Agnes put her handbag on the ground and was quiet for a while. I think she was catching her breath.
‘I can’t count the hours your grandfather and I spent talking about you, Rob,’ she said finally. I looked at the grass beneath my feet. She sighed. ‘This is so hard,’ she murmured, more to herself than to me. ‘When you get old, something strange happens to your world. Even though, in your time, you’ve been to exotic places, had experiences that are wonderful, fought wars, met people you’ll never forget – in short, had a marvellous and varied life, at the end everything narrows. For some people it becomes their home or, if they’re lucky enough, their partner. Sometimes, the memory of a love now gone, a person who shone brightly but faded all too quickly.’ She wiped at her eyes as if her own words had struck a nerve. ‘In Pat’s case, the world narrowed down to you, Rob. I’m not sure you need to know this. Maybe you don’t. But you were his centre, his sun, and he orbited you. He bathed in your warmth.’
I could feel tears prickling, but I couldn’t let them free. So I shut my eyes and bit my lip.
‘It was your grandfather’s idea to give you those challenges,’ she said. ‘This is very important, maybe not to you – I don’t know – but to me. You must understand that in this whole business, I was merely the finger on the phone.’ She laughed. ‘Pat was rubbish with technology. You know that. The only reason I texted you those messages was because your grandad couldn’t. I offered to teach him but he refused. When he asked me to do it, I agreed. But only because it was desperately important to him.’
‘Why would he ask you?’ I said. ‘Why didn’t he just talk to me? What have you got to do with anything, Agnes?’ My determination to say nothing hadn’t lasted long.
She gave a sharp intake of breath, but I didn’t care. That knot of resentment hadn’t loosened.
‘A good question,’ she said. ‘And you might not like the answer, Rob, but I’ll give it to you anyway. I loved your grandfather and he loved me. There was even talk of marriage for a while there, but you know, in the end, it wasn’t that important to either of us. He talked to me about you for hours and hours. I probably know more about you than I know about my own daughter and certainly more than I know about my grandchild. Why? Because he loved you and you were what he wanted to talk about. Why did I listen? Because he loved me, I loved him and whatever was important to him was important to me.’
I didn’t need to think about this right now. I shook my head.
‘Your grandfather always worried about you,’ she continued. ‘About the panic attacks, about your shyness. In particular, the problems with your identity. He saw how, over the last couple of months, your confidence improved. He loved that, Rob. You probably didn’t see many signs of it – Pat Fitzgerald never gave away many of his feelings – but he thought it was … miraculous. The challenges were his way of keeping you on the path towards self-respect. He saw your destination as happiness and wanted to guide you towards it. You probably think I’ve interfered and I wouldn’t blame you. Maybe you believe your grandfather interfered, but you must remember that all he wanted was your happiness. I can’t expect your forgiveness, but he deserves it.’
‘Problems with my identity,’ I said. It was hard to force the words through my lips. ‘He talked to you about that?’
Agnes glanced down at a spot between her feet. The grass had worn away there and the dirt was hard as truth.
‘I told you,’ she said. ‘We talked about everything.’
‘I don’t have problems with my identity,’ I said. ‘It’s other people who have that.’
Agnes held up both hands in surrender.
‘I believe you, Rob,’ she said. ‘And I know it doesn’t matter whether I believe it or not because it’s none of my business. But your grandfather … well, he struggled with the … situation. You know that’s true.’
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘Let’s leave that alone. Because you’re right, Agnes. It really isn’t any of your business.’ I held up my phone. ‘But let’s talk about this, shall we? Dramatic? Hey, I’ll give you that. Let’s scare Rob. Play around with messages from beyond the grave, is that it? A final challenge? But in the end, this is just cruelty. You know that, don’t you?’
She rubbed her eyes. I looked at her directly for the first time and saw there were tracks of tears down her cheeks. I hadn’t heard her crying. Suddenly I felt tired. Tired and guilty. It wasn’t a good combination.
‘Your grandfather wanted to give you one more challenge,’ she said. ‘Not me, Rob. Your grandfather. I’m just the messenger, so please don’t shoot me.’
‘And what did he want me to do?’
‘You know.’ Agnes stood up. ‘You know, Rob. You talked about it, the two of you, and I know it was hard for him, that he had difficulty understanding. Your grandfather was from a generation that considered any display of feelings a weakness, particularly if you were male.’ She paused. ‘But he talked about it to you, because he loved you.’
She picked up her handbag and slipped it onto her shoulder.
‘The older I get, the less I understand,’ she said. ‘But this is the last message I’ve got to pass on and, frankly, I want to get it over with. Ignore it if you wish, or if you have to. Pat would never have wanted to make you do something you really couldn’t face.’
‘Tell me,’ I said.
‘“Stop hiding. Be proud of who you are.” That’s it. The end. The final challenge.’ She held out her hand for me to shake. ‘I’ve got nothing else to say, Rob. I hope you’ll forgive me, but I’m going home now to cry myself to sleep.’ She smiled as if to show she was joking. I looked at her hand and ignored it. We’d both loved him and that was a bond not easily broken.
I hugged Agnes and together we cried.
Over the following few weeks, I thought carefully about that conversation in my back garden.
I still went along to the Old Farts’ Palace three times a week, mainly to take Trixie for a walk. Of course, I also spoke to Agnes, though she never mentioned the challenge again. We’d sometimes sit on the bench Grandad and I used to sit on in front of the dribbling fountain (it never got fixed, at least to my knowledge) and reminisce about Pop. Sometimes I’d cry, but mostly I’d laugh.
December arrived and with it the end of the school year. On the final day of school, there’s a ritual as well-established as our annual hammering at soccer by St Martin’s. This is the Christmas prize-giving assembly in front of the entire school, parents and assembled dignitaries. The local member of Parliament comes along, gives a speech and sponsors a couple of prizes. It’s a huge deal. And I know this sounds about as enjoyable as having your front teeth removed with rusty pliers and no anaesthetic, but, believe it or not, it’s a lot of fun.
There are three prizes for each year level and they pretend it’s an Oscars ceremony. I know how lame that sounds, but it isn’t. The event is hosted by the two school captains (newly elected Year Elevens, one boy, one girl, since the Twelves finish school before the end of the year) and they come along all gorgeous in a tuxedo and an evening gown (normally it’s the boy wearing the tuxedo – normally). After a couple of musical performances by the school orchestra and a home-grown rock band (the winner of Milltown’s Got Talent) accompanied by dance troupes, the ceremony gets underway. The hosts announce the name of the prize and then there’s a video clip of the entire year level, being idiots or playing sports. Often both at the same time. The hosts joke around and then a gold envelope is produced, opened to great fanfare and the winner’s name announced.
The winners know who they are. The school tells them a good few weeks before the end of the year. This is partly to stop kids getting themselves worked up, hoping they’re going to win and then being desperately disappointed. It’s also partly to ensure the winners and their families turn up (the local newspaper always does a story on it, provided the reporter remembers to get out of bed).
Often the winner hams it up when his or her name is announced. They stand, open-mou
thed in mock shock and stumble towards the stage, shaking hands with random people from the audience. Then they’re allowed to give a short speech, most of the time something like, ‘I’d like to thank my parents, my theatrical agent and Miss Cunningham for shouting at me all year’. The drama students really get into it, sobbing realistically and impersonating actors who’ve made idiots of themselves at the real Oscars. In fact, it’s because of the drama students that a time limit was introduced by the school a few years back. Now the winners have two minutes, though most are happy just to mumble ‘Thanks’ and get off the stage.
I’d already been told I was a prize winner. Sports Personality of the Year, of all things.
I couldn’t help but think this was a sign.
I sat next to my parents in my designated seat about ten rows from the stage. This was so that when my name was called I’d have a distance to walk, thus giving me the opportunity to ham it up if I chose.
I wasn’t going to ham it up.
The other award winners were scattered among the audience, but the drama department (who were responsible for organising the whole evening) knew exactly where everyone was. When your name was called, a spotlight picked you out and followed your progress to the steps at the side of the stage.
I told you it was a big deal.
Any other year, I’d have taken the day off sick.
The rock band played against a backdrop of the Milltown’s Got Talent video. I’d had no idea anyone was filming the show, but I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Milltown has a thriving film and video department as well as a thriving drama department. Nonetheless, it was a shock to see excerpts of my Macbeth act mingled in with the other performances. A shock, but also … nice. There was no sound, of course, since the band was playing, but I reckoned I looked the business. Mind you, the drama department hadn’t exactly been hammering my metaphorical door down since the show.
The band finished, the audience shook their heads to get rid of the ringing and the ceremony began.
It starts with the youngest members of the school and works up to the seniors. This is fair and also practical. The juniors tend to say little; the entertainment usually comes from the seniors and their sometimes funny and sometimes annoying self-confidence. It took no time to get through Year Seven and then it was the turn of my year.
The first prize was for Greatest Academic Performance of Year Eight. The hosts tried to make a big deal of it, but they didn’t try too hard. Those of us towards the bottom of the school pile aren’t much interest to anyone, apparently. There was a backdrop of various scenes in classrooms – kids gazing into microscopes, sticking up their hands as a teacher asked a question, heads bent over books, rummaging around the library shelves – you get the idea.
‘And the winner is …’ The male school captain made a big deal of fumbling with the envelope while a drum roll played in the background. He finally pulled a card free. ‘Amit Singh,’ he shouted. There was wild applause and a spotlight hit the rows to my right. Everyone craned their necks to see. A very small boy got to his feet and walked towards the stage, head down. It was obvious to everyone he was going to stutter a terrified ‘Thanks’ before scuttling back to safety. The female school captain took a trophy from the table behind her and prepared to hand it to Amit. The boy stumbled getting up the steps but recovered in time. He took the trophy, which was almost as big as him, and approached the podium. The audience could barely see him over it and the male captain had to bend the microphone down towards his mouth.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbled. It was kinda weird, like a disembodied voice echoing around the hall.
He took a step away and then, obviously remembering something, returned. ‘Thank you, teachers of Milltown,’ he said. ‘I love you all.’
Everybody roared with laughter. You could feel a tide of affection rolling towards Amit as he made his way down the steps and back to his family. I watched his mum and dad. Pride radiated from them and I was almost blinded by it.
This was going to be a hard act to follow. But follow it I must, because I was next.
‘The following award is for Sports Personality of Year Eight,’ said the female school captain. They were obviously taking it in turns. Mum squeezed my hand, but I felt calm. Now the moment was upon me, I was okay with it. ‘There have been many examples of good sports personalities in Year Eight this year,’ she continued, ‘and here is a reminder of some of them.’
The stage darkened and the huge screen behind the presenters lit up once more. Basketball action, cross-country running, some half-hearted rugby tackles. And, mixed in with all of it, the soccer game against St Martin’s. In particular, me, Rob Fitzgerald, making save after save after save. I could tell by the way Mum squeezed my hand harder that she was impressed, maybe even startled, by what she saw. What was even more remarkable were the cheers and shouts that greeted my performance.
Finally, the video ended.
‘And the winner is …’ The school captain tore open the envelope and took out the card. ‘Well, this is a surprise,’ she said. ‘Who’d believe it? The winner is …’ She really drew out the pause, to the extent it became excruciating. Her eyes fixed on the audience and she took a deep breath.
‘Roberta Catherine Fitzgerald,’ she said. ‘But we know him better as Rob Fitzgerald.’
I stood and found myself in a bubble of blinding light.
I’d pretty much got my panic attacks under control, but there’s something strange about walking in a spotlight pool onto a stage in front of hundreds of strangers. I tried to focus. One step at a time, I told myself. Literally. Get to the steps at the side of the stage. Climb the steps and don’t fall down. Take the trophy from the school captain. Don’t drop it. Move to the lectern. Speak. Simple.
But it all took so long …
And yet it took no time at all. Suddenly, I had the trophy in my hand and I stepped up to the lectern. What I hadn’t been expecting was the weight of silence as I stood there. Everyone waiting on my words. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I tried again.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
And then I walked off the stage. I was thrilled when I got back to my seat without tripping up once.
The car ride home was burdened with another weight of silence. I knew Mum was dying to ask questions, but I also knew she didn’t want to speak out in front of Dad. As it turned out, almost as soon as we got home, Dad went to the pub to watch sport with his mates.
‘What do you say to some takeaway, Rob?’ Mum asked when the noise of Dad’s car had faded into the night.
‘How about beans on toast?’ I replied. Mum smiled. We used to love sitting in front of the television, a plate of beans on toast on our laps, solving all the problems of the world. Or at least the problems in whatever soap opera we happened to be watching. It was pretty much a ritual when I was in primary school and I missed it.
‘It’s a massively complicated dish,’ she said, ‘but it’s not every day you’re awarded Sports Personality of Year Eight, Rob, so I’m prepared to work my culinary magic. Stick some bread in the toaster, would you?’
This time there was no soap opera. We sat in the front room, each on our own sofa, the television dark, and ate our beans. Mum had a glass of white wine at her feet, while I had Trixie at mine, drooling and never taking her eyes off my plate. Yes, Mum and Dad had finally allowed me to keep her. According to Mum they’d watched to see if I still went to walk her after Grandad died. Once they were convinced this was a love affair to stand the test of time, they bought a dog bed, a kennel and a supply of balanced dog biscuits especially formulated for fluffy bundles of rubbish. I was happy. I think Trixie was happy as well, but it’s difficult to tell, since she only stops yapping at everything when there’s food about.
‘You’re not getting my beans,’ I told her. ‘That is begging and anyway you’ll fart all night.’
Trixie wasn’t impressed with this line of reasoning. She never lost focus, even when a particularly long and vi
scous trail of drool made a puddle at her feet.
‘Gross,’ I said.
‘That was a surprise tonight, Rob,’ said Mum. I knew this was a conversation we were going to have once Dad had left. It was fair enough, too. I hadn’t given them any warning, mainly because I think Dad might not have come along and that would’ve been heartbreaking.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said.
‘No need to apologise,’ she replied. ‘I think it was brave, particularly since you hate your birth name so much.’
I shuddered. ‘Yup,’ I said. ‘And I really hope that’s the last time I hear it.’
‘You’d organised that with the presenters, I assume?’ I nodded. ‘That’s a relief,’ she continued. ‘It crossed my mind that it might have been a nasty shock for you.’ Mum lifted a forkful of beans to her lips and one slid off down her cleavage. ‘Damn it,’ she said. ‘I hate it when that happens.’
I laughed. It had happened nearly every time in the past and it always made me laugh. I went to get some kitchen towel while Mum burrowed down her top in search of the escapee.
‘It’s just that … I dunno. I thought this was something you didn’t feel the need to advertise to the world. You’ve said that in the past.’ She found the bean and lifted it triumphantly before placing it in a square of kitchen towel. I took it to the bin for a decent, if unceremonious, burial.
Then I explained about Grandad and the text message challenges, Agnes’s part in them (I didn’t say anything about their love for each other – that wasn’t my story to tell) and how what happened at the awards ceremony was not so much because I felt the need, but because it was the last challenge and obviously important to Grandad.
‘So you did it for him?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In part. But it wasn’t simply a … gesture. Those challenges have helped, Mum. I used to be such a scared little mouse.’
‘You’re still a mouse.’
A Song Only I Can Hear Page 16
