Departures (18 page)

And then what happened?

Then? Then your mother was sacked and I was ejected. We never went near the place again.

After our dinner we walked to the beach. A buttress of rocks spilled into the sea, their surfaces pitted with shallow depressions, warm water puddles of algae and snails and keyhole limpets whose airtight seals resisted all efforts to pry their shells loose. A man hurled a stick and his dog sailed after and caught it each time in its open jaws, the wide arc of its body in motion continuing on into the water with the same compact force of those who ran barefoot from one rock to another to fling themselves off the final one, their knees to their chests and their arms wrapped around them, their hair and clothes still heavy with water from the previous jump. There's our friend, said my father, and I turned to see a horse approaching, its rider bouncing like a ball on a string as the horse's hooves pummelled the surf, leaving prints that the tide made more cavernous, brown sugar sand tumbling in on all sides. They'd been there every day since we first started coming. The man lived by himself in a one-room caravan staked to flat ground just beyond Castlerock, and he kept his horse on a small slab of pasture which belonged to no one and which he'd cleared himself. He's a nutter, Ricky had said when my father told us. Everyone says so. You must learn the difference between fraud and fiction, Ricky, my father said. It's true, Ricky'd said sullenly. There's even a petition
to get him put out. The darkness of Mankind is truly untellable, my father said later, more to himself than to either of us. It shouldn't surprise me but it always does.

The man rode bareback and the horse wore no bridle, yet they pulled up beside us with the flourish expected when reins are drawn tight, hot breath expelled from the horse's nostrils, sand splashing over us with each sweep of its tail.

You're late today, the man said.

I know it, my father said. What about ye?

The man shrugged. Yerself?

We're alright, aren't we, luv? said my father. Do you still want a ride?

C'mon up, luv, the man said, and I reached for his hand. Up close the horse smelled like brass and worn leather; I filled my fists with its oily mane, my father put his hand on my ankle and I felt the knees of the man behind me press against the horse's ribs. We walked past the mouth of the tunnel, that long stretch of darkness from which trains hurtle out, startling their passengers with the sudden proximity of sand and seawater, of gulls suspended above black shards of rock. Then we turned and came back at a canter, my father too on the animal's strong back, past boys Ricky's age who were playing football, past new groups of people sitting on jackets drinking beer and soft drinks from oversized tins, up the very steps which led to the street. Look after yourself now, my father said. You worry too much, the other man told him, and urged the horse through the small crowd of children that had gathered around him and headed back the way we'd just come.

In Coleraine while we waited to transfer I stood at the edge of the platform to watch the incoming train, signalled by sirens and the lowering of booms, a mad dash of
assorted pedestrians and small dogs on leads hurrying from one side of the road to the other before the train, with the same graceful movements of things buoyed by water, came round the corner and eased into the station.

Stand back now, my father said. Let them get off. But my eyes were not on the entrance but on the red diamond in the centre of the train's yellow face. We'd chosen a car that was practically empty, so once we were settled with our tickets ready, our crisps on the table, our feet outstretched towards the seat across from us, and our coats and umbrellas on the rack above our heads, I asked my father to tell me the story he'd promised the last time.

Oh yes, he said, I'd nearly forgotten. When the iron horse was first brought to Ireland, the other animals found it a bad-mannered beast. It was loud and filthy and single-minded, it stopped on no whim or for any diversion, just proceeded directly from A to B. To be so oblivious to the world around you was a dangerous condition, the other beasts said, for what if one of them happened to stop in its path? But once they realised that the train only ran on the tracks set down for it, and only at more or less predictable times, they began to enjoy its daily passage. They even grew rather possessive, and boasted about it when they'd had too much to drink. Our train can beat any bird flying, the beasts would say loudly, whenever birds were around to hear—which naturally the birds took as a challenge, and eventually they sent someone over to accept. But the two parties couldn't agree on the details of the contest, until finally the bird representative said How about this: you set the distance, and we'll set the course. The beasts were confident their man could travel over any terrain, so they said Okay, but we're not crossing water—and then congratulated themselves for being so clever. About the same time as all this was happening a new
model of train was introduced. This one was even faster, the beasts read in the advertisements they found in the newspapers that passengers tossed from the windows, along with their cigarette butts and their empty tins. When the birds found this out they flew into a panic, but agreed to play one hand of pontoon, the winner to decide which train would be run. Three times the dealer peeled cards from the deck; then the birds (with a hand adding up to fifteen) and the beasts (with a five, a two, and the queen of spades) decided to ask for just one more. Twenty! the birds said when they got theirs, and if they'd been playing poker they'd have been hard to beat, for what they had in front of them was a straight flush of hearts. The beasts sucked their teeth and said they were sorry but they didn't mean it, for their hidden card was the three of diamonds, and with the ace they'd been given they'd just made twenty-one.

Listen! my father said as our train passed another, and I heard in the jolt and clatter of the tracks the sound of a deck of iron cards being shuffled. What about the race? I asked. Did the train beat the birds? Well, no, my father said. Sure the beasts had forgotten that a train can't run if there aren't any tracks. The birds chose a course that never crossed water, but it also didn't pass through A or B. As soon as they discovered the situation, all the earthmoving beasts got stuck in right away, but no one could lift the rails from the stack in the depot, let alone move them to the ground they'd prepared. It was very frustrating, my father conceded, his arm growing heavy around my shoulders and his own gaze wandering to the scenery outside. I watched the outgoing tracks sprinting beside us, and imagined a pair of simultaneous tunnels, blind, flowered snouts and efficient fingers churning the soil up from below.

We reached our gate just as John-O was leaving, and it was clear from my mother's expression that she'd been trying to ease him out for some time. When John-O saw us his face brightened. My mother's brows drew together like curtains; she exhaled audibly and went back inside.

Talk sense to this woman, John-O pleaded, walking backwards in front of my father. She won't listen to me.

The dress was loosely assembled now. My father stooped to gather a fallen crinoline and struggled to drape it over the back of a chair, the garment appearing to defy gravity until my mother took it off him and dropped it back onto the floor.

I want to go to the council, get a sign put up.

A sign to say what?

Keep Off, that's what, my mother said irritably. I'm tired of wasting my time and money. It should be the council's problem, not mine.

Don't let her do it, John-O said to my father. She'll only annoy them. You're lucky they've let you paint the thing over. How many times has it been now? Three?

Four. If the council won't listen I'll go to the police.

You don't know who they are, John-O said. They could put you out first.

Is that right? Well just let them try.

It's not worth it, John-O said earnestly, even if it is just kids. Kids can be wee bastards, too, you know.

Where's Ricky? my father said after John-O went home.

Upstairs with Jason. Can't you hear that damn racket?

Go tell him to lower it, luv, my father said, and I had to twice before Ricky would. When I came down the second time my father, whose hands were cool even in summer, had placed his palms on the back of her neck, right where the spine makes its small mountain ridge, and was
kneading her shoulders in generous handfuls, his own cheek resting on the top of her head.

I'm still going to do it, Joe, she said.

Ricky's friend left a short while later, and my father herded me upstairs to bed. I'm not tired, I told him, I slept on the train. Go on, luv, he said, lie down, close your eyes. Don't you worry. Everything's going to be okay. Here—tell me three things you saw today and I'll make you a story.

A tub in a field, I said. And a tree island. And a whole fence full of plastic bags.

Right, he said, here goes the first one. There once was a king whose greatest wish was for peace and quiet. Though his country had not been to war for many years, and though the land was fertile and the climate kind, still his people fought and bickered amongst themselves, and the king, as the arbiter of all disputes, found himself again and again called away from love or meditation to pass judgement on a trivial disagreement, or soothe the ego of some individual who felt insulted or slighted by somebody else. The king consulted with the greatest minds in study and politics, but no one could offer any good advice. Finally the king commissioned a wizard who said he'd cast a spell that'd do the trick—he'd send a fog so thick it'd cover the land like heavy cream, and when it cleared all those thinking evil thoughts about another would be revealed for what they were. The king agreed, and for nine days afterwards a fog was on them, thicker on the ninth day than it had been on the first. On the tenth day the sun was so brilliant that most folks just marvelled—until they heard the embarrassed cries of the evil thinkers, caught stark naked in their bathtubs out in their fields for all the world to see. For the wizard had set an additional spell, so that all the vicious and petty people
would be taking a bath at just the same time. The tubs that exposed them have been there ever since, collecting rain for the livestock to drink. The land itself has changed hands so often, hardly a soul remembers why they're there now. Are you asleep yet?

Not yet, I said, but I already was.

.   .   .

Not so long ago the Hardest Working Couple in the World was living with their children in Island Magee. Though the mother and father had earned the title by working continuously for more than ten months, even so they barely had enough for the bills and the shopping, and though Christmas was coming they hadn't been able to buy any gifts. On Christmas Eve on the road home from work the woman met an old man with such heavy wrinkles he had to use a forked branch to keep his brows up. What can I do to please my children? the woman asked him, because she was desperate for someone to talk to. We've laboured long and hard, but we're no richer for it. We don't even have stockings to hang over the hearth. Take one empty sack for each in your family and tie them to the fence that keeps your cows in, the old man said, and tomorrow your children will thank you for it. The woman did what he'd told her, and the next morning every sack was full of chocolate and oranges, picture books and pens and mechanical toys. A month or so later it was one child's birthday, and again his parents had no money to spare. On the off chance of a second miracle the woman tied another sack to the fence—and sure enough the next morning it was so heavy it pulled the fence after it on its way to the ground. Why should we work, the woman wondered as she watched her son enjoying his presents, when
all we want can be had for the asking? But the spirit that filled the bags was no eedjit; it knew what their game was when later that night the woman and her husband covered their fence with empty bags. The next morning all the sacks looked full from a distance, but up close it was clear they held only wind. The worst of it is the mother and father never learned their lesson: they kept leaving sacks on the fence for generations, and wasted so much time waiting for nothing they lost their title of Hard Working Couple to a rival team from Markethill. And that's why there's plastic bags on the fences, because people are greedy past the point of good sense.

My mother put down her scissors and looked at me. He told you this.

I nodded.

What do you think of your father's stories?

I think he should sell them, John-O said. A letter requesting my father's attendance at an interview that afternoon had arrived the same morning, and John-O, who had spotted the post in the Job Finder listings, was waiting in our kitchen to see him off. He'd make a fortune, John-O continued. Youse could get out of Belfast, buy a big house with at least fifteen bedrooms, a huge garden and a two-car garage—you could buy a good car with that kind of money. That's what I'd do if I was him.

Well, said my mother, he left a part out of this one. Farmers put bags on their fences to frighten their cows, luv. It's to keep them away from the wire so they don't try to get into other people's fields.

You could even go somewhere exotic, John-O said. I hear the weather's brilliant in Florida. An annual rainfall of less than three inches and sunshine ten months out of every year.

Alright? said my father on his way past the kitchen. He'd come down the stairs at a run, his hand already reaching for the outside door.

Where's your tie? my mother demanded.

He patted his pocket. It's too warm, Belle. I'll put it on when I get there.

No, said my mother. Come over here. Stop fussing, Joe, she continued preemptively, it won't take a minute. Standing behind him she tugged at his waistband, and the cuffs of his trousers snapped to attention. How's that? Too tight?

I could borrow a belt, my father suggested.