The room seemed to be full of children. But he easily picked out the boy, the only blonde among them. Cormac was sitting directly beneath the Christmas tree, on the floor. He was in the process of removing the Christmas wrapping from the box that Agnes had delivered. With the wrapping paper gone, he then tore the cardboard box itself to shreds, eventually extracting a shiny red fire truck. Suddenly David, one of Margaret O‘Brien’s children and two years older than Cormac, walked over to where Cormac was sitting. Dermot couldn’t hear what was being said but it was obvious that the older boy wanted the fire truck and just as obvious that Cormac wasn’t parting with it. The older boy made to snatch the truck from Cormac, but Cormac held on. Cormac stood up and the truck now became the subject of a tug-of-war between the two boys. Cormac was strong for six years of age, and holding on to the truck with one hand he swung, the other arm around, catching David with a full-fisted blow to the cheek. David released his grip on the fire truck and left the room in tears. Having won the battle of the truck, Cormac then did a strange thing. Instead of retreating to his previous sitting position and playing with the truck he walked to the side of the fireplace where Martin O’Brien, another of Margaret’s children but this time three years younger than Cormac, was sitting. Cormac presented Martin with the truck. The two children smiled at each other and Martin began to lick the truck.
‘Now that’s my fuckin’ kid,’ Dermot exclaimed.
Despite the freezing cold, and the falling snow, Dermot Browne hadn’t felt as warm in a long, long time. He vaulted the fence onto the street and briskly made his way back to the Iveagh Hostel.
When Dermot had left the street, the shadowy figure of a woman emerged from the doorway that Dermot had been using earlier as a hiding place. Quickly the woman scurried around the comer and vanished from view. Within seconds a car engine could be heard starting, a car door slammed and the sound vanished into the night. Agnes Browne considered that the first sighting she had had of her son Dermot in nearly six years was the finest Christmas present she had received that year. When they returned to Wolfe Tone Grove, Pierre du Gloss received his nicest Christmas present too. No clothes pegs were necessary.
In Trevor’s house in Altringham everybody was very cosy. Sue and Tony had arrived there at about 8pm and when the snow started to fall they decided to stay overnight. By midnight Nicky and Sue were in night clothes drinking eggnogs, and Trevor and Tony were three-quarters of the way through a bottle of brandy.
‘So, from what you’re saying,’ Tony began, as he poured himself another brandy into the snifter, ‘nothing short of a miracle will save the company?’ Tony wasn’t being malicious, but the two couples were friendly enough to be able to discuss these matters without having to beat around the bush.
That’s about the size of it,’ Trevor said, his speech slightly slurred. Tony sat down beside Trevor again and clinked his glass against Trevor’s glass.
‘Well, Trevor my son, miracles do happen!’ Tony smiled and Sue chirped in, ‘Yes, they do ... especially at Christmas.’
And as the snow gently and quietly laid a blanket across Altringham the four toasted each other’s health.
It is the tradition in Dublin that all pubs close on St Stephen’s Day, 26 December. However, if one is in the know, one can always find a pub that’s open. When Dermot tapped with a coin on the window of Foley’s lounge bar in The Jarro he wasn’t sure what kind of reception to expect. He needn’t have worried. Mr Foley welcomed him with open arms and, indeed, stood him his first pint. Over the drinks that followed, Dermot told Mr Foley of all that had happened since that night nearly seven years ago when he and Buster had left Foley’s bar and stolen the bus. By the time Dermot reached the part of the story where he admitted to Mr Foley that Cormac was indeed his son, he had had about fourteen pints.
‘And I’m going to get him, Mr Foley, I am. I’m going to take him to live with me,’ Dermot announced this last part to the whole bar. ‘What do you think, Mr Foley?’ Dermot asked.
‘I think, Dermot, you should have a bit of dinner and a cup of tea. Come on inside.’ Mr Foley lifted the flap at the bar and Dermot made his way unsteadily into the back room. After he had downed two cups of coffee, Monica Foley placed a plate of dinner in front of Dermot that was big enough to feed an army. When the meal was finished and Mr Foley had brought him another cup of coffee, Dermot felt a lot better. A little less drunk, but not entirely sober. He was grateful for the Foleys’ hospitality.
‘I meant it, Mr Foley,’ Dermot suddenly said.
‘What’s that, Dermot?’
‘The boy, I’m gonna have the boy live with me. And I’ll be a good father too.’
‘Of course you will, Dermot, now why don’t you sit over here in the armchair beside the fire and have a little sleep, eh ... it will do you good.’ Mr Foley puffed up the cushions on the chair and Dermot relaxed into it and within minutes was asleep. When he woke an hour later he was drenched in perspiration and the side of his face was scarlet red from the heat of the fire.
‘Jesus Christ, I’m bumin’.’ Dermot stood up a little unsteadily. There was nobody else in the back room; both Mr and Mrs Foley were out in the bar, serving. Dermot made his way to the toilet, relieved himself and then went out to the lounge to where the Foleys were. Monica Foley greeted him. ‘Ah there you are, Dermot. Are you feeling better, ready for another session?’
Dermot smiled, but dismissed the suggestion of another session with a wave of his hand.
‘God no, Monica. Listen, I’m off. Tell Mr Foley thanks very much and a very happy new year to both of you.’ Dermot banged his head climbing under the flap of the bar and seconds later he was standing outside in the snow-covered street. He had a feeling that he had something to do; he couldn’t remember what it was, but he knew he had something to do. Then it dawned on him. Five minutes later he was knocking on the door of 26 Michael Collins Court. Margaret O’Brien opened the door and Dermot enjoyed the look of surprise on her face.
‘What do you want?’ She made it sound like an accusation rather than a question.
‘I want the boy,’ Dermot declared.
‘Which boy would that be now? I have four of them,’ Margaret O’Brien said sarcastically.
‘My boy, me son!’
‘Oh, he’s your son now, is he?’
‘He was always me son, and I want him.’
‘You just wait there now, Dermot Browne.’ Margaret O‘Brien closed the door. Dermot had been expecting this. She was gone to get John, her husband. Dermot knew John O’Brien - he wasn’t a bad sort, decent lad, but if he had to, Dermot would beat the crap out of him. Dermot rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and awaited his opponent. Fifteen minutes later he heard the latch begin to turn. He stood back from the door and struck a John L Sullivan pose. When the door opened Dermot’s opponent was a lot smaller than he had expected. Slowly Dermot lowered his fists. Cormac stood in the doorway, with a puzzled look on his face. He was wearing his grey duffle coat. In his right hand he had a small cardboard suitcase, and under his left arm he held a shiny red fire truck. Margaret O’Brien gave the boy a little push out of the doorway.
‘Now, Mr Big Shite, take your son. I’ve enough of me own. And I want that fuckin’ suitcase back.’ She spoke the last sentence as she closed the door.
Dermot took the boy’s suitcase and took the boy’s tiny hand in his. Then father and son walked out of The Jarro. When they came to the comer of North Earl Street and Gardiner Street, Dermot sat down on the snow-covered steps of Moran’s Hotel. The boy stood in front of him with his hands deep in his pockets.
‘What’s your name?’ The boy asked.
‘Dermot, Dermot Browne, son.’
‘You’re the man that was standin’ outside our school, aren’t yeh?’
‘You saw me?’ Dermot asked.
‘Yes. Aunt Margaret said not to mind you. But I will.’
‘You will what?’
‘I will mind you. You look like you need mindin’.’<
br />
Dermot laughed aloud. Without removing his hands from his duffle coat pockets the boy sat down on the steps beside Dermot. For a few minutes the two sat in silence. It was the boy that spoke first. ‘What are we goin’ to do now?’
‘Son — I was just asking meself the same question!’
Chapter 21
AGNES WAS HAPPY BUT WORRIED as she returned the receiver to its cradle. She walked slowly into the kitchen and was ahout to tell Pierre to put the kettle on, but it was too late, he already had a pot of tea made. When she sat at the kitchen table, Pierre placed her mug and an ashtray in front of her. Agnes was in a slight daze, still trying to get it all straightened out in her head.
‘I take it that was Trevor?’ Pierre asked.
‘Yes. He has the boy!’ Agnes answered.
‘What boy?’
‘Cormac, young Cormac.’
‘Trevor has Cormac?’ Pierre was amazed.
Agnes snapped out of her daze and began to explain the situation to Pierre. ‘No, Dermot has the boy. He took him from Margaret O’Brien yesterday. He got on the ‘phone to Trevor, and said he’s coming over with the boy to stay with Trevor for a while.’
‘Why?’
‘He told Trevor that he had nowhere else to go - sure he could come here, for God’s sake,’ Agnes exclaimed.
Pierre didn’t answer. He knew that Dermot wouldn’t be coming here. He also knew that Agnes knew it. So he made no comment. Agnes looked over at the kitchen window. Outside she could see the swirling snow. It was a cold, nasty night.
‘Christ, I hope they’ll be all right travelling in that weather!’
It was a harrowing journey. The boat trip to Holyhead was wild and uncomfortable. The boat was packed with people returning from their Christmas trip home to the ‘old sod’. The train journey to Manchester felt like it was going to go on forever. They changed at Crewe from a chilly train into a freezing train.
On the way Dermot discovered a lot about his new-found son. For instance, he liked to talk. And questions - the kid loved questions. Not just ordinary questions, like how fast does the train go, but questions from left-field. Cormac asked Dermot three questions in succession that had no relation to each other. The first one was: ‘Is God in England?’ Dermot had little trouble in explaining to Cormac that God was everywhere, wherever you wanted him to be. Next came: ‘Why does Aunt Margaret shave under her arms?’ Dermot told him it was because she had to shave somewhere, and she didn’t have a beard. Dermot went into hysterics when Cormac replied, ‘Yes she does!’ Also, Cormac was not happy to be pawned off with simple answers. Which made his next question all the more difficult.
‘Who made you my Daddy?’
Dermot thought about this for a few moments. He looked out the window of the train into the dark English countryside as if searching for an answer.
‘I did!’ he finally said.
‘How?’
It’s always the one-syllable questions that are the most difficult. Dermot held up the index finger of each of his hands and held them about six inches apart. And he began to explain.
‘Let’s say this finger is a man and he has lots of love to give, and this finger over here is a woman and she has lots of love to give.’ Dermot now pushed the two fingers together. ‘So they get together and they give each other lots of love. But they soon find that they have too much love to give, so they need somebody to share it with. Along comes a little baby boy, and that boy is you.’ Dermot smiled as he said this last bit and poked his two fingers joined together into Cormac’s ribs. The boy laughed; it was the first time Dermot had heard the child laugh, ever. He liked the sound of it.
‘And did you have lots of love for my mammy?’ the boy asked.
Dermot looked into Cormac’s eyes. In them he could see Mary Carter, except without the pain.
‘Yes ... I did.’ Dermot stood up. ‘I’m going to the toilet, you stay here and don’t move.’ Dermot walked the length of the carriage and locked himself in a little triangular-shaped toilet. Looking in the mirror he ran his fingers through his hair. He then sat on the toilet bowl and began to count his money, again. He had four hundred and ten pounds. If he could bum his accommodation off Trevor for just two or three weeks, and in the meantime get himself fixed up with a job, he would have enough to get a flat. After that he decided he would just take it day by day. When he came out of the toilet Dermot went to the buffet counter and bought two cups of Bovril and two bread rolls. He returned to the seat and virtually had to force-feed the boy the Bovril. When Cormac eventually finished his cup there came more questions.
‘Do I have to call you Daddy now?’
‘You don’t have to do anything. Do you want to call me Daddy?’
Cormac thought for a moment or two and then said, ‘No.’
‘All right then.’ But Dermot was disappointed. ‘Why don’t you call me Dermot until we get to know each other better and then if you want to you can call me Daddy, all right?’
‘Yes, that’s all right.’ The boy seemed satisfied.
The questions continued for the next forty-five minutes and Dermot was relieved when they eventually reached Manchester. They alighted from the train and walked down the platform. As the ticket checker was taking the tickets from them, Dermot was glancing around the crowd to see if he could spot Trevor. He very nearly didn’t recognise him.
‘Dermot! Over here, Dermo,’ came a voice from the crowd.
Dermot followed the direction of the voice with his eyes until they fell upon a handsome, robust young man with sandy blond hair, wearing a navy business suit. Dermot’s immediate thought was, what has happened to my scrawny little teenage brother? As the distance between the two men shortened, Trevor’s face lit up with a smile and Dermot was wrapped in a hug of genuine warmth and welcome, such as he hadn’t felt in a long time. He felt safe. The drive from the station to Altringham was one of rushed questions and half-answers, with both men eventually deciding they would wait till they got back to the house, as some of the answers were awkward for Dermot with the boy sitting in the back of the car. One tricky item that arose was when Dermot said to Trevor, ‘I don’t want you to tell Mammy I’m here. Or that I have the boy. I have to sort this out myself, Trevor.’
Trevor was perplexed and he hoped it didn’t show in his answer. ‘Mammy? Oh yeh, sure, Dermot. Whatever you say.’
Within forty minutes of leaving the station, Cormac was stripped, washed and tucked up in bed in the spare bedroom of Trevor’s home. Within one minute of being tucked up he was asleep. The boy was exhausted. Still, for five more minutes Dermot stood over the bed and stared at him. He tried to push to the back of his mind the enormity of the task he had undertaken: raising a child. He could barely look after himself. Dermot left the bedroom and went downstairs to the brightly-lit kitchen.
Maria was busying herself at the table preparing a place for Dermot and putting some food down on it.
‘Oh God, Maria, you shouldn’t have bothered cooking anything!’ Dermot said half-apologetically.
‘Nonsense, it’s just a cup of tea and a toasted sandwich. Sit down, Dermot. I’ve heard so much about you from Trevor. Prison life can’t be easy - it must be great to be out and about again.’
Dermot was taken aback by the openness and frankness of the girl. She had managed to convey in one sentence that she knew Dermot had been in prison for a long time and there was no need for him to tiptoe around the subject. He relaxed. He liked her, and he envied Trevor. The three of them sat at the kitchen table and Trevor opened up the conversation with, ‘So, bring me up to speed on what’s been happening.’
Between mouthfuls of toasted sandwich, and over four mugs of tea and uncountable cigarettes, Dermot relayed his experiences since he had left Mountjoy. He told them of his row with Mark. He tried to explain what he was trying to achieve in making these first few steps out of prison alone. He touched on the bitterness he felt against his mother, whom Trevor was tempted to defend, but catching a sideways
glance from Maria, he let it go. Dermot told them of how he was drawn to the boy, and his realisation that the boy was his son. He even made them laugh when he described his collecting the boy from Margaret O’Brien’s. When he had finished, it dawned on Dermot that this was the longest conversation he had had with anyone in nearly seven years.
‘So what now, Dermot?’ Trevor asked.
‘I don’t know. Take it a day at a time, I suppose. Got to get a job, and try and get a place of my own, with the kid of course. God, I have to think about getting the kid into a school. But first things first.’ Dermot put his hand in his back pocket and withdrew his bundle of money. He peeled off five ten-pound notes and pushed them across the table to Trevor. Maria’s eyes lit up.
‘There’s the fifty quid you sent me, I really appreciated it. Thanks a lot, Trevor.’
‘No, no, that was a gift, Dermot, not a loan!’ Trevor pushed the money back.
‘I’d feel better if you took it, Trevor, I really would.’ Dermot pushed the money back to Trevor.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Trevor pushed the money back again.
Maria was following the money like a tennis ball. When Dermot eventually won the argument and Trevor took the money, Maria had it spent before he even got it into his pocket.
‘I’ll make more tea!’ Maria announced, and went to the sink to fill the kettle. The kitchen door creaked as it opened and there, standing in the doorway, wearing only one of Maria’s tee-shirts as a nightshirt, and rubbing his eyes, stood young Cormac. He was disorientated and a little frightened.
‘What are you doing down?’ Dermot asked.
The Granny Page 11
