When All Is Said(53)

‘So let me get this straight, Mr Hampton,’ you interrupted, taking out your pen and that notebook you always carried, ‘you are compelled to buy someone else’s seeds?’

‘God’s honest. Go look it up. It ain’t no secret. It’s the law.’

Turned out it was that story ‘Seeds Unsown’ that won you that big award two years later. You sent us a framed picture of you being presented with it. Needless to say it got pride of place beside the telly. On the back you wrote:

To Dad with thanks. I’d never have gotten this if it weren’t for you.

It’s in the storage boxes, Kevin. Wrapped and packed safely.

‘Well, now this is some holiday,’ I said getting back in the car and waving to Chuck as we reversed. Chuck, who promised he’d take a trip to Ireland so I could return the hospitality. Never came, of course. But we exchange Christmas cards every year. His wife died a while back, a few years before Sadie. Still lives on the farm, although his nephew has taken it over. I wouldn’t mind a catch up to see how he’s fared. See if he’s handled the abandonment better than me.

When our holiday was over, I shook your hand with everything I had at the security gates in the airport. One of those ones where you hold the elbow as well. We stood there like that for a second until it got awkward.

‘Sure, we’ll see you back over beyond sometime,’ I said.

‘Absolutely. Christmas, hopefully. I’ll let you know.’

‘Do that,’ I patted your hand and released it, turning to put an arm around Sadie who sobbed her way through the security gates.

Sadie lived for your newspaper articles. Whatever you wrote, or said for that matter, she’d be telling everyone. Gone off to the library to find out more to confirm just how clever you were. Forest fires in California, Hubble, the purchase of Alaska. Me? I never asked a thing.

‘Is that right?’ I’d say, when she produced whichever paper you worked for back then. I’d lay it in front of me above the dinner plate and read the first line. I can still feel the cold sweat of my forehead even now as I sat there wishing instead for the simplicity of the price of sucklings. See, I never admitted to either of you about me and the dyslexia. Oh yes, I found out I wasn’t thick after all about ten years ago. A young one on a helpline I called after hearing Pat Kenny talking about it on the radio. Ten per cent of the population, she said. Would you credit that? But, it’s not that I can’t read, I can after a fashion, at my own pace with no one standing over my shoulder. I always found a way ’round things. I was a great one for losing the glasses at the right moment or complaining about the small print.

‘Isn’t that great now,’ I’d say, pushing your article away after I’d given it an acceptable amount of time. That was another good one of mine – lying.

‘Where did he get the brains from at all?’ Sadie might gush, then.

‘That would be your side.’

‘Do you think?’ she’d say, giving me her best modest smile.

You still bring me your articles when you come over. Putting them on the couch beside me or on my footstool. When I’m out of the room usually. But you never say a thing. Never ask if I’ve ever read them.

Since your mother died, I’ve noticed your trips home have become more numerous. Two or three times a year now. Checking up on me, what? Mostly it’s just you but sometimes herself and Adam and Caitríona come as well. When you’re on your own it’s only for a weekend or so. I always put the heat on in your old room to make sure it’s aired the night before and I leave the immersion on so you have the hot water whenever you want it. That’s a thing I remember about being over in the States, hot water whenever you like. Of course, as soon as you’re down the driveway on your way back west, I switch it off.

It’s been hard trying to hide my plans from you with you home so regular. But you’ve not asked, when you’ve seen the odd box here and there. I reckon you think it’s all her stuff, your mother’s. Maybe you didn’t want to think about that. Me, packing her away, getting rid of her like that. I left the packing of your room ’til I was sure there was no chance of another visit before now.

Do you look forward to coming home, son? I’ll admit, the idea of having a living being in the house with me, as Gearstick wouldn’t grace me with his presence, is appealing. And each time, I swear to myself that this time will be different, that I’ll make the effort. That I’ll ask about your job and what you’re working on. And I promise myself I’ll listen to you with my whole body and every ounce of concentration in me. I’ll hang on your every word. And then I might even ask another question. But as soon as you walk in the door sure it’s like a bolt closes over my mouth. And in you come, all bags and bustle. Landing on the couch with a big grin on your face like you’ve just arrived from the Bahamas. You hand over the bottle of whiskey and sit forward, elbows on knees, hands together, looking about the place, then over at me and you say something like:

‘Well, what’s the news?’

‘Divil the bit now.’

‘Didn’t the lads get a thrashing in the finals, though? Some match. That full forward, Kirwan, is it? He’s some man to go.’

‘Not a bad team now.’

‘How’s the farm? Still buying and selling all ’round you?’