Rebecca McMinn

Places Like Home

Novel extract

Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteán féin.
There’s no place like home.

1.

They must be mad. Moving in here, her mother said. This time of year.

Rachel shrugged. Yeah. Wouldn’t be me.

Her mother tutted. She was wearing her old dressing gown: the pink one with the tea stain on the sleeve that she couldn’t get out. She said it was the comfiest, but didn’t want to be seen wearing it. Any time the doorbell rang, she would throw it off and put on the nicer, newer one she kept hanging in the hallway before opening the door.

Your phone’s buzzing, she said.

Rachel said, I know.

Her mother turned away from the window. Do you not want to answer it?

I will. Later.

Is that not the point of a phone?

I will, Rachel said again, louder. I don’t feel like it now.

Is it your manager? Are you in bother at work?

Agitated, Rachel picked up the phone again and flicked on the screen. It’s just Sara. Alright? 

Her mother turned away from the window then, no longer interested in the new neighbours. Have you fallen out with Sara?

Rachel sighed at her mother. She turned the phone over in her hands. They hadn’t fallen out, but they hadn’t had a conversation in weeks, either. She texted Sara sometimes, and she would reply days later. She was always busy. Working. Something important.

She turned on the screen again and opened the message. She read it quickly as her mother watched.

She says she’s coming home on Friday, Rachel said.

Oh. Fair enough.

She’s coming back for her cousin’s wedding.

Her mother asked, Is she a bridesmaid?

I dunno. She didn’t mention it.

Her mother scrunched up her nose. Remind me what she moved away for? Some job?

Rachel said, It’s marketing. Or something. That’s all I know.

Her mother hummed – a noise of disapproval Rachel knew well – and said, That wedding will be fancy, anyway. Where is it?

I dunno, Ma, said Rachel. Does it matter?

Her mother shrugged. Just curious. Don’t get twisted about it.

Rachel watched as her mother turned back towards the window, craning her neck to see up the street, towards the new neighbours’ house. Her mother had never really liked Sara’s family. They’d lived on the same street as young kids, but Sara’s family had moved away, to a nicer house near Stormont with a big back garden that Rachel loved to play in after school, but didn’t talk about when she got home.

They’re from down South, you know, her mother said, still looking out the window. Wendy met one of them.

Rachel asked, Who?

The new people, her mother said. She shot Rachel a look that said she was thick and carried on, She says the girl has some big name. God knows how you say it.

Rachel thought the name was probably easy enough.

Why d’you think they’ve come here? Like, of all places.

Rachel said, Maybe they just liked the house.

Her mother scoffed. I suppose they liked the flags outside as well.

Rachel shrugged. She said, Maybe they don’t care. Not everyone does.

Her mother hummed again. The same noise as earlier.

Why are you in here, anyway? Rachel asked. Can’t you be nosey from your own room?

Your window has a better view.

Rachel snorted. Fine, she said. I’m going out. Have it to yourself.

Out? Where?

To work. I told you earlier.

Her mother nodded. What time will you be back?

Eight, Rachel said. Her shifts in the Spar at the end of their road always finished at eight. Still, her mother asked.

Her mother pried herself away from the window. I’ll do dinner when you get home, she sighed, heading out through the bedroom door.

Grand. Thanks.

Halfway down the hall, her mother called, Will you bring something home for me to cook?

She hadn’t closed the door behind her. Rachel got up and said, I will, then closed it herself.

She threw the phone onto her bed. She’d reply to the texts from Sara later. She reached into her wardrobe and took out a scratchy, polyester polo shirt from work. She picked up the phone again and shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans.

She made her way downstairs. In the kitchen, her mother was standing with her own phone in hand as the kettle boiled on the counter.

Is that you away? she asked without looking up from the screen.

Yeah, Rachel said. See you later?

She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, and slipped out the door as her mother made a noise of agreement. She turned the corner, pushing her arms into the sleeves as she walked down the side of their house.

She could see Angie Boyd a few houses down, herding her kids out of the car. She waved, although she didn’t think Angie would notice. Her youngest – the little boy – was wailing. Rachel turned the other way, glad to put distance between herself and the kid.

The rest of the street was quiet. She walked up the road for a few moments. She heard a door opening and turned her head absentmindedly, expecting to see someone putting out their bins. Instead, she saw a girl standing in the doorway. She was tall and thin, and looked to be in her early twenties.

Hello. The girl waved to her.

Hi, said Rachel. She stood still on the pavement. She said, You’re the new people.

The girl gave a small laugh. Yeah. I suppose so.

Rachel noticed the girl’s accent. Different, but not too thick. She sometimes heard voices from the South around the city centre or the university, but it wasn’t something she heard close to home.

Where are you from? Rachel asked.

Galway, the girl said. She pointed to the house behind her and said, We just moved to Belfast.

Rachel had never been to Galway. She’d only travelled south of the border once or twice, to go to concerts in Dublin when she was a student. She wondered whether to ask more questions or mind her own business.

The girl asked her, What’s your name?

Rachel, she said. She gestured down the road, and said, I live just down a bit. With my ma.

I’m Saoirse, the girl said.

Rachel remembered what her mum had said earlier, about Wendy and the new neighbour’s name. She smiled to herself and said, Nice to meet you, Saoirse.

You too.

Rachel nodded. I’ve got to get to work. But give us a shout if you need anything. Yeah?

I will, Saoirse said. She sounded pleased. Thank you.

Rachel gave her a smile, and turned back towards the Spar. She stuck her hands into her pockets and wondered if her mother was back at her bedroom window. She wondered if she’d seen the conversation. She walked onwards, into the shop.

Her shift passed slowly. Uneventful, as always. Angie came in about halfway through, kids still in tow, wanting a refund for something she’d bought the day before. Rachel fetched her manager, who didn’t do any work, anyway, and ate a Dale Farm lolly in the back while he took care of Angie.

Towards the end of her shift, a couple Rachel had gone to school with came in to pay for petrol. They’d been a year or two ahead of her, but she recognised them from the school bus. She had smiled and said hello, but they’d just smiled back and put their card into the machine. She didn’t know if they didn’t recognise her, or just weren’t interested. Either way. She wished them a good evening and watched them leave. After they left, she wondered what they’d done with their lives after school. She wished she had asked.

The streetlamps were just coming on as she was leaving. The flags hanging from each one looked miserable in the orange glow, soaked from the rain earlier in the day. The red, white and blue fabric was plastered to the metal.

She walked quickly down and street and into the house. Inside, she threw off the coat, hanging it on one of the hooks in the hallway. As she fumbled with the coat hook, her mother shouted through the living room door.

Is that you home?

Yeah.

Dinner in a bit, her mother called again. Alright?

In just the polo shirt, Rachel felt the cold inside the house. It was always cold. The radiators downstairs didn’t work, hadn’t for a year or more, and neither Rachel nor her mother knew how to fix them. She began to climb the stairs, to grab a jumper from her bedroom. She was almost at the top when the doorbell rang. 

Her mother yelled from downstairs. Get that, Rachel. Would you?

Rachel trudged back down. Instead of opening the front door, she opened the door to the living room and stuck her head inside. Her mother was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in her dressing gown – the old, tea-stained one.

Why can’t you? she asked.

Her mother held her arms out. Can you not see I’m not dressed? Just answer it.

Rachel rolled her eyes. She stepped back out into the hall, and opened the front door. Outside was Saoirse – the new people.

Oh, Rachel said. Hello.

Hi, Saoirse answered. She was taller than Rachel had realised when they’d earlier. She was wearing yellow coat that looked very bright against the grey of the street.

Rachel asked, Can I help you?

Yes, Saoirse said. She hesitated for a moment, then said, We’ve no milk. And the shop is closed.

Rachel gestured at the logo on her polo shirt. She said, I know. I was on the closing shift.

Right, said Saoirse. Well, I can’t go anywhere else. I’ve not brought my car up here yet.

So you want some milk?

Saoirse nodded. I’ll replace it, she said. I hope it’s okay. I didn’t know who else to ask.

No bother. Come on in, Rachel said. She stepped backwards into the hallway.

Saoirse lingered on the doorstep for a moment before she followed her inside. Rachel pushed the living room door open again and walked through with Saoirse behind her. Her mother’s eyes widened as she saw the stranger in her living room. She sat upright quickly, pulling her dressing gown tight around herself.

Hello, said Saoirse. Her voice was quiet, polite.

That’s my ma. Never mind her, said Rachel. Follow me.

She led the way into the kitchen, weaving her way past the armchair in the corner of the living room. Furtively, she glanced around the kitchen before Saoirse came in behind her. They hadn’t cleaned in a few days. There was an empty Coke tin on the counter, which she grabbed and threw in the bin. She opened the fridge door slightly, peeking inside, but the contents weren’t too bad: only one takeaway box, and a whole bag of carrots. She opened it fully, and grabbed the milk from the inside shelf. She passed it to Saoirse and said, Semi-skimmed. All good?

Thanks, Saoirse said. I only need a small bit.

Rachel shrugged. It’s just milk.

She closed the fridge again and they stood for a moment, listening to its hum and faint voices from the TV, drifting in from the living room. The UTV news was just getting started.

Saoirse didn’t say anything, so Rachel tried, D’you know about the crazy woman who used to live in your house?

No, Saoirse said.

She was called Sally. She was mad. She had, like, four cats and used to scream at kids if they walked past her house.

Why?

Because she could. I guess.

Why’d she move?

Her son got mixed up with a bad crowd, Rachel said. Well. According to Wendy anyway.

Rachel felt Saoirse’s mood shift. She regretted bringing up Sally’s son. She didn’t want to give Saoirse a bad impression of their street – any more than she’d probably had, already.

She left the house in a bad shape, anyway, Saoirse said.

Is it really bad?

Yeah. The whole place smells of cigarettes. And the wallpaper’s all peeling off. 

Why’d you move in then? Rachel asked. She realised once she’d said it that it sounded nosy. Like something her mother would want to know. Before Saoirse could answer, she said, Actually, that’s not my business. Never mind.

No, it’s fine, Saoirse said. She smiled. My mam grew up in Belfast. Just a few streets over, actually. She wanted to come back here.

How come?

My parents split last year.

Oh, Rachel said. She wasn’t sure what answer she’d been expecting. She said, I’m sorry. That’s sad.

Saoirse shrugged. I’m not close with my dad. I wanted to stay with Mam.

Rachel gave a hum that she hoped sounded like understanding. She wasn’t sure what else to ask. She remembered when she’d started university, trying to make small-talk over warm pints with people she wanted to become her friends, and felt that same, familiar awkwardness now, trying to keep the conversation going. She tried, How old are you?

Twenty-two, Saoirse said.

Rachel said, I’m twenty-three.

She decided not to push the conversation any more. It was getting late. She said, You should get that milk into the fridge before it goes bad. After a beat, she added, You’ve got a fridge already. Haven’t you?

Saoirse laughed. Yes. We have a fridge.

Right, Rachel nodded. Well. All the best, then.

Thank you, Saoirse said. For the milk.

Anytime, Rachel said. She gestured for Saoirse to follow her back through the house. She opened the front door, and stepped out onto the street for Saoirse to pass her. She said, Have a good one, yeah?

You too, said Saoirse as she stepped outside. Night.

She watched Saoirse cross the street, hurrying back towards her own house. She realised it had been a while since she’d had anyone over to the house. There wasn’t really anyone to ask, now that Sara had left. It felt nice. To have someone different around.

It had gotten even colder as the evening had drawn in and her arms, sticking out of her polo shirt, had goosebumps by the time she closed the front door behind her.

What was that about? Her mother appeared in the hallway before she’d even closed the door.

Rachel spun around. Jesus, Ma.

Since when are you friends with the new people?

Rachel pushed past her mother, into the living room, and added, We’re not friends. I just met her.

That girl’s a mad accent on her. Her mother shook her head in disbelief.

She said one word to you, Ma.

Did you find out what they’re doing here?

Rachel said. They just moved here. Her parents split up.

Her mother tutted. I thought they didn’t believe in divorce. No?

Who?

The Catholics.

Rachel flopped down on the sofa and reached for the TV remote. You’re divorced, she said. And you’re Presbyterian. Technically.

Her mother insisted, They’re serious about it, though.

Rachel sighed. She looked at her mother and said, That’s all I know. She seems nice. I think we should leave them be, alright? Don’t be making a fuss.

Her mother held up her hands. Who says I’m making a fuss? I’m not making a fuss.

And don’t be telling Wendy their business.

Her mother sat down beside her, and grabbed the TV remote from her hand. Fine, she said. She turned up the volume, and flicked from UTV to BBC.

The news was on. Rachel watched for a few moments, before she said, I’m going to bed. She herself up from the sofa.

Her mother looked up. Do you not want any dinner?

No, she said. Not hungry.

Her mother made a face. Fine. Suit yourself.

Rachel opened the living room door and slipped into the hallway. She made her way upstairs, into her bedroom. As she closed the door, she heard the news presenter wrapping up the news, saying goodbye for now. Goodnight.Before she got into bed, she pulled the curtains aside and looked out through her window, onto the street. In the new people’s house across the road, there was one light on upstairs, shining through a window with no curtains.