No Goodbye (9 page)

‘How’s it going, Dad?’ I ask a few nights later. He’s poring over a pile of papers spread all over the kitchen table.

‘Not too good!’ He scratches the stubble on his chin. ‘I’m way down this month. Just wait till the accounts section compares it with the figures for this time last year.’

‘Are people just not buying, is that it?’

‘No, Greg! I’m not out there selling enough. Take
this new horse antibiotic. I pleaded with them to advertise and promote it more. Make the vets and trainers and owners more aware of its value to a sick thoroughbred animal. It’s damned expensive, but then, you’re dealing with valuable racehorse stock. Instead, I’m expected to spend ages trying to interest very busy people in a product they have barely heard of! And I’ve had so much time off lately.

‘It’s a tough job selling, isn’t it?’

‘For sure! That’s what your Mum says!’

‘Did you ever think of changing jobs?’ I ask, curious.

‘For God’s sake, Greg! Don’t you start on at me, the way your mother used to!’

‘I only meant it might be easier for you–’

‘I’ve been a medical rep all my working life, it’s what I know. Your mother got a bee in her bonnet about me changing direction a few months ago. Old man Costigan was retiring and she wanted me to go for his job. It’s a desk job and I’d be doing the figures all the time back in the office. No travelling. I’d never meet anyone and I just didn’t want to do it. I like meeting the farmers and the vets when I’m on the road. Vanessa’s been brooding about it ever since.
Maybe that’s why … you see, she thought I could spend more time at home.’

He starts to stab at the calculator, punching in figures and ignoring me.

‘Dad! Did you phone Mum back?’

He keeps on writing down more figures.

‘You know she phoned today and wanted to talk to you.’

‘I’ll do it tomorrow–’

‘You are so thick! Don’t you
want
her to come back?’

‘Greg, this is none of your business!’

‘It is my business if my parents break up and my whole family is messed up. You should have gone to London after her, brought her back, sorted things out.’

‘Maybe …’

‘That’s what
I’d
do.’

‘Well, that’s you!’

‘Yeah! You’re just pathetic. Why don’t you fight for what you want?’

‘That’s enough, Greg!’

I mean it. My Dad is so stubborn. Well,
he
may be willing to let things slip away, but I won’t. I’m going
to write to Mum and tell her the shambles he’s in trying to be a good father and mother too at the moment, and that she has got to come home.

Running away is no solution. Dad needs her as much as we do.

Finding a part-time job isn’t half as easy as I thought it would be. I tried all the local pubs and they all have plenty of staff. They said to try again next year when I’m a bit older. One guy said he might consider me as a washer-upper, but one look at those big greasy pots and pans made my stomach turn.

The supermarket has a waiting list of trolley attendants and shelf-stackers. They said maybe around next Christmas they might need extra staff.

If I had enough money I would consider investing in a big motor mower and go round cutting grass, but
they cost a fortune. Then I decided to try the garden centre where Mum and Dad go sometimes.

Mr Murray asked me all kinds of questions about plants and flowers and shrubs, and I think he copped on fairly quickly that I hadn’t a clue. Then he asked me what sports I play in school. He’s a bit of a rugby fanatic himself. His brother got capped for Ireland years ago.

‘I think we’ll have to find a job around the place for a decent lad like yourself,’ he said finally.

I still can’t believe it, I got a job. I have to help the housewives and old dears out to their cars with their plants and pots and huge bags of moss peat and garden mulch on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, from now till the autumn. The money isn’t bad, and if they are extra busy I get a bonus.

Dad and Lucy are delighted. Lucy gave me a big hug when I told her after tea. Dad didn’t say much, but I know he’s proud of me. Conor is dead jealous. When I get my first money next week, I’m going to get some kind of treat for everyone … even him!

Dad went to London today. It was only for the day and he got the early-morning flight from Dublin.

Greg says that it’s because of him that Dad went. I don’t care what the reason is, I’m just glad that he’s going to try and talk to Mum. We’re all keeping our fingers crossed that he and Mum make up and get back together again.

The day just seemed to drag by, and it was really boring just sitting and watching TV in Deirdre’s house. She gave us lasagne and chips for dinner, and we came home at seven o’clock.

All this waiting, not knowing what’s going on, is awful, and every time we hear a car turn into the road, Greg and I peep out the window to see if it’s Dad. Grace doesn’t know anything about it as Dad said there was no point in getting her hopes up and confusing her even more.

It’s dead late by the time Dad arrives home, and Conor and Grace are sound asleep. Greg and I are bursting with curiosity.

‘What happened?’ we demand in unison.

‘Give me a chance to get my breath back,’ begs Dad, throwing off his clothes and putting on his dressing-gown and slippers, ‘and Greg, make me a cup of coffee, will you please?’

He sips the coffee slowly, and I can see that he’s trying to work out what to tell us.

‘Did you see Mum, Dad?’ asks Greg.

‘Of course I did. We spent the whole day together, we walked and talked, we had lunch, we walked and talked more. To be honest, I think I’m all talked out.’

‘What did Mum say?’ I plead.

‘Firstly, your Mum misses you all terribly, she carries that photo of the four of you everywhere with her. She hated leaving, but she says that she needed to be apart from me so she could think straight. Vanessa feels our lives need to change, that we must think about what kind of family we want to be. The way things had become was eating away at her. She felt that I had opted out of family life, and that she was already like a single parent raising you all on her own … she said if things are going to stay that way, then she would prefer to make it official, and go through the courts and get custody of all of you.’ Dad
delivers all this as calmly as can be.

Greg and I say nothing. Actually, I’m really shocked and sad. I can’t think of anything to say.

‘Maybe she’s right. Obviously, I have to make decisions about trying to balance my job and my family. Sometimes it all just seems impossible. Your Mum says that she would like to study or do some kind of course, and then try to get some work. Then she could bring in some money, and there wouldn’t be as much pressure on me.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ says Greg.

Dad gives a huge yawn. ‘Yeah. Actually she started a basic computer course in London. Aunt Mary organised it for her. Look, I’m tired,’ he says. We all have a lot to think about, but it’s about time we got some sleep tonight.’

Custody! It’s a frightening word. Dad said Mum would get custody of us. Why is it that when parents fight the kids have got to choose which one they are up for, which one they love the most? I remember years ago in school we did a Bible story about two women who each claimed to be the mother of a new baby. They were brought before the king and he said he would be totally fair and share the baby equally.
He raised his sword and was going to cut the poor baby in half. Then one of the women shouted and said: ‘Let the other woman have the child. I do not want my baby harmed!’ Then the wise king knew she was the real mother and handed her back the child. At the moment I feel a bit like that Bible baby, with a big sword hanging over me. I love my Mum and I love my Dad, too. I couldn’t choose between them. I feel split apart, sliced down the middle.

Dad has to sit and queue just like all the other parents at the parent-teacher meeting. Mostly, it’s all mothers.

Philip’s Dad is here because his Mum is in hospital after having his new baby sister. Miss Boland calls the parents, one by one, into a small room to talk to them privately.

Our classroom has our projects and art-and-craft work all laid out. I made a brown dinosaur in a swamp out of clay, but a bit of his back leg has broken and fallen off, so some people are not sure what he is. We have to stay in the classroom to show off our stuff while Miss Boland talks to each parent.

John’s Mum takes ages, but comes out smiling. Dad hates waiting and is trying to look relaxed and read the newspaper until his turn comes.

Here goes! I time how long he’s in. Twelve minutes! How many good or bad things can a teacher tell a parent in that space of time? Dad shakes Miss Boland’s hand when he comes out the door. He is standing very tall and straight and I can tell he’s not
too happy.

‘Not achieving your full potential, Conor! That’s what the woman said!’

I glance out the car window.

‘Not concentrating! In a dream world! Homework not done! Fighting with his schoolmates! Conor! Look at me when I’m talking to you.’

Dad’s face is strained and worried, not cross or angry like I expected.

‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

‘It’s not your fault, Conor. Things at home can’t have helped matters. You should have told me how far behind you were in your books.’

‘I tried to, Dad!’

‘I know – I probably should have helped you more.’

‘Mum used to help me … she understood! You … you don’t understand anything. The other kids laugh at me and call me names because I can’t do my reading. You’ve done enough – it’s because of
you
Mum walked out!’

Dad slows the car, pulls off the road and parks
outside somebody’s driveway.

‘Conor, we need to get something straight. Your mother left because she was depressed, confused, angry and needed time to think. She left. I stayed. I’m here, doing the best I can. I know it hurts like hell, but for God’s sake don’t let it destroy you.’ Dad grips my arm so tight it forces me to meet his eyes. ‘You may have trouble with reading, Conor, but you’re intelligent and bright.’

‘Who says so?’

‘I say so! And so does your teacher!’

‘Huh!’

‘She feels – we both feel – that you need some remedial teaching at this stage, one-to-one.’

Dad is waiting for me to throw a tantrum, to shout and object. Mum and I talked about this, so I guess I was almost expecting it. I say nothing. Dad slumps on the car wheel with relief.

‘You’ll go?’

I nod. I know I need to go. Anyway, Mr Donovan, the special teacher, is meant to be okay.

‘Miss Boland also told me that you’re a fine athlete, brilliant at running, and that your mind is equally sharp and quick. She seems to know you well.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Conor! I can’t blame you for being angry with me. I hardly know you, I know that now. But I have been trying. You are my son, and I love you.’

What do I say? Tell him: Buzz off! Drop dead! Get lost! Leave me alone! I want to shout those things at him and open the car door and run, but something makes me hold back.

He leans forward as if blocking my escape plan.

I barely nod.

‘You’ll give your poor old Dad a second chance, then?’

Two nods.

‘Is this a new code?’ He begins to laugh. Starting the engine, he honks the horn three times. ‘That’s Yes in my code, Conor,’ he jokes, taking off.

Dad has to go to Kerry for a few days. His boss says he has to visit his sales area or they’ll transfer it to one of the other reps. We have to go with him as Gran is going to Donegal on her painting holiday and there’s no one to mind us.

‘Kerry! For heaven’s sake! That’s miles away,’ groans Greg. ‘I’ve to be here for my job.’

‘Surely you can start next week, Greg?’

‘I’m not going!’ Trust Conor. ‘My club are all going to the cinema. I don’t want to miss it,’ he whines.

‘Conor, whatever is on in the cinema will probably still be on when we get back,’ Dad tries to tell him.

‘But I want to go with the rest of them. Next week is no good.’

‘Conor, will I ever be able to do or say anything that will please you?’ Dad demands angrily.

Perhaps it
would
be nice to get away. Fresh air, open spaces, away from this lonesome house and this road. Yeah, I want to go.

‘You’ve never come with me on any of my trips,’ says Dad. ‘It will be a nice change.’

‘Are we going on our holidays?’ Grace asks.

‘A little holiday, pet,’ Dad says. ‘It’s not only
because your grandmother is going away – I happen to think a few days’ break will do us all good.’

‘Where will we stay?’ I ask.

‘We’ll stay where I always stay, with Mrs Cooney.’

I can tell Dad is getting excited about the idea. He really wants to take us away with him. He actually likes being with us now.

Aunt Mary phones from London. She keeps on asking me about Dad, and do we miss Mum, and does
he
miss her. I tell her that he’s lonely.

‘Lucy, don’t you fret or worry,’ she says, ‘marriages often have a way of being patched up.’ Her voice seems distant and far away. She’s phoning from her office. She’s an architect. Mum always used to say that she was brave and independent enough to make a decent career for herself.

Dad talks to her for ages and ages. ‘Your aunt is concerned. She’s a good, kind woman,’ Dad tells me.

Grace and I have to share a holdall bag. Dad wants us to take as little as possible. Grace has already managed to stuff it half-full with toys and junk. I’ll bring my
jeans and togs and a sweater and a few books to read. I hope Kerry is nice. I check to see that Grace has actually got some clothes in.

‘Dad! The phone!’

It’s Aunt Mary again! My aunt is almost shouting down the line at him. I hang around, hoping he’ll tell me about it. Whatever it is, it must be really important!

Dad puts down the phone. He looks like a person who might have won the lottery, but doubts that he filled in the numbers properly.

He turns his back in order to avoid my stare. He doesn’t want me to see his face. I know he’s hiding something.

At six o’clock we are all sitting down having shepherd’s pie – the potato is a bit soggy and the meat is a bit dry. Grace only wants the top potato bit, and Conor only wants the meat bit. I am trying to separate it for them.

‘I have news!’ Dad is playing with his food, making a zig-zag with his fork. ‘Your Mum … is … is coming back.’

Well! Talk about a stunned silence! It feels like we’re in some kind of weird time-warp in our kitchen.

‘Oh Dad! That’s great!’ Greg is clapping Dad on the back as if
he
has done something marvellous. ‘When is she coming home?’ he asks.

Dad just shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure yet. Maybe soon.’

‘My Mummy is coming home, my Mummy is coming home!’ Grace hops up from the table and does some kind of strange, happy dance around the kitchen.

Dad is looking at me for my reaction. Deep inside I feel that the clenched hand that has had a grip on my heart for the last few weeks has loosened its fingers and a rush of relief is flooding my body. Yet, there is some kind of wariness there.

‘Oh, Dad, that’s the best news I ever heard. It’s just too good to be true.’ Like a big baby, I feel like crying. Mum will be back, sitting at the table, talking to us, sorting out Grace and Conor. I just can’t wait.

‘Is she coming home for good?’ asks Conor.

His words startle us.

‘Don’t be so stupid!’ snaps Greg. ‘Of course she is!’
and he gives Conor a dig in the ribs.

‘Stop that, Greg!’ warns Dad. ‘To be honest, we’ll just have to take things slowly. Your Aunt Mary phoned to tell me that your mother has definitely booked a flight to Dublin. I’m sorry, but that’s all that I know for the moment.’

‘So!’ says Conor.

‘So?’ we all ask him.

‘So … we don’t know if Mum is coming home, or if she’s just going to come and visit us,’ he says.

‘Daddy! Daddy! Can we get Mummy a cake?’ Grace pleads, climbing up onto Dad’s lap.

‘Grace, it’s not her birthday!’ he says softly.

‘A pink icey cake –
please
!’

‘Maybe we should have a party, a welcome home party. Make welcome home signs,’ suggests Greg, all excited too.

‘Listen, hold your horses, Greg!’ Dad warns. ‘Nothing is certain yet. Vanessa and I have a lot to talk about. You must try and allow us the time.’ Sometimes I pity Dad, I think he is almost as unsure as we are.

‘No cake! No party! No flags and banners!’ Conor puts in. A little blue vein on his right eyebrow throbs
– it always does when he’s upset. ‘She might not stay.’

Grace is glaring at Conor. Her lip is getting wobbly, and I can tell that she’s torn between crying and kicking him.

‘And …’ he continues, ‘and, if she does come back … Well … maybe she’ll leave again.’

Conor waits for Dad to say something. Dad is trying to figure out what to say.

‘No cake!’ pouts Grace.

‘No cake! No promises! No guarantees!’ says Dad. ‘I’m not a magician. I can’t wave a magic wand and turn time back, and pretend none of this has happened. I wish I could, but I just can’ t. We’ll have to make new arrangements. It won’t be easy.’

‘What about the trip to Kerry?’ Greg asks hesitantly.

Suddenly we all remember that our bags are packed and ready to go.

‘I have meetings set up. I’d have to cancel them. To be honest, I don’t know if the company will put up with me cancelling any more sales trips.’ Dad is in two minds about what is the right thing to do. But he has no choice. He mustn’t lose his job.

‘But what about Mum?’ asks Greg, voicing all our
thoughts.

Dad stares at the floor. ‘Your Mum … may or may not be back in the next few days. We don’t know when.’

‘Shouldn’t we phone her to tell her about Kerry?’ I ask.

In my mind I can picture Mum arriving and opening the hall door, turning the key and stepping inside, and all of us there laughing and happy and pretending it didn’t matter. A part of me wants to sit inside that hall door, waiting and waiting, but the other part of me wants her to open the door and step inside and find that I’m gone, that we’re all gone, just so she’ll know what it feels like. I want to punish Mum – but am I being fair, I wonder?

‘We should go to Kerry!’ Conor is adamant. ‘Do we want to spend the next few days watching the path outside, waiting for the key in the door, waiting for the phone to ring?’

‘Can we get a cake for us when we are on holidays?’ begs Grace, making us all giggle.

‘All right. Maybe we should go.’ Dad shrugs, uncertain. ‘I don’t want to phone her, make her feel pushed. Better if she comes in her own good time.’

‘Why don’t we leave her a letter?’

Trust Conor. She did that when she left – that’s what we’re all thinking.

Dad begins to laugh. He laughs and laughs. He laughs so hard he nearly cries.