The Marble Collector

  I hear a string of expletives and everyone laughs. Then Gerry appears in the bar, beer in hand, faded jeans, leather jacket. A few men are behind him, they’ve followed him through to take a look at me.

  ‘Hamish is your da?’ one of the men asks.

  ‘No. Fergus Boggs …’ I say quietly.

  The Marble Cat finally recognises my discomfort and tries to calm down what he has revved up. ‘Okay, okay, let’s take this over here.’ He leads me to the nearby table. ‘Dara!’ he yells as if he’s back on the pitch. ‘Get this woman a drink! I’m sorry,’ he says to me. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sabrina.’

  ‘Get Sabrina a drink!’ he yells and then to me, quieter: ‘What will you have?’

  ‘Water, please.’

  ‘Ah have something stronger, you look like you need it.’

  I feel like I need it too, but I’m driving.

  ‘Sparkling water.’

  They all laugh.

  ‘Just like your da,’ Gerry says, joining us, the other men slinking back to the darkness they came from. ‘Never drank when playing. Said it affected his throw.’

  They laugh again.

  ‘Gerry, call Jimmy, he’d love to see this,’ the Marble Cat barks at him.

  I try to interject, more people isn’t necessary, I’m feeling overwhelmed and dizzy as it is, but they talk over me, like excited kids. Spud starts to explain in detail how his team the Electric Slags won the championship, almost throw by throw, setting up the scene, describing the tension between the Americans and the Irish, and then how Dad threw the winning throw. They’re talking over each other, interrupting, fighting, debating, Gerry and Spud absolutely unable to agree on anything, even the slightest detail such as the weather, while I listen, feeling stunned, thinking this all must be a mistake, a misunderstanding. They must be talking about another man. Why was Dad calling himself Hamish O’Neill?

  Then Jimmy arrives, twenty years older and with less hair than in the photograph, but I recognise him. He shakes my hand and sits down, seeming quieter and perhaps a bit stunned himself, having been dragged out of wherever he was to be here.

  ‘Where’s Charlie?’ Spud says.

  ‘On holiday with his missus,’ Gerry explains to me, like I know who Charlie is, but I should, he too is in the photograph, a member of the Electric Slags.

  ‘Peter passed away last year,’ the Marble Cat says.

  ‘Liver cancer,’ Gerry says.

  ‘Shut up, you – it was the bowel,’ Spud corrects him, elbowing him in the ribs, which makes Gerry spill his drink and they go at it again.

  ‘Lads, lads,’ the Marble Cat tries to calm them.

  ‘I preferred it when you two weren’t talking,’ Jimmy says.

  I smile.

  ‘So you’re his daughter?’ Jimmy asks. ‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘She says his name was Fergus,’ Gerry says excitedly, as though Dad’s name was the most exotic he’s ever heard. ‘I told ye, lads. I always knew it. Something didn’t add up with our boy. Spud always said he was a spy, better not to ask him questions in case we got killed.’

  They laugh, apart from Jimmy, and Spud who looks at me in all seriousness. ‘I did. Was he a spy? I bet you he was.’

  They try to quieten him and it turns into a debate: remember the time he did this, remember the time he said that, until they finally shush and look at me.

  I shake my head. ‘He did a few different things … mostly sales.’ I try to think of everything about him, to prove that I know him. ‘He started in meat, then later mobile phones, mortgages …’ My voice sounds as though it’s coming from very far away, I don’t even trust my knowledge any more. Did Dad do any of those jobs or were they all lies?

  ‘Oh yeah, travelling salesman, I heard that before,’ Spud says, and they shush him like he’s a child.

  ‘His last job was as a car salesman. My husband bought a car from him,’ I say pathetically, proving to myself that Dad was in fact something that he said he was.

  Gerry laughs, hits a stunned and disappointed Spud in the chest. ‘You should see your face,’ he laughs.

  ‘I could have sworn he was a spy,’ Spud continues. ‘He was so cagey. His right hand wouldn’t know what his left hand was doing.’

  ‘Come on now,’ Jimmy says softly, and they realise I’m here, and this is new to me, and they pipe down.

  ‘When’s the last time you saw him?’ I ask.

  They look at each other for the answer.

  ‘A few months ago,’ Gerry says.

  ‘It wasn’t,’ Spud snaps. ‘Don’t be listening to him, he can’t remember what he had for breakfast. It was more than that. Over a year ago. With that woman.’

  My heart beats faster.

  ‘So in love. Jaysus,’ Spud shakes his head. ‘He never introduced us to a soul in all the years and then all of a sudden he shows up with a woman. Blonde. What was her name?’

  ‘German,’ Gerry says.

  ‘Yeah, but what was her name?’

  ‘And Irish,’ Gerry continues. ‘Funny accent. Funny woman.’ He tries to think. ‘You must know her?’

  ‘I don’t.’ I clear my throat.

  ‘It was Cat,’ Jimmy says.

  They all agree on that.

  Cat?

  ‘But she could be using a different name too, for all we know,’ Spud says. ‘She could be a spy. German one.’

  They all tell him to shut up.

  ‘Why Hamish?’ the Marble Cat asks me, leaning in intently. ‘Why did he call himself Hamish O’Neill if his name was Fergus Boggs?’

  I search my mind but there’s nothing that links to that name. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  Silence.

  ‘I only found out yesterday that he ever played marbles.’

  ‘Mother of divine!’ Gerry says. ‘So you didn’t know about us? The Electric Slags? He never talked about us?’

  I shake my head.

  They look at each other in surprise and I feel like apologising on his behalf. I know how they feel. Were they not important enough to him?

  ‘Well, maybe you’re right about one hand not knowing what the other hand was doing, Spud.’

  ‘Did you say I’m right, Gerry? Jaysus! And I’ve witnesses and all.’

  ‘So where is he?’ Gerry asks. ‘It’s been a year and none of us have heard from him. Can’t say we’re too happy with him about that.’

  ‘How is he?’ Jimmy asks quietly.

  Breathe.

  ‘He suffered a stroke last year which affected his movement and memory. He’s been in hospital under full-term care since then. We didn’t realise that it had affected his memory as hugely as I think it did now, but recently I’ve discovered some things about my dad that I never knew, like the marbles, and I’m quite sure he doesn’t remember ever playing them. Obviously I don’t know everything about his life to know what he remembers or not, that much is quite clear …’ I try to control my voice. ‘He had, has, a lot of secrets, I don’t know what he’s keeping a secret and what is a lost memory.’

  Jimmy looks sad. They all do.

  ‘I can’t imagine Hami— your da, not knowing about marbles. They were his whole life,’ Gerry says.

  I swallow. Then what was I?

  ‘Not his whole life,’ Jimmy corrects him. ‘We don’t know about the rest of his life.’

  ‘Well we never bloody knew. But I figured the rest of his life at least knew about us,’ Gerry says, annoyed.

  ‘You would think,’ I say, agreeing with him, sounding a little more snappy than I intend.

  There’s a silence. A respectful, understanding one, which becomes uncomfortable. I would rather they were bickering.

  ‘Tell me what my dad was like when he was playing marbles,’ I say, and then I can’t shut them up.

  ‘Sabrina,’ Jimmy calls after me when I’m outside.

  I have tears rolling down my cheeks and him catching me is the last thing I want. I thought I’d make i
t to the car at least, but I don’t. I don’t know if I can hear any more. Who was my dad? Who is my dad? This man that I grew up with that everybody seems to think something differently of. The words of Regina haunt me: He’s a liar. Simple as that. As if that answers everything. Does it? No. Does it hurt? Yes. Why did he lie to me? His own daughter. How foolish and stupid I feel for letting him in on my life, on all aspects of my life, even the moments I had marriage troubles. He was always so caring, yet he wouldn’t share a thing with me. I feel used, irritated, and even worse I can’t storm into the hospital and have it out with him. The man in there simply doesn’t remember. How convenient for him. I sound like Mum now, this silent rant in my head. I try to calm myself, forget about it all until I’m in private.

  Jimmy takes me by the arm and leads me down the road. We stop by a door beside a tools and hardware shop and Jimmy takes out a set of keys and lets himself in. I follow him upstairs to a studio apartment above the shop. It’s basic and I think he must live alone, but then I see a bucket of toys.

  ‘For the grandkids,’ he says when he sees me looking. ‘I take them every Friday, when my daughter’s at work.’

  He fills the kettle and boils it. He watches me for a while, concerned.

  ‘It’s hard, what you’re going through.’

  I nod. Trying to pull myself together.

  ‘I know a little bit about that feeling. Your dad made me feel like that too. On his wedding day.’

  He has my full attention but he doesn’t start talking until he’s poured us both a cup of tea and as much as I want to urge him to speak, I know it would be impolite. In his own time. A plate of pink Snacks comes out. Then finally.

  ‘I was a guest on his wedding day. A first proper date with a girl I half-liked. Michelle. She was a bridesmaid, begged me to go to the wedding. Figured there’d be free food and drink, so why not? So I went. Iona Road Parish Church. I remember it well. Big church, all decked out fancy. Her friend Gina was marrying Fergus Boggs. That’s all I knew. Wore my brother’s suit, showed up, sat down. Didn’t know a soul. Or at least, I didn’t think I would. But all of a sudden a good friend of mine arrives, and I’m chuffed that I know someone. He’s looking pretty dapper too, in a light blue tuxedo suit. Flares. We all wore them then. He walks all the way to the top of the aisle. Stands there, waits. Is that the best man? I ask the fella next to me. Who? Him? No, that’s the groom, the fella says. Hamish O’Neill is the groom? says I. Yer man starts laughing. Are ye at the wrong wedding? That’s Fergus Boggs. I’d swear the floor went from under me. Or like he’d punched me in the stomach. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get any air. I felt … well, I felt like you do now probably, but not as bad for me. He wasn’t my dad. But he was my pal. For two years we’d hung around. Hamish O’Neill. Couldn’t figure it out.’

  ‘Did you confront him?’

  ‘Never did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought about it. Stayed away from him for a while. Easy enough, he was away on honeymoon, then working extra hours to save up to buy a house, that much I knew. But odd thing is, when he was gone, someone came into the pub looking to set up a marble team. Charlie, you didn’t meet him, he was away. He’d heard there were two of us in the Marble Cat who played. I told him I was interested, wasn’t sure about the other. Had no intention of telling him. But then Hamish … Fergus, came back, phoned me to meet for a game and a pint. I told him about Charlie wanting to set up the team and we arranged to meet. We met in the Marble Cat, it was up to me to introduce him to Charlie. I thought about it, it could have been my moment to catch him out, show him I knew, but instead I said, Charlie, this is Hamish, Hamish this is Charlie. And that was that.’

  ‘I don’t know how you could do that,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘If I’d known I couldn’t have hid it.’

  ‘Look, none of us are perfect. I certainly don’t claim to be. We all have our … complications. Thing is, the man must have had his reasons. That’s what I always told myself. I thought it would be best to let him tell me, or I’d figure those reasons out. Over time, like.’

  ‘And did you?’

  He smiles. A sad smile. ‘Well, I am now, aren’t I?’

  ‘You and everybody else,’ I say, angrily.

  ‘He was a good man, as simple as that. Hamish O’Neill, Fergus Boggs or whoever he says he was, it doesn’t matter. He was just him. He was fun, sometimes he was grumpy, I don’t think he changed his personality, no way a man could do that over forty years. I don’t think he was pretending to be someone else. He was just the same man with a different name. That’s all. It really didn’t matter to me about the name. He was a good man. He was a loyal friend. Was there when I needed him; I’d like to think I was there when he needed me. Didn’t have to tell me why or what was wrong. We just played marbles. Shot the breeze and I don’t think that a single conversation we had was pretend or made up, it was all real. So your dad is your dad, who he was, who he is – he’s the same man you’ve known all along.’

  I try to take that on board but right now I just can’t. ‘You didn’t try to find him when he disappeared last year?’

  ‘Nah, I’m no stalker, or private investigator,’ he laughs. ‘We’d stopped being a marble team for nearly ten years. We played together sometimes, but we didn’t compete. Too difficult to get the lads together, then with Peter getting sick …’

  ‘But you were his friend. Did you not wonder where he went?’

  He thinks about that. ‘He doesn’t talk about marbles now at all?’

  ‘Today was the first day. I showed him a few bloodies and I think something happened, they triggered something. I don’t think he remembered them before.’

  He nods, sadly. ‘People come and go. Lots of my friends have died,’ he says. ‘Happens when you get to this age. Cancer, heart attacks … it’s depressing really. You ask about someone, hear that they’ve gone. Think of someone you haven’t seen in a while and hear that they’re dead. Open the paper and see an obituary for someone you once knew. It happens at my age. The way I see it is, when I stopped hearing from him, my pal Hamish O’Neill died too.’

  This brings tears to my eyes again. ‘Maybe he’ll want to see you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he says, uncertainly. ‘It would be nice to see him. We didn’t share everything, but we shared a lot.’

  I thank him for the tea and I make a move to go. It’s six p.m., I’ve nowhere to be but I need to leave. I’m not finished yet.

  Jimmy leads me downstairs to the door to the street and before he opens it he turns to me. ‘He slipped up sometimes, you know. The lads might not remember now, but they definitely noticed it at the time. We used to talk about it: what’s Hamish on about now? Who’s he on about? Usually it was when he’d had a few. He’d mention names – by mistake, I think. He didn’t seem to notice. I think he confused things then, what he’d told us and what he hadn’t. I’m sure it got to him in the end.’

  I nod and plaster a smile on my face, not feeling any sympathy for Dad right now.

  ‘You know there was only one other time that I ever saw him as happy as when he was with that woman, Cat. Couldn’t figure out what it was then, but it makes sense to me a little bit later in my life.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘He came practically dancing into the pub one day, bought everyone a drink. Jimmy, he says, taking my head in his hands. Today is the happiest day of my life. It took something happening in my life to realise what it was that made him like that. When I had my first baby. Happiest day of my life, went dancing into the pub just like your da had. And I knew then what had happened to him. I knew he’d had a baby. April time about thirty years ago. Maybe a little more.’

  My birthday. ‘Is that true?’ I ask, unable to wipe the smile off my face.

  ‘On my grandkids’ lives,’ he says, holding up his hands.

  I’ll take that.

  The best thing about having had to sell my car is meeting her. The bills were totting up, the income wasn’t,
the car had to go. Thirty grand would go a long way. It took a while to make that decision, what’s a man without a car, but then when I made it, I never looked back. A financial advisor with no money, no car, and no clients. I was always going to be the first to go; subsequently the company folded, I didn’t feel any joy. We’re all in the shit together. More fellas like me, looking for the same kind of jobs.

  I’m a salesman, have been all my life, it’s what I do best, it’s all I know. Today is my first day as a car salesman. I’m trying to feel positive, though I feel anything but. I’m fifty-six years old and I don’t have a car to get to my job as a car salesman – not that the boss knows that, but he’ll figure it out soon enough when he sees me huffing and puffing up the hill from the bus stop to work every morning. My doctor has been at me to exercise, my cholesterol, my blood pressure, everything is bad news. Every envelope I open is bad news. I’m officially a granddad and even little Fergus likes to remind me that I’m fat Granddad as he jumps on my belly. At least these short walks to and from the bus stop will give me some movement.

  She’s standing alone at the bus stop, trying to figure out the timetable. I know she’s trying to figure it out because she’s wearing her reading glasses, is chewing on her lip and looks confused with a screwed-up face. It’s endearing.

  She sighs and mutters to herself.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  She looks around in surprise like she thought she was alone. ‘Thank you, I can’t understand this thing. Where is today? Is this today?’ She points with a manicured pink fingernail. ‘Or is this today? I’m looking for the number 14 bus, am I even in the right place? And this, you can’t read this at all, because some clever person decided to tell the world with a Sharpie that Decko is a fag. I mean, this is no big deal, I know some very happy fags. Decko might be extremely lucky, but not if he wants to get on the number 14 on a Monday morning. Then Decko will be a miserable fag.’

  I laugh, it explodes right out of me. I adore her instantly. I study the timetable for some time, not because I’m concentrating, but because I want to be near her, because she smells beautiful. She finally looks at me, lowers her leopard-print reading glasses and I’m faced with the most stunning pair of eyes which illuminate her entire face, make her glow from within.