His Father's Son: To save the son he loves, a desparate father must confront the ghosts of his past

by Tony Black

  Mam smiled and said, “Ignorant bogtrotter,” but nobody heard her when she said it like a whisper.

  The train was long and empty and Marti and Mam had to queue behind a man in a vest with a whistle and wait for him to blow the whistle and let them go on. When the queue moved everybody made the chatter noise and went to have their tickets ready. A man was singing really loudly, and when Marti turned round to look at him he saw the man was leaning on a wall and had a big messy beard and messy grey hair. He was singing really loudly, but Marti couldn’t understand the words and wondered why anyone would be singing really loudly waiting to go on the train.

  “Why’s he singing, Mam?” said Marti.

  “That’s Arthur Guinness singing, son,” said Mam. The man behind them in the queue laughed and said, “Tis. Tis.”

  “Do you know him, Mam?”

  “Jaysus,” said the man in the queue, “that’s a card ye have there, missus.”

  Mam smiled and shook her head and said, “No.”

  When the train left the station, the outside looked very different to when Marti was on the train in Australia. The ground was green instead of red and the sky was grey instead of blue and it made him think of Dad back at home with the red ground and the blue sky. He missed Dad and Australia and driving about in the ute and even going to school with Jono. Ireland seemed a very strange place compared to Australia, which was always warm and bright and felt like home. Marti felt the sadness growing inside him when he thought about the home he had left and he wondered what was going to happen to him and Mam in Ireland with no Dad there to look out for them.

  “Mam,” said Marti.

  “Yes, son.”

  “Do you think Dad will be sad all by himself in Australia?”

  Mam said nothing, only looked out the window, and Marti saw she had the cross face. Marti didn’t want to be asked if it was the hot arse he was after again so he stayed quiet, but he didn’t stop thinking about Dad. He was very sad when he thought about Dad and he wished he could see him again. He wished Dad was with him, but wouldn’t that only make Dad more sad because he didn’t like Ireland, he liked Australia, which was God’s country. Marti decided he wouldn’t like Ireland either because he wanted to like what Dad liked and because he thought that would make Dad happy. More than anything in the world Marti wanted to make Dad and Mam happy, but he couldn’t see how anybody could be happy so far away from the place they called home.

  When the train stopped Mam said this was the country now and they could be thankful they were well away from the city that was called the Smoke, for the fresh air was everywhere in the country just waiting for you to take a big gulp for yourself. Marti took a big gulp of the fresh air that was everywhere and then Mam said, “Would ye ever stop acting the maggot.”

  The town they were headed for was called Kilmora, said Mam, but it wasn’t a proper town. It was just a village, really. Marti didn’t know what she meant until she said it was like a town, only smaller, and in the country. He wondered if it was far away and Mam said no, because the distances between places were less in Ireland than in Australia, and weren’t Australians great for suffering the old tyranny of distance malarkey and there would be none of that here.

  Mam said Aunt Catrin and Uncle Ardal mightn’t be home, but if they were then surely there would be a bed for the night and maybe even longer.

  Aunt Catrin and Uncle Ardal’s house was very small and grey and made of stones all piled up on top of each other right to the roof. There was a little wooden shed that made a coo-coo noise and when Marti asked what was that, Mam said it was Uncle Ardal’s pigeons. There were rabbit traps hanging on the shed that Mam said were to keep the cats away from the pigeons, and Marti felt sorry for any cat that might get caught in one of the traps.

  When Mam knocked on the door there was the sound of footsteps and then the door was opened and a woman in a long grey coat with a scarf on her head appeared and said, “Saints preserve us, tis yourself.”

  Aunt Catrin was older than Mam and had the big staring eyes when she looked at them with the surprise. When she sat down she didn’t sit back on the chair, which had a little white patch for your head to rest on. Aunt Catrin had a very straight back when she sat down and when she took off her scarf she touched her mouth with it. “I don’t know what to say. Would you ever look at yourself, sitting there in my own home,” she said. “And this’ll be the boy, is it?”

  “Tis, Catrin. This is Marti. Say hello to your Aunt Catrin.”

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Would you listen to him, sure he’s an Aussie.” Aunt Catrin sounded as though she didn’t like him, thought Marti, and he wondered if she hated only him or all children and was that why she hadn’t any herself. “And the father, where’s he?” said Aunt Catrin.

  “Will I wet some tea, Catrin?” said Mam.

  “Tea, yes, tea. It will help me gather my thoughts, sure won’t the whole town be in shock at the sight of ye.”

  When she had her tea Aunt Catrin said it was hardly cause for a sing-song but there was a caravan sitting empty outside. It was just a bit of tin and paint, she said, but then beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially the type that turn up on yeer doorstep unannounced after a lengthy absence.

  When it was bedtime Aunt Catrin said if yees were cold then there were some good thick coats just hanging there doing no good to no one. There was a heater that ran off the gas but wouldn’t you pay through the nose for it because wasn’t the price of gas a crime. Mam said the coats would be fine and it was good enough of Aunt Catrin to give up the caravan.

  “Quite,” said Aunt Catrin. “I’ll get them coats … and will yees take a hot bottle?”

  “That would be grand,” said Mam.

  Marti had never had a hot bottle before and he wondered what to do with it when Aunt Catrin gave him the old lemonade bottle in a brown sock. There was boiling water in the bottle and the sock was tied at the bottom. At the top of the bottle the cap poked out through a hole. Mam got a bottle too but her sock was grey and there was no hole. The bottle was lovely and warm, thought Marti, but he didn’t like the sock and wondered whose it had been.

  “Marti, what are you doing?” said Mam.

  “I’m smelling the sock.”

  “Marti, will you stop making a show of me. Now say thank you to Aunt Catrin.”

  “Thank you for the sock, Aunt Catrin,” said Marti. “It doesn’t smell.”

  Aunt Catrin shook her head and said she knew the sock didn’t smell, for sure hadn’t she washed it herself, and then she said, “Don’t be messing with the bottle because there’s hot water in there and it could do you an injury to get it on your skin.” She walked away very fast, and Marti thought Mam would say it was a hot arse he had earned, but there was only a sigh from her.

  In the caravan Mam said it was only proper knackers that lived the like, there was no respect in it at all, she said, and then the bubbling with the tears was started and Marti was called for a hug.

  When they settled down to sleep there was no noise beyond the caravan and Marti wondered why there was no noise when in Australia there was always the mozzies and the crickets and sometimes even the maggies to be heard, moving about on the roof, looking for spiders. Marti found it easy to fall asleep when there was no noise but he wasn’t sleeping a very long time when Mam woke him.

  “Did you hear that?” she said. Marti had heard nothing, but Mam said there was definitely a noise. “There, did you hear it?” she said. There was a little noise like footsteps and Marti thought he heard a laugh or maybe a whisper and Mam said, “Oh God, it’ll be the knackers. They come for the washing off the lines.”

  Marti knew the knackers were the tinkers or gypsies or sometimes the itinerants. Mam said you were never to go near the knackers because they carry all manner of diseases, and fleas especially. He wondered, if the knackers were nearby, would he get diseases and fleas and should he maybe hide under the coats. Mam said she could hear them coming and Marti wa
s very frightened and could hear his heart beating when he hid under the coats. He wanted to run out of the caravan and into the house, but Mam said to be quiet and don’t move a muscle. He was too scared to even breathe and he heard the footsteps that might be the knackers right outside. Somebody was leaning on the caravan and making it move, and Marti wondered if they were maybe going to take the caravan away with them inside it. His heart started to beat even faster and then the door swung open and Mam sat up in the bed and screamed out, all in a loud panic, “What do ye want?”

  A strange woman came in the caravan and she started the screaming too when she saw Mam in the bed. When the screaming noise was made, a light went on in the house and Marti saw the strange woman was wearing a long coat with no clothes on underneath, only big white panties. He thought she must be very cold standing there with the coat all flapping open and her hands up on her head with the shock and then a man came in behind her.

  “Janey Mackers, it’s yourself, Shauna,” he said.

  “Jaysus, Ardal,” said Mam, and then the strange woman stopped the screaming and became mad angry.

  “Who the feck is this?” she said.

  “Ahh, now,” said the man, who Marti thought must be Uncle Ardal.

  “Ah, now …” said the strange woman, and then she started to hit Uncle Ardal on the head. Uncle Ardal tried to grab her and stop the hitting but his great big black pants with buttons on all the way up over his big round belly fell right down onto his boots. The woman was very mad, thought Marti, and she was wailing and hitting out at Uncle Ardal and trying to scratch him with her nails, and when she scratched him on the face, he called her a mighty hoor’s melt and gave her a slap. She fell on the floor with the slap and Uncle Ardal bent over and pulled up his pants.

  Aunt Catrin was behind him when he bent over and when he fastened his buttons Aunt Catrin spoke at him in a very slow voice. “When your slut’s put her diddies away the pair of ye can go.”

  Uncle Ardal said nothing, and when he walked away the strange woman tried to stand up but fell over, then she tried again and got up and followed after him.

  Aunt Catrin had a look Marti had never seen on anyone before. Her lips were held together like a tight little knot, then she closed the caravan door and Marti heard her go back inside the house.

  “Mam, will anyone else come in tonight?” said Marti.

  “No, Marti, there’ll be no one else.”

  “But how do you know, Mam?”

  “Marti, I know. Did you see your Aunt Catrin? She could stop a clock with that look. There’ll be no one coming within a mile of this caravan for a long time. Now get to sleep.”

  Marti wondered how Aunt Catrin could stop a clock with a look and then he thought it was just one of the things grown-ups said that wasn’t really true.

  “Mam, I’m cold. My bottle’s gone cold,” he said.

  “I said get to sleep.”

  “But, I’m cold …”

  Mam sat up in bed, her voice was raised. “Marti Driscol, cold is the very least of our worries. I’d say your Aunt Catrin will scrap this caravan tomorrow and we will both be a damn sight colder then, I can assure ye of that. Now get to sleep, whilst we’re lucky enough to have any manner of roof over our heads.”

  9

  Joey knew all the blokes at the transport section had been too good to him, but wasn’t this going farther than far enough. Macca had told Joey that he was no use to anyone the state he was in. People were too used to seeing him grinning like a pork chop, the stories flowing out of him, but he was a changed man. He knew it himself, sure hadn’t he a face on him as long as today and tomorra since Marti was taken. But what these men were after doing was a heart gladdener.

  Macca and the men from the transport section had the house tightly roped. When the winch was in place Macca gave the say-so and it was raised from its stumps. Joey heard the loud crack of it lifting up and felt the noise like a jab at him. He watched it raised higher, then he watched it lowered on the trailer and every sag and every creak was a blow to him.

  Marti had loved the house. Joey had loved it too. It had been their home, but now that was all over. Marti was gone and the house was going too. When Macca nodded, the men started to throw more ropes over. They slid off the roof and were quickly snatched and tightened under the trailer, front and back. Joey thought his home looked like some manner of giant beast, snared and about to be slaughtered. He could hardly watch.

  “Wait. Wait there,” he said.

  He ran to the trailer and the men stopped to watch him climb onto the white rails and into the house through a window. Inside all was roped and tied, everything from the beds and chairs to the television and the fridge closed tight, the morning’s milk still in it. It was Macca’s idea to auction it all together in one lot. Joey walked into Marti’s room and took down the Superman picture. It had hung there since the day they picked out the house. There was no way he could leave it.

  On the way out he had an urge to take one last look at the room he had shared with Shauna, to say goodbye to that life forever. It was as it always had been, the bed unmade, the curtains closed to keep out the light. He had crept in a million times to see if Shauna would raise herself, come out of her cocoon, but she never had. The scene set him back. Wasn’t it as it always had been, beyond change, like a trap that had caught the pair of them. He lashed out, kicked the bed, again and again, then there was a dull thud and when he looked down he saw a little book had landed open on the floor.

  Joey picked it up. It was a little leather-bound diary, thick pages broken down into days and months. Shauna’s writing filled the pages, little blocks of words squeezed into tight paragraphs, a day apart. What was all this? She had never kept a diary, Joey knew it was the last thing she would do – sure she wasn’t able for it, for a start. He turned to the first page. “Hell no. I cannot read her diary,” he said, and closed it quickly. It would be snooping. He put it back on the bed then headed out the door. He got as far as the hall when he realised his wife’s diary might hold some clues for him, might be some use in finding Marti. He ran back, snatched the book off the bed, and tucked it inside his shirt.

  When Joey climbed back out the window and onto the white rails, the men from the transport section were still watching him; he knew they were wondering what it was he was after rescuing from the house.

  “Bluey, mate, what’s the go?” said Macca.

  “I had to get this, the boy loves it.” He held up the Superman picture. “The rest can go. Not this, though. Marti will have it back one day.”

  “Are you done now, mate?” said Macca.

  Joey nodded and his friend waved the driver on.

  “There she goes,” said Joey. “No going back now.”

  “Not now, mate.”

  “Tell me, Macca, once it’s sold, what do I bring Marti back to?”

  “To you, mate. You bring him back to you.”

  “It’s not going to be easy.”

  “You’ll be right, wait and see.”

  Joey watched the house move slowly down the road. It was his life being uprooted and taken from him. None of it made any sense, ’specially not what he would have to do now, what he would have to go back to. It would be a grand homecoming, would it not, he thought. Could he really face it? Could he feel those eyes on him again? He remembered when he was Marti’s age and his own father was the talk of the village and the entire country. Emmet Driscol had played in the All-Ireland Hurling Final, on the winning side. He was a hero.

  Nobody had even heard of Kilmora before Emmet Driscol raised a hurley. If anyone knew about the worth of a man, it was Joey’s father. The day the mighty Emmet Driscol had returned to the village with the medal there was traffic stopped in the street. Joey stood watching the car with his father inside being surrounded by people. They swarmed to him, clapping and shouting, banging on the roof of the car and screaming for a look at the medal, a word from the man himself.

  How could he compete with that? How
could he have ever? His own father had been a mighty hard act to follow, impossible in Kilmora, sure. Joey remembered his own efforts on the hurling field as a boy. He was a worthless coward, his father had said so. He had cost his team the game. Joey didn’t care about the game. He hated hurling, he hated being watched by his father and he hated hearing people laughing and saying there goes the next Emmet Driscol. They would laugh long and hard after this day, he remembered. His father had said he would never forgive him for the shame of his actions.

  It had all happened like a dream, the ball floating down from the heavens, landing at Joey’s feet. There was no one between him and the goalie. It was a clear run. He had only to cross the field, then hit the ball. There were cheers and roars when he took off with it, the rest of the players behind him could only watch. He ran for goal and when he ran he looked up and saw all that stood between him and mythic success was the scrawny frame of the goalie, Callum Madigan … and then he froze.

  Something had stopped him. He raised the hurley above his shoulder but hesitation held it there. He could hear his father shouting for the whack of the stick to follow, but he couldn’t move. He looked at the ball, black and muddied below, but no matter how hard he stared Joey couldn’t summon the force to move it, and then the moment passed. The scrawny Callum Madigan appeared before him, running, a raised hurley already making its way to the ball, which he cleared back into the field of play.

  Joey was never to play hurling again. He was too much of a worthless coward, too yellow to face a runt of a boy like little Callum Madigan, a streak of a lad without the strength even to hold up his own socks.

  “My, he got the better of ye,” said his father. “It’s ashamed to show your face in Kilmora ye should be after this.”

  Joey still recalled the scorn in his father’s voice then, and when he left for a new life in Australia it was still there in the last words he uttered before his son went to the other side of the world. Emmet scoffed and reminded him of the day he had faced the scrawny Callum Madigan on the hurling field. “He is in London now, a big job in the government so he has, the English working for him. And here’s ye, running away to nothing. Aren’t ye worthless yet.”