The Bright Side (17 page)

And
then,
one
crisp
January
day,
Chrissy
came
through the front door
in tears.
The tears were
not so
unusual in themselves
–
she’d
been
known
to
come
in
crying
because
it was
cold
out.
When
I
asked
her
what
was
wrong
this
time, she
buried
her
head
in
her
hands
and
sobbed
so
hard
that
I couldn’t
make
out
what
she
was
saying.
She’d
bumped
into someone
or
other
who’d
told
her
something
or
other. Gradually,
I
realised
that
she
was
talking
about
Jonathon Mullen.
Then
I
heard
the
words
“brain
tumour”
and
I
joined her
in
the
sobbing.
Jonathon
was
an
eight-year-old
neighbour of
ours.
He
was
quite
possibly
the
sweetest
child
I’d
ever met
in
my
life.
I
don’t
think
I
would
have
liked
him
so
much if
he’d
been
physically
cute;
the
effect
might
have
been overpowering.
But
he
had
buck
teeth
and
a
big
nose,
and
I had
never
seen
him
without
a
little
green
river
snaking
its way
down
his
top
lip;
it
was
like
his
trademark.
He
was obsessed
with
toy
cars.
Most
little
boys
like
them,
of
course, but
Jonathon
was
something
else.
He
had
literally
hundreds, which
he
used
to
line
up
on
the
footpath
outside
his
house, as
if
he
was
some
miniature
Arthur
Daley.
If
you
expressed even
the
tiniest
bit
of
interest,
he’d
bend
your
ear
for
half
an
hour,
holding
one
of
his
fleet
in
the
palm
of
his
hand
and telling
you
all
about
its
real-world
counterpart
.

“This
is
a
Ferrari
F50,
Mrs
O’Connell,”
he
said
to
me
one
day.
“It
has
a
four-point-seven-litre
engine
and
a
top
speed
of
two
hundred
and
two
miles
an
hour.
They
only
ever
made three
hundred
and
forty-nine.
Everyone
goes
on
about
how
cool
they
are
in
the
magazines.
But
I
think
they’re
butt-fugly.”
He
kicked
a
football
into
our
front
garden
one
summer’s evening
and
took
out
a
rampant
sunflower
which
was
far
and away
the
most
successful
plant
I’d
ever
had.
I
found
out about
this
tragedy,
and
who
was
behind
it,
because
Jonathon immediately
rang
the
doorbell
and
owned
up.
He
stood
on the
front
step
with
his
football
under
his
arm,
slowly
shaking his
head
as
he
shifted
from
foot
to
foot.
“I’m
very
sorry,
Mrs O’Connell,”
he
said
solemnly.
“I
really
liked
that
flower
myself.
It
always
looked
like
it
was
smiling.
”

It’s stupid and wrong to think that one particular child deserves to get a brain tumour less than another, but still … that was exactly what I thought at the time
.

Jonathon’s
dad
was
a
tall,
whip-thin
forty-something
called
Tony.
He’d
been
our
neighbour
for
about
two
years.
Gerry
and
I
knew
three
things
about
him:
he
worked
for
Bank
of
Ireland, he’d
moved
around
the
country
a
lot,
and
he
was
a
widower.
His
wife
–
we
didn’t
even
know
her
name
at
that
point
–
had died
of
liver
cancer
when
Jonathon
was
just
a
toddler.
If
we’d
known
him a
little
better,
no
doubt
we’d
have
found
it
easier
to
call
over
and
express
our
sympathies
on
this,
the
latest
tragedy
to
befall
him.
As
it
was,
it
took
us
a
couple
of
days
to gather
the
courage.
When
we
did
finally
manage
it,
we
found
him
understandably
pole-axed.
He
made
tea
and
produced
biscuits,
as
if
we’d
dropped
by
to
see
his
holiday
snaps
but seemed
unable
to
meet
our
eyes.
His
son
was
sound
asleep
upstairs.
He
was
going
to
have
an
operation
in
a
few
days’
time,
but
the
doctors
had
said
there
was
no
point
in
admitting him
before
then.
When
Tony
told
us
that,
I
could
tell
by
his
expression
that
he’d
taken
it
to
mean
“He
might
as
well
spend
a
few
nice
days
at
home,
just
in
case
they’re
his
last”.
Gerry
and
I
asked
banal
questions
and
received
horrifying
answers.
On
his
discovery
of
the
problem,
for
example:
Jonathon
had been
playing
on
his
PlayStation
a
few
weeks
previously
when he
suddenly
threw
the
controller
across
the
floor.
It
was
unlike him
and
Tony
asked
him
why
he
was
being
so
bad-tempered.
There
was
something
wrong
with
the
game,
he
said,
or
the TV
–
sometimes
he
could
see
two
of
everything
.

I found it difficult to ask about Jonathon’s chances of survival, not just because I didn’t want to hear the answer – although I didn’t – but because I couldn’t think of the right way to phrase the question. Eventually I settled on “Is the surgeon confident?” It was hard to tell, Tony explained; the guy was so relentlessly cheerful and positive that you wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him. He certainly said he was confident – repeatedly. But that was little comfort
.