‘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?’