by M. J. Hyland
‘Something small. That’s all. Please take it.’
‘We’re very grateful,’ says my mother.
‘Not at all,’ says Uncle Jack, and then we say goodbye.
My mother sits in the back of the car and my father tells me to sit in the front passenger seat. ‘There’s more room for your legs in the front,’ he says.
But I think my mother wants to sit in the back because she feels safer there.
It’s a nice sunny day, no clouds, and the traffic moves quickly. We talk about Ballymun. My mother says she’d never have got used to the smell of the rubbish chute and the noise, and my father says he’s never been gladder to see the back of a place.
And then all that they talk about is the roads and the drive. Talk about nothing. The kind of talk robots would have. It makes me nervous. It makes me think that there will be a sudden explosion when we get to Gorey.
And then, out of nowhere, my mother says to my father. ‘By the way, I was right about Jack the Ripper and Sherlock Holmes. They were around at the same time. Jack the Ripper committed his murders in 1888 and Sherlock Holmes first appeared in 1887.’
‘What on earth made you drag that up now?’
‘I just saw a wee pub called The Sherlock. And then I remembered that I’d checked up on it in the Ballymun school library.’
‘You win,’ he says, and he pats her leg and they smile at each other.
We stop at a pub for something to eat and so my father can rest from driving and we sit in a booth near the back. The food comes from the kitchen to the bar through a service hatch. I like it that I can see the white sleeves of the person holding the plates but not his head.
There’s a good smell of burnt chops and I like the heavy cutlery and the big plates. My father smokes. He lights one cigarette from another. My mother goes to the bar and gets three fizzy drinks. We sit for a while without speaking.
A little girl walks in and out of the bar and leaves the door open. Her brother gets up and closes the door after her and the people sitting nearest the door complain each time she leaves it open. I hate it when people leave doors open and cause draughts.
But this is almost exactly what happened when we stopped at the hotel near the Wicklow mountains on the way to Dublin. I’m sure of it! There was a little girl there, too, who left the door open and her brother had to get up and close it after her.
My heart is thumping so hard I can feel the blood in my teeth, and I’m very nervous, but I have to speak. ‘What’s going to happen?’ I ask.
‘Well, we’re going home now, and your granny will be very happy to see you,’ my father says. ‘But first I have something for you.’
He gives me a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. I unwrap it. It’s a cap, the kind of stupid cap farmers wear.
‘It’s yours,’ he says.
‘Why?’
My mother and father look at each other, wanting the other to say it.
‘To stop your scratching,’ says my mother. ‘At least until your head heals and you get out of the habit.’
‘I don’t want to wear this.’
‘You’ll wear that hat,’ says my mother. ‘You’ll wear it all day, every day, until I tell you not to.’
I put the cap on my head and I feel like a fool. It’s a soft brown cap, not a hat, not quite a beret. I don’t know what to call it. I take it off and look at it. ‘This is stupid. I haven’t even been scratching,’ I say.
‘You’ve been scratching that hole in your head non-stop since we left Ballymun,’ says my father.
I didn’t know. ‘Where did you get it from?’
‘It was your Uncle Gerald’s.’
‘Why did he give it to you?’
My mother laughs and looks happy, pleased with herself. ‘He didn’t,’ she says. ‘Your father found it yesterday down behind a chair and it was covered in fluff and cobwebs. So he took it.’
I put the hat on and then I realise what I have done: I have brought her back. I have brought her back. She is better now.
My grandmother is waiting outside the cottage when we arrive; standing on the doorstep, her hands on her wide hips. She’s dressed in blue from head to toe and this usually means a special occasion. Blue jumper and cardigan and skirt and pale blue stockings and blue shoes.
I get out of the car first and walk towards her. I want her to be glad to see me and I had hoped she might be standing outside by the road, smiling, holding Crito in one arm, the other ready to hold me. But there is no sign of Crito, and her hands stay on her hips. She doesn’t move towards me.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘You had a fine day for the drive.’
‘Hello, Granny,’ I say.
‘Smart hat,’ she says.
She stays where she is, on the doorstep, looking at me. ‘Aren’t you going to help your poor mammy and daddy with all those big, heavy cases?’
I go to the trunk and take out the last case, a small red one.
‘You’re big, enough and bold enough now to offer a helping hand.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
I was thinking: thinking that I would like a better welcome home. But I don’t deserve it. There’ll be no understanding of what I have done. I will be given no forgiveness; there will only be forgetting.
‘Better get you inside and unpacking,’ she says. ‘And I’ll make us all something to eat.’
I go to my bedroom, close the door, and check under the mattress. The Gol of Seil and the money are still there. I’m very relieved to see my things: nobody should know where I keep them and what I do with them should be up to me.
I sit on the floor and make my decision. I probably won’t keep the money and I might not keep The Gol of Seil either; it’s full of mistakes of learning, mistakes of the past. If I find a way to return the money and get rid of The Gol of Seil, everything will be normal again. There’ll be nothing in my way of setting things right.
At tea, we are all in our old places at the kitchen table, and we eat runny stew with more carrots than meat and mop it up with thick brown bread. Crito sits by my feet and when I lean down to stroke her I realise that she is fatter than she was when we left. I lift her and put her on my lap so that her face is near my belt buckle. She seems to remember who I am and curls into a ball before closing her eyes. Nobody tells me to put her back on the floor.
‘Crito’s purring is really loud,’ I say. ‘She must be happy to see us.’
‘She must be,’ says my grandmother.
‘Are you, too? Are you happy to have us back?’
‘Of course I am,’ she says without smiling. ‘It’s good to have you home.’
‘And it’s lovely to be here,’ says my mother. ‘I so missed being here.’
My mother’s cup shakes in her hand and I wish it wouldn’t. I do something I haven’t done since before Christmas, since before my father lied about the kittens. I take a Digestive biscuit from the packet and dip it into my tea. And I count aloud, to test how long it takes for the biscuit to dissolve and fall into the tea. I take another one, and remove the biscuit the moment before it breaks.
‘Five seconds,’ I say. ‘A record.’
I laugh, and they watch this thing I used to do at the table after meals, before Ballymun, and I do it now because I think it is something they will remember; a bit of how I used to be. I will show them I’m the same boy.
My grandmother seems pleased and holds her cup up over her head. ‘Slàinte,’ she says. ‘Here’s to being home.’
‘Slàinte,’ I say, standing up. ‘And Hip! Hip! Hooray!’
36
I wake in the night. My arm is numb, as though all of the bones have been removed. When I lift my arm, it is limp and dead, like a chicken’s neck after it has been broken. I’m scared that it may be paralysed as punishment. I get out of bed and turn on the light and keep moving my arm, hoping it will come back to life. And I chant the Our Father.
My mother comes in. ‘Why are you up?’ she asks.
‘And now?’
‘It’s still numb. I don’t understand.’
She smiles. ‘It’s asleep,’ she says. ‘That’s all. Your arm has gone to sleep.’
‘But it feels like it’s gone.’
‘Don’t worry. It’ll come back.’
I sit on the bed, rubbing my arm. She stays by the open door.
‘Da doesn’t say much,’ I say. ‘He’s gone all quiet.’
She takes a deep breath and looks down at a spot in the carpet somewhere between her feet and the end of my bed. ‘He’ll talk again. Just leave him be.’
‘But he was reading last night. That’s good, isn’t it? And you’re happy again. That’s good too, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
She looks at me for a long time, and I look back. I’ve stared at her eyes before but this time is different. She stares at me as though she has never seen me before, as though she is nervously meeting a stranger. I want her to come closer but she steps away.
‘We have to see your new doctor tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Go back to sleep.’
As I stand up, she leaves.
When I get up and go to the kitchen, my father is already at the table. ‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Morning,’ he says. ‘Do you want some sausages?’
‘Yes, please.’
He smiles and his fringe falls down over his eyes. He looks handsome and young. I want to talk to him. ‘Are you glad we’re back?’ I ask.
‘Yes. Are you?’
‘Yes. Very much.’
‘That’s good, then,’ he says.
‘Why are you happy to be back?’ I ask, hoping for more.
He turns around and folds his arms across his chest. ‘There are too many reasons to name.’
‘Just name one.’
He looks at the window. ‘Well, it’s nice here.’
‘What do you mean by nice?’ I ask.
He turns back to the frying pan and turns the sausages over. ‘You wanted to be back, and we’re back. You should be happy enough with that.’
He’s not lying because he’s not saying anything; he’s not talking to me, not giving me a good reason. Does he have a plan against me? Is he hiding something? Does he mean to get rid of me? What does he suspect me of? I’m nervous and my stomach churns. I leave the table and when I’m in the doorway I turn to him and say, ‘I am glad. Thanks for bringing me back.’
‘The hat looks well on you,’ he says, smiling, his voice breaking.
I go straight to my room. Does he know that I stole the stationmaster from the big house? And if he knows that, what else does he know? I check under my mattress, and everything is where I left it.
I look at the stationmaster’s face, his moustache, and his red cap with a visor, then I put him in my pocket. I take the money I took from Granny’s purse and put it under the torn lining of my suitcase. I will find a way to return it to her. I’ll do this soon, maybe bit by bit; she won’t notice. Or perhaps I’ll wait until after her next visit to the races, when she’s not sure how much money she has.
I take The Gol of Seil and put it in my schoolbag. I won’t destroy it, after all. I’ll put it in a plastic bag and dig a hole under the tree where the doll is, and bury it there, so I can dig it up and read it, if I ever want to, on the way to and from school.
I’ll leave no evidence that he might use against me; nothing he can use to get rid of me. I’ll put things back. Everything where it belongs.
I go up the stairs. My mother is sitting on the end of the bed, elbows on her knees, her face in her hands.
‘Oh, John,’ she says. ‘I was just catching my breath.’
‘From what?’
‘I’ve been up and down those stairs four times this morning.’
‘Why?’
‘I think I’ve got a tummy bug.’
‘Is that why your hands have been shaking a bit lately?’
She looks at me and she looks beautiful and calm and as though she loves me. I close the door and stand with my back against it.
She sits up. ‘John, please keep the door open.’
‘No. I want to talk to you privately. Please?’
She looks at me for a moment, not sure what to do and I go to her and sit next to her on the bed. But she doesn’t talk. Not one word. I don’t talk either. Suddenly she falls back and I fall back too and we lie together on our backs looking up at the low ceiling. I hold her hand and she doesn’t mind.
‘Are you happy we’re back?’ I ask.
‘Of course I am.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s good to be together again. This is where we belong.’
‘That’s good, because I’ve been thinking about making a model village. Like the one in the big house.’
‘What model village?’
‘In the nursery upstairs. I think I told you about it. Anyway, I want to make my own. It’ll take a long time, but I really want to do it.’
She sits up and I sit up with her; our legs over the side of the bed.
‘And I’d like to make my model village even bigger and better than the one in the big house. I’ll have schools and churches and even a hospital and a cemetery.’
She smiles.
‘So, can we go there again soon so I can take a photo of it? Then I could work from the photo.’
‘Can we talk about it more later?’
‘Can’t we decide now?’
She stands up and puts her hand on her stomach. ‘Oh dear, I need to go again.’
I follow her down the narrow stairs and watch the way her silky hair slides across her back.
She goes into the bathroom and shuts the door. I wait outside, but she is taking a long time. I’m worried.
‘Are you all right, Mammy?’
‘Yes, yes. Go and wait for me in the kitchen.’
I wait in the kitchen, and at half eleven, she drives me to Gorey, for my appointment with Dr Murphy, the child psychologist. In the car, she tells me I must see him for at least six months. I don’t mind. That guarantees six months in Gorey.
She speaks in the bored, flat way she did all the way home from Dublin. She drives at forty miles per hour on the winding roads, as though she thinks she can get rid of thoughts by going too fast for them.
We arrive at the car park of the shopping centre and Dr Ryan’s surgery.
‘Isn’t this the same building as Dr Ryan?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘But I don’t want Dr Ryan to see me here.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’ll think I’m crazy.’
‘Well, you are.’
She opens her mouth and throws her head back. She wants me to think she’s joking, but she’s lying about how she feels; faking a laugh.
I get out of the car. ‘Don’t come with me, then,’ I say as I slam the door. ‘You might get killed or something.’
Dr Murphy sits behind a big, glass-topped desk. His long face is reflected in the glass and so is a bit of the blue sky from the window behind him.
He introduces himself and I look at the paintings on the wall; two of them are of peasants in the snow. The dentist in Dublin had the same kind of paintings.
Dr Murphy tries to get my attention by moving suddenly. But I keep looking at the paintings.
‘Do you like them?’
‘I like Bruegel,’ I say, hoping like mad I’m right.
‘Well, well. Nobody mentioned that you were an art expert.’
‘I am,’ I say. ‘I’m very interested in art.’
Lying like this makes me want to laugh. I pick the big stapler off his desk and move it around on my knee to stop myself from grinning.
‘Perhaps we can return to that later. First I’m going to ask you some questions and when we’ve done what needs to be done we should have a much better picture of … a much better idea of your state of mind. Is that all right with you?’
He seems
nervous; maybe he thinks I’ll throw the stapler at him. Maybe I should make him smile by telling him about the world’s fastest psychiatrist, Dr Albert L. Weiner, who treated more than forty patients in a day in his rooms and used electroshock and muscle relaxants. But the needles he used were not properly sterilised and in 1961 he was imprisoned on twelve counts of manslaughter.
I put the stapler back on the table.
‘First of all, how do you feel today? Are you a little better than you were in Dublin? At the time of the incident?’
‘I feel good,’ I say.
I don’t know how I feel, except that I feel very awake, as though I’d have no trouble recalling anything I’ve ever read. And I feel better than I did when my mother left my room in the middle of the night. I feel good about the fact that I lied about being an art lover and that Dr Murphy cannot control me even though he thinks he can.
‘How do you feel now about what happened with your mother?’
A few thin hairs stick out of the balding pink circle at the top of his head, and I can hear his breathing, raspy and wet. ‘I think I feel like … I feel like it wasn’t real. I feel like somebody else did it. I feel like I was in a film. I feel like she wasn’t my mammy and she was somebody I didn’t know.’
Dr Murphy sits up and moves into a position so different from the first that it shocks me. He leans back in his chair, as far back as the chair will allow, his arms behind his long, narrow head, and I am woken by this sudden change as though the curtains have been opened in a dark room. And I see him as though for the first time. This must be a technique of some kind.
‘Are you aware that you tried to kill your mother? Were you conscious of your actions then and are you conscious of them now?’
I don’t move.
He moves forward again.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I just said. None of it felt real. I felt like I wasn’t me. I felt like I was somebody else.’
‘Who were you, then, if you weren’t you?’
‘Somebody else. I didn’t know who, just not me.’
‘But you felt you were human nevertheless. You were a human boy.’