After the Under 14 match in Caherlag, Michael drove Sean and his teammate Colm home. They had beaten their arch-rivals, Erin’s Own, and the boys were ebullient, all chat, replaying the big moments in the game.
Michael dropped Colm to his house first. When he pulled into their own drive and switched off the engine, Sean opened the door to leave.
‘Sean. Before we go in, I want to have a quick word with you,’ Michael said.
Sean sidled back into his seat, the car door open. He looked down, ready for the rebuke. He must have done something in the match that he shouldn’t have. But he couldn’t think what. Maybe that solo run, when he lost the ball.
‘Close the door there, like a good lad.’
Sean pulled the door closed. He stilled himself, ready.
‘You’ve known for a good while now, Sean, that you’re adopted.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Have you ever wondered who your birth parents are?’
‘No. I dunno. Maybe.’
‘Would you like to know, Sean?’
‘I don’t want to talk about this.’
‘I know, Sean. I’m not too keen on it either but something has happened and you need to know about it.’
Sean looked straight ahead at the dashboard. His hurley and his bag were in his hands. He wanted to run away. But he knew his father would just wait for him to come home and tell him then. There was no escape.
Michael rubbed his hand over his mouth.
‘Look, Sean. Your birth mother has approached us. She found out where you are, somehow, and she wants to talk to you. But it’s completely up to you. It’s your choice, completely. We feel you’re too young, that you should wait until you’re eighteen before meeting her, but we’ll leave it up to you. Do you understand? Is that okay?’
‘Yes,’ Sean said. Michael had to lean forward to hear him.
‘Yes, you want to meet her?’ Michael said.
‘No, no. I mean yes, I understand.’
‘Oh. And? Do you? Do you want to meet her, Sean?’
In the team hotel there is bedlam. It takes Sean forty minutes to get past all the well-wishers to his room. He welcomes the few moments of peace and quiet with Aoife. It still hasn’t sunk in.
He’d love a pint, but instead he lies on the bed while she takes a shower before changing. His phone is going ballistic, but after reading a few messages he’s had enough.
He falls asleep. When he wakes up, Aoife, in her underwear, is rushing around the room. She sees him looking at his watch.
‘It’s easy for ye, all ye have to do is put on a suit,’ she complains. She roots out a make-up bag from her suitcase and goes back into the bathroom.
He wonders if she would be up for a quickie, though his head really hurts and he’s afraid he might have concussion.
His phone charges away on the bedside table. Buzzing on silent. He doesn’t even look at it. He closes his eyes again.
Now would be a stupid time, don’t even think about it. But he can’t help himself, he does think about it. What will he say? ‘Hello, this is Sean Culloty and I want to meet you’? It sounds stupid. What will Tim say? ‘Yes’? ‘No’? ‘What do you want?’
He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his head back into the pillows. He puts his hands over his face. He hears a moan squeeze itself out from his closed mouth.
Sean took off his new coat. His mam had bought it in Leaders specially for that day. It was a stupid coat; he hated it. He realised that he was shaking, like he did when he had to read out loud in class. So he tried to think about something else. The time he scored a point to beat Glen Rovers in the Under 16 county semi-final in August.
The hotel was really hot when they entered. He had been afraid of puking in the car and now the nausea returned. There were people all around the lobby, a huge Christmas tree with red decorations in the corner. For a moment his mother looked lost. She stopped a passing staff member.
‘I’m looking for the Duhallow Room, can you tell me where it is?’ she said.
‘Down the hall and up the stairs on the right. It’s the first room on your right.’
Sean was definitely going to be sick. He tried to breathe through his mouth. Deep breaths, like he learned in training.
His mother stumbled in her new shoes, which she had given out about all the way from Glanmire. When they reached the room, she smiled at him and said: ‘Are you okay, Sean? Do you still want to do this?’
He nodded, though he wasn’t sure at all. He needed to know but maybe some other time. She took his hand and squeezed it. He let her hold it.
‘You know how much your father and I love you, don’t you, Sean?’ she said. ‘You’re ours; you know that. Right?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and he thought he might cry.
‘Okay, Mister Man,’ she said, smiling. ‘Let’s do this.’
She took a deep breath and knocked, first meekly and then harder, on the door. Fiona, the social worker, opened it. She was flustered.
‘Oh, it’s yourselves; you’re, em, a bit early.’ She glanced behind her and sidled out into the corridor, closing the door.
‘Hi, Sean. How are you? Everything okay?’
He nodded.
‘Yes.’
‘And do you still want to meet your natural mother?’ Fiona said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Good. How are you, Anne?’
‘I’m fine, Fiona, thanks. Before we go in I just want to clarify: you’re going to be there all the time, yes?’
‘Yes, absolutely. Because Sean is a minor I’ll be there the whole time, unless you or Sean indicate otherwise.’
‘And if we want to stop the meeting at any time, we can just leave?’
‘At any time. You just say the word. Or you, Sean. And it’s over. You’re completely in charge. Is that okay?’
Fiona smiled at him. She was so nice to him, the way she explained everything. He could tell her anything and she would know what to do, what to say.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Okay. Well, I’m just going to go inside for a minute and then I’ll come back out and bring you in. Okay?’
There were no chairs in the corridor so they stood back and waited. He realised that he couldn’t do it after all, that he had to get out, to get away. His hand was sweaty in his mother’s. He had made a huge mistake. It was all a huge mistake.
‘Mam,’ he said, looking left and right for a way to escape.
Fiona opened the door and held it back. ‘Come in,’ she said.
Sean and Anne moved forward. He felt dizzy.
A small, sickly looking woman sat at the other side of a large table. There were bags under her eyes. She seemed younger and at the same time older than his mother. She was pale and thin. Very thin. She stood up when she saw him. She made a lonely sounding cry and held her hands to her mouth. Sean froze; Anne had to almost push him forward. Fiona said something but he couldn’t hear her. He moved towards the woman, he didn’t know how. He held out his hand. The woman held out her hand. It was bony and cold when he gripped it.
‘Sean. Oh, Sean,’ the woman said, in a strange tone of voice. He had to pull his hand away.
‘Hello,’ he said. There was a buzzing sound in his head. He moved back and stood still.
‘You are so like your Uncle Johnny. Your father’s brother. It’s amazing. Oh my God,’ the woman said, her eyes blazing. She had her two arms outstretched in a weird pose.
‘My father,’ he said.
‘Your birth father, Sean,’ Anne said. She put her hand on his shoulder and he turned to her. She looked frightened. He had never seen her frightened before. ‘Michael is your father,’ she said, and she smiled at him. ‘Are you okay, Sean? Do you want to take a break?’
‘Sit down, Sean,’ Fiona said. ‘It’s okay. You’re doing fine. Do you want a drink of water?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said, sitting down.
‘Oh, Sean, it’s so good to see you. I have so much to tell you,’ th
e woman said. She sat down, slowly, on the edge of her seat, her eyes glued to him.
‘Sean, this is Evelyn, your natural mother,’ Fiona said, giving him a glass of water. Sean sipped it, and watched the woman.
‘Sean, you have to know that we loved you from the moment you were born. If there was any way we could have kept you, we would have. Any way at all, but my father was terrible. He …’ she said and swallowed. ‘We couldn’t keep you, and, and Tim’s father was sick and his mother wasn’t able. I was only …’ Evelyn stopped talking and shook her head. ‘Oh, I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but I’m so happy to see you.’ Tears sprang from her eyes and flowed down her face, but she did not wipe them or look away from him. Sean felt like she was drinking him in. He was transfixed. He’d never seen anything like it, even at Grandad Mick’s funeral. He noticed his mother was crying now too.
‘Mam?’ he said. ‘Mam, are you okay?’
Anne wiped her eyes with a tissue and nodded.
‘I’m fine, love. Are you okay? Do you want to keep going?’
He nodded.
‘Sean,’ Evelyn said. She leaned forward in her chair. ‘You have to understand that we were very, very young when I became pregnant. Do you have any friends with sisters just a bit older than them?’
‘Yes,’ he said, thinking of Colm’s older sister, Aoife, whom he really liked.
‘Well, imagine one of them becoming pregnant. With no family support. My father was very strict and domineering. He threatened to throw me out of the house. Tim was only eighteen and his father was sick and in hospital. Oh, Sean, love. We wanted to keep you, we really really did.’
Sean watched her, willing himself to ask her. But he couldn’t.
‘Tim Collins. Your father is Tim Collins, Sean,’ Evelyn said, quickly, as if reading his mind. ‘He was a famous hurler, you might have heard of him.’
‘Evelyn,’ Fiona said.
Sean looked at his mother and she nodded and reached out to hold his hand.
‘He would love to meet you, Sean. Oh, he would love to meet you so much. We don’t have any other children, you see. We,’ she held up her two hands, ‘you did have a sister, Roisín, but she died when she was a small baby, she was very sick, she only lived for a few minutes. And now … Now, we’re all alone.’
After the band finishes, the players begin a sing-song in the corner of the Banquet Room. Sean searches for Paul O’Neill. He has stopped drinking and immediately feels in control again. He had gotten a look from Dinny Young and he knew what it was about. He’ll have to be fresh in the morning for more interviews and the visit to the Crumlin Children’s Hospital.
The win is beginning to sink in and the lads are in mighty form. It actually happened.
He looks at the faces in the hotel lobby, scanning. He walks through the bar, but no sign. He’ll have to let it go, he thinks. He spots Paul sitting in a corner with a pint and a wide grin, chatting with Robbie O’Shea and Doctor Ned and a few others. Robbie is well on.
‘Oh, here’s the captain,’ Robbie says. ‘Looking for a rub-down, probably.’
Sean smiles and asks Paul for a quick word.
‘I just wanted to say thanks again, Paul. Especially about that hamstring, Jesus, all the work you did.’
‘No bother, Sean. You did the prehab, in fairness. I think that made all the difference.’
Sean nods. ‘Hey, you know who I was looking for? Tim Collins, you didn’t see him around, did you? I wanted a quick word.’
Sean’s heart races again, though he tries to look nonchalant.
Paul purses his lips and shakes his head, a bit confused.
‘Tim? No, no, I doubt if Tim is here. This wouldn’t be his kind of thing at all,’ he says, ‘but he was coming up for the game all right. I heard that from Tony Murphy.’
‘Was he?’ Sean says, and nods. ‘No bother. Thanks, Paul, I’ll give him a shout tomorrow.’
He smiles, pats Paul on the shoulder and walks away.
Sean pushed through the crowd near the door of The Venue Bar with his friend Colm and Colm’s father, Frank. Although only sixteen, he was already six feet tall and had a good view around him. Frank found a place at the counter and the boys asked him for Coke and crisps.
The sense of shock and anger in the pub was palpable. Cork fans, arriving in from the match in Páirc Uí Chaoimh, shook their heads and muttered to each other. Words like ‘disgrace’, ‘shocking’, ‘desperate’, ‘woeful’, ‘have to go’, were cast about with rigour in disgruntled tones.
A drunk man held forth at the corner of the counter.
‘Not a clue, they haven’t a fucking clue,’ he shouted. ‘Limerick? Fucking disgrace.’
He was tall and wore a black jacket and a white shirt that hung loose over his waist. He looked around and saw the two boys.
‘Cm’ere, lads,’ he said, slurring. ‘No, no, no, no. No. Cm’ere. Cm’ere! I won’t fuckin’ bite ye.’ He waved his hand in a beckoning motion. The boys tried to ignore him but they could not escape with the heaving mass behind them.
The man grabbed Sean’s arm and pulled him closer. The man’s breath smelled of beer and vomit and there was a dark crusty rim around his lips. His eyes were wet and rheumy. There was a coating of dandruff on his eyebrows. His face was flecked with stubble. Sean felt something shift inside him when he recognised the face.
The man leaned forward.
‘D’you play hurling?’ he asked Sean. ‘D’you?’ he asked Colm.
Sean nodded. ‘Yes.’ He leaned his head back, away from the smell, away from that man.
‘Well, give it up. Waste of fuckin’ time. Complete waste of fucking time. Give it up!’ he shouted.
He released Sean’s arm. The boys recoiled. The man took a gulp from his black pint.
‘Hey, take it easy, Collins,’ somebody at the bar said.
‘Fuck off. C’mere, what did hurling ever do for us?’ He laughed at his own joke.
Sean stared at him, mesmerised.
‘What club are ye from?’ the man said, swaying. He leaned forward and scrutinised Sean.
‘Midleton,’ Sean said, swallowing. He glanced at Colm. He could feel himself shaking. Something was churning in his stomach and his chest.
‘Midleton? Midleton? Waste of fucking space. What? Listen here to me. Hurling? Pure useless. Give it up. See that load of shite down there today?’ He pointed out towards the stadium. ‘Limerick? Fuckin’ joke. Not related to hurlers.’
Frank arrived with the drinks and pushed the boys forward. They found refuge out the back of the pub, in the beer garden.
‘Jesus, the state of Tim Collins,’ Frank said. ‘That’s terrible. And he was some player.’ He took a sip from his pint and shook his head.
Sean held the bottle of Coke before him, his head bowed. He held the unopened packet of crisps in his other hand. Colm leaned into him.
‘Why did you tell him we were from Midleton?’ Colm asked.
‘I just didn’t want him to know,’ Sean said.
Colm nodded. ‘Want to go for a puck around later?’
‘No. I think I’ll go in home,’ Sean said.
The baby in the hospital corridor looks at him, really looks at him, not a bother. The brightest blue eyes. Sean is shocked that the baby doesn’t cry or something at this strange man picking him up. He’s pudgy, pure white hair on his head, and a loose Cork jersey outside some bandages around his neck. A tube coming out of his nose is taped to his face and goes around under the back of his jersey.
‘What’s his name?’ Sean asks the smiling young woman with tired eyes. He got the blond hair from her, anyway.
‘Evan,’ she says. She looks so young, he thinks. Couldn’t be more than twenty-one.
‘And how old is he?’
‘He’ll be two in November,’ she says, grinning at the child.
‘Not a bother on him,’ Sean says. So she was eighteen or nineteen when she had him.
The other players stand around. Crilly puts a sl
iotar into the cup and holds it up in front of Evan and he sticks a chubby arm in to fetch it out. The cameras click and a photographer asks them all to line up and the baby gets a fright and begins to cry. His father soothes him and takes him and they all hunker down for photos.
Imagine giving away your baby to someone else, Sean thinks. To a complete stranger. All those sick babies and children, some of them probably won’t even survive. But nobody gave any of them away. They wouldn’t dream of it.
Sean tried to avoid the Avondhu coach after the game in Páirc Uí Rinn. He had been dreading the moment, win, lose or draw. They lost, and it was over before he knew it. Now he just wanted to get away from that man and that pitch.
But, heading through the gate, a hand was thrust out at him and the tall figure in the tracksuit said, ‘Hard luck, Sean. You played well.’
He held the hand for a moment, barely glancing up. When he did, he saw a smiling grey-haired man, with kind eyes and a thin, worried-looking face. Sean moved on, towards the dressing room. He had to get away.
On the drive home, his father said: ‘I noticed Tim Collins shaking hands with you.’
Sean nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘What did he say?’ Michael said.
‘He said, “Hard luck, you played well.”’
‘Well, you did, Sean. Especially for your first Senior championship game.’
Sean nodded and looked out the window. They entered the tunnel.
‘They say he doesn’t drink any more,’ Michael said.
Sean watched the concrete flashing by.
‘He had that team in good shape, anyway,’ Michael said.
‘The two goals killed us,’ Sean said.
‘They did,’ Michael said. He paused. ‘Would you like to meet him, Sean? Properly, I mean? Now that he doesn’t drink any more? Or Evelyn? You never met her again after that first time.’
‘No,’ Sean said. The car came out of the tunnel, into low evening sunlight. ‘I don’t know.’
It is eight days since the final and Sean has shaken hands with all the neighbours, signed all the jerseys and posed for the selfies and photos like he promised his mother. He has passed around the cup – they all had a go. It stands on the living room table now, appearing small and almost inconsequential. The Celtic engraving and old Irish writing are barely visible.
The First Sunday in September Page 17