And the birds kept on singing

by Simon Bourke

  Question Five: What have you been doing with your life?

  Answer: Nothing, Jonathan. I’m an absolute failure, your mother is a failure; a washed-up, thirty-something woman with very little to offer you or anyone else. Happy now?

  Those were the only questions she’d come up with answers for. If he asked anything else she’d have to improvise, think on the spot, and hope she didn’t say anything ridiculous.

  Sinéad switched off the television and sat in the darkness. It felt better, calmed her and allowed her to think more clearly. She’d ironed her clothes and left them hanging in the wardrobe, ready to be put on; nothing to worry about there. Her medication was on the dresser in her bedroom. She’d take a sleeping-pill tonight and maybe a Valium in the morning, depending on how bad she was. The alarm was set for half-eight in the morning, giving her a full five hours to get ready. That was everything, wasn’t it? A camera? Was that too presumptuous? No, she wouldn’t bring a camera; her mother was bound to have one handy if they decided to go up there. Was her phone charged? It wouldn’t do if he rang her in the middle of the night and she didn’t hear it. As if on cue, it bleeped into life. A message; from him.

  Hi, Sinéad. We made it here in one piece! Just at the hotel now. Fairly tired after the day, so will probably have an early night. See you tomorrow!

  Her little boy was here, in Dooncurra. It was amazing, incredible. It was really happening. She quickly replied, eager to help him settle in.

  Brill. Glad you got here safely. I hope the hotel is okay. Yes, I will see you tomorrow. Very nervous but I’m sure you are too :)

  He replied instantly.

  I know, I can’t believe it’s really happening. Anyway, I’m gonna hit the hay now. Talk tomorrow. Night, Sinéad.

  Night, Jonathan. See you tomorrow.

  And that was it. He was gone, off to hit the hay in a bedroom in a hotel not far from here. When he awoke in the morning, it would be time to meet his mother. That was her, Sinéad McLoughlin; she was this boy’s mother and he had come to see her. Suddenly it didn’t seem so terrifying. This was something beautiful, something God had intended. Holding that thought, she went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth and readied herself for bed.

  21

  The day after his last exam, Jonathan sat in his father’s car en route to Holyhead. They’d decided to take the ferry rather than fly; Malcolm wanted to bring his own car so they could see some of the countryside. Jonathan didn’t mind, it made it more of an adventure, a road trip.

  “Do you think Mum will be okay?” he asked as they drove along the M56.

  “She’ll be fine, son. She understands this is something you need to do.”

  “I don’t know, Dad.”

  “Your mum’s tougher than you think, Jonathan, believe me.”

  “Well, she’s had to be, I suppose.”

  He hadn’t intended it to sound like a dig at his father, but that was how it was received. It hung sourly in the air for a few moments, threatening to spoil their trip almost before it had begun.

  “How do you think you’ll feel if I decide to meet my birth-dad, Dad?” he asked, changing tack.

  Malcolm exhaled theatrically. “It’d be strange, there’s no doubt about that.”

  “Sinéad might not even know where he is.”

  “So you haven’t spoken to her about him?”

  “No, we thought it was best to wait until we meet before getting into all that.”

  “Probably right, son.”

  Deciding that he’d given his father enough to chew on for the time being, Jonathan tried to lighten the mood.

  “I thought of a few games we could play to pass the time, Dad.”

  “Oh?”

  “Have you ever heard of the ‘Would you rather’ game?”

  “I can’t say I have, Jon.”

  “It’s brilliant, Dad; me and my mates play it all the time when we’ve had a few.”

  “Well, that doesn’t fill me with hope.”

  “Really, Dad, it’ll be fun.”

  “What do I do, then?”

  “Okay, so it goes like this: I ask you a question, for instance, ‘Would you rather have the power of flight or be invisible?’ and then you have to answer it.”

  “Well, that’s easy; flight.”

  “But why, Dad? Why flight?”

  “So I could fly everywhere, would save a fortune on petrol.”

  “Think about it though, Dad. If you were invisible, you could get away with all sorts.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well you wouldn’t have to pay for your petrol for a start.”

  Malcolm looking at his son, a whisper of a smile playing on his lips. “You’re serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious, Dad. And that’s only half of it.”

  “What else would you do?”

  “Lots of stuff,” Jonathan mumbled in response, suddenly uncomfortable. It was one thing discussing sneaking into women’s changing rooms with his mates, quite another doing the same with his father.

  “Let’s try a different question, Dad. I don’t think you quite got that one.”

  “Fair enough.”

  While Jonathan devised a more suitable teaser, Malcolm stared straight ahead, a broad grin spread across his face. Never could he have imagined this; he and his son on a trip, just the two of them, laughing and joking, as thick as thieves. He had thought their relationship sundered beyond repair at one point. Since that chat around the kitchen table, however, things had changed for the better. There was still the odd moment here and there, and he knew Jonathan’s loyalty would always be to his mother, but for the most part it was just like old times. It was hard to believe really. He just hoped it would last. His son’s behaviour suggested it would, he appeared to have moved on, and Malcolm felt he could do the same. He was getting to know his son again. Jonathan was a man now, nineteen years old, and hanging around with him was like being with one of his mates, only much better. They could laugh and joke like old pals, have a few beers and play games like ‘Would you rather’.

  “Have you thought of one yet?” he asked.

  “Give me a minute,” Jonathan replied, his eyes closed.

  Malcolm was starting to worry about the nature of this question.

  “Right, I’m ready!” Jonathan announced.

  “Go on, then.”

  “Would you rather get sent to jail for a crime you didn’t commit or accidentally kill someone and get away with it?”

  “Eh? What kind of question is that?”

  “It’s a ‘Would you rather’ question, Dad.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not much of a choice, is it?”

  “That’s what the game is like sometimes, Dad.”

  “I don’t want to choose either.”

  “You have to, Dad. If you don’t, you lose. And you have to be honest, too,” he added with a glint in his eye.

  Secretly, Malcolm had to concede that it was an excellent question, a real moral dilemma. He had to be careful with his answer; it was important he portrayed himself as a responsible adult.

  “Do I get to choose whom I accidentally kill?”

  “No,” Jonathan replied, “it’s just anyone, completely random.”

  “Okay, then,” Malcolm said, giving it serious thought. “I think I’ll have to go to prison.”

  “Are you sure, Dad? Even if it was life imprisonment in maximum security?”

  “That’s just something I’ll have to accept. I don’t think I could live with the guilt of taking someone’s life.”

  “Very noble of you, Dad.”

  “Cheers, son. Would you come to visit me in prison?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “Will I tell you what I’d do?”

  “Go on.”

&
nbsp; Jonathan liked to bend the rules a bit when playing ‘Would you rather’, which was a lot easier when playing with a rookie like his dad.

  “I’d get sent to prison, too.”

  “Very good.”

  “But I’d befriend some gang members, make contacts on the inside and track down the person responsible for my crime.”

  “Hey, you never said anything about what I could do once I was in prison!”

  “Hmph, it’s not my fault if you chose to accept your fate, Dad. Anyway, once I’d tracked this bloke down, I’d hire someone to make him confess.”

  “But then wouldn’t you be breaking the law?”

  “How, Dad?”

  “By using intimidation tactics.”

  Jonathan pondered this for a while. They were already halfway to Holyhead. Having left behind the satellite towns of greater Manchester, they were now surrounded by the picturesque landscape of north Wales. It had been a long time since he’d been to the port but there was little chance of getting lost, all you had to do was follow the lorries, all of which were going in that direction. Every now and then they passed a service station full of parked convoys and he felt his stomach rumble at the thought of a full English, but the plan had been to carry on all the way to the ferry and eat once they were on board.

  “Okay, Dad, fair dues; you got me there.”

  “So you’d end up back in prison, then?”

  “If you say so,” Jonathan replied sourly.

  “And probably alongside the guy you forced a confession from. You’re making a lot of enemies, Jon. I think I fancy my chances in prison better than yours.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Dad, don’t go on about it.”

  Malcolm drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel in satisfaction. He was getting the hang of this game now.

  “Is it my turn now to ask a question?”

  “Sure, Dad,” said Jonathan, staring distractedly out of the window.

  They both lapsed into silence, the only sound the mid-morning news bulletin on the radio and the swish of traffic as they were overtaken by impatient drivers.

  “Okay, then, how about …” Malcolm began.

  “It’s not ‘how about’, Dad, it’s ‘Would you rather’.”

  “All right, all right. Would you rather work in a job you hate and earn loads of money or do something you love and earn very little?”

  Jonathan tutted loudly. “Dad, that’s a rubbish question. Everyone asks that.”

  “Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” Malcolm was genuinely hurt, he’d put a lot of thought into his question.

  His son resumed staring out the window, so dismissive of the question that he didn’t deem it worth answering.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it then, Jon?”

  “The second one.”

  “A job you love, and earn very little?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that all? No sneaky ways around it?”

  “No. Will we play something else now?”

  “Okay. What had you in mind?”

  By the time they’d named every European Cup winner since 1955, England’s starting line-ups in the World Cup final of 1966 and the rugby World Cup final of 2003, and agreed that a prime Muhammed Ali would probably beat a prime Mike Tyson on a split decision, they’d reached the dock. It looked like a fine day to sail; the Irish Sea shimmered under bright sunshine and there wasn’t a breath of air in the sky. They passed through the toll and, after a slight delay, parked up inside the bowels of the Seacat.

  “What’ll we do first, Dad?”

  “Food. I’m starving.”

  “Sounds good. Might have a few pints with mine.”

  Malcolm looked at his son curiously. “Might you now?”

  “I might,” he replied.

  “Well for some, isn’t it?”

  “Do you mind, Dad, since you’re driving?”

  “No, enjoy yourself, son. We’re on holidays!”

  Jonathan’s ‘few pints’ left him somewhat the worse for wear. His first sight of Ireland was a bleary, distorted one, and as soon as they left the noise and clamour of the dock, he fell into a dozy, alcohol-induced slumber. Malcolm tried to rouse him gently, but to no avail. He would have to entertain himself during this leg of the journey. Night was falling by the time they reached their hotel. Rather conveniently, Jonathan awoke just as his father pulled into the car park.

  “Back in the land of the living, then?” asked Malcolm drily.

  Jonathan yawned lazily.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “At the hotel.”

  “Already? Nice driving, Dad. Sorry I dozed off.”

  “Dozed off? You were comatose!”

  Jonathan offered a guilty smile by way of apology.

  “This is the place, then?”

  “Yes. Get your bags and we’ll check in.”

  They got their stuff from the boot and went around to the entrance. The Spring Peak, a three-star hotel, was situated on Dooncurra’s main street, a fifteen-minute walk away from Sinéad McLoughlin’s poky little flat.

  “Looks all right, this,” said Jonathan as they crossed the thickly-carpeted lobby to the check-in desk.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Checking in?” asked the young woman at reception.

  Her accent was like Sinéad’s, beautiful and lilting, much nicer than the ones he’d heard on the ferry.

  “Yes, please. Philliskirk, two single rooms,” said Malcolm.

  While his father checked them in, Jonathan wandered into the hotel bar for a look. It was the same as any English bar he’d ever been in, all chrome fittings and plush seating, lonely drinkers and bored staff. He’d been expecting something more Irish, but you probably had to go further afield for that. A place like this was more likely to be used for events such as christenings and weddings. Had Sinéad ever been in here? She probably had. Maybe the McLoughlins held get-togethers here, perhaps this was where he’d have gone for his First Communion if he hadn’t been adopted. A First Communion was something Catholic children had when they were about seven years old. It was all very holy, a big day out for the whole family; he’d read about it online. They had another one a few years later, a confirmation, like the Church of England one but at a different age. That was where the holy parties ended, though, until you got married.

  He and Sinéad had discussed meeting in a pub, but they’d eventually decided on somewhere a little quieter, a nearby park. She’d given him directions: they would meet by a fountain tomorrow afternoon at one thirty. But he didn’t know what she looked like. What if there were loads of people sitting by the fountain, all of them women around Sinéad’s age? Potential birth-mothers, one and all. They’d briefly described themselves to each other – they had the same hair shade and eye colour – but it was all very vague. He’d suggesting exchanging pictures via email, but she didn’t have an email address and didn’t know how to set one up. Instead they agreed to text one another on the day, describing what they were wearing.

  While he waited for his father, he texted Sinéad to inform her of their arrival. She replied almost instantly, telling him how nervous she was. He didn’t feel like getting into a conversation about which of them was the more nervous, so he lied a little and said he was going to bed. She’d never know. Anyway, wasn’t that what teenage boys did, lied to their mothers? There was nothing wrong with that, it was a sign of how well they were getting along. What chance was there of a proper dinner in this place, he wondered as he looked around for a menu. It was late, after ten; the kitchen was probably closed and the chef gone home. The best he could hope for was a sandwich.

  “Jonathan, I have the key-cards,” Malcolm said, appearing in the bar.

  “Okay, Dad. Can we get something to eat first? I’m hanging.”

  “We won’t get anything in here at
this hour. We’ll have to go somewhere else. Let’s throw our bags upstairs and go out for a look around.”

  “Let’s hurry, then,” Jonathan said. “I’m really starving.”

  The rooms were in keeping with the rest of the hotel; nothing fancy but perfectly adequate for their needs. They each had their own television, which pleased Jonathan no end. He turned his on immediately to see what the local broadcasters had to offer and discovered the sum total of four channels, one of which was in a foreign language that he presumed was Irish. After changing his T-shirt and applying a fresh lining of deodorant, he crossed the hallway to his father’s room.

  “Does Ireland have its own language, Dad?” he asked, when Malcolm opened the door.

  “Yes, of course. They speak Irish, don’t they?”

  “How come we haven’t heard anyone speak it, then?”

  “I don’t think they use it much. If you hadn’t slept all the way here you would have noticed the road signs. They’re in English and Irish.”

  “Oh, right,” said Jonathan, intrigued. “I think I might like to learn a bit of Irish while I’m here.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” said Malcolm.

  “There’s an Irish channel on the television. If I watch enough of that, I might pick up something.”

  “Remind me again how you did at French in your GCSEs?”

  “Good point,” Jonathan admitted.

  He sat on the bed while his father readied himself for a night on the town. It was Wednesday, so there was unlikely to be too much happening, which was probably just as well. Jonathan was still a little anxious about the idea of being an Englishman on Irish soil. His father had assured him they would be fine, and that speaking in an English accent wasn’t any cause for concern. Jonathan wasn’t convinced, though; he’d heard about the IRA and how much they hated the English. Hadn’t they bombed Corporation Street in Manchester a few years back? What was to say they wouldn’t come to Dooncurra and bomb himself and his father while they slept? He vowed to speak very quietly for the first few days, at least until he got a grip on things.