‘I didn’t mean to wake you. I just came to see how you were. Just came to see whether you were having trouble sleeping too.’
‘I was sound asleep.’
‘Sorry. Go back to sleep then.’
The first two nights I got up with her and went to the kitchen and we made hot milk and, on the third night, we played backgammon for an hour or so, until she said she was sleepy enough and she went back to bed.
But tonight is different. She turns on the light and is leaning against the doorframe, as though she can’t stand up.
‘Mammy, what’s wrong?’
‘Oh, it’s just the worry. I miss Michael.’
‘Do you want me to come and sleep in your bed?’ I ask.
‘If you’d like,’ she says.
‘OK,’ I say.
I get out of bed and go with her to her bedroom. I like the smell of her bedclothes now that my father has gone. They smell like the soil after it has rained.
‘I’ll keep my light on for a while and read my book. Will that disturb you?’
‘No,’ I say, and go quickly back to sleep.
In the morning, she doesn’t wake me, and when I go into the kitchen at half nine she is there, sitting at the table, with a letter in her hand.
‘It’s from your granny,’ she says. ‘Your father has gone back to Gorey.’
‘When did the post come?’
‘It’s from yesterday.’
‘Why didn’t you read it then?’
‘I didn’t have the courage.’
‘But it’s from Granny. You should have opened it. It’s from Granny.’
‘I know well enough who it’s from. I don’t need you to tell me.’
She hasn’t been angry with me since the day I came home from school and found her sitting on the hallway floor.
‘And who cares when it came? I’ve read it now and it says Michael has gone back to his mammy. And isn’t that what you wanted? Did you not want to see the back of him?’
This doesn’t make any sense to me and I begin to shake with anger. If anybody is going back to Gorey, it should be us, not him. ‘Why is he back in Gorey?’ I ask.
I am hardly able to breathe.
‘Your father has promised your granny that he’ll continue to work. They’ve made a truce.’
‘So, then we can go back?’
‘Come here to me a minute,’ she says. ‘Come and sit.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Suit yourself.’
I take the letter from the table and read it.
‘But Granny says she wants to see us. Doesn’t that mean we’ll be going back too?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But what does she mean?’
‘Why don’t you ring her and find out? Then I want you to go to school.’
‘But I’ll be too late.’
‘You’ll only be a bit late.’
It takes my grandmother a long time to answer the phone.
‘Hello, Mrs Egan here,’ she says.
‘Hello, Granny? It’s me, John.’
‘Hello, John. How are you getting on?’
‘I’m getting on fine.’
‘And your mother? How is she?’
‘She’s fine too.’
‘That’s grand.’
‘How’s Crito?’
I have a picture in my mind of Crito sitting on my bed, looking out the window at the trees and chewing on her foot, her nose snuffling.
‘Crito’s fine. She’s asleep by the fire at the moment, purring away.’
‘Is Da there?’
‘He is indeed. He arrived on Saturday night.’
‘But he said he was going to live with Uncle Tony.’
‘Well, he came here, and he’s safe and that’s the main thing.’
My breathing is short and shallow; to speak without sounding puffed I must go slowly, one word at a time.
‘But … did … he … tell … you … what … he … did? Did … he … tell … you … what … he … did … to … me … and … Mammy?’
She sighs. ‘You’ll be wanting to talk to your father about that.’
I can’t speak. The world has turned upside down. I want her to fill in the silence and ask me one simple question, a question like ‘Are you all right?’, but she is silent and I can hear my breath against the mouthpiece.
I sense she wants to say goodbye. I say ‘Don’t you know that I told Mammy the truth? Don’t you know that I can tell when people are lying?’
‘Now, now. This is not for us to talk about. This is not a soap opera where people blurt things out whenever they feel the urge.’
I hear a man’s voice in the background. ‘Was that Da? What did he say?’
‘Yes, that was your father. He was only after calling out to tell me that the postman is here.’
‘Does he want to talk to me?’
‘I’ll see. Wait a moment.’
She calls out to my father and says something else too, something about Dublin, all of it in Irish, so that I won’t understand.
I wait and wait but the phone is quiet and I wonder if she has hung up. I wait and wait some more, and when she comes back, at last, she sounds out of breath.
‘He says to say he loves you.’
‘Doesn’t he want to say hello?’
‘He does sure, but he has something he has to do at the moment.’
‘Oh.’
‘Shall I tell you a story about a mouse in Gorey?’
‘No!’ I say. ‘I don’t want you to tell me a story about a mouse in Gorey.’
‘I know you don’t mean that, John.’
I don’t answer. I can’t speak.
‘Bye now, John.’
‘Wait. Can you see if there’s a letter for me? I’m expecting a letter from the Guinness Book of Records.’
‘I’ll call you again if there’s anything there. All right?’
‘Are you sure no letters have come for me?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘All right.’
‘God willing, everything will work itself out. Pray for me now, like a good boy, and pray for your mother and father too. And for yourself, if you can spare the time.’
I hang up without saying goodbye.
I tell my mother what my grandmother said and she looks upset, but she says nothing. She wraps her hand around her cup of tea.
‘What will we do?’ I ask.
‘It’s gone cold,’ she says.
‘Don’t you care? Aren’t you angry?’ I ask.
‘There’s no point.’
‘I’m going to school now,’ I say.
But I don’t go to school. I open and close the front door then go quietly to my room and sit on my bed. A half an hour later, my mother bursts into the room without knocking.
‘I thought you went to school,’ she says.
‘I did,’ I say. ‘But they were going on an excursion and I didn’t have a note from you so the teacher sent me home.’
She frowns. ‘You’re a poor liar for somebody who calls himself a lie detector.’
I’m angry again. My neck hurts and swells. It’s hard to breathe. I move my feet and put my hands in my pocket and stare at her. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ I say.
‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.’
Is she trying to provoke me with another one of these dumb expressions?
‘I might watch the telly now,’ I say.
‘I might go to bed,’ she says.
‘Again?’
‘I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m very tired.’
‘Why can’t you sleep?’
‘I don’t know.’
I walk away and sit on the settee. Instead of turning on the television, I fold forward and rest my head on my knees and make my knees jump up and down. I want her back so much. I want her to be the way she was before. She can’t stay the dull and dumb way she is now. This is a problem that must be solved before it’s too late.