M. Hyland - Carry Me Down

Suddenly, my father puts his book down and clears his throat. ‘John? Would you like to go to the big house today? Your mammy said you’d like to go and look at the model village there.’

‘Really? Today?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s a nice sunny day and we think making a model village sounds like a very good project.’

‘I’d like to go very much. I’d love that.’

‘Well, then. As soon as we’ve finished breakfast.’

‘The people might be home from Dublin,’ says Granny. ‘You might not be allowed in.’

She drops a potato and it rolls under the table. I pick it up and hand it to her. I stay standing by her and she says, ‘Now that I think about it, I don’t think the people are home from Dublin. I think you’ll be allowed in.’

‘All right,’ says my mother. ‘The four of us will go.’

We all look at Granny. ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘You go on. I’ll stay here. You won’t be long.’

We arrive at the gates of the house as the gardener is leaving in his van. My mother leans across my father and beeps the horn. The gardener sees her, and she waves at him. He stops and gets out of his van. She gets out of the car and runs over to him.

My father and I stay in the car and watch. My mother stands close to the gardener and he looks at his watch. He shakes his head, but she puts her hand on his arm. She must be saying ‘please’ because her face is smiling.

He looks at his watch again, and then he nods.

She comes back to the car. ‘We have five minutes. That’s all. I told him John has six weeks to live.’

‘Did he remember us from last time?’ I ask.

‘It seems not.’

My father looks at my mother.

She nods, ‘Let’s go in, then.’

‘I’ll stay here and wait,’ he says. ‘You’ll only be five minutes.’

‘You’re coming too,’ she says. ‘And bring the camera.’

* * *

My father gives me the camera and we walk for a while through the downstairs rooms and then I tell them I want to go up, alone, to the room with the model village.

‘Why must you go alone?’

‘Can I tell you later? I swear I’ll tell you. You’ll be happy and pleased when I tell you.’

‘Be right back here in two minutes,’ says my father.

I look at my watch. ‘I promise,’ I say.

I go into the nursery room, and it is as it was before, only this time there are more bottles filled with sand and there is a second rocking horse between the two small beds.

I go to the model village by the window and look at it. Everything is just as it was. There are trains and shops and plastic people and shrubs and dogs. And the train to Pigalle has a balcony at the back for passengers to stand on.

And then I see it: there is a new stationmaster. And, just like the stationmaster in my hand, he has a moustache, wears a red cap with a visor, and he stands on a flat piece of green plastic.

The stationmaster at the station for the train to Pigalle has been replaced. There he is, identical to the one in my hand, a little less dusty, but the same. And now there are two; two of the same.

I put my stationmaster next to the substitute. They stand side by side. It’s a strange but happy sight, the twin stationmasters. But they might not be twins; they might be brothers, or friends, or just two men who look very much alike. Or, they could be the same person.

I take a photograph of one stationmaster standing alone and then I take a second photograph of both stationmasters standing together.

I stand back and smile.

* * *

I put the camera in my parka pocket and leave the nursery. I go to the landing at the top of the stairs, where I stop and look down, and I see my mother. There she is, there she is waiting.

I walk down to greet her and, as I walk, I make loose fists of my hands and put them by my side. I shout ‘Ahoy!’ when I’m half way down, and she turns around to look up at me. When I get to the bottom, she smiles and I smile back. My father is standing by the front door, his hands in his pockets.

‘Are you finished?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And I got what I needed.’

‘What have you got there?’ she asks.

‘Where?’ I say.

‘In your hands?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It looks to me like you’ve got something in your hands.’

‘Well, I haven’t.’

‘Then open them.’

I stand back and bump against the banister. ‘Why?’ I ask.

My father steps forward, comes towards us.

‘Open your hands!’ says my mother.

I say nothing and she puts her hands over mine and tries to open them.

And now my father is by my left side and he is pulling at my fingers, ‘What are you hiding?’

I keep my hands shut tight.

My mother struggles with my right hand and my father takes hold of my left. I use all the strength I have to stop them, but both, at last, succeed, and my hands are open, and empty. Both empty.

‘See?’ I say, laughing. ‘Nothing there. Just like I said.’

My father grins at me and says, ‘Just as well.’ But he’s not angry.

‘Yes, just as well,’ says my mother and she’s not angry either.

* * *

We leave the mansion and walk side by side to the car. I sit in the back, near the middle, and I lean forward so I can see their faces. My father drives away slowly, with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lightly on his thigh. My mother looks out the window, calm, I think, and happy. It’s a perfect day for the beach and perhaps, if I ask, that’s where we will go.

The stationmasters are together. The train is arriving and the boom-gate bells are ringing. When the last passenger gets on board, the stationmasters wave their white flags in unison and they watch the train as it pulls away from the platform. The driver waves at them from his cabin window, but they pay no attention. They are too busy talking.

When they get cold or need a rest, or when they need something sweet or warm to eat, they can go into the station buffet together. They can sit at a table near the window, drink tea, eat toast and cake, and watch the people come and go. And the fire inside will warm their hands and faces.

The door is open.

I thank my editor, Michael Heyward, whose excellent work made Carry Me Down a better book. I also thank — for the same reason — Stewart Andrew Muir, Carolyn Tétaz, Jenny Lee, Marion May Campbell and David Winter. Thanks also to Jamie Byng, whose steadfast confidence makes it possible for me to write every day. Special thanks to my Irish proofreader, Anne McCarry in Wexford, for her painstaking and patient help. Thanks also to Mark Monnone, Rosalie Ham, Sue Maslin, Helen Bleck, Karen McCrossan, Polly Collingridge, Jessica Craig, Alice and Arthur Shirreff, Barbara Mobbs and David McCormick. And for his generous last-minute fact checking, my grateful thanks to Colin Brennan.