He was listening. ‘She’s finding it tough?’
I nodded. ‘She hasn’t come out of her room for months. We barely see her and when she did, like this weekend, we went to a family thing, she had a…’ I stopped.
‘A what?’ he asked with genuine concern.
‘A kind of panic attack. Or that’s what it looked like. We had to come home. She says she’s all right and that’s normal… but… I just don’t know.’ My voice wobbled a little and I could feel emotion rush to the surface. Why was I telling Red this? I’d missed him, I realised. He’d always been so easy to talk to, such a good listener, gave such wise counsel. I could feel myself plugging back into him, opening up. It was so easy. As long as we didn’t talk about the past, then maybe we could be friends. Of a sort. And it was only a month to the end of term. We could be friends for a month.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t know. But she’s nearly there.’ We’re all nearly there, I thought. And real life could resume. Whatever real life was. Normality, then. But I wasn’t sure I liked my reality, my normality too much. At least my mother was actually doing something. For a moment, I wished I was the protestor, the one with the Barbour jacket. Or Rosie heading off to college, a life awaiting.
‘So you’re both just hanging on,’ said Red. ‘Until the exams are over?’
I nodded. ‘Isn’t that what you do,’ I said. ‘With everything. Just hang on. Isn’t that all any of us ever do? Just wait for things to pass?’
‘No!’ He laughed. ‘That’s what you might call a passive approach to life. Haven’t you ever heard of grabbing the proverbial bull’s horns?’
‘I think you might have lived in California for too long. Here in Ireland we don’t go round grabbing bull’s horns. We like a nice quiet life. Complain about it, obviously, but wait for time to move on. It always does.’
I remembered this feeling, Red making everything all right.
He laughed again. ‘Time has that habit of moving, doesn’t it? Funny that.’ He smiled at me. ‘Look, I’ve got to get back to class. But let me know if you need to talk. I promise to keep the Californian on the down-low.’ He began to turn away. ‘Good to talk to you, Tab.’
*
Things, as they often do, got worse.
Every day the protestors made themselves even more at home. I thought that protesting was meant to be, by its very nature, an uncomfortable experience. You were meant to be sleeping in trees or lying on cold ground incurring piles or dysentery, often both. Leaf spent all day strumming a guitar, Arthur and Robbo were bent over an old radio, both with extra-long screwdrivers in their hands.
Others – neighbours from close to the school – would join them for a little sit in the sun and a cup of Nellie’s special brew (the tea kind). It was looking rather amiable out there, sort of a new wave peace camp with Nora sitting in the middle of them all, looking delighted with herself, conscience fully intact.
I knew I was doing it for the best of intentions. At the end of term, the school would have a cheque for €20,000. We could make another Copse, we could plant trees. By September, all this would be forgotten about.
At the end of the school day, once all the children had streamed out in their screaming hoards, I spied on the protestors from the library window. Robbo stringing some bunting from the corner of the van, the other end was tied to the school railings. Arthur was on his mobile phone. What was he doing? Not reinforcements? Surely we wouldn’t have every activist from Mizen to Malin Head descend on Dalkey? It wouldn’t become a new Peace Camp, surely? And now Robbo was chalking on the road in huge letters. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but I’d come back with a hose, that night if I had to.
‘We had a fella like that at home.’ Mary joined me at the window.
‘Like Robbo?’
‘No, Brian Crowley. Would tell you what you wanted to hear and promise you the sun, moon and stars. And deliver nothing. Or nothing that you wanted or expected.’
‘What happened?’
‘Mammy wanted to do something with the old cow shed. Thought it might make a nice house for Granny to live in. They weren’t getting on, stuck in the same house all day, so as Mammy wasn’t going to move out, she decided that Granny should. Called in this fella, Mickey-John was his name. And he said he’d make the loveliest palace for Granny. And so we were all excited and the money was handed over, and Granny began making curtains and Mammy made plans to turn Granny’s old bedroom into a room for her Daniel O’Donnell memorabilia. She’s president of the Cavan chapter, you see. She’s got boxes and boxes of Daniel-related… I was going to say tat but Mammy’d kill me. We’ll call it knick-knacks – mugs, key rings, holy water bottles, T-shirts, teapots and what have you. Her pride and joy is her crocheted Daniel doll. I don’t get the appeal at all. But it keeps her happy. So, all going well until the big unveiling.’
‘What was it like?’
‘A cow shed.’
‘But it was a cow shed.’
‘And thus it remained.’
‘So the moral of the story is, once a cow shed always a cow shed?’
‘Exactly. Or what I would say, beware of men promising gifts. They are always in the wrong size or not what you want.’
‘Mary, what are you going on about?’
‘Just promise me,’ she said. ‘Promise me that you have the final say.’
‘I promise.’
‘And you won’t do anything hasty?’
There was a rap on the open door.
‘Tab?’ It was Fidelma Fahy, the teacher of Second class. ‘Just to let you know that there is a reporter outside. From the news. And a cameraman. They’re talking to the protestors now.’
‘Oh God…’ This was all I needed. The squirrel savers on the evening news, looking all brave and valiant, the David to my Goliath.
*
‘Barry Whelan.’ The reporter held out his hand. He looked younger than Rosie. When did news reporters get to be so young?
‘Barry,’ I said, smiling as though I was delighted to see him and was welcoming him to the school sports day or some other happy occasion. ‘You’re very welcome to Star of the Sea school.’
He didn’t smile back, just nodded as though he wanted to get on with it. Or back to the satellite van for a smoke, I thought. ‘Could we talk to you on camera?’ he said. ‘Just a few questions about what exactly the situation is here.’
‘Well, everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why you’ve come all the way here. This is a small dispute. In fact, no it’s not a dispute. It’s definitely not a dispute. Please don’t write that down. It’s not even a misunderstanding. It’s an ongoing conversation between the school community and concerned citizens, that’s all.’
The camera was already on me, I realised, so I smiled again, the face and voice of reason and rationality. Mary was standing close by and gave me an encouraging thumbs-up.
‘But why are they concerned?’ Barry held the microphone near my mouth as I began to talk, words just falling from my mouth, hopefully in some kind of coherent order, but I wasn’t entirely sure. Jesus Christ. Why hadn’t I put on more make-up this morning? And I was wearing my black jacket. Shouldn’t you never wear black on television, if you wanted to win people over? Isn’t that what they advised politicians. I desperately tried to think what Michael had said about it once, but I hadn’t really listened. Or maybe black was the right colour to wear, showing dignified, restrained power. Jesus, what was he saying now?
‘Apparently, one of the protestors is your mother.’
‘Well… I’m not sure I understand the question…’
‘It’s a simple one.’ He raised an eyebrow, looking all of his twelve years. ‘And you’re a teacher so you shouldn’t find it too difficult to answer.’ What a smart-arse. ‘Is she,’ he went on, ‘or is she not, your mother?’