THE SHAPE OF THINGS UNTOLD (part2 & Last)
By Richard Banks
Kevin
walked up the garden path closely followed by O’Shea who insisted on carrying
his rucksack. The front door was ajar and on
Kevin tentatively pushing it open a few inches they peered into the gloomy
interior of a hallway lit only by the open door and the skylight above. Three
interior doors that might, if open, have provided further light were firmly
shut.
O’Shea gave
the door knocker a rap to make clear their arrival and, when no one appeared, called
out, “anyone at home?” The silence that followed seemed proof that no one was.
“Strange,” muttered O’Shea, “he’s expecting you, he can’t be far.”
“Who?” Said Kevin.
“The odd fellow. The one I told you
about who paid me to drive you. Surely you know him?”
Kevin didn’t know him, any more than he
knew O’Shea, who he regarded with increasing suspicion. Perhaps, he thought,
this is what he did, attach himself to people coming-off the ferry on the
pretence of being sent to meet them. If so, he was definitely up to no good, or
was he deranged?
“Perhaps we should go in,” said O’Shea.
“An open door’s as good as an invitation around here. I’m sure he won’t be
long.”
By way of encouragement, O’Shea eased
his way past Kevin and set down his rucksack on the floor beside a wickerwork
chair on which there was an envelope. Finding it addressed to himself he wasted
no time in peeling it open and finding the bonus he had been promised. “Good
man,” he murmured, slipping the bank notes within into an inside pocket of his
jacket. It had been a long drive and the young man had been little company
during that time. What’s more he was soaked through, with rain or sea he knew
not. At least he didn’t smell of piss. Nevertheless he had ponged out the car,
filling it with dank, smelly air that misted up the windscreen. He was glad to
be rid of him. Only the expectation of his bonus had prompted O’Shea to come
into the house, and now that he had it he couldn’t wait to be off. He sensed
his fare would also be glad to see him leave, so leave he did, making his exit
with as much bonhomie as he could muster.
Kevin shut the door behind him and took
a deep breath. An empty house, with no one to welcome him, was the last thing
he expected. He decided to check out each room, one by one. In the absence of
the ‘odd fellow,’ he might at least find an envelope addressed to himself.
Thank goodness it was daylight, how much worse this would be if it were dark.
He began in the front room in which there was a settee, two armchairs, a table
and chairs. He took a deep breath. Old fashioned stuff to be sure, all of it
much older than himself, but nonetheless the normal stuff of normal people.
There was also a wall unit with smoked glass doors through which could be seen
glasses and tableware. Around the carpet was a broad corridor of something he
thought was called lino which he had once seen in the house of a great-uncle.
There was no TV. An open fireplace laid with logs appeared to be the principal,
if only source of heating. Everything was clean and tidy, nothing out of place,
the brass railing around the hearth almost gleaming in the sunlight now
streaming through sash-cord windows.
He moved on to the next room further
down the hallway and found it as antiquated as the first. But this one he
liked better, two of its walls taken up with shelves overflowing with books. He
glanced at the titles on their spines and found much on music: academic
critiques, biographies of composers - some great, some less so, some he didn’t
know - and the music itself in hardback volumes. There was also a piano, a
Steinway, and on the lid that folded down over the notes an envelope with his
name on. He took another deep breath and with fingers all of a quiver extracted
the single sheet of paper within. On it were less than ten words, ‘Be back
soon. Make yourself at home,’ followed by the writer’s name, ‘Desmond Bonner’.
Kevin’s heart already pounding skipped
a beat; he felt strangely exhilarated and at the same time apprehensive as to
what was to follow. His intuition, his ridiculously optimistic intuition, had
been right. The man who was his father was still living within the bounds of
the parish church where, eighteen years before, he had married his mother. She
had never admitted to being married, had never once spoken his name but he had
found a copy of the certificate among her papers. Of his father’s life before
or thereafter Kevin could find no trace but one clue was better than none and
what choice did he have but to give it a try. If anyone had the answers he
wanted surely it would be his father.
*****
Desmond
observed the young man exploring his house. His courage, such as it was, had
deserted him and the event he had been longing for now seemed fraught with difficulties.
Nevertheless, he had never lost hope that this day would happen. That’s why
three years ago he had struck a deal with the man called Badger, who worked on
the ferry, that if ever they had a passenger by the name of Kevin Bonner he was
to let him know right away on the telephone he
had fitted for that purpose. He had promised him fifty pounds for that
call and although there was no guarantee that the boy would come he knew that
if he did it would be between his fourteenth and eighteenth birthdays. That’s
when his own changeling powers had shown themselves, just as it had with his
father and the fathers before.
Of course he should never have taken up
with the boy’s mother, he should have contented himself with Aileen or Coleen.
They were like him. But he couldn’t help himself, had eyes only for the big
city girl from across the sea. He never told her what he was, was too scared of
losing her. Then she came to be with child and of course he had to do right by
her. That’s when he should have told her what he was, but he delayed, and procrastinated as he always did. Best to tell her after the marriage, he told
himself, maybe after the child was born. After all they were to be married for
better or worse, that’s what the vows would say. It was the warts and all
agreement that all married couples made. And anyway, did he not love her more
than any other man. He would make her happy, so happy that when he did tell her
it would make no difference. He was a man, above all else a man, surely she
would see that, and all would be well. But he never did summon up the courage
to tell her and when, three months later, she saw him let slip and for a few
seconds morph into that motor cycle, the one he wanted so much but couldn’t
afford, the marriage was as good as over and she disappeared to lord knows
where with their unborn son, never to return.
What, he wondered, had she said about
him to their child? Not much, he thought. She had said little to him, her
husband, before she left; the look of revulsion on her face saying more than
words could ever do. So what now was he to say? The young man would have
questions, many questions. Probably best to let him ask them and answer as best
he could. But some questions he had no answer to, the how and why questions.
All he could tell him was that it came down through the generations, that it
was a gift as well as a curse and that they were not the only ones. Yes, that
was important, he would need to know about the others; there were at least
forty of them in the farms and villages nearby. Some of them Bonners, others
Leary or O’Brien, two Patterson's and a Riley. They were good folks and when
the lad met them perhaps he would be minded to stay for awhile, maybe longer.
Aileen and Colleen both had daughters now, pretty girls, clever too. He might
take a shine to one of them and they to him. He was not a bad looking boy, as
most Bonners were. A chip off the old block, no doubt about that, and judging
by the way he had lingered over his books and piano they might have more in
common than just their looks.
But before all that could happen he had
to pluck up his courage and stop being the proverbial fly on the wall. Of
course he was nervous, this was what he had been waiting for all these years;
maybe his only chance to make things right. He would fly down to the front
door, change into himself, and pretend he had just come in. What then? Would a
handshake be sufficient? Should he call him, son? He had rehearsed all this, and thought he had it right; now he wasn’t sure.
Perhaps best just to go with the flow. If nothing else he must show he cared.
The lad was in the kitchen now. A good
place, none better, he would be needing a warm drink, a good meal, and a tot of
whiskey afterwards. Was he old enough for whiskey?
His son! At last he had his son.
Copyright
Richard Banks
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