And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  With his grandparents on board he’d feel safer. She’d hate him for that, call him conniving and sneaky, but he wasn’t facing this alone. They always ganged up on him anyway, them fuckin’ Cassidys; he was going to need a few McLoughlins to even things up. Decision made, he hopped from the tree and headed for Ard Aulinn. He didn’t know what time it was, but if he hurried he might make it there for dinner.

  7.

  Patricia McLoughlin heard the gate clang and looked at the clock; he was early today. The dinner wasn’t ready yet though, so he’d have to wait. She listened out for her husband’s steady steps as he walked around the back of the house. But it wasn’t him, it was someone else; someone lighter on their feet, not so world-weary. She stood in the kitchen waiting for the door to open, expecting one of her daughters, hoping it would be Adele. It wasn’t one of her daughters or even her son, but someone even better. It was Seán, her grandson. Her favourite grandson.

  “Seán, my dear, what brings you here tonight?”

  She ushered him inside, sat him down at the table and began setting a place for him.

  “Just thought I’d come for a visit, Nan. You needn’t make me any dinner, I’m grand.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ll sit down there now and eat your stew with your granddad when he comes in.”

  Stew? Not bad. He’d been hoping for shepherd’s pie but it would do.

  “You’re looking very thin, Seán. Are they feeding you at all?”

  Patricia always referred to Sinéad and Daryl as ‘they’, like a pair of kidnappers holding her grandson against his will.

  “Ah, yeah, Nanny, they’re feeding me grand. I just have a fast metabolism, that’s all.”

  She had her back to him as she tended to the pot, but he knew the face she was making; it said: Yeah right kiddo, you’re not fooling me. Wait till you see what I put on your plate.

  “How’s school?” she asked.

  This was his opportunity. He had to be careful with his response; the wording was crucial. If done correctly, he could rely on both his nanny and his granddad to fight his corner. If he fucked it up, his last remaining allies would be lost forever.

  “I’ve been having problems with one of my teachers, Nan.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. It’s my maths teacher; he makes fun of me.”

  That got her attention. She spun round, ready to fight this fun-making teacher right there and then.

  “What’s he been saying to you, Seán?”

  Mission accomplished. Seán paused for effect before pouring out his poor troubled heart.

  “He knows I’m not great at maths and that sometimes I can’t follow what’s going on, and then today he asked me something and I didn’t know the answer and he started mocking me, in front of the whole class and everything.”

  A shadow crossed over his grandmother’s face. He’d seen it before, but only on the odd occasion. Like when his grandfather had broken one of her good plates. It spelled danger.

  “He WHAT?”

  “Started mocking me, Nanny.”

  “In what way?”

  “He said I fancied a girl in the class ‘cos I was looking at the back of her head.”

  “What girl?”

  “Ah, you wouldn’t know her, Nanny.”

  “What girl, Seán?”

  “Rosie Power.”

  “And do you fancy her?”

  “No, Nanny.”

  Patricia stared at him, biting her bottom lip as she considered her next move. She rubbed her hands on her apron and made for the hallway.

  “Where ya going, Nan?”

  “Where do you think I’m going? I’m going into that school and I’m going to have a word with this teacher. How dare he! How dare he!”

  “Whoa, hold on, Nanny,” Seán said with genuine alarm. “What about the dinner?”

  “Ah, don’t mind the dinner. Your grandfather can fend for himself for once.”

  She had her coat off the hanger and was rummaging around in the pocket for her keys. This was way too much. Yes, he wanted her on his side, and yes, he was delighted to see her fight his corner with such gusto. But there was a time and place for everything. Right now he needed food, comfort and reassurance; he needed someone to tell him it was going to be all right and that they had his back no matter what. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, she could go to the school and take Sheehan to task. But there was his mother to deal with first, and Daryl.

  “Nanny, you can go to the school tomorrow, okay?” he said, taking her by the shoulders and gently removing her coat. Patricia’s eyes had glazed over but now they softened. She stopped in her tracks, allowed him to take off her coat, and to then lead her back to the kitchen.

  “You’re right, Seán, you’re right. Your granddad will be here any minute now.”

  “He will, Nanny,” Seán replied, grateful he wouldn’t have to watch Noel McLoughlin attempt to serve up a dinner for the first time in his life.

  While they ate Seán revealed as much of the story as he dared. His grandmother listened attentively, at times gasping, grimacing and muttering under her breath. Noel remained completely silent throughout, solemnly chewing on his food, ignoring his wife’s increasing agitation. That was his way; he’d take everything in, mull it over for a while and then suggest what he thought was the best course of action. Seán thought his granddad flinched a little when he got to the part about telling Mr. Sheehan to fuck off, but he couldn’t be sure; he was too busy focusing on his grandmother and her reaction. She responded to this part of the tale in exactly the way he’d hoped; the look of stricken anxiety momentarily left her face, to be replaced by a victorious smile and a nod of assent. He had played it to perfection. She was now his staunchest supporter. Surely it would only be a matter of time before his granddad followed suit.

  They retired to the sitting-room, Noel to watch the news and Seán to drink tea and eat as many biscuits as his grandmother would give him. Patricia plotted out her course of action. She was going to the school first thing in the morning, and she meant first thing. She would arrive before the caretaker, before everyone, and stand outside the doors until someone let her in. Once inside she would take a seat in the headmaster’s office and wait for him to come in. He’d probably try to fob her off, tell her she needed an appointment, but she wouldn’t be having any of that. She would demand the resignation of that teacher and advise him that her grandson would require a public apology, both in word and print, before he would even consider returning to continue his studies.

  Seán appreciated his grandmother’s vigour but he wasn’t really listening now. His focus had switched solely to his grandfather. Which way would he go? It was still too early to tell. He was hard to read, that lad. The sports news came and went, then the news for the deaf and the weather, but still not a word out of him; he just sat there in silence, completely inscrutable. Seán needed to know his stance soon; his mother could arrive any minute, full of her own prejudices and notions. He had seen clashes between the two McLoughlin women and knew that, for all her forcefulness, Patricia couldn’t win round her daughter single-handedly. It would need the wise, salient words of her father to make her see sense. As the first of the soaps began, Seán glanced expectantly at Noel. This was usually his cue to speak, but he rose from his chair, picked up his empty cup and went out to the kitchen.

  “Bejaysus, that was a lovely cup of tea,” he said as he left the room.

  Seán couldn’t take it anymore; the suspense was killing him. He followed his grandfather into the kitchen, quietly closing the door behind him. He didn’t want his nanny getting involved in this discussion. Calm heads were needed here.

  “Oh, hiya Seán,” he said. “Thought you’d have gone by now, off chasing girls or something.”

  What was he playing at? Did he genuinely not know what was happening, or was he just being
a cute whore? It was hard to know with him. Seán suspected that he tuned out most of what his wife said nowadays, so it was entirely possible that he hadn’t heard a single word of what they’d been discussing. He joined him at the sink and began drying the dishes Noel had been washing. They worked in silence for a couple of minutes, Seán anxiously looking at the pile of dishes and wishing there were more of them. His grandfather might be headed off to the pub after this. He had to broach the subject before then.

  “Granddad?”

  “Yes, Seán?”

  There was a lengthy pause, punctuated by the slosh of the water as Noel scrubbed at a particularly stubborn stain.

  “Granddad?” he repeated.

  “Yes, Seán?”

  “What do you think?”

  “About what, Seán?”

  Jesus Christ.

  “About what happened in school.”

  “Ah sure look, Seány, that’s none of my business; it’s between you and your mother, really.”

  That was it; he had spoken. He might as well not have. A lifetime of jousting with his wife had most likely knocked all the fight out of him, and now he took cover at the first sign of trouble. That was no good to Seán; he needed warriors, not pacifists. Leaving him to the washing-up, he went back into the sitting-room and joined his nanny on the couch. They shared a little smile; it was just the two of them now.

  8

  Dinner was over in the Cassidy household too. After fending off several enquiries as to the whereabouts of the other family member, Sinéad sent her husband and son into the living-room so she could be alone. Sitting at the kitchen table, she chain-smoked for a while, gnawing at her nails between cigarettes. It would be dark soon and she had no idea where he was. But he was fifteen now and often stayed out late, made a habit of it, in fact. He came and went as he pleased most of the time. He never missed his dinner, though. It took something out of the ordinary to keep him away from his food; something like impending doom, perhaps. He knew what was waiting for him when he did come home, so he’d drag it out as long as possible. Well, no matter how long he left it or what time he came in, she would be sitting here waiting for him.

  He was most likely off getting pissed somewhere. She knew he drank or, to be more accurate, she knew he had drunk – whether it was a regular thing or not was still to be figured out. He was probably out with his friends, laughing it up, acting the hard man in front of the lads. That’s what he thought he was now, a man; but, like it or not, he was still her little boy and he couldn’t stay out all night without telling her where he was. Sinéad stubbed out the last of her cigarettes and got up from her chair. She’d have to go and buy a fresh packet if she intended to sit here all night, and it wouldn’t do any harm to ring her mother while she was out.

  It was never the easiest of tasks, ringing her; she made it so. Sinéad had to do it, though; she had to rule out the possibility of him being there before she started worrying in earnest. It’d almost be worth hearing the condescension in her mother’s voice if she knew he was there, safe and sound.

  She stuck her head in the living-room on her way out.

  “Just going for some fags, back in a sec.”

  She was gone before Daryl could reply.

  Sinéad hurried through the estate onto Pearse Street; this phone call wasn’t for the Corcorans’ ears. There was a phone box a little way up the street. She hated using it though. It was situated outside a couple of pubs which usually housed the most desperate and destitute drinkers of Dooncurra. Unlike the refurbished drinking establishments in the centre of town, these pubs hadn’t really moved with the times, which explained their popularity with the miscreants. Usually she wouldn’t walk around this area after nightfall – there was no telling who you’d meet –but this was an emergency. She squinted into the distance, trying to see if the phone was occupied. It wasn’t uncommon to find drunken ne’er-do-wells bedding down for the night inside the booth, often in a pool of their own vomit, urine, or both.

  Thankfully on this occasion it was empty. She rummaged in her purse for a few twenty-pence pieces and hurriedly dialled the number. As she waited for the connection, she imagined the goings-on at the other end; her mother sat there with her knitting, singing quietly away to herself, her father – if he wasn’t in the pub – watching whatever god awful shite was on the telly and complaining about the price of the license-fee. Once the phone rang, Patricia would look at him accusingly and ask, “Who could that be?” Her father, tired of this familiar routine, would casually say, “Only one way to find out, girl,” and leave her to it. Her mother always answered the phone in the McLoughlin house.

  It took five rings for someone to pick up. And it was her mother. Sinéad listened to her fumbling with the handset; moving it from the cradle to her ear seemed to take an eternity. Then the customary clearing of the throat and no doubt the fixing of the hair before a voice shakily answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mam, it’s me.”

  A pause. A mind working overtime as it considered its response.

  “Oh, hello, pet. We have your Seány here.”

  Sinéad’s shoulders fell in relief, the knot in her stomach instantly floated away. She could have kissed her mother, or, at the very least, given her a brief hug.

  “Did he tell you what he did, Mammy?” she asked, hoping for her mother’s support on the issue. It wasn’t forthcoming.

  “He did, Sinéad. Them animals in that school have him tormented.”

  Sinéad shook her head in exasperation. Seán had gone there for support, and support was what he had got. He could assassinate the Taoiseach and she’d still take his side.

  Her instinct was to lambast her mother for being so foolish, falling for his lies. But there was no point in creating further conflict, so she held her tongue and tried to be as diplomatic as possible.

  “He’s not entirely blameless himself, Mammy, y’know,” she managed with a grimace.

  “Oh, come on, Sinéad; he’d never react like that without provocation. It’s simply not in him.”

  “Look, Mammy, I didn’t call to argue about whether he was right or wrong, I just wanted to see if he was there.”

  “Well, he’s here all right and he’s settled now.”

  That was her way of saying that she thought he should stay the night, as if walking the mile to his own house would be too traumatic for him at this late hour.

  “You don’t mind him staying, then?”

  “Not at all. I aired the bed in the spare room just in case.”

  “Good, he may stay there so.”

  “Grand. We’ll have a lovely time.”

  “He’s not on holidays, Mam; he’s been suspended from school.”

  “Oh, don’t mind that, Sinéad. I’ll go down there tomorrow and sort that all out.”

  “Please don’t, Mammy.”

  But it was pointless arguing. She’d go down there and cause blue murder, while Seán slept till midday and had steak for his lunch. How was he ever supposed to take responsibility for his actions if his nanny fought all his battles for him?

  “You have enough to be worrying about, Sinéad, my pet. Let me handle this one.”

  The woman’s delusion knew no bounds. Let her do what she wants, thought Sinéad; she couldn’t possibly make things any worse.

  “Fair enough, Mammy. I’d better go now.”

  “Okay, my dear. What’ll I tell Seán?”

  “Don’t tell him anything, Mammy.”

  “All right, pet. Bye bye, now.”

  “Bye, Mam.”

  Patricia put down the receiver, composed herself and went back into the sitting-room.

  “Would you like to stay with us tonight, Seány?”

  9

  Seán was awoken by the dulcet tones of his grandmother’s singing voice. She hadn’t a note in her bod
y, but that had never stopped her. He recognised the song but couldn’t put a name to it; most likely some evangelical number with an Irish twist. He stretched out in what had once been Patrick’s bed. They hadn’t changed his room much since he’d left, the walls still bore posters of Harley Davidsons with scantily-clad models draped around them. His uncle had loved motorbikes when he was Seán’s age. He had started out with a little Honda 50, a ‘nifty-fifty’, and progressed all the way to a Yamaha YL1 before getting his girlfriend pregnant. They’d married shortly after, and that had been the end of the bikes. The Yamaha was traded in for something sensible, a car befitting an expectant father, a Citroen or suchlike. Patrick still spoke of getting a Harley but he and everyone else knew that he would never be allowed to; his wife would see to that. Seán would never end up like his uncle: settling for a life of mediocrity before he’d even hit thirty. What a wasted existence.

  Right now, though, his existence centred round filling his stomach and finding out if his nanny had been to the school. He looked at his watch; it was after eleven. She’d probably been and gone, had strung them all up by their ears and then returned home to bake bread and scrub floors, singing as she went. He hauled himself out of bed, dressed quickly and went downstairs.

  “Good morning, young sir!” she chirped. “What would his lordship like for breakfast?”

  Seán smiled at his grandmother. He never got this kind of greeting at home.

  “I don’t mind, Nan; whatever’s going.”

  “Well, let me see. A full Irish with all the works: how does that sound?”

  “Brilliant, Nan,” he said, taking his place at the table.

  As his grandmother fetched the rashers and sausages from the fridge, she told Seán her news; the news she’d been dying to share with him since half past nine that morning.