“What do you think of Uncle Sean, Mum? Do you think he really has lost his memory or is he kidding us on?” Erin asked her mum as they walked to the car.
“What a strange thing to ask, Erin. Of course he’s lost his memory. Your Uncle Sean isn’t bright enough to fool all those doctors. Just because he called out ‘Theresa’ probably means that he gets flashbacks, and I’m sure one day he’ll be okay, but we have to be patient.”
“What about him being godfather? Do you think he would even know what it was all about? Imagine if he started shouting and swearing in church, Granny would have a coronary.”
“She would set about him with that bloody great handbag and do even more brain damage.”
“No, I think we’ll pass on Uncle Sean this time.”
“How many times do you think there’s going to be?” laughed Erin.
“We’ll have to take a rain check on that one,” smiled her mum.
The following morning mother and daughter set off for St. Jude’s to speak with Father Jack.
Delighted to have the Coyles back en masse in the parish, Father Jack would have moved heaven and earth to accommodate them. The date and time of the christening was agreed on, and then it was a short walk around the corner to Lizzie’s for a quick cuppa.
“My God, what’s going on?” Erin clutched at her mother’s arm.
Whatever it was, the whole street had turned out.
“Mum, it’s coming from Granny’s.” Erin set off at a run, leaving her mother pushing the stroller.
She crashed in the back door of number 28 just in time to witness her Uncle Sean lift his fist to her gran. The feisty little woman was facing up to her big son fearlessly.
“What’s going on?” The girl shouted at the pair.
“Oh, it’s nothing, dearie. I fell in the kitchen again and Uncle Sean was just helping me up.”
“It doesn’t look or sound like you fell. The whole street’s turned out.”
“I’m telling you I fell. And okay, I probably did make a bit of noise, I got such a fright.”
“And what have you got to say for yourself, Uncle Sean?”
“Me? Nothing. It’s just as your granny says, she fell in the kitchen.”
Just then Bridget arrived with the baby. “What the devil’s going on, Ma? You’ve got the whole bloody street out.”
“Christ, can’t a body have a tumble without it making the six o’clock news?”
“Put the kettle on, Erin, and see if you can find any cups that didn’t throw themselves down the stairs to save your granny.”
Sean went into his room and stayed there for the duration of their visit.
“No bull, Lizzie. What happened? Did he hit you?”
“Don’t be feckin’ ridiculous. To think that one of my boys would raise a hand to their mother!”
“Well, it looked like it when I came in,” ventured Erin.
“Well, I’m telling you he did not, and that’s all there is to the matter. The boy’s had a terrible time and he was a bit anxious, that’s all. Now come and have some tea and tell me how you got on with Father Jack.”
Both Erin and Bridget noticed how badly Lizzie’s hands trembled as the old lady poured out the tea. There was something amiss here and both promised themselves they would keep a watchful eye on the situation.
The forthcoming christening was discussed and dissected by the three women until there was no more to be said.
“I’ll ring you later, Gran. And remember, if there are any more anxious episodes, phone my dad.”
“There won’t be,” smiled the old woman, waving them away as they drove down the road.
Christ, if her Paddy knew what had gone on in this house today, he would skin Sean alive.
Lizzie tried hard to convince herself she wasn’t scared witless of Sean. He’d always been a handful, but this lad she’d brought home from the hospital was not the lad she’d given birth to. But, he was her son and she’d stand by him, whatever.
Invitation
“Did you know about this?” shouted Diane as she waved a letter in Bobby’s face. “Did she not say anything the last time you spoke to her? In fact, when was the last time you spoke to the little tart?”
“Calm down, Ma. No, I know nothing about any christening, and I haven’t spoken to her since I came back home. Despite what you think, she certainly isn’t a tart. She’s the mother of your grandson.”
“Crumbs off the table,” his mother was ranting. “Crumbs off the bloody table. We can pick a godparent as long as he or she meets with their approval. Who do they think they are? With their approval indeed! I’ve a good mind to choose your Uncle Walter.”
“Who the blazes is my Uncle Walter?”
“Your dad’s brother and the real black sheep of the family. Even those two daft buggers you hooked up with will have nothing to do with him. He’s an alky and an old pervert. You name it, he’s done it. His claim to fame is that he’s been barred from nearly every pub in Glasgow.”
“You’re not saddling my son with a godfather like that.”
“I thought you didn’t want anything to do with the boy? I thought he was nothing to you?” his mother levelled at him.
“I still wouldn’t want to lumber the kid with him,” said Bobby. “Don’t you want to play the doting grandma? Let’s face it, you’ll outshine every other woman there.” This was exactly the right thing to say to Diane. He knew how vain his mother was, and with very good reason; she was a corker, was his mum.
“What are you going to do? Are we going or not? And if we are, who’s going to look after business here?”
“I’ll fly over and back on the day. You can stay and have a bit of time with your family and maybe get to know the kid a bit.”
“Seems like a plan,” answered Diane. “What about the godparent? I honestly don’t know who I’d pick. I can’t think of anyone in the family who’d want to be associated with the Coyles.”
“Okay then, what about someone from here, someone prestigious? Someone who could be an asset to Ryan in the future?”
“I don’t follow you.” Diane was puzzled by her son’s proposal.
“Look, we of all people should appreciate that you never know what’s round the corner, and it would do the boy no harm to be the godson of some rich, influential person who could help out should he ever need it.”
“Sure, but I hope to God we’ve had all the trouble we are going to have. Who do you suggest?”
“What about Dell Knight? He owns half of Marbella and was great pals with Dad.”
“Good choice. Only one problem, if he puts one foot on British soil he’s going down for a twenty.”
“Shit, who else is there? Nick the Greek?
“Same problem, only with a longer stretch.”
“What about Mayor Munozo? He’s as crooked as the other two, but he and Dad were good buddies.”
“Okay, I’ll invite him to the club tonight and test the waters.”
“That would certainly put Bridget Coyle’s nose out of joint.”
“What are you up to tonight? It would be good if you were there when the mayor comes by.”
“I’m going to visit Frank for a bit and then I’ll be in about ten. I’ve got to say goodbye to my latest conquest. She’s a beauty, been on the cover of Vogue, no less. She wants to stay here and have babies.”
“For heaven’s sake, boy. Haven’t you learned to keep it in your pants yet? No more babies, or else.”
True to his word, Bobby arrived at the club around ten with his latest squeeze in tow.
“Your mother and I have been reminiscing about your father. He was a great friend of mine, Bobby, and I miss him.”
“I know, sir, and I know my father held you in the greatest respect. And because of that, my mother and I have a favour to ask of you.”
“Go on, I will do anything in my power for the son of my friend. Are you in trouble?”
“No, sir. It’s nothing of that sort. We were hoping you
would stand as godfather to my son.”
A sigh of relief passed from the mayor’s lips, he had been sure he was going to be asked for a favour of a different kind. “Of course, my boy. I would be honoured to stand for the grandson of one of my closest friends.”
“Before you agree, I have to say the ceremony is not in Spain, but in Scotland.”
“No problem, send me all the details and I will be there. I must tell you again that I am honoured to be chosen.”
Bobby signalled to the waiter who had appeared with champagne and glasses and the small party toasted the forthcoming celebrations.
On The Mend
Sean was watching from the living room window; his mother would appear any moment on her way back from early mass. It was the only time he had to himself, between 5.30 and 6.15 each morning, and that was when he went rummaging.
He knew his mother had a stash of money somewhere in the house, but so far he’d been unable to find it.
Unknown to the rest of the family, he had regained most of his memory, but there were still chunks missing. He was fly enough not to let on and he was so good at maintaining his childlike persona that he was sure no-one really suspected him.
He spied his mother walking with Theresa from next door, heads bent against the dreich Scottish weather, whispering to one another. Whispering about him? He was paranoid about who his mother spoke to and what she spoke about. He knew it was mostly about him and his business. She was always spreading lies about him. He would have to put a stop to it. How could his beloved mother have turned against him? So often he had to remind her who was the man of the house and who her loyalties should be with. She shouldn’t be telling bloody Theresa any of their business, she wasn’t family.
Lizzie was dismayed when she saw her son peering out of the window. “Damn,” she muttered under her breath, “I hope he’s in a better mood than last night.” The old woman rubbed her right arm. It wasn’t quite so painful this morning and it would ease once the bruising came out.
Feck it, she thought, if he starts his nonsense this early, I’ll lamp him with the poker.
Lizzie was exhausted. She was getting on in years and wasn’t up to coping with her son’s behaviour. If the truth be told, Sean was breaking his mother’s heart. Never in her life had Lizzie dreamt that one of her sons would lay hands on her. They had each, in their own way, provided for her and made sure she had the best that money could buy. Sean had changed. He’d changed long before the attack, but the head injury had made things much worse. She knew he was on the mend and had regained much of his memory. When he got into one of his tempers he would let slip and revert to his old self. But it was the hatred of his brothers that most appalled her and this, she was convinced, was down to the attack so therefore it wasn’t his fault. Because of this, she would protect him and cover for him.
She busied herself around the kitchen, preparing breakfast. She never knew how many would arrive; her kitchen was open to all and sundry. Her three sons and their workforce were welcome any morning. Before he had been hospitalized, Sean had been a regular at the table for breakfast. It was a chance for the brothers to catch up and it was always an enjoyable start to the day. Now, however, Sean would hurriedly consume his meal before anyone else arrived and disappear through to his room. He wouldn’t come out until the last plate had been cleared, except for the few occasions when Tiny Carter and the new guy, Gerry Fairnie, came to eat. Gerry went out of his way to draw Sean out and never spoke or referred to him in the way the others did.
Lizzie liked the young man and sympathized with his predicament. His children were in foster homes and he wasn’t allowed to see them. And the poor lass he had been married to, taking her own life the way she did. Lizzie had known Gerry’s wife since she was a child and a nicer girl you would not meet, but she had been led astray and paid a hellish price.
Gerry seemed well taken with Sean which was most unusual, Sean being a hard man to like. But he and Gerry got on like a house on fire and the old woman encouraged him to visit.
Sean had a bee in his bonnet about Theresa this morning, wanting to know what she and Lizzie had been whispering about on the way home.
“Don’t worry, lad, I didn’t let slip that you’ve taken to throwing your weight about in here and that your poor old ma has bruises the size of dinner plates. Because if I did, big and all as you are, she’d bray you from here to hell and back again. The truth is, lad, I am black affronted at what you’ve become. You’re a woman-beater.”
“What are you cawing about, you stupid old bat?” Sean sneered at Lizzie. “When did I ever beat you? If you’d lay off the bottle you’d be steadier on your feet, that’s how you get the bruises. Don’t blame me or I will give you the back of my hand. So shut your blethering and fix me some breakfast.”
“You can wait till the others arrive. I’m running behind and I can hardly use this arm, thanks to you. As for me laying off the bottle, I’d have to fight you to get near it.”
Sean turned away, the anger blazing across his face. Slyly, he moved the huge griddle his mother used to make her famous tattie scones and positioned the metal handle over the naked gas flame. He left it in position until the handle was almost glowing red. The kitchen was beginning to fill up, Sean sneaked the iron plate back to its original position and waited for the fun to begin.
For the first time in weeks Marie and Errol had joined the throng. Marie got up to help her mother. She broke several eggs into the frying pan. The bacon was already fried, as was the black pudding, and only the scones were left to be done.
“Don’t let her do them, Ma, they’ll be burned,” called Michael.
“‘Well done’ is the phrase you’re looking for,” Marie bit back.
Sean watched the proceedings with bated breath, he didn’t care which one of them got burned. He hated them both.
Marie let out an ear-piercing scream as the red-hot metal seared into her hand. The kitchen was in an uproar as Lizzie and Paddy tried their best to tend to Marie’s hand. It was already blistering.
“What the fuck happened?” Paddy demanded.
“The handle was scorching hot and I lifted it.”
“It must have been over the gas flame,” said one of the lads.
“No, it was over there,” Marie said pointing to where the griddle had been positioned.
“It’s the hospital for you, young lady,” stated Michael.
“I can’t, I’ve got an important meeting at eleven this morning.”
“I don’t care. This needs seen to, and no argument.”
“Look, let’s go straight to the Nuffield and get her sorted right away.”
Marie was sheet white and looked like she was ready to pass out.
Sean didn’t open his mouth, he just sat there taking everything in. But Lizzie’s weren’t the only pair of eyes watching him.
Acceptance
“Good God, Mum, would you look at this?” Erin opened a thick envelope and removed the contents. Inside was a sheet of heavily embossed writing paper: the acceptance from Diane Mack.
“Jesus, I don’t think the queen would have more superior notepaper than this,” her mother chuckled. “Talk about ostentatious, but more to the point, what does she say?”
“She thanks us for the invitation, she’s delighted to attend and requests invites for twenty guests. Christ, the godfather is none other than the mayor of Marbella, Julio Munozo.”
“I’m quite disappointed,” said Erin. “I was expecting George Clooney or Pierce Brosnan, the way she larges it up.”
“The mayor of Marbella will do nicely, thank you. Though it puts our choices a bit in the shade. Should we rethink?” pondered Bridget.
“Don’t you dare suggest such a thing! I wouldn’t want anyone but Carol to stand for him, and if the mayor of bloody Marbella knew what these lowlifes got up to, he wouldn’t be so keen on offering his services.”
“Well, this family is not exactly shining white, are we?”
�
�C’mon, Mum, you can’t compare what Pete McClelland and the canon did with my dad’s business.”
“I should bloody well hope not.” Paddy stomped into the room. “And why am I being compared to those illustrious gentlemen?”
“We’ve just had a reply from the other grandma,” said Erin.
“I trust it’s a ‘thanks but no thanks’?”
“No, she’s accepted and would like us to invite a few of her close family.” Bridget handed the list over to her husband.
Paddy made only one comment, “No fucking chance.” He screwed up the sheet of expensive notepaper and threw it in the wastepaper basket.
“Sorry, Paddy,” said Bridget retrieving the crumpled list, “but we’ve already agreed and I certainly won’t be made to look stupid because you decided to storm off from the family meeting.”
“So, because I couldn’t handle Sean and his shenanigans I’ve got to extend the hand of friendship to a bunch of mongrels? Who is this Julio Munozo? What does he have to do with anything?”
“He’s only the mayor of Marbella,” Bridget replied smugly.
“Do what the fuck you like. I’m not sure I’ll even be there.”
“What?” Mother and daughter exclaimed.
“Just what I said, I’m not sure I’ll be there.”
“I swear to God, Paddy, if you embarrass us in any way, you’ll rue the day. And that’s not a threat, it’s a promise.” It was Bridget’s turn to storm out.
“This is all your fault, lady,” he turned on his daughter. “Yeah, it’s all your fault for bringing that mob back into our lives.”
“So you wish Ryan had been aborted, do you? You wish you had no grandson?”
For once her father was stuck for words.
“Of course not,” Paddy muttered. “Oh, do what you like. You pair always do anyway.”
She would tell Bobby tonight when he phoned that her mother had agreed with his family’s requests. He had taken to phoning her most evenings around seven, this didn’t interfere with his plans and kept him, or so he thought, in her good books.
The Betrayal Page 10