The Incredible Life of Jonathan Doe

by Carol Coffey

  “Wait! I’m coming!” she called weakly.

  Iris opened the door and saw a tall garda with a young boy standing beside him.

  “Is this your nephew, Miss Fay?”

  Iris looked down at the dishevelled boy. Her heart sank. She knew this meant trouble.

  “Yes,” she breathed heavily. “Luke . . . my sister’s boy.”

  “Well, he didn’t know your address or phone number and your sister wouldn’t say. We had to get him to direct us here.”

  “What’s happened . . . is my sister . . . where’s Jack?”

  The boy stayed silent, not knowing if he should speak. He was afraid his mother might be angry at him for coming here but he hadn’t known what else to do. There were black marks on his face and he was dressed in a T-shirt and light track-suit top despite the cold night.

  “The younger child is with hospital staff,” the garda answered.

  “Hospital – what’s happened?” Iris asked loudly. Fear gripped her and she began to sway slightly.

  “There was a fire. They’re fine but they inhaled fumes. They’ll probably keep your sister overnight. The boy will be discharged when someone comes to collect him.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “The fire department thinks it was probably a chip pan left on a cooker that hadn’t been turned off. Too soon to tell though. Do these boys have a father I can call? This one says you’re their only relative. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Iris replied sadly as she stroked her nephew’s curly head.

  She looked down at Luke and felt an overwhelming pity for him. What was going to become of the boys with a mother like theirs? It was over two weeks since her troubled younger sister had last visited her. The visit had ended in yet another row. That’s the way it was for them. When things weren’t going right for Hazel, she would barge into Iris’s tiny flat looking for trouble.

  Luke smiled sheepishly up at her. He liked his Aunty Iris. She was good to him even though she often made his mother cry and he didn’t like it when people made his mother cry. Even though he was not yet eight years old, he was the man of the house and it was his job to protect his mother. It was a hard job though because she needed a lot of protecting and sometimes he needed Aunty Iris to help, times like now.

  “Can you look after the lads tonight?” the garda asked doubtfully, peering in at the rundown sewing shop she called home.

  “Yes,” Iris replied, knowing what he was thinking. “There’s room at the back. I’ll collect Jack at the hospital.”

  “Miss?”

  “Yes?”

  “The younger lad has asthma?”

  “Yes.”

  “You might tell the boy’s mother that it’s probably not smart to be smoking in a house with an asthmatic child.”

  Iris reddened and lowered her head. “I’ll see that he gets his medication, officer. I’m a . . . I used to be a nurse . . .”

  Thanking the garda, Iris moved Luke inside and closed the door slowly. She exhaled a loud breath and stood with her back against the cold glass of the door for a moment, digesting the news, then led her shivering nephew through the small shop and into her living area.

  She washed his face in her tiny cold bathroom and gave him one of her own jumpers to keep warm.

  “Don’t worry – it doesn’t look like a girl’s jumper!” she said. “You hungry, love?”

  “Just a bit.”

  In the kitchenette she set about making some toast and slicing some cheese.

  Luke could feel the anger rising in her. He watched her neck redden and her lips moving silently and knew she was about to ask questions he didn’t want to answer.

  “Who was smoking in the house, Luke? Did your mam have a visitor?”

  Iris hated this, using the child to find out what was going on but she had no choice. Hazel was never going to tell her what had happened.

  He didn’t answer, and that was answer enough.

  She led him into the sitting room and put his plate and a glass of milk on the coffee table.

  Luke sat and began to eat. He thought about lying but knew he’d only get himself into a bigger mess. It would be a sin. He was making his Communion next May and he knew he’d have to save it up for Confession.

  “Mam’s friend came round,” he said at last, in his flat Dublin accent. “D’you ’member Pete?”

  “Oh yeah,” Iris replied, trying to hide her annoyance.

  Pete Doyle only came around when Hazel collected her One- Parent Family Payment. He’d usually spend the night after talking Hazel into spending more than she could afford on booze, and then disappear for another week.

  “Were . . . were they . . . ?” Iris hated this. She watched Luke squirm as he swallowed a huge bite of toast and cheese. She stopped herself for a moment. She knew it wasn’t fair on the child but decided to continue anyway. “Were they having a good night then?”

  Luke looked up, unsure how to answer the question. He knew that Iris hated it when people smoked around his younger brother and that she also didn’t like it when his mam had been drinking.

  “Em . . . yeah,” he replied nervously. “Mam was laughing for ages . . .” He stopped, wondering if that was too much information because he knew that his mam only laughed that much when she drank too much wine.

  “Ah . . . that’s nice,” Iris said unconvincingly. “Well, finish your milk and let’s go and collect your brother. He’ll be worried, won’t he? I’ve enough for a taxi so it’ll be an adventure, eh?”

  Luke was looking worried, already concerned that there would be another row between his mam and his aunt.

  The pair huddled together as they made their way down Fairview Strand towards the taxi rank in the bitter cold. It was pitch black and there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

  The taxi driver didn’t seem too pleased to be woken from his slumber as he sat parked on the corner and didn’t say a word to either of his depressed-looking passengers, although he was slightly interested in why the woman was going to hospital with a child at this hour. He didn’t look sick. Skinny maybe, but not sick.

  When they pulled up in front of the old inner-city hospital he muttered the fare and found that his passengers were as dour as he was. He watched as they walked with bowed heads towards the large wooden doors of the formidable building. Maybe they’ve received bad news about a relative, he thought, suddenly feeling guilty, before turning the car back towards his rank. Ah well, if I’m lucky I’ll get a couple of hours’ kip before the day job starts.

  A&E on the ground floor of the hospital had a long miserable line of old iron trolleys that should have been replaced years before. Iris could see Hazel before the nurse pointed her out. Hazel’s long narrow body almost made it to the end of the trolley while her thick fair hair covered the pillow.

  Iris approached her sister gingerly. She didn’t want another row although she did intend to find out eventually what had happened.

  Iris cleared her throat, anxious not to say the wrong thing and God knew it was easy to say the wrong thing to her highly strung sister. “How are you?” she asked quietly. She leaned in to kiss Hazel but pulled back quickly when her sister turned her face away. Iris sighed. “I’ve brought you some toilet things and a couple of nightdresses. They’re mine, hope they fit you . . . might be too short though.”

  She knew Hazel loved to gloat about the difference in their appearances. Although both women were considered pretty when they were younger, Iris was short and dark while Hazel was very tall with long straight fair hair. They both had their mother’s eyes: large round blue eyes that made them look constantly surprised, or scared.

  Iris placed the bag she was carrying on the trolley and stood with her hands in her pockets. She looked at Luke who stood like a frightened rabbit, his brown eyes narrowed beneath his curly brown hair that was badly in need of a cut. Both boys looked like their father whom they never saw and didn’t remember.

  “Hazel,” she said softly, “I’ll take the boys
to my place tonight. The nurse said you’ll probably be out tomorrow. Jack’s in the children’s ward but they said to take him – that he’s fine but keeps crying – and he –”

  “No! You’re not taking my kids anywhere!” Hazel shouted loudly, her sudden rage frightening the entire A&E including her sister and her son whose lip began to quiver slightly.

  A nurse began walking towards Hazel’s bed.

  “Hazel, please . . .” Iris said as softly as she could. “If they don’t come with me the hospital will ring Social Services.” She moved closer to the trolley to avoid Luke hearing her. “You don’t want that, do you?” she whispered.

  Hazel jumped from the bed and, tearing off the nightdress the hospital had supplied, began putting her clothes on. She swayed and almost fell as she was pulling her jeans on but seemed unaware of her son’s acute embarrassment.

  “Don’t you tell me what I want for my kids!” she screamed, before coughing loudly.

  “Hazel!” the nurse called out. “Get back into bed, please – your breathing is still laboured.”

  Hazel ignored the nurse and began walking towards the door of the ward.

  “I’m signing myself out. I feel perfect now,” she said sharply to the nurse, raising her voice in a mocking intonation. “That okay with you?”

  The nurse had met plenty like her before. They came in looking for help, worse for wear, and then up and left without as much as a thank you. Well, she didn’t care either way. One less to look after through the night.

  “You’ll have to sign a discharge form,” she replied dryly as she watched the woman sway.

  At the nurses’ station she quickly filled in a form and handed it to Hazel to sign.

  She looked at the young child and then at Iris. “You staying with her tonight?”

  Iris nodded.

  “Good luck,” she said as she snapped the signed discharge form from Hazel and directed the sisters to the children’s ward.

  Jack slept soundly in the taxi on the way home. Iris knew not to ask how bad the fire was and whether or not they could actually sleep there tonight. These questions were pointless with Hazel when she was like this. When the taxi pulled up in the small cul-de-sac outside the house, Iris couldn’t see any external damage.

  They got out and walked to the front door, Hazel struggling to carry Jack, unwilling to let her sister help. She opened the door and stepped inside, then pulled Luke angrily into the hallway before slamming the door loudly in Iris’s face.

  Iris stood, rooted to the spot. Her shoulders dropped forward. She had used the last of her cash on the taxi. She pulled her coat around her and looked up at the dark sky as she turned to walk the three-mile journey home.

  Chapter 2 Winter Flowers

  The narrow sitting room which sat directly behind Iris’s modest clothes-repair shop was darkly decorated with cheap furniture, some of which had been her mother’s. A small television sat on a low table and faced a worn two-seater sofa-bed and equally worn armchair, a coffee table in front of them. A silver-tasselled lamp stood tall on a side table which was adorned with a photo of Hazel and the boys on one side and one of Iris and Hazel as children on the other. A small wooden kitchen table was pressed up against the wall directly behind the shop as there was no room for it in the kitchenette. To the left of the sitting room was the door to Iris’s tiny bedroom which consisted of a single bed with a wardrobe and side table and looked more like a convent cell than a single woman’s bedroom. A door in the far wall of the sitting room led into the kitchenette which had room only for an old gas stove, small fridge and sink. Two painted cupboards stood over by the window that faced onto a small concrete yard. Iris’s cat, Marmalade, sat on the window ledge, looking in at her as she prepared her modest evening meal. It made periodic meowing sounds, hoping to get inside from the cold breeze that blew around the yard. A bathroom jutted off the kitchenette with a small shower cubicle, toilet and hand basin. It obviously had been added onto the old building as an afterthought. It had no radiator and Iris dreaded showering there in the winter.

  She looked about the flat and, while she knew she didn’t have to live this meagrely, she liked it. It was a simple life. She did not need much and found that she preferred to give any extra cash she had to Hazel for the boys than spend it on material things for herself.

  Iris pondered the day’s event as she ate while watching EastEnders which was her favourite programme.

  Hazel had come into the shop that day, almost two weeks after slamming the door in her sister’s face, all smiles and cheerfulness, as if nothing had happened. But that was Hazel. Iris was used to it and, while she liked seeing her sister, she enjoyed a strange sort of peace when Hazel was fighting with her. Even though it could be lonely, life was predictable. She would get up each morning early and walk for about an hour before spending the day repairing clothes for her few regular customers or occasionally making new dresses for young brides or debutantes who knew nothing of what life was to bring, God help them. She didn’t have to worry about her sister flying off the handle about some slight comment she might make.

  Yet the sisters depended on each other. Their parents had not had a happy marriage and rowed constantly. Hazel was too young to remember much about either of their parents and anything she did recall was through rose-coloured glasses. When their dad failed to return after yet another row, their mother had sat the sisters down and told them that he had been killed in a car accident. Three years later their mother died, a needless death caused by alcoholism. It haunted Iris to this day and caused great bitterness. All her mistakes, she felt, were down to that one selfish act. It had led her to this place, to this life.

  Iris sighed. Tomorrow was Friday and she had agreed to take the boys for the weekend while Hazel went to Galway with some friends. Where her sister got the money to go away she didn’t know, but she said nothing. As usual, she kept her mouth shut when she didn’t approve – and anyway she loved having the boys. Luke was a handful, though, so she was even happier when Hazel returned for them and she could return to her peaceful, predictable existence.

  Iris looked up at the clock on the wall above the television. There was nothing good on and it was only eight o’clock. She sat in silence for a few minutes and wondered what to do with herself. She could hear the rain start to fall heavily against the window. The flat was cold and she rose to get another cardigan to put around her shoulders. She hoped that Hazel had lit the fire for the boys and wondered if she’d remembered to fill the prescription for Jack’s regular inhaler. She almost phoned Hazel to remind her but stopped herself in time. She stood and walked back into the shop. May as well use the time to work, she thought. She sat down at her sewing machine and hummed as she began to work.

  Chapter 3 Winter Flowers

  After Hazel dropped the boys off to her sister for the weekend, she raced back to her house and began dolling herself up. She hadn’t wanted to lie to Iris, telling her she was going to Galway with friends, but her sister would never understand if she said Pete was coming around. The woman lived like a nun. Hazel didn’t know how Iris didn’t get lonely like she herself did, but they had always been so different. Iris was always the strong one while Hazel was the emotional one, crying or laughing and nothing in between.

  The three-bedroom red-bricked house that Hazel lived in was the most constant thing in her life. It had been her parents’ house. She had grown up there and, except for the years when she and Iris had to go into care, she had never lived anywhere else. The house was only minutes away from the Botanic Gardens, which she loved. She couldn’t understand why Iris didn’t want to live there with her, preferring the grotty little flat. It was a modest house that was in need of some redecoration but it was a decent size and what Hazel loved most about it was the large back garden where her father used to tend his beloved plants. It was where he was happiest, Iris had said, although Hazel didn’t really remember him. Even the photos of him looked somehow foreign to her. There was one particular
photo of him, standing alone by an old-fashioned motor car, taken in Sussex where he was born and where her parents had met when her mother went to work there. He was young and handsome, smiling into the camera with a confident air. When she was a teenager she used to spend hours looking into the photo, hoping for some memory to come to her, anything at all, but it never did. He was a stranger whom she was told had loved her dearly. Hazel knew that her father had walked out during a row with her mother. Although her memories were few, she remembered her mother telling them a few days later that he had died in an accident – she remembered because Iris had screamed when she heard and had cried all night in her bed and Hazel had rarely seen Iris crying. She often wondered at how different their lives could have been if he’d come back and sorted out the problem with their mother. He wouldn’t have been driving that car in England and he’d be alive. She thought of her boys and wondered how anyone could walk out on their children but then she only had to look at her sister to see that it was possible. After what Iris did, Hazel wondered if it was somehow genetic, something inherited that made you just walk out without as much as an explanation. Hazel knew she wasn’t the world’s greatest mother – but to abandon her kids! She’d never do it, never. No matter how bad things got, and they often got really, really bad.

  She wasn’t brushing the boys off now because of Pete. She wouldn’t do that. It was just easier if they weren’t there. She needed some time alone with Pete. It would be nice. He shouted a bit much at the boys anyway so they probably preferred to be with Iris who would spoil them, she reasoned to herself. It wasn’t Pete’s fault – he wasn’t used to kids, that’s all. If it worked out between them, he’d get used to the boys. They were good kids. All in good time, she thought, as she dressed in the skimpiest dress she could find. She applied some bright red lipstick and stood back to look at herself in the mirror. “Gorgeous!” she said, laughing. She looked great and had regained her figure despite putting on almost three stone during her pregnancies. She thought fleetingly about Gerry, the boys’ father, and wondered where he was now. Probably still married to his wagon of a wife who he wouldn’t leave to be with her. Bastard. He hadn’t actually told her he was married until she was pregnant with Luke. He promised he’d leave his wife, start a new life with their son and she believed him. She should have known better. She was twenty-nine at the time, not a kid. Gerry was older than her, a lot older, but she didn’t mind – she liked it actually. It made her feel kind of safe, protected. While Gerry was filling her full of lies about buying a house in the country where she could plant a garden as good as her dad’s, she fell pregnant again with Jack. She threatened him to make him leave his wife, said she’d tell. She even begged him when she became desperate but he walked away, just like her dad – only this time she would remember it. The thought of being a single mother of two children depressed her. She was no snob but she knew she could have done better and couldn’t understand why she had settled for this. It puzzled her to this day. Well, it was all history now. The boys were getting big and she hadn’t had any luck with any of her boyfriends since, and there had been a lot of boyfriends, lots of losers who promised her the stars and took more than they gave in return. She felt that Pete was different. For one, he had never been married so didn’t come with any baggage. Even if it didn’t turn into any fairytale wedding, she had fun with Pete. He took her out of her dead-end life and made her laugh. She needed him; she needed anyone who did that for her. She was suffocating in her monotonous existence and if she had to settle for short bursts of happiness, then that would have to do. Hazel peered closer into the mirror and inspected the frown lines that appeared each time she was thinking like this, thinking like Iris did – worry, worry, worry.