I hurried around to the side door – the one that cannot be seen from the house. Just in front of it, Daniel’s blue bike lay on the grass. Its air of abandonment was intense, resonant. I felt it might speak to me. I lifted it to standing, wanting above all to get it out of sight before Ella saw it.
As I suspected, the old-fashioned iron key was already in the lock, the wooden garage door swinging open. We rarely parked the cars there, Ella and I; this place was for storage, for gardening bits and pieces, for, above all, Dan’s personal belongings. Ella could not bear to throw out any of her father’s things, and so we just added to them over the years. There was always the satisfying sense of the old man’s presence: a growing one, as we put more and more into the safe keeping of his personal space.
New tools took their place among the old guard; the outboard from the Aurora took up residence there during the winter; boxes of old halyards and mooring lines populated the shelves, along with buoys, bits of sailcloth, fenders past their prime.
And then I saw it. The box in which I kept the ropes from the Aurora had been dragged from the lower shelf on which it lived and upended in the middle of the garage floor. The sight broke me. I stood, one hand on the saddle of Daniel’s bike, unable to move either forward or back. From the tumble of knotted old coir and cotton and nylon, Daniel had chosen what was strongest. The blue polypropylene weave: the one with the most murderous grip of all.
A sob escaped me: a harsh sound, more bark than lament. I could see my son, see him kneeling on the floor right there in front of me, his hair falling across his forehead, his whole body curved over the box like a question mark, steeped in the urgency, the intensity of his quest. For this had to have been the decision of a single, singular moment. Something had propelled my son off his bike and into this garage, his mind already consumed with a sense of deadly purpose.
Edward. I had to speak to Edward. That was where my boy had been yesterday, before it happened. He had gone there, with his bright smile and his wave and his cheerful young face. What had happened there? Who had hurt him? Why had he chosen to do this thing to us, to his mother, to me? Had we not loved him enough?
Angrily, I kicked the box. Then I propped the bike up against the garage wall and plunged my hands into the tangle of ropes, rummaging fiercely to see if they concealed some clue, some hint, some secret of which I was unaware.
Nothing. I piled them back into their plastic fish-box and placed the lot back on the shelf. I glanced around to see if anything else should be concealed, anything removed before Ella came here, as eventually I knew she would. The concrete silence all around mocked me.
I locked up, put the key in my trouser pocket and made my way quickly back to the house. Ella must not be alone.
I put on some coffee and took a moment to still my trembling hands. A first, I told myself. Making this pot of coffee is your first normal activity since it happened. Daniel’s death is already yesterday: you only have to focus on one thing at a time. Little by little. You will survive this because you have to.
Then I sat at the kitchen table, weeping silently into my hands. Another ordinary Monday was beginning to stir all around me. I could hear the occasional car drive past, imagined the breakfast scenes in the kitchens of our nearest neighbours, saw the daily domestic routines unfold – all those insignificant beginnings to each new morning that had forever been taken away from us.
And then I heard Ella’s cry. I moved swiftly to the stairs, calling out all the time. ‘It’s all right sweetheart, I’m here. I’m here.’
But of course, it was not all right. Nothing was right. And it felt as though nothing would ever be right again.
Maryam
IT WAS AFTER EIGHT O’CLOCK on that terrible Sunday night when Rahul came home. I was worried: he had gone only to the local shop for milk and bread and should have returned almost immediately. I knew at once by his face that something had happened. We have lived together for so long that there are many times when we do not need to speak. Many times when we have found it best not to speak – something that Edward finds it hard to learn. ‘What is it?’ I ask. Rahul has closed the door to the hall. We are on our own in the living room.
‘You must prepare yourself,’ he says.
Immediately, quickly, inside my head, I locate my sons. Edward is in his bedroom – I saw him moments ago. Joseph and Stephen are together in their room. They are reading. David is asleep in our bed. Later, we will carry him to his own bed in Edward’s room, just before we ourselves retire for the night. It is working, this distribution of space. Edward craves time to be alone. We respect it, Rahul and I, although we confess to each other that we do not understand it. But that does not matter now. What matters is that we are all here, together. There is no immediate threat. Whatever has happened has happened outside the tight web of our family.
‘I spoke to Mrs O’Keeffe,’ Rahul says, slowly.
I nod, impatient. Rahul cannot tell a story quickly. I must wait. Mrs O’Keeffe is the source of so much talk. Ella called it ‘idle gossip’ when I came here first: she wanted me not to worry about the things that people were saying. I was grateful for that, for the friendship more than anything. There had been some murmurings, expressions of discontent in this place when we arrived first. People found it difficult to adjust to the sudden foreignness that was growing in their midst.
We kept ourselves to ourselves very much in the early years. We moved quietly, cautiously among people. And although Mrs O’Keeffe is always anxious for news, I have discovered over all that time that she is not a woman who lies. And so I wait, because whatever she has told my husband has affected him greatly. His face has that drawn, grey look that I have seen too often in the past.
‘Your friends, Patrick and Ella,’ he says. I do not reply. They are our friends, I want to say, but even as I wish to, I know that it is not true. Rahul does not desire new friends. I do, and I am grateful that Ella came to me, welcomed me, us, and later our children, into this small community. ‘There is trouble,’ he says, and now he is not able to meet my eye.
‘Daniel?’ I ask. I don’t know why. Perhaps because trouble for so many mothers has to do with our sons. ‘Has something happened to Daniel?’
He looks as though I have somehow seen through him, that I have somehow divined his secret. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘there has been a terrible accident.’
My hand flies to my mouth. I sit. ‘Tell me.’
Rahul sits down on the sofa beside me and takes my hand. This gesture of tenderness on his part prepares me for the worst, for something I could never even begin to imagine.
‘The boy has died,’ he says and I cry out. He leans towards me. ‘You have to be calm. We will need to tell Edward.’
I stare at him. ‘He has died? But he was here this morning, with Edward.’ I struggle into standing again, unable to absorb what my husband is saying. I cling to that fact: that the boy was here, in our home, today. I want to feel that Daniel’s presence in this house, under our roof, means that nothing so terrible could have happened to him – to anyone’s child – in less than twelve short hours. I want to prove my husband wrong.
Rahul’s grip tightens. ‘The boy is dead. It seems that he killed himself.’
For several moments, I am unable to speak. ‘What happened?’ I ask at last. I can feel the dread build until my hands and legs lose all of their strength. I sit down again and lean back against the cushions. ‘Tell me. Tell me, please. I will be calm.’
‘There is no mistake,’ my husband says. His eyes do not leave mine. ‘The poor boy has hanged himself.’ He shakes his head. There is sorrow in every line of his face.
‘Oh, my God, my God, my God,’ is all I can say, although I have long stopped believing. ‘Why?’ Even though I know that it is a stupid question, an unanswerable question.
‘Who knows,’ he sighs. ‘Who knows.’
I think of Edward, upstairs on his bed, unknowing. I see Daniel’s face – his smile as he waved at me this morni
ng as he arrived. ‘Hello, Mrs Maryam,’ he said, his bike skidding to a sudden halt on the gravel. Rahul and I had agreed on this form of address. Mr Rahul, Mrs Maryam. People here find our surname unpronounceable. When Edward was born, I insisted on a given name that would not emphasize, above all, our difference. I wanted my children to belong. I had to fight Rahul on that, too, and I won. Edward did belong – does belong – his friendship with Daniel was proof of that. It gladdened my heart, always, to see them together.
I’d seen the boy’s arrival through the kitchen window this very morning, and waved back at him, smiling. It was always easy to smile at Daniel. ‘Good morning, Daniel. Welcome.’ I watched as he propped his bike against the hedge, as usual. Then I heard the back door open, and his footsteps on the stairs as he made his way up to Edward’s room. Later, I would call them downstairs for some sandwiches, just like every other Sunday. Edward is always hungry.
But there were no sandwiches today. Nor was there any smile on the boy’s departure. I remember that clearly. Something else is scratching at the door of my memory, too – not just that he left much earlier than usual, but that he pedalled away much more quickly than usual. That he didn’t wave; that he didn’t speak.
I was not easy with this. Something was not right. But afterwards, Edward, he would only tell me: ‘I’ve got football practice. Daniel forgot, that’s all.’ I did not believe him, not fully. Edward’s face was closed to me, but I knew he was not happy. Now I wonder if they fought, if my son said something unkind, something unpleasant that upset Daniel. He is a sensitive boy, a gentle one, and sometimes Edward’s tongue can be sharp. But how can I ask him, now? How can I make him feel responsible for what has happened to his friend? I do not tell Rahul any of this. I will let these things develop in their own time, as they must.
And then I think again of Ella. Of those first days, when I knew little, understood less, about how things were done here. Smiles at the shops, yes, even some friendly hellos from many people, but no one to take us by the hand and show us what we must do. No one to welcome us into their homes. Until Ella. She stopped her car one day, as I was walking back from Mrs O’Keefe’s with some shopping.
‘Hello,’ she said, through the open window. She was smiling. ‘I’m Ella. My husband-to-be, Patrick, and I are your neighbours. Please, let me drive you home. I’m going your way.’
I wasn’t sure, but Rahul wasn’t there, so I took a chance. We shook hands.
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ she said. ‘I understand that you and your husband have moved into the old Kerrigan place?’
‘Yes, that is right.’ I said. I was embarrassed – I believed that I sounded too eager. And yet some part of me also held back. I was not sure what was merely friendly, what might prove intrusive. Rahul was always warning me. ‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘my name is Maryam.’
‘Well, Maryam, I’d love it if you could join me for a cup of tea,’ was what she said next. ‘If you can spare the time.’
I felt a great jolt of delight. Until then, I had not realized how much I longed for another woman’s conversation. ‘That would be wonderful!’ I did not even try to keep the joy from my voice. I liked this woman, I wanted us to be friends. I decided I would not allow Rahul’s words to influence me, not today.
We went to her house, where she made me tea. Such a beautiful house. I don’t think I have ever seen such beautiful things. And everywhere was so calm. The garden, the little river, the house itself: it felt like a real home, warm, welcoming. It made me a little sad to think of the grey, damp walls of what was now our home, Rahul’s and mine.
In the weeks that followed our meeting, Ella introduced me to people – but quietly, without any clamour. I met Mr O’Keeffe, who delivered people’s shopping to their houses. I met Michael, the postman, who still delivered the post on his bike in those days. I met the Nugent brothers: each of them shook my hand with that slow, measured courtesy that reminded me, suddenly, of my father’s elderly friends at home.
‘Peter Nugent is the baby,’ Ella said afterwards, smiling. ‘He must be sixty if he’s a day, and Robert and Peter are at least fifteen or twenty years older: but nobody knows for sure.’
After Ella’s introductions, all these men and women spoke kindly to me; the men raised their hats, some of the women even sent me Christmas cards. I was very grateful – a gratitude I could not fully share with Rahul: he has different views about how friendship works in this country.
And so I had to fight with my husband also to make him come to Ella’s wedding. It was the first time that I had ever felt brave enough to insist on anything so important. But it felt right, and I would not let it go.
Then, our babies came, Daniel and Edward. Fifteen years of friendship, of our children knitting together closer and closer. I cannot believe what I have just heard. I look at my husband, but his face tells me. I do not need to ask again, but I must. ‘Are you sure?’
He nods. ‘I met some people. Everyone is talking about it. It is true, Maryam. The boy is dead. And we must tell Edward.’
‘I must go to her,’ I say. I begin to cry. ‘We must tell Edward together and then I must go to her. You must stay here and comfort our son.’
He nods.
We wait for a while. We talk some more. I dry my tears and try to rearrange my face. Then Rahul stands up and goes to the bottom of the stairs.
‘Edward?’ he calls. ‘Edward, come downstairs, please.’ Although he has raised his voice, his tone is gentle.
Edward appears at his door. He looks guarded, as though he has something to feel guilty about.
‘Your mother and I need to speak to you,’ he says.
Slowly, our son begins to descend the stairs.
Edward
I GO BACK UP TO MY ROOM and open the door. When I go inside I lock it and the key scrapes like it always does. I know that Mum hears me do it because she is standing in the hall looking up at me but she doesn’t try to stop me not tonight. I know what they have just told me but still it feels like I don’t know. Daniel was here this morning and he’s not here tonight. He’s not anywhere. But I saw him arrive on his bike. We sat just like this on my bed until I told him I had to go to football practice. I know I told him about it on Friday but he’d forgotten. Daniel’s been forgetting a lot of things lately ever since we went back to school. This was just one more but we didn’t have an argument not really. His face kinda fell in on itself and I knew he didn’t like what he was hearing and that made me feel a bit bad. But I couldn’t spend all my time with him could I.
First year was different because all of us from the old school pretty much stuck together but in second year that sort of stuff changes everyone says so. Football? he said. Around his mouth was pale, like it had got a fright. Yeah I said. I told you. He just looked at me and I felt like I do when Fathersir is about to give me a tellin off but then he looked away. Daniel did I mean. He said Oh. I started puttin my kit into my bag. Is it the Jays? he said. Will they be there? I felt hot but it wasn’t the hot of the room. It was the kind of hot that made my hands prickle and it itched at the back of my neck. I didn’t want him to ask could he come with me. They’re on the team yeah. Daniel stood up then and took his rucksack off my bed. See ya. I didn’t want him to go not really and I didn’t want him to stay it all made me feel heavy inside. Yeah. See ya later – I’ll throw you a text when practice is over. But he didn’t wait for me to finish he just ran down the stairs and out the door. I heard the angry sound that his wheels made goin down the path.
I’ll never see him again. The word never makes a sinking feeling in my stomach like the time when I was a kid and I tried to understand what eternity meant. I looked out over the roofs and the fields that went on forever trying to imagine what the end of the world might look like if you could get to it once you reached the end of all those fields. It felt scary and that’s how it feels again now that he died and he’s dead and he’s never comin back.
I would have gone over to his this a
fternoon once practice was over but Mum had me stay and babysit. I texted him but he didn’t text back he couldn’t have come with me to football but Jason and James and Jeremy would’ve ripped the piss out of him like they always do. I was just happy to get a tryout for the subs that’s all. I mean I like all the other stuff that Daniel likes but I like football too. It didn’t mean that I’d end up calling him faggot and steamer and queer like the Jays did. It didn’t mean that I was the same as them. I wanted to tell him that but the words wouldn’t have come out right.
Mum says she doesn’t know how he did it but I don’t believe her pills maybe. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow but she says that I have to. The school will know she says and they’ll talk to us like that’ll make a difference. I want to lie down on the bed and sleep and maybe not wake up for the longest time. I feel as if I’ve broken something and there are splinters everywhere. I saw my grandfather after he died in India and it didn’t feel like this. I keep imagining what Daniel did and what he must look like now that he’s not really there but I can’t see any proper picture it’s all blurry.
Even though I only saw him this morning I can’t remember what his face looks like he was my friend. And I think I did something to let him down or he thinks I did something to let him down I suppose it’s pretty much the same thing. He was my friend and now he isn’t here any more. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school ever again.
Frances and Sophie
The Things We Know Now Page 17
