by Simon Bourke
“And we would?”
“Why not? You have to admit he’s pretty cute.”
“What will Daddy say? There’s no way he’ll allow an English baby in the house, Mammy, surely?”
“He has no choice now. I’m after paying for him, and there’s no returns allowed.”
“Oh, Jesus, Mammy,” cried Patrick, beside himself, “the lads will give me some slagging when they find out I have an English brother. Oh, Jesus.”
He began pacing up and down the floor, wringing his hands as he went, his hunger long since forgotten.
Sinéad sat on the stairs, listening to every word. As soon as Patrick had arrived she’d starting laughing and now she rocked back and forth, silently chuckling away, tears rolling down her eyes. She couldn’t take it anymore. If it didn’t stop, she was either going to piss herself or let out such a roar of laughter that the game would surely be up. But she had to wait for the signal. The plan was to send Patrick next door for some sugar, at which point Sinéad would take the place of her mother and await his return.
“Look, Patrick, you’re just going to have to get used to having a little brother, I’m afraid. And he’s going to be sleeping with you, too.”
“Wha ...”
He could barely utter a response at this stage; his world was falling down around him and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“I need to make his bottle now, but he likes a spoon of sugar with it. Could you go in next door and ask Mrs. Kiely for a cup?”
Facing up to his new, horrific reality, Patrick mumbled compliance and slouched out the back door. This was the signal Sinéad had been waiting for. She quickly entered and took her mother’s place in the chair. Neither of them spoke, they just giggled at one another as they swapped places. Even Seán laughed at the madness of it all.
Within a couple of minutes the Brit-fearing boy returned, complete with sugar for his new brother.
“There ya go, Mammy,” he said, putting the cup on the table.
“I asked Mrs. Kiely about this whole baby-buying yoke and she said she’s buying one next week! Is it me, or has the world gone mad?”
The look of earnest concern on his face was enough to send Patricia over the edge. She broke into hysterics, hooting and squealing with laughter, using the worktop to steady herself lest she fall to the ground in a heap.
“What? What is it? What are ya laughing at, Mammy?”
Unable to respond, Patricia pointed in the general direction of the sitting-room as she bent over double, gasping for air.
Patrick, presuming that the English fellah had done something funny, obediently went to see what his new ‘brother’ was up to. He popped his head round the door, expecting to see Seán doing some hilarious British dance or suchlike.
“Hiya, Pat,” whispered Sinéad.
“Shinnie?”
“It’s me, Pat.”
He collapsed into his sister’s arms, almost crushing Seán in the process. Pulling away for a moment, he checked to make sure it was really her and then resumed his death-grip.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” he repeated, his voice barely audible beneath her arms.
“It’s me, Pat. It’s me, honestly.”
It was only when Seán began to complain about being suffocated that Patrick remembered he was there.
“Who’s this fellah, then? Is he with you, Shins?”
“Yes, Pat. He’s not your brother, he’s your nephew.”
“Aw, thank God!”
An uncle at twelve: his friends would be so jealous.
“Howya, nephew,” he said, jabbing a friendly fist at Seán’s cheek.
“Nevoo,” replied Seán, smiling up at his uncle Patrick.
*
Next to arrive was Adele. She’d known her sister would be there but managed to act surprised. What she hadn’t known was how her mother would react to the return of the prodigal child. Adele had encouraged Sinéad to return and told her everything would be all right, but really she’d just wanted her back and had no idea how the family would react. Thankfully, it seemed her mother was just as happy to see her as the rest of them.
“Look at you! You’re flippin’ gorgeous, a proper little sexpot.” Sinéad scanned her sixteen-year-old sister up and down, barely able to comprehend the transformation she’d undergone.
“Sinéad, don’t talk like that to your sister; she’s still a child,” scolded Patricia.
“Ah, Mammy, she needs to be told. She’s an absolute fox. I bet she has all the lads driven mental.”
“Stop it, Sinéad,” warned her mother.
Adele stood there, red-faced, while her sister appraised her figure. She was embarrassed but it was okay; Sinéad was back, and the house rang with laughter again. Even her mother appeared to be happy, at least by her own miserable standards. Sinéad’s departure had had a chilling effect on them all, but it was her parents who’d been hit hardest. They never discussed it with the children, of course, that would have been far too logical. Instead Adele and Valerie had had to deal with Patrick’s plaintive questions. Where’s Shinnie? When will she be back? Why can’t I go visit her?
Their parents carried on in stoical fashion until their father had a few pints in him; then the arguments would start. The children would listen from upstairs, catching snippets here and there:
“It’s your fuckin’ fault.”
“You should have been stricter.”
“What’s his name? I’ll fuckin’ kill him.”
“Wake me up early in the morning. I’m headin’ to England.”
This would go on until the shouting died down, to be replaced by sobbing.
“I miss her, Tricia.”
“I just want my little Nades back.”
“I don’t care how many fuckin’ kids she has.”
Sinéad had always been her father’s favourite. He would never admit as much, but they all knew it. They shared a bond that none of them could breach, a deep understanding which set them apart from the rest of the family. He said she reminded him of his mother, with her penchant for devilment and her sarky little mouth. And she was a daddy’s girl, tailing him wherever he went, accompanying him on his long walks in the woods when no one else would. Surprisingly, their relationship didn’t change as she grew into adulthood; if anything, it strengthened. The dynamic changed, no longer consisting of playful conversations and fawning favouritism. Now they were just two brooding figures locked in deep discussion, setting the world to rights, passing judgement on those they deemed their inferiors. When she left with not a hint of warning, he blamed himself. Told himself he should have seen it coming. Had he been too attached to her? Was that why she’d left? But no matter how many times he read the note he could never understand why his little Nades had left him.
Adele still remembered that morning. Sinéad had confided in her days previously; she’d told her what had happened and what she intended to do. She was leaving the country, getting rid of the baby, and would be back in a couple of weeks. ‘They abort them in England,’ she’d said, ‘I’ll only be gone a couple of days’. Her bags were packed and left at a friend’s. She’d go to work as normal, but when her shift finished, instead of returning home, she’d get on a bus. The bus would bring her to the dock, and from there she would board the ferry and be gone. Adele was under strict instructions: Get up in the middle of the night and leave this note on the table; make it look like I left it there. She had to have enough time to make her escape or else her father would come after her.
So, like the dutiful sister she was, Adele had crept downstairs at the break of dawn and left the note on the kitchen table. She’d retreated to her bed and waited for all hell to break loose. She’d prayed it would be her mother that would find it but knew, just knew, that it would be her father. And sure enough, a couple of hours later the pandemonium had begun. He’d
come bounding up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “What do ye know about this?” he’d cried, waving the note in his hand. “About what?” Valerie had replied, as Adele aped her nonplussed expression. He’d then turned his rage on their mother, accusing her of being in on the whole thing. The raised voices and the blue air had brought Patrick from his bed. And, like most children, the sight of his parents screaming and shouting had brought tears to his own eyes.
“Your sister has gone away for a while, she’ll be back soon,” Patricia had told him.
“Where’s she gone, Mammy?” he’d asked. “She was supposed to help me with my homework tonight.”
Thanks, Sinéad, Adele had thought. Thanks a lot.
The contents of that note had never been discussed, but their effect was there for all to see. Their father had changed overnight. Never the most communicative of men, he’d become habitually silent, sitting alone on the porch step after his dinner, staring into the distance as if awaiting her return. His forty-a-day smoking habit, vanquished the previous year, had returned with a vengeance. Never a heavy drinker, he’d taken to visiting the pub almost every night. He had disengaged from his family, done everything he could to get away from them. As a result, they had all drifted apart. Patricia had tried her best, but her children needed their father and she needed her husband. Valerie, always the most difficult child, had turned the upheaval to her advantage. With no one to discipline her she did as she pleased, came and went as she pleased. Her parents hadn’t the heart to challenge her. The concerted appeal to leave school early, once vociferously opposed, had been granted with barely a whisper of protest. Let her do what she wants, her mother had sighed wearily, the fight well and truly knocked out of her. And that’s what Valerie had done; she’d left school at sixteen with barely a qualification to her name. Her father had still had the wherewithal to insist she get a job at least. The irony of her finding work as a housekeeper when her own home was so badly in need of repair had seemed lost on them all.
The two youngest, Adele and Patrick, had become inseparable; bound by circumstance. He would come scurrying into his sister’s room whenever the fighting started, huddling up beside her, listening to the raised voices coming from downstairs; wondering if his father was going to kill his mother or vice versa. The arguments had become a regular occurrence, both parents fighting with their own demons as well as each other. Their love for one another had been forgotten, ignored and neglected, as they’d watched their family fall apart. Where they’d once met the challenges of parenthood together, they’d become too immersed in their own individual problems to tend to their children. The arguments had always taken the same form, Noel pleading with his wife: “Can we not go and get her, bring them both back?” But Patricia wouldn’t budge. “No, she left us. If she wants to come back, she can.” She always had the final say in the McLoughlin household and it had been no different this time. She had wanted her daughter back just as much as the rest of them, but believed that what she had done was wrong. If Patricia had done something similar at that age it would have been away to the nunnery with her, banished, never to be seen again. “Things are different now,” her husband had argued, “it isn’t the dark ages we’re in any more, girl.” But she’d remained resolute. Her daughter’s decision had to have a price. “And anyway,” she said, “how do we know she wants to come back? Maybe she’s happy where she is.” But they’d both known that wasn’t true. Sinéad had always been the most home-loving of their children, the one least likely to fly the coop. She had left because she’d been afraid of their reaction. They would have insisted she marry the child’s father, whoever he was. Pregnant at seventeen, without as much as an engagement ring on her hand? That just wouldn’t do. No, she would marry this man, and that would be the end of it.
But maybe that was why she had fled. She didn’t want anything to do with the father. Or he didn’t want anything to do with her. So where was he now, then? Who was he? Who had done this to their little girl? They’d listened out for news of any young men disappearing unexpectedly. Dooncurra was a small place; it wouldn’t be hard to find out, but no word came. All the young, eligible bachelors remained in situ. The culprit could have been among them, but there was no way of knowing; perhaps he didn’t know himself. The poor sap could have been wandering the streets calling out her name, wondering why the love of his life had deserted him when he’d needed her most. But he didn’t call to the house. No one called. So the die had been cast – they would carry on as normal, as though nothing had happened. Talk of Sinéad had become taboo; it was as if she had never existed. They’d hoped for her return, but that was all they’d had: hope.
6
Valerie allowed herself a slight smile. She hadn’t been privy to the secret communications and was taken aback by her sister’s reappearance. Her response may only have amounted to a small gasp and a hug lasting all of a microsecond, but she was happy to see her; she really was. Everyone was happy. Everyone was here. Everyone except their father. As the clock ticked toward six, the atmosphere changed. They became nervous, watchful, unwilling to get too caught up in the excitement. But it was only Sinéad who was fearful; Patricia, Adele, Patrick and Valerie were mere spectators, afforded front-row seats at one of the biggest events of the year.
“Homecoming or not, your father will still be hungry when he gets in,” chanted Patricia, busying herself with the dinner. “Set the table, Patrick, there’s a good boy.”
“Anything I can do to help?” asked Sinéad, eager to flaunt the culinary abilities she’d gained during her exile.
“No, thank you, Sinéad,” came the reply from a mother not ready to give up her domain just yet.
Sinéad knew better than to argue, and they convened in the sitting-room to await her father. Seán, who had been playing up to the crowd all afternoon, was now flagging. He’d met enough new people for one day.
“Can I put Seán to bed, Mammy? Anywhere at all will do him.”
“Put him up in our bed,” came the reply from the kitchen.
Sinéad thought this odd, but didn’t complain.
“You’re getting the master bedroom, Seány,” she said, as she cajoled, then dragged her son up the stairs.
In her parent’s room, she pulled back endless layers of covers. It looked incredibly cosy, and reminded her how tired she was herself. But she could last a few hours yet; her son couldn’t. Tired as he was, though, he wasn’t getting into any bed without his pyjamas.
“Jim-jams,” he whined, rubbing his eyes.
She didn’t want to go back downstairs and start tearing at her luggage. Her father would be home any minute and she wanted Seán in bed before he came. A thought popped into her head. She quickly crossed the hallway and entered the room where she had spent the first seventeen years of her life. Not much had changed. Her bed was now in the possession of Adele and the posters of Bono had been replaced by ones of Bros, but that was about it. Valerie’s side of the room was the same as it had always been: organised chaos. She went to the wardrobe and braced herself for the mayhem inside. True to form it was like a car boot sale, minus the car boot. Sifting through her sisters’ clothes, she found what she was looking for: a black sack containing her baby clothes, the ones that hadn’t been handed down to her sisters.
Opening the bag brought memories flooding back; old T-shirts worn at the beach, runners held together with masking tape, the jumper knitted by her grandmother that she’d hated. But the stroll down memory lane would have to wait for another day. There was a sleepy child in the next room looking for his jim-jams. She rooted down to the bottom of the bag, through shorts, socks, scarves and hats, pushing her way past until she alighted on her own childhood pyjamas. They were well worn by this stage but the little boy in the master bedroom would just have to make do. She pulled the fraying pyjamas from the end of the bag, gave them a quick rub and decided they would suffice.
“Seány, look what Mummy
has for you! Some lovely jim-jams that she used to wear.”
Seán sat on the side of the bed, a look of sullen determination on his face. But the sight of the night-time attire seemed to lighten his mood.
“Jim-jams?” he enquired, as Sinéad laid the items on the bed.
“Yes, jim-jams. Aren’t they lovely?”
He picked up the flowery pyjamas and examined them for a second, then he gazed up at his mother, his face masked with doubt. It was a look that said, These? Are you sure? But he was too tired to complain any further. He dutifully raised his arms when told, placed his legs where they were supposed to go, and a few moments later the ensemble was complete.
“There ya go, now. Aren’t ya lovely?” Sinéad said, tucking him under the covers.
He looked tiny in her parent’s bed, his minute frame submerged by a myriad of blankets. If it weren’t for the mop of brown hair just visible above them, you wouldn’t have known he was there at all.
“Are you okay there, Seány?”
The only response was the soft sigh of her son’s sleep. She kissed him on the cheek, leaving him to his dreams, making sure the door was slightly ajar so that the light from the landing illuminated the gloom.
The sounds and smells coming from the kitchen told her that dinner was now served. Her stomach growled in anticipation. She’d almost forgotten how good her mother’s cooking tasted. Such was her eagerness to get back downstairs, she completely forgot about the one member of her family she had yet to meet.
“Mmm, that smells like good oul’ Tricia McLoughin stew,” she proclaimed, re-entering the living room. “Where’s me feckin pl-”
Her father was at the sink, washing his hands. Sinéad’s cheeks flushed and her words tailed off, hanging in the air like a bad smell. She swallowed deeply, waiting for her father to acknowledge her presence. But Noel continued washing his hands, his back still to her and no apparent change in his demeanour.
“Hello, Daddy,” she ventured at last.