short fiction

– First published in If a Tree Falls, the 2023 From the Well anthology produced by the Cork County Council Library and Arts Service

You pick up the two tiny bottles, one in each hand. They are awkward in your fingers, and you fumble the left, jerking it, but catching a proper hold of it now, and rotating each vial in turn. The names are familiar, comforting. Roman Holiday. Paris When it Sizzles. A little thrill of colour, of memory, of films once loved and still adored. 

Paris When it Sizzles is pink, with just a touch of oyster sparkle. Roman Holiday is a bold pillar-box red, and you’re sure you have a lipstick somewhere to match it. Your mother certainly wouldn’t approve. She would sniff and side-eye you. Or worse, depending on the day, perhaps she’d call you a dirty trollop, her favourite insult. She’s not here now. Red it is.

It takes you a couple of minutes to open the nail polish. It has hardened shut and is unyielding, but you are determined. 

Today is an important day, and you want to look your best. You have a fresh white blouse on, your 1950s A-line tartan skirt, and your handsome black belt, the one with the golden buckle. Beside the bed is your black baguette handbag, with a golden clasp that matches the golden buckle of the belt. Mort got you that bag as a birthday present, you think with satisfaction. Very appropriate.

And the red will be perfect with the tartan. 

You bring your attention back to the task at hand. 

You laugh a little at your unintended pun. 

Left first. You dip the brush into the nail polish with your right hand and pull it out slowly, gently skimming away the excess on the lip of the bottle. Your hands are shaking a little. Still, that’s to be expected, a small few nerves are only natural. 

You start with the thumb. The knobbly knuckle gives you pause. You’re not as young as you used to be. You shake off the thought and concentrate. Ye’re together long enough. He doesn’t mind that. One careful stroke, then another, and one more. Lovely.

First finger, second finger. Smooth sailing. Expertly done, if you do say so yourself. It might be a while since you painted nails in Cash’s, but you certainly haven’t lost your touch.

The brush hovers in the air above your ring finger. Where are your rings? A fleeting confused thought. You’re so wrapped up in thinking of the day ahead that you’re ahead of yourself! But something stirs in your mind, a twinkle like a glimpse of the future. Surely, it’ll be a ruby. Perhaps a little diamond on either side. Yes, that sounds about right. He’ll know.

How will he know? A brief panic flutters in your stomach. 

How do you know it’s today? A tightness in your chest. 

Then you think of his smile and it all melts away. You can see Mort laughing at the Trevi Fountain already. It’ll have to be Rome for the honeymoon, of course. He’s flinging a coin into the glimmering water, a wish for you both, for your future, for your return to Rome. You can almost hear him now. 

“We’ll be back! Who knows when. Our tenth anniversary maybe? Or will we hold out until our fiftieth, when we’re old and grey?” 

You’re laughing with him, holding his hand. He rubs the ruby on your finger.

Yes, it will definitely be a ruby. Red is the right choice. You can already picture the V-shaped wedding band you’ll have made to fit around it. The ceremony will be in the church at home obviously, but you’ll have to talk to him about the reception. And you’ll have to have his sister as a bridesmaid, you suppose.

But you’re ahead of yourself. He hasn’t even asked yet. 

Baby finger is next. There.

You hold up your left hand. Perfect. You’ve still got it, you think with pride.

Right hand will be trickier though. It always is when you’re doing them yourself. 

You line up the bottle, the brush. The table is clear. Maximum efficiency and ease now, you think. Let the left hold the brush, but let the right do the work. 

You lift the right thumb to the tip of the brush and are about to begin when the door bangs open behind you. Your left hand twitches in surprise. 

A drip on the table.

Sugar, you think, replacing the brush in the bottle. Tutting, you turn to see who it is.

“Hazel?”

The house mistress. You’d think she’d have the decency to knock.

As if she has heard your thoughts, “I knocked but I don’t think you heard me.”

You’ve no privacy in this bloody boarding house. That’ll all change when yourself and Mort are married. A place of your own. A little garden. A few babies, all going to plan. But it’ll be just yours and Mort’s for the first while. Imagine! 

“Anne’s here to see you, will I send her in?”

Anne… Mort’s sister? What’s she doing here? A flash of fear. What if he’s not coming at all? God, has something happened to him? Your mind races.

“Is everything alright?” you ask the house mistress, unable to keep the note of alarm from your voice.

She smiles reassuringly, “all grand, Hazel. I could bring ye in the tea?”

You think for a minute. You chew your lip, nervous. To be fair, she doesn’t rush you. But you don’t want to keep Anne waiting either.

“Send her in, do,” you hear yourself say. “And tea would be great. Thanks… ah…” Her name has slipped your mind with this new twist of events.

“Sarah,” she reminds you.

“Sarah, I knew that.” You wink.

She returns the wink. “Back in a mo, so, Hazel.” 

She steps away, her substantial girth now removed reveals Anne standing in the hallway. She looks different to how you remember her. Has she dyed the hair?

You shoot her an uncertain smile.

“Come in, Anne,” you gesture to the other chair. “Will you sit down?”

She smiles kindly, but maybe sadly? Is it bad news? She says nothing.

“It’s been a while since I saw you,” you try.

“Sure, I was here the other day,” she says, taking off her jacket.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you anyway. What news have you?”

“Ah no news now, all quiet. Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Are they looking after you?”

“Well, you know yourself, it’s not the same as being in your own home, but that Sarah one is nice enough, to be fair.” You peer out the door in case she’s coming but there’s no sign yet. “Bit nosy all the same, always sticking her head in to check up on me. I’m a grown woman, you know.”

Anne laughs.

There’s something not quite right going on, you think.

“You’re doing the nails,” she nods at the little bottle on the table.

“I’m going out later,” you tell her. You say no more. Leave the statement hanging there like a hook.

She barely bites. “Are you now?” 

“I am,” you confirm. And unable to contain yourself, you tell her. “I’m going out with your brother. He’s taking me to the sea for the day. We’re going to get fish and chips and ice-cream and stroll along the promenade.”

“Oh right,” she says. Why is there a note of disbelief in her voice? “Cobh so?”

“Yes,” you say resolutely. “I think today’s the day.” Defiant.

“I’m sure you’re right,” she says gently. “Do you want a hand?” she asks, pointing at your right one.

You eye her up. What’s her angle?

“Go on so,” you say, and silently pray that she’s at least half as good as yourself. You haven’t time to redo them if she makes a bags of it.

You place your right hand down flat on the table, and Anne opens up the little magic potion.

“The colour is fab,” she says. “I love the red on you,” 

You begin to relax as she smoothly applies the colour to your thumbnail. No blobs or spills.

“And don’t you have that lipstick too? Is that the one you wore to Rory’s christening?”

You can’t remember every christening, there are so many of them these days, but she’s probably right. 

“I do.”

I do. You think of Mort once more. His cheeky dimple. You feel giddy.

The house mistress appears in the door with a tray. “Tea!” she announces, placing the offering on the bed so as not to disturb the task at hand. 

You laugh a little at your unintended pun. 

“Thanks so much, Sarah,” Anne says.

Sarah. How you could have forgotten her name earlier is beyond you.

“What time is it?” you ask no one and check your watch. Almost noon. You’d want to be making a move.

“Why, what time is Tommy collecting you for the spin to Cobh?”

“Tommy?” you hear yourself ask. 

You’re falling now. Falling as if into a well of memory and darkness. When will you hit the bottom? You reach desperately for something to grab onto, but the sides are fluid. You are upside down. Swirling. And falling. Falling.

Tommy. Anne. Mort. 

Anne.

You fix your eyes on Anne and catch yourself from the well of memory. Your feet are on the ground. You are sitting down, and Anne is painting your fingernails. You notice how much smoother her hands are in comparison to yours. Your veins are blue and protruding. They scare you. 

You have to ask again.

“Tommy?”

Anne seems undisturbed. “You said my brother was taking you out to the sea for the day?” She looks up at you.

You search her eyes. They are not Anne’s eyes; they are your own. Aren’t they?

She searches back, holding your hand now, careful not to smudge, the polish is all done. 

“Mam?” she says. “Are you alright?”

You falter. You trip over years. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I thought you were someone else.”

She pours you a cup of tea, hands you a custard cream. She is calm.

“Was I Auntie Anne again?”

This isn’t the first time you’ve done this.

You realise you are crying and take a bite of the biscuit. 

Your daughter, Anne, sits with you, dips her own custard cream in her tea, soaking it and shoving it into her mouth in one gloopy mess. 

“Annie, have some manners,” you tell her, her mother once more.

She grins at you. “Sorry, Mam.”

She stands up and walks over beside the bed, picking up your handbag and opening it. She hands you your lipstick.

“Here,” she says. “Finish your tea and put this on.”

You put down your cup, and wipe your eyes, looking in the mirror at a face that is both unrecognisable and so familiar. You put on the pillar-box red and pop it back in the handbag.

You look at the picture of Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck on the Vespa that sits framed on the table and realise with a jolt that it’s not them at all. There’s that cheeky dimple you love so much.

“He’s not coming, is he?” you ask her.

Anne shakes her head.

She takes your coat from the wardrobe and helps you with it.

“Come on,” she says, grabbing her own jacket. “I’ll ring Tommy on the way, and he can meet us there. A walk on the promenade after some fish and chips might do us all the world of good.”

“Don’t forget the ice-cream,” you remind her, the two of you walking to her car.

She laughs. “You still remember the important things, Mam.”

You stop still. 

“Where are my rings?”

She turns and softly puts her hand to your chest. 

“You wouldn’t let us get them resized,” she explains.

Two rings dangle on a beautiful gold chain. You watch the ruby glitter.

“Always close to my heart,” you whisper, and you see him, Mort, saying those very words to you on a day long ago at the sea.