"Visions of the Hare Goddess" by Sean Flood
There was a time when Mother and her friends drifted into debauchery. They’d meet late in the evening, the Irish girls, and make their way over to the restaurant in North London where the Greek Cypriot lads would be waiting for them.
The restaurant would already be towards the end of dinner service and they would eat late, after the last customers had departed. There were usually eight or ten of them around one of the larger tables. The banter was alive and pungent red wine flowed; roast lamb, kebabs, cheese and bread were devoured. They’d all be a little drunk by the end of the meal, but this was only the beginning of the evening.
Music came next, and a lot more wine. They’d move a few of the tables to make space and dance with great humour as they held hands and circled slowly. Later, they’d pair off and the dancing became intimate.
Mother feels his hot breath through the opening on her blouse, blowing warm on her breast. They’re about the same height and as he straightens up, they look into each other’s deep brown eyes. She can see everything there is to see in his, but hers are unfathomable. She moves closer to make things clearer for him.
A while later and they’re upstairs on a creaking bed. Mother’s on her back and he’s pushing himself into her. Their mouths meet and he tastes her sweetness; she tastes his cigarettes.
The way they paired off was always a bit random, and none of the young women had a particular preference. After all, the boys were all good looking and great company. Sometimes they would drink way too much and then nothing would happen upstairs. They would just fall asleep, snoring like overfed farm animals. Everyone would laugh about it the next morning; there was never any resentment.
As time passed, their dancing became more ritualised. The circle would hold for a couple of hours with the same cassette tape playing over and over while they moved around, smiling and laughing at each other. Occasionally one of them would do a comical dance move, kicking a leg out towards the centre of the circle with exaggerated theatrical effort or releasing their hands from those on either side and twisting into a complete turn, disco-style. Still, they broke away into couples.
But later they began forming groups of four or six. They’d all end up on the same bed: intertwined, hands reaching out to touch two warm companions at once. How they loved to watch each other; to lie back while two or three of them performed. They took plenty of wine up with them and afterwards they drank and drank.
The circle is moving around very slowly and Mother looks over at her friends opposite who’re laughing and blowing kisses while their outlines begin to blur. Mary, who’s directly across from Mother, is a fuzzy grey now and as she breaks from the circle and strolls over, her features begin to change. By the time she reaches Mother she has the face of a hare. The hare rejoins the circle by Mother’s side and they continue moving very slowly to music that has become a melodic chant. Mother sees that other faces have changed too: there’s a deer and a goat. Someone beats time with a tambourine.
The music somehow ascended with them and, in her mind, Mother would hear it while they played around on the old bed. She preferred the larger groups. How she loved bending her body into different shapes and the breath of close companions warming her.
For a day or two afterwards she would feel good, but then melancholy would come home: slithering through her like a serpent; turning her blood rotten again.
#
Mary organised everything: they would always meet on a Friday night and she’d be on the blower in the days before, rounding everyone up. This was done discreetly as most of the young Irish women lived with their parents and, in those days, the house phone would be in the hall by the front door with no privacy at all. In Mother’s house, her parents listened to her calls carefully and discussed them afterwards in forensic detail, not only between themselves but with relatives and neighbours: Mother was, apparently, making arrangements for an evening at the cinema and a sleepover at Mary’s around once a month. They were quite pleased about this; Mary was such a nice girl.
Mary’s sitting on one of the Greek Cypriot lads, one hand splayed out and pressing down on his chest while wagging a finger at him slowly with the other hand. She’s half-smiling but her killer amber eyes are burning into him. He’s looking up at her nervously. Mary’s in charge, it seems.
In the morning, another of the boys is asleep on the bed and Mother is next to him. She feels his heavy-duty breathing. There’s a sound of floorboards creaking and when she looks up, Mary’s in the doorway: a vision of pure beauty with a bottle of wine in one hand and a fag in the other. She’s very drunk, giggling her head off silently while her face is, again, slowly changing into that of a hare. The hare tilts its head upwards and looks over with mock imperiousness. It winks at Mother.
#
Barnabas died one Saturday. He’d drunk so much wine that he’d succumbed to alcohol poisoning and choked on his vomit. For some reason, he’d left the restaurant very early in the morning and died at home.
The scene they found looked like an inverted crucifixion with a sofa involved. His back was on the seat, arms stretched out either side, but his legs pointed upwards towards the ceiling, resting against the back of the sofa and the wall; his head hanging down over the edge of the sofa, almost touching the carpet.
There was tremendous upset in the Greek Cypriot community. It was said that he’d been at the restaurant Friday evening and had then moved on, but nobody was quite sure where to. Clearly, he’d overindulged and his family was reluctant to prolong any discussion of this beyond the perfunctory coroner’s inquiry.
#
Mary suspended activities for almost four months until things calmed down. It was the young Greek Cypriots who pleaded with her to get things started again, and she arranged a special event where, to celebrate the life of Barnabas, everything was taken up a notch or two. Now the circle holds for most of the night and they move around and around until delirium finds an easy path into each one of them. When they go upstairs, they’re all together and now their ecstasies have a heightened expression that they’ve not encountered before. They toast Barnabas at each taste of the wine and at each taste of each other.
Nothing’s the same again and their gatherings have little in common with the early days. They start to dance naked and sometimes they smear themselves with a stinking black ointment that Mary’s knocked up; she won’t say what’s in it though. Their joy never leaves them as they laugh and joke their way through Friday nights.
#
Mother and Mary become pregnant around the same time. When they meet up to talk about it, Mother’s face is white. They’re in a cafe and, although parched, she can’t handle the filthy coffee, and eating is impossible.
“What the fuck are we going to do Mary?” the words catching at the back of Mother’s dry throat.
“We’ll deal with it. Don’t worry honey.” Mary looks like a very tired goddess, but one that’s still in control; not only of herself but of others.
"Aren't you scared to fucking death Mary?” Mother whispers, leaning across the table. Mary places a hand on one of Mother’s and strength rushes out of Mary and into her friend.
For a while they just sit and look at each other. Eventually, having arrived at some decisive point in her thinking, Mary speaks: “What the hell did we think would happen anyway? Look Bernice, we just have to deal with it. Best thing to do is to come clean about it with the parents right now and then see what’s what: what kind of help we can get.”
“You mean tell Mum and the old man?” Mother is almost hoarse.
“Yours are a pair of complete fucking idiots in serious competition with mine, but other than disappearing into thin air, we’ve little choice but to tell them. Look, they’ll be shocked, outraged and all that. There’ll be a bit of shouting. Then they’ll go and ask somebody with a brain what to do. Then we’ll see.”
“Do you want to keep it Mary?”
“Like fuck I do!” Mother stares over at Mary, open-mouthed, astounded at her confidence; at her valiant heart.
#
After her return to Ireland, Mother loses touch with Mary. Although she thinks of her constantly and often dreams of her. Occasionally, her dreams play out in the daytime:
Mother’s on the bed for her afternoon nap and Mary floats above her looking down; her face one enormous smile and her beautiful amber eyes alight. She starts to hum one of the songs from the old days and soon a tiny version of the circle appears next to her head. Mother recognises all of the people, including Barnabas who’s freed his right hand and is taking a long draught of wine straight from the bottle. Mother’s skin prickles and she starts to sweat, recalling the depravities that followed.
#
Many years later. Mother walks alone for hours every day and, when she stops for a breather, stares out across Dublin Bay, into the foggy past. Now and then she sees young Mary drifting slowly across the circle towards her. Sometimes Mary has her human face and other times the face of a hare.
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