Chapter 27
On Saturday night I was trying to study in my room, but I couldn’t concentrate.
My head was already far too full of other things; things that Mr Feeney had said about girls and about regret; things Jennifer had said about family and friendship and things she hadn’t said at all, and things I hadn’t said either; and things about Ronan – always things about Ronan.
I couldn’t sleep that night.
Early Sunday morning back at Feeney’s was a slog; feeling like there wasn’t much difference between the soaked sponge in the bucket and my brain. But if I just kept going to the end of the day then everything on my schedule would be complete.
When I got home the unmistakable smell of Mum’s Sunday dinner was in the hallway.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smelt that.
When I walked into the kitchen Mum was at the cooker.
She had several pots on the go; steaming vegetables, simmering gravy, with some kind of meat roasting in the oven. She turned and smiled at me.
‘Sunday dinner?’ I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice but I’m sure I wasn’t able to hide it on my face.
‘Do you want to set the table?’ she said with an energy that meant she didn’t want to make a fuss.
Dad was mashing potatoes, and looked up at me with an expression that told me not to say too much and go along with things.
‘Well, kid,’ he said, ‘all red up?’ Which meant, did I get all my work done at Feeney’s.
‘All red up,’ I said, still amazed at Mum doing something I hadn’t seen her do in over a year.
Dad never cooked, but if there were potatoes to be peeled, boiled and mashed then that was his contribution to the meal, which he did with an element of pride; it’s probably why we had mashed potatoes with nearly every meal.
After I set the table, we sat down to enjoy Mum’s classic Sunday dinner: stuffed pork chops with onion gravy, carrots and sweetcorn, alongside Dad’s mashed potatoes.
I tried to eat as slowly as I could, savouring every bite.
But apart from not wanting the meal to end I was also trying to delay the afternoon driving lesson that was looming.
I had barely swallowed my last forkful when Dad reached into his pocket and jangled the car keys in front of his face; a sound that was beginning to make me feel queasy.
‘Last one of the week, kid.’
‘Go ahead, don’t worry about the dishes,’ Mum said.
‘I’ll do them when I get back,’ said Dad and we left Mum sitting in the dining room with her chin propped on her hands, elbows on the table, smiling.
It wasn’t the best driving I’d ever done, but when we got back home it meant that I had achieved all three driving lessons for the week. With just one more revision session before bed, my schedule would be complete.
‘Brain food delivery,’ Mum said, coming into my room with a cheese and ham toasted sandwich on a plate with a handful of crisps on the side and a glass of milk, ‘but only to keep you going for another hour or so and then start getting yourself sorted for school in the morning.’ She set the plate on the duvet beside me.
It seemed like all the things I’d missed about Mum were coming back that day.
First, Sunday dinner and now, the Sunday teatime traditional toasted sandwich she used to always make.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had one of her classic toasties either; the way she buttered the outside of the bread so it didn’t stick to the toaster when she pressed it down inside, how it was just the right amount of crispy when I bit down and how the cheese strung out and needed to be twizzled round my finger, which I’d roll into a little ball to pop into my mouth.
‘So good,’ I said after that first amazing bite. ‘I haven’t had one of these in ages.’
Mum hovered.
‘It’s been ages for a lot of things, Brendan,’ she said.
‘Did you get your hair done?’ I asked, because she looked different somehow.
‘No, why? What’s it looking like?’
‘No, it’s just you … it looks well,’ I said.
She flattened down one side of her hair with her hand and smiled shyly.
I took another bite of the sandwich and a gulp of milk while Mum stood in the doorway, watching me eat.
‘We seem to say things with sandwiches, don’t we?’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ I said with my mouth full, then swallowed and looked at her again, ‘it definitely does look like you had your hair done.’
She kept her eyes on me.
‘How are you, Brendan?’
I swallowed again but not because I was eating. Had anyone asked me that recently? I couldn’t remember. I had to think.
‘You know, Mum,’ I said, ‘I think I’m good.’
‘Good,’ she said.
‘Busy,’ I said, ‘busy week.’
‘And your schedule, it went … it went OK … did it?’
‘It did. Survived it.’
She made the sound of a small laugh in her throat but kept her mouth closed.
‘And what about your week? … Was it OK … too?’ I said.
She frowned slightly, thinking.
‘Survived it,’ she said.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘We’ll just have to survive next week too.’
‘And the week after that,’ she said.
‘And the one after that.’
‘And the year will be over before we know it,’ she said. ‘And it’ll be a better year. I really think … I really think I’ll be better.’
I heard myself make the sound of a laugh in my throat, just like her.
‘I’d better let you keep revising for another wee while and then call it a night, OK?’ she said.
‘OK.’
As she was about to close the door she stopped and half turned back.
‘I straightened it this morning,’ she said. ‘My hair. Maybe that’s what’s different.’
‘That must be what it is,’ I said.
Then she closed the door.