Kitabı oku: «I Confess», sayfa 3
Edie walked in. ‘Hello, Mally.’
‘Oh!’ said Mally, startled.
‘What are you up to?’ said Edie, smiling.
‘Just – I love what you’ve done!’ said Mally, looking around.
The room had been transformed from elegantly formal into elegantly mismatched. The dining table still had its white starched linen table cloth, but there was a brown tweed runner on top, covered with fresh greenery and a mix of squat cream pillar church candles on slices of polished woodcream taper candles in short brass candlesticks. The napkins were in muted blues and greens, with porcelain hummingbird napkin rings. The usual heavy silver cutlery was replaced with 1940s bone-handled knives, forks and spoons. The wine glasses were a collection of modern and antique – crystal, etched, gold filigree, all different, all beautiful.
Mally was staring at Edie, eyes bright. Edie sometimes wondered whether Mally was hopped up on ADD drugs. There was a wide-eyed, nervous intensity about her that could sometimes veer into something darker. And why would Mally be looking at place settings? She barely ran a hairbrush through her hair.
Edie’s gaze moved down to Mally’s hand. Edie had put a childhood photo at every setting, face down, peeping out from each napkin. Mally was holding Helen’s. In it, Helen was sitting at her kitchen table in a white dress, her tenth birthday cake in front of her, candles lit. She was beaming at the camera, chin up, eyes scrunched tight, a pink paper crown on her head. Clare was standing to Helen’s right, with her rosy red cheeks, looking like she was about to blow out the candles herself. Edie was in the back row, smiling serenely, her two arms neatly in front of her. Murph was standing sideways behind Clare, his arm up like a robot, but his head turned to the camera. His eyes were sparkling with mischief and he had three party blowers in his mouth. It looked like whoever had taken the photo had got distracted by him, because they hadn’t waited for Jessie – the birthday girl’s best friend – to make it into the frame. There was a glimpse of her at the edge – the end of her long black wavy pigtail, the sleeve of her bright pink dress.
Dylan appeared in the doorway. ‘Hey, Mom …’ He frowned when he saw Mally.
‘I was admiring your mom’s party styling,’ said Mally. She held up the photo. ‘Look at your godmother – she was so adorable!’
‘She really was,’ said Edie.
Edie smiled. She wondered would any of her friends realize how much effort had gone into the photo selection. She knew that Helen’s tenth birthday was her favourite, and among the few photos she found, she had chosen the only one where Jessie wasn’t right by her side. She hoped Helen wouldn’t notice the fraction of her, caught at the edge – she didn’t want to see the sting of a painful memory on her face.
‘Who’s this?’ said Mally, pointing to the picture. ‘Is this the girl who died in the fire?’
Edie’s eyes widened. ‘Yes … How did you know that?’
‘Just a guess,’ said Mally. She shrugged. ‘I mean not a total guess – I read about the fire online and saw a photo.’
Dylan frowned at Mally. ‘We have to go. It’s insane out there.’
‘I can give you a lift, if you want to wait,’ said Edie.
‘No,’ said Dylan. ‘What about your hair?’
‘How many teenage boys would ever think of something like that?’ said Edie.
‘Only the ones who want something from you,’ said Mally.
‘Shut up,’ said Dylan. ‘I don’t want anything, Mom.’ He went up to Edie and gave her a hug. ‘Have fun, tonight.’
‘You too,’ said Edie, kissing his cheek, before he pulled away. ‘Be back at midnight and not a minute later.’
Edie went to Helen’s place when they had left. She felt a stab of guilt that she was checking whether Mally had left a grubby fingerprint somewhere – Mally was never unclean, just dishevelled. She had left Helen’s photo upturned. Edie picked it up. Helen had never said why her tenth birthday was her favourite, but maybe it was because it was the last summer before they all found out that bad things can still happen on sunny days.
5
JESSIE
Castletownbere
Saturday, 30 July 1983
The truck was parked in the square, twenty feet long, the side folded down to make a stage. A banner with JUNIOR TALENT CONTEST! hung from the front, flapping only once since the crowd had gathered; a single breeze on the hottest day of the year.
Jessie Crossan, eleven years old, was standing at the bottom of the wooden steps at the side of the stage. The quietest boy in her class, Patrick Lynch – his eyes bright with panic – was slowly shrinking through a tuneless ‘Green Fields of France’. It was Jessie’s father’s party piece, and she knew all the words. She was singing them in her head to will Patrick along. She loved Patrick. He was so sweet, so shy. He brought jam sandwiches to school for his lunch, and something about that made her sad. When he had no lunch, she would make him take half of hers. He would never have asked. She wanted to come to his rescue now, too; to run up on to the stage, and sweep him away like a superhero. Then dance. She had been practising for weeks.
Jessie didn’t know any excitement like performing. She lived in a quiet house, with parents who didn’t say much to each other, but when they sat side by side on the sofa, listening to her sing, watching her dance, she knew that was when they were happiest. She was sad they weren’t there to watch her today – her mother was away, and her father wouldn’t be back from work until dinner time.
Patrick went suddenly quiet, his pale hands intertwined, his knuckles white. His spindly legs had been shaking as soon as he stood in front of the microphone, but now the shaking turned violent, and he held a hand to his thigh to steady it. An older boy in the crowd – Johnny – shot out a laugh, and Patrick’s head jerked towards the judges’ table. There was the parish priest – Father Owens, jacket off, dabbing a handkerchief to his brow; Sister Consolata, Vice Principal of the secondary school – hands folded on the table in front of her, head tilted, legs crossed at the ankles, and the Sergeant, Colm Hurley, playing MC for the day.
‘I forgot the words,’ Patrick muttered, his gaze back on the floor.
‘Do you want to go again, Patrick?’ said Father Owens. ‘Give it another blast?’
Patrick’s eyes filled with a desperation that presaged tears.
Father Owens paused, then gave a hearty clap. ‘Well, you did a great job, Patrick! That was a fine rendition!’
Patrick’s eyes widened a fraction.
‘Indeed, it was,’ said Colm joining in the applause. ‘Well done.’
‘Yes!’ said Jessie, louder than she meant to. She looked, full of hope, at Sister Consolata, who was staring up at Patrick with her tight smile and lifeless squint. Sister Consolata had a loud clap despite her tiny hands, and eventually threw two distinct ones into the fading applause. Jessie had worked out years earlier that this was Sister Consolata’s way of giving marks out of ten.
Patrick, his head dipped, left the stage, and ran down the steps past Jessie.
‘You were brilliant,’ she said, but he didn’t hear her.
Sergeant Colm had bounded up on to the stage from the front. He gave Jessie a warm smile. ‘Up you come!’ he said. ‘Here she is, ladies and gentlemen – eleven-year-old Jessie Crossan, who – by the rig-out and the tape recorder – I’m going to guess will be dancing for us today. Is that right?’
Jessie beamed. ‘Yes!’
She looked out at the crowd, and caught Sister Consolata running a chilling gaze up and down her body. She felt a spike of fear. Her parents loved her clothes, and loved her dancing, and so did all her friends. Instinctively, she searched the crowd for comfort, and found it in the smile of her best friend, Helen. Her next best friend, Laura, was beside her, with two thumbs up. Her other friends, Edie and Clare, were standing at the front, giving her matching ladylike waves. Murph was doing moves like a boxer. She tried not to laugh. She walked over to one of the speakers, and put the tape recorder on top.
‘All business – look at her!’ said Colm, and the crowd laughed.
Jessie gave him a nod.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘she’s got it all under control. In your own time.’
He jumped off the front of the stage, and jogged back to his seat.
Jessie hit Play on the tape recorder. She took to the centre of the stage. Then she knelt, one knee on the floor, one knee up, her head curled to her chest. The music started. And, at eleven years old, Jessie, with the innocence and enthusiasm of a girl whose parents were happy when they watched her dance, moved flawlessly through her own carefully choreographed routine to the song, Maneater.
She finished, arms in the air, joyful, expectant. She was met with silence. She was used to her parents’ instant applause. Some sound. Any sound. But the crowd had fallen under the spell of Sister Consolata, whose moods could ripple out like a black-ink gauze, floating slowly down, and settling, wrapping around people, bridling them.
Jessie eventually lowered her arms, and a few scattered claps broke out. Her confused eyes finally found Sister Consolata, who was rising from her seat and heading towards her. With a stiff arm and pointed finger, she directed Jessie to exit the stage. She waited for her at the bottom of the steps, then stooped to meet her at eye level.
‘That was a disgrace!’ she said. ‘An absolute disgrace.’
She stared Jessie down until she trembled.
That night, Jessie sat on her bed wearing just the loose pink cotton top of her summer pyjamas and a pair of underpants. Her diary was open, the tiny lock and key on the turned-down sheet beside her. She wrote the date at the top of the page, along with REGATTA!!!! She paused with the nib of the pen over the first line. After a while, she wrote:
Mammy is at a pilgrimidge in Knock. But she told Daddy I could open my parcel from Auntie Mona in Boston!!! I was so excited!!! It’s not even my birthday until Thursday!!! The reason was because it had an outfit for the talent contest in it!!!! It was a shiny leotard and leggings from a proper dance shop. I love it so much! (she also got me a packet of 3 underpantses which is so embarrising). The Talent Contest was at three o’clock in the Square. It was rosting. Patrick Lynch sang Green Fields of France. And I finally got to do my dance! Maneater! Watch out boy she’ll cheer you up! Everyone loved it!
I’m so tired, but tell you the rest tomorrow. Zzzzz.
She never wrote in the diary again. She never saw it again. The guards took it. They took her blankets too. They took her sheets, and her pyjama top, her pillow and her teddies, her hairband, and her book. They took her father too for a while.
6
Edie stood in the shadows of the balcony overlooking the hall. She was wearing a dark green silk dress with three-quarter-length sleeves that had a small gold button at the cuff. She wore matching dark-green patent heels, and had a dark green bracelet with fine gold edging on her right wrist. Her hair was down, to her shoulders, and tousled, her make-up subtle, eyes with a hint of gold shadow and a smoky edge.
Johnny’s voice drifted up from below. ‘I don’t know where Edie is.’
‘Agonizing over the details,’ Clare said.
‘Well, I hope so,’ said Murph. ‘I did my research, and I’m expecting a “soothing five-star experience”.’
Johnny laughed. ‘That was Condé Nast Traveller.’
‘Murph reading Condé Nast Traveller,’ said Clare.
‘What do you think I read?’ said Murph. ‘The Irish Field? Which is an excellent publication, but not the point.’
‘The place is amazing, lads,’ said Laura. ‘It’s like … I don’t know how ye did it.’
‘It’s magnificent,’ said Clare. ‘Helen – you must be used to it at this stage.’
‘No,’ said Helen. ‘Still impresses me every time. But we’re usually over at the house.’
‘Probably a shithole too, is it?’ said Murph.
They all laughed.
‘Speaking of shit,’ said Laura, ‘what was with the reviews on Trip Advisor?’
Edie closed her eyes.
‘Laura!’ said Clare.
‘What? I was disgusted,’ said Laura. ‘About the afternoon tea and the cream being off, and the whole thing being a rip-off? I’m saying it because I know there’s no way that’s true.’
‘It wasn’t,’ said Johnny. ‘But that’s a conversation for another time.’
Edie took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked to the top of the stairs. ‘Hello!’ she said, beaming. They all cheered.
‘Here she is now,’ said Murph. ‘Lady of the Manor.’
Edie laughed. ‘You’re all so welcome! I’m sorry I wasn’t here. What an appalling hostess! I had a few things to take care of.’ She looked at Helen. ‘Happy Birthday! You look stunning.’
‘It’s the blow-dry,’ said Helen, waving a hand at it. She had thick, shiny short brown hair that fell across one side of her face. It was an old-fashioned cut but it was perfect on her. She never wore much eye make-up and always wore a pair of glasses to complement whatever outfit she had on. Tonight, they were black. She was wearing a red wrap top and a long black taffeta skirt, and red shoes with a square gold buckle with pearls on the toes.
‘It’s not the blow-dry,’ said Edie. ‘It’s everything.’
‘And she’s got the tits out,’ said Murph. ‘Looking amazing.’
Clare hugged Edie. ‘I’m blown away.’
‘I can’t believe this is your first time here!’ said Edie.
‘Ours too,’ said Laura, pointing at herself and Murph.
‘Yeah, you ignorant bastards,’ said Murph.
‘We didn’t want to lower the tone,’ said Johnny.
‘Says your man,’ said Murph, tilting his head toward him. Then he looked at himself in the long mirror, and ran his hand down the sleeve of his navy jacket. ‘I think I scrub up very well.’
‘You do,’ said Edie, opening her arms wide. Murph gave her a huge hug, and lifted her off the ground. ‘I miss my Murph hugs,’ she said.
‘So, I heard Father Lynch is coming,’ said Murph when he put her down.
‘Please have some new jokes for tonight,’ said Laura.
‘He’ll always be Father Lynch to me,’ said Murph.
‘Yes – he’s coming,’ said Edie. ‘Helen bumped into him in Cork and said “Come on down”.’
Murph looked at Helen. ‘He still looks like a priest. I know he does.’
‘No,’ said Helen. ‘No, he does not.’
‘Is he still in the States?’ said Laura.
‘I thought he was in Dublin,’ said Clare.
‘He is,’ said Edie. ‘I think he was in New York before that.’ She looked at Helen. ‘Isn’t that what you said?’
Helen nodded.
‘Jesus,’ said Johnny. ‘I never thought I’d see such excitement over Patrick Lynch coming to something.’
‘It’s not excitement,’ said Edie. ‘It’s—’
‘Curiosity,’ said Clare. She looked at Johnny. ‘You were too old when Patrick was on the scene – you were off doing your Munster thing. You only remember him from when he was a child.’
‘I hope he’s had a shower,’ said Johnny.
‘Ah, Johnny,’ said Clare.
‘It’s not like I’m going to say it to his face,’ said Johnny.
‘Sure, no wonder he smelled,’ said Laura. ‘The child was a mobile sweatshop. And he couldn’t have been more than six. Polishing the church when he should have been out kicking a ball.’
‘I’m sure I saw him with his arm in a sling at one stage,’ said Clare.
‘Still at it?’ said Murph.
Clare nodded.
‘Imagine my two polishing a church,’ said Laura. ‘They’d be up taking a shit in the font.’
‘Laura!’ said Clare.
‘Don’t pretend you’re shocked,’ said Laura.
The doorbell rang. Murph’s eyes widened, then he mouthed, ‘Is that him? I hope he didn’t hear.’ He mimed a shower over his head.
Everyone laughed. Johnny walked over and opened the door. A blast of wind and rain swept in with Patrick. He had his head bowed against it, the hood of his black jacket up. He pushed it back and smiled at everyone.
‘Welcome!’ said Johnny, shaking his hand. ‘Let me take your jacket.’
‘Thank you,’ said Patrick.
Clare flashed a glance at Edie, her eyebrows raised. Laura was less subtle. Edie tried not to laugh. Patrick was six foot two, broad-shouldered and muscular. He was wearing a tight black long-sleeved sweater with three black buttons at the neck, and black trousers. He was fresh-faced, his teeth were perfect, his brown hair cut with a neat side-parting.
Even Murph and Johnny were staring at him.
‘Father Lynch,’ said Murph, extending his hand.
Laura rolled her eyes.
‘Mr Murphy – you haven’t changed a bit,’ said Patrick.
‘I wish I could say the same to you,’ said Murph. ‘You’re showing myself and Johnny up. The ladies can’t know this is possible at our age.’
Edie glanced at Johnny.
Patrick hugged everyone. ‘You smell divine!’ said Clare.
Laura stifled a laugh. Edie’s eyes widened.
‘Right,’ said Johnny. ‘To the bar.’
Murph and Patrick strode after him.
Clare turned to Edie.
‘I did not say that on purpose,’ she said.
‘I know you didn’t,’ said Edie. ‘Your face!’
Laura looked at Helen. ‘You dirty bitch. That’s why you invited him.’
‘Obviously,’ said Helen.
‘What’s his scoop?’ said Clare. ‘Is he married?’
‘We need a bit more time to start getting that info out of him,’ said Laura.
‘He looks single,’ said Clare.
‘“Looks single”,’ said Laura.
‘He doesn’t look like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders … that marriage brings,’ said Clare.
The others laughed.
‘What’s he up to, these days?’ said Laura.
‘He’s in hedge funds,’ said Clare.
‘What does that mean?’ said Laura.
‘That he’s rich enough to wear a jumper and hiking boots to a five-star establishment,’ said Helen.
Edie laughed. ‘As if I’d care.’
Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘I saw you giving a frowny look at his jumper.’
‘What?’ said Edie. ‘No, I did not.’
‘So, you’re telling me Patrick Lynch is rolling in it,’ said Laura.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Clare.
‘From nothing,’ said Laura. ‘Fair play to him.’
‘Murph made a huge effort,’ said Clare.
‘The navy jacket and shirt,’ said Edie. She nodded her approval.
‘Never thought I’d see the day – Murph in velvet,’ said Laura.
‘It suits him,’ said Helen.
‘God, when I think of him, the poor divil,’ said Clare, ‘going from one house to the next for his dinner, making everyone laugh, and how sad he’d look, heading off. And the worst part of it was it wasn’t like he was going home to some savage who was going to beat him.’
‘Heartbreaking,’ said Edie. ‘And Mum would never let him stay for dinner. It was so awkward. And she would have known what was going on.’
‘That time he was in our house and the packet of ham fell out from under his jumper,’ said Laura. ‘And Mam would have been happy to give it to him.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Helen. ‘I can just picture his little face.’
‘And remember,’ said Laura, ‘the time he—’
‘Let’s remember,’ said Helen, ‘that we all had that little face once.’
‘And,’ said Clare, ‘is there not some unspoken agreement that we forget each other’s childhood shame?’
7
MURPH
Castletownbere, 1981
Murph stood outside his mother’s bedroom. He hadn’t seen her for two days. He put his ear to the door. He could hear a man’s voice, but it wasn’t his father, because his father was at work. He could hear the voice coming closer to the door, so he bounced away, and took a few steps back down the hallway. When he heard the door open, he pretended he was walking towards it. Dr Weston appeared with his big leather bag, closing the door gently behind him.
‘Hello, Liam,’ he said. He gave a nod.
‘Can I go in to see Mammy?’ said Murph.
‘Not today,’ he said. ‘She needs to rest.’
Murph frowned. ‘She’s resting the whole time.’
Dr Weston started to walk down the stairs.
Murph came after him. ‘Can I not just go in for a little minute?’
Dr Weston gripped the banister. Murph froze. ‘What’s so important that it can’t wait ’til tomorrow?’
‘You said tomorrow the last time,’ said Murph.
‘Well, I’m saying it again, now.’ He gave a nod, and then he looked up at him. ‘Sure, you’re a big lad, now. Aren’t you able to look after yourself, and not be bothering your mammy?’
Murph’s face flushed. Dr Weston’s three sons were all big lads, rough and tough. Murph knew they were older than he was, but when they were his age they were the same. Johnny, the one who played rugby, was fourteen but he was a bit of a bully, and Murph wasn’t sure being tough was all it was cracked up to be.
Murph stayed where he was on the stairs until Dr Weston left. Then he turned and ran up to his mother’s room. He put his ear to the door again. There was no sound. He let out a sigh, then ran downstairs, and out into the front garden.
Jerry Murphy drove up to the house, and parked the van in the drive. He jumped out, and reached Murph in four strides, sweeping him off the ground, and throwing him up on his shoulders.
‘I’m too big, Daddy!’ said Murph.
Jerry held on to his son’s little calves, and walked him around the side of the house. ‘Do I look like a man who can’t carry a smallie like you on his back? Sure, amn’t I doing it right now?’ He slid his hands down to Murph’s ankles, and lifted them, tilting him back, making him grab for the back of his shirt collar to pull himself up. ‘Daddy!’ he said, tapping him on the head.
Jerry laughed. When they got around the back, he swung Murph down on to the ground beside a small pile of red timber slats. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘you and me are going to make a little house.’
‘What kind of a house?’ said Murph.
‘Ah, for one of your little cousins for her dolls. Now – grab me that hammer over there.’
He knelt down, and Murph stood smiling at the top of his head; his father was always helping people, and Murph loved helping him do it. And he loved hearing the things people always said about his father: ‘That’s a man you can rely on,’ ‘That’s a man who’d never let you down,’ ‘You could call Jerry Murphy any time, day or night,’ ‘Jerry Murphy’d give you the shirt off his back.’
When the little house was built, Murph stood back and put his hands on his hips.
‘I don’t know, Daddy, if she’s going to be mad about it.’
‘What?’ said Jerry. ‘What do you mean? After all our hard work.’
‘No – I know,’ said Murph. ‘But … are you going to be cutting holes in it later? For the windows?’
‘Jesus – I hadn’t thought of windows.’
‘And is it not supposed to have a floor in the middle to put furniture on?’ He glanced at his dad. ‘It looks funny.’
‘It looks funny, you think. What does it look like to you, so?’
Murph frowned. ‘I don’t want to be mean. I know you wanted to do a nice job on it. But it looks a bit … like a kennel.’
Jerry stood up, and laughed. He put his hands on his hips. ‘Jesus – you’re right.’ He started rubbing his face. ‘Amn’t I some eejit? Let me see if I have anything at all in the van, so we can sort something out.’ He disappeared around to the front of the house.
Murph heard a knock from the upstairs window. He took a few steps backwards so he could see properly. His mam was standing at her bedroom window with a big smile on her slender face, her eyes huge, her dressing gown up high around her neck. She waved at him, and he waved back. She pointed down at the little house, like she wanted to get a better look. Murph went over, and dragged it on to the grass where she could see it. She smiled.
‘I think I have something for that house!’ Jerry shouted.
When Murph looked up, Jerry was standing a distance away. Between his two boots was a little ball of fur that he let go as soon as Murph turned.
Murph jumped as a tiny black-and-white border collie pup shot towards him. By the time Murph crouched down, the dog was flinging himself into his chest, wriggling against him, trying to lick his neck. Murph stood up with him, hugging him tight, and they rubbed the sides of their faces together. Then Murph settled him into his arms, with his front paws up on his shoulders.
‘Daddy!’ said Murph. ‘I love him!’
He held the dog up to show his mam. She beamed down at him from the window.
Jerry laughed, and patted the back of Murph’s head. ‘Sure, you’re best pals already.’
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ said Murph, and he looked up again, but his mam was gone. ‘And thank Mammy for me.’ He paused. ‘Or could I thank her myself later?’ His eyes were shining.
Jerry squeezed Murph’s shoulder. ‘You can, of course.’
Murph beamed.
‘So,’ said Jerry, ‘what are you going to call your new pal?’
Murph thought about it. ‘Rosco.’
Jerry laughed. ‘From the television? The lads that climb in the car through the window?’
Murph nodded. ‘Rosco P. Coltrane.’
Jerry patted the dog’s head. ‘Rosco P. Murphy, it is so.’
That night, Murph woke up to a terrible choking sound, his heart pounding. He got up, and went to the door, pressing the handle down slowly, and edging the door open. He heard the sound again, and it was coming from downstairs. His chest tightened. He wanted to go into his mammy and daddy’s room, but he wasn’t allowed. This time, he knew they wouldn’t, though, because he was scared. And his mammy always told him to come to her when he was scared. He crossed the hallway, and opened their door gently. He walked in on tiptoes, and up to the bed. His mother was asleep, and even though she was asleep, she looked tired, and he didn’t want to wake her. His daddy wasn’t there, so he thought maybe that was him downstairs.
He sneaked down and stuck his head in to the dining room. He saw his father inside, sitting in the dark, his back against the wall, his legs out in front of him, his chin to his chest. His arms were loose at his side, and he was sobbing and sobbing. A rush of fear swept over Murph. He’d never seen his father cry. He went up to him, then turned his head away for a moment from the smell of whiskey. He looked down and saw an empty bottle by the leg of the table. He had only ever seen his father have one glass, and not even finish it.
‘Daddy!’ he said. ‘Daddy!’ He patted his shoulder. ‘It’s OK … it’s OK. I’ll …’ He tried to think of what his mam would say to him when he was small and he was having a nightmare or he was worried about something and he couldn’t get to sleep.
‘It’s OK, Daddy,’ he said. ‘No one’s coming to get you.’
He knelt down beside him, looking at his shirt, soaked with tears. He was thinking of his mam again, and what she would say.
‘What is it, Daddy? Did someone say something to you?’
His father raised his head, confused. After a moment, he focused. ‘Liam.’ He tried to sit up. ‘Liam …’
‘Yes! Daddy – are you all right?’
Jerry shook his head slowly. ‘No, no … no, no.’ He started to sob again. Murph started crying too, because he didn’t know what was wrong, and that was even scarier. He thought again of what his mam would say. He knelt in close, and put his hand on his father’s shoulder.
‘If I find out,’ said Murph, ‘that anyone was being mean to my …’ And his mam would say ‘to my little man’, so Murph said, ‘If I find out that anyone was being mean to my … little dad …’
And his dad, all six foot four of him, with his big head, and his huge hands, and his broad shoulders, started to shake, and then Murph realized it was because he was laughing at the same time as he was crying, and Murph didn’t care what he was laughing at, because he was laughing, and his dad reached out and grabbed his face like it was a football, and he looked at Murph with such love in his eyes that Murph thought his heart would burst.
The next morning, nothing was mentioned at breakfast about what had happened. When Murph came home after school, he went out to play with Rosco in the garden. When his dad came home from work, he ran to him, and gave him the tightest hug.
‘Come on a way over with me,’ said Jerry, ‘and we’ll sit on the wall.’
His father turned to him when they sat down. ‘Liam,’ he said, ‘you know, now, the way Mammy’s not well …’
Murph nodded.
‘Not well at all.’
Murph nodded again.
Jerry put a hand to his chin. ‘Do you know something?’ he said. ‘I think that woman would hug you every minute of the day if she could.’
Murph smiled, and his shoulders went up to his ears.
‘But you know that’s a small bit harder for her, now she’s not well.’ He paused. ‘And that’s all that is. She’s a bit weak.’ He patted Murph on the head. ‘But you’ll always be her little man … no matter what.’
