The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [51]
“Out,” replied Finbar.
“Out where?”
“Walking.”
“Walking? Walking? Have you any idea what time it is? Is it mad you are? You don’t even know where you are, for God sake! You could have been down a lane with a knife in your back for all we knew!”
From the table Declan grinned at his brother. Finbar couldn’t help noticing that they’d had liver and bacon, Declan’s favorite, for tea.
“But what about him? He’s been missing for weeks!” yelled Finbar.
“Declan said he’s sorry and I think he learnt his lesson,” said Mrs. Sullivan softly.
“And don’t you raise your voice like that in this house again,” cautioned Mr. Sullivan.
Finbar stared sullenly at the floor.
“So, where the hell were you?” repeated Mr. Sullivan.
“Walking. The park. Nowhere.”
“The park? What park?”
“Don’t know. One with big pillars and statues. Over there.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the back of the scullery.
“What do you think you’re doing wandering around parks in the dark? This isn’t Cork, you know.”
“I know. Wish it was.”
“Ah, sit down and eat your tea before I lose patience with you,” snapped Mr. Sullivan, and headed out the low door that led to the backyard. Through the steamed-up window of the scullery, Finbar saw the unmistakable flare of a match and the tiny red glow of a cigarette. When had his father started smoking again? He sat down and his mother put his dried-out tea in front of him.
Finbar poked at the liver with his fork. He hated liver. Sitting in a low oven for two hours with a saucepan lid over it did not help either. His mother knew he hated liver. Why did his tea have to be horrible just because Declan liked liver? That wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.
“How come I only got two bits of fried potato?”
“Because you were late, and anyway, poor Declan was starving,” answered his mother.
“Oh yeah, poor Declan was starving! Poor Declan stole a hundred quid and fecked off God knows where and now that he’s back we all have to lick his arse for him!” exploded Finbar.
Mr. Sullivan almost took the scullery door off its hinges as he shot in from the yard. Already he was drawing his belt out of the loops of his trousers.
“Don’t speak to your mother like that! Get up those stairs in front of me! I’ll put manners on you!” He whipped the belt at the back of Finbar’s legs and the boy dashed up the stairs.
Mr. Sullivan stopped and heard the bedroom door slam. He rested his head heavily on the banister rail and sighed, taking a deep breath as if to summon up one last burst of energy. From the living room doorway Mrs. Sullivan watched as he seemed to slump and then shouted up the stairs after Finbar: “And don’t come down again until you’ve learnt some manners!”
Mr. Sullivan walked into the unlit parlor. He stared out the window at the narrow street and wondered how they had come to this. This was not what he had hoped for: a pokey little house in Dublin, an annoying job in the Customs House overseeing the incineration of stupid imports that no one would pay the duty on, and now his family slowly drifting away from one another into their own private silences. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and shook his head sadly.
“Finbar! Come back down and finish your tea!” he called up the stairs.
The rest of the tea things had already been cleared away and Finbar’s tea sat alone on the table.
“Will I make a fresh pot?” asked Mrs. Sullivan, already up to her elbows in the sinkful of washing up.
“It’s all right. I’ll have milk.”
“There’s only just enough for the breakfast. That stupid milkman never comes until well after eight.”
“The tea in the pot is fine.”
Finbar poured himself a cup of dark, stewed tea. He sipped it and then added three spoons of sugar to mask its bitterness. His fried eggs were like rubber from being kept warm in the oven. Nonetheless, hunger got the better of him. He cut off a piece of liver and spiked a slice of fried potato. He chewed determinedly.
“Do you still have homework to do?” called his mother from the scullery.
“A bit.”
“Well don’t