‘Want to talk about it?’ A hopeful smile flickers.
I squirm in my seat. There was a time when I would tell her everything. When I was hurt, when I got picked on. No matter how big the problem was, I could tell her.
I shake my head. ‘Just thinking about exam results.’
Mum sighs. ‘OK, love. I’m sure you’ve done well in them.’ She knows I’m lying. She always does. She takes my hand. Her skin is soft and warm, and mine relaxes in hers like it used to when I was little. ‘I know this is hard. You’re nearly seventeen and this is a big move. I know what you’re leaving behind.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Whoyou’re leaving behind. Your friends… Ben.’
I flinch.
‘He can come visit any time…’
My ears burn.
‘And if you need to tell me anything…’
A lash of pain whips across my forehead.
I jerk my hand away and stand so quickly I nearly knock over my mug. ‘I’m going to go and take a few more photos.’
Another lie.
Before she can say anything else, I pick up my camera and head back out to the deck.
The wind has dropped but it’s still chilly.
It’s literally July!
Two men walk towards me. ‘We’ll be docking soon, son,’ says the older one in a warm Belfast accent.
‘Yep, thanks.’
As I walk to the rail, I’m relieved to hear the door close behind them. I’ve got the deck to myself.
The sun has decided to make an appearance and throws sparkles of silver and blue across the rolling black water of Belfast lough. Ahead is the city itself; a narrow strip of grey buildings surrounded by velvet green mountains.
I wrap my arms around myself and take in my new home.
My new start.
The city where Mum and Dad grew up, then left for uni and never went back except for short trips. Belfast: land of the Troubles and theTitanic.
Growing up, the Troubles – those thirty years of bloodshed – were never talked about. Mum and Dad told me the bare minimum about the conflict between Catholic and Protestant communities that killed so many. They’d moved to get away from all that, and on our visits they made me promise not to ask questions.
‘People don’t like to be reminded of it,’ said Dad to a tenyear- old me from the front of the car as we drove past a mural of a masked gunman.
Mum has mentioned that there’s been some trouble this summer. The annual marches of the Orange Order have always been points of tension, but this year there were a few riots following ‘anti-immigration’ protests. She assured me it was nothing to worry about, although we did wait until after the twelfth of July – the biggest day of the marches – to move over. I’ve never been there for the Twelfth, so I know as little about that as I do the Troubles.
TheTitanic, on the other hand, came up in my childhood. A lot.
Memories of rainy childhood holidays with Nanny Bet come rushing back. She told me stories of my great-greatgreat- great (too many greats?) grandfather Patrick who worked on it. ‘It was unusual for a Catholic to be working at the docks back then,’ she’d said proudly.
Patrick left on the ship, wanting to start a new life in America. And, well, we all know how that ended.
I’ve promised my nan we’ll go to theTitanicmuseum to learn more. I love spending time with her. She’s funny and smart and used to be a writer – her first book of poetry is in my suitcase. And I’m not going to lie, there are upsides to being someone’s only grandchild.
‘She spoils you,’ Dad slurred, clutching his wine when a £100 gift card arrived on my last birthday.
Yeah, well, at least I talk to her, I’d wanted to say. But didn’t. As always, there was no point trying to talk about anything when Dad was drinking.
