Prose Kate Millar

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE: JACK STEWART

Kate Millar is a final year student at the University of St Andrews in Scotland, pursuing an MA (Hons) in English. She has also attended courses in creative writing at Harvard University. Her writing has received commendations and awards, including the Dan Hemingway Prize and the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award. When not writing (or feeling guilty for not writing), Kate loves to paint, journal, and have existential chats with her friends. You can find her on Instagram @katepmillar.

What About Ye?

The chatter faltered immediately as the door swung open, chime ringing, announcing her entrance.

Side-glances flitted across the bakery – concerned, curious. But Rhoda took no notice. She was used

to attention; in fact, relished in it. And didn’t look close enough to see the cause of it today.

‘Auch, hi, Rhoda! Good te see ye,’ Margaret called from the till, smiling forcefully, willing the

communal hum back into existence. Rhoda seems as happy as Larry. Does she not realise what date it is?

The slide and clang of metal trays quickly resumed as rows of wheaten, soda, and potato bread were

laid out on display. A sign saying, ‘Made from Local Spuds and Dairy’ hung proudly on the wall

behind.

‘You know me, Margie, gotta get my favourite wee buns,’ Rhoda winked. A smirk tugged at

her Revlon lips as she surveyed the queue. Each face confirmed to her that this was her town.

There’s Lily and Gemma squeezed together in the line but avoiding each other’s gaze – they’ve been

neighbours for twenty years, and best friends nearly as long, but after an argument about the bins,

they’re not speaking anymore; Eileen, as deaf and thran as ever, shouts orders to the poor girl at the

counter who quakes in her pinstriped apron, repeating for the third time, ‘Say that again please?’;

and Hillary – buying buns – she was supposed to be doing Slimming World.

Rhoda let out a half-laugh as she took her place in line. The smell had met her long before

she had even reached the shopfront; baking bread, near-burnt crusts, and slabs of icing. It had

intensified as she entered the shop, competing now with a sickly blend of flowery perfumes. Orr’s

Home Bakery was as close to homemade as you could get, and a Newtownards institution. Rhoda

loved it. She knew that if she asked for apple pie her tastebuds would be greeted by the same

cinnamon and brown sugar warmth, never any cloves, the recipe unchanged in sixty years. She

knew that the biscuit-shaped clock would always be stuck at quarter-to twelve. And she knew that

there would always be familiar faces. Always the chance for a good natter.

A good natter – that was something she could find anywhere in this aul town. A good

reliable aul town, this. The constancy of Orr’s bakery, Maud’s Greengrocer’s, Waldon Street

Presbyterian Church, sustaining generations of Ards folk. The grey pebbledash buildings leaning

against a white sky. She bought her daughter’s first birthday cake in Orr’s. And last year they even

catered for her––

‘Auch Hillary! What about ye?’ Rhoda exclaimed. Hillary gave a sympathetic smile while

fumbling with the pack of German biscuits poorly disguised by her handbag.

‘It’s good to see ye, Rhoda. I know today must be hard––’

Rhoda nudged Hillary with her elbow, looking down at the biscuits, ‘Auch, don’t worry

about me seein’ you with those – we all have those moments, don’t we?’

Hillary stammered out a laugh, tried to continue, ‘I’m sure you miss––’

Rhoda leaned in, her manicured nails clutching Hillary’s arm, ‘Waitil I tell ye. D’ye know so-

and-so who lives down along the Portaferry Road? Y’know, in that there house just lookin’ right

over to the water? She’s always goin’ on about her sea view ‘n all, as if she’s in some beach house or

somethin’. Well, I’ll tell ye, I wouldn’t want that house for nothin’, so I wouldn’t. Ye can’t kid

yerself that yer in Califarnia, it’s flippin’ Portaferry like, wise up. I’ve been lashed with seaweed and

rain down there more than I’ve ever seen a peep o’ sun.’

The queue was steadily shortening. Hillary had to inch backwards as the line moved, Rhoda’s

hand still clasped round her arm.

‘Anyway,’ Rhoda continued. ‘Ye know how her husband died about eight months ago?

People were already shocked that she decided to cremate him – I just don’t understand that there

choice. I wouldn’t want even a family member I didn’t like goin’ in flames, let alone my own

husband. An’ then there’s that whole thing of do ye invite people to see the cremation? I wouldn’t

go see one a those if it were the Queen herself. Seems just wrong to see a person burn.’

There was a smattering of glances towards Hillary and Rhoda, but her lips seemed to be only

gaining momentum.

‘Anyway, the other day I bumped into Amy, and she tells me she saw yer woman out for a

wee dander round Mount Stewart. She says the first thing she noticed was a huge diamond flashin’

on her hand. And on her ring finger too. Amy was right scandalised, so she was.’

At this point, only the chirping oven timers could be heard over Rhoda’s voice as people

began to lower their own. Margaret’s hands moved slower, taking extra care not to rustle the bag of

shortbread that she handed to Lily; gossip trailed off mid-sentence. Rhoda’s lips kept moving,

upturning slightly, aware of her growing audience.

‘So, she goes to her and gets talkin’, makes a comment about the ring, somethin’ like “that’s

a quare beauty, that is. Is it new?” And yer woman replies – ye won’t believe it – she goes, “Auch

thanks, I just got it made. It’s Barry, ye know.” And turns out she sent away to some jewellers over

in England – ‘cause you know no Ulster man in his right mind is gonna start a business like that

over here – to get her husband’s ashes turned into a diamond. D’ye ever hear the like of it?

Cremation’s dodgy enough – ye’ve no way of telling whose remains they really give you in that wee

Ziplock bag. She could be wearing wee Jimmy’s pet Jack Russell on her finger, for all we know. I

say that’s why she’s––’

‘S-sorry to interrupt,’ a woman said behind Rhoda. ‘But––’ she pointed to the counter.

Margaret was smiling at Rhoda, her head tilted slightly to one side.

‘Auch sorry, love,’ Rhoda said to the woman, wafting her hand through the air. ‘Yer dead on.

Got a wee bit carried away there. Could talk the hind leg off a donkey, so I could.’

Hillary quickly said, ‘You go on ahead,’ letting Rhoda order first.

‘Just the usual, Margie.’

Margaret collected two iced fingers, the pink icing pale in comparison to her flushed cheeks.

The rosy softness of her face gave her a certain youthfulness, betrayed only by the crinkles around

her eyes and greying ringlets poking out of her hat. She spoke as she bent below the countertop

reaching for the wheaten bread, ‘I walked past her bench this mornin’ on the way to work. Was so

nice to see a few bouquets there already. Can’t believe it’s been a year.’

The colour drained from Rhoda’s face. Her blusher poorly disguised it; it was red on grey

now. Margie’s words grew muffled, as if she was talking through a cloud of flour.

‘Some beautiful chrysanthemums, a really lovely yellow colour,’ Margaret continued as she

searched for the paper bags. ‘Looks so bright on this grey aul day. Typical June weather. Am sure

she would’ve…’ her voice trailed off as she straightened up to bag the wheaten, looking at Rhoda

whose nails were cutting deep into her handbag, her lips a thin purple line. She was staring out the

window at the pedestrians milling about on the street.

‘Auch…It’s on us today, darlin’.’

Rhoda’s eyes snapped back to Margaret. ‘No, no. Don’t be silly,’ she protested, digging in

her handbag for her purse. Rhoda tried to force a handful of cash on her, but Margaret stepped

back from the till, holding her hands in the air.

‘Am not takin’ anythin’ for nothin’,’ Rhoda said as she slapped a fiver on the countertop.

Grabbing her bags and walking towards the door, she called behind her, ‘All the best, Hillary,’

punctuated by the chime of the door’s bell.

Instinctively, she turned right towards Waldon Street. Distant calls of recognition from

across the road were drowned out by the click of her heels on the pavement and the rustle of the

paper bag that she tried to shove into her handbag. As she swerved pedestrians and parked cars, the

town was reduced to a smear of colours. Stains of royal blue, brown, and pale slate. Taking the long

way round to avoid the benches in Regent Square, she arrived at the churchyard breathless and

shaking slightly.

It was the quiet part of town. An estate of brick bungalows next to a Presbyterian Church.

Only on Sundays would the streets come vaguely alive with suited old men and their wives in hats

and heels. But today it was just Rhoda.

Her feet treaded the familiar route to the row of pinkish granite headstones near the back.

There was her granda’s name and her nana’s, her da’s and her mum’s. Caroline’s name should’ve

been there too. But also shouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be anywhere. How’s it been a year?

Rhoda tried to deepen her breathing, stretching her head back to the white sky. It was the

way it should’ve been a year ago. She resented that day the sun did come in June. That day it wasn’t

supposed to be sunny. It should’ve been raining – bucketing, in fact. Lashing it down.

it. But today, the sky was a thick grey over her head, the distant call of seagulls echoing against

‘Feels like a fucking ceiling is over yer head and ye can only breathe stuffy indoor air,’

Caroline once shouted across the living room, a crumpled letter trembling in her fist. ‘It’s like am

just stuck slamming against the walls trying to break out, get some fresh air, but everyone round me

is just watching me, waiting for me to tire myself out.’

‘What are ye on about?’ Rhoda remembered replying. ‘Ye can go outside for walks anytime

ye want to. I don’t get what it is ye have against this place. It’s yer home.’

Caroline groaned and turned to face the living room window, that awful nose ring of hers

catching the lamplight. The window looked out onto the street. The air had that grainy look that

comes with night, and the pavement held dull orange puddles of light from the streetlamps. Rhoda

remembered noticing Audrey Smith looking over from the footpath with her Yorkshire Terrier

tugging on the leash beside her. Rhoda reached for the blinds, pulling them down.

Caroline snatched the chord and yanked them back up. ‘Let them all watch, mum. Let them

all fucking––

‘Lower yer voice,’ Rhoda snapped. She reached for the blinds again, but Caroline stepped in

her way. ‘Don’t get so worked up,’ Rhoda said. ‘Do ye really wanna do this? This big city with a

million strangers who couldn’t give a toss about ye?’

‘Oh yeah, ‘cause the people here really give a fuck about me.’

Rhoda looked around the room, desperate, her arms held out. That lamp was flickering

again. She let her arms fall beside her thighs with a slap. ‘What’d I do to make ye wanna go away

like this? What’d I do wrong?’

There was silence apart from the tick of the clock. Caroline’s eyes were fixed on a tear in the

cream-coloured lampshade. The street was empty now. Audrey Smith and her Yorkshire Terrier

were gone, Rhoda hadn’t noticed them walk away.

‘Well, am sorry I’m somethin’ wrong to ye.’

Months later, Caroline walked towards the airport’s sliding doors, trailing two large black

suitcases behind her.

‘Don’t forget to give us a ring when ye get there,’ Rhoda called from the car. ‘An’ don’t be

comin’ back with one a them there English accents!’

Caroline didn’t even look over her shoulder.

Caroline’s voice from the phone: ‘I’ve found a job for summer. So, I’ll be stayin’––’

‘Ye’ve barely been home all year,’ Rhoda cut in. ‘Am not payin’ fer you to stay over there

when there’s perfectly good––’

‘I’m payin’ for myself then.’ The line went dead.

Rhoda sat with her back to the living room window, phone pressed to her cheek. That lilac

wallpaper was beginning to peel off in the corner.

‘Ye never come home anymore an’ it’s breakin’ ma heart.’

Rhoda looked down at the open card on the kitchen table. Pastel blue with Congratulations on

Your New Home printed on the middle. Blank apart from a ‘Dear Caroline’ written at the top.

Caroline replied, ‘You could come here, ye know.’

She only went once. After the diagnosis. Caroline’s skin was the colour of old bedsheets, her

eyes encircled by dusty purple rings. Not my wee girl who used to leap down the sand dunes in Portrush.

‘It’s gone too far now, it’s time fer ye to come on home,’ Rhoda said.

A long sigh from Caroline. ‘No, mum. I’m staying here. This has been my home for the past

fifteen years.’ The tall buildings outside reflected the blue sky, even the clouds; they stretched higher

than Rhoda was comfortable with.

A flight back to Belfast with an empty seat next to her. The navy material was discoloured.

Rhoda never stepped on a plane again.

The thought of it all rose like bile in the back of Rhoda’s throat as she looked at the names

on the granite gravestones. She could faintly feel the heat from the fresh wheaten bread in her

handbag. This day a year ago, she was sat on the flowery sittee, looking out to the street with the

phone held up hovering next to her ear, hand shaking slightly, afraid of accidentally pressing one of

its buttons and cutting the call. The sunlight reflecting off the cars scarred her eyesight as she heard

the man’s distractingly English voice. She felt lightheaded as she endured his preamble, unaware

that she was holding her breath. Then came the words and a slight winded feeling. The room didn’t

shatter around her. Neither did the street or the sky.

She remembered overhearing someone walking past her on Main Street around that time,

‘Can ye believe she’s not even goin’ over for the funeral?’ And the reply, ‘I heard she insisted on

bein’ buried in England.’ She also remembered the casseroles, baking, and bunches of flowers that

arrived at her door the following weeks. Margie and the girls at Orr’s had given a big spread for a

memorial service that Reverend McClennan held.

But Rhoda couldn’t remember much of the rest of it. Just the front of Waldon’s hall, a

photo of Caroline’s face framed by all these white wee flowers, all identical, round and bushy, they

looked almost plastic. And a foggy dislocated kind of feeling.

Today that familiar fog had settled back onto her and a strange guilt curdled in her stomach.

She didn’t feel the way she thought she should. She wouldn’t even mind if her mascara ran. But her

days were no different to before. It was the usual going about her business, getting her hair done,

chatting to the Ards girls, doing messages, making dinner. There were no more phone calls – but

there weren’t many of those to begin with anyway. Apart from Christmas and Caroline’s birthday,

she could easily convince herself that Caroline was just living her life across the Irish sea, as usual.

(Kate Miller)