by Simon Bourke
“Leanne,” he said, “you do know I’m only fifteen, don’t you?”
“Yes, Seán, I do.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“You’re not that different to boys my age, Seán; if anything, you’re more mature than them.”
“Am I?”
“You are,” she said, snuggling closer. “And you’re such a little cutie!”
He felt his stomach curdle in a pleasant way. He was a mature cutie. It felt good.
“And does my age bother you, Seán?”
This seemed a bizarre question. Was she kidding?
“Not at all. Why would it?”
“I don’t know; maybe we mightn’t have much in common.”
“Sure what do we need to have in common, only that we like each other?”
“So wise,” she said in mock awe.
She looked at him once more, staring into his eyes for what seemed like forever. This time he needed no second invitation; he recognised the signs now, knew when it was his cue to act. Now he dictated the pace, more than holding his own, and were it not for the cramped conditions and the inclement weather there was no telling what the mature cutie might have done.
“It must be nearly eleven,” she said as they came up for air.
“I suppose we should go,” he replied, hoping to be contradicted.
“Come on,” Leanne said, jumping from the seat and pulling him to his feet. “I’ll show you the usual way to get here.”
They walked hand in hand through sodden grass and muddy trails, happy to savour the moment, neither wanting to spoil it with words. When the time came to part they kissed again, more tenderly this time. Seán watched her go until she faded into the darkness, waving a final goodbye without knowing if she could see him. She had said it wouldn’t be easy, that there were obstacles to overcome, but none of that seemed to matter right now.
23
“I have to go and see him before his exams start.”
Daryl looked up from his plate. “Ah Jesus, Sinéad, not this again.”
“What do you mean ‘not this again’? He’s my son!”
“He may well be, but he’s made his decision. He clearly wants nothing to do with us.”
“You could at least try and sound a little less smug about it.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault now?”
“For fuck’s sake, Daryl,” she spat out in frustration. “We’re supposed to be the adults here!”
Daryl put down the cutlery with an air of resignation, his dinner would probably be cold by the time he got back to it.
“Go and see him if you like, but don’t expect him to be grateful.”
Sinéad chose not to dignify that with a response. She was well aware of Daryl’s antipathy towards her son, but had hoped he would support her nevertheless. He’d got what he wanted, after all; it was just the three of them now. Although consumed by guilt, she had to admit that life had been a lot easier since Seán had moved out. It had been easier for her and her husband, and it had been easier for Seán. She’d been astounded to learn that her boy was taking study lessons with one of the neighbour’s children. Maybe he was better off there – at least for the time being. A calm, stable environment, where the only arguments centred on which grandparent loved him the most. The fact her mother had been proved right, that Daryl ‘could never be a father to that boy’, rankled. But if putting up with her mother’s self-righteousness ensured her son’s happiness, she could live with it.
Sinéad put away the last of the plates, turned on the kettle and took her jacket off the hook.
“I’m going up to my mother’s.”
“What about the tea?”
“Kettle’s boiling,” she called back, opening the front door.
“Where’re you going, Mam?” asked Kevin, miraculously emerging from the ether. He had an unerring ability to turn up whenever someone looked like they were going somewhere interesting.
“To Nanny’s,” sighed Sinéad, knowing there was no longer any possibility of escaping alone and unaccompanied.
“Can I come? I haven’t seen Seán in ages!”
It was true. Between all the fussing and fighting there was one relationship that no one had given a moment’s thought: that of her two boys, the brothers or half-brothers, depending on your viewpoint. Seán had never expressed much interest in his younger sibling, but Sinéad knew he cared about him. That was evident in the way he’d knocked seven shades of shit out of the kids who’d stolen Kevin’s brand-new bicycle, and the way he painstakingly taught him how to trap a football during long training sessions in the back garden. All the same, she knew Kevin would always be tainted in Seán’s eyes. He had some of Daryl in him, and that was enough for Seán. She still remembered his bitter words when they’d argued about Kevin accompanying him to a hurling match.
“He’s your brother, Seán!”
“Anything that came from him,” he’d said, jabbing his head in the direction of the living-room, “is no brother of mine.”
And off he’d gone, leaving his wailing sibling behind, an innocent bystander in the ongoing war.
Although Seán’s feelings towards his brother were somewhat ambivalent, there was no mistaking Kevin’s affection for him. He idolised Seán, worshipped the ground he walked on, which irked his father no end. Daryl had presumed he would be the one playing football with his son, settling scores with mean bullies and dragging Kevin up by his bootstraps until he became a fully-functioning man, a Cassidy. But it was Seán that Kevin sought to emulate. It was his older brother – the seed of another man – whom he looked to for guidance, and it was his older brother that he yearned to see now.
“Okay then, come on,” said Sinéad, resigned to her fate. “Bring a coat.”
“It’s summer, Mam,” he said nonchalantly, closing the door behind him and skipping out on to the road. She didn’t have the heart to argue with him, to explain that it was still only April and summer wouldn’t start for another three weeks.
24
Seán lay on his bed, his schoolbooks scattered around him. He’d tried to focus on study, but it wasn’t easy; all he could think of was her. She’d be in her room now, only a matter of feet away, gazing at her own books, thinking of him – hopefully. It didn’t have to be like this, they could easily be together. All it would take was a dash down the stairs, a gallop to her house and a knock on the door. He couldn’t do that, though. He had to be patient. She’d said she’d make it worth his while. His mind spun with possibilities of how she might do so.
His first exam was English, at eleven the following morning. It wouldn’t present too many problems. The best thing about English was the lack of studying. Sure, he had to read a novel and a play until his eyes bled, but he didn’t mind that. It wasn’t the same as poring over a science book, trying to come to terms with the musings of a mad German bloke with too much time on his hands. With English he could form his own ideas, make up his own answers and no one could tell him he was right or wrong. They probably would anyway, though, the bastards.
The knock at the door came as a welcome distraction. He lay there, silent and unmoving, listening to hear who it was.
“Oh, hello, Kevin!”
Kevin? What was he doing here? Their mother would never let him come here by himself.
“Come in, come in,” Patricia continued. Amid the fussing and the shuffling of feet, he made out the lower tones of his mother. No sooner had he identified her presence when the call came up the stairs. “Seán! Visitors!”
He had hoped for a distraction, but not one like this. Of course he wanted to see his mother, but the thought of coming face to face with her made his throat go dry and his eyes well up. He didn’t need this right now, and certainly not here, in front of everyone. He straightened himself up, took a cursory look in the mirror and slowly descended the stairs
to greet his ‘visitors’.
Kevin’s excited voice filtered out from the living-room; he was probably already halfway through that packet of Bourbons Seán had earmarked for his tea later on. Seán didn’t mind, though; there’d be other biscuits and other cakes. They preferred him; he was their favourite, no doubt about it. Let Kevin have his moment of glory, his day in the sun.
It was his brother who saw him first, his sensors detecting movement almost before Seán had walked into the room.
“Seán!” he cried through a mouthful of biscuits. “Sit here, sit here!”
He patted the couch upon which he and his mother sat, a Seán-sized space between them waiting to be filled.
He sat down obediently. “Well, Mam.”
“Hiya, son. How’s the studying going?”
“All right now, yeah.”
“That’s good.”
“Well, you’ll have to get back to it soon now, Seán, visitors or no visitors,” advised Patricia. Sinéad elected to keep her counsel. What could she say? He lived with them now, and that meant their house, their rules.
“Leave it, Trish, for God’s sake.”
They all looked at Noel in surprise; he rarely contributed anything to these conversations, and he never spoke to his wife like that, or at least not in front of them. Patricia’s head swivelled on its axis, her mouth primed ready to fire back. Her husband had returned to his paper. He wasn’t looking for an argument; on the contrary, he just wanted the evening to pass without any simmering enmity between mother and daughter. Patricia turned her attention to Kevin, hoping that if she acted like nothing had happened everyone might think it hadn’t.
“So how’s school, Kevin?”
“Grand.”
“Are you being a good boy?”
“I am.”
“Do you like school, Kevin?”
“Not really.”
“What class are you going into now?”
“First.”
“Looking forward to the holidays?”
“Yep.”
Sensing an opportunity, Sinéad nudged Seán. “Fancy a little walk in the garden?”
They slipped away. Kevin was too busy fielding questions and eating biscuits to query their absence. The McLoughlins’ back garden was a modest affair, no more than thirty feet wide and a hundred feet long. It had grass, a small array of flowers, two large bushes and a stone path which wound its way from one to the other. Walking around it took all of a minute, but this was what mother and son did. They walked to the bottom of the garden, pausing to duck beneath the washing line, looped around the boxwood and then walked back up again. After two or three of these circuits it became clear that they could walk all night without either of them speaking. Seán took it upon himself to break the silence.
“I’m sorry, Mam.”
Sinéad looked at him in surprise. “For what, love?”
“Ah, y’know, just for everything.”
She took his hand. “It’s not your fault, Seán. None of this is.”
They continued to walk, now hand in hand, round and round Noel and Patricia’s little garden.
“I can’t come back, though, Mam,” Seán said after a while.
“I wasn’t expecting you to; that’s not why I’m here.”
“No, Mam, I don’t think you understand. I can’t come back ever, at least not while he’s there.”
His words stung Sinéad. She knew they had their problems, but she’d just presumed things would work out and that her boy would return home to her.
“Let’s just wait and see, eh?” she said.
“No, Mam; waiting and seeing won’t make any difference.”
There was a hardness in his tone that she’d never heard before; he sounded resolute.
She stopped walking and turned to face him. “But I’m your mother; you belong at home with me.”
He shook his head, as if pitying her for being so stupid.
“You just don’t get it, do you, Mam?”
Her puzzled expression told him that he was right.
“I can’t live under the same roof as that cunt.” He spat that last word out in disdain as if it were a spoiled piece of meat in an otherwise sumptuous meal.
“Ah now, Seán, I know ye don’t get on but – ”
“Don’t get on? How blind can you be, Mammy?”
“Ye’ve had yeer ups and downs and all that.”
Seán placed his hands on her shoulders. He was a good six inches taller than her now, and his gesture made her feel like the child rather than the parent.
“Stop it, Mam, just stop.”
He took a deep breath, as if preparing for a long public speech to an assembled audience.
“I hate him,” he whispered quietly, “I fucking detest him. He’s made my life a misery for as long as I’ve known him, and if things carry on as they are – ” he allowed the sentence to trail off, leaving the rest to her imagination.
Sinéad felt numb. In a way she wasn’t surprised; deep down she’d always known just how much Seán hated Daryl, but she’d managed to convince herself otherwise. They’re just too alike, she’d say, two alpha males butting heads; they’ll laugh about it when they’re older. Then she’d see Seán stare at his stepfather, his beautiful little face consumed with loathing. She’d quickly look away, pretending she hadn’t seen it; but she had and she knew what it meant. Then there was Daryl’s obvious contempt for her son. He was a good husband in every single way, except for one: he behaved as if Seán didn’t matter, as if he were an inconvenience, something to be put up with as part of the terms of their marriage. Who knew what went on when she wasn’t there? On countless occasions she’d returned home from a late shift to a house thick with tension. She could feel it the minute she got in the door. She’d go to Seán’s room to see if he was all right, and he’d be lying on his bed reading a book or listening to music, the same old Seán. “Everything okay, love?” she’d ask.
“Yeah, Mam,” he’d reply, and she’d pause at the door, watching him and wondering if everything was really okay or ever had been. She’d ask her husband the same question. “Fine, love,” Daryl would say, but she’d see the darkness in his eyes and know that they’d been fighting. He’d never hit her boy, she knew that; but Seán was a sensitive soul, always had been, and he was easily upset. All it took were a few well-placed comments and he was on the defensive, retreating to his room where he felt safe. But he’d never come to her, he’d never complain, he was far too proud, far too stubborn. He’d hold it all in and suffer in silence.
Her son stood rigidly in front of her, body tensed and fists clenched. She wanted to hug him, hold him, take his pain away; she wanted to lighten his burden.
“I’m sorry, love,” she said.
Seán shook his head. “It’s not your fault, Mam.” The unspoken words hung in the air. For marrying that bastard.
“Your exams –” she said helplessly.
“I’ll be fine. It’s good that we’ve had this conversation.”
“But I want to be there for you.”
“You can be, Mam. You can come up any evening you want.”
“It’s not the same, Seán,” she said, shaking her head.
“Well, that’s just how it is,” he replied.
That was it. He had spoken, and there was nothing to be done. He was gone and might never come back. It was nobody’s fault, except her own. She had let him down, sacrificed his happiness for her own. She could admit it now, though for years she’d denied it and tried to convince herself otherwise, but it was the truth. She’d damaged the one thing she loved more than anything else, and now it was gone forever.
“Come on and we’ll go inside, ‘tis freezing out here,” Seán said, shivering for effect. She allowed herself to be steered indoors, led through the door like a stricken child; her bod
y rested against his for support, suddenly resembling a woman many years her senior.
25
He looked over his work for the umpteenth time. No, there was definitely nothing more to add. He’d been finished for some time now, at least half an hour, but he hadn’t wanted to be the first to leave. That honour had gone to Alan Pegg, who’d winked slyly at him before handing his paper to the invigilator and strolling out the door. With his friend outside waiting for him, Seán was growing increasingly giddy. He knew it was stupid, this was an important exam, but he just wanted to be free. Had he done enough to get a pass? That was the big question. Science was second only to maths on his blacklist; anything above forty per cent would be a success. He reckoned he’d done enough; a few things on the paper had looked vaguely familiar and he’d reeled off some stuff about neutrons and electrons in response. Now he just wanted to get out of here. But the words of every teacher he’d ever had rung in his ears: Check and recheck your paper, read it over and then read it over again. He’d done that to the point where the words had begun to swim before his eyes and nothing made any sense – not that it had in the first place.
He looked around him at the half-empty room. The great and the good of 3A had departed, leaving only the tormented and masochistic behind. The invigilator caught his eye and he quickly looked back at his paper, terrified of being accused of something untoward. He’d never cheat; he’d rather fail miserably than do well by false means. One more look. His name and ID number? Yes, both present and correct. A minimum of four questions answered? Try five. Diagrams and charts accompanying his work? For what they were worth, yes. There was nothing more to do, nothing to add. He got up from his desk, still feeling he’d forgotten something, handed his paper to the invigilator and carried on out the door to freedom.
True to his word, Pegs was there waiting for him. They grinned widely at each other and hurried away from the scene of the crime. At a safe distance, the merriment began.