘Charming! You spied on me?’

            ‘Research, we call it.’

            ‘Listen, when my sons get home, you’d better be gone.’

            ‘But they’re in Australia, aren’t they, so that won’t be any time soon.’

            ‘Hey, my friend is gone for help! You’ll have a roof tonight alright, and a locked door and nice barred windows!’

            Oooh, I was pleased with that. They just smiled.

The mother, whose name was unpronounceable but sounded to me like Gondi-something, was stirring a spicy pot on the stove. The smell of cooking was quite a novelty for me—I usually eat out or have frozen meals for one. But I love spicy, and I wasn’t going to resist a taste, so I sat at the counter and accepted a plateful while they sat around the table. It had a fiery jolt to it, but then the most divine flavours coming through. Well, I’m quite a gracious person when I’m fed, so when I’d finished I found I was making a pot of tea, while they sat enthusing about their home-cooked meal. The adults poured out mugs appreciatively, Ponytail started filling the dishwasher and I took a long, deep breath.

            Half of a teenage girl appeared around the door.

            ‘Hello—what’s the Wi-Fi password?’

            ‘Cheeky pup.’

            ‘All one word?’

            ‘Cheeky. Pound sign. Pup. $%!@?!’

            The half girl disappeared. 

            ‘Oh, let her have it,’ Gondi said. ‘She just wants to talk to her friends!’ There was a shriek of frustration from the living room.

            ‘Course she does, and post videos of her new place. No lady, your brood will have to run in the garden and climb trees like we did!’

            That felt good. I sat still and tried to think about those trees, those blue and sunny days. Nostalgia can be useful when the present moment stinks.

I wasn’t actually any good at climbing trees, but in summer we went wild with the long days and the freedom and the new scents coming off everything. The smell of cut hay, or arms that the sun had been on, I tried to focus on those. Baled hay, especially. In the fields near us they made huge round bales that looked like fun but were useless, wouldn’t budge no matter how many of us got behind and pushed, but a few fields away they used an ancient baler, one that sucked rows of hay in the front and chugged chunky bricks of it out the back. We always went to watch the thing in action, and I thought it looked like a manic hen laying square eggs all over the field. The men stacked them in threes against each other, growled at us not to touch them and moved on.

            But the bales were clearly building blocks and hey, we were a gang of kids. Maybe someone had a plan but we didn’t think about it, just worked at hefting and stacking until some kind of house took shape. It could turn out long and narrow or big and square, with a door if we remembered, or just a place to climb in. You could stand on the top and see the fields all around, or you could walk along the walls, or you could huddle down inside the scented den. That was the best bit. It had a sweet hay smell and a floor of scratchy stubble, and our voices sounded different there. Our hideaway was visible to anyone from miles off, but we’d made it ourselves and now the sky was huge and we could do anything! It always started getting dark while we were talking, then there’d be a panic to put the field back the way it was, stacking the bales in the groups of three that always seemed to end up at one end of the field, like there was a slope to it. Then a race home with hay all over us, ready to swear we were up to nothing.

I hadn’t thought about any of that for years and years.

Someone from town bought that field when we were teenagers, offered a price too good for the family to resist. Couldn’t blame them. I’m not the sentimental type. Of course, I knew what was coming next, that’s just the way things are. I wouldn’t admit it at the time, but it broke my unsentimental heart to see the slow crawl of houses across those fields. I could speak my mind now though.

            ‘There are too many houses, that’s what I think, and I don’t mind saying so!’

            This brought a loud silence from my guests, so I went on.

‘And you know what? There are too many people!’

            They all looked at me, and I stared hard at them. Then we got tired of that game. But I was on a roll now, so I called them all together and managed to get them to sit down.

‘Ok folks, we’ve all had a nice meal, and now I want to say something. I very much appreciate how difficult your situation is. I have the most profound sympathy for you all, and I do hope you find what you’re looking for. But you can’t stay here. This isn’t a guest house; this is my home. My home.’

            ‘Ew, it’s her hewem!’ the Pup whispered out loud, before someone clapped a hand over her mouth. The father gestured for quiet and gathered himself up to speak.

            ‘Lady, we respect your home...’

            He paused for effect, then started on about how he understood my very valid concerns and would do his utmost, etc, etc, to take them into account.

            ‘We know where you’re coming from,’ Ponytail added helpfully, ‘I mean, we so do.’

            ‘Wait, wait... is this one of those TV things? Are there cameras?’ They all looked baffled, and the father quite indignant. ‘Oh look, the police will be here sooner or later, so why do you bother?’

            ‘You can say we’re relatives. It’s all a misunderstanding.’

            ‘Ha ha! Course I will!’

            ‘Just to mention,’ Gondi said, ‘we buy all our own food and clean the oven. And we separate the recycling.’

            Fake already. Relatives never do that.

            ‘We’ll touch nothing personal of yours. We’ll hoover the stairs–’

            ‘While your children are wrecking the place!’

            ‘We’ll have a cleaning rota. You need do nothing.’

            ‘Oh, you’re too kind.’

            Where was Alice? How long could it take to dial 999?

The baby started crying and that affected me, so I went out to the garden. It was full of children, just like the house. I considered running to the neighbours for help, but I knew if I went out that gate, I’d have crossed the line. I’d be on the outside, and they’d be in possession of my home. I decided to have a snoop inside their car instead, poke around, pull at things. And folded up in the back, what did I find? An enormous tent. They could easily have pitched it in the garden and had all the showers and boiling water they wanted, and we’d have been the best of friends! I’d have let them camp, wouldn’t I? I flopped onto the bench. Ponytail was doing yoga on the lawn but unfolded himself out of a lotus to come and sit beside me. He was spaced out for a minute before he spoke.

‘I think you miss your boys?’

‘People say that but honestly, I haven’t time! I’m always busy.’

‘Really?’

‘Why couldn’t you just ask to pitch your tent? Spare yourselves a criminal record.’

‘Because my sister and the baby need a roof.’

The old heartstring tug. I ignored it. I sat listening to the birds and thinking about the sweet-scented house of hay. But I was having trouble now bringing it back. I tried to conjure up the sound of buzzing things on long evenings, the taste of tiny strawberries in the ditches, hiding red under green leaves.

‘All this was a field once too,’ Ponytail said, spooking me a bit.

‘No, it wasn’t. These houses are old!’

A big guffaw from him.

‘And they’re elegant and well-spaced, not big ugly blocks like they throw up now.’

‘Ugly? Hey! Warm and dry.’

 ‘Do your boys visit often?’ the father asked me at the patio door. So gentle, so soft-spoken!

‘Oh, leave it, what’s it to you! What I want to know is, do you ever target widowers, or are women easier prey?’

‘No, we stayed with an old geezer once. He really appreciated the hot meals. We drove him places too and picked up prescriptions.’

‘But guys are territorial. Didn’t you fight over who got to go out at night and piss against the garden wall?’

‘Eh... no. Please, if you need any carpentry or DIY, I’ve worked in—’

‘No thank you! I’m not geriatric, I don’t need help!’

‘We’re just good housemates. We do our bit.’

‘Actually, I have visitors tomorrow—the women’s drumming circle. I think we’ll make it an all-day practice. You’ll love Alice on the kettle drums.’

‘Lady... please, give it a little while. Try it out.’

In the kitchen the chrome was shining, the floor ridiculously clean, and Gondi was at the counter weighing out flour. I felt a stab of rage that she was using my scales, but then I saw her scribbled recipe for Coconut Lime Cake.

‘I’ve really missed baking,’ she was saying. ‘It’s been such a long time. And you have all this equipment!’

She was peeling stickers off two cake tins I’d never got around to using. Cheeky Pup was in a sulk, cleaning the fridge where she’d spilled a red drink.

‘My pet hate, cleaning fridges,’ I said conversationally. ‘Just when you’ve done it, something always spills and you’re off again!’

Gondi folded a dish towel carefully.

‘You have a fridge to clean.’

Well, that was true, I suppose.

I made tea, and for a full minute it went completely quiet. Then the baby gave a gurgle in his carrycot, sounding just like my little grandson ten thousand miles away. Then another tiny murmur—oh, exactly the same! I’d keep him alright. And his mother to look after him, she’d be no trouble. She’d hardly said a word all the time, just looked very content and absorbed in her kid. There was a rocking horse in the attic he could use when he got older, an old thing I was keeping for the grandchildren but would probably forget all about when they were home.

I finished my tea and found Cheeky Pup in the hall, sticking little plastic hooks to the wall.

‘No! No structural changes.’

‘Structural? Hello?’

‘Nothing on walls!’ I tried to whisk one off but it was glued hard.

‘I need to keep my stuff near the mirror—there’s only one full-length!’

‘Tough!’

‘You don’t get it—it’s Takeover Day! You’re lucky to have us – a bunch of guys wanted this place too, only my dad’s a faster driver. They’re at your neighbour’s now, I saw their van!’

I ran to the window but couldn’t see it. Did she mean Alice’s? Maybe she’d arrived home to a vanload of derelicts sprawled on her furniture, leaving marks on her white floors and shooting up in the conservatory? Maybe she’d envy me! Then I heard the Pup sniggering behind me and had to breathe, compose myself and leave the scene.

Oh, wouldn’t I love to keep that brat and put manners on her! Gondi would be part of the deal of course, to back me up. And continue baking, if she liked. I sat in a kitchen chair and watched her pour the cake mixture into the tins. I went outside to the bench and watched the circus on my lawn, doing more damage than a clatter of badgers. At least the younger kids had ditched their shoes; the boy trailing his toes in the pond reminded me of something from way back, and the two girls doing cartwheels on the grass seemed familiar too. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the sun was high and a bit blinding, like a light that had come and altered everything. You couldn’t look at it and you couldn’t look away, and it had carefully left untouched every fine detail of your summer scene, your grass and patio, your children playing, who seemed like they had always been there, your hum of birds beyond, just at the edge of elsewhere.

The man on the seat opposite me was saying something about starting tomorrow on the vegetable patch, just to get some salad leaves planted, because you can never have too many of those. He was going to need a bit of help, of course.

Well, I told him I didn’t want to get involved.

Of course, he said, everybody can help a little. He went off to see what tools I had, and I let him go, I’d deal with it all later. The sun had moved to just the right angle and I dozed for a few seconds, and next thing I knew Gondi was leaning out the kitchen window, telling me about when she was small and used to make mud cakes with her sister on the riverbank. She always put two pebbles on top of hers and her sister put three, then they’d leave them on a hot rock to bake. Next day they might have come apart or gone mushy in the rain, or some boys might have kicked them off, but sometimes they were perfect. Once she went to check on them in the new blue dress her aunt had sent and got mud on the dress and tried to wash it off by dipping the skirt in the river, but that only made it worse. She was afraid to go home then and hid behind the boats for hours, until it got dark and she heard them all out looking for her, yelling her name, and then....

She disappeared from the window for a minute, and when she came back she was into a different story, this time about the indoor market where she had a stall with her husband, selling rugs and crafts and small pieces of furniture. That was until the big fire when they lost all their stock, the place got closed down and the daughter had to help out with the rent. They were managing ok, just about, until the son-in-law’s motorbike skidded into a wall. He was in a bad way in hospital for weeks, he was supposed to pull through but didn’t even live to see the baby. Their son had some work in a fast-food place but that wasn’t enough, so they pitched their tent in the park but then they got evicted from there, and then....

‘No no, wait a minute!’ I was trying to say, ‘There are supports there when things go wrong, you can always—’

‘Oh, we tried all those, one after another...’—she was rattling off a list, and counting things out on her fingers—‘and then....’

And then there was a long string of mishaps and setbacks and closed doors.

 ‘Well ok...you know, sometimes you get a run of bad luck like that, but eventually things turn around. It’ll pick up—it always does!’

 ‘Oh, sure!’ Her face was different, hard. ‘Oh yeah, lady. Wouldn’t it be lovely if that was true?’

I woke from a daze and got the smell of coconut toasting. I didn’t know where I was.

I blink a few times and try to focus. Just for now, all is well. Gondi is asleep on the sun lounge. The kids are around the pond. Taking advantage of the lull, Tig has adjusted his ponytail and started to mow the lawn, saying he likes to be busy. The noise is loud but his mother sleeps on through it.

---

Margaret Irish’s stories have appeared in Short Fiction, Dark Mountain and The Stinging Fly, among others, and her plays and stories have been broadcast on RTE radio. She lives in south-east Ireland.