‘They thought my dad was dead?’ I’m not sure I’ve heard correctly.
‘Seems good ol’ Hamish had been using Fergus’s name in London. God knows why, but if you piss off enough people like that boy did you’d have to change your name ten times over. He’d probably have worked his way through the entire family if he hadn’t died.’
My heart pounds at that discovery, a clear link to Dad’s alternate name.
‘Come to think of it I remember hearing about a Hamish O’Neill,’ he says suddenly. ‘Funny, you’ve reminded me now. Knew it was familiar when you said it. Here’s a funny story …’ He shifts in his chair, livens up. ‘I’d been hearing things about a lad, Hamish O’Neill, playing marbles locally. Didn’t mean anything, but Hamish wasn’t a common name around and when you’d hear it, a fella would listen out, and O’Neill, well, that was Molly’s maiden name, before she became Boggs, and then Doyle. It didn’t mean anything, but I told Molly. I was drunk, shouldn’t have said it maybe, we were at the wedding – Fergus’s wedding – and, no offence to your ma, but it was so hoity-toity the fuckin’ thing drove me to the drink and gave me a loose tongue. So after I tell her, she chats to your da, him in his fancy blue suit and frilly shirt and looking like a poofter, and I see her slap him across the face. “You’re not him,” she says.’
He’s laughing at this, laughing so hard, at the image of my dad being slapped by his mother on his wedding day. My eyes fill with tears and I try to blink them away.
‘That put him in his place,’ he says, wiping his eyes. ‘Now I never knew if it was your da playing or if it was another fella, a coincidence as they say, but there weren’t many who played marbles at that age, not around where we lived anyway. Ever since he was a mucker he’d be out on the road all day, playing, you’d have to bate him to get in for dinner. Every birthday and Christmas present, all he wanted for was feckin’ marbles. All the lads were the same, but your da was the worst because he was the best. He even hung out in some dodgy places with Hamish, Hamish taking him under his wing thinking he’s some bigshot agent making a few quid from his baby brother. I told your da when he was a teenager: “You’ll never meet a wife if ye keeps playing those feckin’ things.” He gave up when Hamish died. At least it did him good that way.’
I came here looking for answers, for insight into Dad’s life, though I wasn’t sure if I’d get them. But if Hamish used Dad’s name in London, it explains why Dad used Hamish’s name for marble playing. As a sign of respect? Remembrance? To honour him? To bring him back to life? And no wonder Dad played marbles in secret, when everyone around him was telling him to stop. But why continue this into his adult life?
‘How did Dad feel about Hamish having used his name?’
‘Couldn’t understand it myself, but your da took it as a compliment. Proud as punch that Hamish had stolen his name. Like he was something special. Puffed-out chest and all at the funeral. Silly boy didn’t realise that Hamish was getting him in a world of trouble using his name. If Fergus had set foot in the wrong place at the wrong time, Hamish could have got his brother killed. But Hamish was like that, I told you: a leech. Sucking up everything in a person and moving on.’
There’s a long silence.
‘How did you and Grandma meet?’ I ask suddenly, wondering what possessed her to marry this man after the death of her husband.
‘Met her in the butcher’s shop. She bought her meat from me.’
That was it.
‘Must have been true love to marry a woman with four children,’ I say, trying to bring positivity to it.
‘Those four runts?’ he asks. ‘She’s bloody lucky I married her at all.’
I take in the surroundings. It’s simple and clean, he is keeping it well.
‘Laura will be here soon,’ he says, following my gaze. ‘Tommy’s daughter.’
‘Oh, right. Of course.’ I try to think of the last time I met my cousin.
‘She comes on Fridays, Christina on Mondays, the lads every day in between, checking up on me to make sure I haven’t keeled over and have maggots coming out of my eyes. That’s why they moved me over here: Laura lives across the way, they can keep a better eye on me that way, stop me getting up to mischief,’ he chuckles. ‘“Are ye all right, Grandda? Are ye still alive, Grandda?” Ah, they’re a good lot, the Doyles. Tommy and Bobby’s kids. Bobby’s not with the ma any more, you hear that?’
I shake my head.
‘Sad to hear that, I liked her. But Bobby can’t get enough of the women, never could, and Joe can’t stand them. He’s a queer, you know that?’
‘He’s gay, yes, I know.’
‘I blame his ma for that, always suffocating him – don’t go here, don’t go there – while the rest of them went out and about and raised themselves.’
‘I’d say he was gay no matter how she was with him,’ I say, having had enough of him now.
He laughs, ‘That’s what he says, but what do I know?’
Silence then. Uncomfortable. We’ve both reached the end of our chat.
‘How’s your da?’
‘He’s okay.’
‘Still doesn’t remember much?’
‘Not everything.’
‘No harm,’ he says, almost sadly to himself. ‘They wish he’d remember them though. Talk about it all the time.’
‘Who?’
‘The Boggs boys. The Doyle boys.’
‘Of course Dad remembers them.’
‘Not the recent years.’
‘Well I suppose they weren’t close in recent years,’ I say.
‘But they were,’ he says, riled up like I’ve accused him of lying. ‘These past few years they’d started meeting up again. They played marbles, would you believe. Them and his new woman. They all liked her. No offence to your ma, but they said this one was good for him. Kept them all together. He doesn’t remember any of that?’ He looks at me like he doesn’t believe my dad’s memory loss.
I shake my head, completely taken aback.
‘Do you know her name?’
‘Whose?’
‘His … girlfriend. This woman.’
‘Ah now,’ he waves his hand dismissively. ‘Never met her. But the boys know. They can tell you.’
With a weak, ‘Tell your ma I was asking for her,’ he closes the door and I just manage to avoid my cousin Laura, who’s carrying a vacuum cleaner and a bucket and mop across from an opposite flat on the other side of the courtyard. I sit into my car feeling stunned by what I’ve learned.
I search through my phone for my Uncle Angus’s number. He is my godfather, the one I have most contact with, which is limited to text messages on birthdays on the years that we remember.
I dial his number and hold it to my ear, my heart pounding. Hello Uncle Angus, Sabrina here, you haven’t heard from me in almost a year but I’ve just learned that you and Dad were pals again before his stroke and I’ve also just learned that you knew his girlfriend. Could you please tell me, who is she? Because I don’t know. I seem to be the only one, apart from Dad, who doesn’t know.
No answer. I hang up the phone, feeling angry and stupid once again. As the anger surges through me I turn the key in the ignition and pull out. As I drive towards the hospital I hear Mattie’s words in my head, calling Hamish a leech.
At the time I felt Mattie was overly harsh. I could understand Dad feeling special and honoured by the fact Hamish hadn’t forgotten him when he’d moved away. Dad obviously looked up to Hamish his whole life, thought the world of him, it was an honour for his brother to have taken his name. But as the anger seeps through me, I feel Mattie’s words now.
Whether he planned to or not, Hamish did suck some of the life from Dad, and in doing so not only stole a part of Dad from me, but worse, Hamish stole a part of Dad from himself.
Cat leaves me after a dinner of salmon, garlic fondant potatoes and peas and green beans made by Mel, who’s a marvel in the kitchen and often cooks with produce from the small allotment here on the
yard, helped by a few of the inmates, but not grumpy Max. He has nothing to do with anything and complains about everything. Cat kisses me gently on the forehead and I like it, it is so long since I’ve felt that kind of intimacy. I now realise that visits from Gina are cordial in comparison, not affectionate. Sabrina’s boys shower me with cuddles and hugs and thumps and clambering, and I love that; Sabrina’s hugs are maternal-like, always worried about me; but Cat, I feel a connection with her, an intimacy. I look up to her for more, but perhaps that is asking for too much on what we jokingly call our first date. My great fear, as Lea wheels me to my bedroom for the evening, is that I won’t remember Cat tomorrow. How many times did this very event occur in the last year for me to forget it again the next day or a few days later, maybe even a year?
‘Penny for your thoughts, Fergus,’ Lea says, picking up on my concerns as usual.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
She helps me up out of my chair and I sit on the toilet. She leaves to give me privacy and returns to help when I’m finished.
Do I want Cat to have to do this for me? Is there a future for us? Am I going to improve? I was happy here, bumbling along, existing, living, being cared for, no pressures. But with her out there, knowing there is a life that I had but didn’t know it until today, it makes me uneasy. I need to be there, I should be there. I need to get better, I need to wipe my own bloody arse.
‘But,’ Lea says, cutting into my thoughts, ‘the other way of looking at it is that there’s someone there for you, waiting for you, helping you. Someone who loves you. That should motivate you, Fergus.’
I’m confused. Have I said those thoughts aloud?
‘And the other thing is, you’ve remembered quite a lot more today than usual. That’s major progress. Remember when you couldn’t move your right arm? And then all of a sudden you did? Knocked that glass of water right over on top of me, but I didn’t care, I was jumping up and down like a happy lunatic, had to hold my boobs and everything, remember?’
I laugh along with her, remembering the moment.
‘Glad that smile is back now, Fergus. I know it’s scary, changes can be scary. But remember it’s all good, you’re getting better every single day.’
I nod, thankful.
‘Have you had enough for the day?’ she asks, standing at the end of my bed, holding my feet like she doesn’t even realise it.
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ve a few visitors to see you. I thought I’d wait and see how you’re doing before telling them if they can come in or not. Just maybe you’ve had enough today. I don’t want to tire you out.’
‘No, no, I’m not tired at all,’ I lie. I do feel exhausted from the day, the places my mind has brought me, the day with Cat, but I’m curious. I look at the clock. It’s eight p.m. ‘Who’s here?’
‘Your brothers.’
‘All of them?’ I say, surprised. I’ve seen them of course over the past few years, but never all of us together.
‘Well there’s five of them, I don’t know if that’s all of them.’
Five. Is that all of them? No Hamish. There hasn’t been a Hamish for forty years, but I’ve always felt that he’s missing. No. Five is not all of them.
‘Will I tell them to come in? It’s okay if you don’t want to,’ she says, concerned.
‘It’s okay. Tell them I want to see them.’
‘Okay. And Dr Loftus will probably call in to see you as well.’
Dr Loftus, the resident psychologist I have weekly sit-downs with, has obviously heard the news of my memory today.
‘I’m off to the office to do some paperwork, but Grainne is here if you need her.’
Grainne. Who grunts when she lifts me from my chair to anywhere like I’m a sack of potatoes she wants to get rid of. ‘Thanks, Lea.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She winks, then she’s gone.
I hear them before I see them and they have me smiling before they even arrive in the door, a bunch of teenagers pushing, shoving and bouncing off each other as they make their way in, though they don’t look that way any more.
Angus, the oldest, is sixty-three and has practically lost all his hair, Duncan is sixty-one, I’m fifty-nine, Tommy is fifty-five, Bobby the charmer is fifty and Joe the baby is forty-six.
‘Surprise!’ they announce, ducking their heads in the door.
‘Sssh,’ someone says outside, probably Grainne, and they all grumble and give her abuse as they close the door on her.
‘We heard you had a good day,’ Angus says. ‘So we thought we’d celebrate.’ He takes out a bottle of whisky from his coat. ‘I know you can’t drink it, but we fucking can so not a word out of you.’
They laugh and try to find enough places in the small room to perch, settle and sit.
‘Who told you I had a good day?’
‘Cat,’ Duncan says easily, to a few disgruntled stares from the others.
‘You know Cat?’
‘Who doesn’t fucking know Cat? Oh, that’s right, you didn’t until today,’ Tommy says, and that’s the ice-breaker everyone needed. Tommy slides the chair over to Bobby for him to have. Bobby sits down despite his brother being older, but some things never change.
‘She said you told her about the swear jar,’ Bobby says.
‘I did.’
‘When did you remember that?’
‘I’m surprised you even remember that,’ Duncan says. ‘You were always off stuffing worms up your hole.’
They explode with laughter while Bobby protests with, ‘That was one time, all right!’
Dr Loftus enters. ‘Do I hear a party in here?’ he asks jovially, then fixes me with that intense look. There’s barely room for all of us in here; it gets hot quickly, particularly under his gaze.
‘So tell us, Fergus,’ Angus says, pouring Dr Loftus some whisky. ‘How did you remember the swear jar?’
I look out of the window, the moon high in the indigo sky, full and perfect, and I think of Sabrina. Lea’s dimples, Sabrina’s nose. That got it started.
‘The moon,’ I say.
‘You don’t believe in that voodoo stuff?’ Angus says.
‘I do,’ Tommy says. ‘I could tell you a thing or two.’
‘I do too,’ Duncan agrees.
‘There could be something in it, all right,’ Dr Loftus says, rubbing the stubble on his face. ‘It’s been an interesting day so far.’
‘Sabrina could never sleep during a full moon,’ I say, and they keep a respectful silence. They’re a rowdy bunch but they know their place.
Joe hasn’t said anything at all since he entered, the baby in the corner, observant and concerned. Self-contained. I’m surprised he’s here at all, but appreciative.
‘Which one of you stole the fucking marble swear jar?’ I say suddenly, which sends them into a spin, laughing. Angus literally nearly pisses himself and launches into a spiel about his prostate, Tommy who smokes too much almost coughs to death. They argue and blame one another, voices raised over each other, fingers pointed, the banter flying.
I remember the moment. There were about fifty marbles in the jar, we’d had a busy swearing month that time. I’d made a new friend in secondary school, Larry ‘Lampy’ Brennan, who was big into swearing. He’d get himself into trouble and I’d get him out of it. My favourite rainbow cub scout had landed itself in the jar after I’d told Bobby he was a fat fuck and I desperately wanted it back. I’d been to the chemist every week, not caring what was in the brown paper bag, I’d helped peel potatoes, carrots, cleaned the toilet outside, I was the best boy that month.
‘It was probably you and you can’t remember,’ Angus says as soon as he’s gathered himself. ‘You’re not getting away with that.’
We all laugh.
‘I don’t think it was me,’ I say, really believing it, feeling the wrench of finding it gone.
‘To be honest, I always thought it was you,’ Tommy says. ‘You were always going on abou
t the … what was it called, lads?’
‘Rainbow cub scout,’ they all say in unison, apart from Joe.
Dr Loftus laughs at them.
‘You kept on at Ma about swapping it with another one, but she wouldn’t let you,’ Tommy recalls.
‘She was a hard one,’ Angus shakes his head, ‘bless her soul. I thought it was you too, to be fair.’
‘It was me,’ Joe finally speaks up and everyone turns to stare at him in surprise. He laughs, guiltily, not sure whether he’s about to be beaten up.
‘It can’t have been you,’ I say. ‘What were you – two? Three?’
‘Three, one of my first memories. I remember pulling the kitchen chair over to the shelf, pulling it down. I put it in my cart – remember the wooden one with the blocks?’
Bobby nods.
‘Just you two lads had that, we never had anything so fancy,’ Angus teases, but there’s truth in it. Bobby and Joe always had more than we ever did, the last two babies while we were all out of the house working and giving Ma money that she poured into those babies, mostly Joe.
‘I pulled it down the alley, behind the house, then threw it over the wall at the end. It smashed.’
‘Where was Ma?’ I ask, stunned. I never suspected Joe, not for a second, the rest of us fought for weeks about that.
‘Chatting to Mrs Lynch about something, something important, heads together, smoking, you remember.’
We chuckle at the image.
‘She noticed I was gone at one point. I remember her grabbing me in the alley and dragging me and the cart home. So it was me. Sorry, lads.’
‘Jesus, good one, Joe. You got us.’
He’s earned some respect in the room and we think about that revelation in a surprised silence.
The Marble Collector Page 17
