by Simon Bourke
He buckled slightly at the knees, his shoulders slackening as if absorbing a heavy blow; then he slowly turned to face her.
“You’re back.”
Sinéad couldn’t tell whether this was a question or a statement.
“I am, Daddy. Did you miss me?”
He shook his head ruefully, dried his hands on a tea-towel and looked at his wife.
“What did you know about this?”
“Nothing!” Patricia retorted, hurt by the allegation.
“And you?” he asked, looking at Adele.
“Nothing, Daddy,” she replied, aping her mother’s indignation.
“Jaysus, ye’re an awful shower, do ye know that?” he said, taking his seat at the head of the table.
Sinéad stood at the entrance to the kitchen, wondering if it was safe to come in. Her father looked up at her, a familiar twinkle in his eye.
“You gonna sit down or what, girl?”
Sheepishly she pulled up a seat, her old seat right beside her father, and joined the rest of her family. She dared not look at him but he was right there, filling his mug with milk, buttering his bread, waiting for his dinner: carrying on as normal.
“Could you pass the salt, please, Daddy?” Sinéad asked primly.
He handed her the salt shaker, their eyes locking.
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome, Nades,” he said with a smirk.
Sinéad stared at the ground, a smile spreading across her lips. She didn’t want to get ahead of herself, but it looked like he was going to forgive her.
*
Dinner was a raucous affair; everyone fighting to be heard, but no one saying anything worth hearing. Patricia surveyed the scene, marvelling at the wonder of it all. Usually even her best efforts were devoured without as much as a ‘thank you’, but now it was as if they were feasting upon a royal banquet. Smiling faces beamed out from every corner of the table; appreciative grunts filled the gaps in the conversation. At one point she thought she heard a compliment thrown her way. Her youngest, the hungriest hippo of them all, appeared to be chewing on his food rather than swallowing it whole. It was quite something; her family were civilised for once, like something you’d see on the front of a Christmas card.
“That was delicious, Mammy. What’s for dessert?” asked Sinéad, licking her plate clean.
“Hmm, there might be some Swiss Roll in the press.”
“Swiss Roll, Mammy? Swiss Roll?” Patrick said, outraged. “Surely we should get something fancy for the day that’s in it.”
“Sure what day is in it?” Noel asked. “Tis only a Tuesday as far as I know.”
He raised a sly eyebrow in Sinéad’s direction.
“But Sinéad is back,” Patrick continued. “We’ll have to get something nice.”
“Oh, I’d say you’re very worried about your sister,” Patricia replied haughtily.
“Mammy, an occasion like this calls for Viennetta at the very least.”
Noel fished in his pockets for some change. “Here, son, go down and get whatever you can with that,” he said, giving the boy a handful of coins.
Patrick studied his haul, saw that it was mostly pound coins and fifty-pence pieces and declared himself happy.
“Right, I’ll be back in five minutes,” he said, skipping out the door.
“Get wafers too, Patrick!” his mother shouted after him.
“G’way, Mammy, no one likes them yokes,” he called back. And before Patricia could protest he was gone.
“Need a hand with the washing-up, Mammy?” Sinéad asked, rising from the table.
“What are you asking me for? Sure I’m not doing any washing-up,” Patricia replied, going into the sitting-room to join her husband. “Tis your sisters you should be asking.”
“Well, girls?” Sinéad asked, turning to her younger siblings.
“You’re on drying, Nades,” said Adele, flinging a tea-towel at her.
“Drying? That’s the worst job; leave me do the washing.”
“I’m afraid not, sis. I’m the resident washer-upper nowadays. That’s what you get for feckin’ off to England for yourself.”
“Well, fuck the pair of ye so,” Sinéad said, as she squeezed in between her giggling sisters and took a soapy plate from Adele’s hands.
“LANGUAGE, SINÉAD!” shouted their mother. “No swearing in this house; nothing’s changed there.”
“Yeah, Sinéad, language,” mimicked Valerie, flicking her with suds.
“Yeah, Sinéad,” Adele said, “fuckin’ language.”
They all creased up with laughter, desperately trying to stay quiet lest more words of warning come their way.
Noel listened to his daughters from his chair in the sitting-room. Ordinarily he wouldn’t put up with anyone talking during the evening news bulletin, and certainly not in that manner. But it felt so good to have her back, they could have been shrieking at the top of their lungs and he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. The headlines were over, anyway. They’d progressed to regional news now, stuff that wasn’t of any interest to him. He stared distractedly at the television as the ads came on. There was one for kitchen cleaner; a hot and bothered woman having her work cut in half by this miraculous new product. Then one for beer, which reminded him; he fancied a pint later. Next was one for nappies: a child frolicked around on the screen before tumbling over and laughing: ah isn’t that cute. But it reminded him of something too. He wasn’t sure what though. It niggled away at him, stuck in the back of his brain. Something he’d been thinking about earlier. What the hell was it? Then he heard Sinéad’s voice filtering in from the kitchen and he remembered.
“Tricia,” he whispered.
“What?”
“Is there a baby?”
“Where?”
“With Sinéad; does she have a child?”
His wife smiled with pleasure. She had one over him this time.
“Oh, yeah,” she said.
“She does have a child? Well, where is it?”
Patricia peered into the kitchen and then back at her husband.
“Come on,” she said, nodding her head upstairs.
Noel duly followed, hoping this wasn’t one of his wife’s stupid jokes.
She led him up the stairs, pressing her finger to her lips as she went. They came to the landing, and Patricia instructed her husband to keep quiet while she went into their room for a moment. She’s setting me up, I know she is, he thought, but he stood there in silence nonetheless. His wife returned and beckoned him inside.
“Quiet now,” she said as they tiptoed into the bedroom.
“Is there a feckin’ child in this house or not, Tricia?” Noel muttered harshly, feeling foolish for getting his hopes up.
“Shush,” she replied irritably.
At first he couldn’t see anything. The curtains were drawn, and the thin sliver of light coming from the landing only made things shadowy and ghostly. What was he supposed to be looking at? He scanned the room for signs of life, but he couldn’t see anything. Then, as if determined to make his presence known, Seán emitted a faint sound from the bed. Noel’s head spun around in search of its source. He had already looked at the bed and seen nothing there, but now he looked more closely. There at its head lay a tiny little figure, whether a boy or a girl he couldn’t tell. The only thing visible was a mop of hair sticking out from beneath the covers.
Noel looked to his wife. “Can I?” he asked.
“Yes, but be quiet.”
He padded over to the bed and fell down to his haunches. Yes, there she was, a little girl in her granddad’s bed, and wearing her mammy’s pyjamas by the looks of things. He gently raised his hand to Seán’s head and stroked his hair.
“What’s her name?”
“Seán,” his wife replied.
“Seán?”
“Yes.”
“Shawna?”
“No. Just Seán.”
Noel looked at the child again. This was a girl, surely? What kind of a boy wore his mother’s pyjamas and had hair like this?
“It’s a boy, Noel, I assure you.”
Again he wasn’t sure if it was one of his wife’s pranks. If this was indeed a boy then he had some work to do, but nothing that a few fishing trips wouldn’t fix.
“A boy it is,” he said, continuing to stroke Seán’s hair. “A boy it is.”
JONATHAN
1
Margaret Philliskirk had never been happier. That gnawing void had been filled, the lack of fulfilment addressed; she felt whole, complete, and the reason for it all lay sprawled in his cot a few feet away. Her little boy: her life. Most mothers cherished these quiet moments, but she hated them. Any time spent away from her child was to be endured, not enjoyed. Over time she’d learned to let him sleep, but it hadn’t been easy. For the first year she’d kept a continuous bedside vigil, counting down the minutes until he awoke and she could be a mother again. And when he was awake she made sure he was never out of her sight, never out of her arms if she could help it. Malcolm had told her it wasn’t healthy, that the child didn’t need round-the-clock attention. But what did he know? He spent half the day away at work. How could he possibly understand their child’s needs? No, she would look after her baby her own way.
Eventually she began to relax, allowed herself some sleep of her own., but even then she was on guard; one eye half-open, an ear cocked, just in case. If he cried out, she was there by his side before the cry had left his mouth. She would pick him up, feel his warmth against her chest, his soft breath on her neck, and soothe him back to sleep. Her little boy. Her little Jonathan. No one could placate him like she could. Her touch instantly calmed him, drove away his fears, made him feel safe. That was her job, and she did it well. She could admit that to herself now: she was a good mother. There was no denying it. Everyone said so. She’d come a long way since that first meeting when she’d sat there consumed with terror, convinced the baby would hate her, that all babies hated her. That she would take him in her arms and he would cry and cry and cry. He would cry so much they thought his little vocal chords were going to sever. And she would have hand to him back, apologise for being so inept, and return to her miserable, childless life.
That hadn’t been her worst fear, though; what really chilled her was the notion that she might hate the baby. This poor, defenceless mite would crave her attention, yearn to be mothered and she would respond with disdain. She would look at this bastard child, the progeny of another woman, and ask herself why she, Margaret Philliskirk, should care for it. It was nothing to do with her; it wasn’t her problem. If it cried, what did she care? She was nothing more than a cold, heartless bitch with nary a maternal bone in her body. She would send the baby back, explain that it had all been a terrible mistake and forget it ever happened. She could blame Malcolm; he’d forced her into it against her will. It would probably break them up; they’d divorce, and he would marry a woman capable of bearing his offspring. All for the best, really. But none of that happened. The baby cooed and gurgled when she took it in her arms, and almost immediately her heart melted. Almost immediately, she vowed to die for this child. It sounded crazy but she meant it.
When they were finally allowed to bring him home, one of the first things they had to decide upon was a name. They had bought every baby-name book they could find and sat up in bed till the small hours going through the lists: Aaron, Abraham, Antonio, Axel – Zacchaeus, Zack, Zerxes, Zeus. But nothing had stuck, nothing had felt right. It was because he wasn’t here with them. They needed to see him to decide what name would fit. Once he arrived, they would just know. He had been Seán for the first six months of his life, but they agreed without argument that they would change it. Neither of them had any objection to the name Seán; but a primal desire to claim their prize drove their decision. They narrowed it down to five – Andrew, Jonathan, Elijah, Nathan, and Toby – and decided to choose one once he’d been with them for a few days. After the first day, Margaret knew which she wanted. He was a Jonathan; everything about him was a Jonathan. His darting, dancing blue eyes, the tuft of light-brown hair which swirled atop his perfect little head, and the puckered little mouth which seemed constantly ready to break into a smile: he was a Jonathan, from top to bottom: Jonathan. Thankfully, her husband agreed. She had broached the subject first.
“Any thoughts on his name?” she’d asked as they stared into the cot.
“Well – ” he replied.
But she’d known he had thoughts, strong thoughts too by the look of it. He could never hide his feelings from her.
“Come on,” she’d demanded. “Out with it.”
“I don’t want to say, in case you’ve already set your heart on something else.”
“I won’t be disappointed, I promise,” she had lied.
“How about writing our choices down on a piece of paper and handing them to each other? That way I’ll know you’re not agreeing with me just for the sake of it.”
“Okay,” she’d replied, running off to find some paper, laughing at the idea of her agreeing with her husband’s choice of name just for the sake of it.
When she’d returned they’d hurriedly scribbled down their preferences, folded up each paper and handed it to the other.
“Will we open them now?” he had asked.
“Sure,” she’d replied, readying herself for battle. No way was her Jonathan being called Elijah; no bloody way.
But when she’d opened the piece of paper, she’d seen her son’s name in her husband’s writing. It was meant to be, written in the stars. They had their Jonathan.
2
But her life wasn’t complete; not yet.
“Would you like a little sister, Jonathan?” she’d ask as she changed his nappy. “Someone to play with? You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
She knew he couldn’t answer yet, but it felt right to run it by him. Anyway, she was sure he’d agree. Of course he’d love someone to play with; any child would. He would be so happy. And why stop there? She could get him a sister, and a brother too; as many as he wanted. She was a dab hand at this parenting lark, and there were thousands of babies out there just waiting for someone like her to come along. Maybe she could become a foster parent, have a house full of little babies? But then Jonathan might feel neglected, and she didn’t want that. No, a little sister would suffice for the time being. All she had to do now was tell her husband; he was still a part of this household, after all.
She was sure Malcolm would be open to the idea. She saw how he was with Jonathan, how his tired eyes lit up whenever his son was in the room. He was a great father, as she’d always known he would be. He loved parenthood just as much as she did, and he’d always wanted a little girl. But there was the financial side of it to consider. The costs involved in Jonathan’s adoption had taken her by surprise, but the money needed to feed, clothe and rear him had been another matter entirely. She had given up her part-time job at the flower shop and become a stay-at-home mum, which meant that they had to survive on Malcolm’s salary. To ease the strain, he’d taken on more hours at the office: staying late, working Saturdays, doing his utmost to provide for his family. He burned the candle at both ends. Often he’d return home from a twelve-hour day, and within minutes of finishing his tea he’d be off to bed. ‘We’ll do something nice at the weekend’, he’d say as he kissed her goodnight and held his son for the first time since the night before.
To be honest, though, she didn’t miss her husband all that much. Her love for him hadn’t waned, but it had been supplanted by something else. The love she felt for Jonathan went beyond mere affection and care; it was primal. She knew her husband was tired, and she knew that spending so much time apart wasn’t good for their ma
rriage; but Jonathan was her main concern. So what if Daddy was away all day, and sometimes all night; that just meant more time with Mummy, didn’t it? Everything else in her life was secondary to Jonathan, and unfortunately that included her husband. She listened to him sighing deeply in his sleep at night, wondering if she was betraying him by feeling this way. Should she return to work and lessen his load? She’d consider all this before lapsing into her own fitful sleep, which would inevitably be broken by the anguished cries of her beloved. And when Malcolm arose for another day of boardroom meetings, number crunching, and whatever else he did in that alien world of his, she’d smile to herself; soon he would be gone, and then it would just be Mummy and Jonathan again.
3
Malcolm had arrived home early, catching her by surprise. He hadn’t called ahead to forewarn her so there’d been no dinner ready for him, but he’d said he wasn’t hungry. When she lifted up their son to kiss him, he’d simply brushed her away.
“I’m going outside,” he’d said flatly.
That’s where he was now, sitting in the back garden on the rocking bench. He sometimes went out there after his tea, but only when the evenings were nice. Right now, in mid-March, the evenings were far from nice; grey skies and misty squalls prevailed, the kind of weather best witnessed from inside. But there he was on the rocking bench, which was probably damp from the drizzling rain, and there he had remained for what seemed like an eternity.
Why would he waste this rare opportunity to spend some time with his son? she wondered as she debated whether or not to join him. Something was clearly up, and whatever it was she probably didn’t want to hear it. She could always play dumb, pretend that Jonathan was getting narky and she couldn’t leave him alone. But that was the coward’s way out. Her husband was clearly in need and it was her duty to go to him. She took a deep breath, checked on her son one last time and headed for the back door.
“Honey?”
A brief flicker of the eyes suggested acknowledgement, but he seemed miles away, staring out at the dreary March evening like a man condemned.