The Healing (14 page)

‘Mr Ellison, I'm a bit worried about Samuel. You've spent a lot of time with him recently. Do you see any signs of him getting better? I'm just not sure anymore.'

He reached out and touched her gently on the arm. He wanted to tell her, he wanted so much to tell her, but knew he could not.

‘The boy will be all right if you have the faith to believe it. Soon he will be well again.'

He could see that she wanted to believe him, tell that his words brought her comfort and a moment later, as she thanked him, he smiled at her. She was a good woman. He watched her as she made her way towards the boy and he was glad that soon God would take away the pain of her grief. He would leave them now. It would be foolish to take the risk of being seen again, and with a final lingering look at the boy, he went out into the city streets. He found himself in a square where various groups and speakers assailed the passing crowds with their different messages. Their voices shouted shrilly in a cacophonous competition as they urged their particular brand of false salvation on the indifferent passers-by, but he was not angered by the sight of these false prophets, but instead was struck by the terrible futility of what they did. It was as if each one was building a miserable little Tower of Babel, each speaking a language that no one else understood. The higher their voices soared, the more people seemed to speed on their way, barely turning their heads to give them a fleeting glance.

He was growing tired and knew it was time to return home but first, on impulse, he went into a shop selling everything to do with gardening. He examined the rows
of garden tools, handling spades and garden forks as if testing their balance and weight, then perused packets of seed, holding the coloured pictures of flowers close to his face. He bought a packet, even though he knew it would mean waiting for spring before he could sow them. It was a small pleasure he could look forward to and the boy would be able to help him. No matter how he thought of the future now, he always pictured it with the boy by his side and on the bus which took him home, his hand played with the packet of seed, rattling it gently in his pocket.

There was a strange car parked outside his house. At first, he assumed it was something to do with his son, but as he got closer he recognized the man sitting in it. As he drew level with it, the man got out, and after locking the car door, came round to greet him with his hand extended.

‘Hello, Henry, how are you? It's been a bit of a while.'

As he shook the outstretched hand he looked into the man's eyes with curiosity. It had been a long time – maybe a couple of years since they had last met. He wondered what had brought him. Under the high-necked woollen jumper he could see the green collar of his policeman's shirt and when he glanced down, a pair of shiny black boots under faded cord trousers.

‘I'm fine John, and how are you?'

‘Struggling on, struggling on. I'm just finishing a shift and I thought I'd call up and see you.'

There was a moment of silence, and he knew his caller did not want to talk in the street. He nodded and invited him into the house, his fingers fumbling with the
front door key. He could feel the man watching him and it made him nervous and clumsy in his movements. The offer of a cup of tea was accepted and as he stood in the kitchen getting things ready, he could sense the contents of his living-room being explored. He tried to hurry, but the kettle seemed to take a long time to boil.

‘How's your family doing, John?' he asked, unsure of how many children his visitor now had.

‘Not too bad, thanks. Gail's still working part-time in the bank. I think it gets her out of the house more than anything else. And the oldest boy did his exams in June. One minute they're a nipper and the next they're learning to drive. And Diane, the youngest, she's starting her new school in September. The uniform alone must've cost a week's pay.'

He carried the two cups of tea through to the living-room where the man was leaning back on the settee in a too-forced posture of ease. As he carefully handed over the hot cup, their eyes met briefly before each looked away.

‘And you, Henry. How's life treating you? You're looking well enough.'

‘I'm doing fine. Sometimes I get a bit tired, that's all, but I suppose at my age I can't complain about that.'

‘Sure we all suffer from that complaint. I see you're keeping yourself busy. The old garden's looking as well as ever.'

‘Aye, I still take an interest in it. It keeps me busy and I give a bit of a hand with next door's.'

‘I must get you round to throw your eye over ours. What with Gail and myself out mostly, it's got itself into
a bit of a mess. Maybe you could give us some advice on what to do with it.'

He nodded noncommittally but said nothing.

‘And what about William? What's he doing with himself now?'

He held his cup carefully to his lips and searched for the right words.

‘The last time I spoke to you, you were telling me he was doing some sort of course at the Tech, isn't that right?'

‘He never finished it. He dropped out half-way through.'

‘That's a pity. He always was a bit of a restless spirit.'

A thin silence froze over the moment as they both drank from their cups and watched each other. But there was to be no respite.

‘And what's he doing now?'

‘A bit of this and a bit of that. Nothing very regular. You know what young people are like. He's interested in cars.'

‘Aye, I do indeed. I'm sorry to hear he's not settled yet. Maybe something'll turn up soon. I could keep my ear to the ground for him if you like. You say he's interested in cars?'

‘William's always followed his own course. He doesn't tell me much about what he does. I suppose we don't always get on the best.'

‘That's the way of the world now. I know you always did your best by the boy.'

There was a silence longer than any of the others and then as the man opposite leaned forward towards him,
he knew he was about to learn the reason for his visit. He grew tense, a little frightened and flustered to his feet, trying to postpone whatever it was that was coming.

‘Would you like some more tea John? There's plenty in the pot.'

‘No, you're all right, thanks. I know you're wondering why I've come, and if it was just a social visit it would be a bit late in the day. I've been a bit neglectful in that respect, but I'm still mindful of the help you and Lorna gave me when I needed it, and I suppose that's the reason why I'm here now.'

He paused and set his cup on the floor beside his feet.

‘It's about William, Henry. I've heard his name mentioned in the station. Nothing specific now, but mentioned all the same. He's running with a bad crowd and if he keeps on running with them he'll end up in trouble. Could be big trouble too, by the sound of it. I'm telling you this because I owe you. Maybe you could talk to him, scare him off, or if you like I could maybe speak to him.'

‘You say a bad crowd – '

‘People that are dangerous to be around. Some with records, and some clever enough to get others to do their dirty work. But all of them bad news and the boy would be best far away from them – far away before it's too late.'

‘I'm grateful to you, John, for telling me this, and I'll talk to him like you say, make him see some sense. Maybe he'll find a decent job soon and leave all this behind him. Don't worry – I'll talk to him all right, get him to see the mess he's getting himself into.'

He said all the things he thought would sound convincing, but behind his words was a small feeling of relief
that there had been no worse to tell. His son's name had been mentioned – that was the extent of it. Perhaps it was destined to go no further than that, perhaps he really would try once more to reach him. They talked on, their conversation slowly drifting into shared memories of the past, but as they talked he knew he could trust no one but the boy who had been given to him. Gradually the talk returned to the present and he found his thoughts turning towards the ledgers.

‘We live in godless times, John. I suppose in your job you know that better than anybody.'

‘I've seen a few things I could've done without, but I suppose, though, I've been luckier than most. But I mustn't keep you any longer, Henry. I'm sorry it took me so long to getting round to see you, and I'm just sorry that when I did, it was to bring you bad news.'

‘I'm grateful to you – I know you didn't have to come.'

As his visitor opened the front door he noticed the band of indentation his cap had pressed into his hair. He stopped in the driveway and looked at the garden.

‘I'll have to give you a shout and see what you can suggest for my square of jungle.'

‘That man who was killed the other night was a bad business – the one whose body was found in the quarry.'

‘It was that, and not the first one to be dumped there either. You always keep it very neat.'

‘They claimed he was involved. Do you think that was true?'

‘I don't rightly know. From what I heard he was just another nobody who had the misfortune to be in
the wrong place at the wrong time. Mostly that's the case – just some punter whose luck has run out.'

He took one last glance at the garden, then said his goodbyes and got into his car. As he stood watching the car disappear into the distance, his hand felt the packet of seed, and walking back to the house he opened it and let the seed run through his fingers like grains of sand.

As each day went by he could feel the frayed fabric of their lives slowly unravel, and it frightened him because he did not know where or how it would end. Each day, too, whatever it was that held his mother's life together loosened a little, and she lost more of the solid strength which he had always identified with her. She had brought them both to Belfast because she had thought it might be a new start, but although she would not admit it openly, it had been a mistake. Back home were bad memories, but they had not lessened their grip by moving away. They had left behind only what was familiar and replaced it with what was strange and unsettling. His mother had believed she was returning to somewhere which would be like an old friend, but everything had changed and the city she once knew existed only in her memory. She had talked of taking a job but he saw no sign of her trying to find one, and they found themselves living from day to day in a nowhere world which was without shape or purpose.

His mother cleaned the house incessantly, often at
strange hours of the day, and grew irritable if he left his possessions anywhere but in their proper place. Sometimes when he woke in the middle of the night he would hear the whirr of the washing machine or the sullen drone of the vacuum cleaner, searching out new breeding grounds for dust and dirt. Sometimes, too, when he came upon her unexpectedly, he knew she had been crying and although she would try to disguise it he could always tell. She still wore a public mask of resilience which she was too proud to let slip, and when relations called they always expressed admiration for how well she was coping, but he knew she was deceiving them. It was a little show she put on for their visits and it faded with their departure.

After a while the visits decreased in regularity and it was obvious that she was glad, resenting the intrusion into her privacy. The visits were always the same – polite cups of tea, meaningless talk and embarrassed silences; conversations that skirted round everything sensitive and dangerous, and only feelings of relief when the visits were over. Even those relations she had once spoken of with affection now seemed to produce only indifference and occasional annoyance.

The one thing which helped him a little was the work in the garden which, with the old man's guidance, they were gradually reclaiming from its original wilderness. They spent a couple of hours most days, often longer, weeding and digging out new flower beds. A couple of times his mother helped too. He put a lot of energy into the work and sometimes he was able to lock his mind into a mechanical routine which numbed his feelings and thoughts. The old man remained a mystery to which he
could find no sure answer, but now there were many parts of his life for which no meaning existed. Often his words made no sense and mostly they drifted through his senses like clouds, before disappearing into some distant void. The old man talked of God a lot and how God had some kind of plan in which they were both to play a part but he could not understand how this could be. In his own heart he hated God and knew that God returned his hatred, and yet he did not believe that what had happened had done so by chance. God had allowed it to happen – he did not know why, but the more he thought of it all, the more he knew it was so. Perhaps, after all, it really was some sort of plan – even though his father never did harm to anyone – which might some day be explained to him. Like all the others the old man talked of healing, told him that God could take away the fear that clutched at his heart, take away the pain of his mother's grief, but if God did not care enough to do a little thing to save his father why, then, should He do this now?

As they worked in the garden, he glanced up at the old man and watched him turning over the soil with his spade. It glinted with dampness and a worm slithered slowly through it, seeking new shelter. The old man did not see him watching, and his tongue lolled out from the side of his mouth as he raised the spade in the air and wielded it like an axe to split some sods of earth. The old man could go on believing in God if he wanted to, but some day he too would find that God didn't care. As the old man pushed his boot down on the lug of the spade a sole of caked earth fell from his boot and crumbled into the turned soil.

They were spending more time together. His mother encouraged it. Even at home he'd never had many friends. Now there was little else to do. His mother didn't go out much and made jobs for herself in the house, manufacturing increasingly meaningless tasks which were designed to consume her time and restlessness.