Catherine O'Flynn - News Where You Are

‘I didn’t mean it like that exactly. I just mean that I worry that you take too much responsibility for me. I don’t want to be a burden.’

‘And I always tell you that you’re not.’

‘Well, maybe I could be less. This could be an opportunity.’

Frank looked at her. ‘Mom, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

Maureen took a deep breath. ‘Well, the fact is I’ve been thinking that I might like to move too.’

‘Move? What? Back into a flat of your own? Is that a good idea?’

‘No,’ she said impatiently, ‘not a flat of my own. I’ve got no interest in having to cook and clean and worry about all the bills. I mean another residential home.’

Frank was concerned. ‘Is there something happening here? Is there a problem with a member of staff?’

‘No, of course not. I just thought a change of scenery.’

Frank puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, I think they’re all much of a muchness. I mean we can go back and look at some of the ones we looked at before here, maybe some new ones have opened up since.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of round here. That’s my point. A change of scenery.’

‘Well, where were you thinking?’

‘The south coast …’ She paused. ‘Or the east coast, maybe even the west. Not the north, I couldn’t stand the cold. I think the south might be easiest for you to get to.’

Frank looked at her. ‘The coast?’

‘Yes, Frank, the coast. It’s not so very strange. I’ve always wanted to live by the sea.’

Frank shook his head. ‘Why do people keep saying that? You never told me before.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I did. You probably just weren’t listening.’

‘But it would be an incredible upheaval.’

‘What upheaval? I have two bags, at most. I could do it in a jiffy.’

‘But you’d be totally on your own; you wouldn’t know anyone there.’

Maureen was quiet for a moment before saying, ‘Well, what if I did know someone there? Would you worry less then?’

‘Who would you know, Mom? You’ve lost touch with all your friends.’

‘Well … maybe someone from here is considering a move as well.’

‘Someone from …’ Frank began, but then realized that he knew the answer. ‘Walter?’

His mother looked away. ‘Well, yes, as it happens. It seems Walter is thinking of relocating to the coast as well.’

Frank looked at her for several moments. ‘You and Walter have decided to move to the coast together. Why can’t you just say that?’

‘Oh, Frank, I can’t see that it matters how I say it.’

He couldn’t for the minute even focus on how unlikely the situation was. The idea that his mother had made some positive plans for the future, had embarked upon some kind of a relationship, had shown any interest at all in life, was too big to take in. His immediate response was taken up by his frustration with her.

‘Because … I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem honest. If you and Walter are … friends, well, that’s fine, I’m happy, but why can’t you just say it? Do you think I’m going to disapprove?’

Maureen didn’t answer. She walked over to the window and looked out at the garden. It was a long time before she spoke.

‘I was very proud of your father, you know, when we were first married. I’d talk about him to anyone who’d listen. Talk about him as if he were a possession. “My husband” — well, it suggests ownership, doesn’t it? I didn’t realize then that we don’t own anything, least of all our own good fortune. You’re left feeling very foolish when it slips away.

‘I didn’t make that mistake with you. I never boasted about your achievements. I didn’t want someone up there hearing me and thinking they’d take me down a peg or two. I came to think that it was better to protect yourself by expecting the worst — that way you can build up quite a shell.

‘Like everything else I’ve ever done, I’ve no idea if that was the right or wrong thing to do, but I’m afraid it’s not a very easy habit to break.’ She turned to look at Frank. ‘But I know I’m tired of this place. I don’t want to stay in this room any longer. I need some air. I need to breathe.’

They joined the canal in the city centre, but within a few minutes they had left the cafés and bars behind them and were walking in the shadows of factories and warehouses along the black tow path.

‘I hope you don’t mind meeting outdoors.’

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘This is my life now, Frank. Traipsing the highways and byways of the city like a vagrant, the only way I can have a smoke. They treat us like lepers, doesn’t matter that we keep the economy afloat. People bang on and on about civil liberties in China, but I’d swop places any day. They love their fags there — can’t get enough of them. I tell you what, I could live with never standing in front of an approaching tank if it meant I could smoke when I wanted — seems like a win-win situation to me if ever there was one.’

Frank wondered if this was how it was going to be: an evening with Cyril Wilks — the man and his thoughts.

Cyril seemed to pick up on this. ‘Thanks for coming, though, Frank. I do appreciate it. I know you’re a busy man.’ He started walking in the direction of a bench on the tow path. ‘Do you mind if we sit down for a bit?’ He lit another cigarette and Frank noticed his hand shaking. ‘We look like a right pair of fairies, but never mind.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘You know this place is crawling with them, don’t you? I’ve learned a lot about the homosexuals since the smoking ban. You wander along the canals and there’s some chap asking you the time, or watching you from under the bridge. Hombres furtivos I call them. It’s a shame I’m not that way inclined as it would make the trudging around outdoors a little more rewarding. You know — kill two birds with one stone. “Got a light?” “I’ve got more than that, mate.” “Ooh …” ’

Frank interrupted him. ‘Cyril, what was it you wanted to talk about?’

Cyril exhaled a long plume of smoke. ‘I’ll come clean straight away, Frank. I owe you an apology — there is no new business venture. I’m sorry for getting your hopes up. It was a cruel trick.’

Frank tried to look disappointed. ‘Oh, I see.’

Cyril didn’t seem inclined to say any more so Frank prompted him. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to discuss?’

Cyril looked out at the water. ‘It’s a funny game — writing.’

As Frank had suspected, this was going to be a slow trip down memory lane. He wondered how long before Bryce Spackford hove into view. For some reason he found himself not minding, though. Sitting on the bench, watching debris float by on the surface of the canal, listening to Cyril reminisce was strangely calming.

‘Specifically writing for other people. It’s like being invisible. The only clues that you exist are in the lines that occasionally come out of other people’s mouths.’

Frank frowned. ‘What makes you do it?’

Cyril gave a short laugh. ‘Not for the money, that’s for sure. I suppose it’s just nice to watch a television programme and hear something you’ve written. Proves that you’re there. You need that sometimes. Sometimes the rest of life doesn’t feel quite real. You’ll laugh, but it’s as if until I’ve heard you say it, it doesn’t count. Sometimes I almost have to fight the urge to ring you up and tell you stuff to make it count. Imagine that on the news: “Bong: Cyril Wilks went to the library today.” ’

Frank smiled. ‘Is that what this is about? Breaking Cyril News? Washed the car today, did you?’

Cyril changed the subject. ‘You were a good mate of Phil’s, weren’t you?’