by Simon Bourke
The train left them off in one of the neighbouring towns, about four miles outside Dooncurra. It was only a short walk to the bus stop, and there would almost certainly be a bus going that way within the next hour. However, they had grown accustomed to a life of luxury by now and so Sinéad hailed a taxi, asking the driver to drop them at the bottom of the hill leading up to the estate. Her parents lived in the outskirts of Dooncurra, almost in the countryside. It was quiet there, and the sight of a taxi arriving at the McLoughlin household on a Tuesday afternoon would be sure to get the neighbour’s curtains twitching.
“Oh, here she is, that little Jezebel; I was wondering when she’d come back. And look what she has with her? A little baby without a daddy. Wait till Mrs. O’Leary hears about this.”
She paid the driver and waved him goodbye. In front of her lay the hill which she’d walked, run and skipped up and down more times than she cared to remember. Now she faced it with trepidation, anxious about what lay in store at the top. As she began her ascent the memories came flooding back: setting off for school each morning come rain, wind or shine; Patrick lagging behind, moaning, begging to go on the dag. Having to forcibly carry him inside the school gate, before continuing on to the secondary school with Adele and Valerie. The walk back home, debating what might be for dinner, praying it wouldn’t be bacon and cabbage. The summer holidays, sprinting down to Bartley’s for ‘Mr. Freezes’. Sitting on the wall, waiting for them to melt before slurping them down, the chill going straight to their heads. Playing hide ’n’ seek in the nearby woods. Gravitating to kiss-chase, running slow so that Gary Whelan would catch her. Then no more school; instead her first job, waiting tables in one of the town’s two restaurants. That was where she had met him. He worked in the adjoining bar, but seemed to spend most of his time loitering around the restaurant. It took her a while to figure out that he was coming to see her. She was flattered. All the girls fancied him. He wasn’t really her type, but when someone like him asked you out you didn’t say no. So she went out with him, started dating him, and it was fun; he was fun. He was reckless, a bit wild; her complete opposite. But when that recklessness caught up with him, caught up with them, he didn’t want to know. It was her problem; nothing to do with him. As she walked home from work that night, up that hill for the last time in a long time, she knew what she had to do. She would pack her bags, empty her savings account, and seek pastures new. It had seemed the only way. According to Adele, he’d left Dooncurra a few months after she had, up the country somewhere; probably to escape another unwanted pregnancy, knowing him. It was better that he wasn’t around though.; less complicated. Her boy didn’t need him in his life, not yet anyway. But he did need a strong male presence, that was something Sinéad felt strongly about. Perhaps her own father could fulfil that role? She could only hope so.
She’d walked up this hill a thousand times or more, but never with a buggy in tow and her entire belongings on her back. It was hard work and she had to stop every few minutes to catch her breath. She wasn’t bothered about being conspicuous anymore; a lift up the hill would have been great or, failing that, a strong man to push the buggy would have sufficed. There were a few houses dotted along the hillside, brightly-coloured bungalows with well-tended gardens, but they appeared completely devoid of life. Even the cows in the fields opposite were keeping to themselves, too busy flicking away bothersome flies to even look in her direction. Completing the scene on her left lay the woods, dark and ominous even in the bright afternoon sun. She wasn’t used to such stillness after two years living in an industrialised town in the northwest of England. While Sinéad was having trouble readjusting to her surroundings, however, Seán was having a whale of a time. He cooed and trilled in delight as they inched up the hill, pointing this way and that, bouncing up and down in his seat and babbling away in his own indecipherable language. He’d been to almost every park in the Greater Manchester area, but this was different. This wasn’t manufactured, man-made greenery, this was God’s earth in its natural state; the smell of horse manure wafting in the air was testament to that.
They finally reached the top of the hill, and there before them lay Ard Aulinn. It looked the same as it had the day she’d left. A couple of the houses had received new paint jobs, but for the most part nothing had changed. The Brunnock’s dog was still barking his head off. Jim Hegarty’s car was still blocking Paul Hanlon’s driveway. And her house, her mother’s house, the place where she’d grown up, was still tucked away at the back of the estate in the corner, peering out at the woods. It looked so unassuming from here, just a collection of bricks and mortar; you’d never imagine that it could stir the emotions in the way it did. The sight of it made her heart sing and her stomach drop, filled her with joy, and laden her with dread. But there was nothing for it, she had to march onwards. The sooner this was over, the better.
She wheeled Seán through the estate, feeling like a cowboy in the wild west as she made her way through the deserted cul-de-sac. At any moment she expected a door to spring open and a gap-toothed local to cry out, ‘What you doin’ round these here parts, young lady?’ But no one did, and she made it to Number Sixteen unmolested. She paused in front of the house. A two-storey semi-detached, which at the time of its construction had been considered quite upmarket; now it looked a bit shabby. She couldn’t really describe its colour, her best guess was grey but it might have been white once, she couldn’t recall. It didn’t look much from the outside but would be spotlessly clean inside – Patricia McLoughlin wouldn’t have it any other way. Sinéad opened the rusting gate, wincing as it squeaked, and made her way up the garden path. Again she paused, considering. No one ever used the front door unless they were visitors, proper visitors who couldn’t make do with the back door like everyone else. Which category did she fall into now? She didn’t feel entitled to go around the back of the house and let herself in as people usually did. She’d lost that privilege; right now she was just a visitor. So she took a deep breath, composed herself, and knocked primly on the door.
4
Patricia McLoughlin had just sat down with a cup of tea. She’d been flat out all morning, and all afternoon for that matter. It was already four o’clock, and this was the first minute she’d had to herself. Where had the day gone to at all? The dinner would have to be put on soon. But first she was going to have a cup of tea and watch a bit of television. She’d barely settled in her seat when she heard a knock at the front door. Her brain immediately spun into overdrive. Who could it be? All the bills were paid. The coalman wasn’t due until Thursday. It wasn’t anyone canvassing; there’d only just been an election. What if it was the Guards? What if one of her children had been hurt? It was probably someone selling something. Well, whatever they were selling, she wasn’t interested.
“Who could this be?” she muttered, as she fluffed up her hair and rubbed the creases out of her clothes. She went to the door and peered out the little window beside it. All she could make out was a buggy with a little child in it. Another knock.
“Just a sec,” she called out, rattling the security chain free and unbolting the safety lock at the bottom of the door. She carefully opened the door and peered out at the visitors.
“Hello, Mammy.”
Patricia stared at her eldest, shifted her eyes to the pram, and then looked once more at the daughter she hadn’t seen for more than two years.
“You’d better come in,” she said.
*
Sinéad sat tentatively on the edge of the armchair, ready to take flight at the first sign of danger. Her mother was in the kitchen making the tea. There had been no dialogue, no recognition of her grandson. She had simply sat them down and disappeared into the kitchen, taking some time to assess the situation, no doubt; planning her next move. All Sinéad could do was wait.
“Is it still two sugars, Sinéad, yes?”
“Yes, Mam.”
Bizarre, but so typical. The elephant
in the room would be ignored until the last very minute. As if sensing the gravity of the situation Seán, the elephant, had lapsed into a contemplative silence. Usually, upon entering new environs, he would be off and running the first chance he got. Here in his granny’s house, he remained still and silent. The only sound was that of the kettle coming to the boil and the clinking of mugs and spoons.
“Do you reckon we’ll get any fancy biccies, Seány?” she whispered to her son.
Seán looked up at her, smiling hesitantly. He didn’t understand the joke, but he knew his mother was trying to be funny. She could be very funny at times.
“Maybe she’ll bring out the cake seeing as we’re visitors and all, eh?”
“Cake,” Seán replied, nodding.
Patricia came bustling in from the kitchen, two mugs of tea in her hands, but not a biscuit in sight.
She plonked the mugs down on the coffee table and returned to the kitchen, reappearing a moment later with a glass of orange, presumably for her grandson. Beverages doled out, she eased herself into her chair and gazed out the window into the front yard.
“Lovely weather out there. Did ye get a taxi? I didn’t hear a car.”
“He dropped us off at the end of the hill. I felt like a walk.”
Patricia nodded guardedly. It was a nice day for walking.
“He’s the head off Patrick when he was that age,” she said.
It took Sinéad a moment to figure out that she was referring to Seán, her son. The little boy sat in the buggy beside her. Her mother had acknowledged him. This was a good sign.
“Oh does he, yeah?” she replied casually.
“Course he does, look,” Patricia took a photo of her beloved boy from the mantelpiece. “The head off him.”
She handed the picture to Sinéad, who went through the process of pretending to compare and contrast these two little boys. But all the while she was waiting for the bombshell, wondering when the questions would begin.
“Mammy, I – ”
Her mother’s glare stopped Sinéad in her tracks.
“I don’t want to hear it, Sinéad. What’s done is done; you’re here now, so let’s leave the heartfelt confessions for another day, okay?”
The younger McLoughlin nodded meekly and quietly sipped her tea. It could have been worse. At least there hadn’t been any shouting. There was still her father to come, though, and his slipper was probably still warm from the last time one of the children had stepped out of line.
“What do you think Daddy will say?”
“Ha, you know your father as well as I do. He’ll most likely shrug his shoulders, grunt a hello, and hide behind his paper for the night.”
“Is he mad at me, though?”
“Sinéad, we’re all feckin’ mad at you! But you’re our daughter and he’s our grandchild and – well, despite everything, we still love you. You and him,” she said, jabbing her thumb in Seán’s direction.
“Would you not like to hold him at all, Mammy?”
Patricia hesitated, her maternal instincts duelling with the desire to show her daughter she was still upset with her. As if on cue, Seán began to pull at the straps on his buggy, finally feeling comfortable enough to run amok. Unable to undo his restraints, he became frustrated. And with all sense of decorum lost, he wasted no time in voicing his concerns.
“Mum!”
Patricia’s mouth opened in mock surprise. “What’s that I hear? Is that an English accent? On a McLoughlin boy? You’d better get him out of here before your father comes back, that’s all I can say!”
“I’m sure he’ll lose it within a couple of months. He only has a handful of words, anyway,” Sinéad replied, almost apologetically.
“So you’re sticking around, then? This isn’t just a flying visit?”
Sinéad looked at her mother as if she was crazy; of course she was staying. Then she thought of how it must look; the long-lost daughter returning without a word of warning, and certainly nothing constituting a plan of action. It was natural enough to assume she’d just come back for a holiday.
“Well, yeah, that was the general idea.”
“I see. Have you thought about where you’re going to live at all?”
Sinéad knew this was a loaded question, her mother’s way of laying a trap for her. She wanted her daughter to ask if she could stay with them. And then the lecture would begin: you can’t just come swanning back in here and expect us to drop everything. Where will you sleep? We’re overcrowded as it is. And the baby; will he be crying every night? Your father doesn’t like to be disturbed once he’s in bed, you know that.
But Sinéad had planned ahead. She’d rung Lily, one of her oldest and best friends, and asked if they could stay with her for a few nights.
“Ah you’re grand thanks, Mam. I’m going to stay with Lily, Lily Dolan.”
She could see the disappointment in her mother’s face. Was she disappointed because they weren’t staying, or because Sinéad hadn’t fallen into her trap? It was hard to tell.
“So yeah, I’ll be staying at hers tonight. But I just wondered if it would be okay to see the lads before I go?”
She was playing it extra safe, very much the contrite daughter.
“You can, of course. You can even stay for your tea if you like,” replied her mother, not missing a beat.
“Oh, Mammy, that’d be lovely,” Sinéad replied sweetly, finally taking off her jacket.
They both knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere that night, or indeed for the next few nights, but neither would admit as much; neither would back down. The things they really wanted to say to one another would remain unsaid, and they would adapt to their new circumstances as best they could; mother and daughter in perfect disharmony.
5
By the time Patrick came idling up the garden path, the trap had been set. Seán sat in his nanny’s lap, chewing on a rusk and littering her dress with crumbs, while she gently rocked him and sang songs about Irish druids and faeries. Sinéad, barely able to contain her excitement, was out in the hallway sitting on the stairs, patiently waiting for the signal.
“Mam?”
“Yes, dear, I’m in here.”
“Can I get a biscuit before me dinner? I’m starvin’.”
“No, you can not. Your dinner will be ready at half five, just like it always is, so you may wait till then like the rest of us.”
Patrick’s shoulders slumped in dismay. Half five? That was an hour away!
“Ah, Mammy, come on. I’m a growing boy.”
“That may well be the case, but we want you growing up, not out.”
He strode into the sitting-room, lifting his shirt to show her his protruding ribs.
“There’s not a pick on me, Mam, look ...”
Patrick stopped in his tracks. “Who’s he?”
“This is our new baby. Say hello to Seán.”
With perfect timing Seán swallowed the last of his rusk and beamed cheerily up at his uncle. “Allo.”
“Our new baby? No, he’s not.”
“Obviously I didn’t have him, Patrick; I’m a bit too old for that. A lady came round today selling babies, and I bought one.”
“You BOUGHT him?”
Patrick’s eyes bulged out of his head. Was this possible? Could you buy babies now? He’d seen the news reports about the poor little orphans in Chernobyl; maybe this fellah was one of those? But it could just be another one of his mother’s tricks. As the youngest of four he was used to being the butt of their jokes, and this had all the hallmarks of another carefully-crafted ruse.
“Right so, if you bought him where’s the receipt?” he offered, pleased with himself.
“They’re going to post it to us,” replied his mother smartly.
Could it be, he thought, could it really be? He liked things the way they
were; there was no need for another baby. On the other hand, he’d always wanted a brother; but he wanted an older brother, not one that still wore nappies. This lad was too young. He’d be no use whatsoever.
Patrick flopped down on the couch, sizing up the new arrival. There he was, smiling away, delighted with himself, as if he belonged here; not stopping to think about him and how he might be affected.
“Can you really buy babies, Mammy? How much was he? I thought ‘twas only African babies from the telly you could buy.”
“Oh, no, you can get little English ones too. Can’t you, Seány?” she replied, cuddling her grandson.
“He’s English!” cried Patrick, incredulous. This was going from bad to worse.
“Yes, he’s our little English baby; they were selling him cheap because most Irish families won’t take a Brit.”