No Goodbye (5 page)

Our kitchen looks like a bomb hit it. The tiles are so dirty that my shoes keep sticking to them. Maybe if I don’t get too much homework tonight, I might give the floor a wash.

Dad looks like a zombie. His hair is dirty and standing on end. He has lost the belt of his dressing-gown and it keeps opening; even his pyjamas are all crumpled. He’s moving slowly and stiffly this morning.

‘My back is killing me,’ he groans.

No wonder! Poor Dad. He slept the rest of last night on the edge of Grace’s bed. He woke me up with all his snoring. Luckily, Grace is still asleep.

‘Greg, what are you doing today?’ Dad begins, as he helps himself to some cereal. Greg is annoyed with him. He’s in his uniform and ready to leave for school.

‘Sorry! But I can’t help you, Dad. We’ve a real important chemistry practical today – and I’m busy for the
rest of the week.
’ Greg pulls on his jacket, fixes his dark straight hair and scoots out the back door, leaving Dad fuming.

I feel sorry for Dad. He’s had a tough night. He’s really done his best. Some fathers rant and rave and
scream and swear when they’re angry or in a temper. But Dad does none of those things. A hard, pulsing silence fills our kitchen. Conor is munching on a slice of cold toast, ignoring everything as usual.

‘Dad! Grace won’t be able to go to school today–’ I begin.

‘Thank you, Nurse Lucy, for your very obvious diagnosis of the problem,’ he barks.

‘Maybe Gran could come over …’ I suggest, but before I can say any more we notice the flushed, tousled figure standing in the doorway.

Grace is still half-asleep. Her tattered white rabbit dangles from one hand, and with the other she pulls up her pyjama top. ‘Daddy! Look at my spots!’

Dad and Conor and I stare at her. Vivid reddish-pink blotchy spots cover her stomach and neck and shoulders. There are more on her face, and I can see from her bare feet that the rash goes all the way down to her toes.

‘I’m all spotty and scratchy!’ she wails, her voice all wobbly, ‘and I feel sick.’

The book on childhood illnesses is still upstairs from last night and I run up to our room to get it. I flick through, looking for something about rashes and
spots.

Dad is busy on the phone when I get down again. ‘Look, Gordon, I have a bit of a problem. No, it’s not that I’ll be delayed or late.’

I point to the colour pictures in the medical book.

Dad is trying to read and talk at the same time. His eyes widen. ‘Listen, Gordon, I’m sorry, but the likelihood is that I’m going to have to take some time off …’

Conor and I will be dead late for school, and get into more trouble. ‘Dad, we’ve got to go,’ I mouth to him and shove Conor towards the door. Grace’s lip is starting to wobble, a sure sign that any minute now she’ll start to cry again. I grab my schoolbag and the two of us manage to escape. Dad is going to have to survive on his own.

These days when you get in from school you never know exactly who’s going to be there. So coming in and finding Dad at home is such a relief.

‘Go easy, Lucy! Go easy! Quiet!’ he whispers anxiously. ‘It’s taken me an hour to get her to sleep.’

‘I’ll do my homework, Dad,’ I say, ‘and get the
dinner then.’

‘No, Luce. You’re doing too much. You look tired. Anyway, it’s about time I had a go at cooking something. You never know, I might be good at it! They say men make the best cooks!’ he jokes.

Grace, looking like a baby, lies stretched out on the couch, fast asleep.

‘The doctor was here,’ he tells me.

‘And?’

‘Chickenpox and an ear infection, so no school for nearly ten days. Gran won’t be able to come over in case she gets shingles, and Deirdre says she won’t be able to mind Grace in case her own baby catches it too. So the only thing I could do was take some time off work.’

‘I’m glad, Dad!’

‘Glad?’ he looks questioningly at me.

‘What I mean is, it’ll be nice to have someone, I mean you, at home when we get in. The house won’t seem so empty.’

Dad couldn’t begin to understand what the last week has been like. I miss coming in and having Mum to talk to. When Gran is here it’s okay, but one day we went to Deirdre’s and just watched TV until
it was time to go home. It was boring. It’ll be different with Dad, but …

‘Lucy! Are you listening to me? How does your Mum make that chicken pie we all like?’ he asks.

‘I’m not sure. It’s probably in her special recipe book,’ I say, ‘the one where she writes down recipes from the radio and TV and magazines.’ I find it stuffed between the paperbacks and Grace’s books.

Dad sits down to read my mother’s big writing, as if this is some kind of magic book – and once he learns the spells, the magic will work!

Still, it’s kind of nice …

I have chickenpox too. Miss Boland saw the spots and phoned home, and Dad had to come to school and collect me. He’s real annoyed, because now he has to take even more time off work to stay home and mind
me.

Today we all got a postcard each from London. Mine is of the statue of Peter Pan in some park. Mum said it reminded her of me, and all the nights we read stories of pirates and ships and Never Never Land. I put the postcard on my pinboard beside my bed.

Dad is gone crazy. ‘Our house is the most disorganised place I’ve ever been in! No systems! No routine!’ he rants and raves.

It’s not like this when Mum’s here.

I heard him banging away on the computer, making out lists and work rotas. Maybe we’ll have to get a housekeeper and go to a minder’s every day.

Today the list went up. Dad stuck it on the kitchen door. Not too high, and not too low – so that everyone can read it. Practically the only thing Grace can read is her name: Grace. Now Dad is trying to teach her to read the words: TIDY AND PUT AWAY ALL TOYS NEATLY. She is getting the ‘toys’ bit, but she won’t say the rest of the words. The whole month is worked out week by week.

‘I’m not doing that job!’ Greg insists when he gets home. ‘Clean the toilets! No way!’

‘There’ll be no alteration to the schedule,’ Dad
informs us. ‘The jobs have been allotted fairly and squarely, based on everyone’s age, size and experience.’ There it is in black and white:

Good man, Dad!

‘I’m
not
doing it!’

‘Greg, that’s one of your jobs for the month of April and you will do it. Grace has to make sure to replace the toilet rolls, that should be okay for her.’

‘It’s not fair. Why am I landed with every rotten job in this stinking house? 1. Clean toilets. 2. Do the dustbins. What other smelly, disgusting jobs can you think of for me?’ Greg shouts.

I feel like laughing. My jobs aren’t too bad: clean the basins in the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms; empty the rubbish from upstairs every day; polish the mirrors; pack the dishwasher; sort out and match all the socks for the family.

Greg slams the kitchen door and goes off up to his room. The music blares so loud that Dad shouts at him. The angrier Greg gets the higher the volume, and the louder Dad has to shout. Maybe there is some
justice after all.

A million socks – that’s what this family must have.

This job takes absolutely ages. One sock looks the exact same as another. The only ones that stand out are Grace’s, as they’re smaller and are mostly pink or have cute pictures of dogs and kittens and balloons on them. No wonder it takes her so long to make up her mind every day what ones she wants to wear.

Dad or Lucy must have done something wrong when they were doing the washing, as all the socks seems to have come out the same size. What I need is some kind of sock measure. If I was an inventor, that’s the kind of useful thing I’d invent.

John called on his way home from school. Miss Boland gave him some schoolwork to leave in for me, so I won’t fall further behind. He’s had chickenpox already, so Dad allowed him in for a while.

He lives about two roads away, in a big redbrick house with a massive garden, acres of it. Right down at the back there’s an old shed. It used to be a hen-house. He’s going to start a club there. I’m not
sure what kind of club it’ll be, but he told me to call when I’m let out again. I might join the club.

Mummy sent me a picture of the Queen of England’s big house. I think she might have gone to visit her.

Today I did a big painting of me, so that Mum will remember what I look like. The little splodges are my spots, they’re nearly gone now. I did another painting of Conor. I made his spots big and red and blistery. Conor says that I am a BRAT.

Daddy will not let me send that picture of Conor to Mummy. He says it’s unfair to do a picture of someone when they’re not at their best, and Mummy might only get worried.

Greg is so mean and such a pain! He said I was getting fat. He just loves to insult me. I hate my
school uniform, and it’s not my fault my blouse is so tight. I think I put it in too hot a wash and it must have shrunk, or else I’m getting bigger! Brenda says she jiggles and that I’m starting too. It’s so embarrassing.

I wish Mum was here. Brenda’s mum is getting her a bra on Saturday. If Mum doesn’t come back soon, I’m going to end up the only one in my class without a bra or proper body-top.

There is no way that I’m going into a shop on my own for one. And I just couldn’t face telling Dad. Oh please, God! Let Mum come home soon.

‘Come in here, boys! I want to talk to both of you.’

Dad summons Conor and me into the living room. Conor shuffles in ahead of me. ‘Sit down!’ he tells us. It must be bad if he wants us to sit down.

‘This separation business with your Mum–’

‘Her leaving you,’ I interrupt.

‘This separation,’ he continues, ‘naturally, it’s having an effect on each of us. We all miss her, and … well, home is just not the same. We’ll just have to try to pull together a bit better. Now, Lucy is doing more than her fair share. The two of you have just got to pull your weight more.’

‘But I minded Grace the other day! I brought her out with me.’

Dad listens to my protest. ‘But you do nothing to help with cooking, and that’s a huge responsibility. And I noticed
you
left a trail of biscuit crumbs all over the carpet yesterday, Conor, just after Lucy had finished hoovering it.’

Conor still says nothing.

‘And did you hoover it up?’ demands Dad.

Conor just shrugs his shoulders.

‘You are both taking advantage of Lucy and her kind nature. It will just have to stop. Is that clear?’ Dad states firmly.

‘Loud and clear!’ we both agree.

Conor disappears as soon as he can. Dad settles down to read the newspaper.

‘Dad?’ I ask.

He looks up.

‘Dad, I was wondering if you could give me a bit of extra money?’

‘More
pocket money?’

‘No! Well, I suppose … sort of.’

‘What did you do with last week’s money?’

‘It’s gone!’

‘Just like that! Greg, money doesn’t grow on trees.’

‘A few of us went bowling, and on Saturday I went to the cinema. And … now I really need a new tennis racquet.’

‘But you have one already!’

‘Yeah, but it’s ancient, and it hasn’t got the power I need. I need a graphite racquet.’

‘How much do they cost?’

He pales when I tell him. ‘It’s out of the question, Greg!’

‘Look, Dad! I really need it. You know I’m good at tennis, and with a racquet like that I’d be certain to qualify and do well in the school championships.’

‘Greg! I’m not made of money. And things are very tight at the moment.’

‘But Dad, you’ve a good job, and you make good
money,’ I remind him.

‘Greg, you’re old enough to understand that since your Mum left my earnings have dropped. I’m losing most of my overtime and a lot of my travel and mileage expenses. And I’m very unlikely to get my half-yearly sales bonus like I normally do. I’ll be lucky if I even make my target sales at the rate things are going!’ He runs his fingers through his hair, which is just starting to show a tinge of grey. ‘To be honest, Greg, I’m really worried!’ Fine lines are etched round his eyes and he looks kind of tired. ‘We seem to be spending a huge amount of money – even the grocery bills have shot up. Deirdre is very good, giving a hand minding Grace and the others after school some days, but at this stage I have to pay her something. We can’t keep on relying on other people’s generosity!’

This hadn’t occurred to me. Dad and Mum used to fight a lot about money, and Mum wanted to try to make a bit of extra money herself.

‘Then … about the tennis racquet …’ I venture.

‘No, Greg! It’s not possible. We’re all going to have to cut back, including you! Three nights this week, you know, you left the immersion on. Our electricity
bill will be enormous, and heaven knows what the phone bill will be like with all these extra calls to London! Look, I’m going out for a walk.’

Off he goes, leaving me to stew over it.

Later on, Lucy comes in to watch the television and I tell her, expecting her to be on my side.

‘Dad’s right about cutting back,’ she says firmly.

‘But, Luce! You know I need that racquet!’

‘Well, maybe you should try and get a part-time job or something,’ she says, ‘then you could save up for it yourself.’

A part-time job! Maybe Lucy is right, maybe that’s the answer.

At last Grace and Conor are better again. Dad has been at home all week looking after them and cooking. There were a few disasters, like the day he
burnt the lamb chops and the kitchen filled with heavy, black smoke. He’s a bit more relaxed too, and he sits down with me when I come home from school every day. He asks me all about my friends and school and everything.

Summer is coming at last. All the bulbs Mum put down in the garden are blooming. The gnarled old cherry tree outside our driveway is just starting to show a hint of blossom. It’s a bit cold, but we’re going on a picnic – our first picnic of the year!

Dad went down to the local delicatessen and bought French bread, a tub of coleslaw and a tub of potato salad, and loads of other things. So we have a choice of fillings. I’m having tuna and lettuce. Grace is having salami. Conor is spreading thick dollops of chocolate spread on his – gross! I made a load of chocolate Rice Krispie buns and Dad has bought iced buns and biscuits and two bags of jelly-babies. Last night Dad went up to the attic and brought down the big red coolbox that we use for picnics and outings.

‘Everyone is better now,’ he announced. ‘We’re going to have some fun.’ He’s putting the plastic plates and cups in a box. ‘We’re still a family, you
know! We can still have a good time!’ he says.

It’s funny, but today, with his denim shirt and jeans on, Dad looks kind of young and sort of like Greg, except for the wrinkles on his forehead and the bits of grey in his hair. I think he’s very lonely. Sometimes one of Mum’s friends phones to see how he’s doing, or one of the men from his company meets him for lunch, or after work. But late at night, when we go to bed, he has no one to talk to.

‘Where are we going? Where? Where?’ Grace keeps pestering him, all excited.

‘It’s a surprise, pet,’ he tells her.

‘But I must know,’ she begs.

‘Why?’

‘’Cos.’

‘
Be
cause,’ he corrects her.

‘’Cos – I’ve got to know whether to bring my wellington boots or my bucket and spade.’

‘Oh! I see,’ Dad laughs.

‘Picnics are always to the seaside or the country,’ she replies, in a know-it-all voice.

‘Just wait and see,’ says Dad.

The car climbs the winding roads through the leafy spring countryside, up into the Dublin Mountains. Then we go higher up on foot, up steep forest mountain paths. We’re all panting. Still, I love the smell of pine-needles, and the soft crunch of them under your feet as you walk, and the dull thump as you push your way through the moss and ferns.

Greg has to pull Grace along. Conor looks kind of pale. He’s a bit too skinny for a ten-year-old. His cut-off jeans flap around his bony white legs, and he’s wearing old runners of Greg’s. He should have put on socks with them – he’ll end up with blisters.

‘Come on! Keep going!’ Dad yells at us.

He leads the way and we follow him like a scout troop. No matter what way you look, all you can see is trees and more trees. The further we march, the further away home seems to be – I mean what has happened, Mum and all that. Suddenly I can spot snatches of blue and glimmers of yellow-gold, one patch, then another, as sunlight dazzles through the trees at the end of the path.

‘Top of the world!’ shouts Grace.

And do you know, she’s right. Once we come out of the trees into the clearing, we realise that we are

near the top of the mountain. The countryside and fields fall away below us. When I look downwards the land seems to tilt and almost makes me dizzy. Dublin is spread out in the distance – factories, offices and high church steeples, all like a little toy town. The River Liffey meanders like a shiny, blue-grey snail trail through the places we know and love, down to the docks, then out into the vast blue brightness of Dublin Bay. Conor says he can see our road, and Grace says she can see our house! The roof of our house is the same as about a million others, so how the hell can they tell? A noonday haze wobbles over the city.

‘Lucy! Grab hold of Grace. I’d forgotten how dangerous this place can be!’ Dad interrupts me.

Dad spreads out a blue-and-white-check tablecloth over an area of flat rock and patchy grass. Opening the coolbox he takes out the food and drink. Greg and Conor are like two savages and pull at the cold meats. They’re always starving! Food is their main worry. Grace decides to try a bit of my tuna sandwich roll. ‘Ugh!’ she shouts, then she spits it out.

Dad stretches himself out in the sun and puts on his sunglasses. He sips from a can of orange.

‘Isn’t this place just perfect!’ he announces.

‘Yeah,’ we all agree, munching our food.

‘Go on! Breathe in deeply,’ he’s getting a bit carried away now, ‘fill your lungs with that pure fresh air. You know, my father used to bring me up here when I was a boy. The beauty of it always takes my breath away. Your mother and I used to drive up here the odd Sunday in our courting days, then when we married we used to bring you two, Greg and Lucy, dragging carrycots and nappies and sunshades and bottles with us.

‘Up here, it’s hard to think of ordinary, mundane things. You just have to relax. You know, in all the years it has hardly changed. The city has spread out more below, but way up here it’s still the same – even without your mother it’s still beautiful!’

Greg looks embarrassed, but I want Dad to tell us more now. Instead, he props himself against a rock and concentrates on eating his salad. Grace has discovered a few insects, and is trying to pen them in with a ring of stones, but they keep climbing over and escaping on her.

The boys want to backtrack and explore a bit. Dad’s a bit edgy about it. ‘Greg, you’re to take care of
Conor,’ he warns. ‘It’s easy to slip or fall up here, so no messing or stunts, okay?’

I decide to stay and mind Grace while Dad relaxes. Monday morning he’ll be back to work full-time and he still hasn’t sorted out what to do about us! I wonder why he and Mum stopped coming up here. Maybe they got too busy, or forgot how nice it is?

One hour slips into another, the boys return finally, the late afternoon sun gets weaker, and here on the mountain it’s getting cooler. The food is gone and I’m starving again.

‘Dad, I’m hungry,’ whines Conor. Dad ignores him. Grace is getting bored too and is looking for attention. ‘Dad! Can we go home now?’ pleads Conor.

I can tell that Dad doesn’t want to go home – he just wants to stay here and forget everything.

‘It will get dark, and we’ll be lost in the forest like Hansel and Gretel,’ warns Grace.

‘Don’t be silly, Gracey! We’ll be going home real soon,’ I assure her.

‘There’s no trail and nobody will find us …’ She’s really getting scared now.

‘Dad, come on!’ Greg stands over Dad, demanding
attention. ‘Come on, Dad! Let’s get moving!’ His voice is serious. ‘Here, let me give you a hand. It’s getting cold and we don’t want to be stuck up here in the dark.’

Greg’s hands are big and strong-looking, and he chews his nails. Dad’s are paler and thinner and kind of freckled. Dad just stares up at him.

‘Dad, everything is packed and Grace is pretty whacked,’ I add, standing with Greg in front of him.

‘All right, all right,’ he grumbles and lets himself be pulled up. ‘Let’s get this show on the road, then. I’ll lead the way.

Now, with the sun gone down, we all pull on our sweatshirts. My skin is warm, but inside I feel a strange kind of chill.

‘He’s not going to leave us here,’ Grace whispers to me behind Dad’s back. She begins to run, trying to keep up with him.

It’s all downhill on the way back and should be a lot easier, but in the dusk we keep losing our footing and stumbling over twisted roots and rocks. Every time I try to go a bit faster I feel out of control, as the descent is so steep. Conor slides in the dirt beside me. He grazes the backs of his legs and hands when he
tries to stop himself falling.

‘Dad, wait!’ he calls frantically.

But Dad just keeps on going. Conor brushes the dirt off himself, and ignores the pain. Greg takes Grace by the hand to steady her so she won’t fall too. We slip and slide and skid the whole way down the mountain track until we get to the safety of our car.

‘Will we stop for chips?’ Dad enquires as he starts up the engine. Nobody answers. The car beams flood the silent roadway with light, and a scared wood-pigeon breaks through the pines as we head for home.