‘You don’t have to pay me, Mrs Johnston,’ he managed shakily, knowing his mother would be annoyed if he took payment from a neighbour for cutting her grass.
‘Well I’ll tell you what then, seeing as you’re a kind boy, I’ll make an apple tart for you and you can share it with your mammy and sisters. But you’ve to get the biggest slice,’ she said, giving him a wink.
‘Thanks, Mrs Johnston,’ he answered shakily, darting a glance at the Higginses’ house. The door was closed and he couldn’t see the bulk of his tormentor silhouetted behind the lace curtains.
‘Grand, I’ll go and make the tart so,’ Mrs Johnston said, walking on to her own house.
Jonathan waited.
Would Gus reappear?
If he did, Jonathan was ready to run. His palms were sweaty as he gripped the lawnmower and began to push, keeping a wary eye on that hated red door with the paint flaking off it, and the dull, blackened brass door knocker that hadn’t seen Brasso in years. The door remained resolutely closed.
Was that it? he wondered. Was that what it took? To overcome his paralysing fear and stand up to the bully? Was the nightmare over? He finished cutting the grass and wheeled the lawnmower out the gate to Mrs Johnston’s, still half expecting his tormentor to come after him. But of Gus there was no sign. Jonathan could hardly believe it.
The following morning at half ten Mass he saw his neighbour dressed in his Sunday best walking up the aisle to receive communion as usual, his wife and two daughters following behind him. Dread enveloped Jonathan. It was certain that the two families would meet, as they often did after Mass, either in the church grounds or jostled together in the small corner shop that sold bread, milk and the Sunday papers. The old familiar stomach-knotting anxiety reclaimed him and he could hardly swallow the Host when he went up to receive.
‘Good morning, Nancy, morning, girls, morning, laddie,’ Gus greeted them affably as the crowds spilled out of the small church into the bright sunshine.
‘Morning, Rita, Gus,’ Nancy responded cheerily. ‘A lovely day, thank God.’
‘Did ye get the few fags I sent in yesterday?’ Gus asked, ignoring Jonathan completely.
‘I didn’t but thank you, Gus, you really shouldn’t have. Jonathan, you should have told me Mr Higgins was kind enough to buy me cigarettes,’ his mother chided.
‘Sorry, I forgot,’ Jonathan said truculently, glowering at Gus.
‘You’re very kind, really.’ Nancy smiled at her neighbours.
‘Not a bother,’ Rita assured her. ‘Sure isn’t Jonathan the grand wee lad going to the shop for Gus here when he runs out of smokes. We can always depend on him,’ Jonathan heard Mrs Higgins say. His stomach lurched.
‘Any time you need a message just let us know,’ Nancy said firmly. ‘Isn’t that right, Jonathan?’
‘I’m just going over to say hello to my teacher.’ Jonathan’s voice was almost a squeak but he raised his gaze to Gus, hoping against hope that the man would understand the implied threat.
Gus’s eyes narrowed but he pretended not to hear and turned to salute another acquaintance, while a friend from the quilters’ group accosted Nancy.
Jonathan pushed his way through the Mass-goers to where his teacher, Mr Dowling, was surrounded by some of his pupils. Jonathan wanted Gus Higgins to see that he would follow through with his threat to tell his teacher if Jonathan was ever put through a torturous episode again.
‘Hi, Mr Dowling,’ he said, glancing over to see his neighbour casting surreptitious glances in their direction.
‘Aahh, Jonathan,’ said the young master kindly. ‘How are you today?’
‘Fine thanks. I just wanted to say hello.’ Jonathan liked the new teacher who had recently taken over from Mrs Kelly who had gone to have a baby.
‘Done your ekker yet?’
‘Yes, on Friday,’ Jonathan grinned, liking that the master called his home exercises ekker and not homework. Mr Dowling was a Dub and that’s what the Dubs called homework.
‘Excellent. Good man. The day is yours then. Enjoy it,’ his teacher approved.
‘Thanks, sir.’ Jonathan felt strangely, uncharacteristically, light-hearted. If that dirty, disgusting thing ever happened to him again he would tell Mr Dowling. And if Gus Higgins did anything bad to his mammy he would tell him that too. Mr Dowling was kind and very knowledgeable. He’d know what to do. Jonathan saw his best friend Alice waving to him and hurried over to her.
‘Let’s have a picnic down at the river and plan our new secret club,’ she said excitedly. ‘I’ve a new Five Find-Outers book from the library, it’s brilliant. The Secret of the Spiteful Letters.’
‘And I’ve a Secret Seven,’ he said happily. Today was turning into a very, very good day.
‘Anthony Kavanagh and Darina Keogh want to join too. Will we let them? We could make badges and have a password and your shed could be our secret den,’ Alice burbled. ‘We could solve crimes, even a murder if we had to!’
‘And practise our invisible writing,’ Jonathan chipped in enthusiastically. ‘And we could make lemonade and bring biscuits, for a feast.’
‘I wish we could have ginger beer and anchovy paste.’ Alice linked his arm. Enid Blyton’s midnight feasts always sounded exotic and delicious to their mind.
‘I wish we had a dairy to go to where we could have buns and cream cakes,’ Jonathan said wistfully as his fears and anxiety receded and the prospect of an exciting afternoon beckoned.
For weeks after the encounter with Gus, Jonathan would feel sick to his stomach every time he walked past his house. Several times he saw Gus coming home from work, or at Mass. The man ignored him completely. Jonathan hardly dared to believe that the ordeal was over but as the months passed and the warm, bright days of summer ceded to autumn’s glory, he began to relax and committed the memory of those horrendous episodes to the far reaches of his mind. He was happy at school, in Mr Dowling’s class. Mr Dowling didn’t allow any name-calling, fighting or bullying, and the next two years were the happiest of Jonathan’s life, before he started secondary school and had to begin standing up for himself all over again.
The memories of his ‘lost years’, as Jonathan called them, brought fresh tears to his eyes as he sat on the bean bag in his bay window and wept brokenly at the grief and bitterness that engulfed him. Many nights he had lain in bed imagining how, now, as an adult, he would confront Gus Higgins with his abuse and tell him that he was going to bring a court case against him. It gave him pleasure to conjure up the shock, fear and apprehension that Gus would feel when Jonathan told him he was reporting him to the guards. And when Gus would say as he surely would, ‘You’re a liar and no one will believe you,’ Jonathan would play his trump card.
‘I’ll tell them about your birthmark!’
The satisfaction that much anticipated encounter would bring was a balm to his wounded spirit through the years. And now he was to be denied justice.
If only he’d had the guts to carry it through instead of putting it off. Now it was too late. The bastard had got away with it, and Jonathan was back in his private hell, the hell that no one knew about except Hannah Harrison his counsellor, and Kenny Dowling, his much admired teacher from primary school, whom he had met in the Front Lounge years later, and instantly recognized, and wondered how he had never copped that he was gay. They had spent a couple of hours drinking and catching up and Kenny was as nice a man as Jonathan had remembered as a child. Every so often they would bump into each other and have a chat. Kenny had a partner, Russell, an artist, and they often invited Jonathan back to their house, or for a meal out, or to go to a concert.
One night, when Russell had gone to bed, he and Kenny were talking about an abuse case that had come to light with a mutual friend. ‘Anything ever happen to you?’ Kenny asked casually.
‘Yeah,’ Jonathan sighed, and then it all came out in a torrent of bitter bile that shook him to his core.
‘That fat bastard. I remember him. A married man with ki
ds and they say it’s us gays who abuse kids,’ Kenny swore, coming to sit beside Jonathan and putting an arm around his shoulder. ‘I always felt you had a secret sadness. I could see it in your eyes. I should have made an effort to see what was wrong. I just had to be extra careful about boundaries, you know yourself. I’m sorry, Jonathan, I let you down.’
‘No you didn’t. You gave me peace and security in your class and soon after you started teaching us the abuse had come to an end. In fact I threatened the slimy toad that I would tell you, and after that he never did it to me again. So you did save me from it.’ Jonathan gave a shaky laugh.
‘Look, you have to go and see this wonderful woman, Hannah Harrison. She’s a terrific counsellor. She practises just off the canal in Harold’s Cross,’ Kenny had said, getting a pen and paper to write down the details. ‘Promise me you’ll go to her – she’ll work wonders for you. She’s a holistic, metaphysical healer as well as a psychologist,’ he urged. ‘She’s different, but brilliant, and I should know, I’ve been to a few.’
It had taken six months before Jonathan made the appointment. It was the best thing he had ever done for himself. Hannah, an elfin, brown-haired woman in her late forties, had a calm, reassuring presence. She had such beautiful eyes, blue with flecks of grey and violet around the iris, full of warmth and kindness. The kindest eyes he had ever seen, apart from his mother’s. She had listened patiently as he poured out his story to her, interjecting a comment here and there and, when he had come to a faltering halt, she had made him a cup of tea.
‘Today is the day you have made a fresh start,’ she said firmly. ‘Today is the day you go forward with your life and begin to clear and release the past. Today is the day you let go of the burden of guilt and secrecy. Today is the day that you say to yourself that no blame attaches to you in any way, shape or form for what that man did to you. Do you understand that? Today you go free.’
Free, Jonathan thought bitterly, remembering his counsellor’s words; freedom was an illusion. Now here he was back to where he’d started, having to lie to his mother just as he’d lied as a child, so as to protect her from knowledge that would crucify her.
Nancy would think badly of him if he failed to show up for the removal service. In a small country town like Rosslara, neighbours looked out for neighbours and stood by them in their hour of need. That was a given. So did he put his mother’s wishes first? Did he allow her to unwittingly reopen a wound he had long fought to heal? Or did he protect himself and stay away? That was his choice. Jonathan stared unseeingly through the shining windowpanes as his demons returned with a vengeance and the day that had promised so much faded away.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Ooooohhhh!’ Hilary groaned, squinting at the blinding disc of sun that assaulted her when she blinked open her eyes. The shrill jangle of the phone on her bedside locker jack-hammered through her head.
‘Hello!’ she croaked, her mouth dry.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Her husband’s concerned tone jerked her awake.
‘Oh! Niall! Hi. Nothing’s wrong, just bit of a hangover,’ she confessed.
‘Ha, can’t leave you for a day or two and you get rid of the kids and go on the ming!’ he teased. ‘Where did you go? Did you have a night with the girls?’
‘No I didn’t go anywhere. Actually I met a really nice guy on the course and brought him over to see the showrooms, and then we came back here for a Chinese, and then Colette arrived out of the blue, so we opened another couple of bottles and now I’m paying for it,’ she moaned.
‘Oh! Should I be worried about you bringing strange men back to the house when I’m away? Is he still there?’ Niall couldn’t hide his surprise.
‘No he’s not!’ Hilary suddenly realized how her description of the previous evening must have sounded to her exiled husband. ‘Jonathan, that’s his name, is a lovely chap but he’d fancy you more than he’d fancy me if you get my drift.’
‘Oh right! That’s a relief. I was beginning to wonder would I have to jump on the next Aeroflot to London and get myself home and tell him to put his dukes up and fight it out,’ he said good-humouredly.
‘Ha! I don’t think it’s ever going to come to that with any man. If you saw how I looked now even you would flee. How’s Moscow?’
‘Raining, chilly, crowded and getting dark. What’s it like at home?’
‘It looks like a gorgeous day out.’ She yawned. ‘The sun is shining right in on my face. You know the way our room gets the sun in the morning. Not good in my present condition.’ She burrowed under the relative darkness of the duvet, with the handset.
‘How’s Colette?’ Niall enquired.
‘Herself,’ Hilary said drily. ‘She’s probably annoyed that I didn’t send Jonathan packing and devote the evening to her. You know what she’s like.’
‘Indeed I do. Go back to sleep for another hour and have a bacon sandwich when you get up and you’ll be fine,’ her husband said kindly.
‘I love you.’ She yawned again.
‘I love you too. Give my love to the kids. I’ll ring tomorrow. Same time. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ she said and heard the click as Niall hung up. She put the handset back in the cradle and turned on her stomach and pulled a pillow over her head and promptly fell asleep.
The phone’s jingle woke her again and a bleary glance at her clock told her that she had been asleep for more than an hour and a half. Her sister’s cheery greeting brought her wide awake. ‘Morning, Sis, hope you enjoyed your lie-in.’
‘Hi, I did, it was great. I’ll be over in the next hour or so,’ she said hastily, not wanting Dee to think she was taking advantage of her.
‘No need. I was ringing to ask if it would be OK for the kids to come to the pictures this afternoon and I’ll drop them back this evening?’
‘Are you sure?’ Hilary couldn’t believe her luck. What a treat to have a whole day to herself. Pity she was feeling so grim.
‘I’ve no choice. There’s great excitement – they were plotting it in bed last night. You know what they’re like when they all get together. I promised them McDonald’s as a treat afterwards because I’m a big softie, ha ha. So they’ll be fed.’
Hilary laughed. ‘You, a softie?’ she teased. ‘You’re as hard as nails. Are you sure though? Do you want me to come over and go with you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no point in both of us having to endure an under-twelves!’ her sister retorted. ‘Make the most of the few free hours. I’ll get you back another time, don’t worry. You sound as if I’ve just woken you up. Go back to sleep, you lucky wagon. See you later.’
Hilary smiled as she hung up. Only another mother could truly understand how precious was a lie-in without children clamouring for attention.
Her stomach rumbled and she realized that she was feeling slightly better and peckish. Why was it that you were always hungry the next morning after eating Chinese? Hazy memories of the night before drifted back. Laughing at Jonathan’s wit. Colette not even trying to hide her irritation when she saw him sitting outside. Weaving her way to the fridge to get more wine. She couldn’t even remember going to bed. Had she even locked up, she wondered, flinging back the duvet, a frisson of anxiety penetrating her dehydrated fug. She vaguely remembered Jonathan saying goodbye but not Colette, she thought, brow furrowed, trying to remember as she went downstairs.
The alarm was on. The light was on in the porch. The lights were off everywhere else and the kitchen looked very tidy. That was Jonathan, she was sure. Colette didn’t do cleaning up, she had people to do it for her, Hilary thought guiltily, wondering what must Jonathan think of her, drinking like a fish and getting pissed.
Her bag was slung under a kitchen stool and she bent down and groaned as she hauled it up. She rooted for her notebook and found Jonathan’s number scrawled on the back of her notes. She should ring him and apologize, she thought, a tad mortified. She sat at the breakfast counter and dialled his number from the kitchen phon
e that hung on the wall. It rang for ages and she remembered vaguely that he had told her that it was a communal phone. He was probably out, she figured, about to hang up, when the phone was answered.
‘Hello?’ a muffled voice said.
‘Hi, could I speak to Jonathan Harpur, please,’ she said politely.
‘It’s me. I’m Jonathan.’ He sounded strange.
‘Oh. Oh hi, Jonathan. I didn’t recognize your voice. It’s me, Hilary. I just rang on the off-chance of finding you in, to say sorry that I got um . . . er . . . a bit tipsy last night. I’m not usually such a lush, in case I might have given you the wrong impression on our first date, so to speak,’ she explained hastily.
‘Oh! Hilary! That’s fine. No problem,’ Jonathan said, clearing his throat.
‘Are you OK? Are you under the weather too? You sound a bit weird.’
‘Umm. Yeah, I’m fine,’ he sniffed, and she sensed that something was up.
‘Sure you’re OK?’ she probed kindly, not wishing to be intrusive.
‘Yeah . . . no . . . no! Hilary, something happened and I just don’t know what to do.’ He burst into tears, unable to continue.
‘Hey, Jonathan. What’s wrong? Will I come over? I’ve a couple of hours free that I wasn’t expecting,’ she offered.
‘No, it’s OK, I don’t want to put you out.’ She could hear him gulping.
‘Do you want to come up to me, then? I could nip over to the shop and get us something for brunch? I haven’t eaten yet.’
‘Ah no, I really don’t want to put you out,’ he repeated, composing himself.
‘Don’t be daft. Get your skinny ass over here pronto!’ she instructed and heard him give a small chuckle.
‘Bossy, aren’t you? Are you sure?’
‘Certain!’ she reiterated firmly.
‘Thanks, Hilary. You’re a pal, and I need one right now,’ he said gratefully.
‘A pongy pal,’ she smiled. ‘I have to go and have a quick shower. I reek of alcohol and I stink! See you in about twenty minutes. Can you remember how to get here?’
A Time for Friends Page 9
