by Simon Bourke
“Because if he did, Mum ...”
He trailed off, allowing her to figure out the rest for herself.
“Your father would never lay a finger on me, or you and Sophie. Don’t say things like that about him.”
“Okay, Mum. I’m sorry.”
He had been convinced. If it wasn’t that, then what could it be?
Margaret, aware that her defences were down, sought to bring an end to the conversation.
“Look, Jonathan, you’re right; your dad and I aren’t getting on at the moment. And, to be honest, I don’t know how long it will take for us to get back to normal. That doesn’t change how either of us feels about you or your sister. We love you dearly and we are still a family, no matter what.”
She stroked his cheek tenderly. “Okay, love?”
“Okay, Mum,” he murmured in acquiescence.
He would drop it for her sake, he saw how much it upset her; but he knew his father had done something bad. He hadn’t hit her as Jonathan had suspected, but he’d done something, and whatever it was it still upset his mother four years after the event.
6
A second letter was sent, and a third; neither elicited a response. There had to be a mistake, surely? He rang the agency over and over again. Were they sure they had the right address? Could they track the letters? How did they know she hadn’t moved? He couldn’t understand it. If she’d received the letters, why hadn’t she responded? Despondency set in, he began to despair. It started to affect the rest of his life; his frustrations spilled over at home, in university, everywhere. He knew it was wrong to take it out on others, but he couldn’t help it.
It was for his father that he reserved the most vicious of his outbursts. Their stilted relationship now became a simmering feud, likely to explode at any time. Jonathan eyed him like a hunter stalking its prey; baleful stares across the dinner table, noxious glances whenever he walked into the room. Malcolm did his best to ignore it, but he heard the embittered comments, the disdainful sniggers and snorts of derision, any time he spoke. Under normal circumstances the elder Philliskirk would have taken his son to task, but he still lived in fear. Had Margaret told him the cause of their argument in London? Did Jonathan know about his attempts to seduce a co-worker? He certainly seemed to have ratcheted up the hostility a notch. Malcolm dared not provoke him, in case everything came tumbling out, causing a conflict he’d been actively avoiding for years. So he took his punishment in silence, absorbed the malevolent stares and contemptuous words, hoping it was just a passing phase.
If Malcolm thought things were bad now, however, they were about to get a whole lot worse. With his studies over for the summer, Jonathan had requested a meeting with Rachel. He wanted to bring things to a head, send a final letter. One which stated there would be no more chances: an ultimatum. Rachel resisted, explained that wasn’t how they did things, but he persisted, until finally, probably just to get him off her back, she arranged an appointment to discuss his case in greater detail.
The appointment wasn’t till 11.30, but Jonathan was in the waiting room at a quarter past. He fidgeted nervously in his chair, scanning his surroundings, wondering which door would open. Even though Rachel had told him there’d been no fresh developments, he still held out hope. She might have a solution, a fresh course of action they could take; and if she didn’t have any new ideas then he would simply break in here at night, steal his mother’s details and go visit her himself. That would show her. This is what happens when you don’t reply to my letters, Mother. I arrive unannounced and pissed off, demanding answers. She’d shuffle uncomfortably, shooing her children – his siblings – back inside, and tell him he’d made a huge mistake; she didn’t know any Jonathan Philliskirk, and he must have the wrong address. Au contraire, Mother dearest, this is very much the right address. Although you might not recognise me, you certainly know me. Don’t you see the resemblance? There can be no denying that. Then it would dawn on her. A sickening, slow realisation; this was the bastard child she’d given away all those years ago. He had come back to haunt her, and he wasn’t leaving without answers.
“Jonathan?”
Rachel had emerged from one of the offices and was ushering him in.
“Now then, Jonathan, let’s see where we’re at.”
There was no need to see where they were at. She knew exactly where they were at; his countless phone calls had made sure of that. Jonathan didn’t want to annoy her at this juncture, so he kept his counsel while she faffed about with the paperwork.
She found what she was looking for and fixed Jonathan with the earnest, sympathetic smile he’d become accustomed to.
“So, the third letter was sent a fortnight ago.”
“Yes.”
“As of yet, we haven’t received a response.”
“I know.”
“Don’t lose heart, Jonathan. There could be any number of reasons for the lack of reply.”
“Like what?”
“Well, fear, for one.”
Fear? What did she have to be afraid of? He wasn’t really going to turn up on her doorstep and start issuing threats. That was just an idle fantasy.
“I don’t get it. What might she be afraid of?”
“Jonathan, a lot of women in her position feel very guilty about what they’ve done. They think that they’ve betrayed their children by putting them up for adoption. When they’re faced with the possibility of finally meeting that child they have to deal with a whole range of emotions, fear being just one. They fear they won’t match up to your expectations, or that their reasons for giving you away will seem inadequate. These are just examples, Jonathan; I’m not saying they apply to your situation.”
Jonathan wasn’t really listening; this sounded like an excuse to him. He was the one who’d been discarded. He was the one who’d reached out. Why should he feel sympathy for this woman?
“And not only is there a chance she’s scared,” Rachel continued, “but she might not have informed her family members of the adoption. I’ve had cases where mothers have been married with five or six children, and none of them have known about the child she’d put up for adoption. There are many factors to consider here, Jonathan.”
“Okay,” he replied, mulling over this new information. “What can we do now?”
Rachel sighed deeply. “Not a whole lot, I’m afraid.”
“So that’s it?”
She nodded glumly, that same sympathetic smile on her face.
“We’ve sent the letter, and now all we can do is wait. But like I said, don’t lose heart; there’s always the chance – ”
“Just forget it,” he said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. “What’s the fucking point?”
Rachel didn’t respond. She’d been expecting this; he’d got his hopes up, and now the rejection was too much to bear. She’d seen it many times and knew the anger wasn’t directed at her, not really. And as she watched him storm out the door like countless others before him, she hoped she’d see him again and that this particular story hadn’t reached its end.
7
Jonathan didn’t want to cry in front of anyone, public displays of emotion were not his thing, but the car park was busy and he could no longer fight back the tears. He ran around the side of the building, hiding between some bushes as the first sob left his throat. People could probably see him, but it was an adoption agency; if you couldn’t have a good cry here, where could you? When he’d let it all out, all the frustration, all the heartache, he looked around to see if he’d been spotted. No, his meltdown had gone unnoticed, his blushes were spared.
He regretted his actions, though; not the tears, they were unavoidable, but the way he’d spoken to Rachel. She was only doing her job and didn’t need to put up with that kind of shit. He hadn’t been brought up like that; abusing people, swearing at them. There was only one thing to d
o: go back in and apologise. He went around to the entrance at the front of the building. As he approached the door, he heard the sound of laughter followed by footsteps as a group of people came his way. He stepped back to allow them out, turning his head away, but they barely noticed him. There were three of them, two women and a boy. One of the women was around his mother’s age, the other a little older than Jonathan. The boy was young, not yet a teenager. The sounds of their voices, carefree and full of joy, echoed around the car park as they went to their car. The older woman got in the driver’s seat and, after a brief discussion, the boy was allowed to ride in the passenger seat. The other woman got in the back, still smiling and joking despite being outdone by the youngest member of the group. Jonathan watched as they all buckled up and the woman reversed out of their spot. His eyes never left them as the car pulled out, drove past him and continued onto the motorway.
They never stopped smiling, especially the young boy. Where were they going? Somewhere fun probably. Somewhere with more smiling, happy people. Aunties and uncles, grandparents, brothers and sisters, maybe even a father. Which of them was the new arrival? It was the younger woman, Jonathan reckoned. She looked young enough to be the other woman’s daughter, but old enough to have been the result of her teenage pregnancy. The happy little boy was her brother, thrilled to have acquired an older sister who would lavish him with gifts. Yes, they were all heading back to the mother’s house now, this new family, reunited and looking forward to a wonderful evening. All of them together at last.
He looked back inside the building. Rachel stood at reception with her back to him, locked in conversation with another young man. She’d already forgotten about him, moved on to her next case. The story of Jonathan Philliskirk and the Irishwoman who didn’t want to see him now consigned to history. His file had already been pushed to the back, along with all the other tragic stories; kids just like him, who’d come here full of hope and left tearful and bitter. Eventually those files would be destroyed to make room for other, more important, files, those belonging to people who actually wanted to meet one another. He stood watching Rachel and the young man for a few moments longer, wondering how his case would turn out. Would it be one of the successes, or would he be like him, a sad, failed venture, which everyone would rather forget about? Jonathan couldn’t help but hope it would be the latter; at least that way he would know he wasn’t the only one. He took one final look inside the building, zipped up his coat and made for home.
8
When he got back the house was deserted, but he could hear screams of delight coming from the back garden. Sophie had received a Swingball set for her thirteenth birthday and, after weeks of promising, it appeared that Malcolm had finally set it up for her. They were all out there, father and daughter engaging in epic horseplay, Margaret watching on from the decking. Jonathan bristled at the sight of his father, still in his shirt and tie, running around like an idiot, acting as if nothing had happened. It sickened him. He joined his mother, pulling up a chair to view the fun and games.
“Hello, love. How did the job interview go?”
He’d forgotten about the hastily created lie, the one he’d used to explain where he was going that morning.
“Erm, not bad, actually. Think I might have got it.”
“Really? That’s great! Your dad will be so proud.”
“Yeah, I’d say he will,” Jonathan muttered discontentedly.
“What’s the score now, Mum?” Sophie yelled as she pounded another winner.
“Twenty-eighteen, to you!”
“Yes!”
“I can’t beat her, Jonathan, she’s too good,” shouted Malcolm.
Jonathan didn’t acknowledge him, staring into the distance as if he hadn’t heard a thing. Malcolm, noting the rebuttal, made to say something, but instead shrugged his shoulders and returned to the game.
“What’s wrong, Jonathan? Are you in a bad mood?”
“I’m just sick of this, Mum, sick of him,” he said viciously, jutting his head in Malcolm’s direction.
“Why, what’s he done?”
“Well I don’t know, do I?” he said haughtily.
“Oh, please, Jonathan, not this again,” said Margaret, her heart sinking.
“No, Mum, enough is enough.”
Jonathan rose from his chair, making a beeline for his father.
“You can play the winner, Jon,” Sophie said when she saw him approach.
But he brushed straight past her, eyes set on his target.
“What’s up, son?” Malcolm asked, hands on his knees as he caught his breath. “If you want to play, then take the racket. I need a break, anyway.”
“You need to go now,” Jonathan told him.
“Go where, Jonathan?”
“I know what you did to Mum.”
Malcolm looked to his wife in desperation, trying to catch her eye. She shook her head briefly and then averted her gaze. He was on his own now.
“Look, Jonathan,” Malcolm said, putting his hands up in defence. “Whatever’s gone on between me and your mum has nothing to do with you two. We’re going to sort out our differences, I promise.”
“Get out,” Jonathan said, moving closer.
“Jonathan, what is this? Margaret!”
His wife joined them, but she wasn’t coming to his aid. She stood to the side, just behind her son. Jonathan needed no assistance; he grabbed his father by the shoulders and began pushing him towards the side of the house, to the gate which led to the driveway.
“We don’t want you here anymore, Dad,” he said, harrying and hassling him away from the Swingball set. Reluctant to aggravate the situation any further, Malcolm went without complaint.
“Where are they going?” asked Sophie, perplexed.
“Jonathan, please…” Margaret whispered tearfully.
“It’s okay, Mum.”
He shoved his father through the gate and onto the driveway. When he briefly removed his hands from his shoulders, Malcolm took it as a gesture of goodwill, a chance for one last plea.
“Look, Jonathan, I don’t know what your mother’s told you but ...”
“Get in the car.”
“Eh?”
“Get in the car.”
“Oh, Jonathan, come on.”
His son stared at him resolutely, waiting him for to obey his command.
Margaret and Sophie watched from a distance, Sophie not entirely believing her mother’s assertion that they were ‘just playing around’.
“IN,” Jonathan repeated, raising his voice.
He didn’t want to fight with his father, but if he had to he would.
Malcolm reluctantly opened the door of his Audi and sidled into the seat.
“Now go.”
“Go where?”
“I don’t care where, just away from here. We don’t want you anymore.”
Malcolm shook his head in desperation, once more looking to his wife for assistance. Margaret continued to watch impassively, so he did as he was told. He put the key in the ignition and started up the car.
“Jonathan,” he said, looking intently at his son, “I’ll call you later, okay?”
Jonathan closed the door of the car. There was nothing left for Malcolm to do but leave. He reversed out of the driveway, waved at Sophie and was gone in a matter of seconds. Jonathan turned to his mother and sister.
“Want that game of Swingball, Sophie?”
9
When they’d finished their game, they trooped inside to help with dinner. This entailed one of them setting the table while the other lingered in the background, asking how long till it would be ready. No one mentioned Malcolm, not even Sophie, and as they sat to eat his place at the head of the table remained empty. It would be just the three of them tonight. They ate in silence, neither child’s appetite affected by the day�
�s events. When they were finished Margaret shooed them away, refusing their token offers to help with the washing-up. She needed to call her husband and find out where he’d got to. Or did she? Did she care where he was? She felt bad about what had happened, and regretted not intervening. But watching him being taken to task had been strangely satisfying. She couldn’t deny that she’d enjoyed seeing him squirm. Wasn’t this what she’d wanted all along, to see the back of him? She’d told him that they were only staying together ‘for the sake of the children’, and now it appeared that at least one of them didn’t want him here at all. However, this wasn’t the way to go about it. She couldn’t let her son make that kind of decision for the whole family; and although she would never forget what Malcolm had done, she still loved him and wanted to try to salvage their marriage.
She checked to make sure her teenagers were occupied and then rang Malcolm’s mobile.
“Where are you?”
“I’m sitting in the park. What’s got into him? What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t tell him anything.”
“Then where has all this come from?”
“Look, Malcolm, things haven’t been right in this house for a long time, and what happened today has been brewing for ages.”
“But I’ve been trying my best with him, Marge, I really have.”
“I know you have, but it goes deeper than that.”
“What do you mean, Margaret?”
“We need to talk, Malcolm; talk properly.”
There was a pause at the other end; he appeared to be gathering his thoughts.
”Do you want a divorce, Marge?”
“No, Malcolm, don’t be silly. We need to get together and talk, the four of us. We have to get things out in the open.”
“Okay, Marge,” said Malcolm, thankful for the reprieve. “Whatever you think is best.”
“We need to talk about what you did, and then we need to tell them.”
“Okay, Marge.”