Joseph O'Neill - The Breezes

Downstairs, I unflapped the white tablecloth, decking it out with the silver cutlery which had come down from my mother’s parents as a wedding present. Rosie entered with small purple flowers and put them in a vase on the table. ‘Not like that,’ she said, adjusting the position of the knives and forks. ‘Like this.’

By the time Pa descended, now wearing stripy pyjamas under his dressing-gown, the table was crammed with pots of marmalade and strawberry and blueberry jams, with cartons of orange juice and grapefruit juice, croissants, pains au chocolat , a pot of coffee, boxes of branflakes and cornflakes, a jug of milk, a full toastrack and white plates festooned with strips of smoked salmon. A crazy, excessive spread. ‘Sit down, Pa,’ Rosie said, unfolding his napkin and inserting it into the neck of his pyjama shirt.

‘I’m not really hungry,’ Pa said as she left for the kitchen. ‘I’m never going to be able to eat this.’

Rosie returned with a panful of scrambled eggs which she heaped on to Pa’s plate, then ours. Then she served up sausages and bacon.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘let’s tuck in.’

Our father looked with dismay at his plate, then began picking weakly at the soft rubble of his eggs. Rosie poured him a glass of grapefruit juice. ‘Drink this,’ she told him.

He took a mouthful.

Rosie said to Steve, who was wolfing down an entire piece of buttered toast, ‘Stop making that noise.’ She looked at me. ‘What are you waiting for? Start eating.’

We all ate.

We needed something to talk about. I rose from the table and brought back the Devonshire brochure, which was still in the pocket of my jacket. ‘Here,’ I said to Rosie. ‘Something to make you laugh.’

‘What’s this?’ she said, beginning to read, and then a smile appeared on her face. She started to chuckle, then coughed on her food. She swallowed and shouted, ‘I don’t believe it. I just do not believe it.’ She was laughing uncontrollably. ‘Pa, look at what your brilliant son has done.’

Pa read. He tapped the paper when he had finished. ‘Is this it? Is this what your exhibition is?’

I said, ‘This wasn’t my idea, Pa. It was Simon Devonshire’s. I had nothing to do with it.’

Pa said, ‘Do you believe this stuff? Do you really think’ — he paused to quote — ‘that we’re ‘pathetic and dysfunctional”?’

Rosie said, ‘Johnny, I never knew you were so deep.’ Her elbows banged against the table as she toppled forward with laughter. ‘And there I was thinking you were just a nerdy little brother making crappy furniture.’

Pa was sitting there with an expression of bafflement. I said, ‘Pa, you can’t take this stuff seriously. It’s just something which has been dreamed up by the gallery.’

Steve, who meanwhile had been reading the brochure, said, 'This is so depressing.’

Rosie said, ‘Steve, we’d all appreciate it if you refrained from being stupid for about one hour. OK? After that you can go back to being dumb.’

‘No,’ Pa suddenly asserted. ‘Steve’s right. It is depressing. It’s depressing because it’s true.’

I said to Pa, ‘I told you, it’s all bullshit. It’s— ’

‘It’s bullshit, all right,’ Pa said, ‘but it’s true. Bullshit is the truth.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘I tried to make those chairs properly. I didn’t mean to make them like that.’

‘Forget about the chairs, will you?’ Pa shouted. ‘I’m telling you, bullshit is right. Bullshit is what it comes down to. This is bullshit,’ he said, gesturing at his gathered family. ‘This breakfast is bullshit.’ He was standing up now, tightening the belt of his dressing-gown, swaying slightly. ‘Shut up, Rosie,’ he said, as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘You don’t give a damn for months, then you come here and make a few sandwiches and a cup of coffee and everything is supposed to be fine. Jesus.’ He pulled his napkin from his throat and threw it on to his food. ‘I can’t breathe. I need some air.’

He went to the french windows and, face aflame, struggled with the sliding door. It gave way with a loud crack.

The musical sound of the garden filled the room.

Rosie said, ‘You’ve broken the window, Pa.’

Pa said, ‘I want you all to go, please. Now.’

Rosie said tremulously, ‘Right, we’re leaving,’ knocking her chair to the ground as she rose. ‘Steve.’

I said, ‘Come on, Pa, let’s not fight like this. It’s us.’

‘ Us ?’ He swivelled into a brawler’s stance, legs apart and fists clenched. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Who the hell is us ?’

Rosie looked at me, frightened.

Pa said, ‘Well? Well, Johnny? You’re so smart, you’re the one with all the hotshot ideas, what’s the answer to that one?’

‘I …’ I said. ‘Pa …’

Steve said, ‘Look.’ He was pointing into the garden.

It was the dog.

‘Trusty!’ Rosie shrieked, running out on to the lawn. She hugged the animal ecstatically and led her into the house. ‘Steve, get a bowl of water, she must be parched.’

Claws clicking, tongue tipped out of the slack folds of her mouth, Trusty ran towards Pa, who had dropped into a chair, and jumped on to his lap.

He pushed her away roughly and she fell squarely on to her side with a yelp.

‘How can you be so horrible?’ Rosie shouted. ‘Come here, Trusty, my darling.’

Pa said, ‘If she’s got pups inside her I’m putting them down. I mean it. I’m putting them down.’

‘Here, Trusty,’ Rosie said, putting a plate of sausages and eggs on the floor, ‘here, my darling.’

‘Don’t do that,’ Pa said. ‘If you reward her now she’ll just run away again.’

I saw an opportunity to laugh. ‘Pa, not even Trusty would be so stupid as to run away for a week just for a plate of bacon and eggs. She gets that anyway, just by staying here.’

‘Not for long she won’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

He sighed and closed his eyes. ‘I’m thinking of selling up.’

‘Selling up?’

‘Selling this place, selling the flat. Selling up. Leaving.’

I hesitated. ‘Where to?’

He sighed again. ‘I don’t know, son. Just leaving.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I need a change. I need …’ He took a deep breath and said hoarsely, ‘I don’t think I can take it here much longer. Every time I see the garden, see those flowers, see that tree over there, that hedge even — I see your mother. Or I don’t see her. That’s the thing, you see,’ he said, looking down. ‘I don’t see her. I just see a garden.’ He snorted suddenly and put a hand over his face. ‘I just see a garden …’

My sister ran over to Pa and held him. ‘Pa,’ she said, ‘Ma hasn’t gone, she’s here, she’s right here in all of us.’

He was sobbing now, both hands over his face.

Rosie looked at me furiously. Desperately, I said, ‘Rosie’s right. Ma … Ma’s right here,’ I said. ‘With us.’

Pa was shaking his head. ‘She’s gone,’ he said.

Rosie said, ‘Pa, Pa,’ and she kissed his pale head as his violent, liquid inhalations reported through the room.

We stayed that way for minutes: my father in tears, my sister hugging him, Steve and I just standing there miserably in the awful company of grief.

Eventually, there was an exhausted quiet.

Rosie passed him her handkerchief. ‘Here, take this.’

He accepted it and covered his face with it, patches appearing on the cloth. ‘I’m sorry, kids,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘I’m just tired. I’ve really been through the wringer this week. I’m sorry.’ He blew his nose, then blew it again. He patted Trusty, who had finished eating. ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Good girl.’