Together Forever

by Siân O'Gorman

  ‘Not quite… well, yes it’s in trouble and no we are not going to save it… I mean…’

  A sea of shocked tiny faces.

  ‘Whose side are we on?’ said Poppy.

  ‘It’s not about sides,’ I said. ‘But we’re not on the side of the protestors. You all want computers, don’t you? You all want to be like the children in Willow Grove, isn’t that right? With your own iPads. You would prefer that, wouldn’t you?’ My God, I thought, I’ve transitioned into Cruella De Vil. I used to think of myself as a kindly child-loving teacher. Now, I had become practically evil.

  I looked around at all the faces of the children. Some were shaking their heads, and others began to cry. They held each other’s hands for moral and emotional support. Oh dear God. This was not meant to happen. Even Mary, standing at the side door, beside me, had panic on her face. What would happen next? Would social services arrive to drag me away? Red, at the back of the hall, looked completely bemused, as though he was witnessing the breakdown of a previously well-respected figure, like seeing your favourite television presenter suddenly turn on you when you innocently asked for their autograph. And the children would go home and tell their parents that Ms Thomas wanted to kill trees and squirrels.

  ‘Children, children!’ I was screeching now, rising panic squeezing my vocal chords. ‘Are you saying to me you don’t want computers? But I thought you’d be delighted…’

  Poppy managed to raise her hand, her eyes moist with tears. ‘We’d much prefer to have our own squirrel, Ms Thomas. And our own butterfly.’

  Alice in Sixth class raised her hand. ‘And an adventure, Miss.’

  *

  ‘Well, that went well.’

  Red had joined me as the girls walked out, line by line, some with their shoulders shaking as tears streamed down their faces, arms draped around each other, others looking at me as though I was suddenly not who they had once thought. I had hoped to run to the sanctuary of my office, but Red was probably delighted to see me implode.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t the unqualified success I had hoped.’ I felt like a politician who has just lost an election. ‘I don’t think I quite communicated my point.’ He thought me a fool, he must do. ‘I think,’ I admitted, realising that there was nowhere to hide, ‘I just might have made everything worse. There’s a bunch of pensioners outside the school who are convinced I am some kind of environmental vandal. Like an Irish, female Donald Trump. And I’ve just made half the school cry.’

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ he said. ‘If you believe that selling the land is the best thing to do, then you just have to carry on in the face of adversity. Even if your adversaries are children and pensioners. Neither of whom, by the way, should ever be underestimated. Courage in your convictions.’ I had ghosted him. That was the phrase. Where someone just disappears from your life. Doesn’t contact you, they have ghosted you. A horrible, cruel thing to do. Unforgiveable. Yet here he was acting as though he had forgiven me.

  ‘My daughter is… struggling,’ I said suddenly. He was the first person I had told. I had spent the last few weeks full to the brim with worry for her. And I didn’t know what to do. ‘She’s doing her Leaving Cert.’

  He was listening. ‘She’s finding it tough?’

  I nodded. ‘She hasn’t come out of her room for months. We barely see her and when she did, like this weekend, we went to a family thing, she had a…’ I stopped.

  ‘A what?’ he asked with genuine concern.

  ‘A kind of panic attack. Or that’s what it looked like. We had to come home. She says she’s all right and that’s normal… but… I just don’t know.’ My voice wobbled a little and I could feel emotion rush to the surface. Why was I telling Red this? I’d missed him, I realised. He’d always been so easy to talk to, such a good listener, gave such wise counsel. I could feel myself plugging back into him, opening up. It was so easy. As long as we didn’t talk about the past, then maybe we could be friends. Of a sort. And it was only a month to the end of term. We could be friends for a month.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t know. But she’s nearly there.’ We’re all nearly there, I thought. And real life could resume. Whatever real life was. Normality, then. But I wasn’t sure I liked my reality, my normality too much. At least my mother was actually doing something. For a moment, I wished I was the protestor, the one with the Barbour jacket. Or Rosie heading off to college, a life awaiting.

  ‘So you’re both just hanging on,’ said Red. ‘Until the exams are over?’

  I nodded. ‘Isn’t that what you do,’ I said. ‘With everything. Just hang on. Isn’t that all any of us ever do? Just wait for things to pass?’

  ‘No!’ He laughed. ‘That’s what you might call a passive approach to life. Haven’t you ever heard of grabbing the proverbial bull’s horns?’

  ‘I think you might have lived in California for too long. Here in Ireland we don’t go round grabbing bull’s horns. We like a nice quiet life. Complain about it, obviously, but wait for time to move on. It always does.’

  I remembered this feeling, Red making everything all right.

  He laughed again. ‘Time has that habit of moving, doesn’t it? Funny that.’ He smiled at me. ‘Look, I’ve got to get back to class. But let me know if you need to talk. I promise to keep the Californian on the down-low.’ He began to turn away. ‘Good to talk to you, Tab.’

  *

  Things, as they often do, got worse.

  Every day the protestors made themselves even more at home. I thought that protesting was meant to be, by its very nature, an uncomfortable experience. You were meant to be sleeping in trees or lying on cold ground incurring piles or dysentery, often both. Leaf spent all day strumming a guitar, Arthur and Robbo were bent over an old radio, both with extra-long screwdrivers in their hands.

  Others – neighbours from close to the school – would join them for a little sit in the sun and a cup of Nellie’s special brew (the tea kind). It was looking rather amiable out there, sort of a new wave peace camp with Nora sitting in the middle of them all, looking delighted with herself, conscience fully intact.

  I knew I was doing it for the best of intentions. At the end of term, the school would have a cheque for €20,000. We could make another Copse, we could plant trees. By September, all this would be forgotten about.

  At the end of the school day, once all the children had streamed out in their screaming hoards, I spied on the protestors from the library window. Robbo stringing some bunting from the corner of the van, the other end was tied to the school railings. Arthur was on his mobile phone. What was he doing? Not reinforcements? Surely we wouldn’t have every activist from Mizen to Malin Head descend on Dalkey? It wouldn’t become a new Peace Camp, surely? And now Robbo was chalking on the road in huge letters. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but I’d come back with a hose, that night if I had to.

  ‘We had a fella like that at home.’ Mary joined me at the window.

  ‘Like Robbo?’

  ‘No, Brian Crowley. Would tell you what you wanted to hear and promise you the sun, moon and stars. And deliver nothing. Or nothing that you wanted or expected.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Mammy wanted to do something with the old cow shed. Thought it might make a nice house for Granny to live in. They weren’t getting on, stuck in the same house all day, so as Mammy wasn’t going to move out, she decided that Granny should. Called in this fella, Mickey-John was his name. And he said he’d make the loveliest palace for Granny. And so we were all excited and the money was handed over, and Granny began making curtains and Mammy made plans to turn Granny’s old bedroom into a room for her Daniel O’Donnell memorabilia. She’s president of the Cavan chapter, you see. She’s got boxes and boxes of Daniel-related… I was going to say tat but Mammy’d kill me. We’ll call it knick-knacks – mugs, key rings, holy water bottles, T-shirts, teapots and what have you. Her pride and joy is her croc
heted Daniel doll. I don’t get the appeal at all. But it keeps her happy. So, all going well until the big unveiling.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘A cow shed.’

  ‘But it was a cow shed.’

  ‘And thus it remained.’

  ‘So the moral of the story is, once a cow shed always a cow shed?’

  ‘Exactly. Or what I would say, beware of men promising gifts. They are always in the wrong size or not what you want.’

  ‘Mary, what are you going on about?’

  ‘Just promise me,’ she said. ‘Promise me that you have the final say.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘And you won’t do anything hasty?’

  There was a rap on the open door.

  ‘Tab?’ It was Fidelma Fahy, the teacher of Second class. ‘Just to let you know that there is a reporter outside. From the news. And a cameraman. They’re talking to the protestors now.’

  ‘Oh God…’ This was all I needed. The squirrel savers on the evening news, looking all brave and valiant, the David to my Goliath.

  *

  ‘Barry Whelan.’ The reporter held out his hand. He looked younger than Rosie. When did news reporters get to be so young?

  ‘Barry,’ I said, smiling as though I was delighted to see him and was welcoming him to the school sports day or some other happy occasion. ‘You’re very welcome to Star of the Sea school.’

  He didn’t smile back, just nodded as though he wanted to get on with it. Or back to the satellite van for a smoke, I thought. ‘Could we talk to you on camera?’ he said. ‘Just a few questions about what exactly the situation is here.’

  ‘Well, everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why you’ve come all the way here. This is a small dispute. In fact, no it’s not a dispute. It’s definitely not a dispute. Please don’t write that down. It’s not even a misunderstanding. It’s an ongoing conversation between the school community and concerned citizens, that’s all.’

  The camera was already on me, I realised, so I smiled again, the face and voice of reason and rationality. Mary was standing close by and gave me an encouraging thumbs-up.

  ‘But why are they concerned?’ Barry held the microphone near my mouth as I began to talk, words just falling from my mouth, hopefully in some kind of coherent order, but I wasn’t entirely sure. Jesus Christ. Why hadn’t I put on more make-up this morning? And I was wearing my black jacket. Shouldn’t you never wear black on television, if you wanted to win people over? Isn’t that what they advised politicians. I desperately tried to think what Michael had said about it once, but I hadn’t really listened. Or maybe black was the right colour to wear, showing dignified, restrained power. Jesus, what was he saying now?

  ‘Apparently, one of the protestors is your mother.’

  ‘Well… I’m not sure I understand the question…’

  ‘It’s a simple one.’ He raised an eyebrow, looking all of his twelve years. ‘And you’re a teacher so you shouldn’t find it too difficult to answer.’ What a smart-arse. ‘Is she,’ he went on, ‘or is she not, your mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said weakly. ‘Yes she is.’ I looked over desperately at Mary, whose lip-biting and worried expression did nothing to reassure me.

  ‘It must be an issue that she feels very strongly about for her to protest at her daughter’s place of work.’

  ‘She’s a very principled woman,’ I said, diplomatically. Or annoying. And frustrating and bloody minded. I smiled at Barry.

  ‘And you’re not.’

  ‘Principled? No I am. I really am. It’s just that we just have different principles.’

  ‘Hers is to save the environment and yours is to destroy it. Yes?’

  ‘No! I love the environment. I love trees. Who doesn’t love trees? I mean, I even have a wood-burning stove at home.’

  ‘So you like to burn dead trees but not enjoy them in their living state.’

  ‘No… I…’ God, this Barry was good. He was twisting everything to ensure he got a splash from this.

  ‘So how are you going to resolve this issue?’

  ‘I am not sure yet,’ I said, ‘but it will be. You see, Barry,’ I said, trying to summon up some wisdom. Something moving, something that would make him and the viewers at home see that at times difficult decisions had to made but that things would work out. Trust and love. Bravery and… having the courage in your convictions. That was it. Right, something profound… ‘You see, Barry, I believe the children are our future.’ What was I saying? It came from deep within me. Words I had heard once and had never forgotten. It wasn’t… it wasn’t Whitney Houston was it? ‘Teach them well and let them lead the way.’ It was Whitney. Barry was looking at me, utterly bewildered, all his smart-arsery gone. ‘What? Let the pupils make the decision?’ He obviously was not a Whitney fan. More fool him, I thought. But I knew Red was fully familiar with her oeuvre and I saw his mouth was twitching from behind Barry, trying not to laugh. This day was not going well.

  ‘No, I meant, I just… oh I don’t know.’

  Shrugging, shaking his head, he turned to the camera. ‘Barry Whelan, for the Six O’clock News, at the environmental stand-off at the Star of the Sea school in Dalkey.’

  The Dalkey Wildlife Defenders were huddled in a little group and obviously delighted at their success. Arthur was pouring something from a saucepan into mugs and handing them around and they were clinking them. Robbo gave me a thumbs up a big smile and what looked suspiciously liked a Heinz tomato soup moustache. Nora shouted something.

  ‘What?’ I shouted back.

  ‘No hard feelings!’ she called.

  Round one to them.

  Red and Mary joined me, Mary’s face said it all, her mouth a wobble of uncertainty.

  ‘What do you think?’ I said to the two of them. ‘Have I just made a complete mess of it all?’

  ‘You did really well,’ Mary lied. ‘He was unnecessarily personal, I thought.’

  I glanced at Red who pushed his hands through his hair, his face inscrutable.

  ‘They might not show it,’ went on Mary. ‘There’ll probably be a bigger story that will go instead. Like a fire. Or a robbery. We’ve just got to pray for bigger news.’

  ‘Red?’ I was desperate to know what he thought. He must think I’m a total fool. A proper idiot.

  ‘I think you are doing brilliantly,’ he said, ‘under very difficult circumstances.’

  ‘But Red, I made children cry. And now I’ve quoted Whitney Houston on national television.’

  He laughed then. ‘That was my favourite bit, it has to be said.’

  I looked at Mary who was desperately trying to stop her mouth from smiling.

  ‘I don’t know why you didn’t go the whole hog and quote Johnny Logan...’ He began speaking in an actor’s voice, ‘don’t, don’t close your heart to how you feel. Dream, and don’t be afraid the dream’s not real… close your eyes, pretend it’s just the two of us again… make believe this moment’s here to stay…’

  Mary was laughing outwardly now.

  ‘It’s too soon for humour,’ I tried to say. ‘I’m not ready.’

  But they two of them began singing loudly, together… ‘Hold me now… don’t cry. Don’t say a word, just hold me now and I will know though we’re apart, we’ll always be together, forever in love…’

  Red had his arm around Mary and they swayed side to side, laughing and singing lustily. But they weren’t quite finished, what do you say when words are not enough…’

  When the performance was finally over, I said. ‘I never had you down as a Johnny Logan fan, Mary. I thought you were better than that?’

  ‘Never!’ he said, grinning. ‘Eurovision 1987. What a year! When Ireland couldn’t lose the damn thing!’

  ‘Johnny Forever!’ said Mary. ‘Well that’s what I had scribbled on all my school books. I was going to get it tattooed. But then I realised it wasn’t Johnny I fancied but Linda Martin.’

  Red turned to Mary
. ‘We should do karaoke sometime. You can be Linda Martin. I’ll be Johnny.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that, Redmond!’ she said, as we watched him run off back into school. ‘Lifts the spirits he does.’

  *

  Mary’s hopes that we might get knocked off the news by a flood or an armed robbery didn’t come to pass. It was, unfortunately a slow news day. Clodagh texted just before 6pm:

  Watch the Six, you’ve made it. Fame at last. Just remember I am a puppet in the hands of evil producer Lucinda.

  It was such an occasion that Rosie left her bedroom to come and watch that night’s news. I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to see me being bamboozled by a child journalist.

  She was looking better. Maybe it had just been a lack of breakfast and a sleepless night that had caused her panic attack at Celia’s party. She was even chatty and had brought down her varnish to paint her nails while watching TV, I noted with approval. She used to do that kind of thing all the time. Whatever stress she had been under had passed, I was sure of it.

  On screen, Clodagh was, as always, dressed impeccably in a crisp white shirt and statement necklace, hair smoothed into a perfect bob, as she went through all the news, the national, the international, effortlessly interviewing trade unionists and politicians. Then we had sport, long and detailed accounts of big matches and small.

  ‘They’ve put you at the end,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re the And Finally.’

  ‘That’s a good thing,’ I decided. ‘They won’t give much time to it, then. If they do it at all.’ I was still hopeful.

  ‘The things is, Mum,’ she said. ‘You’re not going to win this.’

  ‘What do you mean I’m not going to win this? I don’t want to win. I don’t see it as a competition.’ But it was, and I wanted to win. As, I supposed my mother did too.

  ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘But from an outside perspective, you represent the corporate fat cats, the developers. Granny is standing up for trees.’

  ‘Really? That’s what people would think?’ Nobody liked fat cats, that was for sure. ‘I’m just trying to do the right thing for the pupils,’ I insisted. ‘Anyway, just because she’s for the trees doesn’t mean she’s right.’