Apricot Press

A blackbird sings in the half-light. The first cars of the morning rush by in the distance. The small end-of-terrace house is quiet. She has been sitting on the end of the bed, staring through the greying net curtains for almost three hours. Vigilant for a sign. Her body is a coiled spring, ready to expand. Her left foot taps to an inaudible frenetic rhythm.

Thoughts circle. Is he drunk somewhere? Hurt? Memories wash over her. Soothing waves. His sweet little face smiling up at her from the cot at eight weeks old. At fifteen, he has the same smiling blue eyes. Pale in the light. Deep in the dark. They look older since he shaved his head at Easter.

He was small for his age and had a softness in his features that warmed people. Teachers doted on him. She had more love for him than her heart could hold. But the same heart grew rigid now. She begged him not to go out again and he promised her the world. But this would be the last time. She’d nail his window shut. She needed one full night of sleep.

A feint clip-clopping echoes down the cul-de-sac. She sighs, shoving open the window. Squinting, she sees it, in the blueish light of the almost-morning: the outline of a boy sauntering down the empty street, with a horse. His arm, loosely outstretched, holds a length of rope. The mystery-horse, not much more than a foal, faithfully strolling beside him, matching his stride, head lolling from side to side with each clop.

She slows her breath as he bends to lift the man-hole cover, tethering the rope to it, leaving length for the animal to reach a small patch of recently mown grass. He deftly clears the gate and disappears around the back. The bedroom window creaks. Then silence. She flops onto the bed, still dressed in her good cardigan and drainpipe jeans, and succumbs to a deep sleep.

*

She only managed to visit him twice while he was in Dublin. The train tickets cost thirteen pounds, and she was refused the time off work. He was charged with being a passenger in a stolen car. The garda who took him to court was the same one who came that morning last summer to impound the stray filly. He placed a kind hand on the boy’s shoulder as they sat for the twelve-minute hearing. Two months. She stifled the urge to vomit as the Judge’s words echoed around the room.

They had spent only one week apart since the day he was born. He went to stay with her aunt in Limerick while she was in hospital. She had heard stories about St. Tola’s. Knew other boys who had been ‘sent away’ there. Dangerous boys. She sobbed alone in the courtroom stalls until a clerk came over, offered her a tissue, and told her she had to leave.

*

She lilts along to ‘Ebony and Ivory’ on the radio, folding an ironed blouse. A bundle of eight letters sits on the dining table. His spidery writing spells ‘MAM’ in all-caps, above their old address on each envelope. She has a shepherd’s pie in the oven; has put new sheets on his bed. Gazing out the window, she calculates the time taken to get here from the station. The doorbell rings, startling her: his signature three presses in frantic succession.

She stifles her tears and rushes to the door. Clearing her throat, she hesitates, then throws it open and runs to squeeze him. He feels fragile in her arms, narrow shoulders poking through his oversized bomber-jacket. The social worker, jolly and overfriendly, prompts the boy with an elbow to hold out a small package, loosely wrapped in newspaper and tied with a length of twine. ‘I made you this.’

She carefully unravels the string and the paper falls away, revealing an exquisitely carved wooden horse. ‘I made it in woodwork,’ he beams.

Speechless, she carries it to the sunny kitchen, observing the light fall on the curve of its neck, the shadowy ridges of its mane. The head is bowed in a natural posture as if reaching for fodder. She studies the contours of its back, and open-mouthed, runs her fingers across the wattled surface. She feels his dedicated hands at work. Soft, freckled hands. Nails bitten to the wick.

Hugging it to her chest: ‘I love it.’

He shuffles past her, dropping his gear-bag on the sofa. ‘What’s for dinner?’

Photo credit: Soledad Lorieto