Oranges From Spain Page 10

  Going into the kitchen, she took some biscuits from a tin and arranged them on a plate. She boiled the kettle again and wiped some crumbs off the kitchen table. When Anthony came home she wasn’t going to let him out of her sight – it didn’t matter if she had to walk round ten feet behind him, she would do anything rather than risk losing him. And if he didn’t like it, well, that was just too bad. Nothing would make her endure again the miseries of these last few hours. Nothing would make her sit through this mixture of fear and uncertainty. She knew deep down he would care enough about her feelings to understand. Impatience and a growing sense that their return was imminent drew her back to the living room window. It was much darker now, and she put her pale face close to the net curtain in an attempt to see into the street. There was a musty smell from the curtain and its creases hung lifelessly and irregularly to within an inch of the window ledge where little glass animals marched across flaking paint. She moved closer still, until her motionless face wore the net like a veil, her eyes searching the shadows for some coming. It was difficult to see, difficult to tell what was real and what was imaginary, and as her hands clutched at the thin net the light played tricks with her eyes, leaving her confused and uncertain. Then, as the street lamps glowed deeper orange, she heard the sound of footsteps and without waiting a second longer she rushed to the door, her heart giving thanks and her hands brushing cigarette ash off the hem of her skirt. Her fingers fumbled with the lock and as she flung the door open, her hand slipped and the door banged loudly against the wall. The noise vibrating in her ears deafened her, until it quivered to a silence, and with it came a realisation that the steps were fading. She rushed to the open gate and peered after the shapes of three men disappearing into the distance. Her hands grasped the metal gate and its coldness burnt her with disappointment and frustration. She felt as if she was being mocked by some unseen watcher and she stifled a curse of bitterness and anger. A knot of nausea tightened in her stomach and sent her scurrying back into the house.

  With trembling hands, she lit another cigarette, then cradled her head and rocked gently from side to side. Surely God was punishing her, surely she had done something terrible and this was his way of punishing her. But her punishment was too great, more than she could bear – more than anyone could be expected to bear. He had taken her husband and dealt her a heavy blow and now, did a loving God plan to take her only son and crush the last vestiges of strength out of her faltering soul? If only Father Donnelly would come she would kneel and kiss his hand, then confess every miserable, selfish sin that besmirched her soul’s righteousness. Perhaps all this was God’s way of testing her, of purging her in the flames of suffering to bring her back to the first flowering of faith she had known as a young woman. A torrent of ardent promises flowed from her, each more desperate than the last, each washed clean by the sincerity of fear.

  She stubbed out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, sending a fine spray of ash into the air, then went again to the window. Her veiled eyes struggled to penetrate the shadowy world for some harbinger of hope. A car passed, briefly lighting up a square of tousled and tangled garden; in a house opposite, someone switched on a bedroom light, then pulled the curtains, giving her a fleeting glimpse of a wardrobe with a cardboard box on top of it, but the street itself seemed empty of people or any sign of life.

  She was aware of the musty smell again. A sudden impulse took her to go in search of Anthony herself – anything would be better than the terrible waiting – but where would she go to look? She had no idea of where she might even start, and what if Father Donnelly and the boy returned and she wasn’t there? No, she would have to wait. Keep busy, that was the best way. She poked some life into the dwindling fire and started to tidy the pile of old newspapers and magazines gathering dust in the corner. In the middle of the pile, she found the card he had sent her on Mother’s Day. It had a picture of daffodils and a lovely verse. She knew she hadn’t thrown it out. Holding on to it tightly, she treasured it as confirmation of the goodness that only she seemed to know was in him. She wanted to wave it in the air like a flag for all the world to see, as indisputable testimony to the goodness he carried deep in his heart. She would put the card on the mantelpiece and show it to Father Donnelly when they returned. Anthony would be embarrassed, but she had come too far to worry about things like that. Let God send her son back to her and she would take better care of him than any other mother in Derry. Let him come home safe and well, and she would pay back her debt to God with abundant interest.

  With guilt, she remembered all the times in recent days when she had felt dissatisfied and weary of her life. If only she could return to those times, she would consider herself fortunate. If only she could get through her remaining days without too much pain, scrape by with the minimum of suffering, then she would think of herself as blessed. Life would no longer be conceived of in terms of happiness, or even in vague expectations of it, but purely in the absence of misery. She felt that perhaps she had found some insight into existence, some safe route which would take her through the troubled times which lay ahead. Let God allow her to go back to where she had been a few hours previously and she would never again complain or lament the lot which life had appointed to her. Wasn’t it true, also, that God never apportioned a burden greater than could be borne? She would have to be strong, stronger than she had ever been, and pull her life together again, and not only for herself but also for her son. Things couldn’t go on in this way. Even if he came home safely tonight, she knew there would be other times when he would bring her heartbreak.

  Slowly and painfully, she forced herself to face up to the reality she had tried so hard to avoid. If she didn’t do something now, something to take him in hand, then they were heading for disaster. There was no point trying to hide away from it any more. Even though she loved him as her only son she could not pretend any longer to be blind to the signs which grew more evident by the day. She forced herself to think of them, suddenly frightened that any omission would bring down a worse punishment on the boy, in the same way that a bad confession could damn the soul. Last Easter, he had stolen money out of her purse and then denied any knowledge of it. Although he had never admitted it, she knew he had taken it, just as she knew he had stolen the football from the school store. When the letter had come from the school, she had blindly and desperately supported his story that someone else had given it to him, but in her heart she knew it was a lie. If only he had told her that a miserable ball meant so much to him, enough to make him a thief, she would have found the money to buy him one. But he hadn’t told her, and that was the heart of the problem. As he had grown older he had stopped talking to her in any meaningful way. With every year that passed, another area of his life was shrouded in secrecy and silence. Soon, there would be nothing shared or open between them, save the dwindling time he spent in the house, a house which he treated increasingly like a boarding house – somewhere to eat and sleep.

  She paused in her thoughts to lift a few pieces of coal from the scuttle at the side of the hearth and place them in strategic positions on the smouldering fire. She used the tips of her fingers, then flicked them over each other to dispel the accumulated blackness. Taking a tissue, she wet it with spittle, then rubbed vigorously at the residue. When she had finished, she wet it again and tried to clean some of the black stains from the tiles on the breast of the fireplace, but they were too deeply ingrained, and she threw the tissue into the fire with a frustrated twist of her wrist. The house had never been a palace, but lately she had let it slip into a state of neglect. When this was all over and she had pulled together the pieces of her life, she would give the whole house a spring clean and spend a little money on fixing it up. Maybe even the welfare would be able to help her get some new furniture. She would try to make it a better home for her son, somewhere he could be proud of, somewhere he could bring his friends whenever he wanted.

  She wondered who his friends were and why he never talked about them.
Once, she had tried to ask about them, but he had turned her away with evasive answers and not a single name had been forthcoming. If only she could get him to talk to her – that would be the start of things getting better. If only she could find the key which would open up his sullen indifference. Did he not realise how much that hurt her? She remembered with a momentary flicker of affection when he was little and used to come to her with all his joys and troubles, how he would climb on to her knee and snuggle into the protective warmth she offered him. He had made her feel like a mother then, and she longed to have that same feeling return. If only he could realise that she too had needs, and that he was the only important thing she had left, he might come back to her and give her the affection which would help her survive in an indifferent world.

  But there were, too, other sins to be confessed, and it would be a dangerous thing to try to hide any of them from God, who already knew them all. Anthony had stolen tools from the workmen’s hut when the community centre was being built, and he had been involved in the vandalism at the primary school. And that was not all. She confessed them all, keeping back nothing that she knew to be true. There were many things which she did not know about, things which happened without her knowledge and which she had no way of discovering. Perhaps she was grateful that it was so.

  When she had finished, a feeling of cleansing washed over her. It was as if the slate had been wiped clean, and she had laid the foundations for a fresh start. Sown the seed of a new beginning. Now that this had been done, she felt entitled to think positively about the coming days and even to plan their life together, setting moments in the future like small stones across a stream. Her eyes caught the jug on the table. She had always loved its smooth coolness and the blue flowers in the pattern. It was a pity there were so few pieces left. She wondered if it would be possible to find a shop which still sold that particular set. It reminded her of her wedding day. Perhaps she should have looked after the set more carefully – there were so few things surrounding her which brought back good memories. She straightened some creases on the tablecloth and moved one of the saucers to cover a stain she had never noticed before. It was such a cold night that Father Donnelly would need a good warm cup of tea to put some heat into him. She remembered with anger that they hadn’t even given Anthony time to put a coat on. Who did they think they were, dragging a boy out of his own home without so much as an apology or a word of explanation – who gave them the right to barge into someone’s home and act like policemen? Sure, weren’t they worse than any policeman ever was? It would be the last time she put her hand in her pocket for a collection – she didn’t care what anybody said, she’d had her fill. They had taken enough out of her heart this night to pay off any debt they thought she owed. Let any of them come to her house ever again and she would show them the door.

  Her anger carried her back to the window where the curtain veiled her face once more. It was so difficult to see anything with certainty. The light played tricks on her eyes as she searched the heavy dusk which had fallen everywhere and coated the world with a smothering film of greyness, leaving the streets vague and undefined.

  Then, suddenly, her hopes clutched frantically at a dark figure who had appeared as if by magic through a wall of greyness, and who was hurrying towards her from the distance. There was something immediately familiar about his busy, scurrying motion and his broad-shouldered outline. She was sure it was him, and surer by the second, as that scampering, scurrying gait carried him closer to her door. Her eyes strained eagerly to see past his broad form and searched desperately for her son, but she could not see him.

  Rushing away from the window towards the door, she tried to convince herself that he would be there when she opened it, standing on the doorstep safe and well, with Father Donnelly’s protective arm around him.

  As her fingers fiddled clumsily with the lock, she told herself that if only she believed with enough faith, it would be true. Then, flinging open the door, she stared past the Father’s looming form which almost filled the doorway, hoping beyond hope that her son would step into the light from the priest’s shadowy wake. With fear in her heart, she looked for the first time into the eyes of the priest, and knew before he spoke that he had returned without her son. She gave a whimper of despair, and for a second she thought that she was going to faint, but he stretched out his arms and supported her back into the living room, murmuring assurances that she no longer believed. The priest’s face was flushed and his grey hair was dishevelled; all the time he was telling her that everything was going to be fine, and all the time she knew he was lying.

  Regaining some control, she confronted him with a voice which demanded the truth.

  ‘Where’s Anthony, Father? Where’s my son?’

  ‘He’s all right, Eilish, he’s all right. I’ve seen him not twenty minutes ago, and he’s all right. Believe me, Eilish, they haven’t harmed the boy in any way.’

  ‘But where is he? Why didn’t he come back with you? If he’s all right, why isn’t he here now?’

  Momentarily ignoring her questions, the priest guided her firmly to the settee and stood over her, preventing her from getting back to her feet.

  ‘Anthony’s all right, nothing’s happened to him – you have my word on it. He’ll be home soon. They’re bringing him back any moment, and he’s not been harmed. I’ve seen him myself, and no one’s laid a finger on him.’

  She looked up into his face with suspicion, but his eyes met hers openly and bespoke a truth that she couldn’t fail to recognise.

  ‘But Father, why didn’t he come back with you?’ she asked, with dogged insistence.

  ‘They’re still talking to the boy, but they’ll be bringing him home very soon.’

  The priest sat down on a chair opposite her. He pushed back his hair with a sweep of his hand. His face was still flushed and a little glimmer of moisture trickled from his left eye. There were spots of mud on his shoes. She searched for answers to the questions which ricocheted round her head like a pin-ball.

  ‘What is it they’re talking to him about? Why did they take him away like that? What do they want with my boy?’

  The priest shrunk back uneasily in the chair, contracting into it, his hands washing slowly over each other. For a second, his eyes lingered on the splashes of mud on his shoes, then he looked her in the face.

  ‘They’re talking to Anthony about what they call “anti-social activities” – break-ins and stealings, things like that.’

  ‘Break-ins and stealings? My son hasn’t been involved in anything like that. I know he hasn’t, Father, and I’ll go and tell them that as well.’

  She started to rise from the settee but he raised a hand quickly to stop her.

  ‘It’s no use, Eilish, the boy’s admitted it. He’s confessed everything. All the pensioners’ bungalows – he did them all. And a lot more besides. They’ve written it all down and he’s signed it. They showed me it.’

  ‘Of course he’s signed it!’ she shouted, her voice quivering with anger and fear. ‘They’ve scared the boy half to death and you tell me he’s signed some bit of paper. There’s not many who wouldn’t do the same with a gun pointed to their head.’

  ‘There’s no guns involved, and the boy hasn’t been harmed. That’s something we can be grateful for at least.’

  ‘Grateful? They’ve taken a son away from his mother and you say we should be grateful! What right’ve they got to go round terrorising innocent families?’

  She felt her anger flowing from her soul and she could not turn it anywhere but towards the priest. He had failed to bring her son back to her when she had placed all her faith in him, and now he talked of gratitude.

  ‘Did you not talk to them, Father? Did you not tell them about me being a widow and struggling here on me own to bring up the boy?’

  ‘I told them, Eilish – I told them everything – but it made no difference. There’s no talking to thon fellows. The day’s long gone when they’ll listen to the
likes of me.’

  The priest slumped back into the chair and his voice was edged with a bright thread of bitterness.

  ‘You could talk till you’re blue in the face and they wouldn’t listen. Once I could’ve made them see some sense but not now. There’s no respect for God, nor man, any more. And there’s Sean Walshe – a boy I baptised and confirmed with me own hand – talking to me with as much respect as you’d show to a dog. I’ve had a time of it, all right, one that I’ll not forget in a hurry.’

  But she could find no sympathy to spare for his feelings, or time to worry about them. Her mind was torn apart by twisted images of shattered kneecaps and broken limbs, of young men tarred and feathered and tied to railings with their crimes listed around their necks for all the world to see. A vision of the new stigmata – the dark red circles of bullet holes in the palms and thighs – imprinted itself on her cracking mind like a scourging crown of thorns. Holy Mother of God, who herself suffered so much, pity her now, pity her now.

  ‘What are they going to do with him? In the name of God, tell me what they’re going to do with my boy. I have to know. Are they going to hurt him? I have to know now!’

  ‘They’re not going to hurt him – I’ve told you that, and it was the truth, but it wasn’t all the truth. I’m sorry Eilish, I’m very sorry, but I have to tell you something that’s going to be very hard, and may God give you the grace to bear it.’

  The priest paused for a second and looked at the spots of mud on his shoes. There was no easy way, but it had to be done.

  ‘They’ve given him forty-eight hours to leave the city. If he’s not packed and gone within that time, they’ll come looking for him.’

  She said nothing, but stared at him with empty eyes, as if not fully understanding the words she had heard. He leaned forward and stretched out his hand towards her in a gesture of comfort and support, but she sat motionless, almost unaware of his presence.