by Simon Bourke
“What is the point then, Mammy?” he asked, sincerely.
Sinéad studied her son, gazed upon this picture of innocence and felt her resolve weaken. She knew it had to be done, that she had to prepare him for what lay ahead, but it was so much easier to do nothing, to say nothing. Besides, it wouldn’t be right to upset him again, not after what he’d went through the day before.
“Oh, I don’t know, Seán,” she said sadly, taking him in her arms.
I don’t know either, thought Seán, as he reciprocated her hug, but it doesn’t matter now ‘cos we’re friends again.
14
Seán eyed Daryl warily as he ate. He couldn’t believe it, he really couldn’t. There he was, stuffing his face as if he’d lived here his whole life and this was his own kitchen table. Well, it wasn’t, it was his. His and his mammy’s.
“Come on, Seán, eat up,” urged his mother.
He scowled in response.
Ordinarily he’d be wolfing this down. It was one of his favourites; shepherd’s pie and beans with loads of gravy. Some people just liked the shepherd’s pie on its own; Seán could never understand those people. He liked his shepherd’s pie with beans and gravy. The beans were vital, a few healthy spoonfuls added to the mix right from the off. But it was the gravy that sealed the deal. His mother always told him to say ‘when’ as she slowly drizzled it on top of his food, but he never said ‘when’. Just keep pouring till it’s all gone, Mammy, good woman yourself. Once he had his gravy and his beans, he set about turning the whole thing into one big beautiful mush of spuds, meat, carrots and beans (and gravy). Then and only then was he ready to eat. He had that today; loads of gravy on top of a lovely big mush of shepherd’s pie and beans, but he couldn’t eat it. Not just yet, anyway, because there was a distraction sitting at the other end of the table: a big, ugly distraction that he couldn’t take his eyes off.
Daryl, for his part, barely seemed to notice the daggers being thrown in his direction. He rarely got fed like this; mostly he lived on takeaways and pre-cooked microwave meals from the supermarket.
“Is it nice?” asked Sinéad as he continued to demolish the contents of his plate.
“Fuckin’ lovely,” he replied.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” barked Seán from his seat at the other end of the table. He looked to his mother for assent. “Isn’t that right, mammy?”
“Yes, Daryl; don’t speak with your mouth full,” she repeated, a grin on her face.
“Okay, sorry,” he replied, returning her grin.
Seán looked at them angrily. She’d hardly even given out to him! If that had been him spewing bits of spud all over the table, he would’ve been fucked out of it.
He waited until Daryl had finished his dinner before beginning his own, never once taking his eyes off him. Once they went to the living-room for a fag he got stuck in, thankful it was still warm. And with new boundaries seemingly in place, he took it upon himself to make as much of a mess as he possibly could. If Daryl could eat with his mouth full, then so could he, and not only that, he could also use his fingers and his hands. He could dribble food from his mouth, flick bits of it at the wall and dip his entire face into his plate. Sure why not? Anything went these days.
By the time he’d finished he had more than made his point. He didn’t usually like to waste any of his favourite dinner, but this was a special occasion. It was everywhere; on the table, on the floor, on the chairs, on the walls, on his face, in his ears and even inside his jumper. Forming a little hat made entirely out of potatoes and carefully placing it on his head was maybe going a step too far, but his mother could be the judge of that.
“Finished!” he shouted out. “Is there any dessert, Mammy?”
Sinéad came in to the kitchen to collect his plate. “Why don’t you go down to Bart – Seán! What the hell are you doing?”
“What’s wrong, Mammy?” he replied, looking up at her.
“This mess, that’s what wrong! How many times have I told you to mind your manners at the kitchen table?”
“But Daryl was allowed speak with his mouth full!”
“That was different, Seán, and you know it.”
“No, I don’t,” Seán replied. “I don’t know anything.”
He pushed out his chair and stomped sullenly to his room, his spud-hat crumbling to pieces and falling to the floor as he went.
Sinéad shook her head and set about tidying up. Lately it felt like all she was doing was cleaning up messes.
“What’s up?” asked Daryl, coming into the kitchen.
“Oh, nothing, just some dinner-time dramatics.”
“Fuckin’ state of the place,” he said, picking up a cloth. “Shouldn’t let him get away with that, y’know.”
Taken aback by the sight of a man cleaning up her kitchen, Sinéad chose to overlook his criticism of her parental skills.
“It’s difficult for him, you have to understand.”
“I do, but I didn’t think it’d be this hard.”
Sinéad flinched at his words. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you? I mean, if this is too much for you I’d rather you told me now and saved us all a lot of heartache.”
Daryl put down the cloth and placed his hands on her hips. “Of course not, Sinéad. I love you more than anything in the world. I’m willing to be a father to that boy, too, but he’s not making it easy for me.”
Sinéad rested her head on his chest. “Maybe one day we’ll all look back at this and laugh. You never know.”
She looked up at him for an answer but he just smiled down at her. The truth was that he didn’t know how things were going to work out. There was a barrier between him and the boy, one that he didn’t know how to penetrate. He’d thought it would be easy; he’d just stroll in the door, crack a few jokes and before you knew it, they’d be sitting by the TV watching football together. That Seán was a strange one, though; the way he glared at him was unsettling. He didn’t seem like other children of that age, how he questioned everything and trusted nothing. A hard nut to crack, that’s what he was, but Daryl was willing to work on their relationship. He truly loved Sinéad, and if that meant taking on a child that wasn’t his then so be it. Hopefully one day they would have children of their own, and maybe then things between Seán and himself would get a little easier. For the moment, though, it was just the three of them, and if they were going to get along he had to be the one to make it happen.
“Will I give him his present now?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Daryl. He ran away the other week and we treated him like a lord; he wrecks the kitchen tonight and gets a present for his trouble. Not exactly sending out the right message, is it?”
“I just thought it might make a good peace offering, seeing as he clearly hates me.”
“Oh, he doesn’t hate you, Daryl, he’s just protective of his mammy. It’s quite sweet, really.”
“Well, I’m here to protect ye both now,” Daryl said, fishing Seán’s present from the shopping bag. “Will you call him down? He won’t answer if I do it.”
“Seán, Seán, come down a minute!”
Silence. A sickening thought struck Sinéad.
“Jesus, if he’s after running away again I’ll fuckin’ kill him,” she said, hurrying to his room.
But he was there safe and sound, lying on his bed reading a comic.
“Why didn’t you answer me when I called you?” she asked.
Seán ignored her.
She walked over to the bed. “Seán, answer me now or you’ll be sorry.”
He flashed her a venomous look. “I won’t be sorry. I won’t!”
With the aggressive approach not working, Sinéad decided to change tack. She sat on the edge of the bed and began to tickle Seán’s stockinged feet. “Stop,” he giggled as she went to work on his little toes. �
�Mammy, stop it!”
But it was no use. She had him. Try as he might he couldn’t resist, and before long he had succumbed, breaking into peals of laughter as she tickled his feet, ribcage and armpits.
“Mammy, stop, stop,” he wheezed as the onslaught continued, his stomach sore from the laughter.
She eventually relented and stood up from the bed. “Now come on down to the sitting-room, young sir; we have a surprise for you.”
The smile vanished from Seán’s face. “What kind of surprise? Ye’re not getting married, are ye?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Come on and I’ll show you,” she said, taking his hand.
“Okay,” he said, allowing himself to be escorted to the sitting-room.
“What was all the laughing about? Sounded like great fun,” Daryl said when they entered.
Seán squeezed his mother’s hand. He didn’t want Daryl knowing about their game. He didn’t want Daryl knowing anything about them.
“It was just a joke Mammy told me,” he said.
“Ah, a joke. I love jokes; go on, tell me it.”
“You wouldn’t get it,” Seán said dismissively, as he went to the kitchen in search of something to replace the dessert he’d missed.
Daryl looked at Sinéad beseechingly. “I can’t win,” he whispered, raising his eyes to heaven.
“Seán, come in here,” she said. “I told you we’ve something to show you.”
“We’ve no biscuits, Mammy, none at all.”
“Forget about the biscuits and just come in here, will you!”
Sensing that this was his final warning, Seán skulked back to the sitting-room.
“What is it?” he asked impatiently.
Sinéad nudged Daryl, and he reached behind the couch for the shopping bag.
In spite of himself, Seán felt a tremor of excitement. A present. Nice one! Maybe this whole Daryl thing would have its benefits after all.
“You’re a big soccer fan, aren’t you, Seán?” Daryl asked hesitantly.
“Yes.”
“You follow the boys in green, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Italia ‘90 and all that?” he continued, pulling a package from the bag.
“Yeah. David O’Leary,” said Seán, following Daryl’s hands as the mysterious item made its way towards him.
“Well, this is for you,” Daryl said. He handed the carefully-wrapped present to the little boy. “Hope you like it.”
Seán looked to his mother for affirmation. She nodded and he took the present.
“What do you say?” Sinéad asked.
“Thank you,” Seán murmured.
“Thank you, what?” she pressed.
“Thank you, Daryl.”
Seán took the present, laid it down on the floor and took a seat beside the television.
Sinéad and Daryl looked at each other, incredulous.
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” she asked.
Seán gazed over at her with sad eyes. He beckoned her over and she rose from her seat, crouching down beside him.
“What is it?” she asked in a low voice.
Seán pressed his mouth to her ear, ”Can I open it later, when he’s gone?”
“No, you’ll open it now. He went to a lot of trouble to get you that and it means a lot to him.”
“Okay,” Seán sighed. “But you stay here while I open it, okay?”
She nodded in agreement and moved to the side so that Daryl could watch him open the gift.
Seán already knew what it was anyway, he wasn’t stupid. It was a Jackie Charlton T-shirt or, at best, a pair of pyjamas with Paul McGrath on them. Either was good, though, he didn’t mind. He carefully undid the wrapping, trying to savour the moment – he loved presents. As the contents were slowly revealed, he let out an involuntary gasp. It wasn’t a T-shirt or pyjamas, it was a feckin’ jersey, the Ireland jersey, the one they’d worn during Italia ‘90. Feckin’ hell. Gwan, Daryl, ya fecker! If this had come from anyone else he would already have been running around the house, jersey on, recreating David O’Leary’s penalty against Romania. But instead he plucked the shirt from its packaging, looked it up and down a couple of times, and went back to watching the telly.
“Well, Seány, what do you think?” his mother asked.
Seán couldn’t lie. It was amazing; maybe the best present he’d ever got.
“It’s brilliant,” he said. And then, looking at Daryl: “Thanks, Daryl. It’s a great present, it really is.”
Taken aback by this sudden sincerity, Daryl was unsure how to respond; but the boy had finally afforded him some respect, and it was only right to respond in kind.
“No bother,” he replied.
Jonathan
1
Malcolm’s new business was flourishing. Since its inception five years ago his small web-hosting firm had gone from strength to strength, growing from a tiny one-room operation to a company employing over fifty staff. He and his partner, Dennis, an old friend from Uni, had invested their entire savings in it, risking everything they had. But thanks to Malcolm’s astute marketing skills and Dennis’ expertise in designing and developing websites, they were soon running a profit. Within a year they’d moved to new premises and had a young and ambitious workforce doing the majority of the hard work on their behalf. Two years later there was another move, further expansion necessary if they wished to compete with their rivals. And now there was talk of additional upgrades; they needed more staff, better computers, the latest in technology and, most importantly, more clients. Philliskirk & Barnes was the fourth biggest web-hosting business in the northwest, and Malcolm was its Chief Executive. The final months in his previous job had long been consigned to history, a dark period in his life which he could now see as a turning-point. He was an entrepreneur now, a businessman, with a salary to match.
“I’m the CEO, Marge; I can pay myself whatever I want,” he’d joke as she stared in amazement at his pay-slip.
All those zeros sent her head into a spin. Of course she was proud of him, inordinately so, but for her it had never been about money. All she wanted was enough to be comfortable; enough for a holiday in the summer, enough to buy Jonathan presents from Father Christmas. She had no need for anything more. But now her husband was a high-flier who drove a brand-new car and wore expensive suits to work every day, and if he was a high-flier, what did that make her? She still hoped to return to her old job at the florist’s, but was that now unbecoming for a lady in her position? Should she spend her days golfing, playing tennis and lunching with the ladies, shopping in classy department stores? No, thank you. She would devote herself to motherhood and keeping her house in order. And if she had any spare time she would tend to her garden, maybe watch some television when she really wanted to indulge herself.
Being financially secure, however, had set her mind to work in another way. She had refused Malcolm’s offer of a newly-fitted kitchen, pooh-poohed his suggestion of a holiday in the Seychelles, and positively bristled when he’d mentioned moving to a bigger house. There was something she wanted, though, just one little thing – and it wouldn’t even cost very much.
“Malc?” she began nervously as they returned home from the park one Sunday afternoon.
Jonathan was asleep in the back seat, having run around in circles for four hours with two kids he’d befriended in the sandpit.
“Yes, love?”
“Would you say that we’re stable, financially I mean?”
“Oh, yes, definitely,” Malcolm replied, wrapping his hands tightly round the wheel of his BMW.
“Good.”
“Why do you ask, love? Having second thoughts about that kitchen?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Uh-oh, what is it, then?” he teased. “I knew you’d think of a way to bankru
pt us!”
Margaret turned to look at her sleeping son, then back to Malcolm.
“I want another child,” she said, twisting in her seat to face him. “A little girl.”
Malcolm took the news in his stride because, in truth, he’d thought about it too – in a more wistful way than with any seriousness, but why not? What was there to stop them? If it made his Margie happy, it was a good idea.
“Yes, okay,” he said with a grin. “A girl, you think?”
“Really, Malc?” she cried, grabbing his arm, nearly causing them to crash.
“Flipping hell, Marge, take it easy!” he said, laughing as he righted the car and hastily returned her kiss. “Do you want me to collect the forms from the agency?”
“No need,” she said. “I got them last week.”
He threw her a sideways glance, which she replicated mischievously. She had been one step ahead of him all along.
Before any decision could be made, however, they would have to consult the other member of the Philliskirk household. Jonathan would surely be thrilled by the prospect of a sister, but they couldn’t just magically produce a baby and not expect him to ask questions. Even at his tender age, he understood where babies came from. When his Aunt Ellie had been pregnant he’d spent hours listening to her tummy, refusing to believe there was a baby inside. Even when it kicked, he argued that Ellie had a special tummy which could kick nosy little boys. But a few months later, when they went to greet the new arrival at the hospital, there could be no doubting the truth: it was there for all to see, swaddled in Ellie’s arms. Jonathan stared at his new cousin and then at Ellie; so it was true, babies did grow inside tummies. After that he had taken great delight in pointing out pregnant women in the street, at the supermarket, and even on the TV. This posed problems of its own. Explaining that not all fat women were necessarily with child was a challenge in itself. More than once they’d had to offer apologies to random plump women who’d been accosted and asked: ‘When is your baby due?’
Unless Margaret went on a high-carbohydrate diet or stuffed her clothes with padding for a few months, Jonathan would suspect foul play. He knew that babies came from fat women, and his mum was a slim size eight. The only other option was to tell him the truth; that his sister would be adopted, just as he had been. He was only seven, but it would make sense to tell him now before he started figuring out things for himself. Ever since he’d started playschool Margaret had worried that he’d pick up on some remark from the other children or their parents. He understood that Asian kids had Asian mothers and that black kids had black mothers; how long would it be before he started comparing his appearance with that of his parents? As a toddler his hair had been golden blond; now it was starting to darken, and his eyes, a deep blue, were of a different shade to those of his parents. How confused would he become if a sister arrived who didn’t look like him, his mum or his dad? It was decided that they would tell him without going into too much detail. They would explain that he hadn’t been in Margaret’s tummy but someone else’s, and that when he was very young he had come to live with them. They were his mummy and daddy, his real mummy and daddy, but one day he might meet the lady in whose tummy he had grown. For now though, all he needed to know was that they loved him very much and wouldn’t change him for the world. Once the initial bombshell had been delivered, they would soften the blow with news of a potential addition to the family.