Lifesaving for Beginners (30 page)

May puts her finger on Mam’s face.
Slides it across like she’s taking the hair out of her eyes.
She says, ‘That was taken a week after you arrived.
One week.
I never saw her so happy.’
She looks at Faith.
‘She didn’t tell you because she loved you.
She never wanted you to feel any different to the boys.’

Uncle Niall says, ‘Beat that!’

That means it’s my go and May looks up then and notices me, standing behind her, peering over her shoulder.

‘I’ve a picture like that of you and your mam too, Milo.
Taken on Donabate beach.
I’m sure of it.’
She starts flipping through the pages.
I hope she doesn’t find it.
I really do.
Imagine what Damo would say if he saw a picture of me in a nappy?

After I beat Niall four times in a row, he says he can’t take it anymore and he goes into the kitchen to get himself a stiff drink, which turns out to be a can of Coke.
‘I suppose you want one too?’
I nod.
I know he’s only pretending to be mad.

Auntie May insists on tucking me into bed.
She tucks the covers around me so tightly, I’m like a sausage in a roll and I can barely breathe.
She says, ‘Promise me you’ll never run away again, Milo.’
Which means that Faith has told her everything.
I was really hoping she wouldn’t.
I say, ‘I didn’t run away.
Not really.’
May pulls the blanket under my chin as if it’s a napkin.
She says, ‘I’d be worried sick if I thought you were going to run away again, d’ya hear me?’
There’s no point saying anything so I just nod.

She clears her throat, which means she’s going to say more stuff.
I wait.
She says, ‘So .
.
.
you and Faith .
.
.
you’re going off tomorrow to meet this .
.
.
this woman .
.
.
Katherine Kavanagh.’
She picks up a thread that’s sticking out of a bit of the blanket and rubs it between her fingers.

I say, ‘I’m not sure.
Faith hasn’t said anything about tomorrow yet.
And I’m not supposed to ask.
I promised.’

May smiles and nods.
She doesn’t say anything else.
She looks like she’s trying to work out a really hard sum in her head.

I say, ‘Do you think Mam would mind?’

May looks at me.
‘Mind?’

‘About us.
Being in Ireland.
Looking for Faith’s real mother.’

‘Your mother was Faith’s real mother.’
She sounds a bit mad now so I just nod.
After a while, May sighs and says, ‘I’m sorry, Milo.
It’s just .
.
.
things haven’t been great lately, have they?’

I shake my head.

She puts her hand on my shoulder.
‘Maybe you’ll come and spend a week with us in the summertime?
Niall and Finn could take you fishing.
You’d like that.
Wouldn’t you?’

I nod, except that I don’t want to come here for a week in the summertime.
I think it might be something to do with Auntie May.
I mean, she’s nice and everything.
It’s just .
.
.
it might be something to do with her looking like Mam except that she isn’t Mam, and I know it’s weird but it makes me feel a bit funny.
Like .
.
.
I don’t know.
Just funny.
Mrs Appleby says it’s OK to feel sad and mostly I do my best not to think about it in Brighton.
But in Dublin, I keep thinking about it.
I don’t know why.
Usually, I think about great stuff.
Like lifesaving.
And hanging around with Damo and Carla.
Or playing alien-chasing in the playground at breaktime.

I say, ‘Do you know what time we’re leaving tomorrow?’

May says, ‘After breakfast.
I’ll make pancakes.’

I say, ‘Is there a train into the city centre then?’

May nods her head.
‘Don’t worry, Milo.
There’re lots of trains.
Or I can drive you.
Wherever you’re going, all right?
Don’t worry, love.’

I turn on my side and close my eyes.
May tiptoes out of the room and whispers, ‘Night night.’
She closes the door and I hear the creak of the stairs.
When she’s gone, I get up and open the door.
Just a tiny bit.
A thin line of light falls in from the landing.
Not much but just enough to sleep by.
I’m really tired but it takes ages to fall asleep.
Downstairs I hear the low murmur of voices.
I expect they’re talking about the woman.
Katherine Kavanagh.
I wonder what she looks like.
I wonder what she’ll say to Faith when she sees her tomorrow?
I hope it’s something nice, I really do.

I think Faith could do with someone to cheer her up.

I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of it.

The red flashing light turns out to be a message from Thomas.
His voice fills the cold and dark of the hallway, instantly familiar and strange, all at the same time.

There is relief.
That it isn’t the man.
The one looking for Killian Kobain.

Or someone looking for me.

The girl in the letters.

Faith.

And there’s apprehension.
What does he want?
Thomas is not a phone person.
He doesn’t ring for conversation.
He rings for a reason.
A specific reason.
Like news to impart.
Phone conversations with Thomas never last long.
Not even in our heyday.
Twenty seconds.
Thirty, tops.
Long enough to say ‘who’ and ‘what’ and ‘when’ and ‘why’ and ‘where’.
The five Ws.
Once a journalist, always a journalist, I suppose.

The first W he covers is ‘why’.
Why he’s ringing on the landline.
‘I didn’t want to ring your mobile because I wanted to make sure you were at home when I talk to you.’

Relief seeps away and apprehension is all that’s left now.

Then comes the ‘what’.

‘I wanted to tell you the other day.
At Ed’s swimming gala.’

Brief diversion here: ‘Ed was great, wasn’t he?
He’s really coming on.
He used to be nervous competing, remember?
He looked like such a natural in that pool, didn’t he?’

There are a few features in Thomas’s voice that I recognise.
There’s pride.
There’s definitely pride.
I recognise that.
I’ve heard that before, when he’s spoken about Ed.
As if it’s true.
What Ed says.
About Thomas being his best friend.

And there’s hesitation.
A dragging of heels along the floor of this one-sided conversation.

He launches into a ‘why not’.

‘I just .
.
.
when Ed told me your news, I didn’t feel that it was appropriate then to talk about my news.’

His news?

The ‘what’ again.

‘It’s just .
.
.
I wanted to tell you myself.
I mean, I didn’t want anyone else telling you .
.
.’

Tell me what?

‘It’s not like it’ll come as a huge surprise to you.
Or even that you’ll care all that much and why should you?
But still .
.
.
I wanted it to be me to tell you and there might be a small mention of it in tomorrow’s paper so that’s why I’m leaving this message .
.
.
sorry it’s so bloody garbled.
I hate these machines.’

Tomorrow’s paper?

I hear Thomas take a breath.
A really long one.

Then another pause.

‘I’m getting married.’

Nothing.
No dramatic reaction from me.
No leaning my back against the wall and sliding down and down until I am sitting on the floor.
No escaping moan.
No gasp.
Nothing.
I’m just a woman, standing in the cold and dark of her own hallway, with her coat on, listening to a message – a garbled message – on her answering machine, from somebody she used to know.

‘Engaged, really.
I’m getting engaged.
I am engaged.
To Sandra.
I mean, Sarah.
Christ, you have me doing it now.
I got engaged to Sarah.’

A short pause here as if he thinks I might laugh at this and is waiting for me to finish.
Polite.
To a fault.
I have to give him that.

‘So, that’s it.
That’s all.
I just wanted you to know.’

Another pause.
Then an addendum that doesn’t come under any of the five W headings.

‘And your news.
I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.
I think it was shock, really.
The idea of you being a mother.
I don’t mean .
.
.
it’s just you always said .
.
.
Anyway, just, sorry.’

A pause.
A really awkward one.

‘And, you know, you can .
.
.
give me a buzz.
If you want to have a chat, or .
.
.
a talk or something, I don’t know.
I mean .
.
.
I’d say we can still talk to each other, if you’d like to.
You know?’

And in the cold, dark of my hallway, I find myself nodding.
I do know.
And I did know.
Even back then, when it was all to play for.
I knew.
And I did nothing about it.

‘OK then, I’ll .
.
.
I’ll hang up now.
I just .
.
.
OK, see you.
Goodbye.’

A click.
A beep.
And then nothing.

The worst thing in a situation like this is that there’s no one else to blame.

The house is on the Howth Road in Raheny.
Auntie May drives us into the city centre.
She wanted to bring us all the way to the house but Faith said she preferred to go at her own pace and May nodded and said she understood.
She dropped us at Busaras, which is the big bus station in the city.
The bus to the airport goes from here.
We put our bags in a locker and Faith asks me to mind the key because she doesn’t trust herself today, and for extra safety I put it into the pocket that’s halfway down my jeans, because it has a zip.

Auntie May says, ‘You’ll ring.
Won’t you?’

Faith nods.

May says, ‘Remember what we talked about last night, won’t you?’

Faith nods again.

May says, ‘I won’t say goodbye.’
She blows me a kiss and waves at Faith and then she checks her mirrors and drives away.

Faith has the address written in her notebook.
I remember it in my head.
I’m pretty good at remembering things like that.
Without writing them down, I mean.
That’s why I usually get ten out of ten in my spelling tests.
We take the bus and I don’t ask Faith if we can sit upstairs.
She looks as white as Damo did that time he ate the custard powder.
He was trying to make custard in his stomach.
He swallowed four tablespoons of powder, then drank about a pint of milk and then jumped up and down so it would get all mixed up inside him.
When he got sick, it really did look like custard.

When we get to the house in Raheny, Faith walks right past it.

I say, ‘Faith, it’s here.
We’re here.’
The house is like a mansion.
I reckon there’re about ten bedrooms.
Probably a playroom too.
George Pullman has a playroom.
He’s always talking about it.
He has an Xbox too.

‘Faith.’

Faith keeps on going.
She can walk really fast, on account of her legs being so long.
I run after her.

‘Faith, wait.
The house is back there.
You’ve walked straight past it.
It’s a mansion.
Your real mam, I mean your birth mam, must be loaded.’

Faith doesn’t stop until we reach the end of the road.
From here, you can see the Irish Sea.
The tide is out so far, it’s almost in England, I reckon.
I put my hands on my knees.
Try to get my breath back.
Faith takes a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket.
Lights one.
After a while, she looks at me and says, ‘I’m sorry, Milo.’

I try to remember if Faith has done something mean to me but I don’t think she has.
‘Why do you keep saying that?’
She doesn’t answer me.
I look out at the sea.

‘Do you know how many miles between here and England?’

Faith says, ‘No.’

‘Fifty-six nautical miles, which is seventy-five miles.
And do you know how deep the Irish Sea is?’

‘No.’

‘Three hundred metres, at its deepest point.’

‘Where do you get this stuff ?’

‘From Mrs O’Reilly.
She knew everything there was to know about Ireland, remember?’

Behind us is a low wall and Faith sits on it.
I follow her.

She says, ‘Tell me something else.’

‘Well .
.
.’
I close my eyes.
I find it easier to remember stuff when I close my eyes.
I could tell her some stuff about astronomy.
Carla’s mad about astronomy.
‘Did you know that stars are suns?’

‘They don’t look like suns.’

‘They are.
They’re just really, really far away.’

‘How far?’

‘They’re so far, you don’t measure in miles.
You measure in years.’

‘Light years.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about black holes?’

‘What about them?’

‘What do they do?’

‘Nothing, really.
They just suck everything inside them, even the light.’

‘That sounds horrible.’

I look at Faith.
Her face looks sort of sad.

I say, ‘Yes, but before suns burn out and turn into black holes, they’re called supernovas and that’s when they shine the very brightest that they’ve ever shone in their whole lives.’

‘So a supernova is a dying sun.’

‘Sort of.
But it’s better than it ever was before.
That’s why it’s super, see?’

Faith nods but I don’t think she’s all that interested anymore.
That’s the thing about adults.
They’re only interested in the actual universe for a little while and then they go back to talking about their kids or their houses or someone they saw in the shop who was the spitting image of Tony Blair, who used to be the boss of England but isn’t now.
I think he got fired or something.

Faith throws away her cigarette.
She cups her hands round her mouth and blows into them.

I say, ‘Why did you walk past the house?’

‘I don’t know.
I just .
.
.
I need to think about what I’m going to say.’

‘I thought you were doing that on the plane.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Thinking about what you were going to say.’

‘I couldn’t think of anything.’

We look towards the sea for a while.
I think it’s cold enough to snow.
Ireland’s climate is mild, moist and changeable.
Mrs O’Reilly told us that.
It doesn’t feel mild today.
I stuff my hands inside the sleeves of my jacket.
I have ski gloves at home.
I don’t use them for skiing but they’re great for building snowmen because they don’t get wet, like woolly gloves do.

I jump off the wall.
‘You could write a note.’

‘What?’

‘You could write a note and we’ll leave it in the letterbox.
There’s one attached to the pillar at the start of the driveway.
I saw it.
A green one with a lock so no one can get the post out of it except the person who lives in the house.’

Faith slithers off the wall.
She’s still looking at me but I don’t think she’s seeing me exactly.
She’s thinking.
You can see it in her eyes.

She says, ‘That’s not a bad idea, Milo.’

I’m glad she likes the idea.
Maybe now we can go someplace where it’s warm.
I could change my money.
Buy some gloves for Faith and me.
Her hands are blue on account of the cigarettes and the cold.

‘You could write your mobile number on the note.
Then, we could go to a café where it’ll be warm, and we can have a muffin and I’ll think of things that you can talk to the woman about.
There’s tonnes of stuff you could talk about.’
Girls are always talking.
Like Imelda and her mam.
They never stop talking.
Sometimes it’s fighting but mostly it’s talking.

Faith opens her bag.
Takes out a notebook.
The one she writes her songs in.
The last one she wrote was called ‘All About You’.
It’s a love song but it’s not bad.
She wrote it a long time ago.
Before Mam was in the accident.

Faith holds her pen between her fingers but she doesn’t write anything down.
She looks like she’s thinking again and not coming up with any ideas.

She glances up.
‘I don’t know what to write.’

You’re supposed to know loads of stuff when you’re an adult, but I’m not so sure about that anymore.

‘Just put your name and your mobile number.
And say you’re in Dublin and you’d like to meet her.
That’s all.’

After a while, Faith says, ‘OK.’
She blows into her hands again and then begins to write.

I say, ‘Don’t mention me, whatever you do.’

Faith says, ‘Why not?’

‘Some adults aren’t mad about kids.’
This is true.
Like Mr Swinton at our school.
The caretaker.
He says, ‘What’s it got to do with you?’
if you ask him when the leak will be fixed in the hall so we can play dodgeball again.

When Faith gets mad, her face turns sort of pink and her eyes go into a sort of narrow line.
She unfolds the page and adds a line at the bottom of the note.

PS.
I am with my brother Milo, who is ten
.

I say, ‘I’m not ten yet.
I’m only nearly ten.’

Faith draws an arrow in the gap between ‘is’ and ‘ten’ and writes, at the top of the arrow, ‘nearly’.
‘Happy now?’

I nod.
If people think you’re ten, they might expect you to be bigger than you really are.
There’s a pretty big difference between nine and ten.
Even Damo doesn’t pick his nose in front of people anymore.
Not since he turned ten.
He wants girls to fancy him.
None of them do yet, apart from Tracey in Miss Roberts’s class, and she fancies just about every boy in the school, even Donald Battersby, who tells on everyone and cries when you say you don’t want to play with him on account of him being a telltale.

We walk back.
The buses in Dublin are blue and yellow instead of red.
The postboxes are green.
The national emblem of Ireland is a shamrock.
That’s green too.
Irish people are mad about green.
There’s green in the flag, which is called the Tricolour.
It’s flown at half-mast when a patriot like James Connolly dies.
Mrs O’Reilly said the Brits tied him to a chair and shot him in the head.
I asked Mam if that were true.
Mam said it was a Rising, which was a bit like a war and that it all happened a long time ago.
I didn’t tell Damo about it because he might worry about Sully getting tied to a chair and shot in the head when he’s at the war.

Apart from the buses and the postboxes, things look pretty much the same.
The sweets in the shops are the same as the ones we get in Brighton.
I checked when Faith was buying cigarettes in the Spar in the city centre.
They have Mars Duo, which happens to be my favourite chocolate bar on account of it being bigger than an ordinary Mars bar.
I also like the Mars Duo ice cream, but I didn’t get to check the freezer to see if they had those.

Outside the house, Faith hands me the note that she has folded and folded until it’s about the size of a stamp.
I unfold most of it and push it through the letterbox.
It doesn’t make any sound when it lands.

I say, ‘There,’ instead of saying, ‘What are we going to do now?’
which is what I really want to say.

Faith says, ‘Thanks.’

I say, ‘For what?’

When Faith smiles, she doesn’t look as thin and worried as before.
Rob tells Faith not to smile at him because it makes him do things he doesn’t want to do, like the dishes, or watching a film that’s not in English.

She punches my arm and says, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

I don’t punch her back.
Mam said you should never hit a girl.
Besides, I might hurt her by accident.

Not many people know this but I’m a lot stronger than I look.