Carmel Harrington - A Thousand Roads Home

‘Hey, you two, watch it. You know the rules,’ Erica shouted at them both.

The two suitcases Ruth and DJ had been pulling along behind them fell to the floor with a thud.

‘Oh, shit,’ one of the boys said. DJ started to giggle, which made them both giggle even louder.

‘Sorry, ’Rica. Sorry, missus. Don’t go off on one,’ the taller of the two boys said, panting from his run. He offered them both his biggest smile, all teeth and a wrinkled-up nose, then grabbed his brother’s arm, pulling him out of the way so they could continue on theirs.

‘You don’t look one bit sorry, but you might be when I tell your mother about this!’ Erica’s words were lost on them. ‘Just slow down, lads. It would be good if we could all get to the end of the day without someone ending up in A&E!’

‘We will,’ the boys shouted back.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Erica exclaimed, watching them take off again. She wiped a trickle of sweat that was making its way down the side of her face onto the back of her hand. ‘The heat in this place. I must talk to my Billy about the air conditioning.’

‘Carrying extra weight causes the body to work harder and could be at the root of your unwanted perspiration. It is only eight degrees outside after all,’ Ruth said.

‘I beg your pardon!’ Erica exclaimed.

Ruth replied, ‘I said, it is unlikely that the temperature outside is causing your perspiration issue.’

‘I know what you said!’ Erica said, then marched off down the corridor. DJ and Ruth picked up their cases and black sacks, then followed Erica’s retreating back once more. They weren’t heavy, but they were big and cumbersome. DJ’s little hands were red from his efforts. Yet he never complained, not once all day. Ruth was so proud of her boy and grateful she had listened to him when he insisted he stay with her.

Her eyes drifted downwards to their preferred position and DJ’s too-short jogger bottoms taunted her. Where was the nearest Penneys to here? One hundred steps already. Erica’s black Skechers shuffled their way over the busy red-and-gold carpet that was underfoot. It was showing signs of years of wear and tear. One hundred and nine. Parts of it were shiny from the thousands of feet that had walked on it, the edges beginning to fray. Ruth felt her head buzz as a ringing sound bounced its way between her two ears. It was making her cases feel heavier than they actually were, slowing her down. For a large woman, Erica moved at great speed. Ruth tried to focus on the retreating back of Erica and not give in to her dizzy spell.

One hundred and thirteen. Erica stopped in front of a white door that had a gold number, top centre. ‘Here we are. Room 129. Your new home. Had Parkgate called yesterday we would have had to turn you away. We’d a nice couple in this room until this morning. They fell on hard times and were a genuine case that needed help. Not like most of the wrong ’uns that we see in this place.’

‘We’re not wrong ’uns, Mam,’ DJ said.

‘No we are not,’ Ruth replied, then turned to ask Erica, ‘How long were that couple here for?’

‘About six months, I’d say. Not that long,’ Erica said.

Six months. Ruth felt DJ’s eyes on her. She could not bear to look at him, to see the reproach and fear that she knew would be there.

Erica placed the key card in the slot and smiled with satisfaction when the light turned green. ‘These can be buggers. The amount of times I’ve had to go back down to reception to reset the key. Don’t put your card in the same pocket as your phone. That’s my top tip. It wipes them, then makes them redundant.’

Ruth replied, ‘That is correct. Anything with an electromagnetic field transmitting from it, such as a mobile telephone or TV can cause a mag stripe to demagnetise.’

Erica’s mouth dropped open in surprise, making DJ laugh. Go, Mam!

‘However, due to the frequency of the problem you are encountering, it is instead more likely to be caused by the faulty encoding equipment. I would suggest your machine in reception needs a service,’ Ruth said, matter-of-factly.

Erica pushed the hotel-room door wide open and walked in, keeping her eyes on Ruth all the while. In realisation that her mouth was agape, she shut it quickly. ‘Well, I never. I’ll tell my Billy that. Maybe you’ve got something there. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?’

DJ said, ‘My mam knows a lot of stuff.’

Ruth remained silent. If she was that clever she would not be standing in the doorway of a small hotel bedroom that was the only roof over her and her son. It felt like she had just been issued a prison sentence. But for what crime? Living?

‘Aw, that’s nice that your boy is so proud of you,’ Erica said.

DJ continued, ‘She can add up numbers in her head, better than a calculator.’

A thought struck Ruth that would be funny if it was not so tragic. The woman who is so good with numbers has now become one. A statistic. One of the many thousands homeless in Ireland.

‘Well, enough of our gabbing, go on in. Here you go, home sweet home,’ Erica said.

They looked into the tiny room, which looked like it belonged in the 1980s. Magnolia walls, heavy red-and-cream checked curtains, with matching duvet covers and pillow shams on twin beds, and pine furniture. The woman was wrong. This wasn’t home to Ruth. And it never would be.

Over the years Tom had moved around Dublin quite a bit but he kept finding his way back to Fairview Park. He liked its proximity to the sea. In fact, the twenty-hectare park was once part of the North Strand, reclaimed in the 1900s. During the day, he would sit on his park bench and listen to the sounds of the children playing in the distant playground. Their laughter and squeals of delight as they spun faster on a roundabout, or climbed one rung higher on the rope ladder, lifted his spirits. Bette Davis, his dog, his friend, liked to watch the kids do tricks in the skateboard park. They’d stop for a while and watch in awe. No fear, those kids. They would fly through the air, from ramp to ramp. Sometimes, in the amongst the noise of children having fun, he could hear Mikey.