And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  “JONATHAN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!

  He froze. He’d completely forgotten about the time. How long had they been gone and what state was the house in?

  “Erm, just looking for my old tennis racket, mum.”

  “Tennis racket? Come down from there this minute.”

  “Okay, mum.”

  He shoved everything back into its box, switched off the light and guiltily stepped out onto the step-ladder. Margaret stood at its foot, Sophie beside her slurping on an ice-cream. “What are you doing up there, Jonathan?” his sister asked, genuinely intrigued.

  “I told you, my tennis racket,” he replied, attempting to brush past them.

  “Whoa, hold on there,” his mother said. “What about the mess you made downstairs. Were you looking for your tennis racket in the kitchen, dining-room and living-room too?”

  “I’ll tidy it now,” he said sheepishly.

  “Honestly, Jonathan, if you can’t be trusted to be in the house on your own we’ll have to get you a babysitter.”

  “Haha, Jonathan’s getting a babysitter,” said Sophie gleefully.

  He was flustered now, annoyed at being caught in the middle of his search and irritated at being treated like a child.

  “Look, just let me tidy it up,” he said tugging at the step-ladder which Sophie was now sitting on. She got up, allowing him to clamp it shut and carry it down the stairs.

  “That boy,” Margaret said, shaking her head as she watched him go.

  “Do we have tennis rackets, mum?” Sophie asked. “I quite fancy a game.”

  *

  Later on, after everything had been tidied away and Sophie was in the living-room watching her ‘programme’, Margaret went looking for her son. He was in the back-garden on the bench enjoying the late summer heat. She sat down beside him.

  “So did you find the racket then?”

  Jonathan smiled in spite of himself. “No, I don’t know where it’s got to.”

  The only tennis racket Margaret could remember her son owning was a tiny wooden little thing when he was four-years old, but she chose not to labour the point.

  “Is everything all right with you, Jonathan, in general I mean.”

  She didn’t know exactly what he’d been doing or what he’d be looking for earlier on, but she sensed that it had something to do with the phone number for the adoption agency they’d seen on their bill. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know, you’ve just not been yourself lately.

  “It’s the nationals,” he said. “I think the pressure is getting to me.”

  “Is that all, there’s nothing else?”

  He wavered, on the brink of pouring out his heart. But then he checked himself and the barriers were put back up.

  “That’s all, mum, honest.”

  Margaret could have asked him about the number, this was her opportunity, but something stopped her. It didn’t feel right; there was no way of bringing it up without making it sound like an accusation.

  “You know if there’s anything else you can always talk to me about it, don’t you?”

  “Of course, mum.”

  “Anything,” she repeated.

  “I know, mum.”

  She placed her hands in hers and laid them in her lap. They remained like this for a few moments, gently rocking back and forth on the bench.

  “You’ll smash it at the nationals, Jonathan.”

  “Hope so, mum.”

  16

  It had been a poor session, the second one in a row, and there had been three bad ones last week as well. Normally he would use whatever ailed him to his advantage, fuel for his fire, to drive himself on. But this was different. It gnawed away at him, ebbing into his psyche, distracting him and making everything else seem irrelevant. The runner who’d been clocking up personal bests as a matter of course had all but disappeared, he was sluggish and lacklustre, a pale shadow of the boy hotly tipped to win this year’s national final. Coach Turner had stopped barking out his times after the first lap, and from that point Jonathan was just going through the motions. He wondered what would happen if he just kept running round and round for hours on end. Would Ernie stand there and wait for him, even at two in the morning? Probably. He was champing at the bit, ready to offer the sternest of lectures. Even if Jonathan stayed out there for the next month, the miserable bastard would be there waiting for him when he finally stepped off the track.

  As soon as he came to a halt it began.

  “What was all that about, lad? Perform like that down in London and you can forget about any medals!”

  Jonathan glared at him sullenly, unable to muster a worthwhile response. He wasn’t even scared. Time was when he’d have run through brick walls just to avoid Ernie’s wrath, but what could his coach possibly say or do to make things worse?

  “Well?” Ernie beseeched, his eyes glinting menacingly.

  Jonathan sized him up a moment, as if weighing up the possibility of giving him a good hiding, and then simply walked past him towards the changing rooms. Ernie watched him go, utterly perplexed. He’d been such a good pupil, doing whatever he told him to and improving on a weekly basis. Now look at him, with just a few days until the national finals! It beggared belief. Ernie’s first instinct was to chase after him, grab him by the shoulders and give him a proper rollicking, but something in the boy’s eyes told him that would be of little use. Ernie had a reputation as a drill sergeant, one who used brute force to get the best out of his students, but there was much more to him than that.

  In an ideal world his relationship with Jonathan, and all the others he’d trained, would have been based on athletics and nothing more. Over the years, however, he had become well-versed in the travails of the average teenager’s life, and he knew that sometimes these delicate little flowers needed nurturing. He watched Jonathan – arguably the best talent he had seen in his thirty years of coaching – walk away and decided that it was time for a new approach. If he was lucky it’d be something straightforward: girl trouble, a falling-out with a mate, something he could relate to. Whatever it was, though, needed to be resolved quickly; he couldn’t have his star athlete seizing up days before the big race.

  When Jonathan came out of the changing-rooms, his coach was waiting for him at the bottom of the grandstand.

  “Sit down, lad,” he said, patting the bench beside him.

  “Look, Coach, I just – ” Jonathan began, but Ernie stopped him short.

  “Forget about it, son. We all have our off-days.”

  Jonathan looked at him in amazement. Had the old fucker gone soft? In the two years they’d been working together he’d never given him an easy ride, not once. A training session such as the one he’d just stumbled through was punishable by death in Ernie Turner’s world. He sat down as instructed, on edge, waiting for his coach to revert to type. This was probably just a trick; he was going to play ‘nice cop’, lure him into a false sense of security and then, as soon as Jonathan had relaxed, it’d be back to frothing at the mouth, steam coming out of his ears as Jonathan cowered under the seats for protection.

  “How’s things at home, kid?”

  “Um, all right, I suppose.”

  “What about your girlfriend?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  The old man made a weird phlegmy noise in his throat, a legacy of a recently discontinued forty-a-day habit.

  “Well, something’s up, Jonathan.”

  Jonathan nodded in agreement.

  “Don’t just nod, son. I don’t care what you do in your time away from here as long as you eat right and sleep right, but when it starts affecting your performances out there,” he jabbed a finger in the direction of the track, “then it becomes a problem.”

  “It’s just an off-day, Coach.”

  “Hmph.”


  “It is, really.”

  “It’s not just today though, is it? You’ve been up and down for the past week, and anytime I ask you if everything’s okay you just shrug your shoulders and mumble.”

  Jonathan shrugged his shoulders and mumbled.

  Ernie turned to face him, fixing him with what he hoped was a caring look.

  “It’s all going to shit, son. A week to the finals, and you’ve suddenly turned into a lame duck. What’s happening, Jonathan? Tell me.”

  He was almost begging him now; and he was willing to beg, if that’s what it took, because he couldn’t bear to see it all go to waste. All that hard work, all that talent, down the drain for no good reason. It broke his heart.

  Seeing his coach like this made Jonathan feel guilty. He knew Ernie had a job away from his coaching duties and didn’t need to be here. But he was here, every day, setting up the training sessions; clipboard in hand, sheet after sheet of paper full of stats that Jonathan didn’t know the first meaning of. What did he get in return? A brooding protégé who’d suddenly decided to stop trying a week before the biggest race of his life.

  “It’s complicated, Coach.”

  Ernie sighed; he needed a fag, or at the very least, a cuppa. He tried to imagine what could possibly be complicated about this young man’s life.

  “Part of being a successful athlete is dealing with complications, son.”

  “I know, Coach.”

  “All the greats: Coe, Snell, Cruz. They all went through difficult times in their lives, but they came out the other side stronger, and that was what made them who they were.”

  He just doesn’t get it, thought Jonathan, what was the point in even trying to discuss it with him? Talk would inevitably turn to the greats ‘back in my day’, of men without feelings who could perform like robots no matter what life threw at them.

  Jonathan rose from his seat and put his kitbag over his shoulder.

  “See you tomorrow, Coach.”

  With that he was away, slowly trudging to the bike rack, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. Ernie watched him go, shaking his head in remorse. “With great talent comes great responsibility,” he said softly to himself.

  18

  On the Friday before the race, the Philliskirk family set out early for the drive down to London. Margaret had organised this first leg of their journey with military precision. Their route had been planned in advance, and Malcolm had been informed of the various speed limits he was to adhere to over the course of their journey. There would be two designated toilet stops, zero diversions and they were to arrive in London no later than 11am. Sandwiches and snacks were on hand, ready to be dished out at the first mention of hunger; games, music and even topics of conversation had been arranged beforehand. It would be incredible fun.

  Jonathan sat back and allowed himself to relax. This was what he’d been waiting for. He could forget about everything else for the next couple of days. This was about spending time with his family, a fun-filled jaunt to the capital – oh, and the small matter of taking home the national championship, of course. Thinking about the race made him nervous, but it was an excited nervousness. He knew that if he performed to his best, he would win. Although his last few training sessions hadn’t gone well, he knew he had such a performance in him. He had worked hard all summer. He was in great condition, at peak fitness, ready and primed for whatever came his way.

  It helped that he’d finally spoken to Rachel. After all that fretting and frustration he’d done it without thinking, on a whim really. Returning home from training to an empty house he’d simply picked up the phone, dialled the number and started talking when she answered. He’d explained his situation, outlined that he didn’t want to involve his parents and asked all the questions which had been rattling around in his brain. Rachel had confirmed what he’d already suspected; that he did need to be eighteen and that he would have to talk to his parents about it, but despite that it still felt like progress. He had taken the first step. It may not have been much of a step but it would make the following ones all that easier. And now he knew that the only thing preventing him from beginning his search was the system, he had done all he could for the time being.

  Not only had Rachel answered his queries and done so in the strictest confidence, she had also told him that he could call back whenever he needed, that there were people on hand for him to speak to whenever he felt down or had a problem he couldn’t discuss with his parents. That in itself was a comfort, he didn’t know if he would ever call them again or avail of the services Rachel suggested, but just knowing they were there gave him solace. It eradicated the sense of loneliness, the feeling that he had to shoulder this burden entirely by himself; Rachel and the other people at the agency would support him, and no one other than himself would ever have to know about it. He would still have to wait three years before any real progress could be made but in truth he probably wasn’t ready to meet his birth-parents yet anyway. By the time he was eighteen everything would be so much easier; he’d be at university and living away from home, with more privacy and the freedom to do whatever he wanted. He could arrange meetings with Rachel without anyone asking him where he was going. Talk on the phone without fear of anyone overhearing. And receive important letters to his own address that he could open at his own leisure.

  It was an adult issue that would be resolved when he became an adult. In the meantime he would just get on with his life. He would work hard in school, be nice to his sister and tell his mum and dad that he loved them. He would ask that girl he fancied whether she wanted to go to the pictures with him and he would play football with his mates. He would finally learn how to play the guitar and suggest to his mates that they start a band. And he would win every single race he took part in so that hopefully, one day, Coach Turner might eventually crack a smile.

  *

  After checking in at the hotel and freshening up they all met up in the lobby, but from there they would part ways. It had been decided in advance that Margaret and Sophie would go to Oxford Street to do whatever it was they did, while father and son took in some culture.

  “Where to first, son?”

  “The Imperial War Museum!”

  “Okay, the Imperial War Museum,” Malcolm said, pulling out a huge, unwieldy map from his back pocket.

  “No need, Dad. I know where it is. We have to get the Tube to Lambeth North.”

  Malcolm smiled, clearly impressed. “Okay, then. Lead the way, young traveller.”

  Jonathan did just that, following the signs until they reached the nearest station, Waterloo. Their next challenge was purchasing a ticket, a task which might have proved beyond them were it not for the help of a friendly Brazilian tourist. Tickets bought, they boarded the train to Lambeth North and the war museum. Being a Friday afternoon, the carriage was quite busy but Jonathan managed to find a seat between two businessmen reading their broadsheets. Malcolm, meanwhile, was content to stand. He might have been somewhere in the murky depths of England’s capital, surrounded by sweaty, clammy strangers, but he couldn’t have been happier. He caught his son’s eye, saw the wonder and excitement contained therein and grinned widely, a sudden, unexpected burst of love filling his chest. On the cusp of manhood and yet still so innocent, Jonathan represented everything that was good in Malcolm’s world.

  Unlike other boys his age, he had never defied his parents or rebelled against them in any way. If anything, he had become even more loving and considerate with age. Oh, he had his sullen teenager moments, but he could always be cajoled out of them with offers of movie nights or new running equipment. Malcolm listened in shock whenever work colleagues detailed the troubles they were having with their teenage children, resisting the urge to say, “Not my boy. No, not Jonathan; good as gold he is.” They would never have believed him, and anyway he didn’t like to gloat.

  But amid all th
is pride, the joy he gleaned from watching his boy enjoy himself, there was a tinge of sadness. He knew about the phone calls; Margaret’s information had checked out. Pretty soon his boy would have to be shared with someone else, returned to his rightful owner like a puppy found in the park. Who knew what the future held? Maybe Jonathan was only marking time until he found his real parents and began calling them Mum and Dad, relegating Malcolm and Margaret to a place on the sidelines. They’d raised him well, loved him as he if were their own, but how could they match that bond? Because that’s what he would have with these people: a bond, forged by blood. They’d created him and brought him into this world. He and Margaret couldn’t compete with that.

  For all Malcolm knew, this could be the last time they would ever have a proper ‘father and son’ day together. Soon he would want to go out with his friends instead of having a movie-night with his family. He’d finish school, go to university and make new friends, a girlfriend. He’d become a pro athlete. There wouldn’t be much time for Mum and Dad then. And all the while he’d be seeking them out, making more phone calls, filling out forms, talking to those who knew, until one day he dropped it on them. Mum, Dad, I’ve found my parents. Then nothing would ever be the same again.