Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  “Does it matter, Dad?”

  “Not at all. That’s what I’m saying, Katie. We don’t care if our Tom’s gay. Maybe he was just expecting us to ask him—so this is your boyfriend, is it?”

  Someone approached the living room door from the inside, and Tom quickly turned away, searching through the coats with shaking hands. The door opened.

  “Tom?”

  “All right, Katie. I came back for that there satnav.” He found it and wrestled it free. Trying to avoid meeting his sister’s gaze, he turned towards the front door, ready to walk out. She was watching him. “What?” he asked, chancing a quick glance her way.

  “Did you hear him?”

  Tom nodded but didn’t speak. He felt like he was going to throw up.

  “Don’t pay any attention.”

  “He’s wrong, Katie.”

  “Is he?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  She shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “You think I’m…” He took a deep breath but stopped short of denying anything. “I’ll see you later,” he said, and left.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  The Road to Derry

  They’d been on the road about twenty minutes before it dawned on Michael that he’d been doing all of the talking, while Tom had barely looked his way, let alone said anything. His jaw was set hard, and his concentration on the road ahead was unwavering.

  “Is it a difficult drive, Tom?” Michael asked. So far, it had been one long, fairly straight road, but Michael had never driven outside of Omagh, and that was more than hairy enough for him. He’d only taken his test because Seamus had insisted they both needed to be able to drive, and then Chancey…

  “Not especially,” Tom answered—finally—and for the briefest moment, not even a second, his eyes flickered Michael’s way.

  Michael wasn’t sure what else to say to make conversation happen, and he was confused. Before they’d left, Tom had been in a great mood, laughing and joking. The way he’d looked at Michael, like he was looking inside him, had made him feel a little odd. Then there was the touching…although hadn’t Tom’s mum hugged him? So maybe it was just they were a very affectionate family. His own mum was the same. But he hadn’t expected it from Tom. Especially not after telling him about the crush. And he was being a terrible friend.

  “Are you all right, Tom?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” At last a smile. A weak one, but better than none at all. “I’m OK. Are you?”

  “I’m fine. But you seem a bit kind of…I don’t know, to be honest. Just not like you.” Michael cringed. Another accidental admission. I’ve spent so long watching you, I know when something’s bothering you, like now.

  “Aye, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve got something on my mind, and… It’s a pretty big thing. I just need to think it through, you know?”

  Michael nodded. “I understand. I’ll try to stay quiet.” He turned away and stared out of the side window. Fields, fields, village, fields, fields…

  “You can still talk,” Tom said. “In fact, I’d rather you did.”

  “OK. What would you like to talk about?”

  “Tell me what you got for Christmas. Oh—no! Actually…” Tom pointed at the glove box. “Have a look in there.”

  Michael pressed the lever on the glove box, the door opened, and a small gift tumbled out. Michael picked it up. “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Open it.”

  “Oh, right.” Michael started peeling the tape. “Who’s it from?”

  “Me.”

  Michael frowned. “You bought yourself a present?”

  Now Tom laughed—a full, belly-jiggling laugh, although his belly was too taut to do much in the way of jiggling. “It’s for you,” he explained.

  “Oh!” Michael fumbled the present, and it slid down his legs, landing on top of his feet. “It isn’t breakable, is it?”

  “No, thank goodness, but if I wasn’t sure I’d made a good choice before, I am now.”

  “Right. I’ll just…” Michael tugged his seat belt forward and leaned down, picking up the gift between the tips of two fingers and keeping as tight a hold as he could. He sat back and fidgeted, tugging his jumper down from where it had hitched on the back of the seat. He was astounded Tom had bought him a present—even though he’d bought one for Tom—and was guessing all kinds of wild things it couldn’t be, because it was only small. He turned it between his fingers until he found the end of tape and pulled. It came away from the foil paper cleanly, lifting the folded flap to reveal a small tan-coloured pouch. Michael wriggled it free of the paper and loosened the draw string around the top. Whatever was inside was heavy for its size. He tipped the pouch upside down, and a thick silver chain poured out onto his palm, bringing with it a silver angel. A guardian angel.

  “Wow. You got this for me?”

  “I did.”

  Michael turned the angel over and read the words on the back. “I will watch over you.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Like it?” Michael repeated. He unfastened the clasp, and positioned the chain around his neck. “I love it,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

  Tom’s smile showed how pleased he was that Michael liked it, though why he’d thought he wouldn’t, Michael had no idea.

  “I worry about you, Mike.”

  He was still trying to fasten the clasp and used that as a reason not to respond.

  “Since I found out what Connor and the others were up to, I’ve tried to keep you safe, but it’s about more than that. You need to stand up to them, and I thought that little fella might give you a confidence boost.”

  “I can’t fight them, Tom. There’s too many of them.” And I can’t even fasten a chain.

  “It’s not about fighting them, and much as they’re a bunch of gobshites, they’re cowards. They run in packs—I guarantee if you came up against Connor on his own, he wouldn’t say a word.”

  “But he’s got his uncle behind him, hasn’t he?”

  “His uncle?”

  “Martin O’Grady.”

  For a second, Tom took his eyes of the road. “I thought they were related somehow, but I didn’t realise it was that closely.”

  Michael tried to act cool, but he could tell what he’d said had worried Tom. Plus the chain was now tangled in his hair, and he wasn’t sure he could untangle it without assistance. He lowered his aching arms and put his hands in his lap.

  “Did you manage to fasten it?”

  “Um…y…no.” He shook his head, and the chain tugged painfully on his neck hair. “No, I didn’t. It’s stuck in me hair.”

  “I’ll pull over.”

  “You don’t need to…”

  He already had.

  “Right. Let’s see.” Tom took off his seat belt and turned to the side. “Put your back to me.”

  Michael turned and stared out at the fence along the edge of the road, trying to ignore the light touch of Tom’s fingers on his neck and the resulting goose bumps as he gently worked the chain free.

  “You weren’t kidding about it being stuck. How did you do that?”

  “My hair’s a bit long at the moment. I probably should get it cut.”

  “I think it suits you long. Especially with you being tall.”

  “But it’s such a mess.”

  “Not really. It’s kind of wild and carefree.”

  Michael was glad he had his back to Tom. He was blushing so hard he was sweating.

  “There you go. And I’ve done it up for you as well.”

  “Thanks.” Michael turned to face the front again, and Tom leaned forward to inspect the angel. It had come to rest on Michael’s daft jumper, just above the elf’s hat. “It looks good on you,” Tom said. His eyes lingered on the angel for a few seconds more, and then slowly, he lifted them until he met Michael’s gaze. Tom shrugged and looked to the heavens, probably about to say something like I
don’t know about you. All of a sudden, a horrendous realisation hit Michael like a punch in the chest, and he gulped in air, choking on it. The cough got a hold of him, and it wasn’t letting go for love nor money. Through his watering eyes, he caught Tom’s concerned frown.

  “Mike? Are you OK there?”

  Michael nodded, but he couldn’t stop coughing, which was a good thing, because when he did, he was going to have to say something, but what?

  Now Tom’s hand was on his back, firmly rubbing up and down, creating static from his cheapy Christmas jumper. He could almost feel the sparks coming off his skin.

  “Try to hold the cough in. Your throat muscles are in spasm.”

  Michael took a quick breath in through his nose and held it, fighting the urge to cough with everything he had.

  “Any better?”

  Michael moved his head from side to side and lifted his shoulders. He was still holding his breath, and he was starting to feel lightheaded.

  “Let it out slowly,” Tom advised.

  Michael tried a controlled exhale from his nose, but it was like pressure had built up, and the full blast of spent air forced its way past his lips, along with, “I kissed you.” He screwed his eyes shut and pulled in tiny breaths through tight lips; if anyone had heard him—other than Tom—they’d think he’d been crying.

  After what felt like a long time, but was probably only a few seconds, Tom quietly said, “Aye, you did. Had you forgotten?”

  Michael nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “Now, are you apologising for forgetting? Or for kissing me in the first place?”

  “I dunno. Both?” He opened one eye and gave Tom a squinty nervous smile.

  Tom casually leaned his elbow on the steering wheel and rubbed his nose with his thumb. “Don’t be sorry you kissed me.”

  Michael tried not to think about what that meant. He was building stupid hopes that Tom had liked it, and he was waiting for another kiss, and Michael really wanted to kiss him. But no. They were going to Derry, to see Tom’s grandad. Tom who liked girls. Straight Tom, who thought it was OK for friends to share a little peck of a kiss at Christmas, but probably wouldn’t be too impressed with being snogged by someone who had no idea what they were doing. He waited while the full memory reformed and then opened his other eye. “You asked me to.”

  Tom nodded. “I suggested it. We were under the mistletoe, remember?”

  “I remember. And then we went out to the lambing shed and talked, or did I dream that?”

  “No. It happened.”

  “OK. This morning, it was all a bit hazy, but I remembered telling you that I…how I feel. The rest of it’s coming back. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t believe how drunk I was. I only had a couple of drinks.”

  “Er, yeah.” Tom laughed. “You told me you’d had a few more than that.”

  “Did I? Oh. Oh! Ugh!” A wave of nausea rose through him, and he shuddered. “Whiskey.”

  Tom was still laughing. “It has that effect on me, too. Terrible stuff. I don’t know why anyone drinks it.”

  “It’s vile,” Michael agreed. “I’m never touching it again. And I really mean that.”

  “Are you OK now? The cough’s stopped.”

  “Yeah. I think I might’ve pulled a muscle or two.” He rubbed his belly.

  “It’s good for the abs, if nothing else. And you’re sure you like your present?”

  “It’s amazing, Tom. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Tom gave him another of those mind-blowing smiles. He turned in his seat and pulled his seat belt around him. Michael did the same.

  “I’ve got you a wee present, but it’s back at home. I didn’t know I was going to see you today. I mean, I knew you’d be at church, but I didn’t want to give it to you in front of everyone.”

  Tom’s eyebrows rose. “It’s saucy, is it?” he teased, as they set off once more.

  Michael felt his blush bloom again, but he didn’t care anymore. He grinned. “It’s not even slightly saucy. It’s weird. I bought it because I thought it was beautiful, and…well, anyway. After what you told me last night…I think…” Michael frowned. Their chat in the lambing shed still had great gaping holes in it, but he was sure Tom had said he wrote poetry. “Do you want to know what it is, or wait ’til we get back?”

  “Hm. I should wait, really, shouldn’t I? But…no, go on. What is it?”

  “It’s a little notebook, only like the size of your palm, bound in lovely dark leather, with brass studs up the side and a wee brass clip to hold it closed. The paper inside is like silk, and it’s…what’s the colour…apricot. And the pen—” Michael made the size of it with his finger and thumb, about four inches “—it’s got an unbreakable nib, you know.”

  “I can write really hard poems now, then.”

  Michael couldn’t stop himself from staring. Every time Tom smiled, it gave him tiny dimples in his cheeks and made his nose crinkle.

  “You’re looking at me, aren’t ye?” he said—not an accusation. He didn’t seem to mind.

  “Yeah. I am,” Michael admitted.

  “Can I ask you a question? It’s personal.”

  “Sure.”

  “When did you know you liked boys?”

  “Um…” He hadn’t expected that, although the forewarning meant it wasn’t too much of a shock. “I’ve always known. Since I reached puberty, anyway. I was about twelve. I didn’t know I was gay until last year. I know that’s sounds strange, but when I was younger, I thought it was normal to like girls and boys. I just hadn’t met any girls I liked, and when I did, I’d stop liking boys.”

  “You’ve never fancied a girl?”

  “No. I mean, some of them are really pretty. And when the lads used to wolf whistle at girls, I could see why. Like Jen in O’Grady’s office. The lads were all mad for her.”

  “They still are. She got married, did you know?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You should’ve heard ’em, Mike. When she told everyone, you’d have thought she was dumping them en masse. And the sulking. Honest to God. I had to kick them up the arse to get any work out of them.”

  “Do you like being the supervisor?”

  “Yeah. It’s OK. Or it was, before…all the trouble. I don’t think it’ll be a problem much longer, though.”

  “Why’s that? Are they laying off again?”

  “Er, yeah. Something like that. Shall we put the radio on?” Tom reached over and clicked the power button. The car filled with thumping dance music. Tom turned it down to a volume they could talk over. “What music do you like?”

  “Anything. This is all right. How about you?”

  “Same. I mostly listen to chart stuff. And I like a bit of the eighties music, which is my mum and dad’s fault.”

  “Aye. I know what you mean. I miss it at Christmas. Band Aid, and Wham! and Paul McCartney.”

  “Oh, Mike, you’re giving me palpitations. That’s terrible music, so it is.”

  Michael laughed. “Cliff Richard.”

  “No more…please…”

  “Chris de Burgh.”

  “Right, that’s it. I’m pulling over. You can walk back to Omagh.”

  They were both laughing, and Tom didn’t stop the car, but he did reach over to the centre console. He searched around blindly, keeping his eyes on the road, found what he was looking for—a USB stick—and plugged it into the front of the car stereo.

  “You asked for this,” he said.

  The dance music stopped, replaced by the unmistakeable intro to ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’. Michael groaned and slid down in his seat, but it was all an act.

  “So you’re not going to ask me are we nearly there yet?”

  Michael smiled broadly. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so happy in his life. “No. I’m having a grand time. How about you?”

  “I am, too.” Tom bit at his lip in thought. “I wish we’d become friends sooner.”

  “Why? So you could teach
me kung fu or something?”

  “Kung fu?” Tom laughed. “I could probably teach you how to drop kick someone, but I—”

  “Really?” Michael sat up straight again. “You can do all that?”

  “I did a bit of kick boxing when I was younger, but I’m no expert. I don’t agree with violence.”

  “Oh, no. Me neither.” Michael cleared his throat. He didn’t like violence at all, but he still couldn’t help admiring Tom for knowing how to defend himself. The man was a god. Blasphemy, Michael McFerran. And there was another thing.

  “Do you ever doubt the existence of God, Tom?”

  “Oh aye. All the time.”

  “You do?”

  Tom glanced over. “You sound surprised.”

  “Well, yeah, I am, I suppose. Like you said this morning, there’s only you and me go to church every Sunday. I thought you were dead religious.”

  “I am, and I’m not. If my grandad could still talk properly, he’d tell you a lot of stories about violence in the name of religion.”

  “The Troubles?”

  “Aye, and the whole history that goes with them—the Battle of the Boyne and William of Orange, right through to Bloody Sunday. But he’s a peaceful man, my grandad. He was never involved in any of that stuff. And then my grandma was killed. That was when he started sending his poetry to publishers.”

  “Your grandma was killed in the bombing?”

  “Not in Omagh. They still lived in Derry. She was injured during a shooting and died of a heart attack on the way to the hospital. I was only four, so I don’t remember much about her, other than what my mum’s told me. My grandad’s never really talked about her. It’s too painful.”

  Understandably, Tom became quiet and sad, and even though Michael was more doubtful than ever about God, he said a little prayer for Tom, and his grandad, and the rest of his family. After that, he stayed silent, letting his imagination roam, thinking about Tom’s grandparents and parents, and his own mum and dad. He wondered what it would be like if all relationships were treated the same, or if everyone was like Seamus and Chancey and they just fell in love, and it didn’t matter if it was a man or a woman. Maybe he’d have ended up with a crush on Dee instead, and they’d be kissing and getting all tangled up in her braces. Ugh. No. He’d probably still fancy Tom, and Tom would fancy him. And then he’d ask him out, and they’d be boyfriends, maybe one day get married in church…