Chapter 17
I usually loved the weeks at school leading up to Christmas; the sound of the choir practising at lunchtime, the art room window with winter-themed drawings displayed, Brussels sprouts on the menu every day for lunch. But it wasn’t the same without Ronan.
The Feeney brothers were right, Ronan wouldn’t be coming back to school before Christmas. The McCoys phoned our house to explain and Dad held the phone so we could both hear.
‘We jumped the gun a bit,’ said Mr McCoy.
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Mrs McCoy. ‘To be fair, Ronan’s recovery has been moving at an incredible pace but crowds and certain noises that didn’t bother him before really bother him now.
We did talk to the so-called experts about bringing him back to school, but no one can give us an answer one way or the other, so we took the chance, but it was too much of a bombardment, as you saw, Brendan. ’
‘Ronan’s down in his room if you want to say a wee hello to him, Brendan?’ said Mr McCoy.
I felt instantly shy. Dad nudged the phone closer to me.
‘No,’ I said quietly so that the McCoys couldn’t hear, or I hoped they couldn’t.
‘Would you answer them, Brendan,’ Dad hissed at me.
He pressed the phone to the side of my head and I shoved it away.
‘No,’ I said, louder this time. Dad tutted and shook his head.
‘He’s gone all quiet here,’ he said down the phone with his eyes fixed on me.
‘No, no worries, just … well … just to say we’ll be going back to the drawing board and working out a new plan,’ said Mr McCoy, ‘but we just wanted you to know how much we appreciated you being there for Ronan on his first day, Brendan, and we’re sorry that it didn’t go as we hoped it would, but we don’t want to cut you out of the picture. ’
‘We do not indeed,’ said Mrs McCoy. ‘The way Ronan goes on when your name is mentioned is a bit of a running joke in the house at the minute.’
‘Like when a dog hears the jangle of the lead and starts getting all excited,’ chipped in Mr McCoy.
‘Now, Aaron, that’s a terrible comparison,’ Mrs McCoy tutted, ‘comparing to a dog, for goodness’ sake, that’s just, no – just don’t say that again.
’ Mr McCoy mumbled something. ‘Brendan, when you get your school holidays maybe we can arrange for you to come over for a visit; yourself and your mum and dad if they’d like and we’ll start things off on a more controlled one-to-one basis?
Ronan would love to see you but the school environment isn’t allowing him to enjoy your company, too much going on.
Would you be OK to come for a visit if we can work out a time over the Christmas holidays? ’
Dad elbowed me and mouthed for me to say something.
‘Yes, Mrs McCoy, I’d love that,’ I said, ‘we’ve our last week of school just coming up and then we’ll be off for Christmas.’
‘OK, great,’ she said. ‘Let’s speak next weekend and we’ll get things sorted.’
When the call ended Dad turned on me.
‘What’s with the not talking? Can’t even say hello to Ronan? There’s his mum and dad asking you and you’re saying no, what’s that about?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘No, I don’t think I would.’
I stared at him, waiting for him to say more. When he didn’t I sighed and went up to my room.
I closed my bedroom door and started slamming my fists into my bed, over and over. When I stopped I could hear Dad in the kitchen boiling the kettle and I punched the mattress again.
On Monday at school Mrs O’Neill confirmed what I already knew. She said she was disappointed at hearing Ronan wouldn’t be back before Christmas but was glad to hear that I had spoken to his parents and had made plans to see Ronan over the holidays.
‘That’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘I was thinking our “old friendship in a new way” plan was ruined. Now it’s more like “the old plan in a new way”.’
Again, her way of putting things made them seem much less daunting.
All classes in that final week were due to be filled with mock exams to give us a taster of what was to come in the new year, so we didn’t have the usual wind-down movie-watching that we’d had in previous years.
In English Mrs O’Hagan decided to give us a ‘break’ from exam pressure with a poetry assignment.
We’d been reading and discussing Seamus Heaney’s poem ‘Digging’, and she wanted us to take inspiration from it and write a poem that evoked a ‘rural spirit’.
We’d each get a chance to read our poems out over the remaining classes of the week.
In Monday’s class, Stephen Maxwell was the first to read his poem out.
He was one of Kevin Sherry’s gang and his poem was about his local football field, which Mrs O’Hagan wasn’t sure counted as rural but could understand the blending of his football passion with the earth it was played on as a unique personal perspective.
Jennifer Beattie was to read her poem next.
She was the smartest girl in our year, but she wasn’t showy about it.
Just like Ronan, she excelled in all areas – except in sports, Jennifer was all academic and creative.
She was someone I’d barely spoken to since she joined our school in third year.
She’d been at a boarding school in America before that because her parents travelled a lot.
Her accent sounded a bit posh and she often got teased about that.
‘My poem is entitled “The Forgotten Field’’,’ she said.
A knock at the door interrupted her.
‘Come in,’ said Mrs O’Hagan.
It was a small girl, a first year by the looks of her.
‘Miss, Jennifer Beattie is needed for play rehearsals.’
The Drama group had been rehearsing for the Christmas play and students involved had been getting out of some classes for extra rehearsals. Jennifer was the lead, the same as she had been the two previous Christmases.
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs O’Hagan, ‘do you want to hold on so Jennifer can read her poem first? Is it long, Jennifer?’
‘No, Miss, it’s only a short one, I can read it before going, no problem.’
Jennifer looked at me for a second.
‘‘‘The Forgotten Field”, inspired by someone who used to be here but no longer is.’
I froze. I knew she meant Ronan.
She began to read:
‘Barley brushing fingers,
Dappled by the sun,
The summer days linger
Longer than when spring sprung.
And, static, on the edge
Of the field, all alone,
The creature is standing
Moaning its animal moan.
Blind to its stalking
The boy is having fun,
Deaf to its hunger pangs
And its clicking, licking tongue.
If you saw it in winter
Then your life would not be sought,
In summer if you look away
It’s often closer than you thought.
And when it has ploughed a path
Through the barley field, reaping,
There will be a harvest;
Full of joy, full of weeping.’
There was silence in the classroom. Cold sweat ran over my ribs. Shivery damp. Jennifer, still standing, glanced at me and then at Mrs O’Hagan, who swallowed before speaking.
‘Thank you, Jennifer, that was extremely hard-hitting. We don’t have time to discuss it now as Mr Colton is waiting for you for rehearsals but perhaps we can discuss it in tomorrow’s class – but well done, Jennifer, beautiful work.’
‘Thanks, Miss.’
Jennifer began packing up her bag. I could feel her eyes on me before she left but I was rigid in my seat, staring straight ahead.
For the rest of the day my mind was blurred.
Jennifer’s poem had got under my skin in a way that none of the rumours about Ronan had.
There was something in what Jennifer had written that didn’t feel like a rumour at all.
I avoided her as much as possible throughout the week.
English was the only class we had together; she was in the top group for every subject, English was my only top subject.
Mrs O’Hagan ended up not discussing Jennifer’s poem the next day and, for the rest of the week, I had managed speedy exits from English to avoid contact with Jennifer. But by Friday she had become wise to my tactic.
‘Brendan,’ she called after me as I walked quickly across the playground, ‘I really loved your poem today. I’ve never been to Kilmare Forest Park but it sounds lovely the way you wrote about it.’
I turned and nodded. I might have said thanks or I might not, some sort of noise came out of my mouth anyway before I turned and started walking again, but she caught up.
‘Brendan, I’m really sorry if I upset you on Monday.
I wrote the poem in honour of Ronan. I’d read in that article about what happened and then we had the theme of the land for the poetry assignment and it was the first thing I thought of – he was the first, I mean.
I suppose I just found it all so scary and I wanted that to come across in the poem, but I’ve just been hearing it over and over in my head and I think it was wrong of me to read it out in class, especially without checking with you first. I’m really sorry, Brendan. ’
She unhitched her yellow leather record bag from her shoulder and took out a Christmas present.
‘I got you something to say sorry.’
We were the same height, but it seemed like she was looking up at me the way she was directing her eyes.
‘Jennifer, you didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t upset. Maybe I was a bit shocked or something, but honestly I wasn’t upset with you.’
‘Oh my God, Brendan,’ she said, sighing out dramatically, ‘you’ve no idea what that means to hear you say that. I haven’t been able to sleep all week worrying.’
‘Well, you can sleep now. It’s OK, really.’
‘OK,’ she said, shaking hair out of her face and doing an awkward tilting motion with her head, ‘but I still want to give you this and say sorry or Happy Christmas.’
‘Thanks, Jennifer, no one’s given me a Christmas present in school before.’
‘No, really? Oh, wow, OK, I’m honoured in that case then,’ she said, doing a mock royal bow.
‘So what do people do? Do I open it now or what? I usually only open presents on Christmas Day.’
‘No, you can open it now; school present, school rules.’