My Dad Is Ten Years Old

by Mark O'Sullivan

  ‘And his father?’

  ‘Thierry, his name was,’ Mam says. ‘Always a wild kid, it seems. Lost his mother early on and when he was sixteen his father gave up on him and went back to live in Algeria. A year later, he met Cath and when Jimmy came along they’d move from city to city, from one New Age commune to the next. They changed their names so often that Jimmy didn’t even know his real name when it all came to an end.’

  I sit up and rub my hand along the pale skin on the underside of her arm. Her wrist is so tiny, I can see the throb of her pulse there. A slow pulse, and watching it slows my pulse down.

  ‘It was a suicide pact,’ she says. ‘Thierry put it all in a letter to Social Services. They saw no end to their running, no future for their child.’

  I rest my head back against the wall above the bed. The cold of the plaster passes down the nape of my neck.

  ‘They were living in a houseboat on the Thames in Hammersmith. A week before Christmas, Thierry broke into a pharmacy and took every tablet he could lay his hands on. He crushed the lot and mixed it with some soft drink or other. Cath took her dose and lay on her bed. Thierry took his and woke Jimmy. We’ll never know the precise details, but it seems Jimmy wouldn’t drink the mix and tried to run to Cath. The oil lamp they used for light got knocked over somehow and the houseboat caught fire.’

  She’s lying in my lap now. I can’t remember how she got there. I pass my fingers through her hair. It hasn’t been washed in days. Maybe not since my night of madness in Brian’s house. She shuts the world from sight as though to imagine the scene she describes more vividly. I look inward and I see it too. The flames. The molten gold of their reflection on the water. The face of a child, light and shadow playing for possession of his startled eyes.

  ‘Why did he never confide in me?’ she says so distantly I know the question isn’t meant for me. ‘I mean, I understand why it’d be hard for him to dig all that stuff up. But none of it was his fault. There was nothing there that might have made me think less of him. Nothing.’

  She doesn’t know about the punk-club incident and its consequences. What do I do now? Do I tell her? Might it help her understand Dad’s need for secrecy? But she’ll totally lose it with Sean and me for keeping the story to ourselves all these months. Her head is like a dead weight in my lap, but I don’t stir. She’s dozing off or slipping down to hide a while inside herself. It’s hard to tell which. Either way, I can’t disturb her now.

  Georges Dorar. Georges. I repeat the name to myself again and again – Georges, Georges – until it feels like I’m calling out to the boy silhouetted by the flames. Calling him to me, taking his hand. Walking away from the river of fire.

  32

  ‘… And Alan Rice played this great through ball. The keeper doesn’t know whether to come for it or stay. So the sweeper’s shouting at him …’

  Sean lies crossways at the end of my bed, his hands behind his head as he relives the Tipperary Youth League game they won earlier in the afternoon. His first game for months. They’re making up lost ground on the League leaders. Five points behind now with two games in hand. They’d won today’s game with the last-minute goal he’s describing.

  ‘… And Brian nips in, rounds the keeper and the points are ours.’

  That’s Sean all over. Mr Sensitive.

  ‘Tom’s on the sideline, hopping up and down and punching the air. It was so cool to be out there playing again. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.’

  ‘This wouldn’t be a parable, by any chance, would it?’

  Sean drags his sore body up into a sitting position. He looks at his puzzle of a sister. We need to talk about Mam and the secret she doesn’t yet know, but I can’t get up the courage to start. It’s like I’m on a basketball court or whatever, all togged out and I’m so nervous, I don’t want the ball to be thrown in yet.

  ‘Do I look like Jesus or what?’ he says. ‘A parable?’

  ‘Yeah, like, I should get out of bed and stop moping or whatever?’

  ‘Hey, relax. I was talking about the game against Saint Michael’s,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t know a parable if it bit me on the buttocks.’

  I feel suddenly skittish. When we were kids, I had this nasty little trick of making a fist of skinny knuckles and catching Sean on the flat of his thigh with it. Fair sore it was. I do the trick now and he yelps.

  ‘Aw, jeez, man. I’m in agony here already.’

  He’s grimacing and laughing and he comes at me with his old trick. The ear twist. I duck under the duvet. He follows me in. I duck back out. He follows me out. It’s pure daft, but we keep going in this crazy loop. Him, letting me catch him on the thigh. Me, letting him grab my ear. And it gets so funny we have to lie back and laugh it off. When I raise my head again, Sean’s goes all serious.

  ‘There’s something I want to tell you, Eala,’ he says. He can’t decide whether to stay sitting or go for a walk around the room. ‘Something you should know … about Win.’

  ‘Leave it, Sean.’

  ‘No, it’s important,’ he insists. ‘See, Win’s told the parents who the father of her kid is and it’s the guy who runs the nursing home she worked in. He’s married with kids. Was married.’

  ‘Who told you all this?’

  ‘Brian,’ he says. He inspects a nasty-looking graze along his shin that makes me wince when he pulls up the leg of his tracksuit. It doesn’t seem to bother him too much. ‘He told me about the joyriding with Sham Healy too.’

  ‘And you can forgive him for that?’

  He shrugs and gets to his feet. On his way to the door, he limps at first, but is moving fine after a few steps.

  ‘I’m telling you the story is all. He’s interested if you’re interested, like.’

  ‘Nothing Brian says can change what happened to Dad.’

  Something keeps him from leaving. He takes a quick look back to the landing, the stairs below. His hands are slung deep in the pockets of his blue tracksuit bottoms. Only now do I cop that it’s one of Dad’s French national team tracksuits he’s wearing.

  ‘I don’t call him Dad any more. Not even in my head,’ he says. ‘I call him Jimmy.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘I dropped over to Martin’s apartment the other evening. Fiona was there. She’s moved in, like. And we had this major chat.’

  ‘And she told you to stop calling him Dad?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that. She was talking about situations like ours that she’s come across and she said something that really hit home. She said that people never get their heads round what their father or whoever has become until they, like, see him differently. See him like he’s a long-lost uncle or a cousin you’ve never met before or –’

  ‘So he’s some distant relation to you now?’

  ‘No way. But when I was coming home, I remembered one of those Judge Dredd stories and everything sort of added up.’

  ‘So you found the answer in a comic?’

  ‘Maybe I did,’ he says. ‘See Judge Dredd has this clone – actually they’re both clones, but that’s another story. And this clone, Rico, he’s called, is one of the bad guys. In the end, there’s a showdown and Judge Dredd kills Rico in this apartment building and –’

  ‘Now Dad is one of the bad guys?’

  ‘Course not. But the thing is the paramedics are getting ready to carry Rico’s body out to the ambulance and Judge Dredd says, “No, I’ll do it,” and then he goes …’ Sean checks himself, swallows hard. ‘He goes, “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.”’

  ‘That was a song, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘It’s on one of Dad’s oldie CDs.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s kind of corny I know. But so true, though. I mean, it’s not like you’d want to spend your life with your brother, but you’d walk through fire for him, wouldn’t you?’

  There’s a hint of bronze in the late afternoon light. The faintest rhythmic
hum of a busy Saturday town square reaches us. My legs and arms ache to be stretched. Over by the door, Sean’s still hovering. It’s almost like he knows we’re not finished here yet.

  ‘Sean, I think we have to tell her about Dad doing time.’

  He doesn’t seem all that surprised. He nods.

  ‘She was going to find out anyway,’ he says, and I’m the one caught by surprise. ‘The tracing agency followed through on the name Georges Dorar and they’ve got the details of the court case. Martin said he’d tell her, but I want to do it. I feel I have to, like.’

  ‘We’ll both do it,’ I say and he’s OK with that, maybe even glad.

  It’s hard to imagine we’ll ever be at one another’s throats again like we used to be. But I suppose we’ll have our moments. Everyone does. There’s a clattering from the hallway, a door banging shut, the bouncing of a football. From below, Tom calls out.

  ‘Sean! P’ay football! P’ease, p’ease, p’ease!’

  ‘Coming.’ Sean throws his eyes up to heaven, but he’s grinning too. ‘You know I was thinking, I qualify to play for three countries now. Ireland, England and Algeria. Maybe even France. That’s fair cool, isn’t it?’ He laughs. ‘Have to win the Tipperary Youth League first, though.’

  And he’s gone, a drum roll descending the stairs that reverberates in me long after he’s reached the hallway below. Time to get moving again. Time to ring Jill, see how she’s doing now that the Win epic has taken another twist. I’ve been exchanging texts with her for a few days and, in fairness to her, she’s never mentioned her sister. I imagined it would be weeks before I’d work up the energy to actually talk to her. To be honest, there’s another reason for this call.

  I’ve been out of school two weeks and knowing how seriously Miss O’Neill takes her shows, I find it hard to believe that she’d have me back. I find it even harder to believe that I actually want to go on stage, but I do. The songs have already started to hum themselves in my head. ‘Tonight’. ‘Somewhere’. ‘I Feel Pretty’. So I scroll up Jill’s number and go for it. She can’t speak at first. There’s a lot of shuffling and sniffling, followed by silence.

  ‘Jill, are you there? Don’t be crying.’

  ‘Oh, Eala, I’m so glad you didn’t …’

  More sobs. Don’t drive me back under the duvet, Jill, I’m thinking.

  ‘Didn’t what, Jill?’

  ‘You know … didn’t, like, OD.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to top myself. Is that what they’re saying about me?’

  ‘You were so not yourself, I didn’t know what to think.’ There’s another wistful pause. ‘You poor thing, you’ve been through so much.’

  Being pitied like this is fair annoying. Still, I can’t be angry with Jill. In spite of all the lousy things I said about Win and her baby, she never gave up on me.

  ‘Jill, you’ve been good to me but, please, don’t feel sorry for me,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t want anyone looking at me and seeing “Victim” tattooed across my forehead, OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So, how’s Win doing?’ I ask because I know she wants me to and it feels like a fair enough trade.

  Jill hesitates. It’s like she so wants to pour her heart out, but is half afraid I’ll throw another wobbler.

  ‘She’s gone back to Dublin and Dad is, well, his old self again. Worse even. He won’t talk to her because she refuses to chase up this married guy for maintenance. It’s a mess.’

  To my surprise, she leaves it at that and doesn’t trouble the silence with sighs as she usually does.

  ‘How’s the show going?’ I ask, feeling ridiculously nervous.

  ‘It’ll be better when you’re back.’

  ‘But I’ve been out so long. Hasn’t Miss O’Neill given my part to someone else?’

  ‘No … not yet. She said she’d wait until after the mid-term break.’

  ‘She’s feeling sorry for me too, I suppose.’

  ‘Eala, the part is made for you.’

  ‘Yeah, me being the sweet little drama queen and all.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she says and I laugh. ‘Are you coming back to school on Monday, Eala? Say you are.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m starting to miss accounting.’

  I can’t remember how long it’s been since I had a conversation with Jill that didn’t end in a row. It feels good not to be fighting any more. With Jill. With myself.

  So I’m still in if I want to be. I slide down under the duvet for a while. I bathe myself in the kind of dreamy warmth I had forgotten existed and I get about sixty seconds of it before I hear Tom charge up the stairs. No one else can make so great a racket with so few limbs. He gets to my door. He’s a ball of sweat, his curly hair a wet mop. His eyes are so wide it’s like everywhere he looks he sees something amazing.

  ‘P’ay football in Berni? P’ease?’

  ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll be there, OK?’

  I get out of bed and pull the stale sheets off. I open down the top half of the window. The dust rises as I whip off each sheet. Tiny particles pepper the air and the breeze dances them.

  33

  Our school is on a height at the edge of town. On evenings like this, the sky above the town glows like the reflection from a golden bowl. It’s one of those pure still evenings. Whatever cold there is, is the kind that makes you feel warm inside. I head over the brow of the railway bridge. Below, on the brightly lit platform, people wait to greet someone from the train or to leave. I cross over towards Friary Street. I could take a shorter way home, but I’m killing time. Mam’s not talking to me or to Sean.

  My first day back at school hasn’t been half as cringe-worthy as I imagined it might be. I got the occasional funny look from some people. But only some and they’re a waste of space anyway. Having Jill to hang around with helped. Being back at rehearsals did too. Derek or no Derek. I had to kiss him in the scene we rehearsed and it didn’t bother me. At least he’d brushed his teeth.

  I hung back after rehearsals and helped Miss O’Neill lock up the assembly hall. I had a favour to ask. On the last night of the show every year, a cheque is presented to some charity from the raffle takings. I asked if it could go to Head-Up this year.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said and gave my arm a squeeze. ‘You’re a trooper, Eala.’

  Then she was stuck for words, which is unusual for her.

  ‘I’ll get the lights for you,’ I said and she nodded.

  I flicked the bank of switches, one by one. The lights crackled and faded, the assembly hall growing steadily smaller until it vanished. Weird how the dark can seem so vast sometimes and, at others, small as the dark in a keyhole.

  When I left Miss O’Neill, I found I had three missed calls on the mobile. Jill. Brian. Brian. Jill left a message. She’d had a row with Benno. They’re meeting after Evening Study. 2 C IF THIS WAS REALLY MEANT TO BE. That’s Jill for you. Romance is too bland without the taste of high drama. There was no message from Brian. I didn’t know what to make of this. Then I decided not to make too much of it.

  At Martin’s house on Friary Street, the high timber gates are closed, but I peer in by the gap where the hinges hang. The street lamp on the opposite footpath lights the drive, the front lawn, the house, so big I used to think of it as a castle. Signs of the renovation work are everywhere. A JCB and a cement-mixer on the drive. A trellis of scaffolding on the front wall of the house. I wonder how long all this will take, how long before Mam is forced to make a final decision.

  On the gate pier beside me, there’s one of those intercoms with a keypad. I know the combination for opening the gate. Martin showed me long before I could even reach up to it. I remember Dad holding me up there too, pretending he didn’t know the number as I pressed the keys, telling me I was a magician when the gates began to open in. And I really thought I was. But there’s a big padlock on the gate these days and I’m not magician enough
to unlock that. My phone rings. I don’t even think not to answer it.

  ‘Eala?

  ‘Well, Brian.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m grand,’ I say and I’m stuck. It’s an impossible conversation. Too much to say or avoid saying, more like. I struggle on. ‘And you?’

  The line breaks up with blustery noises. He’s outdoors somewhere, some wild place. His answer is lost. There’s a breathy shuffling, a whistling and then a silence that doesn’t get time to set in too thickly.

  ‘Eala?’

  ‘I lost you there. Where are you exactly?’

  ‘Down in Cork,’ he says. ‘Down at that field I told you about. The Wet Field.’

  ‘It sounds like a hurricane down there.’

  I’m standing here on a quiet street in the pale orange light, but I’m out in the wilds of Cork too with the dusk descending around me, the wind blowing in my hair and whipping into my ears so loudly that I won’t ever have to hear myself think again.

  ‘Eala? Can you hear me? What I said?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I love you, Eala.’

  Until now, I haven’t noticed how much my shoulder aches under the strap of this school bag. The wind rises again down in Cork.

  ‘Can we give it another try?’ he asks.

  ‘After my big scene in your house? Who’d want to go out with such a weirdo?’

  ‘Another weirdo, maybe?’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘No, no, I was messing.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say.

  The burn on my cheeks is a pleasant glow. I move away from the gates of Martin’s house. Weird how the bag on my shoulder feels lighter when I walk.

  ‘What are you doing in Cork anyway?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with the details, but I got a lot of stuff sorted. A lot of stuff.’

  ‘The longer the better,’ I say. ‘I just want to hear you talking.’