by Simon Bourke
“What do you fancy, then?” asked Malcolm, emerging from the bathroom.
“Do you think they do Indian food over here?”
“Let’s find out.”
They did do Indian food, and it was as nice and as authentically Indian as the Indian food you got in England. The restaurant was almost entirely deserted except for a young couple by the window and an elderly foursome who seemed more interested in quaffing the cheap wine on offer than eating their food. Showing no ill-effect from his earlier drinking, Jonathan decided to have a pint with his Rogan Josh; to help him sleep, he told his father. They ate in silence and left as soon as their plates were cleared. It had been a long day, and they’d been travelling since nine that morning – both were content to be in bed before midnight.
“What time are you going to get up?” asked Malcolm, as they parted ways for the night.
“I’m going to set my alarm for half-ten,” said Jonathan.
“Breakfast only lasts till eleven,” his father warned.
“If I’m up, I’ll get it. If I’m not, I won’t.”
“Fair enough, son. Sleep well.”
“I will, Dad.”
Jonathan went into his room, kicked off his shoes, wrestled his clothes to the floor and flopped onto the bed. He was asleep within seconds.
22
Sinéad had been awake since first light. She’d taken a sleeping tablet, hoping it would grant her a full night’s rest and that she would waken feeling refreshed and energised. But it wasn’t to be. Four hours’ sleep; that’s what she’d got. She’d lain there, listening to the day come to life, wondering what it had in store for her. This was the day, the day she’d thought would never come. She was about to meet her boy, the child she’d left behind in that English hospital. He was here in Dooncurra, and in a few hours’ time they would come face to face.
At 9.30, she finally gave in. There was no chance of falling back to sleep, not now. Her heart was thumping, her mind racing. She just wanted it to be over, to be climbing back into bed, having survived the day. There were still another four hours to go, though, four hours until they were due to meet, plenty of time to have a nervous breakdown or worse. She got up, wrapped her dressing-gown around her and sloped into the kitchen. It looked like being a typical Irish summer’s day, cloudy and drab, with just enough warmth to debate the merits of long or short sleeves; perfect weather for meeting up with your long-lost child.
She turned on the kettle and instinctively reached out for her fags, but they weren’t there. She was off them and had been for a month now. Whose stupid idea had that been? More than anything right now, she needed a cigarette. This was an emergency, a situation of great peril. Why hadn’t she planned for this? Bought a pack of ten, just in case? She should have known this would happen today, of all days.
All it would take was a quick trip to the corner shop. She could be back here in five minutes with a lovely cigarette dangling from her lips. That’s how she could pass the time until the meeting, just smoking. She’d buy forty fags and smoke every one of them, turn up for the meeting smelling like an ashtray and sounding like a wheezy old bus. No, starting the day with a relapse was not a good idea. It would be a sign of weakness and a warning of bad things to come. She pushed thoughts of nicotine to the back of her mind. She was going to be strong today, a proper, grown-up woman.
It would have been nice to have some moral support, though. Jonathan had his dad, she had no one. It was the school holidays, so Adele was busy with her kids. Sinéad could have called over for a while, playing with the children always helped take her mind off things. She was operating on a high stress level today, however, her nerves so strained that one of Adele’s offspring might end up being maimed if they stepped out of line. No, she wouldn’t go there. The only other person she could turn to was her father, but she had no way of contacting him. He didn’t have a mobile and ringing the landline would almost certainly bring her into contact with her mother. Because, in spite of her arthritis, Patricia McLoughlin had an unerring ability to get to the phone before anyone else, no matter where she was. If Linford Christie was over for tea and the phone went, she’d still get there before him. The last person Sinéad wanted to talk to right now was her mother; that would be like Superman eating a plateful of Kryptonite before he went into battle with Lex Luther. No, she was on her own for now, although she’d have some company in a few hours’ time. Oh, Christ. She felt her stomach heave and ran to the bathroom, but it was a false alarm; nothing came up. She just dry-heaved for a while, spat and spluttered and flushed the toilet. Totally normal, all things considered.
That episode over, she returned to the kitchen and tried to map out her day, planning things in advance usually calmed her nerves. It was a thirty-minute walk to the park. It would take her an hour to get ready. She also had to try to eat something before she went. That would all take roughly two hours, which still left her with more than two hours to fill. What was she going to do for that amount of time? She couldn’t stay here. She had to get out, it didn’t matter where. She went to the bedroom, put on the clothes she’d been wearing the day before, fixed up her hair as best she could, and headed out into the early-morning greyness. A good walk, that’s what she needed right now.
23
To Jonathan’s surprise, he was up in time for breakfast the following morning. In fact, he made it with time to spare.
“Didn’t think I’d see you for hours yet,” said Malcolm, making room for his son’s overflowing plate.
“I know. I slept really well, though. What time was it when we went to bed?”
“A little after midnight.”
“Ten hours, then,” said Jonathan, stretching contentedly. “That should set me up for the day.”
“That breakfast should help, too,” said Malcolm. “Are you sure you have enough?”
Jonathan looked at the array of sausages, rashers, beans, pudding, egg and tomatoes on his plate. “I forgot the toast. Could you get me some, Dad?”
Malcolm smiled wryly and went to the buffet to hunt down some toast, and perhaps a trough for his son to eat from.
Usually Jonathan wouldn’t dream of starting a fry-up without some toast to hand, but he was starving so he decided to get stuck in and hope his father returned promptly with that most vital of ingredients. This is how all holidays should be, he thought as he speared a sausage and dipped it into the yolk of an egg. Just the lads. Eating and drinking whatever you want, sleeping it off and then starting all over again. There was no way he was going to the Canaries with his parents and sister later on in the summer, not a chance. He was going to ask his father if he fancied a trip to Scotland. Jonathan had already planned it out. He’d invite one of his mates, probably Stuart, and his dad could bring Dennis from work. They’d go to a remote part of Scotland, maybe the Outer Hebrides, and try their hand at fishing. Jonathan had never fished, but how hard could it be? You just sat on the bank, drinking cans and enjoying the fresh sea air. Then, when they’d finished for the day, they’d shack up in the village pub and sup real ale, that thick murky stuff you only got in the countryside. They’d get pissed, sing songs and then stumble back to their hotel, or better still, their camp-site.
“Is four slices enough?”
“Should be,” said Jonathan, picking up a piece.
“We’ve got about three hours to kill before you meet Sinéad,” said Malcolm. “Anything you fancy doing?”
Jonathan shrugged his shoulders.
“There’s not much to do around here,” Malcolm continued. “I spoke to the receptionist and she said there are some woods not far from here, with walkways and gift shops, the whole lot. Very popular with tourists.”
“Okay,” Jonathan nodded.
“Will we go there, then?”
“Mmm.”
“If I go upstairs and change my shoes, do you think you’ll be ready by the time I g
et back?”
Jonathan continued to nod, far too busy eating to respond in any depth. A walk in the woods did sound nice. It’d give him a chance to sample that fresh country air his father was always going on about. He could ask him about the trip to Scotland, too, catch him unawares while they were enjoying the great outdoors. When they’d finished their walk, he’d return to the hotel, take a shower and meet the woman who’d brought him into the world.
He finished the last of his breakfast, stifling a belch as he pushed the plate away. The sausages had been incredible, he made a mental note to enquire about them before they checked out. Sinéad had texted again that morning; just checking in, she’d said, making sure he hadn’t changed his mind. He’d reassured her and told her he’d see her later on. He felt remarkably calm about the whole thing. All that build-up, all those years of wondering; he should have been in a frenzy by this point. But whether it was the buzz of being on holidays, the Guinness he’d consumed the night before or the steadying influence of his father, he was totally at ease with it all. It still meant everything to him, of course, but it held no fears. He and Sinéad had already clicked, and today would merely cement their relationship. If anything, he had to keep his excitement in check. This was going to be one of the best days of his life.
*
“Are you sure we’ve not gone past it, Dad?”
“No, no. She said it was just a little way out of town, up a hill.”
“I don’t know, Dad. I think we’ve gone past it.”
Jonathan was glad now that they hadn’t decided to walk. It appeared that ‘just a little way out of town’ meant a five-mile drive over increasingly bumpy roads to the outer reaches of human civilisation.
“There!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Dooncurra Woods, one kilometre. I told you.”
Jonathan twisted in his seat to see the sign. It was battered and grimy, but legible. Malcolm triumphantly turned the steering wheel and reversed to the little byroad he’d just driven past.
“I had a feeling it was up here,” he said.
Jonathan smirked to himself. Seconds before, his father had ridiculed his suggestion that the woods might be at the end of that narrow little laneway. “I don’t think so, son,” he’d said dismissively, his tone that of someone who was used to roughing it in the wilderness as opposed to Jonathan, a naive suburbanite who wouldn’t last five minutes out here on his own.
They continued up the hill, keeping an eye out for the turn-off to the woods. Cows stared out at them from the adjoining fields, absentmindedly chewing the cud as they sized up the newcomers.
“There’s the sign, Dad,” said Jonathan, pointing.
“Yes, Jonathan,” Malcolm replied, slightly miffed that he hadn’t seen it first.
They turned off as instructed, heading into the woods and away from Ard Aulinn where, at that very moment, Jonathan’s grandparents were discussing his whereabouts and when they might set eyes on him.
“God, this road is awful,” said Malcolm, slowing to a crawl as he manoeuvred the Audi round the numerous potholes. Jonathan had lapsed into silence; he wasn’t appreciating the bumpy ride and the way it made his breakfast slosh around his stomach. The whole lot, sausages, toast and even last night’s Guinness, was in danger of making an unwelcome return.
“Take it easy, Dad!” he said irritably as the car hopped in and out of another crater.
“It’s like summat from Blackpool Pleasure Beach, isn’t it?” Malcolm replied cheerily as they rumbled through the minefield.
Jonathan said nothing. He was sweating now, his stomach growling in complaint. He was about to suggest that they get out and walk the rest of the way, when they swept around one last dramatic bend; there, in front of them, lay Dooncurra Woods.
“Are you all right?” Malcolm asked, watching his ashen-faced son step gingerly out of the car.
“Yes, but give me a minute,” Jonathan replied, refusing to show signs of weakness.
He leant on the top of the car, took a few deep breaths, and followed his father who was already exploring.
“Is this the gift shop?” he asked, joining Malcolm outside a ramshackle hut which appeared devoid of life.
“Might have been once,” his father mused.
It was more booth than hut. Signs on the outside pointed to better days, days when tourists had come and paid for walking maps, sunglasses and kitsch mementos to mark their visit.
“No one’s here now anyway, Dad.”
“Not to worry,” said Malcolm. “We didn’t come here for gifts. Let’s head for the woods, eh? Looks lovely.”
They set off down the path leading to the woods, Malcolm puffing out his chest and striding confidently ahead, Jonathan trailing behind, surveying his surroundings and marvelling at how peaceful it all was. Despite being the height of summer, it was a dank and dreary day. The sky appeared to have been consumed by one giant cloud, an infinite mass which stretched as far as the eye could see. This suited them. It was perfect walking weather. The air was thick with rain, cooling them as they trudged solemnly along the stone path which was more trail than path, and looked as if it had been beaten out by footfall until someone had scattered stones upon it. Malcolm continued onwards, determined to set a steady pace despite, or even because of, Jonathan’s condition. He took great delight in sucking in the crisp, country air, making a great show of inhaling it deeply into his nostrils and letting it out with a contented sigh. Not for him the seedy sickness of the self-indulgent; he was alcohol-free, as pure as the earth around them.
Although feeling slightly ropey, Jonathan shared his father’s appreciation of their surroundings, albeit not as openly. They had parks back home and the countryside was an hour’s drive away, but this was different; this place felt untouched. Birds sang gaily, wildlife rustled in the undergrowth, this was their habitat, mankind was just a visitor here. What struck Jonathan most was the smell. It was fetid, almost sickly, plant life in full bloom. It energised him, made him feel alive.
“Catch me if you can, Dad!” he shouted, breaking into a sprint.
He was fifty yards away before Malcolm realised what was happening. He watched him go, dumbstruck, hesitated a moment and then gave chase. At first nothing seemed to be happening; his head was down, his arms pumping and his legs a flurry of activity, but he was hardly moving. It was like being suspended in mid-air. Maybe this was what happened when you got old, your body just stopped working. He hadn’t run in years, or taken any exercise for that matter. He’d grown soft without realising it. Gradually, however, he began to gain traction, the ground beneath him moving more quickly. He lifted his head and allowed himself to be propelled forward. It was magnificent. He let out a feral roar as he closed in on his son, who had long since slowed.
Seeing his father closing in on him, Jonathan popped up on his toes and sprung away into the distance once more. By now his own lack of fitness was becoming painfully apparent. He was already out of breath, his running days now but a distant memory. These days he was a beer-swilling student, his only exercise coming from frenzied, inebriated dancing at the campus nightclub. He was knackered, but a glance back at his advancing father spurred him on. Malcolm, flushed and labouring, was shortening the gap, and he couldn’t have the old man thinking he had the measure of him. Jonathan concentrated on his running, maintaining his rhythm as Ernie had taught him years ago, and within seconds he’d left his father in the distance once more. That was it now, no more running; he was fucked. There was still time for a prank, though. Looking ahead, he saw a turn in the path. If he got there in time, he could keep out of sight long enough to hide. He’d take up residence behind some trees, and scare the shit out of his father when he came barrelling round the corner.
Sprinting forward, he circled the bend a good eighty metres in front of Malcolm, and went about finding somewhere to conceal himself. To his left were a cluster of thin, spindly trees, but they’d
offer little in the way of protection. There were bigger trees on the right, with thick foliage and broad trunks, perfect for an ambush. He scurried towards them, laughing at the thought of his father rounding the corner, panting like a dog, only to be met by a long empty path and no sign of life. Hopefully he’d think Jonathan had forged ahead and give further chase, effing and blinding as he went. Jonathan moved into the thicket of trees but stopped. There was someone up ahead, sitting in the picnic area. He’d been so intent in finding a hiding-place that he hadn’t noticed at first, but there was a solitary figure sitting on one of the benches, smoking. She had her back to him, staring into the distance as she puffed on her cigarette. Although he couldn’t see her face, he thought he recognised her. Something about her was instantly familiar, the way she hunched forward, shoulders raised for protection, legs crossed, as if trying to envelop herself, conceal herself from the world around her. She looked poised to take flight at a moment’s notice, like a scavenging bird wary of larger, hungrier animals. He recognised her. He recognised himself. That was him sitting there or another version of him, an older female version. It was his kin, his family – his mother.
24
She’d resisted temptation twice, walking past Murphy’s and McGettigan’s without giving in. By the time she got to Bartley’s, she couldn’t take it anymore. This was her last chance before the woods; she had to get some. Sixty seconds later she stepped out of the shop, twenty cigarettes in her pocket. She felt at once excited and dejected. The thought of lighting up and smoking one was enough to make her go weak at the knees, but she knew she’d failed again; another attempt to kick her filthy habit had come to a predictable end. She hadn’t smoked them yet, though. She could just leave them there in her pocket, unopened. They’d be there if she ever needed them, a constant reassuring presence, twenty friends ready to console her in times of trouble. Fuck that. As soon as she found a quiet spot, she was going to demolish the whole packet.