And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  The light from the sergeant’s torch beamed brightly on her left, just as it had done since the start. He’d probably had some spare batteries, kept them with his instruments. If she’d been listening at the start, she might have heard him tell them how to bring the search to a halt. No doubt they were supposed to shout some nautical term or relay their thoughts through Morse code, but she’d been too busy worrying about her only child and whether he was still alive. Excuse me for being so ignorant.

  “Sergeant!” she called, thinking how strange it was to call someone else’s name after hours of ‘Seán’ intoned over and over again. There was no reply, so she called again, louder. Still nothing. Perhaps she should address him by his real name? His real name was Hugh, but people called him Hughie. She went with Hugh, just to be on the safe side.

  “HUGH!”

  His head was turned away from her. She opened her mouth to shout again, but before she did something magical occurred. There was a flurry of activity to her left. No longer could she hear her son’s name repeated over and over again; the mantra had ceased, and in its stead were unfamiliar words: words she had feared she would never hear.

  “We’ve found him!”

  “He’s here!”

  She ran, staggered and stumbled, to the source of these words. Her torch was now all but dead, but what light did she need? She was being guided by an altogether more powerful force: her love for her child. Tears streaked down her face as she fell, got up again, ran a few yards and fell once more. She couldn’t hear their words anymore, the sound of her beating heart drowning everything out. Her eyes now followed the light which had sprung up somewhere in the distance. It was the light of a dozen, fully-operational, torches. It gave off an eerie, preternatural glow amid the intense darkness of the forest; as if a group of solemn angels had been sent down from the heavens to protect her baby, to guide him to safety.

  “He’s here!” the voices repeated. “We have him.”

  She was almost there when another fall, a heavier one this time, took her breath away, but she was up within seconds, bolting forward like a racehorse who’d unseated its rider. Finally she reached them, the beautiful angels and their glorious shimmering light. She broke through them, instinctively knowing where to go. One of the angels, a fat one in a woolly hat, held her child in their arms. She pounced, grasping both child and angel. The angel allowed her to gently prise Seán from their arms, and he came willingly.

  “Mammy?” he said.

  “Yes, Seány, it’s me. Everything’s okay now.”

  “I hope this isn’t a dream, Mammy.”

  “It’s not, Seán, I swear.”

  *

  He was rewarded for his endeavours with burgers, chips and as much fizzy orange as he could drink. His nanny and granddad, his aunts and Patrick all came round, and everyone made a huge fuss of him. He’d thought he might get into trouble, but they appeared to be having a party to celebrate his running away. Seán vowed privately to run away more often. He was having a great time, and would happily have stayed up all night telling Patrick about the beasts he’d killed. His mother had other plans, however; she bundled him up in her arms and announced that her little adventurer was going to bed.

  “Ah, could you not leave him stay up for a while?” objected Patricia.

  Her mother had been doing her utmost to undermine Sinéad’s authority since they’d found Seán. They’d had to bring him to the hospital for a check-up and Patricia had insisted on accompanying them despite her daughter’s protestations. In the examination room she’d made certain the doctor knew exactly why Seán was there, explaining in great detail what had happened; that this little boy had run away because his mother had invited some strange men into her home. It had continued back at the house. Cutting remarks were casually inserted into the conversation; Patricia questioning Sinéad’s ability to rear a child, her living arrangements, her line of work, her morals, and whatever else came to mind. But it was done subtly, with the skill and nous of a tactician. Sinéad had refused to respond, knowing that a confrontation was inevitable but trying to delay it as best she could.

  “Say goodnight to everyone, Seán,” she instructed, ignoring her mother’s protestations.

  Seán waved them a sad goodbye and after a cursory brush of his teeth and a rapid change into his pyjamas he was tucked up in bed. No sooner had his head hit the pillow than he was out for the count, safe and sound and back where he belonged. When she returned, Adele and Patrick were getting ready to leave. Sinéad made eyes at them, pleading with them to stay. If they left, her mother would have a free run at her, and she’d been itching all evening to give one of her sermons. They were going, however, and when Valerie saw they were off she jumped ship too. Sinéad hugged them goodbye, thanked them for their help and promised to update them on Seán’s condition in the morning. She closed the door behind them, and turned hopefully to her parents with a look that said ‘shouldn’t ye be going too?’ They weren’t going anywhere, though. This was what her mother had been waiting for.

  “Sit down, Sinéad,” she said, as her daughter lingered by the door.

  She did as she was told; it was easier that way. She stole a glance at her father, hoping for salvation, but he just shrugged and returned to his whiskey. This was his wife’s territory, he had no business getting involved.

  Her mother looked at her earnestly. “How did this happen, Sinéad? Why did this happen?”

  “Can we not leave this till tomorrow, Mam? It’s been quite the day if you hadn’t noticed?”

  “But sure we’re all here now, love, and you know how I worry about him.”

  Oh, poor you. It must be awful having to worry about him so much. What can I do to help?

  “I hear you’ve been seeing a new man?” Patricia began.

  “Yes; what about it?”

  “It’s a very delicate situation, you know, Sinéad. You can’t just bring in man after man and expect your boy to accept it.”

  Sinéad simmered; one man had suddenly turned into several.

  “I’ve never brought a man into this house, never,” she replied, surprised at how easily the lie came.

  “Well, as long as you know what you’re doing, Sinéad. You have to put his needs first, you know.”

  Once more Sinéad bristled, but she held her tongue. Engaging in an argument with Patricia McLoughlin was an exercise in futility. Her mother was a true master, a black belt in the art of verbal jousting. She had a way of infuriating others while remaining completely calm herself. Pithy put-downs and thinly-veiled insults were delivered through smiling lips, with eyes warm and friendly. Her tone never changed, her emotions never betrayed her. Meanwhile, the victim slowly reached boiling point, frustration rising with each passing moment until, despite the best of intentions, they eventually lost it; firing a volley of expletives, a salvo of insults they didn’t mean, and storming out in a huff, leaving the estimable Mrs. McLoughlin stunned and highly insulted.

  Over time Sinéad had learned that the best course of action was just to agree with her, or at least pretend to. So she sat there, silently fuming, nodding tersely every couple of minutes as her mother preached about the vagaries of being a single parent. If she was lucky, Patricia would grow tired of tackling such a passive opponent and call a halt to proceedings before sunrise; but she showed no sign of tiring. This was her idea of heaven. She revelled in these altercations, brightening up at the prospect of a good squabble. If she had been a man, she would have spent her evenings roaming the streets picking fights with unassuming strangers.

  Sinéad watched her as she spoke, her mother – this woman whom she had admired for as long as she could remember – and thought how old she looked. Her face wasn’t beset with wrinkles or significantly aged; on the contrary, she could easily have passed for a woman ten years younger. Her spark, however, had gone. She looked tired. Defeated. Even now, in full flo
w, she seemed dull and lifeless, her eyes misted over as if in a trance, no sparkle or animation behind them. She was lethargic, just going through the motions, like a presidential candidate who knows he’s beat but continues to state his case because that was just what you did. Her mother rarely spoke of her own parents, but Sinéad knew that her relationship with them had not been good. They were both long since gone, dying within a couple of years of each other when Sinéad had still been a child; she remembered the funerals: strained, tense affairs where no one said much and everyone seemed happy when it was all over. Then that was it; they were never mentioned again. There were no pictures of them in their house, their grave was never visited and their anniversaries passed without comment.

  Occasionally she would ask about them; gentle, probing queries designed to shed some light upon these enigmatic figures. The answer was always the same: ‘I don’t want to talk about them.’ So she turned to her father, hoping he could enlighten her. But Noel knew better than to break rank. If his wife wasn’t going to tell the children about their grandparents, neither was he. Sinéad persevered, though, her curiosity piqued by the wall of silence, and eventually one night, after he’d had a few, she caught him off guard.

  “Your mother had a terrible childhood, Nades; terrible,” he had said, looking into the distance as he spoke, as if envisaging terrors he had only heard about.

  “In what way, Daddy? What happened?”

  He’d made to speak and then stopped. Sinéad had remained silent, afraid of spooking him. Just when she’d given up, her father spoke.

  “He was a bastard, your mother’s father; an absolute bastard.”

  “What did he do, Daddy?” she’d whispered, almost afraid of the answer.

  “A lighting bastard,” Noel had said quietly. “And she wasn’t much better, the mother. How your own poor mother turned out so well, I’ll never know.”

  Sinéad had thought of contesting that statement but decided against it.

  “They used to beat her, you know; both of them.”

  “Why?”

  But he hadn’t been listening.

  “Nothing more than a skivvy, that’s all she was to them.”

  Her father’s hand had shaken as he lifted the glass to his mouth, but the drink seemed to steady his nerves. He’d turned to face his daughter, a solemn look on his face.

  “Now you listen to me, Sinéad; your mother loves you and the lads with all her heart, but she’s had a hard fuckin’ life and it’s affected her in ways none of us could ever understand. I know she’s not the easiest person to be around at times, but we all have to try our best for her, don’t we?”

  “We do, Daddy,” Sinéad had replied.

  “That’s the girl,” he’d said, putting his hand on the nape of her neck as if to pull her in for a hug.

  Sinéad had shifted in her seat in anticipation of their embrace, but then Noel had removed his hand and stared into the distance once more. This time the conversation had finished, never to be continued.

  *

  It was after midnight when they finally left, her father all hugs and drunken kisses, Patricia still proffering advice as Sinéad bustled them out the door. She shut it behind them and breathed in deeply. “Thank God for that,” she said to the empty room. She picked up the latest array of empty cans and bottles and brought them out to the kitchen. The whole house stank of booze, fags and takeaway food. Was this really the kind of environment in which to bring up a child? She didn’t want her son getting used to waking up to this kind of scene. So, tired as she was, she set about tidying up. She began gathering the remaining rubbish, clearing off the table and washing it down with kitchen cleaner. The carpet would need hoovering, but that could wait till morning. She’d almost finished and was standing in the middle of the room, stretching her back, when she saw the stain on the wall behind one of the armchairs.

  “What the fuck is that?” she said aloud, walking over for a closer look.

  Running her fingers over the stain, she noticed that it was still damp. It ran all the way to the floor, where a gloopy, viscous liquid had congealed beneath the skirting-board. The pungent, unmistakable odour told her all she needed to know: Smithwicks. Of course: Seán’s riposte to the two intruders in his house. She felt a surge of pride as she imagined her pint-sized guardian hurling projectiles at his tormentors, but that was wrong; she couldn’t encourage that kind of behaviour. He’d receive a stern talking-to in the morning, and then she’d make him clean it up. Up to now he had been treated like a king for running away, but it was time for a reality check; as soon as he awoke, he would be donning a pair of rubber gloves and getting down to business. She laughed at the thought of it: the protestations, the grumbling as he half-heartedly rubbed at the stain. Chances were she would eventually buckle and do it herself, but not before he’d at least made an attempt at it.

  With the rest of the room tidy, she switched off the light and went to bed, first checking on her son – just in case.

  “Night, Seán,” she called into the darkness. The sound of his steady breathing told her he was fast asleep, but still she lingered. Standing in the doorway, she listened to the gentle rising of his chest for a few moments more, and then, satisfied that he wasn’t going to jump out the window once her back was turned, she at last sought the comfort of her own bed.

  13

  When she awoke the following morning she knew what she had to do. It was time to sit her son down for a chat, a serious chat. Neither of them were likely to enjoy the chat – tears were not only possible, they were likely – but it would benefit them both in the long run. Once she explained to Seán that Daryl was her boyfriend and that he was an important part of her life everything would be so much easier. They could start over, maybe arrange that long-awaited play-date. The memory of Seán and Daryl’s first tumultuous meeting would soon be forgotten, and a new relationship would be forged under her watchful eye. But it was vital she did it today, that she didn’t allow the yesterday’s events to go unmentioned. The longer she left it, the harder it would it get. This was her opportunity and a better one was unlikely to present itself.

  Before any heartfelt one-to-ones could be conducted however, there was some cleaning to be done

  “Right, mister, I think it’s time you tackled this big stain you made on the wall, don’t you?”

  Seán looked at her, aghast. An episode of Dogtanian and the Four Muskahounds had just started, one he’d only seen four times previously. But his mammy had that look in her eye, that dangerous look. He knew that look well and knew he’d be a fool to disobey her right now. Sometimes when she asked him to do something he’d grumble and complain, have a right good moan and hope she’d take pity on him. He wasn’t going to do that today, though; she wasn’t in a pitying mood.

  To his surprise, cleaning the stain was kind of fun. He was given a basin full of hot, soapy water, a cloth and a towel, and told to scrub the stain until it disappeared. Seán got really in to it, furiously rubbing the mark on the wall, creating more and more suds as he tackled the job with gusto. He began to hum to himself, a song he’d learned in school, one about a horse that ran all day and never got tired. He was like that horse, except instead of running he was cleaning. This lasted for all of thirty seconds.

  “Mam, my arms are killing me,” he said, rubbing his tiny biceps for effect.

  “Keep going,” Sinéad instructed.

  Seán muttered under his breath, huffing and hawing as frustration set in.

  “I can’t do it Mam, it’s too hard.”

  “Seán…”

  He knew that tone, it invariably accompanied that look in her eye; together they spelled shouting and a potential smack on the bum. Seán continued scrubbing, this time without complaint.

  After a couple of minutes of genuine, concerted effort, Sinéad relented.

  “Come up out of it,” she said, relieving him
of his duties. Seán came willingly, his spirits immediately lifted.

  “I didn’t do a bad job on it, Mammy, so I didn’t?” he said, cloth slung over his shoulder as he admired his work.

  “Amazing, Seán,” said Sinéad, sourly.

  Pleased with himself, Seán returned to the couch. Hopefully that would be the end of ‘cross mammy’ for the day. He’d done what she’d asked of him and now they could go back to being friends again. He hated it when she was cross, it scared him. Sometimes, when she was like this, she told him he was the boldest child in all of Dooncurra. Other times she sent him to his room, or shouted at him; he never knew what to expect with ‘cross mammy’, she was capable of anything.

  “Are you still cross, Mammy?” he asked.

  “Who said I was cross, Seán?” she replied.

  “You seem cross, Mammy.”

  This was as far as he was willing to push it, he’d let her do the rest of the talking.

  Sinéad looked up from her position on the floor; the stain was proving to be more stubborn than she’d expected and her exertions had caused her to sweat.

  “I am cross, Seán, you’re right.”

  “Why Mammy? Why are you cross?” Sean pleaded, desperate for things to go back to normal.

  “Because of what happened yesterday, Seán, you can’t just run away like that.”

  Ah, so it was the running away thing she was cross about; he’d almost forgotten about that.

  “But I’m back now, Mammy,” he said, smiling.

  “That’s not the point, Seán,” said Sinéad, getting to her feet and joining him on the couch. This was her moment: she would explain who Daryl was and what he meant to her. She would ask how Seán felt about this and maybe suggest they do something together, just the three of them.