Michael
Take the things belonging to you and leave. And when you’ve a place to stay, make sure you tell your son where you are.
Helen.
I take the note with me and go back to my bedroom. The baby crying in the flat next door is louder. I put my fingers in my ears and lie face down on my bed. I want to leave, but I also want to stay. I want to be in two places; here with my mother, and away with my father, and I want to travel with him wherever he goes. Perhaps we could go back to Gorey together and I could see Mr Roche again.
I close my eyes and fantasise about living with my father in that hotel near the gates of Phoenix Park, the hotel near the zoo. Or we could stay together in a fancy hotel, like the Shelbourne; a hotel with a concierge who wears a coat and tails and I could go down to him and ask questions whenever I needed to. We could order dinner from room service and eat on our laps in the big bed in our hotel room and have breakfast brought to us on a trolley, and go downstairs at night and sit in the bar and eat crisps and I could drink red lemonade and we could watch the big television there.
But isn’t he the bad party? Isn’t he the cause of this trouble? Yes, this trouble is my father’s fault and I won’t go with him. I’ll stay right here, where I am, with my mother. It’s not her fault. He should leave us alone and cause us no more trouble.
At three o’clock, my father comes home. I hear him before he opens the front door, talking to somebody outside. I get up and go out to meet him. He’s with Uncle Jack and Uncle Tony and they’re all wearing blue overalls. I don’t like seeing my father in overalls; I prefer him in his black suit jacket and a white shirt. Without a suit jacket, some of his personality is lost, because he can’t deliberately fasten his buttons the wrong way and he can’t wear one sleeve turned up and the other down.
‘You’re here,’ he says. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’
‘I was sick,’ I say. ‘I came home early.’
‘He’s always sick, isn’t he?’ says Uncle Jack to Uncle Tony, as though I’m a dog that needs putting down.
‘I’m not always sick,’ I say.
My father leaves and goes into the bedroom. Uncle Jack comes to me and hugs me. I look over his shoulder at Uncle Tony, who is putting the phone back on the hall table.
‘Let’s go into the kitchen and make ourselves a nice strong brew,’ says Uncle Jack.
‘All right,’ I say.
I sit down at the kitchen table. When Uncle Jack has finished making the tea, he comes and stands over me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and stares down. I hate it when people tower over me like this. He could just as well have sat beside me.
‘Get off me!’ I say.
‘Easy does it,’ says Uncle Tony. ‘He’s only trying to help.’
‘I don’t need help. I know what’s going on. I’m the one who told Mammy the truth.’
They look at each other. They know about my role in this. They must know about my gift for lie detection.
‘Well, then,’ says Uncle Jack, making himself at home in my mother’s usual seat, ‘you’ll not be needing us to fill you in on the birds and bees.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I know all about it.’
‘You’ll be staying here, I suppose,’ says Uncle Tony as he looks in the cupboard for something to eat.
‘Yes. But I’ll be able to change my mind and go with Da if I feel like it.’
‘Sure you will,’ says Uncle Jack.
‘Any biscuits in this establishment?’ Uncle Tony asks.
The front door slams. My mother has gone.
My father comes into the kitchen when it’s nearly dark. Nobody has turned the light on, and he looks old and sad, his mouth turned down, his eyes smaller. ‘Right, so,’ he says. ‘It’s time I was off.’
‘Better pack up this party then,’ says Uncle Tony.
My father smiles and bends down towards me. He gives me a peck on the cheek and whispers, ‘It’s all right.’
His breath is rotten. I smile back at him but I want him to stand away from me. I’ve never smelt such rotten breath. What if this is the last time I kiss him? What if this is the last I see of him, and my final memory is of his rotten breath?
‘Where are you going to live?’ I ask him.
‘With Uncle Tony, and there’ll be a spare cot for you whenever you feel like visiting. So shall we not get maudlin in saying goodbye, because we’re not really saying goodbye, and just …’
‘Just what?’ I say. ‘You mean you won’t say goodbye and just leave instead?’
My father stands back and looks me up and down. ‘You’re an odd mixture, you are, of little boy and a grown lad. Which am I speaking to now?’
I hang my head and feel embarrassed for feeling embarrassed and want him to go.
‘What will your phone number be, then?’ I ask in the toughest voice I have.
‘It’ll be the same as my number,’ says Uncle Tony.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I say.
‘Well, then …’
‘Right, so …’
‘Bye now, John.’
They leave.
I go to my room and get under the covers and wait there until I hear my mother come home. She goes straight to her room.
I make a fresh pot and bring it to her.
She is sitting up in bed with the radio on, the volume turned up loud. ‘Has he gone?’ she asks, although she must know he has left.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what now then?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘I don’t suppose your father gave you any money?’
It sounds to me like she said ‘the fecker’ and not ‘your father’ and so I feel confused and don’t answer straight away.
‘Well, did he?’
‘He did. He gave me a tenner, and Uncle Jack and Tony gave me five more each. And Granny can send some money, can’t she? So we won’t be poor.’
‘Being poor is the least of our worries.’
‘That’s good, then, isn’t it?’
She shrugs, and smiles weakly. ‘Will you go to the chipper and get yourself something? I’ll not be cooking.’
‘All right. What do you want?’
‘Just go. And when you’ve had your tea, do your chores.’
In the morning my mother calls the school headmaster and tells him that I have a fever and won’t be in for a few days.
‘Stay in, please, but don’t make too much noise. I’m going to bed for a while,’ she says.
‘But you just woke up.’
‘I’ve been awake all night.’
I follow her into the bedroom and stand next to her by the bed. ‘Did you know that if you don’t sleep for eleven days in a row you will die?’ I say.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Not sleeping will kill you faster than not eating. Most human beings can last twelve weeks without food.’
She is like another person, her voice so flat, her face creased around her mouth.
‘How many days without water?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know.’ She takes her dressing gown off, and closes her eyes. Her head falls and her teeth scrape together.
‘You nearly fell asleep just now. Standing up!’
‘I’ll lie down then.’
‘Maybe I should sleep in here with you again, and that will help you sleep.’
‘I think I’d better be alone in the bed.’
‘Will you let Da come back if he says he’s sorry?’
‘I’m too tired to talk about this now and you know far too much already.’
‘But can’t you tell me what’s going to happen?’
‘Enough, John. Please leave me alone. I’m going to try to sleep now.’
32
It’s the middle of the night and my mother comes to my bedroom door. This is the fourth night in a row she has come to my door during the night and she says the same thing, more or less, each time.