No Goodbye (3 page)

‘Conor Dolphin, stand up! Spell the word “furniture”,’ says Miss Boland.

I stare down at the floor.

‘Did you hear me, Conor?’

My shoes are dusty, they need a good polish.

‘Well! Let’s try another word from your word-list: “factory”.’

I still don’t know it. John is trying to whisper something to give me a hint, but I can’t hear him.

‘Conor, did you learn any of the words from this week’s list?’

‘I tried, Miss Boland.’ I like my teacher. Her hair is the same colour as my sister Grace’s. She smells of flowers.

‘Did you do any of your homework last night? Your workbook hasn’t been handed up yet.’

‘I forgot, Miss!’

Dad gave me a letter for her, but I hid it in the zip-pocket of my schoolbag. He said it would explain things.

‘Oh, Conor! What am I going to do with you!’

I don’t answer her.

‘All right, just sit down, Conor. Pay attention!’

Miss Boland moves on to someone else. She keeps on talking. I like the sound of her voice. It reminds me of my Mum. Mum promised me that she would always be there to help me. Every night, just before teatime, Mum helped me with my homework. We
did my reading book, so I’d know what was coming the next day. The other kids think it’s real easy to read. But I seem to keep on making mistakes or saying the wrong word. Mum never got cross the way Dad, or Greg, or Lucy do. She just smiled and sat right up close beside me, and I could feel her breath as we made the word-sounds.

‘Some people take to swimming like fish,’ Mum used to tell me, ‘while others have to have rubber rings and armbands and floats and lots of lessons before they can make it across to the far side of the pool. But remember, once they do that, in no time they can swim like fishes too.’ That’s what she told me. We would do my word-list again and again until I knew it real well. If anyone came in, Mum would say: ‘Out! It’s Conor’s time.’

She lied and broke her promise. I don’t know who’s going to help me now. Dad is too busy.

The bell will sound real soon, then it’ll be breaktime and we can all go out to the yard. The school door opening and the rush of air in my face and the chance to run, that’s what I love.

Gary and the rest of the class say that I’m the fastest racer in our yard. They try to beat me, but
almost always I win.

‘Hare and Hounds!’ yells Gary.

That’s the game we’ll play today. The schoolyard is noisy and crowded. I’m the hare. Right around the yard, down as far as the school gate, over the swampy wet grass, back through the teachers’ car-park, then up to where we play football. The goalpost is my home – I mean, the hare’s den.

One. Two. Three …

I start to run. I have to scan my path ahead to make sure no small kids are in the way because they really slow you down. Three girls playing hopscotch, I’ll go round them. The last few days it’s been raining a lot, so the grass will be extra slippy.

Seven. Eight. Nine …

Check the cars. Is there somewhere for me to hide? I must try to build up my pace.

Ten!

Ready or not, here come the hounds. There are seven of them. One or two are real fast.

I can feel my breath, it’s getting louder. My legs feel like they are getting longer. My heart is pumping.

The hounds are miles away, maybe with the wind
they won’t be able to get the scent. I sniff the wind. I run …

Today I feel scared. Maybe – maybe today is the day the hounds will get me. Some stupid kid runs out in front of me, I almost knock into her. I have to try and remember where I am.

The hounds are gaining. I can hear them.

‘Yahoo! Yahoo!’ Gary and Ian shouting. I have to run faster. They’re gaining on me. The grass is slippery. I have to steady myself as I reach the tarmac, and begin to weave through the cars. No chance to hide as the hounds are too close. The goalpost is still far off in the distance. My head and neck are sweaty and the back of my throat hurts. I can hear the pounding of their feet as they get closer. I zig-zag like crazy. I must try to fool them if I am to reach the goal …

‘Gottcha! Gottcha!’ Gary grabs me first and pulls me on to the short grass. The ground is hard. Ian and Pat and the rest of the hounds all crowd around me. I try to laugh and pretend I don’t care.

‘The fast pack!’ shouts Tommy O’Dowd. He squeezes my arm real hard so it hurts. Inside I feel shaky and shivery. I lost.

The teacher is shouting at us all. ‘Get off that wet grass, boys!’

We all get up and start to move back down towards her. The others push ahead of me. John walks near me. He’s a slow hound, because if he runs too fast he gets asthma. The sound of the bell fills the air and we all troop back inside.

I go to the cloakroom and soap my hands and splash cold water on my face. By the time I get to class they should all be sitting down. Even from outside the door I can hear them: ‘Can’t read, can’t run … going to have to get a gun … and shoot him!’

They all shout it louder when I come in. Gary is shouting the loudest. I hate him. I make like I’m going to cry and sit down and then just as I get beside his desk, I grab him by his jumper and give him a thump.

‘Miss! Miss!’ he screams. He isn’t hurt that bad, otherwise my hand would be sore too.

‘What is going on?’ Miss Boland has just come in the door and is beside us in a second.

‘He’s not just stupid, Miss. He’s crazy too!’ Gary shouts.

I get that shaky, shivery feeling all over again.
‘They were saying bad things about me,’ I try to tell her.

‘That’s not fair,’ she says, ‘but it’s not fair to hit someone either.’ Miss Boland makes us both shake hands and act like we’re friends.

I wish school was over. I wish I was home. Most of all, I wish Mum was there.

‘Look, Dad, I’m not Mary Poppins!’

‘Greg, I’m asking you to do me a favour. Missing one afternoon of rugby practice – is that too much to ask your son? It’s only the B team anyway!’ Dad shouts.

‘Yeah! And if I don’t practice, I’ll end up on the C team, for all you care.’

‘Honestly, Greg, I wouldn’t ask you, only this is a crisis. Your Gran can’t come over. And Deirdre has to
go to the dentist. It’s one half-day – just collect Grace from school and mind her for the rest of the afternoon,’ he pleads.

‘I’m not a nanny!’

Suddenly Dad smiles and gives me a big bear-hug. ‘Come on! It won’t kill you to spend an afternoon with your little sister. Bring her to the shops, or to the park if you want to.’

No way. Does Dad think I’m going to be seen walking round the place like a right sissy?

‘It’s a bit cold out, Dad. Grace is probably better off staying in.’

‘You won’t forget!’ he calls after me.

The rugby coach didn’t believe me, I could tell. ’Flu, well, suspected ’flu. I know how lame an excuse it is. I look too healthy and well. A sprain would have been better, or even an ingrown toenail!

The tree-lined avenue that leads up to our school is flanked by the rugby pitches. The Bs are all starting to line out and I can feel their stares as I shuffle past them in my jacket. I turn up the collar so it almost touches the end of my nose as I near the field where
the seniors are busy warming up. They ignore me anyway. I have to walk slowly as I am meant to be sick.

Once outside the school gates I begin to jog. It’s only about eight minutes to Belville Road, where Grace goes to the small primary school attached to the convent.

All the mothers stare at me. One lady in a denim jacket, her thick blonde hair in a ponytail, pushes her way forwards with a baby in a buggy until she is right beside me.

‘How is Vanessa? You’re her eldest boy, aren’t you? Is she okay? I haven’t seen her for a few days.’

Wouldn’t you know it.
Someone
just had to be nosey.

‘She’s fine, just fine,’ I lie.

‘Nothing the matter at home, is there?’ she persists.

I shake my head in denial.

‘Well, I just thought that… I was worried about Vanessa.’

‘No, everything is fine, honestly. I’ll tell her you said hello …’

‘Roz,’ she adds.

Her baby is busy trying to climb out of the buggy,
and she bends down to distract him. We all stand in a line outside the glossy, yellow-painted door. They are singing inside. Through the open window I can see all kinds of art and craftwork pinned on the wall. A mobile of paper butterflies dances and twirls as soon as the teacher opens the door. Talk about a push. They pile out worse than any rugby scrum.

No sign of Grace. I decide to go in and get her. I glance along the small tables, and there, sitting in the dappled sunlight, is Grace. She doesn’t see me, as she’s far too busy chatting to the little girl beside her. It’s funny, but I never realised just how pretty Grace is.

She spots me and stands up, pushing her chair back gently. Then she picks up her pink schoolbag. ‘Susie! That’s my big brother Greg,’ she says proudly.

Every head seems to turn and stare at me.

‘Come on, Grace! Hurry up!’

We set off. At the first corner, Grace stands rigid, waiting.

‘Come on!’ I urge her. ‘What’s up?’

‘You’ve got to hold my hand. Look, there’s traffic.’ She waves her hand towards the bumper-to-bumper cars driving along the main road. So, I don’t know the rules!

We walk slowly along, hand-in-hand. She chatters on about jigsaws and counters and number beads and what Susie had for lunch, until we reach home and the path up to our front door. She stops outside the door.

‘Ring the bell!’ she orders.

‘It’s no use,’ I try to explain to her gently.

‘Ring the bell!’ she insists. ‘Mummy will answer.’

‘Look, Grace, nobody will answer. But I have the key.’

She cocks her neat, pointy little face to one side, almost like a dog, not sure whether to trust me or not.

I try to distract her. ‘What’ll we have for lunch today, Princess?’

‘Food,’ she mutters.

The minute the door opens she scampers in and flings her jacket and schoolbag in the hall. First she heads for the kitchen, then the living room and the dining room, even the toilet, before heading up the stairs. The house seems awful quiet and still. Usually by the time I get home the others are here.

Poor kid! Coming in to this every day. She trots around from bedroom to bedroom like a little hound,
sniffing and searching. I go to my room and sit on my bed and wait till she’s finished her search. At last her sad face peeps in at me.

Deep inside I feel so angry. Angry for her and, I guess, a bit for myself.

‘Not here,’ she sobs.

‘Yeah, I know, Princess.’ I need to distract her. ‘Would you like to look at my cars?’

She dries her eyes and nods half-heartedly.

The collection started when I was a kid of six. Dad brought me back a vintage Rolls Royce and a Jaguar from a trip to London. Bit by bit it was added to. My Grandad used to love it, and added a car every year for my birthday and for Christmas, right up to the time he died.

I take them all down from the overhead shelf that edges my whole room, and lay them on the carpet for her. She crouches down and picks out two to race, just like I used to. The gold glittery ones she hides behind my wastepaper bin.

‘Hey, Grace, don’t go hiding any of them. You’re not allowed to take them to school. Come on, Princess, let’s eat!’

Toasted cheese sandwiches – not very exciting, but
Grace seems to like them. The cupboard is pretty bare. Upstairs in my room I have two cans of Coke hidden and I bring them down. Grace sucks on the red straw I found and blows bubbles in hers.

The afternoon stretches on. I’m not sure what you’re supposed to do to amuse an energetic six-year-old. Although it’s fairly cold out, the afternoon is bright. Grace leans against the window, watching me watching her. What does Mum do?

An hour in the park and already I’m exhausted.

Rugby is a doddle compared to this. We use the stale bread that was going mouldy in the breadbin to feed the ducks. I pulled off all the green bits because Grace thinks they would poison the birds. She keeps standing too near the edge, trying to talk duck language; every few seconds she’ll nibble a bit of the old bread herself, so the ducks will know how nice it is! There’s a small playground down behind the tennis courts, and I have to push her about a hundred times on the swing. Up on the deserted bandstand she does a bit of ballet and her impression of Irish dancing. Two old ladies stop and sit down on the
park bench to watch her, and I have to clap along with them when she bows at the end. Finally –
finally
, she agrees to come home.

‘My legs are too tired to walk, Greg!’

Any wonder! I have to give her a piggyback then. And wouldn’t you know it, just when we reach the crossroads at the bottom of our road we bump into three guys from school.

‘Hiya, Greg!’ Barry Brady is on my team. ‘You missed a good practice. I scored a try. New job?’ he adds sarcastically.

‘I had to babysit my sister. My Mum’s away,’ I explain.

Fergus Ryan takes over. He comes over and shakes Grace’s hand, and she beams at him. That guy has a way with girls! It’s just incredible, every girl in our area seems to fancy him.

‘She’s six,’ I jeer at him.

‘I know,’ he tells me. ‘She’s great buddies with my kid sister, Aoife. Hey, Greg, how’re things at home? It must be hard on everyone.’

‘We’re doing fine!’ I tell him. ‘Look, I’ve got to get home. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

I trot off around the corner with Grace bouncing
on my back. The three of them stand there looking after us. Everybody must know about Mum and Dad at this stage. We must be the talk of the neighbourhood.

The supermarket is heaving with people. We should have been here at least an hour-and-an-half ago.

‘Dad! You push the trolley and I’ll get the groceries,’ I boss him.

Honestly, my Dad is over forty years of age and you would swear he had never set foot in a supermarket before. He doesn’t seem to know where to start.

‘Dad! Head for the frozen stuff – it’s real easy to cook!’ Greg says, and starts to march on ahead of us.

I try to picture Mum doing the weekly shop. ‘No! Go to the fresh fruit and vegetables first,’ I point Dad
in that direction.

‘We don’t need that stuff,’ moans Greg.

‘Yes we do, or would you rather be all covered in spots and pimples?’

‘Okay, okay, Luce! Just get some apples then.’

Dad is busy stuffing a plastic bag with green grapes. Mum usually only gets a tiny bunch, as they’re so expensive. Next I stand in front of the vegetables. It looks like a big market stall. The guy has just sprayed all the vegetables with water so they look fresh and dewy and just-picked.

‘Dad, what’ll we get?’

He just stares.

I try again. ‘Dad, what meals will we be having?’

‘When?’

‘Next week.’

‘Something fairly easy,’ he says at last. ‘And I was thinking maybe we’d eat out some days, or get take-aways. Listen, Lucy, you pick out what you think is best. Gran can get more shopping during the week.’ Dad thinks Gran is going to end up doing our shopping. That’s just not fair.

We should have made a list like Mum always does, and some kind of meal plan. But it’s too late now.
Dad just lets us buy what we want. Given a free hand we all end up picking out our favourite food.

Dad drifts off among the Saturday shoppers and is busy sampling sausages, cheese, a new kind of curry sauce. I find him drinking a little plastic cup of wine, with a lady wearing a T-shirt in the colours of the French flag. She ignores the pensioners rambling by hoping for a little taste, and is busy chatting to Dad.

‘We’re nearly finished, Dad.’

Slightly embarrassed, he follows me. By the time we reach the checkout the trolley is stacked high.

Dad starts to put the groceries out, and in seconds manages to run our items in with the lady ahead of us. His mind just isn’t on it.

‘I didn’t get frozen burgers!’ she objects. ‘That’s not my canned soup!’ There’s terrible confusion. The checkout girl is trying to stop giggling, and I feel as if the whole shop is staring at us. I just want to get out of there – quick! Dad gets a big shock when he sees how much all that food costs.

The minute we get home, Dad slumps on the sofa and has a mug of coffee. He leaves us to unpack.