Oranges From Spain Page 9

  As he stepped out into the street, there was a sudden explosion, and the night air shattered with splinters of light. Involuntarily, he stepped back into the shelter of the shop doorway, startled and a little frightened, and then, as a garland of light twisted in the sky, he realised with a feeling of foolishness that the firework display had already begun. He would have to hurry. Following the momentary frieze of frozen stars, he walked as quickly as his co-ordination would let him, and threaded his way uneasily through the milling crowds. Fiery rockets screeched into the night sky above him and fragmented into a fall of luminous petals, while fluorescent reds and yellows ignited the dark pockets of the night and cascaded into nothingness. Spangled rosettes of blossom burst into transient life and were greeted by applause and gasps of pleasure. He hurried on. The bicycle – he had forgotten the bloody bicycle. He stopped and looked at his watch, but knew he would never make it in time. First thing in the morning he would phone; better still, he would go round himself and sort the whole thing out. A bright tracery of light laced the sky ahead, and as he set off again, a final crescendo and eruption of colours showering over the green domes of the City Hall signalled the end of the display.

  He could see the covered stage at the side of the giant Christmas tree and he could hear the children’s voices rising up in song. His tired eyes fixed on the bright star, and he left the pavement for the greater freedom of the road. The sound of ‘O little town of Bethlehem’ called him on, and he knew nothing could prevent him from reaching his destination. He was a good father – no one could deny him that, and he knew Paula would be looking for him, wanting him to be there. He would never let her down. He felt warm inside, benevolent to all men and at peace with the world. It was a special time – he couldn’t deny the emotions and feelings bubbling up inside him. All the cynicism and world-weariness washed away, and he opened his heart to the holiness of the hour. He thought of all the mothers who, at that moment, were wrapping presents for their children and sealing them with love; of fathers working overtime to gather up the means of providing their families with the festive feast; of the children with every sense alive and tingling. In his imagination, he saw the great snow plough clearing the Glenshane Pass, throwing the fresh, white snow to the sides of the road, its yellow lights splitting the dark and lighting the way for travellers. He caught some of the words of the carol, and he thought, too, of the city he loved, tinselled and shimmering in the safety of the fire that burned so brightly and fended off the wolves, who waited and watched in the darkness of the woods.

  He was almost there now. He was conscious of bumping into people, and aware that people were looking at him, but nothing mattered, he had to be there to hear his Angel. Shouldering his way through the spectators, he reached a position against the crash barriers in front of the nativity scene. He could see her now, and his hands gripped the cold metal bar. She was dressed in white, with a silver tinfoil halo hovering above her head and cardboard wings fluttering precariously in the breeze. Yellow light bathed the crib and lit the children’s intense faces as they grouped round the manger and the holy infant. He wanted to call out to her, let her know he was there, but the terrible sanctity of the scene bound him in silence. He wanted to kneel, but the press behind him prevented any change in his position. The voices of the children rose on fragile wings through the cold night air, heralding the miraculous birth. He too wanted to worship, bring his gifts, and as their music faded into the darkness, tears of remorse started to his eyes.

  Searching the Shadows

  Father Donnelly would sort it out – they would listen to him. It was all some kind of mistake, and if anyone could sort it out the Father could. He had always been good to the boy, and since her husband’s death had taken a special interest in him. Yes, he was always asking her about how Anthony was getting on. Any time he saw her he never failed to ask. Even though he must have had a thousand other things to worry about, he never once forgot to ask how the boy was doing. Father Donnelly was a good priest all right, and she’d never hear anyone say a bad word about him – if the church had a few more like him, perhaps the pews would be fuller. All through John’s illness he had been very faithful and had been there at the bedside at the very end. Thanks be to God, the end had been peaceful – after all the weeks of turmoil and pain he had just slipped away, and the Father’s presence had made it all so much easier, so much more dignified.

  She went into the kitchen and boiled up the kettle for the third time. She expected them both back at any minute, and a cup of tea would be the thing that was needed. She wondered what was keeping them. Taking a teacloth, she wiped the cups and saucers, then searched in the cupboard for the china milk jug which was reserved for special visitors. The last time she had used it was on the day of the funeral.

  The sound of the gate opening sent her scurrying back into the living room and to the window. Pressing her face against the net curtain, she peered into the falling gloom, but there was no one there. As she turned away, she heard a neighbouring door open and shut. She sat down and stared for a second at the silent television picture, but in her restlessness, nothing seemed to register, nothing seemed to make sense. Her eyes dropped to her hands, and she saw, to her surprise, that she was still holding the milk jug. She looked at it closely. It was part of a teaset they had been given as a wedding present. That seemed such a long time ago. There was only the jug and a few saucers left. She had always loved the pretty blue flowers frozen against the coolness of the white. She didn’t know what had happened to the set – a piece broken here and a piece there, she supposed; over the years it must all have mounted up like little bits breaking off your life. Anthony could be careless at times – she had to admit that. Sometimes he was so clumsy, almost as if his hands didn’t work properly. He’d never have made an altar boy, that was sure, but then not every boy was meant to be an altar boy. It wasn’t his fault – it was just the way he was made and there was no changing it now. She looked at the clock. Where was Anthony? Where was Father Donnelly? It was over an hour since the Father had gone out to bring him back. Where could they be?

  She took the jug back into the kitchen and placed it on the tray, moving everything a fraction of an inch like pieces on a chess board. Anthony had shouldered his father’s coffin like a man that day. He had looked so well in his Sunday clothes she had felt proud of him. He had carried the day off as well as any boy could, and better than some she could think of. It was only after John’s death that the real problems had started. He had always been a lively, boisterous child but as he moved through his teenage years he had grown headstrong and difficult. He wasn’t a bad lad at heart – he really wasn’t. She knew him better than anyone else, and she would swear on the Holy Book itself that deep down he had a good heart. Didn’t he look after her like a nurse the time last winter when she had gone down with the virus, and didn’t he even send her a lovely card on Mother’s Day? There were too many people quick to pass judgment when they never saw the whole picture. John had known how to handle him, how to get the best out of him – when to laugh at him and when to reach for the belt. They had been the best of friends, and when they had fallen out it had never lasted for long. It was only since his father’s death that Anthony had gone off the rails.

  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get close to him or get him to talk to her in the way he had done when he was younger. Now, he just seemed to clam up, or brush her attempts aside with an indifference that he couldn’t have realised was so hurtful to her. Perhaps it was because he felt he was the man of the house and no longer needed to give an account of his actions. Lord knows, there were plenty of others more than ready to give that account, and ready at the drop of a hat to put their seal of judgment on his soul. Hypocrites the lot of them! And the school was the worst – summoning her like the courts themselves to listen to a recitation of his misdemeanours and, by implication, her shortcomings as a parent. Their holier-than-thou attitude made her sick. What did they know about bringing
up a boy on the little money she had to make ends meet and living where she did? There weren’t too many teachers who had any idea of what life was like on the estate. At the end of school, it was into their cars and home to nice houses in the suburbs. She’d like to see them bringing up their families where she had to and see then how many found it all plain sailing. They were supposed to be the experts and if they couldn’t get through to him, how was she supposed to do it? Half the time, anyway, she was sure it wasn’t the boy’s fault. They had labelled him from his first week in the place, and it had gone ahead of him wherever he went. ‘Never produces his best’ – that was what was written on his report. Well, wasn’t that what they were paid for in the first place – to bring the best out of him, to develop his talents? The school was more of a failure than he was. They had no cause to throw stones at anyone. She was glad he had finished with it. Some day, though, he would show them what he was capable of, show them all that he could achieve something when he put his mind to it. She knew he had it in him, she knew that given the right opportunities and a bit of luck, he could make something of himself. He was going through a difficult spell – lots of children went through them – but he would come through to the other side. She was sure of it.

  Outside in the street a dog barked an angry threat at some passing shadow. Somewhere,’ a car door slammed. She went back to the window and searched the dusk for a sign, but the row of identical houses opposite only stared impassively back, like indifferent eyes.

  It was over an hour since the two men had called for her son and taken him away. When she had opened the front door they were standing there, one on the step and a younger man just inside the gate. At first, she had thought it was a collection, just another of the endless ‘freewill’ collections for some aspect of the cause that your pocket begrudged, but your fear of being marked out as soft on the struggle compelled you to give. Struggle? The very word stuck in her throat. Wasn’t every day of her life a struggle to get by? Wasn’t her very existence one long battle against bitter and vindictive odds? No one had any right to come to her door and talk of struggle, when it took every penny she had, and every drop of energy her body possessed just to keep her head above the waves. Every single penny she had in her purse was precious and it wasn’t right that a widow should have to give from the little she had. But although these thoughts had filled her head, it was a smile on her lips which greeted the two callers, a smile which only faded when she realised that they hadn’t come for money. The older man was in his forties and she didn’t recognise his face. He wore a green unbuttoned jacket, a white open-necked shirt, blue jeans and tan coloured boots. Stiff tufts of red hair stuck sharply at intervals from the elasticated sides of a green tartan cap. Behind him, the younger boy seemed fresh-faced by comparison. He had blond spiked hair, and a pale face with nervous blue eyes which flitted nervously about without settling on anything for more than a few seconds. She had seen him before and as she stared at him he lowered his eyes to the ground. Then she remembered he was one of Annie Walshe’s boys, but before she could put a first name to him, his companion addressed her by name.

  ‘Mrs McCann, we’d like a wee word with Anthony, if you don’t mind?’

  And before she had time to reply, he had stepped past her into the house, almost gently and without brushing against her, but ignoring her protests. The blond boy followed them both and stood silently in the doorway. Without looking at him, she could feel his blue eyes flickering round the room which was her home, taking in the blue vinyl suite with its black-throated rip; the cream tiled fireplace with its dark peacock tail of smoke stains; the mantelpiece with its brass ornaments, and neat pile of unpaid bills snuggling behind the ship’s wheel clock which was a wedding present from the girls with whom she used to work. She could feel his eyes violating the privacy of her home, prying into every secret corner, recording and remembering everything. She knew from the expression in her son’s eyes that he was frightened, but when she asked what they wanted to talk to him about, no one spoke. She had asked again and again, holding on to her son with one arm as if she wouldn’t let him go without an answer. Then the older of the two men had spoken but his face betrayed none of his thoughts.

  ‘Anthony knows, don’t you, son?’

  Then her own son had pushed her arm away, pushed it almost roughly, and they were gone. She had gone to the door and watched them until they were lost in the darkness.

  She had sent for Father Donnelly right away – even in her reeling confusion that had seemed the right thing to do. Desperately, she tried to keep control of herself as convulsive images of punishment beatings and kneecappings fired her mind frantic with fear. Father Donnelly had come right away – to his eternal credit he was a priest who was always there when he was needed. He had reassured her that nothing was wrong – this sort of thing happened every night of the week and there was no reason from the men’s manner to think that they wanted anything other than to talk to the boy. He asked for a description of the two men and told her he would go and find out what it was all about. His calm, confident manner had helped her to regain control and the Father was right, it wasn’t as if they had come bursting through the door with hurley sticks in their hands, shouting and cursing. They wanted to talk to the boy – that was what they had said and when they had done that he would come home again. They were probably on their way at that very moment. She went to the window again and peered out hopefully. A skinny, limping shiver of a dog patrolled the street, stopping only to sniff the occasional gatepost. A lad went by with two video cassettes under his arm, followed a few moments later by a man on a bicycle, and then there was no one.

  She was sure he couldn’t have done anything to provoke their anger. He hadn’t been in any kind of trouble for a good six months. It was true there had been that squabble with Jamesy Rogan over ownership of some old bicycle wheels that had ended in a split lip and a nose bleed, but that hardly amounted to anything more than a boyish dispute with no interest for anyone other than those directly concerned. If there had been anything else she would have heard about it, but she was sure he had done nothing wrong. You didn’t get your legs shot to pieces over bicycle wheels.

  Then a terrible thought struck her. Perhaps they wanted him to do some job for them. Her mind shuddered as she imagined what they might use him for – carrying something from one safe house to another, acting as a look-out on some shadowy street corner or a dumb decoy to draw the heat off someone else. An hysterical welter of scenes played out in her imagination, each more nightmarish than the last, eating away a little more of her self-control, and each one closing with the same lacerating image of a bloody and mutilated corpse. And yet, even in her rising panic, her memory assured her that her worst fears were not foolish. The image of Patrick Killen’s funeral vibrated like a plucked string, repeating incessantly a numbing and insistent note. She saw again the mother break away from restraining hands to fling herself on the coffin of her youngest son, and heard, too, that high-pitched scream which the winter wind seemed to carry and distort, until it sounded like the wail of a frightened and wounded animal. That terrible scream echoed now in her head, coiling its corrosive and caustic strands tightly round her senses, while other voices whispered that Patrick Killen was no more than a year older than her own son.

  She plucked a cigarette from the packet hidden behind the radio – she had already smoked her daily ration, but this was an emergency. She changed the hiding place at regular intervals to stop him finding them. Soon she would run out of hiding places, and then she would have to carry them round with her everywhere she went. When that time came, she would give them up altogether.

  With shaking hands, she lit the cigarette and took deep drags, holding it tightly before angling her head upwards and exhaling slowly and steadily. Still the whispering voices refused to be silent and more names were remembered, the names of other young men who had died in their teens. She remembered them all. It was a list which grew longer all the time and sho
wed no sign of coming to an end. She had every right to be worried about her son – it would be a poor mother who wouldn’t be. And God knew she had tried to be a good mother, tried her very best to provide for him and bring him up as well as she could without the help of a husband. She gave herself a modest testimonial, cataloguing her sacrifices and her faithfulness, but all the time growing feelings of guilt spoke of her inadequacies and failings. With regret she recalled their argument over his habit of taking her cigarettes. She had quarrelled with her son over a cigarette, and now he was gone, and she didn’t know where he was, or what was happening to him. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes, but she held them back. It wasn’t even that she begrudged him the cigarettes, but they were bad for him, and they were the single luxury she had left in her life. If only he would come home, she would never keep anything back from him again. She prayed fervently that God would give her back her son, give him into the custody of Father Donnelly, and send him safely home to his mother’s arms. She made sincere promises in return and felt a flush of piety that she suddenly realised had faded from her life over the years. Maybe she would go to a retreat and re-commit her faith, re-dedicate herself to the church. If Father Donnelly brought home her boy, she would be in God’s eternal debt, and it was a debt she would repay faithfully if it took her the rest of her life. Feeling calmer in her soul now that she had struck a kind of bargain, reached an understanding with God, she began to make preparations for their return.