by Simon Bourke
“But we’ll give them a watered-down version, a sanitised version. You know what kids are like; they jump to conclusions.”
“Yes, that’s probably for the best...I’m sorry, Marge.”
“That’s okay, Malcolm, but we need to talk too, you and I. You have to do more than just apologise and promise it’ll never happen again, and I need to listen to you and try to understand why you did what you did.”
“Are you suggesting counselling, Marge? I’ll pay for it, go as many days as you want. I can ring someone now and try to arrange an appointment, if you like.”
“We’ll see, Malcolm. I think it’s good that we’re at least talking about it, that’s enough for now.”
“Okay, Marge, but what about Jonathan? Will I come over now and try and talk to him?”
“No, I think it would be better if you don’t come back tonight.”
She could hear him sigh in disappointment, but knew he would do as she’d asked. His willingness to put things right made her think that maybe they could recover from this, that their family could be a fully-functioning unit once again.
“All right, I’ll book into a hotel,” he said.
“Yes, do that. I’ll talk to Jonathan.”
“Okay, Margie. Bye.”
She hung up. With Malcolm out of the house for the night she could turn her attention to Jonathan, and take what she hoped would be the first steps towards reconciling her family. Before she could do that, however, she had to deal with the other member of the household.
“Soph?” she said quietly, tapping on her bedroom door.
“Come in, Mum.”
She was sprawled on the bed, reading Harry Potter, her latest obsession.
“Is it good, love?” asked Margaret, nodding at the weighty tome.
“Brill,” Sophie smiled happily.
“Is that film still on in the pictures, the one with Johnny Depp in it?”
“Yes,” replied Sophie expectantly. She liked where this was going.
“Do you want to go and see it?”
“YES!” said Sophie, closing her book and immediately reaching for her trainers.
“Would one of your friends be able to go with you?”
“Why? Aren’t you coming?”
“I want to talk to your brother about a few things.”
“Ah, about today. I see,” she said knowingly. “I’ll ring Emily. She’ll probably come. She always has money.”
Twenty minutes later, Margaret had dropped two excited teenagers off at the local cinema and was making her way back home. Jonathan had been told to stay put, as she wished to discuss a few things with him on her return. True to his word, he was still in the living-room, exactly where she’d left him.
“Jonathan, will you turn that TV off? I want to talk to you about something.”
“It’s nearly over, Mum; five minutes.”
“Now, Jonathan, please.”
He knew better than to argue.
“Come sit beside me on the couch, love,” she said, patting the seat beside her.
He duly obliged.
“I think you know what I want to talk about, don’t you?” she asked.
Jonathan shrugged his shoulders. He’d turned off the telly and sat beside her, he wasn’t going to start the conversation for her too.
“What happened today, what was that all about?” she asked, choosing her words carefully.
“You know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Jonathan.”
“He shouldn’t be here, acting like that, as if he’s done nothing wrong.”
“We’ve been over this, Jonathan. I understand you’re still angry with him, but why today? Why this, sudden anger?”
“I don’t know; just sick of it, that’s all.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“Like what?”
“Well, I don’t know; is there anything going on in your life that you’d like to talk about? You’ve not been yourself lately.”
Did she know? Had she figured it out, or was she just trying to coax some information out of him? She had a way of making him talk even when he didn’t want to, especially when he didn’t want to. In a past life, she’d probably been an interrogator for the KGB. That was why he never lied to her, it was pointless; she sussed it straight away. He wasn’t lying to her now, though, he was simply withholding information.
“Ah, it’s just Uni stuff, Mum.”
“But Uni finished a month ago, Jonathan.”
She wasn’t going to be fobbed off so easily. He could say it was something to do with a girl; that’d stop her in her tracks. But what if it didn’t? Then he’d have to talk to his mother about an imaginary girlfriend. No, thanks. The other option was to tell the truth. It didn’t matter so much now. His birth-mother had rejected him, so he didn’t have to feel guilty.
“She doesn’t want to see me, Mum.”
“Who doesn’t want to see you, Jonathan?”
“My birth-mother.”
It was the first time he’d said the words out loud. Hearing them made it all the more painful.
“Oh, Jonathan, what happened?” Margaret asked, genuinely distraught.
“She just doesn’t want to see me, Mum. They sent letters, but there was no reply.”
“But that could mean anything.”
He raised a hand to stop her. “Please, Mum, don’t. I’ve heard it all already.”
“Okay, Jonathan.”
It upset her to think of her little boy going through this wretched experience all by himself, with no support from any of them.
“I’m just going to have to get over it, that’s all.”
She drew him close. Maybe if she held him long enough, and squeezed hard enough she could compensate for the loss of this other, unknown woman; but he pulled away, cranky and unwilling to be cuddled.
“We’ll help you, Jonathan, all of us,” she said, carefully.
“All of us? I’m not sure I want Dad and Sophie knowing about this.”
“It’s up to you, love. Anyway, I want us all to sit down and talk about everything that’s happened lately.”
“What happened today, you mean?” he said sourly.
“Yes, that, but other things too; that weekend in London, for a start.”
Jonathan raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“Your father wants to sit you both down and explain exactly what went on there, and then we’d like to talk to you both about some other things.”
“Are you getting a divorce?”
“No, Jonathan, we’re not getting a divorce; but we do need to work on some things, all of us, as a family.”
He mused on this for a while. It certainly sounded like a good idea; he’d become tired of their charade, the pretence that everything was rosy in the Philliskirk garden. If they were willing to sit down and tell them what was going on, then he was willing to listen.
“Okay, Mum. That sounds good.”
“And afterwards, if you like, you could talk about your search for your birth-mother, explain it to your father and sister.”
“I’m not sure about that, Mum.”
“That’s okay, Jonathan. It’s just a suggestion.”
He nodded thoughtfully, enjoying the new phenomenon of being spoken to like an adult.
“Mum?”
“Yes, love?”
“I think this chat will do us all good.”
“Me too, love.”
She patted him on the knee and rose to leave.
“Oh, Mum?”
“Yes, love?”
“Tell Dad it’s safe now, if he wants to come back,” he said with a mischievous wink.
10
The following night the four of them gathered around the kitchen table. Alt
hough Malcolm had been restored to the head of the table, no one was in any doubt as to who was chairing the meeting.
“Right, then,” said Margaret. “Has everyone been to the toilet? Does anyone need a drink?”
“We’re fine, Mum,” said Sophie, eager to get things over with.
“Okay,” Margaret said, taking her seat. “The purpose of this meeting is ...”
“Can’t we just start, Mum? I think we all know why we’re here,” interrupted Jonathan.
“I don’t!” said Sophie.
“Look, kids, just let your mum talk,” said Malcolm.
Clearing her throat for effect, Margaret resumed. “The purpose of this meeting is to clear the air. There’s been a lot of tension in this house lately, for various reasons, and it’s about time we dealt with it. We’re a family and we should be able to help one another with our problems and be there for one another, but most of all we should be able to talk freely, even if what we have to say might upset other members of the family. That’s what we’re here to do now.”
“Oh, exciting!” said Sophie, putting her phone in her pocket.
“I believe your father would like to start. Malcolm?”
All eyes turned to Malcolm. He’d gone over his story with Margaret, but he was still nervous. There was a lot on the line.
“Okay, then,” he started. “I want to talk about what happened in London a few years ago.”
“London?” Sophie asked, confused. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Sshh, Sophie, let your father continue.”
“Firstly, I’d like to apologise to Jonathan.”
He turned to his son. “I’ve never really apologised to you for what happened that night, not properly. That race was very important to you, and were it not for my stupidity you’d probably have won it. I wish I could turn back the clock, but I can’t. All I can do is say how sorry I am and hope that one day you can forgive me.”
Jonathan nodded indifferently; he was interested in confessions, not apologies.
“Do you accept your father’s apology, Jonathan?” Margaret asked.
“I think I’ll wait to see what else he has to say first, Mum.”
“No, Jonathan, that’s not fair. We’re dealing with this issue first.”
“Okay, then. I accept your apology,” Jonathan said, holding out his hand. Malcolm duly shook it, but he knew he still had a long way to go.
“Now, that’s one thing settled,” Margaret said, pleased with herself.
“Is that it?” Sophie asked.
“No, love, there’s more. Stay where you are,” instructed her mother, nodding to her husband once more. “Go on, Malcolm.”
“Okay, this may be difficult for you kids to hear, but your mother and I have discussed it and we feel it’s best for you to know everything.”
Jonathan moved forward in his seat. Finally, some answers.
“Before that night in London, the reason we were arguing ... no, wait, I’ll start again. I made a pass at another woman, a woman I worked with.”
“What’s a pass?” asked Sophie indignantly.
“It means he tried to get off with someone,” Jonathan answered. Sophie stared at her father, dumbfounded.
“Yes, in more modern terms that’s what you’d call it. I don’t know why I did it, it was in the heat of the moment and as soon as I’d done it, I regretted it. Then, to make matters worse, I kept it a secret until – ”
“London”, Jonathan said conclusively. It made sense now, but he still had some questions. “Why then? Why that weekend?“
“It just happened, Jon. It was the first time we’d had a proper night out together in ages. We were drinking and chatting, and the guilt overcame me. I told your mother what I’d done, then she told me she didn’t want me staying with her that night, and after that ... well, you saw what happened.”
“Are you getting a divorce?” asked Sophie, her eyes wide with fear. “Is that what this is all about?”
“We’re not getting divorced, Sophie,” replied Margaret.
“But Dad had an affair!”
“He didn’t have an affair, Sophie; but he did betray my trust, and it may take some time before he can win it back.”
Malcolm weighed in, eager to assuage his daughter’s fears. “Your Mum and I still love each very much, Sophie.”
Jonathan watched impassively. In truth he’d thought his father’s misdemeanour would be something far worse. He’d made a pass at someone – was that really such a big deal? It happened all the time in the soaps. It seemed to be something that was just part of married life. It wasn’t like he’d had an affair or anything; it was an isolated incident, if a regrettable one. He had realised his mistake and was trying to make up for it. Maybe he wouldn’t give him such a hard time from now on, but there would have to be some conditions.
“What about your drinking, Dad?” he asked.
Malcolm was caught off guard, having assumed he’d done his bit.
“What about it, Jonathan?”
“You have to promise us that you’ll never act like that again, get drunk and start fighting.”
“I promise, Jonathan. I promise you all. I haven’t had a drink, not a proper one anyway, in months. Your Mum will tell you.” Margaret nodded in verification.
“Okay, Dad. As long as you promise never to drink like that again, then I can forgive you for what happened.”
Malcolm sensed genuine warmth in his son’s words. That chilly exterior had disappeared, and behind it lay the boy he adored.
“That’s good, Jonathan,” he said, trying not to sound too grateful. “I hope that someday we can get back to the way we were before.”
“Hopefully, Dad,” Jonathan replied warily, “but it’ll take time.”
“That’s okay, son. We could go to that new history museum in town, though. Maybe next weekend?”
“Maybe, Dad. We’ll see.”
Malcolm knew when to leave it. He’d made a breakthrough, but it was best to quit while he was still ahead. But whereas he’d made progress with one child, he now found the other one eyeing him testily from the other end of the table. It appeared that Sophie looked dimly on those who made passes at work colleagues. He smiled hesitantly at her, and was rewarded with a scowl for his efforts. Maybe now would be a good time to get her the pony she’d always wanted.
“Now then,” Margaret said. “Has anyone else got anything they’d like to share?”
At first Jonathan didn’t realise what she meant, that she was prompting him to speak. He hadn’t decided yet whether he was going to tell them all about it. With his father baring his soul, however, and his mother so keen to have everything out in the open, he felt obliged to talk.
“I’ve been searching for my birth-parents,” he said, without prelude.
All eyes turned to him: Margaret’s full of admiration, Malcolm’s contemplative and Sophie’s incredulous.
“What’s going on, Mum?” she asked despairingly. “What the hell is going on?”
“Calm down, Sophie. Your brother is just ...”
But she’d gone, out the door and up the stairs. Margaret swiftly followed her, leaving father and son to continue the meeting by themselves.
Malcolm began drumming his fingers on the table and humming an unidentifiable tune, unsure of what to say, suddenly nervous in his son’s presence. Should he try to talk to him about his birth-parents, or did Margaret need to be here for that? There hadn’t been any mention of this beforehand, it hadn’t featured on any memo he’d received; but if he were ever to rekindle their relationship, moments like this would decide it.
“So how’s the search going?”
“Not great, Dad.”
“Oh, no, how come?”
Jonathan found himself wanting to open up, to pour his heart out to his dad,
maybe because he was a man, he’d grown tired of women fawning over him. His father would offer a different perspective, a less sugar-coated one perhaps.
“Well, they’ve found her; but they’ve sent letters and she hasn’t replied.”
“What does that mean?”
“According to the agency, it could mean any number of things. But to me, it seems like she doesn’t want to see me.”
“Well, that’ll be her loss,” Malcolm said indignantly. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Jonathan had missed this, chatting to his father, the two men of the house together. It felt good.
“Oh, and guess what, Dad?”
“Yes?”
“She’s Irish, my birth-mother.”
“What?” Malcolm said in faux-outrage. “My son, a Paddy?”
“I’m not a Paddy, Dad!”
“You bloody well are,” he said, poking Jonathan in the ribs and ducking to avoid retaliation.
“Stop it, Dad!”
“I think we have a little leprechaun on our hands here, to be sure, to be sure.”
Jonathan started to laugh, throwing good-natured punches at his father as their scrap continued.
“Oh, begorrah, he’s a tough one this lad, a real son of Éire!” Malcolm cried as Jonathan grabbed him in a headlock.
“Argh, get him off me, us Brits are no match for the Paddies!”
Margaret returned to this scene and momentarily thought all her hard work had been for nothing. She’d only left them on their own for two minutes, and already they were kicking lumps out of one another.
“Stop that, you two! Stop it!”
She hurried across the floor, arms aloft, ready to wedge herself between them; then she saw Malcolm’s smiling face peeping out from under Jonathan’s arms.
“We’re just mucking about, Marge. Relax, love.”
By way of confirmation Jonathan loosened his grip, allowing his father to emerge relatively unscathed. “Just playing, Mum,” he repeated, backing away from Malcolm as proof of their amiability.
Margaret shook her head in annoyance. “I can’t keep up, honestly!”
Jonathan and Malcolm stared sheepishly at each other, still breathless from their wrestling match.