When Dottie wanted another cigarette, much to Micheal's dismay, Micheal had asked if he can call their mother in the village. He had hesitated, and then felt bad when he looked at Polly's face. Her face was softening, almost as if she was feeling her heart break. She had nodded, telling him how to get to the Garrison.
Dottie had frowned, guessing Polly had a phone in the house, yet she said nothing, allowing her little brother to walk out of the house.
Dottie had then leaned back in her chair, looking at Polly. "You have a phone here, don't you?"
Polly looks at Dottie, her eyes slightly squinting before she nods.
"You know, Micheal isn't going to leave, don't you?" Dottie continues, "I mean maybe, he may go visit her, but he won't go back to the village. He hated it there."
"Why?"
"It's boring," Dottie answers, "plus we were made to go to church every Sunday, and as children we were made to go to church like three times a week." She adds causing Polly to raise an eyebrow.
"I take it either of you enjoyed going to church."
Dottie leans back in her chair, a cigarette between her fingers. Polly leans forward as Dottie lights a cigarette for her, giving her the cigarette between her fingers.
"I've always hated it," Dottie says, placing the box of matches down on to the table, she lifts the cigarette up to her lips and breathes in whilst watching Polly do the same. "Micheal didn't hate it so much," she suddenly says, "not as much as me."
"Why did you hate it?"
"It's bullocks," Dottie responds, "all of what the nuns said, it's absolute nonsense! They tried telling me I'm going to hell because I didn't say Grace at the dinner table, yet I saw them hit a girl. Apparently, they're still going to heaven." Dottie explains, shrugging slightly and pulling her knees up to her chest, resting her knees against the table. She flicks the ash against an empty glass on the table.
Polly frowns slightly, "did... was you ever treated like that? Either of you?"
"No," Dottie says almost instantly, "if we behaved, we were fine."
Polly hums in response, her eyes squinting slightly. She resists the urge to contradict Dottie.
"Tell me about you."
Dottie raises an eyebrow, "that's a abroad subject..."
"Was you happy with your family? In the village? Was you cared for?" Polly urges, sitting forward.
Dottie nods, "yes. They treated Micheal a tad better than me, but that's fine. They're old fashioned, you know lads go outside whilst girls stay inside."
Polly nods, "but they didn't hurt you? They cared for you?"
Dottie nods again, "they did. Couldn't ask for better really, especially when you hear of stories of... well... like Sallyanna."
Polly nods, her mouth opens before it closes again.
"What happened to her?" Dottie asks hesitantly, careful not to upset Polly, "I use to dream of her, but no one would tell us where she was."
Polly nods again, "she died in Australia. Was sent there after running away from her foster family."
Dottie nods again, "oh." She says, her mouth feeling dry, "I'm sorry."
Polly doesn't respond, instead she presses the cigarette up to her lips, breathing in deeply and then pulling her hand away.
Dottie extends her free hand to Polly's, "I'm glad we're home, mum."
—
"Tommy, I need to use the telephone. Polly said you had one in the pub." Micheal says, walking in to the Garrison pub behind Tommy, the piercing blue eyes man.
Tommy looks behind him at Micheal before he grunts. "All right, be quick. I have business."
"Sir."
Tommy pats the shoulder of someone sitting down, however he doesn't stop walking, leading Micheal away from the bustling business.
"Polly said you own this place. She said you own lots of different businesses."
"You call her Polly or Mum?"
Micheal hesitates, "I can't get used to calling her Mum yet."
Tommy sighs as they enter a small office. He closes the door behind Michael, and pushes out a hand towards the large telephone sitting on the desk. Micheal crosses the desk, and begins to dial the number.
Tommy signs again. "Who are you calling?"
"My mother. I mean..." Micheal's words fade in to silence as Tommy nods.
"I know what you mean. And what are you going to tell her?"
"I'm going to tell her where I am." Responds Micheal, frowning slightly.
"And now you're going to tell her you're going home."
Micheal squares his shoulders, "Polly said I could stay for a few days."
Raising an eyebrow, Tommy looks at his younger cousin. "You want to stay?"
"I've only just arrived." Micheal retorts.
"What age are you, Michael?"
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen. Which means it's not up to you, right?"
"Dottie's already eighteen, plus I'm eighteen in a few weeks. I make up my own mind." Micheal argues back.
Tommy shakes his head, "you smoke?"
"No."
"Drink?"
Micheal shakes his head.
"You're going to call your mother and tell her you're getting the next train home. When you get there, you're going to write a letter to Polly saying when you're eighteen you'll come back here and sort things out."
Micheal shakes his head once more. "I just told you. I make up my own mind."
"Do you know what we do, Michael? We... Shelbys?"
"Yes. I think I know what you do."
"Yeah. You've got smart eyes. But you're young, so you think what we do is all right. It's not all right. People get hurt. Now call your mother and I will drive you and your sister to the station."
Micheal shakes his head again, "no. If Dottie ends up returning to that village, she'll go crazy," he reveals, "she hated it there."
"But you don't?"
Micheal responds, "in my village, there's this little wishing well. It's made of white bricks, right in the middle of the village green. Everybody says how pretty it is. But I swear to God, if I spend another day in that village, I'm going to blow it up with dynamite. Probably blow my hands off with it but it'd be worth it. Just to see all those pretty white bricks spread all over the pretty village green."
Tommy clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "yep. You're Polly's son all right."