Once she entered her room she scrambled to switch on her laptop.
Where was the bloody wi-fi?
She typed in the hotel password and clicked Connect. Come on! As another minute clicked on the bedside clock, Ruth felt a scream build up inside of her. Why wouldn’t it work? She was now over an hour late.
She dialled 0, her hands shaking by now.
‘Good morning from The Silver Sands Lodge. Your friendly neighbourhood boutique hotel. This is the manager, Ms Erica Rossitor speaking.’
‘The wi-fi is not working,’ Ruth said.
‘Who is speaking, please?’ Erica replied.
‘It’s Ruth Wilde, in room 129.’
‘Just one moment, please.’ Then she put the phone down.
Ruth heard the shuffle of her feet as she moved out of the reception desk.
Come on, lady, hurry up! Over the past month, she had been late for several of her shifts. But only because she had to queue to see potential flats to rent. Which all turned into wild-goose chases, as they were all out of her reach in the end. This was not her fault. Come on!
‘Do you … ever have one … of those mornings?’ Erica said, breathlessly. ‘Wi-fi was switched off. One of the cleaners must have knocked it when …’
‘Is it fixed now?’ Ruth asked.
‘Why yes, it is. As I was saying, when the cleaner—’
‘Thank you,’ Ruth said, then hung up. She clicked Connect again and prayed to a God that she didn’t believe in that the wi-fi icon would turn green.
Yes!
Her joy was cut short when she saw several missed messages on the chat forum from her supervisor.
Where are you Ruth?
Your shift started half an hour ago, please get in touch.
Calls are queuing up, this is NOT acceptable!
She typed a message back.
I’m so sorry. I had a family emergency. Here now. Ruth.
I’m sorry to hear that. However, this is your third non-show. I’m afraid this is not working out. We have already given you a written warning.
It will not happen again. Ruth.
No, it won’t. We have terminated your contract Ms Wilde. An email with full details has been issued. Wishing you the best of luck in the future, but perhaps another role, with less regular hours would suit you.
An ever-increasing feeling of hopelessness and shame threatened to choke her. No home. And now no job. What else did she have to lose? Her son? Her mind … yes, her mind would be the next to go. The small hotel room shrank in size and she felt her chest constrict, as she struggled to breathe. She ran to the window and unlocked the latch. She inhaled large lungfuls of air, trying to calm the storm that was brewing inside her. Ruth counted the cars as they passed by her window. One, two, three, four … Then the number 17 bus stopped and a woman exited, lighting a cigarette as soon as her feet hit the pavement. The red tip glared bright and Ruth’s head was filled with another time, another woman, another cigarette. Marian.
15
RUTH
Then
Marian arrived unannounced at Mark’s flat where Ruth was staying now. Her unmistakable scent of nicotine and Chloé perfume filled the air as she walked into the room. She looked around her, taking in every detail of the small two-bedroomed flat, disappointment and vitriol in every glance.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mother?’ Ruth asked, moving towards the kettle.
Marian looked at her in surprise. ‘Since when did you start making tea for anyone? You’ve never done that before.’
Ruth let the sound of the running water cover the sound of the sigh that her mother was inevitably making. Then, once the kettle was switched on, she replied, ‘My new doctor has been helping me manage my food issues.’
‘You have a perfectly good family doctor. What will he think about this betrayal?’
‘I am sure he will care little,’ Ruth replied, rearranging the mugs in the small cupboard over the sink. Mark must have messed them up earlier this morning. They were all wrong.
‘You can’t have this baby,’ Marian said, cutting straight to the chase.
That was one thing that mother and daughter shared. They said it like it was.
‘Who says so?’ Ruth replied.
‘I do. With good reason, too. You are not mothering material. You never will be.’ She leaned in, as if they were friends whispering secrets together and continued, ‘Not everyone is cut out to be a parent.’
Ruth remembered the distress and isolation of her childhood and realised that her mother was speaking a truth. And Ruth knew that there were many times that she unintentionally hurt people with her bluntness. Her mother, on the other hand, showed no remorse.
Ruth watched a crack on the wall behind her mother and popped a knuckle. It helped. She couldn’t explain why, but when she did, she felt a release. And she needed every bit of help right then. ‘You are right. Not everyone is cut out to be a parent. You and Dad are proof of that.’
Marian’s response was a slap that landed hard on Ruth’s left cheek. The sound of skin on skin bounced around the room, and when the room fell silent all that was left was a red mark on Ruth’s face. And heart. Ruth reached up and touched the bruised spot. Shock at the assault changed to acceptance faster than it should. Marian had battered her daughter with words for years; this was just another form of abuse.
‘I shouldn’t have hit you. But sometimes, Ruth, you just drive me insane.’ Marian made sure that her apology was an excuse. The fault was all on Ruth.
‘Did you ever love me, Mother?’ Ruth asked.
Marian answered without missing a beat. She had asked herself this same question many times, when guilt niggled her conscience. ‘You were difficult right from the start. I watched other mothers in the ward with their newborn babies in their arms. And I was envious of them, because when I picked you up, you cried. Even back then you preferred to be in your cot, on your own, rather than in my arms.’
Ruth was puzzled by this revelation because her childhood memories were peppered with moments where she reached out to her mother for an embrace, only to be pushed away.
‘And on top of that you cried incessantly as a child. From the moment you came into the world you screamed your anger at the world, at me, at your father. Always so angry. It was frankly all rather exhausting,’ Marian said.
‘I was a baby!’ Ruth shouted, the injustice of her mother’s accusations making her angry.
‘A baby who tore our life apart. A baby who broke my heart when she refused to breast-feed. No matter how hard the nurses tried – I tried – you would not latch on. Always the same with you: your way or the highway!’
Ruth was staggered by the degree of hatred in her mother’s voice. How had they come to this? Her earlier question about her mother’s love was answered in every recrimination that Marian fired at her.
‘Mark was so easy as a child. Always smiling and kissing his mama. Then you came along and everything changed …’ Marian said. She stood up and took her Marlboro Lights out of her small grey clutch handbag. She tapped the top of the box, then extracted a cigarette, letting it dangle between her ruby-red lips. Then, with a look of disgust at Ruth, she said, ‘I can’t even have a cigarette.’
‘You need to stop smoking; they will kill you,’ Ruth said.
Irritation flashed across Marian’s face. ‘I gave them up when I was pregnant with you and Mark. When Alan left, I swear they were the only things I had in my life that gave me relief from dealing with …’
Dealing with ME, Mother, we all know that is how the sentence ends.
‘My marriage ended because of you. We would still be together if it wasn’t for you.’
Ruth tried to remember a time when her parents looked happy together and failed. The weight of that responsibility sagged her down as a child. A sudden surprising niggle of doubt took root in her head. Was it really her fault that her father left?
Everyone’s lives are destroyed just because they know me.
/>
Irritation took up residence beside doubt. Ruth was fed up being the scapegoat for everything that went wrong for the Wildes.
‘We never had a happy family,’ Ruth said.
Marian paused before she replied, ‘You’ve had your fun playing house. But I’ve no doubt that by now the realities of your situation have hit home. Correct?’
When Ruth remained silent, Marian opened her handbag and pulled out a brown manila folder. She tapped it with one of her manicured red nails. ‘Don’t start flapping. I need your hands here, to sign these forms. I’ve filled out the details. Although you changing doctors is most irksome. I’ve the wrong name written down now.’
Pop, pop, pop …
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. That sound is like fingernails on a chalkboard, Ruth. I don’t know what is worse, the flapping or the knuckles.’ She waved her cigarette towards Ruth’s stomach, then with a sigh, finished, ‘These forms will start the adoption process for your … baby.’
Ruth felt her arms begin to fly and watched Marian smirk as they made their way upwards. Ruth focused her attention on her knuckles and willed her arms downward again.
Marian’s voice changed. Became softer, each word wrapping itself insidiously around Ruth’s neck. ‘It’s time you came home, to me, then we can draw a line under all this nonsense,’ she said.
It is not nonsense, it is my life! Leave me alone, Mother, leave me and my baby alone!
‘For goodness’ sake, say something. You’re just staring at me like an imbecile!’ Marian’s voice was back to its usual snappy self.
‘I. Am. Not. Giving. Up. My. Baby!’ Ruth screamed.
Marian’s laugh rang through the apartment, mirthless and cruel. ‘What happens when the baby fusses over food like you did? Because it will. And if it has your stubborn streak … You refused to eat a single thing I prepared, not one thing. Do you have any idea how that made me feel as a mother?’
Marian was lost in the past and, like a can of worms spilling open, she continued her tirade. ‘It was impossible to dress you. You refused to put on the clothes I laid out each morning for you to wear. It had to be the same thing every day. And Lord knows, if there was a label on the back of your top or skirt you would have a meltdown. You complained incessantly that your socks hurt your feet. And don’t get me started on your school jumpers, which you insisted scratched you.’
‘I am sorry,’ Ruth whispered. She could not deny any of these accusations. Was it really that big a deal to cut the labels out of her clothes? Now, she put a long-sleeved T-shirt underneath her jumpers, so that they did not itch. Marian always refused to find a solution to help Ruth as a child. Instead they fought, Ruth cried, flapped and popped while Marian sighed.
‘I grew up feeling the weight of that finger pointing at me,’ Ruth told her mother. ‘I wish you would believe me when I say that my intention was never to aggravate or upset you or Dad. Or Mark.’
Silence filled the room again, save for the tip-tap of Marian’s nails on the cigarette packet in her hand as she planned her next missile to launch.
‘To be honest, Ruth, we could never get things right with you. Your father gave up trying. Maybe it’s time I do the same.’
16
TOM
Now
It had been a quiet day for Tom. Neither Lash nor Bones stopped by for their usual chat. Maybe they had gone into one of the shelters for the night. He began the task of setting up his bed, pulling things from his rucksack, first unfolding a large sheet of cardboard, which he laid on the ground for Bette. Then laying his sleeping bag and cushion on the bench. While he found his park bench comfortable, it lost its charm on a wet night. Thankfully, predictions of a mild night looked likely to come true. But there was no getting away from the fact that winter was coming. He’d been in Pearse St. Library earlier today. One of the librarians there, Jackie, was a dog lover and turned a blind eye to Bette Davis, who in fairness was always an exemplary guest. Tom liked to read the newspapers and catch up on the news and weather online.
Earlier this evening a couple of volunteers from the Peter McVerry Trust stopped by to see him. They did most nights. Walking angels, they were. They gave him sandwiches, hot tea, dry socks and blankets. More than that, they chatted to him. And tonight the main topic of conversation was the impending bad weather that was making its way towards them. He promised he would go into the shelter for a few days once the weather changed. The noise there made it hard for him to reach his family. Here, on his own with nature, his family were only moments away. He was eager to get back to them.
He whispered to Bette Davis, ‘You stay here, girl. I’ll be back in a minute.’ She barked her consent and Tom walked towards the back of the park to the public toilets. He was gone only a few minutes in total. His pace was quick despite the painful knee, because Bette didn’t like to be left on her own.
Hoody boy? At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Surely not the same kid that he’d seen in Swords? That was miles away. What was he doing here too? There was something about the way he moved … Tom watched him for a few moments. He was making his way towards his bench. The kid paused and looked at Bette. Tom’s first instinct was to run over but he stayed a few feet away, stepping behind a tree to watch him. He’d seemed harmless enough the last time they spoke, though angry at the world and wanting to express himself the only way he thought he could. But appearances were often deceptive, that he knew for sure. Tom had made mistakes with kids before, taking them under his wing, seeing something in them that he fancied could be Mikey from a different life.
The kid shivered. His shoulders were hunched up like an old man’s. He shoved his two hands into his sweatshirt pockets. What was he doing wearing jeans and a hoody in the middle of winter? Where was the boy’s coat? Tom pulled his long overcoat closer to his body, grateful for its protection. It might not look much but it was functional.
Surprised, he saw Bette nuzzle the kid’s hand. She didn’t usually do that with strangers. Tom stepped out of the shadows of the trees.
If the kid was startled to see Tom he didn’t show it. He smiled when he saw him walk his way. Was it because he recognised Tom or that he just didn’t think he was a threat?
‘Hello.’ The kid’s smile was wide and instant, the kind that lit up a room. It changed his face. Tom resisted the urge to smile back. He didn’t want to make friends with this kid. He wanted to eat his supper, close his eyes and go home to Cathy and Mikey.
‘Hope you’re not thinking of giving my bench a makeover,’ Tom said.
‘Maybe I am. Was thinking about writing, “Keep your coins, I want change.”’
The kid had just quoted Banksy. ‘You looked him up,’ Tom said, impressed.
‘You were right, he’s cool.’
‘I’d still rather you left my bench alone. And don’t be mauling Bette Davis, either. She doesn’t like it if you do that.’
Bette Davis panted with delight as the kid petted her, making a liar out of Tom.
‘That’s a weird name for a dog.’
‘She’s named after a Hollywood legend. Someone else for you to look up,’ Tom said.
‘I looked up Take That songs. Was it “Patience”, “Shine”, “Relight My Fire” … em, or “A Million Love Songs”?’
Tom shook his head at each suggestion.
‘“Back For Good”?’
‘Bingo! That’s the one,’ Tom said, delighted. ‘Thanks, kid.’
Two men walked by, takings swigs from a bottle of cider, held in a brown paper bag. ‘Howya, Doc,’ the taller of the two said. His words came out in a slurring rush.
‘Bones. Lash.’ Tom nodded at them each. Normally he’d be glad of their company, but they’d been drinking and he was worried about the boy.
Bones moved on but Lash stopped and walked towards the kid, growling at him, ‘What you looking at?’
The kid, to be fair, stood his ground and lifted his chin defiantly. ‘Nothing much.’
His bravad
o only made him look younger than his years.
‘You snotty-nosed little bastard,’ Lash said.
Tom stepped in between the two and growled, ‘Feck off, Lash! You’d start a row with a paper bag when you’ve had a few ciders. Don’t be picking on the kid. He’s doing nothing but minding his own business.’ Bette Davis stood to attention, ready to defend her master and new friend if necessary. She threw in a growl just in case Lash took a notion. Bones, always the peacemaker, dragged Lash away, calling, ‘Sorry’ over his shoulder.
Tom ignored him and he turned back to the kid. He didn’t seem so cocky any more.
‘You’re a puzzle to me,’ Tom said. ‘One minute I find you about to break the law and then I see you’re wandering around parks way past your bedtime.’ Tom took a closer look at the boy. He had said he was staying in a hotel with his mam. Had that changed? The kid was clean. He looked healthy. There was no sign of drink or drugs on him. Whatever was going on, it was time he had a stark wake-up call. This park was no place for him.
‘That tall guy, the thin lanky one. He called you Doc. Is that your name?’ the kid asked.
‘To some, yes.’
‘I’m DJ.’ He sat down on the bench and ruffled Bette behind her ear. ‘Do they live on the streets, too? Those men.’
‘They do. In the main they are harmless enough. Well, Bones is, anyhow. Lash gets contrary with drink on him.’
‘Why is he called Bones?’ DJ asked.
‘I gave him that nickname when he broke his arm a few years back. It’s as good a name as any.’
‘Why is the other fella called Lash?’
‘He’s always on the lash,’ Tom replied.
‘Which means he’s always contrary,’ DJ said.
They both laughed at this.
‘As funny as you are, kid, you need to go home,’ Tom said.
‘I told you. I don’t have a home.’
‘And I told you what I thought about that.’ Tom touched his head and heart. ‘You have a mother. You told me that too. She’ll be worried.’
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