A Greyhound of a Girl

  Children’s Books

  The Giggler Treatment

  Rover Saves Christmas

  The Meanwhile Adventures

  Wilderness

  Her Mother’s Face

  Adult Books

  The Commitments

  The Snapper

  The Van

  Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

  The Woman Who Walked into Doors

  Paula Spencer

  A Star Called Henry

  Oh, Play That Thing!

  Bullfighting

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Doyle, Roddy, 1958–

  A greyhound of a girl / Roddy Doyle.

  p. cm.

  Summary: “Mary O’Hara is a sharp and cheeky twelve-year-old Dublin

  schoolgirl who is bravely facing the fact that her beloved Gran is dying. But

  Gran can’t let go of life, and when a mysterious young woman turns up in

  Mary’s street with a message for her Gran, Mary gets pulled into an

  unlikely adventure” — Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-0168-9 (hardback)

  [1. Grandmothers—Fiction. 2. Mothers and daughters—Fiction.

  3. Death—Fiction. 4. Voyages and travels—Fiction. 5. Ghosts—Fiction.

  6. Dublin (Ireland)—Fiction. 7. Ireland—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.D7773Gre 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2011042200

  ISBN: 978-1-4197-0168-9

  Published in 2012 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

  Text copyright © 2011 Roddy Doyle

  Illustrations copyright © 2012 Karl Kwasny

  Map copyright © 2011 Julene Harrison

  Book design by Chad W. Beckerman

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2011 by Marion Lloyd Books, an imprint of Scholastic Children’s Books.

  Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

  115 West 18th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  www.abramsbooks.com

  To

  Kate, Belinda, Ita,

  and Ellen

  Contents

  Mary

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Tansey

  Five

  Emer

  Six

  Scarlett

  Seven

  Emer

  Eight

  Scarlett

  Nine

  Emer

  Ten

  Tansey

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  he hated the hospital. She hated walking through it.

  She hated everything about it.

  Except for one thing. Her granny.

  She hated the hospital, but she loved her granny.

  ary O’Hara was walking up her street, to the house she lived in with her parents and her brothers. The school bus had dropped her at the corner, at the bottom of the hill. The street was long, straight, and quite steep, and there were huge old chestnut trees growing all along both sides. It was raining, but Mary wasn’t getting very wet, because the leaves and branches were like a roof above her. Anyway, rain and getting wet were things that worried adults, but not Mary—or anyone else under the age of twenty-one. Mary was twelve. She’d be twelve for another eight months. Then she’d be what she already felt she was—a teenager.

  She came home at the same time most days, and she usually came home with her best friend, Ava. But today was different, because Ava wasn’t with Mary. Ava had moved to another part of Dublin the day before, with her family. Today, some of the neighbors looked out their windows and saw Mary, alone. They knew all about it, of course. These were people who looked out windows. They’d seen the removals lorry outside Ava’s house. They’d seen Mary and Ava hug each other, and they’d seen Ava get into their car and follow the removals lorry. As the car moved slowly up the street, they’d seen Mary wave, and run into her house. They might have heard the front door slam. They might have heard Mary’s feet charging up the stairs, and the springs under Mary’s mattress groan when she fell facedown on the bed. They probably didn’t hear her crying, and they definitely didn’t hear the softer sound of the bedsprings a little later when Mary realized that, although she was heartbroken, she was also starving. So she got up and went downstairs to the kitchen and ate until her face was stiff.

  Today, Mary walked alone, up the hill. She was nearly home. There were just a few houses left before she got to hers. There was a gap between the trees for a while, so the raindrops fell on her. But she didn’t notice them, or care.

  Someone had once told her that people who’d had their leg cut off still felt the leg, even a long time after they’d lost it. They felt an itch and went to scratch, and remembered that there was no leg there. That was how Mary felt. She felt Ava walking beside her. She knew she wasn’t, but she looked anyway—and that made it worse.

  Mary knew: Ava was somewhere else in Dublin, only seven kilometers away. But if she’d been acting in a film or a play and she was told she had to cry, she’d have thought of Ava and crying would have been easy. Feeling angry and looking angry would have been easy too. Mary couldn’t understand why people moved house. It was stupid. And she couldn’t understand why parents—Ava’s parents—said no when two friends—Mary and Ava—asked if it was okay if one of them—Ava—didn’t move but, instead, lived with the other friend—Mary.

  “You won’t have to feed her if she lives with us,” Mary had told Ava’s mother the day before they’d moved. “It’ll, like, save you a fortune.”

  “No.”

  “Especially with the recession and that.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Ava asked.

  “Because you’re our daughter and we love you.”

  “Then do the noble thing and let her stay,” said Mary. “If you, like, really, really love her. It’s not funny.”

  “I know,” said Ava’s mother. “It’s just so sweet.”

  Which was exactly the sort of stupid thing that adults said. They saw two best friends clinging to each other, wanting to die rather than be separated—and they said it was sweet.

  “I suppose you think war and starvation are sweet too, like, do you?” said Mary.

  “You’re being a little bit rude, Mary,” said Ava’s mother.

  “Whatever,” said Mary.

  She stood at Ava’s front door. Then she tried to slam it. But she couldn’t. There was a thick rug in the hall, and it seemed to grab the bottom of the door. So she’d shouted it instead.

  “Slam!”

  And she’d stormed off to her own house, where the slamming was easier.

  “That’s a wet one.”

  Someone had just spoken to Mary. But she couldn’t see anyone. She was alone on the street, just outside her house.


  Then she saw the woman.

  She must have been behind one of the trees, Mary thought.

  The woman was old. But, actually, she wasn’t. Mary knew what it was, why the woman seemed old. She was old-fashioned. She was wearing a dress that looked like it came from an old film, one of those films her mother always cried at. She looked like a woman who milked cows and threw hay with a pitchfork. She was even wearing big boots with fat laces.

  A bird above them must have flown away quickly, because the leaves shook and dropped loads of water on to their heads. Mary laughed—she felt the raindrops this time—but the woman didn’t seem to notice. Nothing about her was wet. But—

  “It’s a wet one, all right,” she said. “Did you get loads of homework, did you?”

  “The usual,” said Mary.

  “What’s the usual when it’s at home?”

  Mary laughed again. The woman sounded like her grandmother. But, then, that made her sad, and angry again. She was going to cry—she thought she was.

  “What’s wrong with you?” said the woman.

  “My granny’s not well,” said Mary.

  “Sure, I know,” said the woman.

  “Well, why did you ask, then?” said Mary.

  “God, you’re a rip, all right.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re a cheeky young lady,” said the woman.

  “Everyone says that,” said Mary. “That I’m cheeky. But I’m not. I’m just honest.”

  “Good girl yourself.”

  Mary looked at the woman again. She wasn’t old at all. She looked younger than Mary’s mother, although it was hard to tell with adults what age they were. Mary was sure she’d never seen this woman before.

  Never talk to strangers, she’d always been told.

  “But that’s stupid,” she’d said, a few years ago.

  “Why is it stupid?” her mother asked.

  “Did you know Dad when you met him?” said Mary.

  “No.”

  “So he was a stranger.”

  “But—”

  “And you spoke to him,” said Mary. “So if, like, nobody spoke to strangers, nobody would meet and get married and the human race would, like, cease to exist.”

  “But your dad wasn’t a stranger.”

  “Yes, he was. He must have been.”

  “He wasn’t strange,” said her mother. “He was nice.”

  “Nice?” said Mary. “The nice fellas are the ones you should be worried about.”

  Her mother laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” said Mary.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Granny.”

  “I should have known,” said her mother. “Well, never mind your granny.”

  “Don’t talk to strangers, never mind your granny,” said Mary. “I’ll have no one left to talk to.”

  “But you know what I mean,” said her mother.

  “About strangers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Mary. “I won’t talk to any.”

  But she did—now.

  “How do you know about my granny?” she asked the woman.

  “Ah, sure, I just do,” said the woman.

  She stood back, and shimmered—kind of—as if she were stepping behind a sheet of clear plastic.

  “It’s life,” she said—and she was solid again, and smiling.

  But Mary was a bit scared, and cold.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Right, so,” said the woman.

  She didn’t step out of the way. She didn’t seem to move at all. But, even so, she must have, because she wasn’t in front of Mary anymore.

  Mary walked quickly to her gate. She heard the woman behind her.

  “Do one small thing for me, Mary.”

  Mary turned.

  “Tell your granny it’ll all be grand,” said the woman—she was still smiling.

  “How did you know my name?” Mary asked her.

  “Sure, half the girls in Ireland are called Mary,” said the woman.

  “No, they aren’t,” said Mary. “I’m the only one on our road.”

  “Well, they were all called Mary in my day,” said the woman. “Off you go, so. I’ll see you the next time.”

  The next time? Mary should have been worried, even frightened. She was worried, and a bit frightened. But not nearly as much as she thought she should have been. This woman had come out of nowhere. She knew Mary’s name and all about her granny—Mary should have been terrified. But she wasn’t. Something about the woman, the way she spoke, her face, her smile—she seemed familiar. Mary didn’t know her—but she did.

  She wasn’t terrified. But, still, she ran to the front door and rang the bell instead of getting her key from her schoolbag. As she rang the bell, she turned. But the woman had gone.

  She heard the door opening.

  “Mary!”

  It was her mother.

  “How was school?!”

  “Stupid.”

  She went straight past her mother, into the hall.

  “What’s your hurry?!”

  “I’m starving.”

  osing your best friend was heartbreaking, but some things about it weren’t too bad. So far, Mary had been promised new jeans, two new tops, a trip to the cinema, and French toast for her lunch two days in a row.

  There was no smell of French toast when her mother opened the door, but that was okay, because Mary was the one who was going to make it. She’d decided to become a chef.

  “Great idea!” said her mother.

  “Stop talking like that,” said Mary.

  “Like what?!”

  “Like !!!!!!!!!!!!!”

  “Oh, no!” said her mother, whose name was Scarlett. “I don’t talk like that! Do I?!”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “What?! Always?!”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m sorry!” Scarlett whispered.

  “Even your whispers end in !!!s,” Mary whispered back.

  “You said you wanted to be a chef.”

  “That’s right.”

  “A world-famous chef, I think you said.”

  “Right again.”

  “So, what do you concentrate on first?! ‘World’ or ‘famous’ or ‘chef’?!”

  This was the kind of question Mary loved, so she gave it some thought.

  “Chef,” she said, after about ten seconds.

  “I think you’re right!” said Scarlett.

  “I know I am,” said Mary. “You have to be a chef before you can be a famous one.”

  “Yes!”

  “The same way, like, I’d have to murder someone if I wanted to become a world-famous murderer,” said Mary. “Not that I’m looking at anyone in particular.”

  Cheekiness was often a sign of intelligence. So Scarlett usually liked it when Mary was being cheeky. My brainy daughter has insulted me yet again! Sometimes, though, it was just tiring, and even Mary’s snores sounded cheeky.

  “Oh, shut up, Mary!” said Scarlett.

  And Mary did. Because if cheekiness was often a sign of intelligence, so was keeping your mouth shut.

  The plan was, Mary would cook something different every day, and what she cooked would gradually become more complicated. They’d made a list, ten days’ worth of cooking. Scarlett loved lists—but Mary kept her mouth shut.

  Now, today, just after she’d met the woman outside, Mary walked down the hall to the kitchen.

  “You seem a bit more cheerful!” said Scarlett.

  Normally, that comment would have really annoyed Mary, her mother trying to force her to be happy. But just as she got ready to tell her mother that no, she wasn’t more cheerful, she realized something: she actually was more cheerful.

  So she closed her mouth, and started again.

  “I suppose I am,” she said.

  “Great!” said Scarlett. “So school was okay!”

  “No,” said Mary.

/>   “Oh!” said Scarlett. “But you had fun on the bus home!”

  “No.”

  “Well, I bet you’re hungry.”

  “No,” said Mary. “I mean, yeah. I’m starving, like. But that’s not why I feel better. Starving people don’t feel better.”

  “Why, then?!” said Scarlett.

  Mary was already cracking the eggs, on the side of a glass bowl.

  “I met our new neighbor,” she said. “She’s nice.”

  “What new neighbor?!” Scarlett asked. “Have they moved into Ava’s house already?”

  She got out of the way while Mary whisked the eggs. Mary’s hand was a blur, and specks of egg yolk were hitting the wall, like yellow flies committing suicide.

  “No,” said Mary. “Ava’s house looks empty. She’s in a different one, I think. She’s old.”

  “Old?”

  “I mean, she isn’t old,” said Mary.

  She’d finished whisking, and most of the egg was still in the bowl.

  “She talked old, like,” she said. “But, actually, I’d say she was as young as you. Maybe younger.”

  “She talked old?!”

  “Yeah,” said Mary. “Old-fashioned, like. Like Granny. And she dressed old too. In a dress and stuff.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen her,” said Scarlett.

  Mary had added milk and salt to the egg. She lowered the first slice of bread into the mixture.

  “What’s her name?” said Scarlett.

  “Don’t know,” said Mary.

  She put the frying pan on top of the cooker and turned on the gas. She loved the whoosh the gas made when it sparked, and she loved the blue color of the flame. It was much more interesting than red. She dropped the butter into the pan and watched it melt and start to fizzle. Then she lowered the first slice of egg-and-milk-soaked bread.

  “I’ll ask her the next time,” she said. “She’s nice. And so is this French toast.”

  The first slice was for Scarlett.

  “Thank you!” she said. “It’s lovely!”

  “Eat it first,” said Mary. “Then tell me.”

  “I am! It’s even lovelier!”

  They ate three slices each.

  “Ready?!” Scarlett asked, as she dropped the plates and cutlery into the sink. She tried to sound even more enthusiastic than usual. But Mary’s mother hated this part of the day—this journey that had shoved itself into their routine every day for the past five weeks—just as much as Mary hated it.