There and Back

By Trisha FitzGerald

Watching her sister, Tessie, stumble from one calamity to the next, Gwen struggles to pick up the pieces, unaware that this tragicomic tale has suddenly become her own.

Gwen Sullivan explores the life of her sister Tessie, a

woman whose destiny is laid down by law—Murphy's Law.

Watching her stumble from one calamity to the next,

Gwen struggles to pick up the pieces, unaware that the

tragicomic tale is no longer just Tessie's, but also her own.

 

While her career as a dentist in the late eighties appears

promising, Tessie's life changes abruptly when a mix-up at

work leads to serious consequences. Hoping to find peace

of mind, she goes on a skiing holiday to Yugoslavia where she

becomes involved with a military pilot—and that at a time

when the Balkan States are teetering on the brink of war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053136

Book preview

One

Beginnings

Lord above, if you only knew the half of it. Personally, I think Tessie lost the plot way back when she was little more than a twinkle in our father’s eye—a notion, a promise of the future, a testimony of love. But there you are—I’m getting ahead of myself, as usual, and haven’t even begun.

Tessie, you’ll have gathered, is my sister, my younger sister. Two years and a life that reads like a chronicle of disasters separate us. In comparison, I’ve lived a relatively dull life. The disasters are all Tessie’s work. Every one of them. But let me start at the beginning.

Her real name is Theresa Sullivan, one she finds positively repellent. Not the Sullivan part, mind you. She generously concedes that our parents had no influence on the surname. Inherited and passed inevitably on to her, this was a fact others would appreciate too, she hoped. The birth tag Theresa caused her to fret, a name chosen wilfully by two grown adults said to be in full capacity of all their faculties at the time. How they could have done this to her was something she failed to grasp. Theresa, honest to God! Have you ever heard of a baby called Theresa? I haven’t. Even at a pre-school age the sound of it would make her face contract into a rigid puss.

My name’s Tessie! she announced one day. Not Theresa. Ugh! Theresa’s a nun’s name, and I’m not a nun! Ha! That’s a good one!

Even today, on occasions, a teacher, a civil servant or insistent passport official will wheedle the truth out of her eventually, but it’s always a wearying battle.

Speaking of names, mine’s Gwen. Short for Gwendolyn (I can cope with that). And we have an older sister, Anna. Our parents, John and Jackie Sullivan, are good-natured, well-read folk with a far from blinkered horizon. They’ve lived abroad, learnt Italian and Gaelic, succumbed at intervals to bouts of transcendental meditation and have grown, of late, to appreciate the intricacies of Feng Shui. In other words, the type of couple one would imagine might name their offspring Sorrel, Iseult or Polly. But there you have it. Too late now. Tough luck, Theresa.

I want to tell you about Tessie, however. I need to tell you about her. Get it off my chest. Call it self-therapy, if you like, but she leaves me feeling thoroughly inadequate. Deprived. How I wish I could have had half the spine-tingling calamities Tessie has had. Anyway, getting to the root of what she considers constant misfortune might help me to understand how she manages it. I’m not gloating either—after all, it was only ever considered misfortune at the time. Or maybe I’m just being thoroughly selfish. It’s amazing how quickly you become the centre of attention when you start a good story with "You will not believe what happened to Tessie recently..."

At any rate, some say there are people who virtually draw disaster towards them, their very being creating an invisible magnetic force which has them doomed from the start. Others claim that these unfortunates subconsciously create their own personal catastrophes. Ingrained pessimism (who, Tessie?), feelings of inferiority (excuse me if I laugh), Torschlusspanik (there was a bit of that, all right!) or general insecurity seem to influence their actions in such a way that they invariably position themselves in the path of oncoming doom. Their fate has been laid down by law—Murphy’s Law. The fact that Tessie simply exudes sanguinity does not exactly sustain this hypothesis, but who really knows what goes on underneath it all?

Perhaps by relating Tessie’s chronicle of calamities I might just get to the bottom of it. Shed a light on that little corner of her soul that brought it all about. She’ll scoff, of course, when she reads this, and accuse me of extreme exaggeration. However, she may be right.  Though in most cases we only registered this much later, one had to see the hilarious side of it all. The ironic, risible twists that had us slapping our thighs and wiping away tears of laughter. I suppose that’s what tragicomedy is—Tessie Sullivan’s life.

SHE WAS DIFFERENT FROM the start.

Born by accident on the front porch minutes before the taxi to the hospital arrived, and contrary to the whackin’ great babies Anna and I were, Tessie at birth looked not unlike a half-cooked, trussed-up chicken. Safely curled up in a defensive foetal position, her skinny legs would spring back against her chest whenever one tried to straighten them out, a phenomenon our parents fondly termed prawning and perhaps the beginning of her somewhat self-protective attitude.

The first budding peculiarities that set Tess apart from the rest began as soon as she could talk. In retrospect, it’s easy to start analysing every little hiccup in normality. If her life had been run of the mill, these incidents would most certainly have remained little more than long gone infantile whims.

Even then, she was always fussing. She’d refuse to wear a skirt if a thread was discovered hanging from the hem (it might self-destruct in sixty seconds), she couldn’t sleep in a room if the curtain was crooked, and she began locking the loo door the minute she learned how to turn a key. Clothes were a bit of an issue—only tomboy garb—and food, too. If you offered Tessie a bite of your apple, she’d stare longingly at it and then turn up her nose.

Sorry, I can’t. It’s poisoned.

What? Poisoned? Who the hell did she think I was? Snow White’s stepmother? Don’t be silly. I’ve washed it. How can it be poisoned?

Because you’ve already taken a bite.

A challenging look would appear in her eye, daring me to contradict. Her unshakeable conviction was evident; yet nevertheless, she clearly didn’t expect anyone to believe her. This awareness in itself should have precipitated her to question this dubious fact, but Tess didn’t want to. The apple was poisoned, and that was that.

It was the same with knives. Odd breakfast scenarios ran their inevitable course.

Can you give me a knife to butter my bread, Gwen?

"Oh here, you can use mine. One less to wash."

I can’t.

Why not?

It’s poisoned.

Oh, that, too... and why?

Because you’ve used it.

Of course. How stupid of me. To get the books straight, however, and before you start wondering what kind of contaminated piece of filth I am, the result would have been the same had Anna or our parents made the same suggestion.

There were other odd things, too. Tess loved sweets (that, at least, was normal), but refused to put sugar on Cornflakes or jam on bread. She’d experiment with fried slices of orange, yet run screaming at the sight of a fish finger. As far as I can recollect, Tessie grew up on mashed potatoes, spaghetti and cheddar cheese butties. Anything exposed to the process of photosynthesis was immediately rejected, but despite Mum’s misgivings it did her no harm. She turned out to be clever, sporty and inventive. Oh God, was she inventive! Not surprisingly, this creativeness had a slightly disturbing tomboyish quality. Some of her masterpieces were downright macabre.

The suicidal mousetrap was one of them.

She masterminded, designed and constructed the deadly device at the age of ten. It comprised a metal box with lethally sharp edges. I can’t remember if she’d glued razor blades to the rim or just filed it down; however, I’d prefer to think it was the latter. Naturally, we were all at a loss as to how this contraption should function. Prior to the demonstration she smirked proudly at us, her eyes sparkling from under a crooked blond fringe, and began to explain.

Well, Tessie said sagely. It’s like this... She settled down into a cross-legged position in the middle of the living room carpet and placed the box in front of her. Before continuing, she glanced up briefly in order to verify our undivided attention. You put a piece of cheese in the centre of the box. She demonstrated with a chunk of Mitchelstown Red. The mouse will peer over the edge, see the cheese and hop into the box.

Anna and I exchanged glances, the whole setting reminding us of a story we’d heard at school. I didn’t dare enlighten Tessie, but Anna had better things to do with her time than waste it on tact.

Tess, it won’t work. The mouse’ll just jump straight back out again once it’s scoffed the cheese.

Tessie’s smirk deepened. I know. That’s the point. The following day I place another piece of cheese in the box and when that’s eaten, then another, and so on.

At this stage Mum and Dad had joined the show and were watching in tense silence. Mum’s eyebrows were beginning to knit, maternal intuition warning her of some creepy outcome.

I’ve got it! Dad suddenly chipped in. You keep feeding the mouse until it explodes!

Oh Jack, honestly! How can you say such a thing? You’ll give the child nightmares... really!

Anna and I began to snigger. Who was giving whom nightmares?

You’re not listening to me! Tessie’s voice rose an octave. In a flash her expression changed. Frustration moved across the pale features as suddenly as a storm cloud passing in front of the sun. Not before we had fallen silent and our eyes were once again fixed on the metal box did she continue.

After the mouse has come to collect its piece of cheese for a week or so... Tess explained slowly, ...I then put out the box without the cheddar.

If you think that’s enough to make the mouse snuff it then... At the sight of Tessie’s flashing glance, Anna bit off her words.

The mouse will peer over the edge expecting to find the lump of cheese. A tiny, crooked smile dimpled her cheeks. Confused, it will lean in further, its soft neck gently pressing against the lethally sharp rim. (To be perfectly frank, I don’t know whether ten-year-old Tess actually used the word lethally, but she certainly conveyed the idea.)

Dad, understanding what was about to come, slowly swallowed, his Adam’s Apple contracting noticeably at the thought.

In search of its cheese, the mouse will then slowly begin to turn its head to the left, and then to the right, then to the left, then right... where’s my cheese? Right, left, right left... Tessie’s voice had risen once again, the timbre reminiscent of a rodent squeak. She held the sharp-edged box close to her swan-like neck and whipped her head back and forth in a slicing motion. Mimicking the process of self-decapitation, her squeaky voice began to gurgle, the tip of a pink tongue lolled from the corner of her mouth and, in a grand finale, the grey-blue eyes rolled back to expose the whites.

There was complete and utter silence.

Mum, after some time, expelled a strangulated utterance of surprise. Dad coughed uncomfortably, and Anna and I, unaware of the disturbing implications of our little sister’s troubled imagination, erupted into hoots of hilarity.

What we have never managed to find out to this day, though, is whether Tess honestly believed the trap would work, or if the whole gory performance was stage-managed in order to challenge our faith in her convictions. In other words, she dared us to believe in her.

And it wouldn’t be the last time, either.

Two

Cindy, Socks and Senor Santiago

Did Tessie ever really go through puberty at all, I wonder? Not that I’m implying she’s remained a child—far from it­—but the memory of her sprouting breasts and developing hips escapes me.

Though pale and petite, she always had this boyish quality about her, yet rather than being part masculine, part feminine, it seemed as if one cancelled out the other and she was neither. Asexual, so to speak. Like an amoeba. At a time when other young girls her age were experimenting with make-up and eyelash curlers, or drooling over teenage pop star idols, she chose to roller-skate at breakneck speed around the handball alley, or flog marbles to budding delinquents behind the gym. Her behaviour became even more mystifying when one day we discovered this look in her eye. I wouldn’t know how to begin to describe it, but anyone who has seen the film Lolita will know what I mean.

It occurred first one hot summer’s day some time before Tessie’s twelfth birthday when our father arrived home from work accompanied by a business associate. The stranger, a tall, dark-haired man with greying temples, was crisply dressed and slightly aloof. He spoke with a lilting foreign accent, the timbre decidedly guttural. Like Dad, he worked in the chemical industry and had joined him to discuss a Pan-European commercial project. In order to continue their talks in a less formal atmosphere, the two men settled down on the patio and were soon debating the sodium sulphate resources of northern Spain, their gin and tonics all but forgotten.

Through the French windows, I studied the man in detail. Though ancient really, fifty years old at least, he looked for all the world like a Hollywood film star. With tanned skin and long, manicured fingers, he certainly wasn’t the kind of person you’d see pacing the streets of Dunmalin, not back in the seventies anyway. Nowadays, the country is teeming with exotic foreigners, but not in those days. No, sir. Someone like Senor Santiago Rodriguez was a real head-turner.

On the other side of the garden hedge, I saw Mrs. Nolan strain to see over her washing line, the view through the net curtains of the upstairs bedroom having failed to satisfy her curiosity. Oblivious of all this, the Spaniard leaned back in his sun chair, occasionally brushing away an irritating fly with languorous fanning gestures. None of his movements were abrupt or erratic. Even his laugh presented itself as a slow, melodious series of throaty utterances—nothing high-pitched or grating. A dark, treacly quality surrounded him. Molasses-like.

After some time, Dad rose to refill their drinks, and when he returned the men used the break in conversation to remove their ties and loosen shirt collars. Outside the air was warm, yet although the Irish sunshine must have felt arctic compared to Spanish summer temperatures, Senor Rodriguez casually opened, not just one, but the first three buttons of his business shirt. There we were, Mrs. Nolan behind the washing line and me behind the French windows, the two of us squinting like mad at the triangle of bronzed skin which had so unexpectedly been revealed to us. He didn’t have a vest on, either. A shock in itself—almost like wearing shoes without socks. Surely all grown-up men wore vests under their shirts?

I took a hesitant step forward, hoping the sun reflecting off the window would prevent me from being seen. Though still several yards away, a small tuft of grey-white chest hair could be seen peeking out from under the starched, pin-striped cotton. Thoroughly enthralled, I couldn’t drag my eyes away. While this was not the first hairy chest I’d ever seen, the soft grey curls snuggling against deeply tanned skin were a far cry from the sweaty tufts one might see sprouting from a construction worker’s flabby torso. Even at that young age I couldn’t help sighing. Lord Almighty, for an old fella he was simply gorgeous.

At the rear of the house a door opened and closed, making me start. Quickly backing away from the window, I glanced over my shoulder half expecting Mum to appear in the hallway, but the house remained quiet. Only the low swish-swash of the dishwasher in the kitchen broke the silence. I flushed suddenly, embarrassed to have discovered myself studying the Spaniard so unashamedly. My own curiosity had somehow caught me on the hop. Slightly annoyed, I glanced back towards the garden and would have turned away again, if a movement at the corner of the house hadn’t grabbed my eye.

Both men looked up.

Wearing body-hugging denim hot-pants and a sleeveless shirt tied under her flat chest, Tessie suddenly strolled into view, her underdeveloped hips swinging unnaturally. Snootily ignoring Senor Rodriguez, she carefully chose a spot in the middle of the lawn and laid out the plaid rug she’d been carrying. A pair of oversized sunglasses balanced on the end of her little nose. After meticulously straightening each and every tassel, a task which entailed a lot of bending over, she flopped down on her stomach and pretended to doze. Her bum cheeks peeped saucily out from under the frayed denim cut-offs, the skin as soft and downy as that of a ripe peach. Despite the fact that Tessie had a young boy’s figure, straight lines from shoulders to hips, a sudden inexplicable charisma of sexuality enveloped her, but not the innocent aura of a pre-pubescent schoolgirl; this invisible manifestation had the same blatant quality of a child prostitute. A young tart.

Santiago Rodriguez smiled knowingly. Dad did a double-take and coughed.

Um... Tessie, pet, you won’t get a chill, will you?

Tess pushed the glasses up her nose and stifled a yawn. Honestly, Dad... She didn’t even bother to finish her sentence. Instead she rolled voluptuously (as voluptuously as a flat-chested eleven-year-old can) onto her back and propped up her legs. Some stray grass-cuttings stuck to her bare midriff.

Don’t mind me, she murmured dreamily and began to sway her knees back and forth, occasionally opening her legs a fraction as she did so. Mercifully, Mrs. Nolan had disappeared back into the house and wasn’t forced to witness any of this. Rumours would have been rampant.

Senor Rodriguez’s expression remained bland, his countenance unruffled. Dad, on the other hand (God love him), was cornered and sweating buckets. Any suggestion that she should cover up would immediately draw attention to her scantily-dressed state and indicate there might be something to hide. The unfortunate man looked clearly perplexed. Why shouldn’t his daughter want to enjoy a hot summer’s day? It wasn’t as if she were wearing her togs, or a bikini. Whatever disturbed him, he refused to acknowledge it.

It was the aura, you see. What he actually wanted to say was Now look here, young lady, would you mind covering up your aura! But obviously he couldn’t. As her father, even acknowledging its existence would have verged on incest. And so he said nothing—just sat there and suffered while Tessie stretched out on the grass, her aura hanging out all over the place for all and sundry to perceive—above all, sexy old Senor Santiago Rodriguez.

Amoeba, indeed.

Now, years later, I can see that the disrupted biological order of things had us all slightly baffled. Young women usually start developing bottoms, breasts and blackheads first, while real sexual awareness comes galloping along later. With Tessie I suppose it happened the other way around. Outwardly, as mentioned, she had the appearance of a ten-year-old lad, but inside batteries of hormonal eruptions were taking place. She had become, in a way, a walking, talking popcorn machine. Something inside her fought desperately to get out, and Tessie Sullivan was damned if she was going to fight back. One couldn’t describe it as calculated insouciance, either. The "aura" had simply taken the upper hand, and absolutely nothing could be done about it. Sex had reared its ugly head. Show time, ladies and gentlemen.

However, just as every show needs a stage, so did Tessie, or Tessie’s aura, to be exact. Socks, as it turned out, proved to be the perfect platform.

When Tess first started pestering our parents about a pony, we all put it down to another of her tomboyish whims, but she persisted so adamantly that Dad, not really adverse to the idea himself, finally gave in. He organised a field on the outskirts of town, built a stable and bought Socks at the Dunmalin Horse Fair. The name, needless to say, was Tessie’s idea, and according to her, just perfect for the Connemara pony with the colourings of a Stilton cheese and four dirty white legs. Any endeavour to persuade her that Socks was a name you might give a kitten, or a mongrel terrier at most, proved useless. All protest fell on dead ears. So Socks it was.

While fully aware that most pubescent girls go through a horsy phase, I’ve never really understood why, and to be perfectly honest, don’t really think I want to. Tessie, at any rate, was elated. From the moment she got her spindly legs around the animal’s flanks it became clear that this match had been made in Heaven. Yet while our little sister revelled in satisfaction, her wicked aura did not. Something failed to gel. The stage was set. What about the audience?

It materialised one day in the form of Marty McDonagh, who came plodding into the paddock sporting frizzy side-burns, oversized Wellingtons and a bashful expression. I sat upright on the stone wall from where I’d been watching Tessie cantering around in circles. Who’s this, I thought? The young man’s eyes were hardly visible under the swathe of red hair, but I could tell he found it impossible to look either of us in the face. Tessie didn’t waste any time. Giving Socks a swift dig in the ribs, she trotted straight up to the teenager, purposely waiting until he had taken one or two tottering steps backwards before pulling up the reins.

Hiya, she chirped innocently. You lookin’ for someone?

N-no, yer father asked me to cu-cut the nettles along the wa-wall. He nodded towards a scythe he’d left leaning against the gate. And tr-trim the hedge.

Tessie squinted around the field. Lots of nettles all right. Will you get that lot done today?

What did it really matter if he did or didn’t, I thought, unaware that Tessie’s aura had suddenly taken control. The young man glanced around uncomfortably. I suppose I’ll need a day or t-two.

Excruciatingly shy and a stutterer to boot. I could see it all so clearly. Unlikely as it seems, Senor Santiago Rodriguez and Marty McDonagh had one thing in common. They were the perfect targets. Tessie could be as wicked as she wanted without the risk of either men ever becoming a threat. There appeared nothing ingenious or scheming about it—just good old female intuition. At least this time Dad wasn’t around to witness it all. I found the situation a little mortifying myself. But just as Dad had been helpless to intervene, so was I. Instead, I decided to just relax and enjoy the performance.

It began the following afternoon. Once again the weather turned out hot and sultry (I think that’s a crucial factor) and Tessie had donned her combat gear—the frayed denim shorts, this time with a skin tight tee-shirt and knee-high rubber riding boots. Marty was busy sharpening the scythe in the corner of the paddock when she arrived and began to saddle, or rather, bridle the pony.

No saddle today, Tess? I commented dryly, one eye on Marty.

Nope... good practice.

But... I stopped, deciding it might be better to let this holy show run its inevitable course.

I noticed Marty struggling to see out from under his fringe, the sight of Tessie’s peachy buttocks causing him to sharpen his tool even harder. Having mounted Socks, Tess let him meander slowly around the pasture while she became accustomed to the strangeness of riding bareback. Every now and then she would lean forward and clutch the pony’s neck, her perky bottom arching beckoningly every time she did so. Marty jumped up and began swiping frantically at the nettles, his gaze inexorably drawn towards the sight of the eleven year-old’s firm brown thighs massaging the horses flanks. After some time, Tessie decided to increase the pace, and with her pelvis moulded firmly against Sock’s back, she nudged him into a loping canter. Rising and falling, her upper body moved in such a way that one could easily see the pair of bobbing breasts that simply weren’t there.

After a while I began to worry that Marty might cut off his leg with the scythe, or worse. Around and around she went, her hips undulating in rhythm with the pony’s stride, her shoulders thrown back. Occasionally, as she swept past Marty, she’d laugh and toss a flirtatious glance in his direction. Just when I thought the poor fella couldn’t take another minute of this subliminal sexual harassment, Tess drew up beside him with a flourish. Her face was pink with exhilaration.

Marty, look, she said. You’ve missed a bit.

A bit of wh-what? he stuttered, confused.

Over there. She pointed to a clump of nettles next to the stable. You’d want to take a swipe at that, too.

Oh... right. With that the bubble burst and everything was back to normal, or might have been, at least.

Not knowing much about horses, I can’t explain what happened next, but Socks, who’d up until now merely played an accompanying role in the whole sad performance, suddenly stole the show. I can’t say whether Tessie’s human aura had unexpectedly penetrated his equine senses, or if the far-off whinny of a lonely mare had rekindled an instinct dulled by castration, but all of a sudden the Connemara pony’s masculinity extended like a marine telescope hardly a yard from where Marty was standing. It was all too much. The teenager threw down his scythe and fled.

Tess, blissfully unaware of what had unfolded beneath her, gave me an irritated look. What’s wrong with him?

At the age of thirteen I hadn’t the foggiest idea where to start explaining, so I bit back the yelp of laughter and shrugged. Dunno...

Honest to God, Tess huffed maturely and urged the still somewhat incapacitated pony back to the stable. Boys! Will we ever understand them!

So much for my sister’s sexuality. Years later—we must have been in our thirties—I tentatively asked her if she’d been aware of the chaos her aura had caused. She seemed genuinely shocked.

Who? Me? Are you joking? Not at the age of eleven! I was still a child! She thought for a moment. Later maybe. I did tease the boys a little when I got into my teens, but that early... no way.

I had to know. Lolita or amoeba.

So when did you first start feeling... you know...

Sexy? Tess replied unashamedly. Oh, I can remember that exactly. I was about twelve, back in the days when we called Barbie ‘Cindy’ and as far as I know Ken was just Ken. I suddenly found playing happy families terribly monotonous...

Well, didn’t we all get bored with dolls at some stage? I said.

Oh no, she answered matter-of-factly. "I hadn’t become fed up with dolls—on the contrary. But for some bizarre reason I kept wanting Ken to hop on Cindy all the time..."

Three

Sibling Rivalry

Nothing like a bit of sibling rivalry to really put the cat amongst the pigeons.

Shortly before my fourteenth birthday, our parents must have noticed I’d developed breasts and wasn’t just packing puppy fat into my bra. Whatever the reason, they unexpectedly suggested I have a real birthday party with music, Lucazade, plates of Taytos—and boys. We were acutely suspicious. Wasn’t it usually the other way around as a rule? The teenagers begging for permission to have a nice quiet get-together with their closest friends—an almost impossible endeavour. Grown-ups weren’t that naive and could easily foresee the cigarette burns in the Sanderson antimacassars, puddles of puke in the border perennials and all the other horrendous post-party indicators of teenage debauchery.

Confused as we were, I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth and leapt at the idea. Tessie showed a passing flicker of interest, but remained otherwise piously indifferent—an attitude which, given her tendency to upstage, should have set alarm bells ringing. Anna and I, on