‘Hello,’ I say.
She’s sitting in a recliner by the fireplace, facing the door, and she has her feet up on the empty armchair across from her. She’s not reading or sewing or knitting; just plain sitting. There’s a songbook by her feet so maybe she has been learning new songs to sing for us from the bath.
‘Hello, John. Why aren’t you at school?’
‘I’m sick,’ I say.
‘You don’t look sick.’
‘I am.’
‘Then you should be in bed.’
‘I don’t feel as sick when I’m standing up or sitting.’
Lying like this makes my heart feel squeezed, as though there’s a belt tied around my chest.
‘All the same, if you’re really sick you should be in bed.’
‘I will,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to talk to you.’
‘Why don’t you get the thermometer from the toilet cabinet and we’ll see if you have a temperature?’
‘In a minute. I want to have an important talk first.’
‘Well then, come in and close the door behind you.’
It’s cold, but she has no fire burning. ‘Let me take off my glasses,’ she says, ‘so I can hear better.’
I want to sit in the armchair she has her feet on because I’d rather not sit on her sagging mattress which is stuffed full of horsehair and stinks of wet animal. I stand by the armchair until she moves her feet. I sit.
‘What’s new and exciting?’ she asks.
‘Nothing really,’ I say.
‘Well, aren’t you lovely company? I thought you wanted to chat.’
I clear my throat. ‘Has anybody said anything to do with me and lies?’
‘Have you been caught telling fibs?’
‘No. But has anybody been talking about detecting lies?’
‘No. Should they have?’
‘No. It’s just that I’m reading lots of books about lie detection and I just wondered if anybody had mentioned that.’
‘No.’
‘Can I ask you something else?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has Mam spoken to you about getting money for our trip to Niagara?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know how much it would cost to go to Canada?’
‘What are you after?’ she asks.
‘Well, she’s always said she’ll take me to Niagara after my Leaving is finished, but I want to go sooner. She says we can’t afford it now and I was wondering whether you could help.’
She laughs. ‘She’s the cat’s mother.’
‘Sorry. I meant Mammy. All I want to know is whether you could help us with the money.’
‘That’s blunt.’
‘Maybe you could come too.’
‘Where do you think my money comes from?’ she asks. She laughs again and I look down at the red swirls in the carpet, but they make me dizzy. I look back up. ‘You got a whole lot of money when Grandad died, didn’t you? From all the jewellery you sold, and from the shop and things like that.’
‘And how long do you think that money will last?’ She moves forward in her recliner.
‘A long time,’ I say.
‘Maybe it would be better to wait until you’ve finished your schooling, and …’
Suddenly she stops talking. She looks past me, over my shoulder, towards the door behind me, as though I am not there.
‘Granny?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was really hoping …’
‘And I was really hoping you wouldn’t turn out like your father. Do you know he thinks he has a right to my money? Yes. He thinks if I didn’t spend any on myself, he’d have a nice living allowance.’
Her voice is loud now and she doesn’t look at me, she looks at my elbow.
‘But bearing children doesn’t make a woman a martyr. And those that sacrifice too much for their children are often sorry.’
It is as though I’m not in the room.
‘Next year I think I’ll go on a cruise around the world. Maybe I’ll go twice. Until my head spins!’
‘But why does Da have to work when he’s studying for an exam at Trinity?’
She looks at me as though I have hit her. ‘He’s had three years of study. If he was serious, he’d have done that exam by now. If I believed your father was going to study for his degree, I’d not nag him to work, but I don’t believe him.’
Now she almost shouts. ‘And I’ve got exactly nine days of patience left. Yes, that’s all. Nine days of patience left and then the light goes out!’
‘That’s not fair,’ I say.
She points behind me and laughs. ‘You’re not always as quick as you like to think you are, young John Egan.’
I look behind me at the door, and I see what she has been staring at. In the two-inch gap under the door, there is a pair of black shoes. Somebody is standing outside; somebody has been standing outside all the while.
I thought Da had gone into town on the bus, and I didn’t hear him come back in. I get out of the armchair and rush towards the door, but my grandmother stands and grabs hold of my shirt.
‘Leave it, John. There’s no point going after an eavesdropper. There’s no good whatsoever in going after him.’
But I can’t help it. I open the door and look. He has gone.
‘Sit,’ she says. ‘There’s more I need to say.’ I sit down and she reaches across to take my hand. It’s a long way for her to stretch but I don’t lean forward to make it easier.
‘Will we have to leave now?’ I ask. ‘Will you throw us out?’
‘Of course not. I’d never ask you to leave here.’
‘Do you swear?’
‘I’d swear on the Holy Bible only it’s over there on the dressing table,’ she says. ‘Maybe if I shout, the Bible will hear me.’
She jokes, but there is nothing funny in what she says and I will not laugh. Besides, she is lying.
Her voice is high-pitched, she doesn’t blink and doesn’t wave her hands the way she usually does. Her hands are dead in her lap.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘That’s good.’
‘And as for Niagara,’ she says, ‘if your mother has promised she’ll take you there when you’ve finished your Leaving, I’m certain she’ll do it. Your mother doesn’t break promises.’
Maybe Mammy forgot, but I now know she hasn’t asked Granny about Niagara like she said she would.
‘I’m going to watch TV now,’ I say.
But I don’t watch television. I look everywhere for my father. I go outside and wait for him by the front gate. It is very cold and the cows in the paddock across the road have steam blowing from their nostrils. I rub my hands together and jog up and down on the spot. Some of the cows look at me. Usually I wave at them or say hello, or stare back. Animals are good at staring and they don’t mind it.
After nearly an hour of waiting outside by the gate I go into the kitchen. I eat a jam sandwich and then I go to the living room and watch television by the fire until half five. At half six I hear my mother coming through the front door. I go out to the hallway to greet her. I watch her carefully as she removes her coat. She stands for a moment, looking around.
‘Let’s have a cup of tea,’ she says.
I go with her into the kitchen and watch while she puts the kettle on the range and rinses two cups. When the tea is made she shuts the door. She opens a packet of Digestives and puts six of them on a plate. I don’t want to tell her I didn’t go to school.
‘Is that all we’re having for tea?’
‘I had a big dinner at twelve o’clock at the church hall. But I’ll make you some soup if you want.’
‘Where’s Da?’ I ask. ‘Did you see him on the way home?’