Ronan Doyle was born in Co Galway. He has a BA in English Literature and Philosophy
and an MA in journalism. He has travelled widely and lived in Japan for two years. He currently lives in
Dublin attending Trinity and working as an English teacher. He won the 2006/2007 Sunday Tribune/Hennessy
first fiction award, with Nothing Said, his first published work. More recently he has been published
in the Stinging Fly Press collection "These Are Our Lives", and was winner of their inaugural short fiction
award.
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The day before Christmas Eve I took
the afternoon bus from Dublin. An older man sat beside me. His clothes were wet, his thumbnail black with
dirt. Before long he fell asleep and spread his legs. We touched from knee to hip and I had no room. My
leg felt cold and damp. After a while it was just uncomfortable. I listened to the sound of the engine,
to parts of conversations. I leaned my head to the glass and my cheek to the cold. The wind made silver
lines of the rain. The lines fractured the landscape.
At the edge of Athlone our driver pulled in again. He was talking about modern
Ireland. “How and ever,” he said, “we’ll struggle on.” The old woman didn’t move until the bus had fully stopped.
“It’ll work itself out in the end,” she said, stepping carefully into the rain, “Happy Christmas to you.” The driver
straightened in his seat and concentrated on the road. We moved slowly onto the dual carriageway. My man was muttering
in his sleep. We passed over the bridge and I looked out the window. Between the banks of the Shannon the river was
a dark space, slick with occasional light.
There were no Christmas lights outside my house. Leaves had been raked into a small
pile, and rotted at the base of the wall. The garage door was locked to the ground with a heavy padlock. I tidied
my hair with my hand, straightened my coat, and rang the bell. I waited. The light came on in the hall and the door
opened. “Well,” said Dad, “Welcome.” I noticed his eyes were bloodshot. “Hello Dad,” I said. We shook hands and
he took my bag. “Come in out of that,” he said, “How was the trip down?” “Grand,” I told him, “Slow enough.”
“That’s right,” he said. We stood for a minute and then he set my bag on the floor. “She’s through in the kitchen,”
he whispered, like it was a secret.
With her back to the room she was standing by the stovetop, peeling an onion.
“Mam,” I said, “I’m home.” “Harry,” she said, “Harry.” She stayed where she was. “Look at the state of me,”
she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re looking well, Mam,” I said. I went to her and hugged her. I could
smell vegetables in her hair, I could feel her thick bra-clasp. She inhaled and cleared her throat. Pressed fingers
to her eyes. “Onions,” she said. “Happy Christmas Mam,” I replied.
* * *
That night, in his bedroom,
| "Across the water, the hills of Cooreen seemed beautiful and the scene
was wide and open. The cattle huddled together with mist in their gobs. The trees dead, the land frosted and white
and rising gently to the hills, where, through the haze, the faint outline of the wind-turbines could be seen, turning
slow and huge. " |
I stood in front of the mirror. Sucked in my belly, tightened
my shoulders. I smoked a cigarette out the window and brushed an old butt in a cobweb from the corner of the window-frame.
It was after midnight. Teenagers roared on the street, stumbling about through snack boxes and broken glass. We had had
steak for dinner.
“Mam,” I said, “this steak is delicious.” She looked at me mid-bite, her mouth open,
eyes unblinking. “Good man, Harry,” said Dad, “fair play to you.”
Mam continued to eat, slowly and methodically. She did not speak until she was finished.
“Well, then,” she said, “that’s that over and done with.” “What’s that love?” asked Dad. “That’s Christmas,” said my
mother, and she stood up. Dad looked at me and wet his lips. “Mam,” he said, “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.” We had
stopped eating. “Jesus,” she said, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” She sat down heavily in her seat.
“Ah now,” said Dad, “We’ve a few days left yet.” He moved his fork around the plate
and speared a few slivers of onion. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “We’ll have a glass of sherry. I’ll light the
fire and we’ll have a glass of sherry.” Mam said nothing.
“Will you have one Harry?”
“Why don’t you finish your dinner Dad,” I answered.
“Ah never mind that,” he replied, going through to the sitting-room.
Mam went to the sink and looked out the window. When Dad came back he was
whistling. He carried an empty coal-bucket and ash wrapped in newspaper. Mam stood at the sink, scraping
cold fat off the roasting tray with a spatula.
* * *
The next day, early, I walked through town. I wore my hat low and kept my head down.
The butcher, grocery, newsagent, everywhere was busy. I walked up Main Street, past the bank. The lights blinked
and Santa Claus slowly lifted his arm.
I found myself up at the lake. Kids were standing in the outhouse changing area,
sharing a can of beer, smoking cigarettes and shivering. I sat on a bench and smoked a cigarette and stared out
across the lake. A thin sheet of ice had frozen the water close to land. I watched a swan glide into the ice and
pedal away in the other direction. One of the kids came over and asked me for a light. “Fucking cold,” he said.
He walked back to his friends.
Then, emerging through the trees near the shore, I saw Emma walking Benji. Immediately
I thought about getting up and going home. But I stayed where I was. I watched her approach and I watched her
recognise me. She lifted her hand and kept coming.
“Emma,” I said.
Her cheeks and nose were red from the cold. She wore that brightly patterned hat
and a heavy woollen scarf around her neck. She was smiling.
“Harry,” she said, without touching me, “Jesus, Harry, it’s been ages. How’ve you been?”
I slid a handful of pebbles across the ice.
“Not bad,” I said.
The dog lurched at the end of his lead and started barking.
“Benji!” she said, “Stop that!” She slapped him on the rump.
“Sorry, Harry, what were you saying?”
“Nothing,” I said, “Any plans for the Christmas?”
“Christmas is Christmas,” she said, and surprised us both by laughing.
“Santy coming?” I asked.
Benji pranced in a small circle.
“It’s good to see you, Harry,” she said.
I tried to say something but nothing came out.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, “No problem.”
She gave a sharp tug on the lead and the dog was still.
“How’s your mother?” she asked.
“She’s fine,” I said.
Emma said nothing.
I lit another cigarette.
I thought of us at the lake in the summer after the Leaving Cert, drinking and swimming,
hanging out with John and the older lads.
“Emma,” I said, “Do you want to meet for a drink before I go back to Dublin?”
She kneeled down and rubbed the dog’s head. I wondered if she’d heard me.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, eventually.
“No, no,” I said, “Not like that.”
“Of course, Harry,” she said, looking up.
I stared across the lake and tried to think of something else to say.
The dog started barking again.
“Harry,” she said, “I better take this lad home before he freezes.”
“Yeah,” I said. I gave the dog a rub. She adjusted her hat and pulled up her gloves.
“Take care, Harry,” she said, “Happy Christmas.”
She kissed me on the cheek.
“Right,” I said, “Good luck.”
Emma dragged the dog back towards town and I watched her get smaller.
For a little while I stayed where I was, on the bench, taking stock. The kids had left
and it was quiet and still.
I smoked another cigarette.
Across the water, the hills of Cooreen seemed beautiful and the scene was wide and open.
The cattle huddled together with mist in their gobs. The trees dead, the land frosted and white and rising gently to
the hills, where, through the haze, the faint outline of the wind-turbines could be seen, turning slow and huge.
* * *
Christmas morning, we went to Mass together. Dad goes most days now. “Harry,
you’re not going to Mass like that,” he laughed, “You’ll disgrace the lot of us.” He turned up the collar of my jacket.
Mam said nothing but insisted quietly that we drive the three-minute-walk to the cathedral. “Jesus, Mam,” I said,
“It’s only around the corner.” I turned down my collar. Dad looked at me and said that driving to Mass would be
fine. In the end it took us a few minutes to find a parking place. “The whole town looking at us,” said Mam.
| "I stand with my back to the crowd on O’Connell Bridge. The man on
the bridge sells beads and rings, wrist-bands, badges, and wash-off tattoos. Keepsakes of Ireland. An ambulance
screams by. An old woman blesses herself. The city stops and flows.
" |
The church was packed but we managed to push into our usual seat.
Fr Geraghty walked out and everyone stood up. I saw Emma and her family three
seats in front. I looked at Mam but her head was down. Dad was fingering his rosary. The choir sang and Fr. Geraghty
began the Mass. The mumbling hum seemed unfelt and artificial. When the Host was placed in my hand it was a
scrap of wafer.
Outside, afterwards, I sat in the back of the car, waiting. Dad stood talking
with the priest and Pat Kelly from the club. Mam was chatting with Frances Killian. Children chased each other,
weaving lines through the adults, through their parents, squealing and pulling at clothes. They stood around the crib.
The story of Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus was explained again. “Say nothing,” said a man, pressing cash into
a child’s hand. The boy ran off.
“Breda, you’re some woman,” said Frances Killian, “The whole lot done already.”
Mam laughed and said, “Sure today’s the worst of it. Once you’re through today you’re flying.”
“That’s it,” said Killian, and then, suddenly, “But if there’s anything at all I can do…”
Mam dropped her eyes in appreciation, and nodded goodbye. She came and sat in the passenger seat.
We waited for Dad in silence.
“Now,” he said, pulling the door shut, “It was a lovely service.”
We moved slowly to join the queue of cars waiting to leave the church.
“Did you see the Byrnes’?” asked Mam.
“I saw them,” said Dad.
“They wouldn’t even look at me,” said my mother, “And that bitch walking down from
Communion smiling.”
She gripped the dashboard and stared out the window. I saw Dad’s face in the
rear-view mirror and he was looking at me. I looked out my own window and said nothing.
Christmas dinner was the worst part of the holiday. The worst time since his
funeral last April.
Dad and I ate slices of cold melon while Mam set out the plates and carved the turkey.
Dad put on a CD. Jingle Bells. Away In A Manger. Come All Ye Faithful. Mam took the framed photograph of
John from the kitchen windowsill. She kissed the glass. “Happy Christmas, John” she said, placing the photograph
at the end of the table.
Full plates were set out, brussel sprouts, bread sauce, light and dark meat.
Crackers beside the cutlery. The good tablecloth and a single white candle in green foam wrapped in holly.
Dad poured the red wine and stood and raised his glass.
“Well now,” he said, “Mam, fair play to you, this is some dinner.”
“Thanks, Mam,” I said.
She was looking at Dad.
“We’ve Harry home,” he said, “And we all have our health. With the help of God we’ll
be back here next year to enjoy another Christmas.”
Dad remained standing, holding his glass aloft. He stared straight at the kitchen
wall and I understood he didn’t know how to continue. He sat down and we had forgotten to click glasses.
“Will you tell me this,” asked Dad, “How do you get the ham so tender?”
We ate in silence. I listened to my parents eating their food.
Then Mam put down her knife and started to cry. I traced lines in the gravy
with my fork. Dad put his hand on Mam’s. The two of them sitting like that, whispering, comforting each other.
I couldn’t hear a word they were saying.
Nobody ate anything. The food steamed. Johnny Adams singing, I’m The Little Boy
That Santa Claus Forgot, and I didn’t know where to look. I couldn’t even look at his photo.
It was Mam who saw the note on the kitchen table. He wrote ‘ I am in the garage’,
and she groaned like she was sick. My father roaring. Pulling at his legs, his ankles. I don’t forget the way my
brother moved in the air when Dad took his hands from his body. I ran to the kitchen and took a long knife from
the drawer, thinking I could cut him down. But, as it was, I stayed in the kitchen for a long time, turning the
blade in my hand. I stared at my reflection in the window. And I waited until the shouting had stopped, until
everything was quiet.
I stand with my back to the crowd on O’Connell Bridge. The man on the bridge
sells beads and rings, wrist-bands, badges, and wash-off tattoos. Keepsakes of Ireland. An ambulance screams by.
An old woman blesses herself. The city stops and flows.
I am thinking of Emma. Of that summer, after the exams, and stumbling on them
together at the lake. She had folded her t-shirt. Left it neatly on a rock. He was laughing, pretending to
try on her bra. She was pretending to be angry. And I was staring at them both before I realised it.
He had shouted at me, Get out of here. Christ Harry, Fuck off. Emma made a
small noise, like a belted dog. She sat up quickly and covered herself. It’s funny, I had been thinking about
her body, about her breasts, since before she had any. But I said nothing then. Not even Sorry. I just jogged
back towards the water through the trees.
Later, at home, I remember we laughed about it. He said too much. I said too little.
Emma didn’t care, he had promised. That was the main thing. She said it was only me. We’d look back and laugh.
Harry coming through the trees like a zombie. I like her, he had said, For now. It gave us a right shock though.
What the hell was I at? Walking around on my own, in the trees?
I let my cigarette fall into the water, water that will not stop flowing under me.
This water is green and bears the waste of a city out to the sea.
* * *
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