And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  “BRRING!”

  The bell rang, rousing Seán from his reverie. For fuck’s sake, he’d done it again. What was wrong with him? Another class lost to the dark corners of his mind. At least no one had pulled him up on it this time; Ms. Enright had probably been warned about the danger of interrupting the fantasies of young Seán McLoughlin. He carefully placed his books back in his bag, stalling for as long as he could, so that the protuberance in his trousers might recede. When he thought it safe he rose from his seat, looking back to see where his mates were. They were all there, Ginty, Pegs, Murt: the lads. They stood, expectant, waiting for him to look their way. Now that he had the attention he’d craved, however, he suddenly became bashful; sheepishly dipping his head, he walked back to where they stood.

  “Well, Lockie, didn’t expect to see you back so soon. Whatcha do, give oul’ Sheehan a blowie?”

  If there was any praise coming Seán’s way, it wouldn’t be coming from Alan Pegg.

  “Nah, it was just a quick hand job in the end. He’s easily pleased,” Seán shot back.

  Students for the next class were coming into the room, so Seán and his friends gathered their belongings and continued the conversation on their way to history class in 3F.

  “What really happened, Seán?” asked Ginty. “I was expecting you to be expelled for sure.”

  “Begged me to come back didn’t they,” he replied casually.

  “They didn’t bloody beg you,” Ginty asked in disbelief, “did they?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it begging, Ginty. Let’s just say they were very eager for me to return.”

  “Why were they so eager, Seán? Did your mam threaten ‘em? I bet she did, didn’t she? My mam said she would!”

  “Had nothin’ to do with my mam, nothin’ at all. I’m staying at my nan’s now.”

  “Were you thrown out?” Ginty’s eyes widened even more as he struggled to come to terms with this new revelation.

  “Ah no, I’m just staying at my nan’s till things calm down a bit.”

  “Oh, right,” nodded Ginty knowingly.

  They reached 3F. If it was going to happen, it would be now. All the class were in there and the teacher hadn’t arrived yet. He suddenly felt incredibly nervous and somewhat exposed. Part of him wished he could just enter the room, take a seat near the back and carry on as normal; but another bigger, part yearned for recognition, for someone to acknowledge his achievements and allow him his moment.

  He entered, pretending to be deep in conversation with Ginty.

  “Look who’s fuckin’ back, lads! Look at this fucker!”

  Thank you, Paul Muldoon. Thank you.

  Conversation ended abruptly as all eyes turned to Seán. He took his seat and was immediately encircled by his classmates, all of them clamouring, bombarding him with questions; he was the centre of attention. He felt his face redden as Becky Forde and Sally Kinsella – 3A’s most unattainable females – came to his side, so close that he could smell their perfume and see the liberally-applied foundation on their faces. His throat went dry, his tongue became tied and his body prickled with sweat.

  “How come you’re back so soon, Seán? What happened?”

  “Did Aylesbury call the guards?”

  “I told Becky you’d be back, I did.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Are you being sent to 3B?”

  “I heard Sheehan wants you expelled.”

  “What did your mother say?”

  “Will you still be allowed do your Junior Cert?”

  They were like savages gathering round him, desperate for information. They didn’t really care about him or what had happened to him, and they certainly didn’t think he was cool. He was just a temporary source of fascination, something to gossip about for a couple of days.

  “They just said I could come back, that’s all,” he said meekly.

  Another volley of questions, mouths opening and closing mechanically, vacant eyes; vultures.

  “Sit down please, everyone.”

  The focus of attention switched from Seán to Mr. Cunningham, their history teacher, as he entered the room. A few of the students continued whispering questions as they faded back to their seats. Sally Kinsella gave him one final sympathetic look as she joined Becky at the front of the class; then they were gone and he was alone again. Away from the harsh glare of the spotlight, he could finally relax. It wasn’t how he’d imagined it would be. All the attention had unnerved him; he hadn’t enjoyed it, and being in the presence of goddesses like Becky and Sally had been terrifying. He had fantasised about them both on countless occasions, but actually being near them, breathing the same air? He wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready for any of it. There was a reason he didn’t hang around with the cool kids; he didn’t belong there.

  The lesson began and for the first time he saw Rosie, or, more accurately, the back of her head. She was in front of him again, with her mad head of straw. Could she not have sat somewhere else? As if to underline the point, Paul Muldoon shouted from a couple of rows back, “Keep yer eyes off Rosie’s head, Lockie, you’ll only get yourself in trouble, boy.” The laughter was more at him than with him, but he didn’t mind.

  And he did keep his eyes away from Rosie’s head. He stared directly at his teacher for the duration of the lesson, even managed to listen to him too. When the bell rang to signal the end of another class, the questions resumed in earnest. He answered as best he could, with short and succinct replies that seemed to satisfy his inquisitors. There were more questions at break-time; kids from other classes and other years approached him, asking him to verify rumours they’d heard. He confirmed their stories, even the embellished ones which had him shoving, and in one case, punching Mr. Sheehan. By lunchtime, interest was dying down; a few remarks as he passed kids in the schoolyard, one or two catcalls from lads who still doubted the veracity of the story. And by the end of the day it had all been completely forgotten about. Seán filed out the school gates with his friends, pushing and shoving his way through the throng, just another student heading home for the evening. His brief flirtation with fame was over, and he felt nothing but relief.

  11.

  After spending a couple of nights at his nan’s Seán usually returned home like a fattened calf, ready to be slaughtered. Those visits were pre-arranged, however; agreed on by all parties. This was different. It had been an emergency stopover, an unexpected midweek arrival which had subsequently stretched into the weekend. He didn’t want to go home. He wanted to stay where he was, to make this his home; but he was afraid to mention the subject of his living arrangements, terrified that bringing it up would remind his grandparents that he wasn’t supposed to be here. If he stayed quiet and said nothing, maybe they’d forget about it and a few weeks down the line it would just be accepted. Oh yeah, Seán lives here now; has done for a while, actually. There was every chance it could work out like that. Neither of them seemed overly concerned about his returning home. His mother, however, was another matter; it was only a question of time before she came knocking, asking him what the fuck he was playing at. Seán knew he had to face up to things at some point, it couldn’t be allowed to drift along like this. He needed to discuss it with his grandparents to see what they thought, and then go to see his mother.

  “Nan?” he began, muting the TV.

  Eyes on her knitting, Patricia murmured, “Mmm?”

  He watched her fingers dexterously move hither and thither as she carefully crafted another scarf that would never be worn.

  “I suppose I ought to go home.”

  She put down her knitting and stared at him intently.

  “You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. You know that, Seán, don’t you?”

  She seemed to be willing him to ask her. Go on, ask can you live here; I’ll say yes, I promise.

  “
I know, Nan. It’s just – I need clean clothes and that.”

  “Clean clothes? Sure, your uncle Patrick has drawers of stuff up there you could wear. Drawers of it!”

  “Um, thanks, Nan, but my style is a bit different to what Pat’s was.”

  She threw back her head and laughed like an ass.

  “Ho, ho, ho. Style? Ah, Seány, trying to look good for the girls, are we?”

  He blushed; he loved his nan but she hadn’t a clue what it was like being a teenager. At least his mother acknowledged that he needed to look his very best at all times, and gave him money to buy his own clothes at birthdays and Christmas.

  “Well, y’know,” he mumbled, waiting for this excruciating conversation to conclude.

  “Not to worry. Why don’t we go shopping in town right now?”

  He looked at her, aghast. It was Saturday afternoon, and there was every chance of seeing someone he knew in town. It’d be bad enough being spotted out and about with his ‘Mammy’. But his ‘Nanny’?!

  “Ah, no thanks, Nan. Maybe I’ll just go home and get some stuff.”

  He paused; now was the time to drop the question.

  “And maybe I could come back then and stay for another few nights?”

  She nodded so forcefully he thought her head was going to come off.

  “That’d be lovely, Seány. I’ll come with you. We’ll get a taxi.”

  “No, Nan, it’s okay. I think I’m better off going on my own. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

  She looked at him doubtfully. “Okay, Seán, but don’t let him make you stay. He has no right to tell you anything, remember that.”

  “I will, Nan.”

  A few minutes later he set off down the hill. The jacket he had brought as a precaution wasn’t needed, so he pulled it off and slung it over his shoulder. A lawnmower sounded in the distance, getting its first airing of the year. Summer wasn’t far off now, just a couple of months away. He allowed himself to dream of lazy days lying by the river, drying off after being dunked in the water by that bastard Pegs. But before any lazy days could be enjoyed there were exams to be sat, a Junior Cert to obtain. He felt its weight on his shoulders wherever he went. Of course, he could lessen his load by simply studying for his exams, but he never seemed to get round to it. Next week, he’d tell himself, next week is when it all begins. He’d lay out his plans in advance: an hour’s study every night, increasing to an hour and a half and then two hours, so that by the time his exams started he’d be doing three hours study every night. When Monday came, though, he always found an excuse. Ah I’m tired after the weekend; I’ll start tomorrow night. It had been like that all year, and he could count on one hand the number of hours he’d spent studying. He was running out of time, with just six weeks to go. More than anything he wanted it to be over, but in order for it to be over it had to first arrive. It was all very depressing.

  *

  He hoped to catch his mother on her own. Daryl usually spent Saturday afternoons at the bookies, and Kevin would most likely be out playing with his mates. If it were just the two of them they might be able to have a civil conversation, discuss what had happened and how they might proceed, without it descending into a shitstorm. He eased his key into the front door and stepped inside the hallway. The living-room was empty and the television off. Could it be that there was no one here? Perhaps he could creep in like a thief in the night, gather his belongings and leave without a trace. But, as he closed the door behind him, he heard music coming from the kitchen; insipid country-and-western stuff, his mother’s favourite. He followed the sound. Sinéad was down on all fours, cramming clothes into the washing-machine. It looked like her entire wardrobe was already in there, but she still endeavoured to add a couple more items. Despite the effort involved in her task, she was still able to sing along to the charming ditty about love and betrayal which blared out of the stereo on the worktop. Seán looked at her – his poor mother, going about her day, getting on with things as best she could – and he wished it didn’t have to be like this. If only he could just walk in the door and be welcomed with open arms, not just today but every day. He wished this felt like home and he could be at ease here. Most of all, he wished it were just the two of them, just him and his mam. No Daryl, no Kevin; just the two of them, like it used to be.

  “Well, Mam.”

  No response. Of course not, how could she hear anything over that din? He walked to the worktop and switched off the radio. Sinéad swivelled round, her voice dying in the air. For a moment there was a flicker of warmth in her eyes, but then her features hardened; it was almost as if she’d been practising how to respond when she saw him again.

  “You frightened me,” she said, getting to her feet.

  “Sorry.”

  She stuffed the rest of the clothes in the machine and fetched the washing powder from under the sink; just another busy mammy going about her day.

  He didn’t need to ask how she felt about seeing him; it was abundantly clear. His mother forgave almost everything, but when she decided he had crossed the line she made sure he knew it. She became cold, unapproachable and unrecognisable from the woman he had adored all his life. He had only seen her like this on a handful of occasions, but as soon as she’d turned around he’d understood the gravity of the situation.

  “I’m just back to collect some of my stuff.”

  She slammed the washing machine shut and cranked it into life.

  “Well, go ahead, then; don’t let me stop you.”

  He felt the temper rise in his stomach. He had come here in peace, ready to admit he was wrong and ask forgiveness for his sins, but if she was going to be like this about it she could fuck off for herself. He went to his room, eyes brimming with tears, and quickly stuffed some clothes into his sports bag. Fuck her. He was angry now, not only at her but at himself too. He didn’t want to get upset, to cry like a little baby. For a brief moment he considered going back to the kitchen and standing there before her, a picture of contrition, tears rolling down his cheeks. She would see how sorry he was, how upset he was, and respond in kind. They’d embrace and all would be forgiven. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged his mother. It would be awkward and uncomfortable. He forced the thought out of his mind. There would be no reconciliation, he had tried his best and she’d thrown it back at him. Fuck her. He slung the bag over his shoulder, grabbed a few personal effects and stepped into the hallway. He listened out for any last words from his mother. But there were none. She didn’t want him here. He opened the front door and without so much as a goodbye, began the walk back to his grandparents’.

  Sinéad heard the door close and felt her stomach turn; he was gone. She’d let him go. It wasn’t too late, though; if she hurried she could catch him. No, the moment had passed; their combined stubbornness had seen to that. He had gone and left her, and she’d let him. She slumped onto a chair and put her hands to her head. Would it have killed her to have been civil? They could have talked it out, just the two of them. She could have warned about him about his future behaviour and he would have promised to improve. That’s what parents did: they disciplined their children, guided them through the tricky stages of life until they came out the other side, all shiny and perfect. Then, when they were old enough to understand, those same sullen kids began to appreciate all that had been done for them. What had she done for her boy? Had she given him the life he deserved, sacrificed her own happiness for his? That’s what you were supposed to do. That’s what being a parent was all about, but she hadn’t done any of that. She had failed him, let him down and now he was gone. A sob caught in her throat. She didn’t fight it, nor did she fight the tears that followed. And as she sat there weeping for her son, she wondered if things would ever be the same again.

  12

  “Are you going to study this evening, Seán? Exams are only a couple of weeks away now, my boy.”
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br />   Seán sat spread-eagled on the couch. He’d just obliterated a roast dinner and was allowing it to settle while he watched TV.

  “I will, Nan, yeah,” he mumbled.

  One of the benefits of living here was the freedom he was afforded, but if she was going to carry on like this, maybe he’d move in with his uncle Patrick.

  Patricia looked at him disapprovingly. However, she had planned this particular conversation well in advance.

  “Do you know Mrs. Tiernan that lives in number twenty-three?”

  Seán checked to see if she was talking to him. Why on earth would he know or care who lived in number twenty-three, or any other number for that matter?

  “I don’t, Nan,” he said, wondering where all this was going.

  “Well, she has a daughter, Alice, a lovely girl, who’s also doing her Junior Cert. She goes to the convent school in Killynaveagh.”

  That got his attention; those convent girls were right dirty bitches by all accounts.

  “Anyway, I was talking to Mrs. Tiernan about you, and she was saying that her Alice is a nightmare for the studying. They practically have to force her up the stairs.”

  Mmm, me and Alice upstairs, with no one around; keep talking.

  “Are you listening to me, Seán?”

  “I am, Nan.”

  “So we thought it might be a good idea to get the two of ye together. Studying partners, I think that’s what they call it.”

  “Hmm, I don’t know, Nan.” He had to play it cool, he didn’t want her thinking she could win him round that easily. But already he could feel a stirring in his trousers at the thought of biology lessons with Alice Tiernan from number twenty-three.

  “Why don’t you know, Seán? She’s a lovely girl, and it’d beat sitting there on your own.”

  He sighed deeply, ensuring that she realised how big an undertaking this would be for him.

  “Well, I suppose I could try it for a couple of nights and see how we get on.”