Ruth handled the role of receptionist, manager and housekeeper beautifully. Partly because the hotel was quiet and partly because the staff rallied round to help out. When the chips were down, while they often moaned about Erica, they were all terribly fond of her. Aisling did some shifts on reception, too, picking up Erica’s system quickly, which Billy was happy to agree to. ‘Whatever you think best,’ he told Ruth.
Tom did manage to check into room 19, which was the closest to the car-park door. He could bring Bette Davis in and out for walks without going through reception. While Erica owed him her life, Ruth was not so sure what her policy was on dogs, paying guest or not.
Every morning Tom joined Ruth and DJ for breakfast. He did the school runs for Ruth, more than happy to ride the bus with DJ each day. This allowed Ruth to put in longer hours at the hotel. Tom loved his time with the kid. They talked about football and Stranger Things, which DJ, Ruth and he were now binge-watching together in their room. Some days they discussed the news, both here in Ireland and overseas. The kid was bright, and he soaked every word up. Tom had a suspicion that one day DJ would do something rather wonderful with his life.
One of the first things Ruth did when she was in control at the hotel was to speak to the chef about the leftover breakfast buffet food that went in the bin each day. It had bothered her for months.
‘I plan to give it to the homeless,’ she said. And he could not think of an argument as to why he should say no. Some days there was very little to donate, bar a few pastries. Other times, there were sausages and bacon, too. Under Ruth’s instructions he packed it up into silver-foil parcels after the breakfast service each day. Tom would then take them to his park bench and wait for his buddies to come by.
Then Tom would spend his afternoons helping the kids with their homework in the Library. Bette flourished under the many cuddles and caresses she now had courtesy of the children. They adored her and she them.
But Tom also knew that what they had right now could be fleeting. Erica would come back, take over and more than likely ask him to leave. Ruth and DJ would get their council house. And he would go back to his park bench to live out the rest of his days. But that didn’t have to be the only road for him? Did it?
Find another road home. That’s what Ruth had said. He knew what he had to do. He would return to Wexford to face his demons so that he could move on.
‘I think you should come with me,’ he told Ruth when he filled her in on his plan. ‘Maybe if you show DJ where he came from he won’t feel so unhinged about his dad and that missing piece.’
‘I do not want to see my mother,’ Ruth said. When she became a mother she recognised the ugly truth of her relationship with her own parents. And she had come to accept that some things could not be changed. Marian and Alan might be her biological parents, but they were not her family.
‘You don’t have to. But you could show DJ where you started out. Where you met his father. That might help him come to terms with the fact that he’ll likely never meet him,’ Tom said.
Kian offered them his car, so the trio and Bette made their way down the N11 to their hometown, with Ruth behind the wheel. With each passing mile, Ruth and Tom became quieter, both lost in their memories.
Their first stop was Curracloe Beach. Ruth and DJ peered in through the locked glass doors of the arcade, which was now closed for the winter. She told DJ about the fortune-telling machine, Pat the ice-cream man and her many days spent here. Ruth and DJ climbed the dunes and found the exact same spot she had sat in when Dean came looking for her on that hot September day over a decade ago.
She held nothing back as she told DJ about that weekend and how they loved each other.
‘Why didn’t he come back?’ DJ whispered into the wind.
‘I have asked myself this many times. I wish I could answer it,’ Ruth said. ‘He would have been a good father. I am sure of it.’
‘You are a good mother,’ DJ whispered.
Ruth turned to him in surprise. ‘You believe that?’
‘I know that, Mam. If I had to choose a mother, I would choose you every time.’
‘And I am enough for you?’
He nodded. Despite her emotions racing through her, making her arms fly and her head spin, Ruth found the words to say to her son what she thought every day. ‘I love you, DJ.’
‘I love you too, Mam,’ DJ replied, reaching down to hold her hand. And as they watched the sea bounce back and forth from the beautiful sandy shore, he felt all his anger and resentment about his father disappear into the very air where his parents had met for the first time.
They said goodbye to the beach and drove by Ruth’s mother’s house, pulling into the side of the road opposite it.
‘That’s your family home?’ DJ asked.
‘It was never a home to me. Just somewhere I used to live,’ Ruth answered.
‘Where is home?’ DJ asked.
‘Wherever the people you love are,’ Ruth replied.
‘Then I’m home now,’ DJ said, looking from Tom to Ruth.
Tom leaned over and said, ‘There’s nothing here for you. Let’s go.’ So they drove to Wexford town to see Tom’s old house. He stood in front of the black railings and stared at the bricks and mortar that once housed everything in his world that he loved.
‘Mikey died in there,’ he whispered to Ruth and DJ.
Tom felt DJ’s small hand move inside his big calloused one. And in this gesture, this kindness, the broken parts inside of Tom healed a little more. ‘I wish you were my granddad.’
‘Me too kid. Me too.’
Then they drove by Tom’s old doctor’s surgery, now run by Annemarie.
‘Your mother caused a riot in there the first time she arrived into my surgery,’ Tom said, and he delighted DJ by telling him all about the first time he met his mother.
‘Do you want to go in, say hello?’ Ruth asked when they had finished laughing.
Tom shook his head. Not now. But he thought that maybe another time he would like that very much.
Then Ruth parked up in the big car park outside Dunnes Stores and Tom told Ruth and DJ that he wanted a few hours to himself.
‘What will you do, Doc?’ DJ asked.
‘I’m going to catch up with an old friend,’ Tom said.
He hoped that he had not changed so much that his friend would no longer recognise him. Because with every passing day, he felt more and more like his old self. A man with a future once again. A man with a reason to live.
55
TOM
When Ruth and DJ walked away on the hunt for a whipped cone ice cream, Tom sat down on the monument in Redmond Square to gather his thoughts before he went to see his friend. As is sometimes the way, when you think of someone, you somehow magic them up in front of you. Because striding his way with a tray of coffee in hand was Ben. His friend. Time stood still as he moved closer and Tom felt the years fall away. Ben glanced in his direction, frowned, then swerved in a large unnecessary arc to avoid contact.
Disappointment crushed Tom. Ben hadn’t recognised him. But then Tom put himself in Ben’s shoes. Every face tells a story. What did his say to Ben? Red skin, weathered from sun and frost, older than his sixty-one years and unworthy of pause or recognition. That’s what it said. He was one of the invisible.
You chose this life. You walked away from all who know you. You did that. This is on you.
Cathy’s voice, nagging him in his head again. This truth prickled him, made him uncomfortable. He had spent years only remembering certain parts of his past, but now he knew he had to remember everything. Including the day he left Wexford.
Tom looked at their super-king bed, which he’d shared with Cathy for two decades. They would start out every night in each other’s arms and remain there all night. Even on the odd occasion they fought, the following morning they’d find themselves back together again, close, in a tangled mess of arms and legs. That bed represented love.
Not any more. N
ow all he saw was anger and pain.
He could no longer sleep in it. It was their bed. Not his. His sister suggested he change all the bed linen. He took the carefully co-ordinated sheets and pillow shams off the bed and replaced them with deliberately mismatched sets. He threw the cushions in the hot press and slammed the door shut.
When he sank his tired body into it, no matter the colour of the bed linen, it was still wrong. He was besmirching the memory of Cathy by changing her design choices. So he got up and stripped the bed bare, replacing the linen with Cathy’s choice. He couldn’t get it back the way it was meant to be. Her way. She never let him forget that.
‘Are you happy now?’ he asked the empty room, broken.
The walls began to shimmer and move. They were closing in on him. He picked up the small scratchy jumper pillow and rubbed it against his cheek. He packed a rucksack with some essentials, placing the pillow into it. He closed the door softly on their bedroom and walked downstairs to the kitchen. He checked the fridge. An empty milk carton, half a block of cheddar cheese, hardened and discoloured, a pear, a tub of cherry tomatoes and six cans of Heineken. He threw the contents into a black sack and placed that in the bin outside, which was waiting for collection later that day. He began to walk into Wexford town.
‘Hey, Tom, how are you, mate?’
It was Ben. His friend reached out and patted Tom’s shoulder, awkwardly, but none the less in kindness.
‘Hello.’ Tom found his voice, then went to move on.
‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’ Ben gestured towards Tom’s face.
Tom rubbed his newly grown beard. ‘Shaving hasn’t been top of my list lately. Didn’t seem much point to it.’
Ben nodded. He understood.
They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Tom had got used to these uncomfortable moments. No one knew what to say to him. And in truth there was nothing anyone could say that could help take away his pain.
‘How have you been?’ Ben asked, then looked stricken as he continued, babbling, ‘Stupid question, sorry.’
Tom felt both sorry for him and irritated by him in equal measures. This here, this awkward sympathy that he seemed to evoke whenever he came close to someone who knew him and his story, was intolerable. It was one of the reasons why he wanted to leave.
‘It’s just … we all worry about you,’ Ben ended.
‘I know,’ Tom answered, and he worked hard to find a smile to reassure the man.
‘You off somewhere?’ Ben asked, nodding towards his rucksack.
Tom had forgotten about that. ‘Yes. I’m getting away for a bit.’
‘Good idea. A break would do you the world of good. Where you off to?’
Tom shrugged. ‘I’ve not worked that out yet.’
Ben laughed, then stopped when he realised Tom was serious. His face scrunched up for a moment, then he continued, ‘Listen, you know we have that place in Spain. Why don’t you get a flight out there and take a few weeks in the sun? I can get the keys for you straight away. Come back to my place for a coffee and you can even look at flights there. Ryanair do great deals into Alicante airport.’
‘Thank you.’ Tom felt a lump clog his throat, making him gulp loudly.
‘For nothing,’ Ben replied. ‘I think of you often and when I do …’ He paused for a moment, then continued, ‘Well, let’s just say, I don’t know how …’ He stopped again.
Tom understood. He couldn’t find words to articulate the horror of his life either.
‘So what do you say?’ Ben asked.
‘I say thank you. I appreciate your offer, more than you can realise. But I’ll pass. For now,’ he added when he saw the disappointment on Ben’s face. He wanted to help; he got that.
They stood in awkward silence for a few moments. Tom hoisted his rucksack on his shoulder and said, ‘I’ll be off then.’
Ben raised his hand to say goodbye, then shouted after him. ‘Wait!’
Tom turned back to look at his friend.
And Ben’s last words, which were in the end a prophecy were, ‘If you don’t find something to light up the darkness, Tom, you’ll get lost in the shadows.’
56
TOM
Now
Ghosts of a past almost forgotten continued to whisper to Tom as he made his way along the uneven cobblestones of Wexford town. His feet ached with each step he made. He shivered as another cold rush of air bit his cheeks and nose. He watched the fur on Bette Davis’s body ripple. Sensing eyes on her, his faithful dog and companion paused mid-step and glanced his way.
‘That’s my gal,’ Tom murmured, gently ruffling her coat.
He forged ahead, walking towards South Main Street. When he arrived at Deerings Solicitors he paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. Intuitive to her master’s indecision, Bette Davis pulled on her leash, trying to move away from the possible danger that lurked on the other side of the door.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he said to Bette, more to reassure himself than her. Ben hadn’t recognised him. What if he turned him away? What if he said, ‘Too late, mate’?
He leaned his shoulder into the heavy wrought iron that led to the large open-plan reception area. They both scoured the room, Bette sniffing the carpeted floors and Tom noting that the previously magnolia walls of his memories were now dove grey. Accent mustard shades were evident in all the soft furnishings.
You trained me well, Cathy. Years later and he still recognised a well-placed scatter cushion.
A woman in her fifties with greying fair hair looked up. She was new. But there again Ben went through receptionists faster than Trump did his cabinet. She frowned as she watched Tom make his way towards her.
I’m making a lot of people frown today.
The woman’s eyes opened further, wide with shock when she realised that not only was a bedraggled man walking towards her but he had a dog by his side for good measure. It took her only a moment to recover and she stood up, leaning forward in consternation. She placed her two hands on the desk in front of her and said, ‘Get out. You’ve no business coming in here. And you certainly can’t bring that … that dog … into Mr Deering’s office!’ Her voice rose in indignation with each spoken word. Tom stood his ground. When she realised her words were falling on deaf ears, she moved towards them both, shooing them.
Tom sighed but it was a sigh of acceptance rather than annoyance. He took no offence from her reaction. He had long since hardened himself to the fact that people in the main judged others by their appearance. Looks matter. Clothes matter. It was difficult to ignore a person’s appearance and not make a snapshot social judgement. She was simply basing her opinion on how he presented himself to the world.
The receptionist filled in the blanks, as was human nature and without even knowing she had done so, decided that Tom was a down-and-out, possibly dangerous but at the very least, up to no good. Her eyes finished their inspection and his offence slid away, replaced by shame.
Tom’s voice was gruffer than normal. ‘I have an appointment.’ He made an effort to keep his gravelly voice low, soft and he hoped, calm. There was no satisfaction in frightening anyone, least of all this woman. The world they lived in, it often seemed like there was more evil than good to be found. He took a step backwards in an effort to reassure her, then continued, ‘I’m here to see Ben.’
‘That’s Mr Deering to you,’ she replied.
Tom pointed to his dog, who was sitting quietly by his side, enjoying the show. ‘I can’t leave Bette Davis outside. She doesn’t like to be on her own. She’s a good dog, though, house trained. And I can assure you that she doesn’t bite.’ He paused for a moment.
In for a penny in for a pound.
‘And, for that matter, neither do I.’
His statement threw the woman. A nod acknowledged his intended joke. ‘Your dog is called Bette Davis?’
‘Her big eyes made me think of the song. My wife sang it a lot,’ Tom said.
‘Well, her hair is almo
st Harlow gold, I suppose,’ she replied, referring to the song’s lyrics.
Tom searched her desk until he found a sign with her name on it. Janice Sutton.
‘What kind of a dog is she?’ Janice asked.
Tom shrugged. ‘I’m guessing she’s a labrador and red setter cross. But that’s just a guess.’
Janice nodded, taking in Bette’s strawberry-gold glossy coat and dark-brown eyes.
‘I’m not here to cause trouble, Ms Sutton. I just want to see Mr Deering.’
Janice felt herself soften. This man threw her. His voice didn’t match his appearance. She took a closer look. He was of indeterminate age, but she guessed in his sixties. She noticed that he didn’t look away; he accepted her scrutiny. In her two years as Mr Deering’s personal assistant she’d never been faced with a situation like this. Even if it were true that he did have an appointment, they couldn’t allow the dog in. Whatever next? Clients bringing their children to appointments?
Janice picked up her phone and pushed a button. ‘Mr Deering. Your five o’clock is here …’
Moments later, a door to the right of her desk opened and Ben walked out. The two men looked at each other, both sizing up the cut of the other. Tom thought he saw a flash of recognition but it was fleeting. It might have been from earlier on the street. Ben’s eyes rested on Bette Davis and he frowned again. Like before, he looked away. Tom felt disappointment nip him again.
Look at me, Ben. Don’t look through me. Look at me.
And he did just that. As if Tom’s thoughts had transmitted through the air between them in the office into his brain.
Ben moved closer and said, ‘I’m Ben Deering.’
‘I know who you are,’ Tom said. Look at me.
The penny dropped at last and recognition dawned on his friend’s face. ‘Tom?’
57
TOM
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