Heaps of Trouble (20 page)

The new life we had been planning had vanished with the judge's verdict and I watched the destruction of the parents' dreams with mounting concern.

Oh yes, I had had my dreams as well. I, too, had been caught up in the ‘promised-land' euphoria, dreaming of a farm in the country with white-railed fences marking its long driveway. With bay horses grazing in green fields, of a different school, in a different area where, perhaps, we could live as a family once more. And, while I never imagined replacing Catherine, I did hope perhaps to have other brothers and sisters.

But I was young and had a very fertile imagination. I could dream my dreams and, if they were not to be realised, then I had a lifetime in front of me to turn new dreams into reality. The parents felt as if they had rolled the dice and lost the throw; they were fated for a life in Emmett Road, with no escape.

If the suggestion of ‘compo' had never arisen after the accident, I believe they would have had the courage and strength to endure the sorrow and come through it. Without the hope of free money they could have built again over the ruins of the tragedy that had damaged and reshaped our lives. Now, for the parents in particular, sorrow turned to bitterness. Bitterness with nobody and with everybody, with life in general. We all blamed ourselves; we all blamed each other.

Even as we sat in the high court listening to the Calor gas barristers presenting their case, we had begun to doubt ourselves. We had begun to wonder if there was some truth in their version of events and now came the time for questions. Questions that brought no satisfactory answers, only more questions.

Maybe the Primus stove did blow up and sever the pipeline connecting the cylinder to the caravan, as they had claimed was possible?

Maybe the father had been on the bottle that day and was completely inebriated?

Why wasn't I missed? Why had nobody come to my assistance to help me put out the flames that were consuming me?

If the mother had reacted faster, could she have rushed over and plucked Catherine from the burning mattress before she was mortally injured?

Should the father have reacted faster, too, and also concentrated on saving Catherine?

So many ‘ifs'. So many ‘maybes'.

So much doubt that, at times, it would push aside any rational thought.

Why did the judge make me a ward of court? Was this normal practice with a juvenile? Or was it that he hadn't trusted the parents to manage my share of the award?

The father blamed himself, because he had lit the match that had set the whole thing off. He had not noticed a leak in the gas bottle that he had bought only a few days before; he had been the one who had brought over the Primus stove; and, in his own mind, it began to seem as if
he
had caused the accident. He also blamed the mother for not allowing us to play, as we had requested. In his grief he turned to an old friend for peace and solitude: his old friend alcohol. Under its influence he would shout out his accusations. He blamed our solicitors for conniving with the opposition. He blamed the Calor Gas company for supplying the bottle in the first place and, especially, he blamed the bastards for getting away with it. But mostly he blamed the mother for not allowing Catherine and I to go off and play.

The mother blamed herself for not allowing us to play. She blamed herself for coming away without any burns or injuries and, because the mother was a trained nurse, she concluded that perhaps she could have done more for Catherine before they brought her to the hospital. It had also been her idea that we go down to Tramore, since I had been out of school with the damaged kneecap. The mother, too, found a new friend: she embraced the father's old one. Under the spell of alcohol the mother blamed the father for giving me the bike against her wishes, which led to me bashing my knee, which led to us going to Tramore when I should have been at school. The mother blamed me for having the bike against her wishes and hurting my knee, thus forcing her to make the decision to stop us from playing, repeating endlessly that if I hadn't hurt my knee none of us would have been in Tramore in the first place. In her drunkenness she would spit out at me that the father had ruined me anyway, and then she would go into a state oscillating between rage and appalling distress. In this condition she would demand, with tears streaming from her eyes and mucous from the nose, why I hadn't been taken in preference to Catherine, instead of being scarred to remind her daily of her loss?

But I alone knew where the full blame lay, I knew who was solely responsible, and it was not the father or the mother. In that split second when I had looked up, I had seen the father's match as it touched the invisible layer of gas and flared out, as if his fingers had gained magical powers of fire, before reaching the Primus stove.

I saw the yellow ball of flame thundering towards me.

I saw the ground burning.

I saw Catherine's mattress explode in yellow flames.

And
I
was the one who had ridden a bike recklessly through the streets of Dublin. There (according to the law of averages) I should have been, if not killed, at least seriously injured. Instead, for all my bravado, I had only ended up with a badly bruised kneecap, thus writing the script for the final act that resulted in Catherine's death.

I had been left to live on, so that every time I took off my shirt and viewed myself in a mirror, the scars would act as a reminder of my folly. I took refuge in my own company and spent hours in my room. There a new thought began to develop: maybe there was a reason why I had been left to live, perhaps the gods had not quite finished with me yet?

Catherine's clothes had been left in exactly the same place as on the day we had departed for Tramore. Her photographs were enlarged and placed all around the house. Catherine's grave became a shrine that every visitor to the house was brought to see.

At the time I could not understand why this was happening. If I had, I might have found it easier to comprehend the events of the next few years, while the parents began to try for more children. Every time that hope flickered to life, the father would go around the house singing, ‘Googy back again, Googy back again', ‘Googy' being the pet name that he had called Catherine. Then there came the disappointment when the mother miscarried yet again.

He even told me that he had written a song in Catherine's memory, which he had me learn off by heart: ‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey, you'll never know dear, how much we love you, so come back…' One day I turned on the radio and heard it being played and when I asked him about it he said that he had had it published in her memory. More lies. By now he was getting to the stage at which he was incapable of telling the truth.

The father then suggested to the mother that he could have a child by another woman. It appeared that the mother could not now go the full nine months and, because the child of another woman would be half his, we could bring it up as our own and get Catherine back that way. Adoption was also looked at, but I think they never got past the first round with the adoption board.

‘Well, look what you did with the last bunch of kids you had in your care; you went and got them all blown up. Now you want us to give you some more? I don't think so.'

In this new home environment I learned to survive in the best way that I could. Over the next few years the mother began to accuse me of thinking only of myself, with no regard for anybody else. Perhaps she was right and that I could have been a better son for her, been there for her. But I didn't, and I wasn't.

It was a beautiful summer's morning in June. I had just finished another year in school and, more importantly, completed my intermediate exams. It was the summer of 1970. Hippy power was in, with their ‘make peace not war' philosophy ruling the streets of Dublin, especially around the Stephen's Green area. I was fifteen years old, heading down to Boulta for the summer holidays, and was once again taking the train out of Kingsbridge Station. I was quite pleased with the way my exams had gone, but I would have to wait until late summer before the official results came out. I knew that I had blown Irish, but that didn't bother me too much as I had completely written the subject off as a bad job anyway. I was resigning myself to the fact that, in my case, seeing inside the grounds of a university was unlikely.

The train pulled out of the station and began its now familiar journey south. I was heading for freedom from Emmett Road, going to spend another few months on Matty's farm where I could forget rowing parents and the screaming fights, which had escalated into bitter conflicts typified by accusations and, at times, undisguised hatred. By this time the mother, when drunk, had taken to accusing the father of destroying their case and would work herself into such frenzy that he had to call a doctor from the dispensary and have her sedated.

A party was to be held at Boulta that evening and my cousin Pat had ensured that I received an invitation, as all of my uncles, aunts and cousins were to be present. But the reason that my pulse was beating faster and I was experiencing a feeling of anticipation, fear and apprehension all rolled into one, was that Gina was also invited. Over the two years since that first, fateful night at the pictures, I had often seen her during my excursions down to the farm. Mostly on a Sunday morning, when she and her older sister, Marigold, called into the farmyard to collect one or both of my cousins for a day's hunting. On those occasions she would be on her pony, looking confident, straight-backed and totally at ease. It was if all of the other sounds in the yard faded out when I saw her perched up there, her smile lighting up her face like the sun breaking through black clouds on an overcast winter's day. I could only hear my heart beating violently against ribs that I thought could not restrain its pounding. I would already have spent the morning rehearsing what I thought were witty and amusing lines, in an attempt to win her over with my outstanding dialogue. But as soon as her eyes settled on my face I always turned into a complete, babbling buffoon: my vocal cords would seize up and emit only grunting noises that surprised even me, while at the same time my face turned the colour of a ripe tomato.

And so here I was, sitting in a half-empty train carriage, trying to restrain my apprehension and hoping that when I set eyes on Gina again I would not revert to a stammering Dublin idiot. Accepting that worrying over something that might not happen was not going to solve the problem, I settled down and let the train's rhythmic noises lull me into a semi-consciousness reverie.

In this state, my drifting thoughts alternated between rehearsing that night's opener to Gina (‘Hi, Gina, my name is Eeeeee, Ee, Ee…') and skimming forward to the future. I wanted to become an engineer. I wanted to build bridges, dams and aeroplanes. I wanted to start with a large, clean sheet of paper and draw out some of my inner visions – and to gain the qualifications necessary to transform those dream designs into reality. To be a part of creating something new that might remind generations to come of my existence on this planet. I had spent hours studying the qualifications I would need to join University College Dublin, just around the corner from my school in Leeson Street. I could see that I would have to concentrate on maths and art over the next two years – both subjects I was good at. But of course there was also the Irish – at which I was useless. But, being the optimist, I still hoped for the miracle needed to get a D (at least) in my Irish Leaving Cert. exam paper.

‘Hello Gina, great to see…see…se…se…' No, same problem. Even when I talked to her in my head I stuttered as if I were sending a message in Morse code. What was it about this person that I couldn't string two words together from the comfort and safety of my train carriage? Think about something else. Over the past few years, since the court case, the parents had been behaving like fiddlers' elbows: as soon as one of them came out of hospital, the other would check in. In the father's case, he had dispensed with St Pats. I suspect that they took his drying-out periods too seriously and attempted to cure him with a week of ‘cold turkey', before plugging him into the nearest socket for the electric shock treatment. No, he had found a much better place called St John of Gods, which not only had the same indoor facilities as St Pats, but also boasted a nine-hole golf course. Here was the equivalent of a five-star hotel, and all being paid for by the health insurance company. Whenever the mother was in hospital he would suggest that we ‘visit the mother, and then go on to the hotel in Bray for a drink.'

However, the hotel seemed to attract lots of lovely young ladies, to whom the father had taken a fancy. We reached the stage at which I had to call him ‘Ron' in public, instead of 'Dad', if he was forced to take me with him. Better still (from his point of view, since I kept on forgetting myself), he'd say, ‘Here's a few bob, go off and spend it somewhere else.'

I have no idea of what kind of success he enjoyed with the young ladies, especially with me loitering in the background, but we made many visits to the mother during that period. Of course it was harder to get rid of a lad of fifteen, so maybe that's what prompted him to contact the navy in England and request that I take the entrance exam to see if I could become a cadet with Her Majesty's finest. I would have been accepted, but for failing the medical on the grounds that I was as blind as a bat.

‘Hi Gina, good to see you again, how are the horses going?' Yes, that was much better.

I hadn't noticed that the train had pulled into Cork station. Arousing myself from my daydream, I walked the short distance to the bus stop to catch the bus to Midleton, where Pat was to collect me. It was only a twenty-minute trip and, while I hung around waiting for Pat's arrival, I noticed a girl nearby who was also loitering with intent. When Pat arrived and called out a greeting to both of us, I realised that she, too, was joining the evening's festivities. Unfortunately, as I played the gentleman and placed our luggage in the boot of the car, Pat roared out across the car roof, ‘You'll be happy to know that Gina is going to be there tonight.'

My face turned bright red (a colour I was quickly beginning to associate with that name) and my speech impediment rushed back at the very thought of meeting her. Perhaps I would just let Pat make the formal introductions while I hovered close by, trying not to look like a complete berk who had just been let out of the asylum on parole.

Pat and her friend Ruth chatted on the drive to the farm, while I relaxed in the back seat and drifted off into my inner world once more.

Our shop was closed again. For how long it would be closed on this occasion, I had no idea. It appeared to be operating without any rhyme or reason. Whenever the parents did re-open it, they ran it with none of their former zeal, keeping it poorly stocked, with shabbily dressed display windows. Last year the father had re-opened and hired a shop assistant to run it while the mother was in hospital. Actually ‘assistants' would be more correct: they only ever lasted a week or two at best, although at first I couldn't fathom the reason for their brief tenure. Then I realised that he was coming home during the day and attempting to expand their job descriptions to include not only looking after the shop's needs, but his own as well.

It was a more recent ‘incident' that absorbed me as we travelled from Midleton out to the farm. I had arrived home unexpectedly early from school one evening recently and, finding the shop closed again, had let myself in through the hall door. While passing the father's room, I'd heard him in bed with his secretary from the office. I'd made myself scarce, since I didn't want him to know that I had ‘caught him in the act', but I was still wrestling with the problem of whether or not to tell the mother when the car arrived at Boulta.

The house was in uproar, with people rushing around everywhere cheerfully attempting to make ready for the party, which was scheduled to start in an hour. The house had, in effect, been divided into two separate sections. The parlour and front dining-room were to be given over to Matty's brothers, sisters, and special guests. The kitchen area was to be left to the ‘children', who numbered around thirty when all of the cousins had been tallied. One of my distant relations had been placed in charge of our group; he was a few years older than the rest of us and nicknamed the Kipper, for reasons totally unknown to me. Matty had given him explicit instructions not to let any of us have alcohol, except for the mild punch that his wife and Pat had prepared. I found the Kipper in the front kitchen setting up the record-player, since he had also elected himself DJ for the evening. He was a large fellow who sported a constantly lopsided grin that suggested mischievous acts in the making. When I called out a greeting to him, he nodded hello and beckoned me to follow as he headed for the back door. For some reason or another, I could never understand one word that he spoke; to make matters worse, he had a habit of speaking out of the side of his mouth without opening his lips.

As soon as we hit the safety of the backyard, beyond range of prying eyes, he produced a full whiskey bottle and, taking a swig, handed it over to me for sampling. So much for Matty's choice of custodian.

‘Grrruaght to seeee wyoour, heeeps, whayooou doooing?'

Hoping that he had just said that it was great to see me, I responded with a similar comment. Then, lowering his voice, he continued, ‘Cehween thee gireels finnnish crewith thee pounche, I cwarant wyoou to poooor the concotenncees of theeeis innntooo the booollleee, goootiiitt heeeeps? Iaaave alssso gotttenn a feeeeww mmoore in theee bacck off the caaar.'

I pieced together what he was after since, thankfully, he used hand gestures as well. He wanted me to put the contents of that whiskey bottle and the others he had stored in the back of his car into the punch-bowl when nobody was looking. Taking another swig from his proffered bottle, I told him not to worry and departed as quickly as I could to avoid any further conversation with him, no matter how short.

At just after seven o'clock my aunts and uncles began to arrive with their children in tow. Some opted to come in the front way and had no need of a bell to announce them, as the door had a habit of sticking: the noise of bodies banging and crashing against the front door while they attempted to gain entry was more than ample to herald their arrival. The smart ones, not having brought their battering-rams with them, opted for the back entrance. Here, with kisses for our aunts and handshakes for our uncles, they passed on through the kitchen into the parlour, leaving their offspring to swell our number. This method seemed to involve a good fifteen minutes for the obligatory greetings.

Our grandfather Pappy (or ‘the Godfather', as he was referred to by all) arrived early, dressed in his dark, three-piece suit, complete with bowler hat. He spent the evening sitting on a straight-backed chair in the centre of the room, presiding over the festivities. Nearly blind from being kicked in the head by a horse at the age of ninety, he was still a large and powerful man, sound of body and limb; he smoked his pipe and drank glasses of whiskey as if it was water. When he required a refill, he would hold up his empty glass and shout out, ‘Blazes, is there no drink to be got in this household? Bring me my belongings and take me to a proper pub.'

Our uncle Joe, after a few glasses of whiskey, would get up and dance on the living-room table, while scattering plates and cutlery in every direction and totally ignoring his wife's pleas to ‘come down you fool, before you end up breaking your other leg.' Joe had broken his leg while on honeymoon, riding one of his horses in a race, and was constantly reminded of this event by the rest of his family.

Hanna (another sister) and her husband, Dan, arrived along with their three children. They were kindly people who didn't get involved with the family rows, as they were too busy trying to carve out an existence on the patch of mountain they called their ‘farm'. Dan's only concern throughout the course of any social gathering would be to assess the time when he could go out to his car and bring in his fiddle, which he brought along for all special occasions. It sounded like a catfight breaking out when he put bow to string and always caused an instant outcry from the rest of the family. Inevitably, as this particular evening wore on and the effects of copious quantities of whiskey took over, he eventually unleashed it from its resting-place and began to play, drawing the usual response from one of his brothers.

‘Agh Jesus, Matty, who told him he could bring it in? Sure, Christ, it sounds like he's sawing timber.' Matty ignoring the comment, jumped onto the piano stool in the parlour, and began to beat out a melody to accompany the woodcutting.

Auntie Ruby turned up with her son and daughter. It was hard to believe that Ruby was part of the same large family, as she was totally different to the rest of them. She was small-framed, but more than compensated for her diminutive stature when she got drunk – and it usually only took about two glasses of whiskey to get the ball rolling. We monitored her progress from a distance and drew lots to see which one of us would go over and wind her up with her favourite topic. When the time was deemed right, especially since she was sitting down by herself, the lucky winner embarked on the following conversation.

‘Evening, Auntie Ruby, how are you tonight, enjoying the party?'

‘Ha, ha, augh, sure, grand, grand altogether, ha, ha.'