by M. J. Hyland
‘Well, John, many people who claim to have this ability to detect lies have extremely irritable mothers, or alcoholic fathers, or some other force or presence in their early life that is, or was, unhealthy, unnatural, unpleasant or extremely upsetting in some way. Does that ring any bells, John? Did you have an upsetting experience?’
He is wrong. ‘I feel sick,’ I say.
As I move to stand, the chair falls out from under me. And that is the last thing I remember of my first night in the Parnell Square Home for Boys.
* * *
When I wake, the social worker and the housefather are standing by my bed. The room is stuffy and, although it must be morning, the curtains haven’t been opened and it is still dark.
‘We came to wake you,’ says the social worker. ‘But you woke yourself. How did you sleep?’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Fine.’
‘You’ve missed breakfast,’ says the housefather as he opens the curtains. ‘It’s eleven o’clock.’
I sit up and an insect lands on my face, and then on my arm. The room is hot and infested with midges. I’ve never seen midges inside. They shouldn’t be here.
‘Get dressed. We’ll wait outside.’
I dress in the same clothes I came in and go out into the hall.
The housefather folds his arms across his chest. I do the same. But I feel stupid, unfold them, and lean my shoulder against the door.
‘Your mother is coming for you later this afternoon. She came to get you at nine o’clock and was waiting for you but she didn’t want us to wake you. And your father will be here on the afternoon train, but first you need to come with us to the interview room. Then you’ll have some lunch.’
‘If my mother is here, why can’t I see her?’ I ask.
‘She was here but we sent her home for some rest. She’ll be back later this afternoon. We need to sort out some paperwork first. We need to sign your discharge papers.’
‘Does that mean I’m leaving?’
‘Yes, but let’s take care of that business somewhere other than in the corridor.’
They sit at one side of the wobbling table and I sit at the other. The housefather does all the talking. I don’t have any thoughts about anything much except my nervous stomach.
‘Your mother says she doesn’t want to pursue any charges against you. She hasn’t been to bed. She was with the guards most of the night, and came in here this morning.’
I stare at him.
‘We need to sign you in, and this must be done quite formally, since you were unfit to sign anything last night.’
‘But why should I be signed in when I’m about to be signed out?’
‘Can you read?’
‘Of course I can read.’
‘Then read this, and if you agree to it, sign it, and then you’ll be free to go home with your mother, if that’s where she’d like to take you.’
‘Back home?’
‘Looks like it,’ says the housefather. ‘And you’d better stop rubbing your face. It muffles your words and you’ll end up with acne vulgaris.’
‘Acne vulgaris is …’ offers the social worker.
‘I know what it is.’
The two-sided discharge paper says that I was taken ‘involuntarily into the custody of the Department of Justice’ and that I am being ‘discharged by order of the same’; today’s date, a few names, something about ‘indemnification against damage to property’, and that’s about it.
I’d like to keep it as a souvenir.
‘So I can go now?’ I ask. ‘Back home?’
The social worker clears his throat. ‘Well, you can see your mother and I’ll be sitting in with you in the family room for a few minutes, just to be sure everything is ship-shape.’
‘Oh.’
* * *
At lunchtime, I sit in the dining room, with the social worker. There are seven tables, with five or six boys at each. They are between ten and seventeen years old, and make so much noise that every few minutes a man in a brown and green uniform walks down beside them and bangs two frying pans together, saying, ‘Who wants to lose their ears now? Who?’, but they all laugh and go back to the noise, including the man in the green and brown uniform. I’ve never been on a school camp, the kind that Americans have, but this must be what it’s like.
My appetite is back and I eat two helpings of mashed potato and sausages and two helpings of trifle. The social worker eats a cheese sandwich cut into triangles, and he takes small bites, the sharp, small bites that a rat might take. It is as though he is afraid of opening his mouth too wide.
‘If you had stayed here,’ he says, putting his sandwich down while he speaks, ‘you’d have enjoyed the meal on the first Sunday of every month.’
‘Why?’
‘The trainee chefs for the big hotels come in and try out their new recipes. Trainee chefs for posh hotels like the Shelbourne.’
‘I want to stay there one day.’
He ignores this.
‘And on Thursday nights there’s a billiards competition and on Saturday there are darts and table tennis.’
‘But after here the boys go to prison, don’t they?’
‘Some do. Some don’t.’
‘Would I have been charged with attempted murder if my mam had wanted to press charges?’
‘Very likely.’
‘I’m lucky, then.’
‘One of the luckiest boys I’ve ever met. Do you have any idea what your life might have become?’
‘I’d probably have been in prison.’
‘More likely you’d have spent a very long time in a psychiatric hospital for the criminally insane.’
‘Children don’t go there.’
He puts his sandwich down. ‘That’s true. But adolescents do.’
I stare at him.
‘Well then, I wouldn’t have gone there.’
‘Just count yourself lucky you have such a loving mother.’
I don’t want to talk about my mother, I want to see her. He doesn’t continue with his cheese sandwich and it stays there on the tray like something in a cartoon, with his tiny teeth marks in it. He looks at me, waiting for me to speak and when I don’t, he tells me to go my room to pack my bag.
I lie on the bed for a while, stare up at the ceiling, and hit the midges with the small softcover Bible that was in the bedside drawer.
At four o’clock the social worker comes in. ‘OK, they’re waiting for you.’
The family room is large, with three orange settees, a big television, a record player and two bookshelves filled mostly with magazines.
My mother stands up when I walk in. She has make-up on and her hair is plaited. She holds her arms out and I walk into her embrace, and she holds me and I smell the milky tea with sugar she must have had while she was waiting. I am happy.
‘I couldn’t do it,’ she says.
She lets go and stands back to look at me.
‘You’re my son, and I love you and I can’t see your life ruined. Your life will not be ruined. Your life will not be ruined. Not by you, and not by me. Your life will not be ruined. Do you understand?’
Her voice is strong and loud.
‘Yes,’ I say.
My father stands in the corner, holding two helium-filled balloons, both orange, the same as the colour of the settees.
‘And you’re sorry,’ he says without moving. ‘We know you’re sorry. Aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ says my mother. ‘You’re sorry.’
They look at each other, and something seems settled. My mother collapses onto the settee and weeps silently. I stay standing; the social worker is standing behind me, breathing heavily but saying nothing.
I don’t want to sit. I want to leave. I look at my father; it is easier than looking at my mother. ‘What are the balloons for?’ I ask.
‘Something to hold me up,’ he says.
This must be a joke, but he doesn’t smile. ‘Oh,’ I say.
‘The balloons ar
e for the twins,’ says my mother. ‘It’s their eighth birthday today. We’re going around to Aunty Evelyn’s house for tea. And we’ll stop on the way to pick up the cake. And we’ll not talk about what you did. And you’ll not say that you’ve been locked up here. What you did is forgotten and forgiven. There’s no other way.’
I smile at her but she doesn’t look at me; she looks at the floor.
‘It’s forgotten and forgiven,’ she continues, ‘and we will forget, and you will drop the nonsense about lie detection. There’s no point in ruining a perfectly good and promising life.’
I look at my father. I study his reaction to what my mother is saying. Maybe he has a punishment in store for me? His shoulders rise and fall with his breathing and, impatient but not angry, he moves the balloons from one hand to the other.
He looks at me. ‘We’re starting again,’ he says. ‘The three of us. We’re starting all over again.’
‘Are we going back to Gorey?’
‘Yes. We’ll leave tomorrow.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘I want to go back.’
My mother gets up to leave and the social worker steps forward and asks her if she is ready to go.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
He opens the door and takes us down the hall to the front door. We stand to say goodbye on the footpath outside, by the car.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thanks for all your help.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ he says, putting his hands in his pockets.
‘Yes, thank you,’ says my father.
The social worker nods and turns away without saying goodbye. He walks towards the door of the home.
My mother says, ‘Let’s go now,’ and opens the car door and we get in, but my father stands by the car, and watches the social worker.
He calls out after him, ‘Thank you.’
And when the social worker has not heard, my father calls out again, ‘Thank you! Goodbye!’ but his voice is too loud.
The social worker turns around and, when he sees my father still looking at him, he waves and my father waves, his hand beating too fast and too long in the deaf air.
35
We drive to Aunty Evelyn’s for the birthday party and my mother and father talk about the traffic and the weather. But when I wind the window down and stick my head out, my father turns around in his seat and yells at me.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
I don’t argue. I say I’m sorry, wind the window up and sit back, quietly, in my seat.
In the kitchen at Aunty Evelyn’s my mother helps light the candles on the cake with a slow, steady hand, and my father starts the singing. He sings so well that Kay, who rarely speaks, unless it is in unison with her twin sister, says, ‘You sound nice, Uncle Michael.’
After the cake, Aunty Evelyn brings out a tray of ham sandwiches. ‘Beautiful leg ham,’ she says.
My mother covers her nose and mouth with her hand. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me, but I can’t stomach the smell of those ham sandwiches.’
Aunty Evelyn laughs. ‘Who ever heard of such a thing!’
My mother takes a sandwich but she doesn’t eat; it stays in her hand, held down close to the table.
‘I could make some cheese sandwiches instead,’ I say.
Uncle Gerald doesn’t lift his head, but his voice is loud and sarcastic. ‘Put that boy in the Guinness Book of Records for being the first teenager to offer his mammy lunch!’
Aunty Evelyn laughs again. Alone.
* * *
In the afternoon the adults go to the good room upstairs to drink port and whiskey. I’m in the living room with Liam and the twins watching the FA Cup final. I can’t sit still. I am worried that Aunty Evelyn and Uncle Gerald will find out what has happened. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and by the time I open them again I can’t remember what the score is.
Liam starts shouting, abusing the Man U goalie for letting a penalty through. The goalie didn’t do anything wrong, it was a good shot, that’s all, but Liam keeps on screaming at the goalie, ‘You idiot! You mongoloid! You sissy!’
All the Man U supporters in the crowd are screaming at the goalie, their mouths wide open, most of them standing, waving their fists. When a close-up of the goalie’s face comes up on the television, Liam moves in close to the screen and spits at him. The goalie is trying his hardest to block the balls. In the close-up he looks frightened.
I rush to the toilet.
I have diarrhoea. It floods out of me, and I get a sharp pain down my thighs. The diarrhoea keeps coming, so much of it, and as it rushes into the toilet some of the dirty water splashes up against the back of my legs. The smell is terrible. I flush the toilet three times, all the while holding my nose. I use a towel to wipe the back of my thighs and rinse the towel in the bath. After I have washed the towel, I wash my hands, and I run the hot water tap for a long time, hoping the heat and the steam will cover up the smell and stop me feeling sick.
Liam knocks on the door. ‘What’re ya doin’ in there? Havin’ a bath?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
He keeps knocking and shouting at me and I want to go out there and hurt his face. I picture myself going at his face with my hands.
But I stay where I am. I wait. Instead of going out to him, I run hot water in the bath again. While the tap is running, I can’t hear Liam and I feel better. I stand in front of the mirror and the hot water steams it up so that I can’t see my reflection. But I face the mirror and look at the steam on the surface of the glass.
‘On the count of ten,’ I say, ‘you will come back and everything will be normal again.’
I wipe the mirror clean. When I can see my face again, I don’t like how it looks.
I let the mirror steam up a second time. I wipe it clear once more and look at my face. I smile. The second time is better. I put my hand on the reflection of my hand and I say, ‘You will be all right. You won’t be a criminal. You will be better than other people.’
I wash my hands and scrub under my nails, then I get Liam’s aftershave and splash it on my underpants and the legs of my jeans. I go back into the living room. The football match is over and Liam and the twins are eating more cake. I sit in the chair nearest the window and look down at the street. I watch a hunchbacked old man cross the road. He doesn’t look to see if there are any cars coming.
At eight o’clock my parents come to take me home. My mother smiles without showing her teeth. My father looks at me properly for the first time since he came to collect me from the boys’ home. I’d like him to hug me instead of looking at me.
‘Time to go,’ he says.
I fall asleep in the car and go straight to bed when we get home.
In the morning, my mother comes to my room. ‘You’d better get washed. Uncle Jack and Uncle Tony are coming for breakfast. They’ve agreed to move the furniture.’
I want her to come and sit on my bed, but I don’t think she will. She will stay in the doorway. ‘Do they know?’
‘Only Granny knows.’
‘What about Aunty Evelyn? Did you tell her?’
‘We told her what we’ve told your uncles; that we’ve decided to go back to Gorey because we like it better there.’
I stand up and move towards the door. She puts her hand across her chest and reaches for her shoulder. She holds her shoulder as though it is sore.
‘John. Listen to me. You’ll be seeing a doctor in Gorey. He’s a child psychologist. I’ll be taking you to see him as soon as we get back and you’ll go for as long as he says you need to.’
I don’t care about doctors. I want to know what she thinks, and I want to know why she is taking me back. But if I ask, things might change; things that aren’t clear or certain might become clear and certain. She might decide to have me locked up; my father might leave again; I might be punished.
‘Are you happy?’ I ask.
She walks away withou
t answering.
Uncle Jack and Uncle Tony come just before nine. They eat two helpings of eggs and rashers and black pudding, and drink three pots of tea. I eat only toast. I’m too nervous about diarrhoea.
‘Why won’t you eat?’ my father asks.
‘I have a toothache.’
Immediately after I say this, Uncle Tony distracts everybody by complaining about his gout, the swelling and soreness of his big toe. ‘Even the weight of the sheet on my foot gives me pain,’ he says.
My mother has no patience with him and talks to him the way she used to.
‘Well, if you’d stop eating all those kippers and fatty foods you might not have the gout.’
My father smiles with the corner of his mouth.
‘Fair play,’ says Uncle Tony.
‘Time to pack now, John,’ says my father.
I open my cupboard drawers. All five editions of the Guinness Book of Records are missing. That’s five whole years gone.
I go back into the kitchen. My parents are holding hands, looking at each other, whispering.
‘Where are my books?’
‘I’ve given them to charity,’ says my mother. ‘I’d prefer you to read something else from now on.’
‘Like what?’
‘School books.’
‘But I needed them.’
‘Let’s pack and get out of here,’ says my father.
I go to my room but instead of packing I sit up on my bed and throw my clothes out the window. My shirts and trousers and socks float down more slowly than I expect them to and they land on the ground-floor balconies; only one pair of trousers makes it all the way down to the ground.
I go back to the kitchen with an empty suitcase. I open it and put it on the floor near my father’s feet. ‘I’m packed,’ I say.
‘Where are all your clothes?’ he asks.
‘I threw them out the window.’
They look at each other and don’t seem at all surprised. They don’t protest. Then, suddenly, as though somebody has pressed a button, my parents start laughing and then the laughing stops.
‘You were outgrowing most of them anyway,’ says my mother. ‘It’s probably just as well.’
* * *
At eleven o’clock, we are ready to go. Uncle Jack and Uncle Tony lean against the car and say how exhausted they are. My father hands each of them an envelope. They both refuse, but my father insists they take it.