The Big Search
GRACE – Monday
Dad is really cross about Conor. He phoned the Guards to tell them that Conor was missing, and a Garda car came to our house. There were two Guards, a man and a woman. They wrote down everything Dad said, and they asked him about Mum. They went upstairs to Conor’s bedroom and Dad told them what clothes he was wearing.
They asked me all about him and if he ran away often. Everybody is searching for him.
Lucy and Granny keep on crying and saying all kinds of bad things that might have happened to him.
I wish we had a dog. If we had a pet dog, I would get him to sniff some of Conor’s clothes and then track him down.
Dad says I am to stay with Granny and Lucy and not to budge.
I wonder is Conor gone to find Mummy and bring her back?
The Long Hike
CONOR – Monday Night
Kingstown – that’s what they used to call Dun Laoghaire in the old days. I, Conor Dolphin, made it. I walked all this way, miles and miles.
‘The King of Kingstown has arrived,’ I shout across the watery blackness of the coast.
The big car-ferry is docked, all lit up like a cruise-liner you’d see in a film. The hatch is down, like a huge open mouth for the cars to drive into. Crowds of people are making their way onto it and others are standing at the ticket office. Down below, cars and motorbikes, vans and lorries and container trucks all wait their turn, revving their engines. Lucky people going on holiday. One car has floral wreaths spread all over the back seat – I guess they’re going to a funeral. Wouldn’t it be great if I could stow away? Then by tomorrow morning I would be in Holyhead, gone from Ireland.
I saunter down to the office, hoping there’s some way that I can slip through. If only I could spot a family, then maybe I could pretend to be one of their kids. I notice a hopeful – a guy in a brown corduroy jacket, and he has a kind of file with tickets and papers in it, which the girl behind the glass is checking. He’s asking her about cabins. His wife is pushing a baby in a rainbow-striped buggy up and down while guarding their luggage, and a little girl with a mop of red curls and freckles, who looks about four, is running around her. I wander up and stand close to her, and it looks like we’re playing a game. People might think that we’re brother and sister.
‘Honey! We got a four-berth with a shower,’ the man calls.
She wheels the buggy towards him and the little girl rushes past me. I smile and try to follow, but the Dad turns back, swoops down and grabs the luggage, then urges them forward and blocks me as he goes through the turnstile. Anyone can see I’m not part of this family.
It’s easy enough to mosey up and down the line, but I just can’t find a way of getting on the boat. Maybe tomorrow will be better. I can get my money out of the post office and buy a ticket and follow someone on board.
Soon there are no passengers left. The girl behind the glass smiles at me and she whispers something to a man in a navy uniform. I take to my heels and get away.
It’s getting cold. The night sea air is chilly and I can feel it through my jacket. My feet are hurting me – the middle part of my foot is sore, and the big toenail is pushing out in my old trainers. Up on the roadway, a white van is selling hot dogs and chips, the smell of frying and onions fills the air and makes me realise how starving I am.
‘One of each, please!’ It takes about half my cash. I ask the lady for a cup of water too. She looks at me and, I guess, realises that I haven’t enough money for a can. She reaches behind her and lifts a can of orange off the shelf, gets two plastic cups and divides the sparkling orange between them. She is hot and sweaty from cooking, and takes a long gulp of the drink, then she shoves the other cup towards me.
‘Go on! Take it! I’d never finish a whole can and it would only go flat.’
‘Thank you! Thank you very much,’ I mutter.
I move out of the way of her other customers, sit down on a wooden seat and wolf the food down. My stomach is rumbling with hunger and is not used to eating so late. I sip the orange slowly, trying to make it last. The plastic cup I save and put in my bag.
Now that I’m fed, I realise I have to get somewhere to sleep the night. If I’d had any sense I would have taken Greg’s sleeping bag with me. This seafront bench is too exposed. It might be okay in the summer, but now it’s freezing cold.
The shadow of the yacht club sticks out, and I can hear the clanging of the rigging ring out across the harbour. I go down the steps, and walk along by the slip. Beside it there is a sort of dry-dock, and the yard is jammed with yachts and cruisers and dinghies. A high wire mesh protects the yard, and it seems like there is no way in, then, in the semi-darkness, I spot the almost-invisible door in the mesh. My fingers trace around it until I find the lock. It’s locked. No, wait! It isn’t fully closed. The iron is rusty and stiff from all the salt air. I jiggle it and pull it till it opens and I can squeeze in, and then I re-close the gate.
I can barely see in the darkness. I run my hands along the boat frames, wood and fibreglass, unable to see their names. A few have large canvas covers to protect them.
I must make no noise, I tell myself. Some of the grander yachts may have alarms fitted. I bump into things on every side until I find a boat covered with sort of popper fastenings. I pull them open, climb up and slip in underneath. Some fool has left a tin and a paintbrush on the deck which nearly sends me flying. Up front is a tiny cabin-cum-galley. The mattress has been stored away. Up in the top corner, I open the wooden door and there it is, smelling of salt and sweat, but dry enough. There are life jackets too. I pull one on to keep me warm, another I use as a pillow, and the last I stretch open like a blanket on top of me.
It’s kind of scary and stuffy here. Closing my eyes I try to pretend I’m at sea, that I can feel the swell of the waves and the creak of my ship’s timbers as we sail to foreign shores.
* * *
‘Woof! Woof!’ The rough barking noise wakes me and a harsh light is blinding me. ‘Quiet, Laddie! Quiet down!’
Some old geezer is standing over me, holding a huge torch and some kind of big stick.
‘Don’t hurt me, Mister, I’ve done nothing!’ I feel so scared I’m nearly sick.
He motions for me to get up. ‘Don’t try to run away!’ He obviously knows what I’m thinking.
A large golden labrador is standing guard nearby, watching us as we clamber off the boat.
‘This way, son!’ he says as he leads me into the empty clubhouse. He switches off lights as we pass through a big dining-room with tables set with crisp, white linen cloths, then a bar, its walls adorned with brass anchors and compasses and sailing instruments. The corridor after that is lined with paintings of famous ships and plaques saying the years they were built. The dog wags its tail at me as I follow it along the polished wooden floors. Next comes a huge room with picture windows and a balcony out almost over the water’s edge.
‘In here!’ says the old man.
We go into a small, poky cubby-hole of a room. There are two chairs, one is a large armchair with a rug thrown on it. A bare bulb swings from the ceiling, and the light is so bright compared to outside it almost blinds me.
‘Sit down, son!’
The old guy sits down and unzips his big quilted green jacket He is smaller and frailer than I thought.
‘Bernard’s the name,’ he announces.
I don’t tell him mine. He puts his keys and torch on the desk alongside a foil-wrapped packet of sandwiches.
‘I’m the nightwatchman here. My job is to make sure nothing bad happens to this clubhouse, or to the property of its members. I check that the boats are moored okay and not interfered with by vandals. Do you get my meaning?’
I nod. ‘I’m not a vandal! Honest, Mr …’
‘Bernard.’
‘I just needed somewhere to sleep the night.’
‘Where do you live, son?’
Dumb … just play dumb.
After two or th
ree minutes he knows I won’t tell him anything.
‘Listen, son! I’m going to have to inform the police about finding you, but before I do, I want to tell you I know what it’s like. How old are you? Ten? Eleven? Maybe twelve. I ran away to sea myself when I was a lad of fourteen. Broke my mother’s heart I did, but at the time I didn’t care a fig about anything like that. Travelled the world I did. Every big port you care to name, I sailed to them all. Scrubbed the decks, waited on the passengers, washed the dishes, odd jobs in the engine room, oh I had adventures, no doubt about it! Never officer material, but still, I got to see all the sights they saw – jungles, beautiful islands, them pyramids, volcanoes, Greek temples, the Arctic with icebergs, the lot. Then I decided to come home, see the family. But I was a stranger to them, and my brothers and sisters had moved all over the place. My mother was older. Truth is, we didn’t have a lot to say to each other. So I left and sailed again. Lived in Australia for five years, then moved again. Now I’m retired, I have a flat out Sandycove way, and a small pension. Never was a saver. I should be surrounded by my family and grandchildren, but instead I’m on my own, down here at night, minding other people’s boats. Laddie here is my best mate.’
The old dog ambles over to him and rests a big golden paw on his lap.
‘Been a runaway, been a stowaway,’ he mumbles, staring at me for reaction. ‘So you could say I know what I’m talking about.’
I consider his words carefully. I don’t know this man, and he doesn’t know me. But he had guessed what I was going to try and do.
The phone lies on the table between us. Will he phone the Guards? I’m not sure.
‘What about your Mam and Dad?’ He questions, unwrapping the brown bread and ham sandwiches, sharing a bit with me and passing a corner to the dog.
‘My Mum and Dad have split up.’
‘Oh! Divorced.’
‘No! My Mum went to England … took off and left us … it’s a trial separation.’
‘Were you going to go and try to find her and bring her back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s always hard to go back. Takes a brave man, or woman for that matter. Still and all, son, your Dad’ll be worried, your family, your Mam too!’ He nods in the direction of the phone.
‘No, Bernard.’ I shake my head.
He munches on a crust of brown bread, then begins to fold up the foil and the crumbs, moving slowly. He plugs in an electric kettle in the corner, then sits watching me. ‘Will I phone for you?’
I nod and tell him the number. The phone clicks and rings.
It’s answered straight away. ‘DAD!’ I can hear my sister shouting …
Big Trouble
GRACE – Monday Night
Dad went out in the car again in the middle of the night.
Conor is found.
Granny made us all kneel down and say a prayer to say ‘Thank you’ to God for his safe return.
I am glad ’cos I love Conor. Sometimes he’s funny and he tells me jokes he heard in school. He gives me conkers and shells and stones and sweets … sometimes.
Greg says he is going to give him hell when he sees him.
Lucy says that Conor is in the biggest, worstest trouble of his whole life for all the trouble and upset he has caused.
Poor Conor!
Prodigal Son
CONOR – Monday Night
‘Here’s the life jacket, Bernard.’ I take it off and hand it back to him.
‘No harm done, son! I’ll put it back in the morning when it’s brighter, before I knock off work.’
Dad is studying the brass name-list of club presidents screwed on the wall. ‘We appreciate very much all you’ve done, Mr … eh … Bernard.’ Dad is embarrassed.
‘As I said, Mr Dolphin, no harm done. He’s a good lad. Bit of spirit– bit of courage! Things get to boys that age.’
Bernard walks us to the clubhouse door. Dad is parked right outside.
‘A few hours’ sleep, Conor, and you’ll feel a new man,’ Bernard tells me, shaking my hand. ‘Go easy on the lad!’ I hear him whisper to Dad just before he gets into the car.
I watch the old sailor and his dog disappear back into the yacht club.
This has got to be the longest drive ever. Dad looks like he could strangle the steering wheel.
‘Dad! I’m sorry!’
He won’t answer, just keeps on driving, headlights full on. The roads are deserted and an ambulance with sirens and lights flashing screams past us.
‘Conor! Never, ever do anything like this to me again!’
He takes a half-swipe at me … his fist punching against my shoulder. The shock and pain rush up my neck, across my back and down my shoulder.
Dad does not look at me. His face is real white, and a blue-coloured vein is pulsing up and down on his neck.
Never, ever again we both promise … silently.
Stocktaking
GREG – Thursday
‘How’s it going, Dad?’ I ask a few nights later. He’s poring over a pile of papers spread all over the kitchen table.
‘Not too good!’ He scratches the stubble on his chin. ‘I’m way down this month. Just wait till the accounts section compares it with the figures for this time last year.’
‘Are people just not buying, is that it?’
‘No, Greg! I’m not out there selling enough. Take this new horse antibiotic. I pleaded with them to advertise and promote it more. Make the vets and trainers and owners more aware of its value to a sick thoroughbred animal. It’s damned expensive, but then, you’re dealing with valuable racehorse stock. Instead, I’m expected to spend ages trying to interest very busy people in a product they have barely heard of! And I’ve had so much time off lately.
‘It’s a tough job selling, isn’t it?’
‘For sure! That’s what your Mum says!’
‘Did you ever think of changing jobs?’ I ask, curious.
‘For God’s sake, Greg! Don’t you start on at me, the way your mother used to!’
‘I only meant it might be easier for you–’
‘I’ve been a medical rep all my working life, it’s what I know. Your mother got a bee in her bonnet about me changing direction a few months ago. Old man Costigan was retiring and she wanted me to go for his job. It’s a desk job and I’d be doing the figures all the time back in the office. No travelling. I’d never meet anyone and I just didn’t want to do it. I like meeting the farmers and the vets when I’m on the road. Vanessa’s been brooding about it ever since. Maybe that’s why … you see, she thought I could spend more time at home.’
He starts to stab at the calculator, punching in figures and ignoring me.
‘Dad! Did you phone Mum back?’
He keeps on writing down more figures.
‘You know she phoned today and wanted to talk to you.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow–’
‘You are so thick! Don’t you want her to come back?’
‘Greg, this is none of your business!’
‘It is my business if my parents break up and my whole family is messed up. You should have gone to London after her, brought her back, sorted things out.’
‘Maybe …’
‘That’s what I’d do.’
‘Well, that’s you!’
‘Yeah! You’re just pathetic. Why don’t you fight for what you want?’
‘That’s enough, Greg!’
I mean it. My Dad is so stubborn. Well, he may be willing to let things slip away, but I won’t. I’m going to write to Mum and tell her the shambles he’s in trying to be a good father and mother too at the moment, and that she has got to come home.
Running away is no solution. Dad needs her as much as we do.
Finding a Job
GREG – Saturday
Finding a part-time job isn’t half as easy as I thought it would be. I tried all the local pubs and they all have plenty of staff. They said to try again next year when I’m a bit older. One gu
y said he might consider me as a washer-upper, but one look at those big greasy pots and pans made my stomach turn.
The supermarket has a waiting list of trolley attendants and shelf-stackers. They said maybe around next Christmas they might need extra staff.
If I had enough money I would consider investing in a big motor mower and go round cutting grass, but they cost a fortune. Then I decided to try the garden centre where Mum and Dad go sometimes.
Mr Murray asked me all kinds of questions about plants and flowers and shrubs, and I think he copped on fairly quickly that I hadn’t a clue. Then he asked me what sports I play in school. He’s a bit of a rugby fanatic himself. His brother got capped for Ireland years ago.
‘I think we’ll have to find a job around the place for a decent lad like yourself,’ he said finally.
I still can’t believe it, I got a job. I have to help the housewives and old dears out to their cars with their plants and pots and huge bags of moss peat and garden mulch on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, from now till the autumn. The money isn’t bad, and if they are extra busy I get a bonus.
Dad and Lucy are delighted. Lucy gave me a big hug when I told her after tea. Dad didn’t say much, but I know he’s proud of me. Conor is dead jealous. When I get my first money next week, I’m going to get some kind of treat for everyone … even him!
Flying Visit
LUCY – Saturday
Dad went to London today. It was only for the day and he got the early-morning flight from Dublin.
Greg says that it’s because of him that Dad went. I don’t care what the reason is, I’m just glad that he’s going to try and talk to Mum. We’re all keeping our fingers crossed that he and Mum make up and get back together again.
The day just seemed to drag by, and it was really boring just sitting and watching TV in Deirdre’s house. She gave us lasagne and chips for dinner, and we came home at seven o’clock.
No Goodbye Page 8
