Strange Sally Diamond(17)

No signature and the paper was almost torn in places where the biro had been dug into the page. Dad and I had agreed long ago that hell didn’t exist but the writer obviously hated me and that made me feel anxious. The next card took my anxiety away.

Dear Sally,

You might not remember me but we were in school together in Roscommon from 1st Year to 6th Year and we often sat beside each other in class (because nobody else wanted to sit with us!).

I am terribly sorry to hear what happened with your dad. Because I remember how you were, I can totally understand how you made such a mistake and I want you to know that most people would feel the same way as me, if they knew you like I did.

We never spoke much in school but I tried not to speak to anyone because my stutter was so bad. I am much improved since then. Shortly after I graduated from college, my grandmother died and my mum inherited some money and she spent a small fortune on private speech and language therapy for me. I won’t ever be making public speeches, but I can hold a conversation now without getting totally stuck and I guess that with age and the love of a husband and two great kids, I have grown in confidence.

I often thought about you over the years and was surprised that you didn’t go on to study music. You were the most incredible pianist. I used to sit outside the music room sometimes to listen to you play, and I wasn’t the only one. But I’m guessing that perhaps you were afraid of leaving your parents, or maybe social anxiety kept you home? I don’t blame you. I was terrified to go, but it was so much better than school. We were both targeted by bullies there.

In college, I found friends for the first time who were much more understanding. I got involved in social justice societies and I now work as a fundraiser for homeless services. It’s tough now, the campaigning is endless.

I don’t want to bring you down by revisiting your early memories. I had no idea that all that shit had happened to you before we met in school. I mean, it’s no surprise that you are the way you are, but I never saw any harm or malice in you – you were a bit unusual, that’s all. If you ever want to get in touch, my deets are below. I guess I wanted you to know that there are plenty of people like me, who admire you, firstly for surviving such horrific adversity as a child, and secondly, for living your life on your own terms. I came to your dad’s funeral and I thought the red hat was a classy touch – a bit unusual for a funeral, but that’s you! I remembered you well enough not to try to approach you or shake hands. You were looking at the ground the whole time, like in school. I just want you to know I was there, I guess.

I wish you well, old pal. (Is it okay to say that? I feel like we were sort of pals back in the day!)

All the best

Stella Coughlan



I remembered Stella perfectly well. Her stutter was bad. She would turn crimson when anyone tried to talk to her, and if a teacher asked her a question, I could smell the sweat gather under her arms. She shared chocolate with me sometimes, wordlessly. She was not unkind. And yes, the bullies targeted her mercilessly. She got it worse than me because I rarely reacted. Mum taught me that. Stella often cried silently beside me. I could tell by the way her shoulders shook, but I didn’t know what to say to her. Would I call her some day? Maybe.

There was another nasty one, accusing me of patricide, but offering to pray for my soul, with perfect spelling and a signature. The other cards were mostly a range of condolence and Christmas cards from people who I half knew or names I had heard Dad mention. That left two more letters and the parcel. Both letters were from journalists, asking for my ‘story’ and making implications about my tragic childhood. ‘The nation deserves answers,’ said one. The other offered me €5,000 for an ‘exclusive’.

What had happened to me before Mum and Dad adopted me? And how did ‘the nation’ know all about it when I didn’t? I was tempted to ring Angela, even though she might be annoyed. It must have been something bad. Whatever it was should not matter as I couldn’t remember it. I had not ever tried. But now I recalled how the guards seemed to find it unusual that my first memory was my seventh birthday party. Did other people have memories earlier than that? My memory is excellent. I felt a strange buzzing in my head. My hands were shaking. I think this was nervousness. I played the piano for a little while until I felt better.

Then I picked up the box. I unwrapped it carefully and put the paper in the drawer where we kept all the paper for lighting fires or rewrapping.

It was a long shoebox and, when I opened the lid, I immediately felt a warm glow in my stomach. A small teddy bear lay in tissue paper and I grabbed him out of the box and hugged him to my chest. The warmth in my stomach reached all the way to my fingers and toes. I held him out in front of me. He was old and well worn, missing an eye, stained and patched, but he made me feel so … something. I clutched him again, confused. Why did he have this effect on me? Why was I so immediately warmed by his presence? Why was I calling it ‘him’ in my mind?

‘Toby,’ I said. He didn’t reply.

I rummaged through the box, looking for a letter or a card. On a yellow Post-it note was written:

I thought you’d like to have him back.

S.





15





I knew this bear. I knew his name was Toby. Did Mum give him to me? I have an excellent memory. Why couldn’t I remember? He smelled musty and dirty but also of something familiar. I was overrun by emotions I couldn’t understand. I was laughing and excited and agitated. I wanted to find ‘S’ and make him or her explain. I badly wanted to ring Angela, but I heeded Dad’s warning. Who could I talk to about this? Dad said that he would explain more in the next letter, but I wasn’t allowed to open it until Tuesday. This was one of those situations when I needed guidance. It was late. Dad always said it was not proper to phone anyone after 9 p.m.