‘I knew it,’ Sean says, fire in his eyes.
I see what’s grabbed his attention. Up by the door to the Rainbow Hall, Mam is chatting with Peter Foran. No smiles exactly, but a kind of worrying lightness and ease about them.
‘That big heart-to-heart was a pure set-up,’ Sean says. ‘Mam put him up to it. Does she think I’m a psychopath or what?’
‘What’s she supposed to think?’ I snap back at him. ‘And you chasing this Healy kid around.’
‘I’m not chasing anyone,’ he says and we’re sucked into the Rainbow Hall.
Earlier in the afternoon, we were given a tour of the Centre. The art room where I avoided looking too closely at the drawings and paintings and the misshapen bits of pottery on display because I didn’t want to see any of Dad’s efforts. The exercise room with yoga mats on the floor and some of those big balls you do stretching exercises with. The computer room wasn’t much bigger than a closet and had all of two ancient-looking computers.
What they call the Rainbow Hall isn’t part of the prefab. It’s actually the old dance hall Mam used to go to when she was my age. She told me about it when we did the tour. The blinds on the long windows were drawn. A kaleidoscope of molten colours swirled around the bare white walls. In the background, some New-Age-type music shimmered. A soft, electronic pulse below the twitter of birds and the patter of rain. It’s supposed to be relaxation music, but I’m pretty sure it would drive me spare if I had to listen to an hour of it.
‘We used to have hops and discos here,’ Mam said, the colours playing across her face like sweet memories. ‘We had great craic.’
‘We?’ I asked. Dad’s tablet hadn’t kicked in yet and I was pure uptight.
‘My friends, the girls I went to school with.’
‘And Martin?’
‘Yeah, Martin too,’ she said distractedly. ‘It seems so much smaller than I remember it.’
The colours are still swirling in the Rainbow Hall as I carry Tom inside and Sean follows, grumbling to himself. At least the tinkly music isn’t playing. We find seats, but not beside Mam. She’s near the back, flanked by Peter and the small, middle-aged Asian woman from the charity shop. His wife, I’m guessing, because Alan has her brown eyes and her dark unblemished skin.
On the stage there’s a few amps and microphone stands and, over to the left, one of those digital pianos. Emblazoned on the wall behind is a multicoloured sign in a rainbow shape. WELCOME TO THE RAINBOW CABARET!!! I get this horribly cruel image in my mind of Dad and Alan and a few others colouring the sign in, the tips of their tongues sticking out as they work.
‘If you’re really quiet,’ I tell Tom, ‘I’ll buy you a huge bag of sweets on the way home, OK?’
He nods. I know he won’t make a sound. He’s got that serious expression on his face, an expression that’s become too familiar. Troubled and yet curious. We had such an easy time, Sean and me, such a good time all through our childhood. Nothing can ever change that, can it? The hall darkens. Then the stage lights come on.
I scan the crowd, but don’t see Dad and wonder if he’s helping backstage. Along the centre aisle between the double rank of chairs, Peter Foran makes his way towards the stage and takes the little flight of steps to its left in three long-legged strides. As he crosses to the microphone centre stage, he looks much younger than he does close up. He doesn’t seem in the least nervous as he begins.
‘You’re all very welcome to our second annual fundraising Rainbow Cabaret. For your entertainment we have some well-known local celebrities and a few surprises from among our own group here at the Head-Up Centre. And a raffle, of course.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Sean mumbles and I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Not Dad. Please, don’t come out on that stage, Dad. I swear I’ll totally lose it with Mam if this turns out to be a sick farce.
‘As many of you will know, we’ve been making steady progress in developing our services here at the Centre,’ Peter Foran continues. ‘And I’m happy to say that we’re close to agreement on funding from the health services for some of our rehabilitation activities. Of course, there’s much more we can do and need to do and our long-term ambition has always been to provide not only day-care facilities, but also to offer the opportunity of transitional and independent living in a fully equipped and supervised residence.’
I can’t focus on what he’s saying. All I can think of is Dad limping out on to that stage. Doing what? Then it hits me. Dancing? Dancing with the Ice Queen? I’m shaking so much that Tom cuddles closer as if to warm me.
‘Raising funds in this time of recession is more difficult than ever, of course, but we may soon be in a position to make a major announcement in this respect. The details have yet to be ironed out but, suffice it to say, that the New Year may see the most exciting development yet in our efforts to provide the services and facilities that all ABI sufferers deserve. So on that positive if slightly mysterious note, let me introduce our first act. Please put your hands together for Vanadium!’
‘Van wha’?’ Sean says.
‘Vanadium,’ I tell him. ‘It’s one of the heavy metals.’
‘Where’d you learn that?’ he says sourly. ‘From Brian?’
Vanadium is a gang of skinny kids with great hair. Early learners as far as musical abilities go. But they try hard and they’re having fun. Nothing much wrong with that. They do a White Stripes cover. ‘The Hardest Button to Button’. Great choice, lads. Sean moans all the way through and doesn’t clap when they finish. Next up is an Oasis cover. ‘Wonderwall’. Tom loves it. He jigs away to his heart’s content on my lap. Their last effort is a Black Sabbath special and they go at it like they’re possessed. It’s called ‘Paranoid’. These guys are not into subtlety. The crowd urges them on and Tom joins enthusiastically in the clapping and makes me clap too. Sean’s not impressed with either the band or with me.
‘Lighten up,’ I say, though I feel like a maniac trying to clap away the dread. Not Dad. Please, not Dad.
The applause for Vanadium dies down and Peter Foran returns to the microphone. He’s pure beaming from ear to ear and all this cheerfulness is getting to me. I know it’s fair lousy of me, but I wonder if he’s happy because his son will soon be dumped in that home over in Limerick.
‘And now for something quite different,’ he says. ‘Please welcome to the stage the one and only Alan Foran.’
I don’t join in the applause. Tom’s my excuse. I move him to a more comfortable position on my lap. Sean doesn’t clap either, but Tom does. Alan Foran limps along with his stick to the mike.
‘My name is Alan Foran. The first piece I’m going to play for you was recorded in nineteen fifty-eight by the American jazz pianist Bill Evans who died on the fifteenth of September nineteen eighty. It’s called Peace Piece.’
The kaleidoscopic colours are switched on again. Alan limps over to the piano and sits down. My head goes down and I’m thinking, Please don’t let this be too awful. He plays two slow single notes down low, two chords further up, the second one kind of off-key, but somehow right. It’s a simple pattern repeated and repeated until I’m wondering if this is all there is to it. Then the right hand comes in, high chiming notes, but not a melody. It’s beautiful.
I look up and see that Dad has taken a seat in the front row and I realize that he’s not going to appear on stage. There’s nothing he could do up there and anyway his was a different kind of talent, but a talent that, unlike Alan’s, is gone forever. And I’m like some little girl discovering that her father isn’t the biggest, strongest, most gifted man on the planet. And it grieves me and I need to tell someone how much it grieves me.
As he watches Alan, Dad’s expression is one of quiet pleasure and admiration. Alan follows the liquid colours flowing along the wall before him so intently that it’s almost as if he’s reading the music in them. The left-hand pattern never changes, but his right hand gets busier an
d busier and yet not loudly. The tune ends, but not until the last far vibrations have dissolved does the crowd break into applause.
Alan waits patiently for silence to descend again. He doesn’t go back to the microphone, but his voice carries anyway.
‘I’d like to dedicate this next piece to my very good friend, Jimmy Summerton,’ he says.
23
Christmas on the town square. Lights strung across the street and around the edges of the shop windows. Music pouring out of every second shop and from tinny speakers scattered around the square. Music that all seems to come from the same album. Aren’t You Sick of Christmas Songs? Volume 3. Shane MacGowan and Kirsty MacColl sound like they never want to sing ‘Fairytale of New York’ ever again once they’ve finished this tired effort. But there’s no escape for them any more than there is for me. If you stand here long enough, you realize the songs are repeated in a never-ending loop. I’ve been standing here long enough.
People rush about and you can almost see the credit cards burning rectangular holes in their pockets and handbags. And everywhere the message is the same. Happiness for sale. But you’d better hurry before the recession bites big time. I wish I’d asked Brian to meet me somewhere else, somewhere quiet. I hate standing here by the entrance to Supersnax. Hate being gawked at, being invited inside by brainless skangers for ‘a burger and whatever you’re having yourself’. I don’t even know why I said Supersnax because I never go in there. Serve me right if he doesn’t show up. He wasn’t exactly bursting with enthusiasm.
First chance I got when we left the Head-Up Centre, I texted Brian. CAN U MEET ME AT SUPERSNAX 6.30? Half an hour later he got back to me. SURE. Which seemed to me like a shrug. I felt like texting back. FORGET IT. After all the texts he’d sent me in the days following our frozen pilgrimage along the River Walk I felt sure he’d want to meet up. HOPE IT WORKED OUT OK WITH SEAN and TXT ME IF U GET CHANCE AND U OK? and PLEASE TXT ME. I hadn’t answered, but I kept the texts on my phone. Now, one by one, I delete them and it’s too weird, but the phone seems a little lighter after each one goes.
‘How’s it going, Eala?’
He catches me off-guard and the phone almost spills from my hand. It’s not quite the Brian I know. He’s had his head shaved. I’m not sure I like it much.
‘Awright?’ Sometimes Dad’s cockney greeting slips out like this when I’m distracted.
‘Got the skull trimmed for Christmas,’ he says and I realize I’ve been making my misgivings a bit obvious.
‘Different,’ I say.
‘You don’t like it.’
‘It’ll grow on me.’ I say, which is pretty original of me. He laughs and looks around the brightly lit town square. I can tell he’s into the whole Christmas thing.
‘I was going to take a look at the crib down in the cathedral,’ he says. ‘What d’you think?’
‘You’re messing, right? You’re not one of those religious freaks, are you?’
‘Course not. No, my grandfather did all the timberwork on the crib there when we moved up from Cork. He was some carpenter, he really was.’
‘Why not?’ I say and I feel his hand touch my back briefly as we make our way against the flow of the Christmas crowd and head down towards the cathedral. One part of me is thinking, Who does he think he is, touching me like that? The Angie part of me is going, Hold me, why don’t you? There are so many people around that the silence between us doesn’t feel too awkward. Angie warns me. Don’t scare him off with your hard-luck story now, Eala.
We climb the steps of the cathedral. I can’t remember the last time I was in here. Up at the far end, there’s a queue filtering along by the passage behind the altar where the crib is. Mostly young couples with their kids, happy families that leave me aching with loneliness. We join the end of the queue. There’s a little fair-haired girl about Tom’s age in front of us and she keeps peeking back at me with the sweetest smile from behind her father’s legs. I can’t even force a smile for her, which makes her curious and then pure serious and I feel bad about casting a shadow over her day.
We get to the life-size crib and Brian peers in over the shoulders of those in front of us. I catch glimpses of the garishly painted statues. Joseph and Mary, some sheep, a donkey. Brian guides me in, his hand light on my shoulder. I expect to see the baby Jesus lying there with his hands raised like he wants to be lifted, comforted. But the little basketry cot is empty.
‘There’s no baby Jesus,’ I say before I can stop myself.
‘He hasn’t been born yet, see?’ Brian says and I get this weird feeling of déjà vu. ‘They don’t put him in there until Christmas morning.’
I’ve asked this same question before and got the same answer and I remember when. The year of the tricycle. And there’s nothing sweet about the memory.
Christmas Eve and Dad’s been out for a few drinks with Martin and the five-a-side gang. Mam’s arranged to meet him here at the crib. I’m doubly disappointed when he doesn’t show up. No baby Jesus and now no Dad. Mam’s furious. That much I’m sure really happened. Am I imagining the rest, knowing what I know now? Or knowing how much I don’t know, more like.
We’re back home from the cathedral and Mam’s giving us our bath early so that Santa doesn’t catch us on the hop. She’s getting Sean and me all excited with reports of Santa’s whereabouts. And in comes Dad to the bathroom, all silly grins and wobbly on his feet. Trying to squeeze a laugh out of Mam, who’s stopped smiling. Telling us he’s sure he saw a sleigh in the sky coming in from the Holycross direction. Trying once more to cuddle Mam and … Did she really say what I hear in my head? Why do you have to drink your way through every bloody Christmas, Jimmy? The memory ends there, try as I might to dredge up more of it.
What was that all about? Had he been drinking away the pain and loneliness of Christmases spent in prison? In foster residences? Or did Christmas recall for him some far more fearful memory? The thought bothers me. I try to brush it away, thinking, There’s no mystery about Christmas being the saddest time of all for an orphan.
I slip away from Brian and edge through the crowd. He doesn’t seem to notice. I have to get out of this place. I feel panicky and I’m thinking, Why didn’t I go back home and take another of Dad’s tabs before I came here? My breath catches like I’m underwater. I push my way out of the scrum and wait for Brian. He takes longer than I want him to. On the wall above me, there’s a small mural. One of the Stations of the Cross. XXIII. The Virgin Mary cradles the dead Christ. I feel like heading home, but Brian comes along at last.
‘You all right?’ he asks. Concerned, watching me too closely. I turn away. Drama queen, Angie says. Not Angie, I tell myself, there is no Angie.
‘Can we go somewhere quiet?’
‘It’s Christmas, Eala. There are no quiet places.’
‘We could try The Bridge Cafe.’
‘Sure.’ He sounds disappointed.
We walk back up towards Blackcastle Bridge where a woman comes towards us laden down with shopping bags. We split to let her through. The gap remains as we go on. We could be strangers who happen to be walking at the same pace. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am – What the hell am I doing here?
The cafe is actually called Le Pont, but it had been The Bridge Cafe for years before and the new name never stuck. It’s small and not too packed. We get a seat by the front window. It’s a mock French kind of set-up with red-chequered tablecloths and candles lighting the centre of the tables. There’s music playing, but at least it’s not Christmas stuff. Edith Piaf singing ‘Hymneàl’Amour’. I know because Mam has the CD at home and used to sing along with it all the time, and Dad would whine, ‘Who let the cat in?’ And she’d chase him out of the kitchen, flapping the tea towel at him and – Shut up, Eala, that life is over, gone, dead and buried.
I wrap my arms tightly about me because I’m afraid to let my hands loose, they’re so shaky. Brian orders two coffees.
There’s maybe a dozen people here, mainly couples, and everyone’s minding their own business. Brian sips at his coffee. I see my reflection in the window. Short black hair and hoodie, big needy eyes and a face like a wet week in Bognor Regis. That’s Dad again. Shut up, Dad.
‘What’s wrong, Eala?’ Brian asks.
‘I shouldn’t have texted you,’ I say. ‘You don’t need this and, anyway, I probably don’t mean anything to you.’
‘You know that’s not true.’
‘I don’t, actually.’
He places his hand, palm up, on the table like an invitation. I take it and I’m off like he’s fired a starting gun.
‘We were at the Head-Up Centre where Dad goes a few times a week and they had this fundraising concert. There was this fellow about, I don’t know, twenty-five, that got beaten up outside a nightclub and walks with a stick, but he’s so brilliant on the piano and all I could think was, Don’t let Dad come on stage. And, of course, he doesn’t because he can’t bloody well do anything now.’
I’m crying. Some show you’re putting on, Angie says, and I can’t tell if this is real or if I really am hamming it up.
‘And next thing Alan – that’s the guy’s name – he starts playing this incredible, laid-back, jazzy version of ‘Tomorrow’ and my heart … I was like a pure fool, thinking I should be the one up there performing for Dad in my curly red wig and singing ‘Tomorrow’, but that’s never going to happen now. Ever. And it’s my own fault because I wouldn’t let him and Mam come to the show until the last night and there was no last night. Oh God, I’m such a drama queen. I’m freaking you out, aren’t I?’
‘You’re not freaking me out,’ Brian says and both of his hands cover mine now. ‘I’m so sorry about your dad …’
I want to tell him everything else that’s bugging me, but I’ve pushed my luck far enough already. The touch of his hands feels too good to risk losing. Another couple has come in and taken a table opposite ours. They’re too close to us. They’re too close to one another. All pecks on the cheek and hand games and wide-eyed with a mutual fascination they think will last forever. Martin and Kathleen were probably like that once. Mam and Dad too.
My Dad Is Ten Years Old Page 14