And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  16

  He waited until after dinner, until the washing-up was done and they were in the living-room drinking their tea. Sophie was out; she’d disappeared the minute her plate had been cleared. Maybe that was for the best; he could talk to her in private about it later.

  “Mum? Dad?” he said breaking the silence.

  His father was watching the six o’clock news.

  “Yes, love?” Margaret answered, looking up from her magazine.

  “Dad, can you turn off the telly? I’ve got something to talk to you about.”

  Malcolm looked over, saw the sincerity in his son’s eyes and did as requested.

  “What is it, love?” asked Margaret.

  “It’s about my birth-mother.”

  “Yes, what about her, love? You can talk to us about anything, you know that.”

  “I know, Mum. Well, here’s the thing: she’s replied.”

  Margaret looked at her husband in an attempt to gauge his reaction, but he was already up and across the room, grabbing his son in a bear-hug and slapping him heartily on the back. She rose to join them, hoping Jonathan hadn’t seen the momentary flash of horror that had crossed her face. They stood in a group-hug for a few seconds, then dusted themselves down and returned to their seats.

  “Where will it be, Jon? God, I haven’t been to Ireland in years!”

  “Steady on, Malc. Maybe he wants to go on his own.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening yet. I’m going to have to arrange it with her.”

  “With your birth-mum?” asked Margaret.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have her number, then?”

  “Yes, and she’s got mine too.”

  “What’s her name, Jonathan? Do you know?”

  “Yes, it’s Sinéad.”

  “Very Irish,” Margaret said gravely.

  “I know, and her second name is just as Irish: McLoughlin.”

  “You’re from very strong Gaelic stock, Jonathan,” Malcolm mused.

  “Any other information? Has she got a family, maybe some brothers and sisters for you?”

  “I don’t know, Mum. The agency wouldn’t tell me any more.”

  “That’s understandable. So what now? Are you going to ring her?”

  “Not yet, not tonight anyway. I’ve turned my phone off; I don’t want to think about it right now.”

  “Okay, son,” said Malcolm, fixing his wife with a meaningful stare. This was their cue to back off and stop crowding him, to save their questions for later.

  Malcolm turned the television back on, signalling that the topic was now closed. Jonathan sat back, relieved to have cleared another hurdle. Although not wanting to press things, Malcolm was already calculating how much time he could take off work for a trip to Ireland. Meanwhile, Margaret eyed her son nervously, worried about what he was getting himself into. She worried about herself too. Her boy was leaving her to return to his kin, and soon she would be forgotten. She could live with that, as long as he was happy; but if this woman, this Sinéad McLoughlin, upset her boy in any way, shape or form, there would be hell to pay.

  17

  “Go on, Sinéad, just press send, will you!”

  “Are you sure, Adele?”

  “Yes, I’m sure!”

  “What if he thinks I’m an old fuddy-duddy trying to be cool?”

  “He won’t think that. Everyone texts nowadays.”

  “And it’s not too formal?”

  “No, it’s just right.”

  “I don’t know, Adele.”

  “Give me the phone,” Adele said firmly, losing patience.

  “No!” Sinéad replied, grasping it tightly.

  “Well, send the flippin’ text, then!”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ah, I don’t know, Adele. He’s probably in college or something. I don’t want to be disturbing him.”

  Her sister looked at her in exasperation. “No matter what time you text him, you’re going to be disturbing him. Now just send it, before I take that phone off you and send it myself.”

  Sinéad looked at her warily. Adele was the strongest of them all, maybe even stronger than Patrick; if she wanted to take the phone then that’s exactly what she would do, and Sinéad would probably suffer a few broken bones in the process.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll send it,” she said. “Just let me read over it one more time.”

  Adele sighed but called off her threat for the time being. “Go on, then, read it out to me.”

  “Hello, Jonathan, this is Sinéad McLoughlin. I spoke to Rachel from the Adoption Agency and she gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind me texting you, I just thought it would be easier than calling each other straight away. I hope you are well and look forward to hearing from you. Sinéad.”

  “Perfect. Now send it!”

  Sinéad hesitated once more. It had taken them an hour to construct that text message, it was unlikely to get any better. She pressed ‘send’.

  “Hurray!” cried Adele. “Thank the lord for that!”

  “I think I need a fag.”

  “What are you going to be like when he replies? Or when you’ve to talk to him on the phone?”

  “Don’t, Adele, please,” Sinéad replied, her stomach sick at the thought.

  Adele smiled warmly. “You did well, sis.”

  She knew how hard this was for her older sister, but she also knew how much she needed it. Even if she had to drag her to England kicking and screaming, she was going to make sure that Sinéad met that poor boy.

  *

  Jonathan felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. A text, probably from that girl he’d been seeing; he really liked her. Of course, it could be from Sinéad, his birth-mother. It had been three days since he’d been given her number but, on principle, he hadn’t contacted her. He’d done all the legwork up to now, and it was about time she did her share. Even if weeks, months or years passed, he wasn’t going to be the one to act first. What if he got his stubbornness from her, though? What if each was as bad as the other, neither willing to make the first move? They’d both be sitting by the phone twenty years from now, wondering what was keeping the other one from phoning.

  He resisted the temptation to check his phone. He was in a lecture and was busy taking notes; the text could wait. The more he tried to focus on the lecture, however, the more he wondered about the identity of the texter. He asked himself which he would prefer, a text from Melanie (the girl he’d been seeing), suggesting they might up tonight, or a text from Sinéad to say hello. It was a toughie. On the one hand, he dearly wanted to meet Sinéad, the woman who had brought him into the world; on the other hand, there was Melanie, who was by far the fittest girl he’d ever been out with. Girls like Melanie didn’t come around very often, and it was probably only a matter of time before she tired of him and moved on to someone else, so he was determined to enjoy every minute of their relationship while it lasted. Meeting Sinéad had been a long time coming, however, and even now there were no guarantees it would eventually happen.

  He hadn’t heard a word the lecturer had said for the last ten minutes and there were only ten more to go. There was hardly any point in tuning in for the remainder. He slipped the phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. It was from her; not Melanie, Sinéad. He felt sick, but happy sick; it was going to happen. She’d texted him. His birth-mother had texted him. She did want to see him, after all. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket and began speculating on the contents of the message and how he might respond.

  *

  Adele had only just left when the phone bleeped. Sinéad stared at it in terror. It had to be him; no one ever texted her. What was she supposed to do now? The logical answer, of course, was to pick up the phone, read the message and respond in kind. No way was sh
e doing that; she’d only just sent a text, and now she was expected to send another! But what if he thought her rude for not replying? What if he’d taken time out of his busy schedule to send her a message, and was now wondering why he’d bothered? She couldn’t have that, couldn’t have him thinking she had no manners. It wasn’t like the letters; that was different. They hadn’t come directly from him, but this text had. It was a personal message sent directly from her son. She picked up the phone and opened the message. It was from him, all right; from her son. From Jonathan.

  Hi, Sinéad, great to hear from you! Texting is fine, much easier than ringing right now. Less nerve-wracking, I’m sure you’ll agree ;). I’m fine, hope you’re well too. Just finished uni for the day, what are you up to? Jonathan.

  She sank back into her chair, clasping the phone tightly to her chest. He was lovely. Her little boy was lovely. She began to cry; tears of joy and relief, years of tension and sorrow released by those few simple sentences. This was enough for her now, this text. She wouldn’t ask for any more. It was perfect. He was perfect. Her little boy was texting her, telling her about his day and asking how she was. So considerate and conscientious. Sinéad felt a sudden, immense gratitude to his parents. She wanted to reach out and hug them and thank them for taking care of him. She read the text again, smiling at the little winking face he’d used. He was just as nervous as she was, he understood her feelings completely. And he was at university; that would make him the first McLoughlin ever to gain a third-level education. Wait till her mother heard this! None of Adele’s children were in college, though admittedly that was because the eldest was only six, but her child was. Her little boy, her clever little boy with his English accent and his university degree.

  But now she had to reply. Jesus Christ, what was she going to say? Adele wasn’t here, she’d gone to the tanning place and couldn’t be reached. Who else could she call? Her father? She could ask him to dictate an answer to her over the phone. No, he wasn’t very good at stuff like this. Her mother? She’d have her asking how many bedrooms their house had and what kind of car his father drove. No, it would have to be done alone and if she fucked it up, so be it.

  Hi, Jonathan. You’re right about the nerves but it will get easier in time, I’m sure. I’m just having a quiet day at home today, every day is a quiet day where I live! :) What are you studying in uni if you don’t mind me asking? Sinéad.

  That was the best she could manage. How could she explain how she was living? How could she tell this young student, who probably had a bright future as a doctor or lawyer, that his mother was an unemployed divorcée who suffered from depression? There was no way of dressing it up. The best she could hope for was to paint a picture of an idyllic country life, and hope he saw her as some free-spirited artistic type who spent her days reading the classics in her back garden. She didn’t even have a garden. Sinéad sent the message, feeling a sense of accomplishment. She hadn’t needed her sister after all; this was easy. And if he asked her about work or family or anything personal, she’d just tell him the truth. If he was as nice as he sounded, then it probably wouldn’t bother him at all.

  18

  “What are you laughing at over there?” Patricia asked in bemusement.

  Her daughter, the depressed one, was curled up on the couch giggling at her phone like a teenager.

  “Oh, nothing, it’s just Jonathan,” Sinéad said, tapping away at the new Nokia she’d bought a couple of days previously.

  “What’s he saying? When are we going to meet him?”

  “Shush, Mammy. I’m texting.”

  “Hmph,” grumbled Patricia. “I suppose I’ll have to do the washing-up meself, then?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mammy.”

  Patricia made a big show of moaning and groaning as she cleared away the mugs and plates, but to no avail. She would have to do the washing-up and probably the drying too. Sinéad had ostensibly called to the house to help her mother with any jobs that needed doing, but she hadn’t left the couch since getting here. She was far too busy texting Jonathan. They had quickly progressed beyond those first tentative texts and were now in constant communication, sending anything up to thirty texts on a daily basis.

  Now that she had someone to text, Sinéad thought it only right to treat herself to a new phone, something befitting a busy little texter like herself. She’d traded in her ailing device and got a spanking new Nokia, with a flip screen and everything. It also had a distinctive message alert which was threatening to drive them all mad.

  “Oh Jesus, Sinéad, can you not put it on silent or something?” her mother said as another message found its way across the Irish Sea.

  “Sure how would I hear it then, Mammy?”

  Patricia muttered something under her breath, incoherent but uncomplimentary.

  “You know you can’t keep texting him forever, Sinéad,” she said, returning to the sitting-room. “You’re going to have to talk to him eventually.”

  “Ah whisht, Mammy, will you?”

  “I’m serious, Sinéad. Texting! It’s ridiculous.”

  Sinéad dragged her eyes away from the phone. “Mammy! I’ll ring him when I’m good and ready, okay?”

  Patricia chose not to reply, instead returning to the washing-up, muttering as she went. Satisfied that she’d got her off her back, Sinéad returned to the phone and her conversation with Jonathan. He was telling her about his parents, Malcolm and Margaret. They sounded like lovely people. Malcolm ran his own business, some sort of internet company, and Margaret stayed at home; a lady of leisure, like herself. Even from his texts she could tell how much he adored them. She asked if she could meet them some day. Why not? he replied. But you and I should probably meet first. Her mother was right, they couldn’t keep texting forever. No sooner had she grown used to texting and begun to enjoy it when another hurdle presented itself. Now they had to talk about meeting up, make travel arrangements, concrete plans which she couldn’t back out of. Why couldn’t they just continue to text about their favourite films or what they were having for tea that night?

  She set about composing a text, one entirely out of keeping with how she was feeling but one she felt Jonathan needed to receive.

  I’d be happy to go to England to see you, and that way I could meet your parents too. I have a cousin who lives in Manchester so I could stay with her, that wouldn’t be a problem. When do you finish Uni? We should probably wait until then.

  Lies, every bit of it. ‘Happy to go to England’? Like fuck she was. She hadn’t left Dooncurra in four years. She didn’t go anywhere, ever. It was easier not to go anywhere, safer; there was less chance of bad things happening if she stayed where she was. Ideally, she’d like Jonathan to come to Ireland, but she couldn’t ask him to do that; so she’d made the gesture of offering to go to England. If he took her up on it, she’d have no choice but to go through with it. How much Valium could her GP prescribe at any one time? Probably not enough. Then Jonathan replied and her mind was set at rest.

  I was thinking of coming to Ireland tbh, I’ve never been and I’d really love to see it. You don’t mind, do you? Maybe you could come to Manchester next time round. My parents might come with me. I suppose we can figure it out as we go along. I’m finished Uni in a month’s time, so we could start making arrangements then.

  Thank God. At least this way she only had to worry about the actual meeting, and not all the stresses which would accompany a jaunt across the water.

  Okay, Jonathan, that sounds great. There’s space at my mam and dad’s if you want to stay there, but I’d understand if you’d rather book a hotel or whatever. I’m happy to wait until next time to go to Manchester. Hopefully there will be plenty of trips back and forth from now on anyway :)

  More lies. No way did she want them staying at her mother’s house. They’d probably leave after one night, pale and terrified, vowing never to return. She had to make the off
er, though. Her instinct told her that Jonathan wouldn’t want to stay with them. He was as nervous as she was, and staying at a hotel would make things easier. As for the trips back and forth – if, and it was a big if, she survived the first trip, then she might consider another.

  Yeah I hope there’s plenty of trips back and forth too ;) As for this visit, I think we’d be better off getting a hotel. There might be four of us and it’d be a lot to ask of your mother. Thanks for the offer, though. I’ve got to go to a lecture now but will text later.

  More relief. They would get a hotel, somewhere out of the reach of Patricia McLoughlin. If the first meeting went well she would consider introducing him to her mother at a later date, but only under strict supervision.

  Okay, Jonathan, talk later. Enjoy your lecture!

  She put down the phone and went into the kitchen. Her mother was busy preparing the dinner.

  “What are you doing, Mammy? I told you I’d make that.”

  “Are you sure you’re not too busy texting?”

  Sinéad didn’t react, too happy to be bothered by her barbs.

  “Oh, Mammy,” she said witheringly. “Go in there and watch some telly, and I’ll look after this.”

  Patricia looked at her daughter, started to say something and then did as she was told.

  19

  “Just going upstairs to take a phone call, Mum,” Jonathan announced, smiling enigmatically.

  “Okay, love.”

  He lingered in the hallway, waiting for her to ask who was calling, but she returned to her book, seemingly uninterested.