Lucy's Spiral A Novella (Part I)
Part I
And nobody can say what is in us...
In the black of early morning, you could not distinguish what lay in the back fields of the old college. Black is, of course, the colour that eradicates all difference while simultaneously holding the potential that just about anything may arise. What arose in that blackness came from above like tiny jewels pumped full of light. The snowflakes fell with an easy grace, unlike the rain. They fell upon the black grass and the college walkway and the dead lamppost—giving them all a layer of dazzling light. Further out in the back fields, beyond the sight of any casual by-passer, a lone elm tree came into form. Its branches crisscrossed leafless (like fishing nets) and began collecting their own share of the snow. Soon the elm tree was fully coated; a white beacon standing still against the black sky.
And so our story begins with Lucy Feyer, who felt a phantom breeze move through the blankets on a snow-coated February morning. The outer layer of fabric was cold to touch and so too was the wooden linoleum which she dropped her feet upon. She drew back the curtains curious to see what lay behind their white glare. Then she looked upon the snow. This had finally put an end to the succession of dark morning rises. She thought of being in school in two hours. To be in uniform, sitting behind the tightly shaved head of Skinny while outside was so beautiful.
She was lucky to at least sit near the window for the majority of her classes. This perk had been acquired with due diligence on the first day of 6th year. While others prioritized their ‘friend group’ (Footnote 1). Lucy brushed passed to the lone window seat—which was long and Victorian in design and provided a view to the yard, the church and the rooftops of the townhouses higher up.
She changed behind the cover of her wardrobe door because she knew the twins across the street could see in at her. Grey shirt, skirt, tie, black jumper, tights, shoes. She then took out a padded jacket, gloves and a red hat from her sister Tess’s room. Tess was on the 6:30 to Dublin, halfway there by now. As Lucy passed the light in her father Nicholas’s room she could hear him typing harmoniously, key to key. The dark hours of the morning were when he worked; 5:30 to 8. To 8 specifically, if Lucy needed a lift to school. Most days she took the bus and he pushed through until nine o’clock. She had long thought that the rim of light around the contours of his door made it look as though something magical was happening in there. Whenever that light was on he was writing.
Lucy ate an abstemious breakfast; coffee and an apple, and took the twelve euro from the countertop. Nicholas was always excessive in the money he gave. It could never be equated with what it was intended to buy. Lunch was at max four euros. Whenever he sent Lucy and Tess for bread and milk he would give them a twenty and look predictably surprised when the change was handed back, as though his daughters had nicked a great bargain.
Once that sliding door was opened, like a jet engine airlock, there was no going back. The bus picked up nearby and thanks to the early hour it would go into town half-empty. There was reason in her movement. By final year you usually worked these things out; like a worker coming up to retirement who knows precisely how to navigate a working day.
The familiar bus stop scene emerged upon a blanket of snow. The queue of workers was moved towards the spastic opening door. They were predominantly factory workers. You could tell because some of them were sporting their company fleece or luminous jackets: Anvil (cosmetics), Value Central (bulk goods), and Glan Bia (milk production). She recognised most from this day-to-day encounter. Lukacs worked at Anvil and he was predictably the last person who got on the bus. At precisely 7a.m his bike would skid up to the stop and he would lock it to a pole with a ridiculous metal chain more apt to secure a construction gate. Lukacs dated Tess for a couple of weeks but Lucy was never properly introduced. If Lukacs ever mentioned any particulars about working at Anvil they never made their way back in conversation to Lucy. Work in that environment seemed to be best characterised by the occasional reference of one worker to another as they entered the bus: “What time you out at?”. In other words, it was to be gotten through. And still, Lucy wondered what happened for those usual eight hours, day after day. What did they do? She thought of cardboard boxes being opened up and broken down, she imagined the continuous drone of machinery and maybe the radio playing in the background as the stock was moved and loaded with forklifts. To see a worker's jacket for Lucy was to be on the precipice of a different world, as her uniform was an indicator of her own. The engine of the bus rattled as Lucy took her seat. She noticed the ruddy red cheeks of the bus driver and the gearstick like a cane in his grip. She plugged in her earphones and tucked down her hat so they stayed in place. This was one of the best parts of the day. The bus moved off, the estate gave way to town, the streetlight continued to glow against the snow and Bonnie Raitt sang a song in her ears that she knew was true:
I am an old woman
Named after my mother
My old man is another
Child who has grown old
The bus eased to its final stop outside St. Patrick's Cathedral near the centre of town. By then most of the workers had gotten off at their various factories on the outskirts. It was just Lucy and the few pensioners rising from their seats. A crook-backed woman yanked a shopping case from under her seat and said: “Thank you young man” to the bus driver (who was probably in his late forties with those ruddy cheeks that looked like that of a 14-year-old coming inside from playing a ferocious game of tag). Lucy got off the bus just behind the woman and they met eyes just for a moment. Then the crooked-backed woman tightened the shawl on her neck and walked off in the melting snow. The look was direct and curious.
Lucy was going into the church as she had been doing for many of the mornings of this final year. Of all the places; the early opening cafes, the hidden corners of refuge in the school, she felt drawn here above the rest. It wasn’t the official school church so being approached by the school priest wasn’t an issue (Footnote 2). It was still early, she had time before her first class and the school was only a short walk away. She wouldn’t tell a single person she went here, nor would she speak in religion class, or argue against her sister Tess’s protestations about the corruption and evils of the catholic church (and religion more generally in her avidly frenetic moments where she would quote from Karl Marx to Christopher Hitchens). Lucy was quiet in this respect, but introspectively she felt these things mattered a great deal.
With visits to the church, the introspection was given form in architecture; the towering structure of stone made you think of a different time. This perennial church which she walked inside and heard the whine of its floorboard—saw its marble altar and the pine-wood seating, the maroon cushioning for kneeling on, and the little golden bolts which seemed to hold everything together, it was still here. To think there was still this space on a street of bakeries and cafes, phone-repair shops and hairdressers, and that it still stood strong from its foundations. Lucy walked down the side aisle and took a seat near the middle pew. She looked upon the framed stations of the cross as she did when she was a child. She remembered being in church with her grandmother back then. How the other children could be seen using two fingers to mimic legs without a body along the aisle top. Then there was her, solemn, enraptured by the paintings and usually unable to pay attention to the sermon. She sat for a few more moments.
To just be here, in this place, where nobody knew she would be. A woman was kneeling a few aisles in front with rosary beads wrapped around her hands. A man was up front illuminated by the red candles with his back turned. Lucy reasoned it was about time to get walking. She bent down to tie her loose lace and rose to leave. Just as she was coming out of the aisle she saw the man at the aisle top looking at her. He didn’t hide it. He was just staring directly with his face lax in front of the display of flickering red candles. A face which was gaunt and emaciated by shadow. One hand grasped around his other wrist as if to hold it still. His suit jacket was oversized and draped to his knees. Lucy intercepted his red glass-eyed stare. She was held for just a second by that redness coating his eyes and then she looked down. Spurting into step all the quicker, Lucy gave one final glance back as she hit the sour air from outside. He hadn’t moved an inch and the red candles continued to flicker behind him, as though all the other light had been swallowed up...
Footnotes:
1. It may also be said that the multifarious nature of seat selection was mostly hierarchical by nature. For example, Susie, despite liking the back row never had a chance of actually sitting there over Cal and Toasty. If she did, they would not be long lugging her bag from under the table and tossing it to the single side seat where they believed she belonged. It was the same with the front seats taken by the more academically inclined. Hammad was never going to sit there ahead of Sacra. If he did, even the teacher would not be long showing her dismay and no doubt begin teaching the class from the second row where Sacra was seated.
2. Father Tim was a peculiar fellow whom you did not want to meet by chance alone. He had a predilection for confession as the primary means to be a ‘good catholic’. While other schools had wiped confessions off the slate altogether, Tim had set down class confessions en masse every second week. If you didn’t want to confess your sins of ‘smoking cigarettes’ or ‘cursing at your mother’ directly to Jim, you could kneel behind him and place your hand on his shoulder. He maintained this would be down to preference. How Jim weaved such strong trust between the varying religious teachers was a mystery to many.
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