Authors: Patrick McCabe
The mind-bogglingly elaborate narratives she could come up with when she had to — they really were quite astonishing. Involving,
as they did, 'violent scenes' and 'obscenities'. Not to mention the various 'not-so-veiled threats', with which she'd been
preoccupied in the courtroom. Also 'insane jealousies' and 'over-protective neuroses'.
Baby Owen, of course, wasn't even mentioned, or any of the arguments connected with that issue. I told the judge that I regretted
a lot of my behaviour - especially the sudden irrational rages. I had just wanted us all to be the happiest family ever, but,
unfortunately, things hadn't developed that way. Catherine said under no circumstances could she countenance having another
child — we were much too unstable, financially and emotionally. I said that was a pity. Catherine, however, didn't say anything.
Things gradually went from bad to worse. Whole weeks would go by and we wouldn't exchange a word. Then it happened, that incident
in the bedroom, pathetically turning a polly pocket in my hand.
It would be better for everyone if I didn't see the child, the judge had ultimately concluded, outside of the conditions which
she would now lay down. That was her ruling, mystifying though it might have been, as Imogen just stood there, pale and bewildered.
In my days of regular employment I would never have dreamt of doing such a thing. However I categorically admit it - I stole
the book.
I didn't have any choice. I had to have a present for Immy. It was called
Where the Wild Things Are
by Maurice Sendak. It really has to be said that there were some fabulous creatures depicted within its colourfully illustrated
pages. Extraordinarily intimidating but somehow attractive creations, dragons and sprites and other denizens of Middle-earth.
Its audaciously extravagant draughtsmanship cheered me no end. Not to mention the sheer impish glee of the stories themselves.
There could be no doubt, I thought to myself, that the author, when it came to imagination, stood head and shoulders above
them all, in the world of children's fiction at least. Immy had always loved that book. I thought that maybe when I picked
her up we might go and read it together in the park. Leafing through it on the bus, the thing that struck me most impressively
was how it seemed every bit as fresh and original now as that first night we'd read it together, in her bedroom.
As she lay there sucking her thumb in the glow of the night light that Catherine had bought.
In Camden market when she'd loved me.
I was so excited waiting for the school bell outside the convent. Except that it never came. Which, of course, deep down I
knew. It was the school's day off. I had only been pretending to pick her up. It was stupid, I know, a childish thing to do.
But I got so giddy when I thought of it. The doors bursting open and Immy crying:
—Daddy!
I could see the cleaner passing by the school window, looking up intermittently and lugubriously gazing out, as though utterly
perplexed by the strange world beyond.
I would have given anything to go to the pub. But I didn't have any money and wasn't due to get the dole until Thursday. So
I just started walking back towards the hostel and Drumcondra. I was crossing the canal bridge when the fear came over me
and I found myself just standing there. The voice came drifting thinly to my ears.
—That was a very stupid thing you did, Redmond, you don't want anyone to know you are in Dublin. Don't ever do a thing like
that again.
I lowered my head in abject humility.
—Yes, of course. Yes, of course, I know, I replied and resumed my journey in the echo-specked dusk.
It just wasn't enough for me. To be told, like a child, when it would be acceptable for me to see my daughter. It made me
sick even thinking about it. I could hear her saying:
—Why does it have to be this way? Is there any reason for it, Daddy?
—None that I can think of, darling. None that I can think of in the wide, wide world, Imogen, my beloved pet.
I sat in the common room for a couple of hours, turning the pages of
Where the Wild Things Are.
—Oh no! I'd hear my sweetheart say, recoiling from some big scaly dragon or other, pressing her fists up to her face as the
lovely glow of the night light burnt on.
I
WAITED IN TEMPLE BAR, knowing they'd come by sooner or later. I won't pretend it didn't shock me when it happened though.
I knew the restaurant. We'd frequented it together, once upon a time. But it wasn't called Rudyard's now — it was a pasta
place, where they ate alfresco, an indication of what was to come, the Temple Bar area developing into the epicentre of Dublin's
hedonistic empire, a playground exclusively populated by louche adolescent Euro-ramblers and indigenous chemical-fuelled youths
vertiginously wading in the currents of an ever-expanding opalescent ocean, shorn of history and oblivious of religion. It
was a bright evening - fresh and crisp. A forlorn mime artist was halfheartedly juggling coloured balls close by the Central
Bank. Imogen was wearing this sparkly top with a heart-shaped bag thrown across her shoulder. She was nine now, and wore her
hair in a ponytail. She was holding her father's hand as she chatted, non-stop, as usual. The seagulls seemed to blow like
random flecks of saliva. It was too much to deal with, no matter how much I thought I had prepared myself for it. I had to
have a drink - one. That was all I had the money for. It failed miserably to fortify me.
I stood in the alleyway across the street from the restaurant. As I looked in the window, the sight saddened me so much I
can't find the words which might adequately describe it. Imogen was throwing her head back with her fists up to her face,
laughing away at some joke he had told. In front of her on the table was a Knickerbocker Glory. Her father was helping her
to eat it. I watched her sink in her long-handled spoon, right into the middle of that great big multicoloured ice cream mountain.
Her new father was wearing a casual diamond-patterned jumper. My vision became somewhat blurred as I stood there in the cobbled
alleyway, with streams of people sweeping past me. I heard something about the Temple Bar Music Centre. John Martyn was playing
there, a girl said in passing. 'May you never,' I heard her sing. Another song that Catherine had loved - 'May you never lay
your head down without a hand to hold.'
Imogen had always been crazy about pizza. Every Sunday I'd bring her to Deep Pan, close by our flat, which was on Lonsdale
Road in Kilburn. She'd cry: 'Pineapple - yay!' and Catherine would say: 'It's salami for me!'
After they left the restaurant, I was still a little unsteady, not yet wholly back to myself. But I managed to keep them in
sight. They caught a taxi on Aungier Street. People will tell you there's no such thing as real coincidence. That synchronicity
etc. is just so much waffle. But it did seem remarkably strange to me that scarcely five minutes later, after the taxi had
pulled away and after dazedly wandering into a shop, the first thing I came upon happened to be a video of
My Little
Pony.
And not just any old copy of it either, but the very one I remembered watching with Immy —
The Enchanted Mask,
in fact. Where Rainbow Dash, Minty and Wisteria are going to the magic castle with Sunny Daze. I remembered it especially
because Pinkie Pie wasn't in it and Immy had been very disappointed by that. My heart was thumping furiously from the moment
I saw it. It started me thinking about Imogen and her toys. I can't tell you how excited she used to
get
about all those ponies and their crazy adventures in Ponyville: the two of us singing the theme song in Queen's Park - Imogen
being Pinkie Pie and me being Kimono.
—Do the 'afraid' things, she'd say and I'd scare her.
Pinkie Pie was the 'scarediest' pony.
'Boo!' could even qualify as a scary thing for her.
But she always loved it when the time came to comfort her. When the scary things were all over at last.
—They won't come back, will they, the 'afraid' things?
she'd say.
—Of course they won't, Pinkie Pie, I'd tell her.
—Can we watch it again? she would say when the video at last had come to an end.
And I'd say, real cross:
—No! You know you've watched it twice already, Immy!
I would not.
—You certainly can, Pinkie Pie! I'd say and laugh my head off.
I'd have let her watch it a hundred times if she'd wanted.
A hundred and fifty.
She could watch the video till the tape wore away as far as her father was concerned.
It just used to floor me the way that girl could giggle, with her little shoulders rocking back and forth. Then we'd have
ourselves a glass of Ribena. She always liked one before she went to bed. But I never told Catherine - because I knew she'd
go mad. She didn't like her drinking it at all. Additives, and so on.
It was our little secret, I told Imogen to remember.
—Our little secret, she chuckled, 'The Secret of Ribena'!
In the common room of the hostel you had permission to watch videos after 6 p.m., provided no one else objected. When I went
in there was nobody else around. Just this one fellow, a rough-looking labourer, jowly, in his mid-fifties. When I asked him
did he mind if I put on
The Enchanted
Mask
he said no.
As a matter of fact he watched it with me.
—They're sortae like the Care Bears, aren't they, mate? he suggested. Same type o' thing - right?
He was from Glasgow, he told me. He was correct. Sunny Daze and Rainbow Dash and all the rest
were,
in fact, very similar to the Care Bears. With all the action taking place in this incorrigibly pink, totally candyfloss world.
About halfway through I heard him asking me some questions about the football match but he didn't persist when I demonstrated
no interest.
Later on he told me he'd been working on the oil rigs for years. Before things - well, went wrong, he said.
—I worked on Piper Alpha, he said. I was asleep down below the night she went up. I'll no' forget it. Tell ye the truth, I've
no' been the same since. I seen flames that night 300 feet high.
He was very interested when he heard I'd once worked for a newspaper. He asked me would I be interested in hearing his life
story? Maybe write it up: 'The Inside Story of Piper Alpha'. But he said he had lots of stories to tell. Not just depressing,
awful ones like that.
I was in no humour for hearing anyone's story. I'd had my fill of stories. In any case, I had my suspicions that he'd never
been near Piper Alpha at all. That, like Strange, he nurtured this image of himself as some unique, great trailblazing adventurer.
When he'd probably, in fact, been living in dosshouses for years.
I told him I'd see him later and left.
A couple of nights later my sleep was interrupted by the sound of a street party, with a boombox thumping away outside, the
piercing whistles and pounding drums seeming to wane before resurging with a renewed vigour that seemed not just invasive
but deeply provocative, in fact. The perspiration was running off me as I got up, although the weather hadn't been particularly
hot. I went down to the communal kitchen to get myself a glass of water and was scooping some ice cubes into the glass when
I heard the kitchen door suddenly slam. I dropped the glass. Then froze as I heard:
—Bastard! Fucking bastard!
At that point, I could have sworn I smelt the loathed dampness.
—O Jesus, I groaned, as I glimpsed my face in the window. It was chalk-white.
—Bastard! the oil-rigger repeated, before launching into an unnecessary torrent of vile invective. My relief - when I realised
who it was, and also, of course, who it
wasn't
—
was immense. Piper Alpha stood before me, quaking. It gradually emerged that he had been bitterly aggrieved by my earlier
reluctance to lend what he described as 'a sympathetic ear' to his experiences.
I had no option but to persuade him that he'd been mistaken. Which he hadn't. His appraisal of the situation had been, in
fact, entirely accurate. I
hadn't
been listening to his tiresome 'life story'. Not to a single word he'd said. But I made us some tea to mollify the cretin.
We sat together at the table. He must have been droning on for at least three hours. Eventually, his eyelids began to droop.
—I think that's enough for tonight, don't you think so, Dominic, my friend? he said as he stood up and pushed back the table.
Adding, charmingly: I thought at first you were a bit of a cunt, but now I think you're all right.
Catherine used to say:
—You can be canny, can't you, Redmond Hatch? Quite resourceful when it serves your purpose? Not at all the innocent you like
to pretend. Must be your rural background. That old native cunning we often hear about.
I smiled at the recollection of my wife's tender ways.
Then I heard Piper Alpha bidding me goodnight, shambling off, suitably placated.
As I stood there, out of nowhere, I experienced this appalling image of Imogen — screaming on Piper Alpha as the oil-rigger
cried:
—She'll be burnt alive!
It was as though she were there in that hostel kitchen. Right there screaming and begging me for help.
—The afraid things! The afraid things, Daddy!
Why, I asked myself, ought I to think of such a thing? What had prompted me to—
Then I saw her again: a silhouetted dwarf behind a ragged fence of fire. Her arms reaching out in tortured appeal.
—Ah, I heard a familiar voice whisper, have you gone and lost your precious little friend? I lost mine too. He drowned one
day, in the sweet factory river.
I went back to bed but, once again, sleep proved impossible. I couldn't stop imagining Imogen in Bournemouth. She was wearing
this daft little floral bikini and every time Ivan shouted she raced along the shore to the water. And stood like she used
to, pressing her fists up to her face. I wondered had Ivan ever actually brought her to the seaside? Ivan, in so far as I
had been able to make out, was a very good father. He definitely spent a lot of time with her. Assisting her with her lessons
and, generally, being as dutiful as he could. I thought of Catherine lying there on the Bournemouth sand. Removing her sunglasses
and looking over as she said:
—If I didn't love you, I'd marry John Martyn. I'd marry him and call him 'sugar lips'.
I found myself laughing, exactly as I'd done back then.
—'May You Never', I had said to her with a chuckle.
Once she had actually said she'd got married too young and that she hadn't really lived her life fully. That she liked being
—
adored,
certainly. What woman didn't? But only up to a point. She wanted to be loved for herself, she said. I wondered had they discussed
it in the classes? All I knew was - it hadn't bothered her before. And it made me sad. Because, deep down, I couldn't seem
to stop it. But you can analyse too much. You can analyse all you like. People have problems and that's all there is to it.
The fact is, whether we like it or not, there are no single, identifiable reasons for love coming to an end. All that happens
is that one day it just stops. You wake up one morning and you say to yourself:
—Where's it gone? I wonder, where could our love have gone?
I didn't say it because for me it never happened. I never woke up thinking that in my life. I know Catherine did —but not
me. It might have been better, perhaps, if I had. But that simply wasn't the way things had happened.
I'd literally spend hours daydreaming about them. Daydreaming about them and the lovely life they lived. I could see Ivan
and Catherine on holiday, sitting in the lounge bar in the cool of a Greek summer evening. Sipping cocktails and listening
to the music - just a piano player going through standards. Not John Martyn or anything like that. 'Cavatina', maybe, or 'Unchained
Melody'. Ivan's hand would move across the table quite slowly — before reaching hers and touching it ever so gently. The French
windows would be thrown open and you'd be able to feel the salt breeze on your face.
—This is a long way from Dublin, you'd hear him saying, it's a long way from Dublin and Ballyroan Road, Rathfarnham.
—It certainly is, my darling, she'd reply.
It was an idyllic scene and was the one which — against my better judgement - impelled me, irrationally, to decide to go out
to their house one evening, completely on the spur of the moment. Immediately I arrived I knew something was wrong. The garden
gate was chained, which it never was, and the house was enfolded in a desolate quiet. Their estate car was nowhere to be seen.
I thought that perhaps they had actually moved house, or perhaps even had left the country altogether. My head was reeling
as I stood there, quietly devastated on that leafy suburban road. It was as though I was standing on the top of Slievenageeha
Mountain, and Imogen was waving to me from far away, her voice growing fainter all the time.
—Don't leave me, Immy! I cried, helplessly, plunging my face into my hands.
When I got back to the hostel, I became preoccupied again with thoughts of the photo. The hostel was silent, apart from the
strange noises that often trouble an empty building. I couldn't settle - I kept walking around, searching here, there and
everywhere. Then it began to dawn on me —the unthinkable had happened. The utterly unthinkable.
The photograph was gone!
I was perplexed. It became so bad I was actually
moaning!.
But then, almost instantaneously, I found myself swept up by a wave of the most intoxicating pleasure, when I discovered
in its place an even
more
beautiful and tantalising image — the most delectable portrait of Catherine Courtney!
Or, should I say, what
could
have been a delectable portrait of my ex-wife. If she hadn't been in the company of her Maltese lover, as they gazed so rapturously
into one another's eyes.
They were obviously having a real good time. It must have been 110 degrees out there, on the illicit weekend they'd shared
in Malta. In Valletta, the capital, when Catherine had told me she was going to be in Cork, visiting her 'terribly ill' mother
in hospital.
The most unacceptable aspect of the humiliating court procedure was being told how and when I might see my child. Pieces of
time being fed to me like crumbs. I would rather never have seen her at all than accept those terms. I mean, your blood is
your blood, as they used to say in Slievenageeha. In the long run, it's thicker than anything. And Immy was my blood-kin.
That was my nature - she was my heartbeat. And I couldn't have changed that even if I'd tried. I'd finally accepted it that
night in Bournemouth.