All this waiting, not knowing what’s going on, is awful, and every time we hear a car turn into the road, Greg and I peep out the window to see if it’s Dad. Grace doesn’t know anything about it as Dad said there was no point in getting her hopes up and confusing her even more.
It’s dead late by the time Dad arrives home, and Conor and Grace are sound asleep. Greg and I are bursting with curiosity.
‘What happened?’ we demand in unison.
‘Give me a chance to get my breath back,’ begs Dad, throwing off his clothes and putting on his dressing-gown and slippers, ‘and Greg, make me a cup of coffee, will you please?’
He sips the coffee slowly, and I can see that he’s trying to work out what to tell us.
‘Did you see Mum, Dad?’ asks Greg.
‘Of course I did. We spent the whole day together, we walked and talked, we had lunch, we walked and talked more. To be honest, I think I’m all talked out.’
‘What did Mum say?’ I plead.
‘Firstly, your Mum misses you all terribly, she carries that photo of the four of you everywhere with her. She hated leaving, but she says that she needed to be apart from me so she could think straight. Vanessa feels our lives need to change, that we must think about what kind of family we want to be. The way things had become was eating away at her. She felt that I had opted out of family life, and that she was already like a single parent raising you all on her own … she said if things are going to stay that way, then she would prefer to make it official, and go through the courts and get custody of all of you.’ Dad delivers all this as calmly as can be.
Greg and I say nothing. Actually, I’m really shocked and sad. I can’t think of anything to say.
‘Maybe she’s right. Obviously, I have to make decisions about trying to balance my job and my family. Sometimes it all just seems impossible. Your Mum says that she would like to study or do some kind of course, and then try to get some work. Then she could bring in some money, and there wouldn’t be as much pressure on me.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ says Greg.
Dad gives a huge yawn. ‘Yeah. Actually she started a basic computer course in London. Aunt Mary organised it for her. Look, I’m tired,’ he says. We all have a lot to think about, but it’s about time we got some sleep tonight.’
Custody! It’s a frightening word. Dad said Mum would get custody of us. Why is it that when parents fight the kids have got to choose which one they are up for, which one they love the most? I remember years ago in school we did a Bible story about two women who each claimed to be the mother of a new baby. They were brought before the king and he said he would be totally fair and share the baby equally. He raised his sword and was going to cut the poor baby in half. Then one of the women shouted and said: ‘Let the other woman have the child. I do not want my baby harmed!’ Then the wise king knew she was the real mother and handed her back the child. At the moment I feel a bit like that Bible baby, with a big sword hanging over me. I love my Mum and I love my Dad, too. I couldn’t choose between them. I feel split apart, sliced down the middle.
The Sixth Week
Second Chance
CONOR – Tuesday
Dad has to sit and queue just like all the other parents at the parent-teacher meeting. Mostly, it’s all mothers.
Philip’s Dad is here because his Mum is in hospital after having his new baby sister. Miss Boland calls the parents, one by one, into a small room to talk to them privately.
Our classroom has our projects and art-and-craft work all laid out. I made a brown dinosaur in a swamp out of clay, but a bit of his back leg has broken and fallen off, so some people are not sure what he is. We have to stay in the classroom to show off our stuff while Miss Boland talks to each parent.
John’s Mum takes ages, but comes out smiling. Dad hates waiting and is trying to look relaxed and read the newspaper until his turn comes.
Here goes! I time how long he’s in. Twelve minutes! How many good or bad things can a teacher tell a parent in that space of time? Dad shakes Miss Boland’s hand when he comes out the door. He is standing very tall and straight and I can tell he’s not too happy.
* * *
‘Not achieving your full potential, Conor! That’s what the woman said!’
I glance out the car window.
‘Not concentrating! In a dream world! Homework not done! Fighting with his schoolmates! Conor! Look at me when I’m talking to you.’
Dad’s face is strained and worried, not cross or angry like I expected.
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘It’s not your fault, Conor. Things at home can’t have helped matters. You should have told me how far behind you were in your books.’
‘I tried to, Dad!’
‘I know – I probably should have helped you more.’
‘Mum used to help me … she understood! You … you don’t understand anything. The other kids laugh at me and call me names because I can’t do my reading. You’ve done enough – it’s because of you Mum walked out!’
Dad slows the car, pulls off the road and parks outside somebody’s driveway.
‘Conor, we need to get something straight. Your mother left because she was depressed, confused, angry and needed time to think. She left. I stayed. I’m here, doing the best I can. I know it hurts like hell, but for God’s sake don’t let it destroy you.’ Dad grips my arm so tight it forces me to meet his eyes. ‘You may have trouble with reading, Conor, but you’re intelligent and bright.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I say so! And so does your teacher!’
‘Huh!’
‘She feels – we both feel – that you need some remedial teaching at this stage, one-to-one.’
Dad is waiting for me to throw a tantrum, to shout and object. Mum and I talked about this, so I guess I was almost expecting it. I say nothing. Dad slumps on the car wheel with relief.
‘You’ll go?’
I nod. I know I need to go. Anyway, Mr Donovan, the special teacher, is meant to be okay.
‘Miss Boland also told me that you’re a fine athlete, brilliant at running, and that your mind is equally sharp and quick. She seems to know you well.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Conor! I can’t blame you for being angry with me. I hardly know you, I know that now. But I have been trying. You are my son, and I love you.’
What do I say? Tell him: Buzz off! Drop dead! Get lost! Leave me alone! I want to shout those things at him and open the car door and run, but something makes me hold back.
He leans forward as if blocking my escape plan.
I barely nod.
‘You’ll give your poor old Dad a second chance, then?’
Two nods.
‘Is this a new code?’ He begins to laugh. Starting the engine, he honks the horn three times. ‘That’s Yes in my code, Conor,’ he jokes, taking off.
The Dolphin Trail
LUCY – Wednesday
Dad has to go to Kerry for a few days. His boss says he has to visit his sales area or they’ll transfer it to one of the other reps. We have to go with him as Gran is going to Donegal on her painting holiday and there’s no one to mind us.
‘Kerry! For heaven’s sake! That’s miles away,’ groans Greg. ‘I’ve to be here for my job.’
‘Surely you can start next week, Greg?’
‘I’m not going!’ Trust Conor. ‘My club are all going to the cinema. I don’t want to miss it,’ he whines.
‘Conor, whatever is on in the cinema will probably still be on when we get back,’ Dad tries to tell him.
‘But I want to go with the rest of them. Next week is no good.’
‘Conor, will I ever be able to do or say anything that will please you?’ Dad demands angrily.
Perhaps it would be nice to get away. Fresh air, open spaces, away from this lonesome house and this road. Yeah, I want to go.
‘You’ve never come with me on any of my trips,’ says Dad. ‘It will be a nice
change.’
‘Are we going on our holidays?’ Grace asks.
‘A little holiday, pet,’ Dad says. ‘It’s not only because your grandmother is going away – I happen to think a few days’ break will do us all good.’
‘Where will we stay?’ I ask.
‘We’ll stay where I always stay, with Mrs Cooney.’
I can tell Dad is getting excited about the idea. He really wants to take us away with him. He actually likes being with us now.
* * *
Aunt Mary phones from London. She keeps on asking me about Dad, and do we miss Mum, and does he miss her. I tell her that he’s lonely.
‘Lucy, don’t you fret or worry,’ she says, ‘marriages often have a way of being patched up.’ Her voice seems distant and far away. She’s phoning from her office. She’s an architect. Mum always used to say that she was brave and independent enough to make a decent career for herself.
Dad talks to her for ages and ages. ‘Your aunt is concerned. She’s a good, kind woman,’ Dad tells me.
* * *
Grace and I have to share a holdall bag. Dad wants us to take as little as possible. Grace has already managed to stuff it half-full with toys and junk. I’ll bring my jeans and togs and a sweater and a few books to read. I hope Kerry is nice. I check to see that Grace has actually got some clothes in.
* * *
‘Dad! The phone!’
It’s Aunt Mary again! My aunt is almost shouting down the line at him. I hang around, hoping he’ll tell me about it. Whatever it is, it must be really important!
Dad puts down the phone. He looks like a person who might have won the lottery, but doubts that he filled in the numbers properly.
He turns his back in order to avoid my stare. He doesn’t want me to see his face. I know he’s hiding something.
At six o’clock we are all sitting down having shepherd’s pie – the potato is a bit soggy and the meat is a bit dry. Grace only wants the top potato bit, and Conor only wants the meat bit. I am trying to separate it for them.
‘I have news!’ Dad is playing with his food, making a zig-zag with his fork. ‘Your Mum … is … is coming back.’
Well! Talk about a stunned silence! It feels like we’re in some kind of weird time-warp in our kitchen.
‘Oh Dad! That’s great!’ Greg is clapping Dad on the back as if he has done something marvellous. ‘When is she coming home?’ he asks.
Dad just shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure yet. Maybe soon.’
‘My Mummy is coming home, my Mummy is coming home!’ Grace hops up from the table and does some kind of strange, happy dance around the kitchen.
Dad is looking at me for my reaction. Deep inside I feel that the clenched hand that has had a grip on my heart for the last few weeks has loosened its fingers and a rush of relief is flooding my body. Yet, there is some kind of wariness there.
‘Oh, Dad, that’s the best news I ever heard. It’s just too good to be true.’ Like a big baby, I feel like crying. Mum will be back, sitting at the table, talking to us, sorting out Grace and Conor. I just can’t wait.
‘Is she coming home for good?’ asks Conor.
His words startle us.
‘Don’t be so stupid!’ snaps Greg. ‘Of course she is!’ and he gives Conor a dig in the ribs.
‘Stop that, Greg!’ warns Dad. ‘To be honest, we’ll just have to take things slowly. Your Aunt Mary phoned to tell me that your mother has definitely booked a flight to Dublin. I’m sorry, but that’s all that I know for the moment.’
‘So!’ says Conor.
‘So?’ we all ask him.
‘So … we don’t know if Mum is coming home, or if she’s just going to come and visit us,’ he says.
‘Daddy! Daddy! Can we get Mummy a cake?’ Grace pleads, climbing up onto Dad’s lap.
‘Grace, it’s not her birthday!’ he says softly.
‘A pink icey cake – please!’
‘Maybe we should have a party, a welcome home party. Make welcome home signs,’ suggests Greg, all excited too.
‘Listen, hold your horses, Greg!’ Dad warns. ‘Nothing is certain yet. Vanessa and I have a lot to talk about. You must try and allow us the time.’ Sometimes I pity Dad, I think he is almost as unsure as we are.
‘No cake! No party! No flags and banners!’ Conor puts in. A little blue vein on his right eyebrow throbs – it always does when he’s upset. ‘She might not stay.’
Grace is glaring at Conor. Her lip is getting wobbly, and I can tell that she’s torn between crying and kicking him.
‘And …’ he continues, ‘and, if she does come back … Well … maybe she’ll leave again.’
Conor waits for Dad to say something. Dad is trying to figure out what to say.
‘No cake!’ pouts Grace.
‘No cake! No promises! No guarantees!’ says Dad. ‘I’m not a magician. I can’t wave a magic wand and turn time back, and pretend none of this has happened. I wish I could, but I just can’ t. We’ll have to make new arrangements. It won’t be easy.’
‘What about the trip to Kerry?’ Greg asks hesitantly.
Suddenly we all remember that our bags are packed and ready to go.
‘I have meetings set up. I’d have to cancel them. To be honest, I don’t know if the company will put up with me cancelling any more sales trips.’ Dad is in two minds about what is the right thing to do. But he has no choice. He mustn’t lose his job.
‘But what about Mum?’ asks Greg, voicing all our thoughts.
Dad stares at the floor. ‘Your Mum … may or may not be back in the next few days. We don’t know when.’
‘Shouldn’t we phone her to tell her about Kerry?’ I ask.
In my mind I can picture Mum arriving and opening the hall door, turning the key and stepping inside, and all of us there laughing and happy and pretending it didn’t matter. A part of me wants to sit inside that hall door, waiting and waiting, but the other part of me wants her to open the door and step inside and find that I’m gone, that we’re all gone, just so she’ll know what it feels like. I want to punish Mum – but am I being fair, I wonder?
‘We should go to Kerry!’ Conor is adamant. ‘Do we want to spend the next few days watching the path outside, waiting for the key in the door, waiting for the phone to ring?’
‘Can we get a cake for us when we are on holidays?’ begs Grace, making us all giggle.
‘All right. Maybe we should go.’ Dad shrugs, uncertain. ‘I don’t want to phone her, make her feel pushed. Better if she comes in her own good time.’
‘Why don’t we leave her a letter?’
Trust Conor. She did that when she left – that’s what we’re all thinking.
Dad begins to laugh. He laughs and laughs. He laughs so hard he nearly cries.
The Painting
GRACE – Wednesday
This new painting is too wet and a bit messy. I forgot to clean my brush since the last time and bits of purple have blobbed in my painting.
Lucy is cross and says that I’m not let bring any more toys in my backpack. She says that I have far too much stuff and takes some things out, but I sneak them back in when she’s not looking.
We’re all going on a holiday with Daddy. I wish Mummy was coming too. It’s a big journey and I hope I don’t get car sick like the time we went to Galway.
This time I’m going to Kerry.
I’m going to see the dolphin.
This painting is for Mummy.
Dear Mum
CONOR – Wednesday
Dear Mum,
If you read this letter it means that you are back home.
We all miss you, especially me.
I thought I would die when you went to London. I was so sad and lonely, I tried to run away too.
Dad and Gran and Miss Boland and Greg and Lucy all tried to help me but they weren’t you. I had to learn to be strong for myself. We have all changed.
Dad is home a lot more now. He is taking us to Dingle f
or a few days to stay in a farmhouse.
I hope you and Dad are going to stay together. I want us all to be together.
I love you.
Conor.
The Map
GREG – Thursday
Kerry is almost two hundred miles from Dublin, about as far as you can go because of the Atlantic Ocean. My geography book has lots of information and a map, and in the photos the place looks kind of interesting.
When we slam our front door and get in the car, I hope we’re not slamming the door on our family’s future.
Once we quit the city, Dad relaxes as we move out onto the open road and the motorway. Dad is used to driving on these roads on his own and automatically switches on the radio for company, forgetting that the four of us are there.
Conor stares out the window. Blink, blink, blink – he’s at that nervous twitching again.
Lucy is telling Grace the story of Fungi, the friendly Kerry dolphin, who lives offshore beyond Dingle. Grace is snuggled up beside her and is yawning already. Any kind of journey and that kid drops off to sleep. Forget the scenery and sights along the way, she just conks out.
The road widens and cuts through the green countryside. Fields and more fields speed by. This year, Dad says, the crops will be good and the farmers will be happy. Dad gives me a big long talk about the state of Irish agriculture and he has a load of statistics at his fingertips. I’m quite impressed.
It begins to drizzle. People say it never stops raining in Kerry. Luckily we have our boots and rain-jackets and Dad’s big golf umbrella.
The car is misting up, the wipers swish back and forth – blink, blink, blink, just like Conor!
Cooneys’ Farm
LUCY – Thursday
Mrs Cooney’s farm guesthouse is just great. It’s about a mile outside Dingle and from the upstairs window you have a clear view of the ocean.
No Goodbye Page 9