Chestnut Street

  Philip was pleased that he had gone along with the doctor’s instructions even though he had thought them rather foolish at the start. Now that he had learned all about flowers and proved that he could come out on top … that must prove conclusively that he was master of everything again and ready for anything that the business world could throw at him next week.

  It all started ages ago. Just before my birthday. I was nine on May the seventh and there was a terrible atmosphere. I couldn’t think what I had done wrong but it must have been something very bad—Dad was banging doors, all kinds of doors, bathroom doors, car doors, the door of the garden shed.

  He nearly took the shed door off its hinges. I went out there to see was he all right and he shouted to me.

  “For Christ’s sake, leave me alone in the shed, can’t you. You’ve already made the house a no-go area—leave me the shed, at any rate.”

  And then he saw me.

  “Sorry, Dekko,” he said. “I thought it was your mother.” But that couldn’t have been right. He wouldn’t have shouted at Mum like that. He absolutely loved Mum, she was his sunshine, he said.

  He had always said this. She was the only girl for him from the first time he saw her in the National Concert Hall.

  Every time we passed the concert hall he used to say that there should be a special flag on the place or a notice to say that was where he and Mum had met.

  And Mum used to laugh and say that the only thing in the world that could have distracted her from Liam O’Flionn’s wonderful piping was the smile of the man who turned out to be Dad. And that he was her sunshine also.

  Those were the nice, safe days.

  And then there was my birthday itself, and we had nine boys from school and we went to the cinema and McDonald’s.

  And it was an awful day, really, because Harry, my friend, kept talking about babes at the cinema and making remarks about girls as they passed by, and Mum got cross, and Dad said it was only natural for young lads to look at girls, and Mum said it wasn’t natural for nine-year-olds to shout out in public about babes with boobs.

  And Dad said she was always a killjoy and she was just trying to destroy Dekko’s last birthday.

  I got very frightened then, because I thought maybe I had a disease and was dying. Or they were going to send me away.

  “Well, it will be the last one you’ll be at, anyway,” Mum said.

  “I’ll have reasonable access. And by God I’ll get reasonable access,” Dad said.

  And then they saw me looking at them and put awful, tiny, insincere smiles on their faces.

  Two days after the birthday, Dad and Mum both came home from work early.

  This was unusual for a Monday; usually Mum went to the gym and Dad had a meeting after work.

  They told me that they had arranged for me to go to Harry’s house for supper because they had a lot to do.

  “Couldn’t I do it with you?” I asked, and they both got sort of upset.

  I always say the wrong thing.

  So I tried to explain.

  “You see, we don’t do a lot of things together anymore, like a family,” I said. “It’s ages since we all went out to the Wicklow Gap with sandwiches and found a place to sit where you couldn’t see any houses at all, only hills and sheep. And we don’t do a jigsaw anymore, or cook a foreign dish. Remember when we made the Indonesian thing, and we ate all the peanut butter when we were making it, so there was none left to add to the sauce.”

  This seemed to upset them more.

  So I stayed quiet.

  “Tell him now,” Mum said.

  “I’d have nothing to tell him if you hadn’t been so bloody-minded,” Dad said.

  “Like turn a blind eye for the next twenty years.” Mum was cold.

  “Like listen to an explanation.” Dad was colder still.

  I looked from one to the other.

  “Tell me what?” I asked.

  There was a long silence.

  “What were you going to tell me?” I asked again.

  “Your dad and I love you very much, Dekko,” Mum said, and my heart sank. There was a “but” coming up somewhere soon.

  I couldn’t see from where.

  Was it Harry and all the talk about babes and boobs?

  Was it about the time I unplugged the freezer to play one of my games in the kitchen and everything had to be thrown out?

  Was it that I hadn’t told them about the extra maths classes at school in case I would have to do them? I just didn’t know.

  “You are the most important thing in our lives,” Dad said, and he began to choke.

  So I thought, God, I must have some awful disease—what else could be upsetting them so much? Maybe it was nothing I had done.

  “Am I going to die?” I asked. And then they both started to cry.

  I’d never seen this before. It was awful. Awful. I didn’t know what to say.

  “I don’t mind, really,” I said. “Will it hurt much, do you think?”

  And then there was all this business of telling me that I wasn’t dying, and that I was the best boy in the world and I was their Dekko and none of this was my fault.

  “None of what?” I asked. I was going to have to get to the bottom of whatever it was.

  They were getting divorced, Mum and Dad. I couldn’t believe it.

  Selling our home and going to live somewhere else.

  Well, two somewhere elses, actually. Mum was going to live on Chestnut Street, in a much smaller place but there would be a room for me—it was already called Dekko’s room, and I could help to furnish it.

  And Dad would live in a flat somewhere—it had yet to be organized.

  “And would there be a room called Dekko in that flat?” I asked.

  I shouldn’t have asked. It was greedy. I know that now. I was just trying to understand what was happening.

  “There might well be one,” Dad said.

  “Not that he will be sleeping in it,” Mum added.

  “Except at agreed weekends,” Dad said, through his teeth.

  “Which will never be agreed, not overnights, never,” Mum said.

  “We’ll see about that when the time comes,” Dad answered.

  I was very relieved they weren’t crying anymore, and I was pleased that I wasn’t dying of something awful, but I was very alarmed at the way they spoke to each other, as if they were full of hate.

  And to be honest, I was very confused about why they were suddenly going to sell this house. I mean they loved our home. They were always talking about how much the neighborhood had gone up and how they were sitting on a gold mine.

  “Couldn’t you divide the house in half and I could go from one part of it to the other?” I suggested.

  But apparently it wouldn’t work.

  I wondered why but they both got testy and short-tempered and said it just wouldn’t, and that was it.

  And would I go off to Harry’s now like a good boy and let them “get on with it.”

  “Get on with what?” I asked.

  It turned out that Dad was getting a mover to come in a week’s time and put his things into storage, and they had to agree on what he should take and what he should leave.

  “I could help you divide things up,” I offered. Which I could have. I didn’t really want to go to Harry’s after all this news.

  And I would have known which things they each should have taken.

  They got upset about this too, but amazingly they let me stay. They began with the tapes and CDs.

  We made three piles, Mum’s, Dad’s and a joint pile.

  There was a doubt about The Brendan Voyage. Dad thought it was his, Mum thought it was hers.

  So I said I’d go upstairs and make a tape of it so they could have one each.

  “I think that’s against the law,” Dad said. “You know, the musicians might not want us to do that.”

  “They’d want you both to be happy,” I said and then they started blowing their noses heavily again.


  They moved on to furniture and books and I sat through it all, offering advice.

  And I think I was a help, really, because they told me I was. And they wrote everything down and it was all so unreal.

  Then we all had supper in the kitchen.

  It was very nice.

  A big steak-and-kidney pie from the freezer that Mum had been saving for a rainy day.

  “And, boy, is this the rainy day?” she said and we all smiled at her.

  Dad said he’d open a bottle of wine.

  Mum said there wasn’t really anything to celebrate.

  Dad said there was civilized behavior, so we had the wine—they even gave me a proper glass of it—and we talked about ordinary things.

  And from time to time, they both reached out and touched me. Just to tap me on the arm or to stroke my face. It was very odd. But not frightening.

  And that night, when they thought I was asleep, Dad came downstairs and slept on the sofa.

  I said nothing. I had obviously done enough to annoy them, and I didn’t want to do any more. And then it all happened very quickly. I came home from school one day and Dad was gone.

  He had left a note with his mobile phone number and his address. It was in a big new block of flats not too far from Chestnut Street.

  And he said he loved me, and I could ring him night or day, so I did, just to test it, and the phone was on the answering machine.

  So I said, “It’s Dekko, Dad, and whatever it was I did, I’m sorry. But I’m fine and if I get a mobile phone for Christmas then you can ring me anytime, night or day, on it.”

  And then I wondered was that like I was asking him for a mobile. But it was too late now.

  And Mum was very tired. She had to work very hard in her office and she told me they didn’t like people’s personal lives being brought into things so she hadn’t told them about Dad being gone and all the problems.

  She said we would be moving in two weeks’ time so as to be settled in by Christmas.

  “What will we do for Christmas?” I asked her.

  “What would you like to do, Dekko?” she asked.

  She looked very tired and pale. So I didn’t want to add to her personal problems and I said I was cool about it all, and even though it meant nothing, that pleased her a lot.

  And every Saturday I met Dad at eleven and we went somewhere nice.

  He used to look up the papers and ask other people where was a nice place to bring a nine-year-old and we had good times. And I was always back to Mum at six o’clock on the dot.

  But he never took me to his flat so I didn’t know if there was a room with Dekko on the door there or not.

  I wanted to show him my room but he said that we shouldn’t annoy my mother over something small like that.

  I thought it was quite big, showing my dad my new room. But I had done enough, so I said nothing.

  Just about Christmas, when Dad took me back home, Mum was standing at the door.

  “Let’s talk Christmas Day,” she said in a very hard voice.

  “I’m available all day, all night,” Dad said.

  “Yeah, except when the bimbo wants you to play party games with her teenage friends.”

  “Dekko comes first,” Dad said.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “They said reasonable access,” he said.

  “They also said holidays by agreement,” Mum said.

  I couldn’t bear it anymore.

  “What did I do?” I asked.

  “You did nothing,” they spoke in unison.

  “So why is all this happening?”

  They had no answer. It was very cold on the doorstep.

  “Come in,” Mum said.

  “Would it annoy you, Mum, if I show Dad my room?”

  “No, Dekko, please take your dad and show him your room.” Dad admired everything. Then we went downstairs.

  “Would you like a drink, Dad?” I suggested.

  “Beer or sherry?” Mum said.

  “A small sherry would be lovely,” Dad said. And again it all seemed so natural.

  “Could I ask you what happened?” I asked. “I’m old enough to accept that you’re separated and going to be divorced—can’t you tell me why?”

  They couldn’t, apparently.

  “You see, not long ago you told me that you loved each other, and that you were each other’s sunshine. You used to sing that song, ‘You Are My Sunshine.’ And now you don’t. And it must be my fault. I was thinking maybe if I went away it would be all right again.”

  “Why do you think that, Dekko?” my father asked.

  “Because you told me I was the result of you loving each other—that’s why I came on earth. So if you don’t love each other anymore there must be something wrong with me. Mustn’t there?”

  After a long time, Mum spoke.

  “You’re right, Dekko, I was indeed your dad’s sunshine, but I wasn’t his only sunshine, which is the next line of the song. That was the problem, you see.”

  “But didn’t he make you happy when skies were gray?” I asked.

  I knew this song very well.

  “Yes he did.”

  “And your mum is my sunshine. I just got involved with someone else who was only star shine, not nearly as bright and warm and necessary. That was the problem, you see,” Dad said.

  “Is that the bimbo?” I asked.

  And they both laughed.

  A real laugh.

  “She does have a name,” Dad said.

  Mum said, “About Christmas?”

  “Yes?” Dad was full of hope.

  “Come anytime you like, stay as long as you like, take Dekko out, let him have an hour’s stimulating chat with the bimbo, if you want. The main thing is that Dekko never, ever believes that he was anything except the result of our love for each other. Because that is so true.”

  Dad raised his glass to Mum, too full of emotion to speak.

  Harry says I’m not to hold my breath.

  They’re not going to get back together; people don’t, once they’ve sold the main home.

  Harry is very sharp—he knows these things.

  But it’s not important. I know now that it wasn’t my fault and that, whatever “reasonable access” is going to be, it’s going to be okay.

  They went on a week’s holiday every year.

  Not abroad, since Harry Kelly didn’t like foreign food and Nessa Kelly was afraid to fly.

  But there were plenty of places in Ireland if you looked around you. One year they had been to Lisdoonvarna and another to Youghal. They had found nice bed-and-breakfast places and always kept the card in case they went back again. But they never did.

  In twenty-four years of summer vacations they never once went back to anywhere, no matter how wonderful they said it was at the time.

  This year the research had come up with Clifden. They would drive there from Chestnut Street on a Tuesday, starting early, leaving plenty of time. They would pack sandwiches and a flask of coffee, because you never knew. They began to pack the suitcases on the Friday before they left. Better to pack early, Nessa said, because you never knew what you might forget. Harry liked to pack from a list. Wiser to write it out and tick each item off as it went into the case, he said; otherwise you could easily think that things were packed when they weren’t.

  Nessa brought their five pieces of silver to the bank, each one wrapped in a piece of cotton and then all zipped into a little yellow bag.

  For the rest of the year they lived in the bottom of a cupboard. No point at all in tempting burglars by displaying them on shelves or anything. Harry went round all the window locks and tested the alarm system several times. Better be sure than sorry, he always said. They wished they had a reliable neighbor who might water their little garden but sadly it was only a wild, unkempt girl with red hair and a boyfriend who stayed over nights in Number 26. No point in asking her to do anything for you.

  They nodded at her courteously—always better
to make friends of these kind of people rather than enemies. She used to shout, “Howaya, Nessa? Harry?” which was very forward of her, since she must have been less than half their age.

  The evening before the Kellys set out for Clifden they had everything ready for the off. Sandwiches in the fridge, two eggs to boil and just enough bread to toast for breakfast. The house would be left neat and tidy to welcome them back a week later. Then Harry would have five full days to recover before he went back to work. It was a long, long journey—they knew that. They would both be very tired.

  There was a ring at the door. They looked at each other in alarm. Eight o’clock at night! Nobody would call at that hour.

  “Who is it?” Harry asked fearfully.

  “Melly,” the voice said. “Can I come in, please, Harry?”

  They didn’t know anyone called Melly.

  “From next door,” the voice said. “It’s urgent!”

  They let her in. Her red hair was wild, she wore a horrid purple top that exposed her middle bits and jeans with patches on them. Her face was very pale.

  “I just don’t want to be alone just now. Could I stay for an hour, please? I won’t be any trouble. Please, Nessa? Harry?”

  She looked from one to the other.

  “Are you unwell?” Nessa asked. “Should you go to a doctor? The hospital?”

  “No, I’m frightened. Mike, my fellow, he’s been smoking bad stuff—God knows what he might do to me. I don’t want him to find me at home.”

  “Won’t he come looking for you here?” Harry was very alarmed at inviting such trouble under his roof.

  “No, he’d never think I’d come here,” she said.

  “Well …” They were doubtful.

  “Oh, go on, Harry, Nessa, you can keep your eye on me. I’m not going to go off with your silver or anything. Just an hour or two or whatever.”

  “I don’t know,” Harry said.

  “Harry, you’re a decent man. How would you feel if I were beaten to death and you could have saved me?”

  They found themselves nodding.

  “But we can’t stay up late because we’re going to the west tomorrow, and by the time we get to Clifden we could be very tired.”