by Simon Bourke
1986
Seán
1
The young woman wrestled the pram onto the gangway. A couple of her fellow travellers offered assistance but she steadfastly refused; accepting help would draw attention, and she wanted to remain as nondescript as possible. Red-faced and dripping with perspiration, she approached the smiling crew member with an air of steely determination.
“Nearly there, Seán. Won’t be long now.”
The outstretched figure in the pram made no response. His ability to sleep through the bumpiest of rides never ceased to amaze her. She had practically thrown the buggy onto the ferry and yet still he slept, with not a care in the world. He would wake later, urgently demand sustenance and then resume his attempt to break the world record for most hours slept in a lifetime. Such a simple, enviable existence.
“Good evening, Madam. May I see your boarding pass, please?”
He was slightly camp, but weren’t they all? Or was that just the on-board entertainers? She couldn’t remember. Sinéad suddenly realised she had no idea where she’d put her boarding pass. For fuck’s sake.
“Sorry, just bear with me a moment.”
Where was it? She rifled through her pockets, trying to ignore the lengthening queue behind her. The one thing she had wanted was to complete this journey with as little human contact as possible; that seemed unlikely now that she had become ‘the silly bitch who couldn’t find her boarding pass and held everyone up for ages.’
“I’m really sorry. I know it’s in here somewhere. I had it just a few minutes ago.”
“That’s perfectly fine Madam; take your time.”
But the look in his eyes betrayed him. It said: Oh, look at you: too busy getting pregnant to care about such trivial things as your boarding pass, you dopey cow.
“Found it, found it!”
She triumphantly whipped the pass from her handbag, half-expecting a jubilant cheer from the waiting crowd. No applause, just a quick tear in half by Mr. Judgemental and she was on her way.
She trundled the pram on board and immediately set about finding a quiet corner for them to sit. The large lounge area, although inviting, was a big no-no. It was already filling up with thirsty customers eager to take advantage of the cross-channel licensing laws. Indeed, some of the patrons looked like they had paid their fare with the sole purpose of indulging in some early hours drinking. They hovered around the bar, keeping a watchful eye on any member of staff who strayed within a square mile of the taps. Let them enjoy their jolly-up, as long as they didn’t disturb her. She hurried through the lounge towards the dining area, taking care not to trap the wheels of the buggy in the spongy carpet. His Lordship would awake from his slumber soon enough, and there would be trouble if there wasn’t a tasty meal to greet him. She checked her watch: 6.05 a.m. Any minute now.
Unlike the lounge, and its promises of alcohol, the restaurant was relatively quiet. There was no shortage of chefs, waitresses and dogsbodies willing to pander to their guests’ requirements, but the needs of the man in Sinéad’s life currently outweighed her own. She found the quiet corner she was looking for and set about preparing her son’s morning meal. A gloopy combination of puréed vegetables was hardly what you’d call the breakfast of champions, but she knew that her own little champ would positively lap it up. With the food ready to be administered and a suitable beverage on hand to wash it down, she waited for Seán to emerge from his coma. He was late. Having a little lie-in, apparently. She sat back in her chair and allowed herself to relax. In a few hours she would be on home soil for the first time in over two years.
Home. She had never stopped calling it that. It may have only been a small town in the southeast of Ireland, but to her it was everything. She had never wanted to live elsewhere. Her friends had vowed to ‘get the fuck out of this shithole’ as soon as they could, but not she; Sinéad had been content just where she was. Her plan had been to meet a nice fella, set up house in one of those fancy new estates and rear a family of picture-book children; a simple life but a happy one. The irony was that she’d been the first to go. She was the one who left her friends behind, headed for pastures new. Her friends had festered in the ‘shit-hole’ while she’d left them behind, living it up in the bright lights of the big city. Well, not exactly; she had left in a fit of panic, terrified to tell her father what had happened. She had fled, but now she was returning. Furtive phone calls to Adele, her younger sister, had indicated that the time might be right, that the storm clouds were finally clearing. The coast wasn’t quite clear, but it was as calm as it was going to get. How would they react? She knew she’d let them down, running off like that; but she’d been young and scared and, as corny as it sounded, she had done it partly for them. Another mouth to feed was the last thing they’d needed, not to mention the shame of having a bastard child in the house. No, she had done the right thing then, and now, despite her growing unease, she was doing the right thing again. Leaving behind her cousin Colleen and her family had been almost as difficult as leaving home, but she was convinced they’d be glad to be rid of her. From now on, it would be different; she was striking out on her own and wouldn’t need anyone’s help from here on in.
It sounded so easy when she put it like that: striking out on her own. But she had nothing to her name. No savings. No qualifications. No skills. What exactly would she do once she got back to Ireland? Moving back in with her parents was out of the question. They wouldn’t want her for a start, not with a two-year-old in tow. Oh, they’d be happy to see him all right; he was their first grandchild, after all. But would they be so happy when he woke them up at six in the morning asking for his potty? No, she’d stay with a friend for the first couple of nights and then see about getting a flat, somewhere small, until she’d sorted herself out. And then ...
“Hello, Mr. Sleepyhead. I was wondering when you’d wake up.”
He smiled back at her and yawned contentedly. Any second now, wait for it:
“Bobba, bobba!”
The smile disappeared and his little face screwed up in annoyance. Tears brimmed around his eyes as he began to realise just how hungry he was. For Sinéad, this was a road oft-travelled. Barely had the words left his mouth before his ‘bobba’ – his bottle of tepid milk – was produced and planted firmly in his appreciative gob. Crisis over. He glugged merrily, his eyes fixed on her, those baby blues that everyone commented on. He’ll be a heartbreaker, that one. He already was – he broke his mother’s heart every time she looked at him.
The ferry jolted into action, taking her by surprise. Finally, they were on their way. Having dispensed with his milk and the vegetables which followed, Seán was now eager to explore his new surroundings, the ferry’s gentle cadence the least of his concerns. Sinéad began to wish she’d put a little stiffener in his ‘bobba’ as he wrestled free from his restraints and set about acquainting himself with the other travellers.
“Seán, come back! Come back for fuck’s sake,” she hissed, as he gambolled towards an elderly couple a few tables away. A sudden surge sent him sprawling across the floor but, undeterred, he picked himself up and continued on his merry way. People laughed at the sight of this jaunty little seafarer as he weaved his way uncertainly through the restaurant, but his mother wasn’t laughing. She was in hot pursuit, eager to bring his adventure to an end before he did himself, or someone else, a mischief. She gathered him up in her arms, ignoring his protests and apologising profusely to the couple he’d been intent on disturbing. The lady smiled kindly at her.
“I bet he’s a handful.”
“Ha, sometimes,” Sinéad replied, making her way back to her seat.
But Seán had taken a liking to this woman. No sooner had he been placed back in his buggy than he was on his feet and making a beeline for her once more.
“Seán, come back here! I’m sorry about this; he’s usually so well-behaved.”
“Not a
t all, my dear, in fact why don’t you join us? Might be easier that way.”
For the first time Sinéad sized up the object of Seán’s desire: mid-sixties, greying hair cut in a fashionable style and well-dressed. The husband seemed a jolly sort, well-fed by the look of him; his paunchy midriff clearly visible even from his seated position on the inside of the booth. He had clearly been one of the thirsty folk waiting for the bar to open, as he had two frothy pints in front of him and another in his hand. It was like something her father would do: stock up on drink as soon as they opened the bar, just in case they ran out.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a seat.
2
Norman and Jean were from Dublin, and had just spent a week visiting relatives in Cardiff. It took Sinéad a second to figure out why their names seemed familiar, but when it clicked they took her teasing in good humour. Norma Jean. Neither was a Marilyn Monroe fan, but they had heard all the jokes on numerous occasions.
“So how old is this little mite, then?” asked Jean, as Seán munched on the bag of jelly babies she had insisted on buying him.
“Two in May,” Sinéad replied, happy to have another adult to speak to and happier still to find security with such nice people. She had worried about some drunken weirdo accosting her and her child, but she felt safer now.
“Have you kids of your own?”
“Yes, two,” Jean replied, “a boy and a girl. Or should I say a man and a woman, they’re both in their thirties now!”
“Do you see much of them?”
“Oh, yes, they live quite close. Myself and Granddad here are full-time babysitters for our grandchildren,” she replied, patting Norman on the knee.
“Wouldn’t change ’em for the world,” he said wistfully, draining the last of his pints and automatically looking towards the bar.
“And how many grandchildren have you got?” asked Sinéad. “Sorry if I’m asking too many questions,” she added, anxious not to pry too much in case they did likewise.
“Three. They’re the light of our lives.”
“One of them’s about the same age as this little chap here,” Norman said, tousling Seán’s hair.
“Howya, buddy,” he said, grinning at Seán as he glanced in his direction.
He might as well have been talking to the fish in the sea. Seán only had eyes for Jean. He was besotted by her, his first love. He sat snugly in her lap, toying with her necklace, occasionally gazing up into her eyes long enough to receive a smile and then looking away again. I wonder would they take him off my hands? thought Sinéad to herself, half-joking. Perhaps this was a sign. She could return home and tell everyone that she’d been on an extended holiday, apologise for not phoning and move back into her old room. They wouldn’t suspect a thing. Norma and Jean clearly loved kids, so why not give them one to keep? He’d be happier with them. They looked well-off; they could give him the kind of life she’d never be able to. She could visit at weekends. They’d call her Auntie Sinéad, and no one would be any the wiser – until he grew up and began asking questions.
“How old were you when I was born?” he’d ask his seventy-four-year-old mother.
“Sixty-two,” she’d reply. “A medical marvel, that’s what you are, my love.”
“Ah, I see,” he’d say, going off to consult his science books; then, armed with new info, he’d return with more questions.
“Why is my hair dark when Daddy is ginger and you’re… grey?”
And so it would continue until the truth was revealed: Auntie Sinéad is actually your mother. She gave you to us on the ferry one morning.
No, despite her son’s attachment to this kindly lady, he would be returning to Sinéad once they docked in Dublin. Anyway, Jean was starting to struggle now, unable to deal with the sugar-high that had kicked in shortly after his second bag of jelly babies. Seán clambered all over her like a young chimp testing out its play area; feet connected painfully with Jean’s face, breasts were unintentionally mauled, and at one point he seemed about to climb inside her cardigan and come out somewhere south of her midriff.
“Come on, you,” Sinéad said, deciding to take him out on deck – perhaps to throw him off, she wasn’t sure yet.
The waters had calmed down sufficiently for them to stand and take in their surroundings. The sky was pale blue with hardly a cloud in sight. The sea, by contrast, was inky dark, almost black. Despite it being a relatively short crossing it still seemed like the middle of nowhere, as if they and they alone existed in this barren, forbidding seascape.
Careful not to stray too close to the edge, Sinéad lifted Seán on to her shoulders.
“Look, Seány! The sea.”
“Sea,” he replied.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Sea, sea, sea, sea, SEA,” he chorused, another word added to his ever-growing vocabulary.
“Yes, the sea, that’s right. As far you can see, nothing but sea.”
They climbed the steps to the upper deck, and then she saw it. It may have been just an outcrop of earth but it was home, and the sight of it lifted her heart: Ireland. Sensing that this was a moment of great significance, she approached a fellow passenger and asked if he would take a picture of her child’s first contact with his motherland. She cared little that the man in question looked as if he’d rather jump overboard than take a picture of her and her little snot-nose.
“Just press it here.”
“There?”
“Yes, hold it down and wait for the flash. Thanks. Come on, Seány, pose for the camera!”
She had taken him down from her shoulders and held him in her arms.
“Smile for the man, now, Seán; that’s the boy.”
The reluctant photographer lined up the shot as best he could.
“Erm cheese, or something.”
Mother and son beamed back at him, Sinéad hoping that for once her eyes wouldn’t be closed when the picture was developed.
“Thank you,” she said as the man returned her camera and went to peer over the edge of the deck. He looked as if he wanted to end it all, gazing as he did, into the water’s murky depths. Sinéad didn’t notice. She was heading home, and she couldn’t wait.
3
Having gratefully accepted Norman’s offer of a lift into town, Sinéad said her goodbyes, clutching a piece of paper in her hand. Imagine them giving me their phone number, she thought. Promise you’ll call us any time you’re in Dublin, they’d said. She knew they meant it, too, but she hoped she’d never have to take them up on their offer. Her travelling days were over; once she got home, she wasn’t going anywhere else ever again. But she had to get there first, which wouldn’t be easy. Dooncurra was situated at the southern tip of County Kilkenny, flanked on both sides by towns from neighbouring counties, Waterford and Tipperary. Because of its peculiar geographical location, there was no direct access to Dooncurra from the capital. She would first have to go to Kilkenny city and then take another bus to her hometown. According to the timetable, there was a two-hour waiting time in between, which would bring her total journey time to almost five hours: longer than it had taken to cross the Irish Sea. It was an absolute nonsense. There was nothing else for it; she was getting the train. She didn’t care if it cost more; it would get her there faster, and offered the kind of comfort she and her boy deserved. They’d slummed it up to now, but they would do the last leg of their journey in style.
As soon as they got on the train, she knew she’d made the right decision. The carriage was practically deserted and they had their choice of seats.
“Look, Seán, we’ve got a table and everything,” she declared to her uninterested son.
He was flagging now, with any luck he’d sleep through the last stage of their journey. Sinéad propped him up in his buggy by the window, taking the aisle seat herself. The crossword book she’d bought at the station would keep her o
ccupied while he slept. She was growing nervous now. They were almost there, and her parents had no idea she was coming. She hadn’t spoken to them in over two years. How would they react? Adele had assured her that the time was right, but what if she was wrong? What if they’d already disowned her, wanted nothing to do with her? Worse still, what if they reacted angrily? She didn’t want Seán’s first meeting with his grandparents to be coloured by violence. She pushed these thoughts out of her mind, and instead tried to imagine the scene in the house this very minute. Her mother would be busying herself in the kitchen, cleaning up the lunch things left by her mob of hungry hippos. That’s what she called them, her ‘hungry hippos’. An ad for a new children’s game had come on the telly one night and her mother had cried out, “That’s ye! A crowd of feckin’ hungry hippos, gobbling up everything in your path.” They’d all laughed. It was true, they were hungry hippos. Their dinner table wasn’t the place for small talk. They went there to eat, and eat was what they did. Her brother Patrick, the only boy, was the quickest. He’d once eaten an entire plate of stew in a little under two minutes. Her mother had timed him. He hadn’t even noticed her standing in the door-well, eyes on the clock, wondering what kind of an animal she’d reared.
“Would you ever take your time, Patrick,” she said. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
But he was already out the door, fork in mid-air, returning to whatever mischief his dinner had interrupted. Of all those whom Sinéad had left behind, it was Patrick she missed the most; the baby of the family, the golden child, the long-awaited boy. He could have been the devil incarnate and they would still have doted on him. The fact that he was the sweetest creature to walk the face of the earth just made it easier. Sinéad and her sisters practically fought to be in his company. He was torn this way and that, forced to join in with their girly games and mollycoddled to the point where his father would intervene and take him fishing, to remind him that he was a boy. Patrick wasn’t just his parents’ child, he was the family’s child. Each and every one of them considered him their baby, even Valerie, who was usually far too caught up in her own existence to bother with the rest of them. For Sinéad to be apart from him, without explanation, for this long, had been torturous. He’d be twelve years old now, no longer the spry, angelic child she remembered. He probably fancied girls already, went to discos; she smiled at the thought. Whatever about her parents, she hoped Patrick would welcome her back with open arms. She imagined him ambling in the door, schoolbag slung lazily over his arm, calling out a greeting to those within earshot, and then sticking his head in the sitting-room to see who was home. His features would slowly change as he caught sight of her: first a look of incomprehension, then a flicker of fear, before finally his eyes would light up and he’d run to her. She’d hold him tight and mumble apologies through her tears until they broke free, at which point she’d ask: “Want to meet your nephew?”