No Goodbye

‘Very authentic … an honest book that many will identify with’

S
UNDAY
P
RESS

‘Full marks to the best-selling Marita’

B
OOKS
I
RELAND

‘She’s gone!’

There’s no screaming or shouting, no banging of doors, no cases flung in the hall, nothing dramatic like in films or on television to show that my Mum has walked out and left my Dad and the four of us. All there is is him, home early, sitting quietly in the kitchen, reading and re-reading the long folded pages of a letter Mum has left for him.

‘I got a message in the office so I came home as early as I could,’ Dad explains. ‘Sit down all of you, I want to talk to you.’

An alarm bell begins to trigger inside my head as we all settle noisily at the kitchen table. Dad looks so strange, so serious.

‘Where’s Mum?’ asks Lucy.

He takes a deep breath. ‘Your Mum has left, she’s … gone away, God knows where!’

It seems as if our kitchen has become very small and the walls are tilting and falling in on us. And the next minute it is huge and empty and vast. One
minute, two minutes pass and I’m still sitting on my pine chair in the same spot.

‘This letter, it tries to explain why,’ Dad’s voice trails off, ‘… but I don’t really understand it,’ he continues, annoyed. ‘Why would she do such a thing?’

Lucy and I stare at each other. Deep inside we both know why.

Conor and Grace jump up, push back their chairs and stampede out of the kitchen and off up the stairs. I can guess where they’re going. But this is no big hide-and-seek game or treasure hunt.

‘I checked already,’ Dad tells us, his eyes hurt and full of confusion. The floorboards creak overhead, and the wardrobe doors slam and bang. The hunt is on. In about two minutes flat my younger brother and sister are back down again, both huffing and puffing and out of breath. Eyes huge.

‘Mum’s shoes are gone!’ Conor yells, fear in his voice now.

‘Her jacket and her handbag too,’ adds Grace solemnly.

‘The blue case is missing.’

‘Her face cream, her hairbrush and the good
perfume you gave her at Christmas, Daddy. It’s all gone.’ Grace makes it sound like a list of stuff some weird burglar had stolen from my parents’ bedroom.

‘But her nightdress is under her pillow,
so
…’ Conor points out.

‘So?’ says Dad.

‘So, I suppose Mum will come back tonight,’ Conor adds hopefully, but his voice breaks and he begins to sniffle.

Lucy stares at the kitchen dresser. All the hand-painted pottery and glassware Mum collects is displayed there. ‘The photo is gone.’

We all turn around and suddenly notice the gap in front of the ‘little hen’ plates. There is, I mean there
was
a photo of us all, well us kids, the four of us on the beach in Brittas Bay last summer. It was a roasting hot day and we were all squinting into the sun, sunburned and freckled, when Mum took that photo.

‘Why did she take the photo of us if …?’ Lucy begins to cry.

Then, wouldn’t you know it, Grace copies her. At six, Grace has got to be the biggest copycat I know. ‘I want my Mummy back, I want her now!’ she whines.

I’m never sure what to do when I see Grace cry.
Usually if you give her a sweet or a biscuit she stops.

‘Come on, now! It’s not as bad as it seems. She’ll probably be back in a day or two,’ Dad says. He must be thick. It is definitely as bad as it seems, if not about ten times worse. ‘Eat your chips,’ he orders gruffly, ‘they’re getting cold.’ How can the man eat take-away chicken and chips at a time like this?

‘Greg,’ he stares at me, ‘eat up and pour out some more milk for Grace.’ I read the challenge in his face and the hidden message: Pretend that we are a normal family, eating a normal meal, at a normal time. I stuff three big golden chips into my mouth and pretend. The others dry their tears and follow my good example and we eat those rotten chips till they are cold.

Lucy and Conor clear off the table and pack the dishwasher. I make Grace go up and get changed for bed. Dad is on the phone in the hall. I make a guess that he is telling Gran just what her daughter-in-law has done. His voice rises and falls, but since Grace wants me to read her a story about a school for little witches I can’t really hear what he’ s saying. Now he’s speaking so low he’s whispering.

Nobody goes into the living room all night, or
bothers to watch television. Lucy tries to do her homework, but her heart isn’t in it.

‘I’ll give you a note for school tomorrow,’ Dad promises.

I have maths and science and German to do. I manage to get it all done. I definitely don’t want a note. I don’t want anyone at school to know about this disaster.

Supper is a huge plate of hot toast It’s real late by the time Lucy and Conor go to bed. Dad looks beat.

He’s sitting on the couch watching the late-evening news. He spots me coming down the stairs. ‘Come in and sit down, Greg.’

I sit and wait for him to tell me what’s going on, but he keeps on, by the way, watching planes and trains and politicians. I guess neither of us knows what to say.

‘I don’t know how I’m going to manage,’ he says finally. ‘I do love her,’ he adds hesitantly.

‘Yeah. I know, Dad.’

‘She said it’s to be a kind of trial separation,’ he explains.

Then silence again. The empty space yawns between us. Mum is the talker of the family, my Dad
has always been the Quiet Man.

I wonder what exactly a ‘trial separation’ amounts to? Before I can ask, Dad says, ‘How about a cup of coffee?’

‘I’ll get it,’ I offer. I clatter about in the kitchen. This silence and stillness is driving me crazy.

By the time I bring in the coffee, his head is thrown back and he’s snoring. Loud, exhausted snores. I leave the mug down on the table near him. Poor Dad! He has driven all over the place today selling his stuff and what does he find when he gets home – a letter!

I wish he’d show me that letter. Maybe there’s something in it for me.

He should have noticed more. The fighting has been going on in this house for a long time, like a little war with lots of sniper fire and every now and then a huge explosion. Worse still is when it goes quiet… too quiet … and Mum and Dad don’t bother to talk or say a word to each other for hours, or even days.

I saw all the warning signs, so why didn’t he?

‘Dad! Dad! I’m off to bed. Wake up a bit! There’s your coffee.’

He half-stirs and wakes.

‘Goodnight, Dad!’

The others are all asleep. I pull my quilt up to my neck and put on my walkman. The music uncoils inside my head. I know I’m too tired to listen – but it might stop me thinking.

It’s after midnight and really dark outside. Grace is snuffling in her sleep. I can’t go to sleep.

I still can’t believe it. Mum has actually left Dad. They fight a lot, but most mums and dads do that, don’t they? For the last few days Dad had barely spoken to her. It’s as if he was freezing her out, trying to pretend she was not in the house. And now he’s got his wish. She isn’t! The last time they had a really big row she said that some day he would push her too far and that there would be no going back. That
day has come. What’ll happen to us all?

The house is all locked up. Oh no! I bet Dad has put the chain on the door. What if Mum changes her mind and comes back and tries to sneak in quietly? She’ll be locked out of her own house. I’d better go downstairs and check.

Yeah, all locked up – I knew it! Milk bottles on the doorstep, the chain across to keep burglars out. I undo the brass circle and let the gold links hang down heavily.

The living room is a mess. Dad always leaves the newspaper spread out on the carpet. The big armchair is all squashy and comfortable; I usually never get a chance to sit in it and have all the cushions for myself. The fire is out and the heating is off. I pull my feet up under me to keep my legs warm and wriggle into the high back and sides, curling my toes in under the heavy softness, and hug the cushion to keep warm. I wonder where Mum is now?

Someone’s coming! I can hear the pad of their feet, on the landing … on the stairs … in the hall.

Greg pushes the door open.

‘What the heck are you doing sitting here in the
dark, Lucy?’ he quizzes.

‘It’s not dark!’ The small table lamp is on. ‘Anyway, I’m thinking.’

Greg yawns and comes in to join me, lowering himself down in front of a non-existent fire, both of us prepared to keep vigil.

‘I couldn’t get to sleep either!’ he says.

‘Did Mum tell you anything about this, Greg?’ I ask.

He shrugs.

‘Is that a yes or a no?’

‘Nope.’ He sounds definite. ‘What about you?’

I consider. ‘No. Not really. But I knew she was upset. Do you think Mum is all right, Greg?’

‘Probably … I guess she’s just had enough of rows and fighting,’ he says flatly. ‘She probably wanted to put a bit of distance between herself and Dad. Dad said it’s a kind of trial separation. Maybe she needs time to think about whether they’ll separate finally or something.’ My big brother stares at me, watching for reaction. He knows me far too well.

‘Maybe, or maybe not. She’ll come back,’ I say, ‘I know she will. Mum wouldn’t walk out just like that and leave us. They probably just had another fight.’
I’m trying to convince myself as well as Greg.

‘Honestly, Lucy! You’re so innocent. The statistics on marriage break-ups are sky high.’

I don’t care about those facts and figures. This is
our
Mum and
our
Dad, not some stupid strangers! The goosepimples are erupting up all over my legs and arms and back. I snuggle deeper into the chair for comfort.

Conor suddenly appears, his hair standing on end. He must have sneaked down the stairs after Greg; he was probably listening to us at the door.

‘You two gave me an awful fright,’ he murmurs, ‘I thought you were burglars! If Mum and Dad separate, where will we live?’ he continues immediately. ‘Will Dad have to move out? Will we all have to move to a smaller house?’ Conor asks question after question. You can tell by his thin face that he’s all wound up.

‘Why can’t we stay here?’ I can’t stop myself getting upset, and tears roll down my face.

‘They’ll sell it!’ Conor offers morosely.

‘Look! Hang on! We don’t know that or anything for sure yet,’ Greg tells us.

I like living here, I like this house, I like this road, I like all these rooms.

‘Listen, we’ll probably be staying here,’ reassures Greg.

‘No way!’ shouts Conor. ‘They always sell the house, move out. Dad will probably end up living in an apartment … there will be lawyers and everything will get split down the middle.’ He’s getting so excited that bits of spit fly out of his mouth.

I feel scared.

‘Shut up, Conor!’ warns Greg. ‘You watch too much TV, that’s your trouble! Our Mum and Dad aren’t like that!’

‘Yeah? Well maybe if you watched it instead of spending all your time playing rugby you might know a bit more about what’s going on,’ Conor jeers.

‘You little brat.’ Greg is ready to hit him. Conor always seems to wind Greg up and drive him crazy.

‘Stop it! The two of you, just stop it!’ I try to break them up. ‘Don’t you think there’s enough fighting going on in this house already? We’ll all just have to try and join forces and get Mum and Dad back together again.’

‘You’re right, Lucy, this is our fight too,’ says Greg.

But Conor is having none of it. He’s too angry. ‘Adults! What do
they
care about us? Why didn’t
Mum bother to tell us? No! She just upped and left us all. And the only thing
he’s
worried about is that he’ll be stuck here minding us! I know he is. They don’t care about us – and I don’t care about them!’

Greg and I both stare at him. Sometimes he’s such a weird, angry kid.

‘I’m going to bed!’ he shouts and storms off up the stairs.

‘It’ll be up to us, Luce,’ says Greg. ‘Conor and Grace just won’t understand.’

He’s right. That’s what big brothers and sisters are there for … I wish I had a big sister.

Greg yawns and gets to his feet. He squeezes my hand. He’s getting really tall – soon he will pass Dad out.

‘I’ll stay up for a while,’ I tell him.

‘There’s no point, Lucy. Come on, go to bed!’

‘In a little while.’

He tiptoes back upstairs. I sit and wait till the pink dawn streaks the sky.