Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  “Where would he buy something like this on Christmas Day?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the stores are open in Derry.”

  “They’re not.”

  “Which means he liked you before you kissed him,” Dee reasoned.

  Michael couldn’t get his head around that. “It’s a guardian angel. It’s for protection.”

  “Are they still getting at you?” she asked. He didn’t answer. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “Did I ever tell you about Stills?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “She was my roping partner, back in Kansas. I don’t remember a time before we were a team. We rose through the ranks together, and everyone loved Stills. She was pretty, and her mom’s the great Charlene Stills—like one of the most famous rodeo champions in the state. Everyone wanted to be friends with Stills—that’s what I call her. Her name’s Quinn, but I’ve never called her that. She hates it. We still sometimes talk on Skype, but not like we used to. I miss her.”

  Michael was listening intently, completely wrapped up in Dee’s story and feeling her sadness at losing touch with her friend.

  Dee continued, “Stills came out as a lesbian. I already knew she was. She’d told me when we were in Abilene. Kansas, not Texas. Everyone gets those mixed up. We’d have been nine or ten years old, and she swore me to secrecy. The first time I ever told anyone was Daddy last year, when I was pissed at him for telling me I was too young to have a boyfriend. I felt so bad about betraying Stills, but I never told another soul.”

  “He wouldn’t have told anyone,” Michael assured her. Dee gave him a gentle shove, and his shoulder hit the wall again. He gasped and moved a little nearer to Dee.

  “I know that, duh,” she said. “Someone saw her at a competition, holding hands with a girl, and they all started bitching about her, so she told ’em straight. That’s when the bullying started. They didn’t like the way she was shoving it in their faces.”

  Michael sighed. “I suppose I did the same thing, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did, but you shouldn’t have to hide it. Like Daddy and Shay… It took ’em almost a year to tell each other how they felt. It was bad back in Kansas, but I think the guys they worked the ranches with would’ve been OK.”

  “Is it worse here?” Michael asked.

  “Yep. Dad and Shay can’t even get married here.”

  “It’ll change.”

  “D’you think?”

  “Yes.” Michael nodded his head against the pillow. “That’s why people like me and your girl Stills have got to stand up for ourselves, even if people try to knock us down. We need to be tough.” Michael smiled to himself. “Tom’s going to teach me how to defend myself.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Aye. Guess what else, Dee.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going on a date.”

  “Wh-wh-what? A date? So you did mean with Tom! But…he’s… Oh. He’s not, is he?”

  “Straight? Aye, he is. I’m the first lad he’s ever liked.”

  “Goddamnit, Michael. I really thought I had a chance with him.”

  “Dee. He’s twenty-four, and you’re fourteen.”

  “So?” She laughed sleepily. “Your bed is so much softer than mine.”

  “I brought it from home, that’s why. I’ve had it since I was about twelve. Can you imagine how many trillions of dust mites are holding us up on their little arms and legs?” Michael teased.

  “Ewwww.”

  Michael laughed, and in the dimmest early morning light, he saw Dee’s eyes close.

  “You going to sleep in me bed, Dee Clearwater?”

  “Yeah. Shaddap.”

  He smiled and let his eyes close.

  <<<>>>

  “Rise and shine!”

  The door to Michael’s room swung open, and Chancey’s large form filled the doorframe. Michael blinked up at him in horror. He knew already what this looked like.

  “What the hell? Deidra!”

  “Umph.” She rolled over and tumbled to the floor.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Talking to Michael. Whaddaya think I was doing?” She stood up and rubbed her hip. Her hair was a crazed mess, and one pyjama leg was scrunched up around her knee.

  “Let’s see. You’re in bed, with a boy!”

  “Daddy. Michael is gay!”

  “He’s still a boy, Deidra.”

  She turned back and rolled her eyes. Michael could only watch and hope Chancey had completely forgotten he existed.

  “Get outta here,” Chancey snarled. Dee huffed, wriggled her pyjama leg straight, and stomped out of the room. Chancey watched her leave and then slowly turned to face Michael. “If you’ve touched my little girl, so help me, I will—”

  “No, I swear. Sh-she just came in a little while ago to talk, and we fell asleep.” Michael’s hand automatically sought out the angel around his neck, squeezing it so tightly he was going to end up with an angel-branded palm.

  Chancey exhaled loudly, and the air caught in his throat, making it sound like a growl. Michael tugged the covers up around his ears. He needed a pee, even more now than before. He was terrified.

  “I-don’t-like-girls,” he muttered at speed into the covers.

  Chancey’s eyebrow rose. “What was that?”

  Michael repeated, “I don’t like girls. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re…sorry?”

  “Yeah, you know…”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Well, I just…I’ve always had feelings—”

  “Never apologise for who you are. D’you hear?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  Chancey continued to glare a moment longer, and then he nodded. “Glad we understand each other. Now, come on. Get out of bed. There’s work to be done.”

  “Yes, of course.” Michael quickly threw off the covers. Chancey nodded once more and walked away, his heavy boots clunking, slowly and deliberately, all the way to the stairs.

  “Never apologise,” Michael muttered to himself as he trampled out of his pyjamas and tugged on his jeans. “Be brave, don’t back down. They’re just bullies…no cowards. That’s right. God, it’s too much to remember. Never apologise for who I am, don’t let Dee in me bed again. Like I could stop her. Christ, I’m going mad.” He pulled the handle on his sock drawer and the whole thing fell to the floor, sending balls of paired socks everywhere. “OK.” Michael sat on the bed and put his hands on his knees. They were shaking—both hands and knees—and it made him laugh, in hysteria, but also with a certain amount of relief.

  “Never apologise,” he said again. He picked up two pairs of socks and plucked one from each ball: one red, one black and white. He put them on and looked down at his feet, wiggling his toes. It made him smile, and then laugh, but not with hysteria this time. He was no less terrified of Chancey—he was big and mean looking, and he growled like a bear. Sometimes he looked at Michael like he was trying to decide on the best way to cook him, and when he shouted—usually at Dee—Michael jumped a foot in the air.

  But he was feeling something else this morning—something more than the constant terror, or worry he was intruding, or he wasn’t pulling his weight. No, this was more like…

  Respect.

  Yes!

  “No apologies,” Michael said one last time, firmly, like he meant it, because he did. Whatever Peter, or Connor, or whoever else had to say about him, it didn’t matter. There were people who accepted him just as he was—Mum, Seamus, Dee, even Chancey.

  And Tom.

  They were going on a date.

  “And I don’t even remember making a wish,” he whispered, breathless with excitement and hardly daring to believe it, though he knew in his heart it was true.

  Michael looked down at the little guardian angel, flipping it over to read the inscription. I will watch over you.

  So this was it. No more hiding away, or trying to blend in. Today,
Boxing Day, was the start of something new. He could feel it, taste it, hear it in the buzz of conversation downstairs. Today, he was going round to his mum’s, and if Peter was there, he’d stand up to him. No apologies, no guilt. He was who he was, and if Peter didn’t like it, then tough.

  Michael pulled on a long-sleeved t-shirt and a jumper and went to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth. He gave his reflection a frothy-mouthed grin and laughed at his hair. It was such a terrible mess, but Tom liked it, so what did it matter?

  Downstairs, Seamus and Patrick were discussing the merits of orange marmalade versus strawberry jam.

  “Damson jam,” Michael said, grabbing a piece of toast from the plate.

  “God, I haven’t had that in years,” Patrick said.

  Seamus frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”

  “Yeah, you did. Max’s mam used to make it.”

  “Did she?”

  “Aye. It’s that funny brown-coloured jam.”

  “Looks like chutney?” Seamus asked.

  “That’s the one.”

  “I remember now. She used to make pounds of the stuff, didn’t she? And we’d be eating it for feckin’ months.”

  “It tastes good, though,” Michael argued.

  “True enough,” Seamus agreed. “So how are you this morning, Mike? You’re lookin’ grand.”

  “Feeling grand, Seamus.” Michael glanced over at Chancey, who was standing by the open door, staring out across the fields and exhaling like he was smoking a cigarette. He’d quit a few months ago, and for a while he’d been like a randy bull, snorting and charging about the place, bellowing at everyone. As Michael watched him now, Chancey took one last deep breath, grabbed his coat from behind the door and stepped outside.

  “What time are you going to your mum’s?” Seamus asked.

  “When we’re done this morning.”

  “All right. Give me a hand with the cows, and you can get off.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks, Shay.” Michael grabbed his boots and sat down to put them on.

  “Did you get dressed in the dark?” Patrick asked, eyeing his socks.

  Michael laughed. “Nope. I chose these.”

  “That’s…different.” Patrick raised a bright-red eyebrow, and all three of them laughed.

  “Right, then,” Seamus said. “Let’s get going. Paddy, are you comin’ to give us a hand?”

  “Aye. Might as well. Aidan’ll be asleep until lunchtime at least.”

  “Is he in a bad way, Paddy?” Michael asked as they moved towards the door.

  “You could say that. I told him not to start on the whiskey.”

  “Oh, I know that feeling.”

  “Aye, but you’d think he’d know better at his age. Not that I’m saying you’re a kid, but he’s nearly thirty.”

  Michael followed the Williams brothers out and across the yard. The sun was struggling to rise above the horizon, creating a diffuse orange glow punctuated by the long shadows of distant trees. Not even the cockerel was crowing this morning. It was still, and cold, yet beautiful. From one of the dark, frosted outbuildings, Michael saw a puff of steam, and Chancey led Dee’s horse out, his voice low, soothing and reassuring the animal. She followed him with her head bowed, drawing to a halt at his side.

  Beside Michael, Seamus stood with his hand shielding his eyes in spite of the dimness. He watched Chancey mount the horse and take her around the buildings and up through the fields. Seamus sighed.

  “Is he all right?” Michael asked.

  Seamus smiled and slung his arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Aye. Sometimes he just likes to play the lone cowboy. It’s the image, you know? He thinks it’s sexy.” Seamus winked to imply he was joking.

  Michael thought there was probably a bit more to it than that, like Chancey was still raging about catching him and Dee in the same bed. It was a shame, because it had been nice to snuggle up and talk, and even if he had liked girls, he couldn’t see Dee as anything other than a little sister.

  Seamus clapped him on the back, knocking the thoughts right out of him. “Come on, then, young Michael. Let’s get these jobs done.”

  The cow shed was the farthest from the house, because it stank, and because they only needed dealing with twice a day in winter. It wasn’t a big shed, but it was plenty big enough for the ten young cattle, bought soon after Chancey and Dee came to live on the farm. Before that, Seamus had been quite happy to stick with sheep, which would have made winter a much easier time. But Michael liked the cows, especially when they were out grazing, and they would wander off in their little groups, away from the rest of the herd. Even in the shed, they stayed close to their friends, and one—he called her Freda—was always left on her own. He felt such an affinity with her, and she seemed fond of him, too. He went over and rubbed her on the nose; she snorted softly into his hand, her bristly chin tickling his palm. She was without a doubt his favourite.

  “Christ, Shay. Smells worse than your feckin’ feet in here,” Patrick said, waving his hand in front of his face.

  “And your arse after you’ve been on them mushy peas,” Seamus came back at him.

  Michael smiled to himself, listening to the banter. Seamus and Patrick didn’t try to be funny, they just were, and it was great entertainment that made the time pass quickly. Michael and Patrick shovelled muck while Seamus brought in fresh hay and silage.

  “Jaysus!” Patrick staggered back dramatically, and it made Michael laugh out loud. Silage did stink, but the cows didn’t care. “Sorry, Shay, but…” Patrick dry-heaved and stepped outside.

  “God, he’s a wimp,” Seamus said, shaking his head after his brother.

  “And he buries dead people?” Michael remarked in disbelief. “You’d think he’d have a stronger stomach.”

  “It’s probably more to do with all the beer he was swillin’ last night, not that he’d admit it, mind.”

  “Ah,” Michael said knowingly. He was still set on never drinking alcohol again.

  They continued to work in silence for a while, side by side, doing what they had always done, before Chancey and Dee came. It was comfortable, natural, and Michael found himself wishing for the good old days, when he was Seamus’s right-hand man. But maybe that hadn’t really changed.

  “Can I talk to you, Shay?”

  “You already are,” Seamus said with a cheeky smirk.

  “I mean about…” Michael slid his spade under the hay and kept working as he spoke. “I feel, sometimes, like I’m in the way.”

  “Why’s that, then?”

  “With you and Chance. Like, you don’t need me now, do you? It’s only because I’ve nowhere else to live.”

  Seamus jabbed his fork into the hay and stopped and stared. “Where in God’s name did you get that idea?”

  “I don’t…I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  Michael kept shovelling.

  “Look at me, Mike.”

  He glanced swiftly Seamus’s way, and when he met Seamus’s gaze, he couldn’t break away.

  “Now listen here, Michael McFerran. When I asked if you wanted to help me with the farm, I didn’t do it because I felt sorry for ye. I asked because you’re a hard worker and you’re reliable. I’m dreading when you go off to America. We’ll get by, we’ll have to. But you’re indispensable. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?”

  Michael nodded.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Chancey.”

  “Because he’s moody?”

  “Um…sort of?” Michael didn’t think it was his place to agree or disagree.

  “Oh, he is.” Seamus laughed. “Plus, he’s still a bit jealous of you.”

  “He’s…jealous of me?”

  “Oh, aye. But he likes you, even if he has a funny way of showing it. So really, you mustn’t worry.” Seamus picked up his fork again and started turning the hay. “
Although when he hears you’ve got a date, it’ll sort itself, so it will.”

  Michael gulped, and his stomach did somersaults. How did Seamus know? Had Dee…

  “And in case you’re wondering,” Seamus said. He paused, and Michael turned to look at him. Seamus gave him a grin. “It’s written all over your face.”

  Chapter Eighteen:

  Unpacking Boxes

  It wasn’t as if it was Tom’s first date ever. He’d taken Sally to the pictures—twice, both times to see the same film. He’d been skating with Alison, and with Michelle, although he tried not to remember that one. It wasn’t his fault Michelle broke her wrist, and she didn’t blame him, yet he still felt responsible. Maybe it was being a big brother that did it. All those years of having Katie chase after him—please, Tommy, I want a seatie—with Mum’s threats—you dare put her on that bike, Thomas, and so help me… But of course he’d never let his sister on his bike. It was way too uncool for one thing.

  He’d showered and shaved, cut himself to ribbons in the process, and used Dad’s styptic pencil, which stung something terrible, but it had stopped the bleeding. Hopefully. He plucked the last blob of toilet paper from his chin and dabbed with his finger. It came away clean. Now for the aftershave.

  Unscrewing each bottle in turn, Tom sniffed at the necks—too citrusy, too sandalwoody, too old, too…God, did I really used to like this stuff?—but not one was right for his date. He was after something subtle, with just a hint of spice. Festive. That’s what he needed. A festive scent that was warm and comforting.

  He called down the stairs, “Dad?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Have you got any aftershave that smells spicy?”

  “Like Old Spice, you mean?”

  Tom thought on that suggestion for all of one second. He’d end up smelling like his grandad. No, definitely not Old Spice. “Not quite what I’m after.”

  “I’ve got that stuff that looks like a hand grenade.”

  Like a hand grenade? “Where is it?”

  “In the bathroom cabinet.”

  Tom went and looked. Sure enough, there it was. “Who bought him this?” It wasn’t a cheap aftershave. Far from it. In fact, his dad would probably get more for pawning a bottle of this stuff than he did for his watch. Tom opened the bottle and sniffed. “Wow!” It was so rich, and spicy—pepper and cinnamon, with a hint of vanilla. Like the candle shop in Enniskillen that Sally had dragged him into that time, when he’d pretended he was bored and then bought a whole tray of cookie-dough-scented candles.