Together Forever

by Siân O'Gorman

  Oh Red, I thought. Just get in the car and I’ll tell you everything. Everything. And you might forgive me. You might not. I just want to tell you why I didn’t get on that plane. And why I didn’t answer your calls or explain anything to Christy when you sent him to talk to me.

  ‘Fresh air?’ I asked.

  So many times, I wondered what would have happened had I got on that flight, explained everything.

  ‘Headspace,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling nervous.’ He grinned. He didn’t look particularly nervous. Red was always so supremely confident. The one thing, which made me feel better back then, was that Red was strong. He’d be all right.

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘You know, new school, new pupils to impress. New teachers to talk to in the staff room,’ he said. ‘That kind of thing. Like will my new colleagues find my break-time banter annoying or amusing? Will my briefcase be an object of ridicule?’

  ‘Object of ridicule,’ I said. ‘Definitely.’ He laughed and I watched his face for a moment and wondered what he really thought of me. Was he being polite? Had he decided to just pretend nothing had happened? How did he feel about me? Did he feel anything? ‘And the staff are going to love you. Only man and everything. They are going to be delighted with you.’

  ‘I need a beard,’ he said. ‘I was shaving this morning and I thought, there is something missing. I don’t look teachery enough. What was it? A cord jacket? A cocktail of chalk dust and dandruff on my shoulders. No! A beard. I need a beard.’

  ‘Look at me!’ I said. ‘I look like I’m going to a fancy dress party as a teacher. I couldn’t be more of a cliché. Smart, poly-mix, inoffensive pastel-coloured jacket. Enough unnatural fibres to withstand a nuclear attack or, at least, life in a school.’ I was enjoying myself. Too much. Drive on, Tabitha, I ordered myself, sensibly. Drive on and stop thinking about him. This won’t come to anything and the last thing you need is to start pining for your long lost love and a rekindled romance. You are a grown-up, my inner voice said. Act like one. But it was almost like a physical pain, a longing. A visceral need, an ache that would only be soothed and quenched by being right there, like I used to be, pressed up against him. It was a physical force. Was it seeing him walking that had triggered this? Before I had only felt awkwardness, but seeing him with his hair curling over his collar, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. And how happy he looked. I wanted it. I wanted to be part of his world and I wanted him to be part of mine.

  ‘Would you like a lift?’ That was me, out loud.

  ‘No,’ he said, pulling back a little. ‘No thanks.’ ‘I’ll keep walking.’

  ‘Yes, yes of course. Well, see you in school, Red. Goodbye.’ And primly, like the good head teacher I was, I drove away. A great crush of disappointment, like I’d embarrassed myself, dared to imagine, to fantasise, hanging over me. I felt like a fool.

  Before

  It was the morning of Rosaleen’s funeral and I went down at dawn for a swim in the Forty Foot. I hadn’t slept at all, not really, and had just been waiting for the light to creep into the world before grabbing my towel and cycling down.

  It was so early I was the only person there and the sky was still grey and cold and I shivered as I slipped off my dress and jumper and took off my shoes and stepped into the freezing water.

  Rosaleen. Rosaleen. I still couldn’t believe that she was gone after those weeks of illness. I had thought every single day that this was the day she would get better, start getting her energy back, but when they told me that she had cancer and that there was nothing they could do about it, I still couldn’t grasp it.

  Red had phoned the night before from a public phone box.

  ‘I wish I could be there with you,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you are going through it on your own.’ He told me that his dad was going to come to the funeral. But the cost of a flight for Red was utterly prohibitive. Not when I was going to see him a mere three weeks later.

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t wait to see you,’ I said. ‘I just want to get away. And anyway, there’s something I want to tell you…’ The pips were going. We had seconds left. ‘I love you,’ I said.

  ‘I love you too.’

  The water was around my ankles and I could see my feet all blurry below the water. And then in I plunged, swimming down towards the bottom and then slowly, gracefully, resurfacing. I flipped over onto my back and looked at the sky, my secret inside me.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Not too early I hope!’ A booming voice and figure filled my office.

  ‘Hello, Brian,’ I said, shaking his hand. It felt strangely small compared to the usual male handshakes I was used to – the bone-crushers, the power-shake double-hand. With him it was like shaking the hand of a small child. Strangely disproportionate, the voluminous body and the petite hand. ‘Not at all.’ He was five minutes early. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  His face was rather fleshy, bulbous really. And he was permanently flushed. He sat down and leant back on the chair, his striped shirt slightly staining over his well-fed paunch. His tiny, beady eyes were following me intently. But he began with pleasantries. ‘Do you golf, Ms Thomas?’

  ‘Golf?’ I almost laughed.

  ‘I thought all you ladies golfed these days.’

  Over the months, I’d learned that all conversations with Brian were a bit surreal. Nothing was simple with him and had realised, for sanity saving purposes, that the only thing to do was run with it. ‘Oh no. I don’t sport actually. I walk the pier, but I suspect that does not qualify as activity. And what about you Brian, do you golf?’

  ‘Rugby’s my game,’ he said. ‘Played for my school, was quite the effective front half, if I may say so myself. Scored a few tries that made the old man proud. Was on the school’s team, you know. The ’81 team. We won the schools cup that year.’ He shrugged modestly. ‘That’s the downside of having a daughter. Petula shows no interest in rugby, despite my best efforts. She’s more interested in horses. Obsessed with them she is. Can’t see the appeal myself. No, I stick to Rugby. A rather vocal spectator. Got myself a nice little ten-year ticket. Don’t miss a game. Home or away.’

  ‘Yes, the locations of the away matches would almost make me go,’ I said. ‘Rome. Paris… Cardiff…’

  ‘Does your husband follow the rugby?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen him at any of the corporate events. Most of the local politicians are there, but maybe soccer’s his game?’

  ‘Michael’s sport is scrabble,’ I said. ‘He was pretty good at it. Captained the school scrabble team and I think they even made it to the Leinster finals.’

  Brian looked puzzled. ‘Scrabble? As in the word game?’

  ‘Or was it Rummikub? I never can remember. Now, to business. Shall we get down to it?’

  He smiled at me, showing his teeth, again, tiny little things, making him look like a crocodile eyeing a pelican. ‘Now I really believe that what we are hoping to achieve with the land is something quite remarkable.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, it’s a mutually beneficial transaction. I liked what Sister… Sister… Whatshername… Kevin?’

  ‘Kennedy.’

  ‘I liked what Sister Kennedy called it. A Good Samaritan. As I said on the phone, I have found one. Him. A corporate Good Samaritan…’

  ‘Is that not oxymoronic?’ I said, smiling.

  ‘There is nothing moronic about this plan, nothing at all,’ he said, defensively. ‘Are you…?’ He eyed me carefully. ‘Are you familiar with the corporate world, Ms Thomas?’

  ‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘I’m mean I’m aware it exists.’

  ‘Well,’ he smiled indulgently at me, ‘it’s about deals. The art of the deal, heard of that?’

  I nodded. ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘So, he gives the school – us – the money and we give him a tiny little piece of land. It’s worthless really. Hard to develop. He may or may not be able to build on it. But
the point is, he wants to give back.’

  ‘Well, you don’t just give money for nothing. Take the opera for example. Say I’m a bank. Do I just give money to some piddling little opera company and get nothing back? Or do I give some cash to the aforementioned piddling operatics in exchange for something?’

  ‘Ummm….’

  ‘Exactly! I get something back. Tickets, nice seats for Beethoven or what have you. Or the bank’s name on the programme. There’s always something in return. And it’s nice to have a box at the opera or your name saying how generous you are. It creates good feeling. Are you with me?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What if you are a charity… do I just give you money no questions asked because I am a good and kind and nice bank?’

  ‘You might…’

  ‘No… I won’t. Because I’ll need something back for the taxman. I need a thank you. My name in the paper saying I gave x amount of yo-yos. Catch my drift?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Say you’re a school,’ he was now speaking with exaggerated slowness.

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Great! Perfect. Well, I’m a developer and I want to give you money because I’m a good person. Do I just give you the money?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No! I give you the money, but you give me something in exchange.’

  ‘Like a plot of land?’

  ‘Like a worthless, rocky, brambly plot of land.’

  ‘Brian, if he was to build on it, would we have a say how the land was to be used? A community centre, I was thinking… or perhaps an elderly person’s drop-in place…’

  ‘Well, I am sure our GS, as I like to think of him, would be open to suggestions like that.’

  Was this all BS rather than GS, I wondered. But land did get sold. In fact, years ago, some of the school was sold to developers and a housing estate, where many of our pupils lived, was built. There was precedence.

  ‘Tabitha, I think we should call another meeting of the board of governors and we can then take a vote. I have a feeling that it might make sense to them,’ he said, implying it was my lack or intelligence that was leading to my slightly muted reaction.

  ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘Our Good Samaritan? Freddie Boyle is his name. I’ve been looking into his background and asking a few of my contacts, and he’s entirely kosher. Made a mint and now wants to give back. Make sure St Paul waves him through when it comes to his turn. Or maybe he’s just got a heart of gold. He’s going to give us 20,000 notes, no questions asked. The land is worth half, if that.’

  ‘I think I might just get some advice… Ask an estate agent to come round.’

  Brian looked hurt, crestfallen even. ‘An estate agent… but…’ His bottom lip stuck out. ‘I thought I was looking after this for the school… I wanted to do this for the Star of the Sea, for Dalkey. I really believe with this project that we are giving back, you know? I’m all about the giving back. Anyway, it’s not about selling the land for the highest price, we probably could get a better price. Some fool estate agent would convince you that it was worth ten times the price, but they’d be wrong. There’s so much granite in there and it’s such an awkward site. So that’s why this Freddie is such a good fit for us…’

  ‘Maybe…’ I tried to think clearly. ‘Would there be a contract that we could sign, stating all this.’

  ‘Think, Tabitha,’ he commanded. ‘Think of the smiling faces of the little children glowing in the collective light of 100 iPads. Think of all that learning that is contained in a tiny computer. Like a million books all folded up and squashed inside, all ready for the pupils of Star of the Sea to read. Rest your mind on that image, Tabitha. And we’ll see what Sister… Sister Thingy and the other ones have to say.’

  ‘Sister Kennedy,’ I reminded him. ‘And Noleen Norris and Brendan Doherty,’

  ‘Indeed.’ The crocodile smile again. ‘But personally, I think it is the best action for the school going forward and I am delighted, in my humble way, to be part of it.’ He stood up and saluted me, his little child’s hand flicked his forehead. ‘Roger and out.’

  ‘Roger,’ I found myself repeating. But just then, there was a noise from outside, a chanting from somewhere.

  ‘Oi, teacher, leave those trees alone!’

  From my window I could see a small group of people were holding placards: Save Our Trees, Squatters Rights For Squirrels and Developers Deliver Doom. A scraggly, ragtag band of people, they were. I peered closer. Ah! There was Nellie Noonan, Nora’s friend from swimming; there was a youngish man with dreadlocks and an old fleece; an older, bearded chap, with tiny glasses, wizened in stature and dressed professorially in a shabby brown suit; and a young woman dressed in a flowery dress, an old man’s cardigan and a shaved head. And finally, there was an older woman with long hair and a scraggly Barbour. My mother.

  ‘Oi teacher, leave those trees alone… Oi teacher, leave those trees alone.’

  What fresh hell was this?

  *

  My mother. My mother!

  I marched out, furious. They all turned to watch me storming over and their chanting petered out and then Nora began again and they picked up their shout.

  ‘Oi, teacher…’

  I fumed, as I speed-walked towards them. Was there nothing my mother wouldn’t do? I’d told her to keep her nose out. And there she was, eyes gleaming. She had scented something. A protest. Her favourite thing in the world. A couple of picnic chairs had been set out and there was a small blue gas stove where a kettle was boiling away. They looked like they were settling in for the long haul.

  Hands on my hips, I stood in front of them, as they looked at me expectantly, pleasantly even.

  ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ I hissed at Nora. ‘This is just another of your protests… whales, salmon, nuclear weapons. All your various bandwagons. And now this! A tiny plot of land which is of no value to anyone. Except us. We might be able to get something from this. Something for the school. How could you? How could you embarrass me like this?’

  She smiled at me. ‘Tabitha,’ she said, patiently. ‘It’s not personal. But we have a moral obligation to protest.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Us.’ She nodded at the group. ‘The Dalkey Wildlife Defenders.’

  They all nodded, one or two gave me a little wave.

  ‘Nellie and I played in the Copse as children and this is a matter we can’t let go. It’s not against you and your decisions. It’s about trees being in peril and when they are, we have to act. It’s what we do.’ She smiled at me as though that was all that needed to be said, and I would walk away fully accepting her need to protest.

  Oh no. Oh no, she wouldn’t do this to me. She had spent her life, swanning about saving the habitats of geese or snails in sand dunes or on that bloody peace camp. She wasn’t going to do this here. And now. With me.

  ‘Mum, there is no peril,’ I insisted, vaguely considering the alternative nostril breathing technique that Clodagh had demonstrated to keep calm. ‘We are going to have a say in how the land is used, going forwards. I have suggested a community centre and they will take our considerations fully into the plans.’

  Nora just looked at me. ‘That’s what they all say,’ she said, turning to the older, bearded man. ‘Don’t they, Arthur?’

  He nodded. ‘We don’t tend to believe the word of developers,’ he said, politely. ‘As a rule. Telling the truth is not in their interests.’

  ‘Now, please. All of you. Go home. There is nothing to protest about and you are all, frankly, wasting your time.’

  ‘Kettle’s boiled!’ said a voice behind Nora. All this time, Nellie had been blithely making a pot of tea in an old enamel teapot. ‘Hello Tabitha,’ she said cheerily as if this was nothing more than an enjoyable picnic. ‘Join us for a brew? I’ve got some nice fruit cake.’

  The older man, Arthur, cleared his throat and stepped forward. ‘With respect, Ms Thomas, we are going
to protest until the land remains under the protectorate of the school. As it has, for the last 300 years. And I hope you don’t mind,’ he went on politely, ‘we’re going to exercise our democratic right to protest. We won’t be in your way, but we’ll just be here until we can be sure that the safety and future of Dalkey greenery is assured. One felled tree is one too many.’

  From the yard, I heard the bell go for break time and the immediate hysteria of children’s voices racing out into the sunshine.

  ‘Mum…’ I said, fixing her with my beadiest eye. ‘Go home.’

  ‘We are here in support of the trees and wildlife.’ Her fellow protestors all nodded in agreement. ‘Nature has no voice that we can hear, so the Dalkey Wildlife Defenders will remain here until the Copse is safe from the developers. Now, let me introduce you to everyone. You know Nellie.’ Nellie waved her tin cup at me. ‘And this is Arthur. A veteran of these protests, just like me and Nellie.’

  ‘Arthur Fitzgerald,’ he said, holding out his hand, which I had no choice but to take. ‘Doctor of Geology. University College Dublin. Retired. But not retired activist… this is something you never retire from.’

  ‘The fire never goes out,’ agreed Nora. ‘And this is Robbo Cunningham.’ She gestured towards the dreadlocked man who nimbly stepped over the kettle on the gas stove to shake my hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, politely. ‘I may not have been at Mizen Head or Mullaghmore, but I like to think I play my part in the good fight. Fracking is my thing but anything environmental, really.’

  ‘And last,’ said Nora, ‘but not least is Leaf.’

  ‘Just Leaf,’ said the young woman in the man’s cardigan, shaking my hand. ‘I don’t do surnames. Leaf is not my given name, though,’ she explained. ‘That’s Sinead. I think I’m more a Leaf than a Sinead, don’t you? I never felt right being Sinead, you know, like I was born with the wrong name. But as soon as I decided I was a Leaf, I felt totally different about myself. Like I had found me.’