Lucy Mitchell

My first round of applause was in the small driveway of my home on Glenard Road in Galway. I was wearing new start-rite sandals, which my mother had convinced me were stylish. They were brown leather with covered toes and high arches to correct my knock- knees. Like ballet lessons, I bore them well, knowing that being a good girl brought treats and presents. With them I wore white frilly socks, and my new dress. I always got new clothes to bring on holidays and had spent the morning preening in front of my mothers full-length mirror, fancying myself. That day I felt I looked quite similar to Cindy Brady, except she didn't have freckles. It was a sunny morning, and I was excited. We were going to Kerry. The blue number twelve on the wall of our house behind me was made of two tiles, which my auntie had brought back after two weeks in exotic Fuengerola. She brought me a blonde haired doll with a smocked dress and my brothers got strong smelling sweets and flip-flops. Needless to say these were predictably unpopular, and the two boys made a point of turning their noses up at them. 
My brothers were twins, and had identical opinions on almost everything, including the many disadvantages of having a sister like me. On that July morning they were sitting in the back seat of a white Renault four, which our father was reversing into the road. Our mother navigated from the passenger seat. The road was newly covered in smooth tarmacadem and brilliant for roller-skating on. I was for some reason granted the privileged position of being the last to leave the house and could slam the hall door as loudly as I liked. I knew my dollies would be climbing out of their cots and running towards the biscuit tin before I even reached the car. On top of it and strapped securely to our brand new roof rack, was our brand new tent. It had a big window with curtains and three bedrooms. Inside it smelt of rubber and, by the end of the holiday, socks. The doors zipped open and closed and the curtains were tied back in neat bows. It was the wendy house of my dreams. Our old tent, a lot smaller, had come untied from its moorings a few years previous, and had blown like a kite across a field in Clare. I was asleep in my carrycot inside. My brothers, four at the time had greatly enjoyed the chase after it, no doubt thinking I was finally going back where I came from and not before time. From their point of view I was no fun, and seemed to be forever on my back having my nappy changed. I was a hearty eater and only ate my ice-cream after I had been given a nutritious beef and vegetable dinner. I have no doubt that my brothers, who ate nothing but chips, processed cheese and chocolate, were often asked to follow my example. 
Anyway myself and the tent were retrieved unscathed and wide-eyed, and life went on as normal, in a 1970's childhood way. It was the era of man-made fibres and day after day we were decked out in polyester flares and shiny nylon polonecks, capped with short fringes and child size side-burns. We ate mint viscounts, club-milks and choc-ices, with sherbet dib-dabs and fizzy cola bottles bought with the change. On our road we played cops and robbers, tip the can and under-arm-relieve-io. Afterwards, we went home and watched the Bearcats and Hawaii 5-0 on television. A friend of my mothers who went to Honolulu on her holidays returned with Jack Lords autograph and promptly changed the name of her house from St Marys to Aloha. 
With identical twins as my competition I faced an uphill battle to make myself the interesting child of the family. Needless to say, neighbours were fascinated by their pea-like faces with matching eyes, nose, mouth and scowl. I was in awe of their roller-skates and bikes, always bigger and faster than mine. I got the pink version of everything. My skates were flimsy, made a terrible noise on concrete and didn't even go fast down a hill. They tied over my shoes in silky bows that came undone in a second, even after my fathers firm double knots. Despite the butterfly motifs on their heels, I knew they were in the ha'penny place compared to my brothers models. Theirs were red leather, with real laces and whizzed up and down the road at the speed of light. On the morning of their December birthday they tried them out before school. Looking out the window whilst eating my ready brek, I watched them race. They looked like young gods, with their wild shouts and cloudy breath. With bikes it was the same. Mine had a basket, with my name on in Santa's writing, a little saddle bag for my purse, my own white shiny pump, and stabilisers. While I trundled along the footpath, they ran rings around me on sleek racers with curly handlebars and names like President and Falcon written on their frames. I remember one day coming home from school for lunch and finding a brother in a rage that was beyond my understanding. (His money box had been discovered broken open and empty under the bunk-beds.) He was wielding a small hacksaw. With quiet concentration and a very red face, he was trying hard to saw through President's crossbar. The crossbar that I always sat on for the journey back to school at two o clock! I ran in to ask my mother who was to take me now, and that I couldn't be late! Miss Conroy, my second class teacher, was always cross with the late people! And it wasn't my fault, I wasn't cutting the bike in half! Then there was the usual panic and rushing around that happened when my mothers blood pressure rose and one of us was in big trouble. We knew the heat was on when she said "Jesus Mary and Joseph!" or "Jeepers John!" with a vehemence that made the curses all the more illicit. Her shoes rapped sharper and faster across the kitchen floor as the mood heightened. I was falsely accused by both boys(my treachery was the one thing they agreed on that day) of being a tell-tale and found myself ignored by everyone. Eventually, hands were shaken and money returned, and President retained a few deep scratches in memory of the event. 

Not long after that, my mother got her motorbike. It was a red and white Honda 50 and ferried us both to and from the school where she taught and I learnt. On the corner of the small windscreen was a sticker of a witch on a broomstick which my brothers had picked out from the selection in the bicycle shop in town. (I wanted to cover the whole Plexiglas window with stickers of Disney characters until they pointed out that if I wasn't so thick I'd realise that Mum wouldn't be able to see the road then, and we'd crash). We buzzed up and down Threadneedle Road, Taylors Hill and Doctor Mannix Lane with our bags on our backs, and thought nothing of it. My mother wasn't keen though on the fumes and maintenance of the Honda, and after a year or two returned to her breezy bicycle. By that time I had grown out of my little seat on the back carrier and began to walk to school with the big girls. 
That motorbike was the only form of transport that didn't make me feel sick. I was a seasoned vomiter. On our trips to the beaches in Moycullen we packed towels, buckets, spades and a bowl for my knees. We made one stop on the way out and one on the way back and if there was time to get out of the car, I stood on the grass verge and puked. I cannot see a gorse bush or dog daisies at a road side without thinking about those days. Once, in a small rowing boat off the Aran Islands, a shark came alongside to investigate my regurgitated tinned mandarins and ice-cream. Seeing that black shiny fin in the water cheered me up no end and took my mind right off my stomach. Every Christmas morning aswell, the excitement of being allowed into the sitting room to open the presents was too much for me. For a few years in a row the bowl was as much part of the day as tubes of smarties that made our fingers blue and yellow, and tinsel. 
I must have been a very annoying sister. From my point of view I whined, and generally got what I wanted. However when I reached the age that I wanted my brothers to like me, I had years of this kind of behaviour to undo. At about the same time, I realised that although I wasn't a twin, I was the only girl and had blonde hair. I could see the advantages to the former. I got a room to myself, very few hand-me-downs and my mums undivided attention when I wanted to talk about dolls. Mothers friends and friends mothers told me time and again what a lucky girl I was to have my curls, but I could never see any advantage to them. Still can't, incidentally. The point was that although I had no problem winning the admiration of Aunties and best friends, it was my brothers who I wanted to impress. They remained po-faced at the sight of my Sweet April doll who could move her arms and cry, my head stand against a wall, which was perfect, and my collection of coins from the tooth fairy. The latter only produced disgruntled whispers about how they only ever got 10p and it wasn't fair. 
So, on that Summer morning, with the boys and Mum and Dad in the car, I recognised a captive audience. Shaking my yellow pigtails, tied tightly over my ears with new red bobbin's I danced the can-can and sang, in my loudest voice My Long Lost Lover From Liverpool. Instead of the usual scornful glances, nudges and eyes thrown to heaven, my brothers turned heads looked surprised and I saw them laughing. When I finished I quickly hopped into the car and pulled the door closed. Every actor must have once had that feeling sometime in their past, that rush of pleasure at hearing the applause of a satisfied audience. Sitting in the back seat, with my feet resting on rolled sleeping bags and my bowl on my knees, I was very happy.