‘I’m the parent, by the way.’
‘I’m Jennifer,’ she said, laughing.
‘Well, lovely to meet you, Jennifer, you were brilliant. I think we’re heading off here soon – Brendan, are we?’ Dad was never subtle with his hints, especially when he wanted to get home.
‘Well, thanks for seeing it a second time in one day, Brendan, and I’m glad you enjoyed it too, “parent of Brendan”. I better get back to “parents of Jennifer” now.’ She was blushing at her quirky humour, but I liked it. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Happy Christmas,’ said Dad.
‘Happy Christmas, Jennifer, see you in the New Year.’
She hunched up and dropped her shoulders in the way she had done in the playground earlier that day, and skipped off back to her family.
‘Second time in one day?’ said Dad.
‘What?’
‘She said thanks for coming for the second time in one day.’
‘Aye, it was just a dress rehearsal I saw earlier, it wasn’t the actual show.’
‘Oh right, must have had some impact, all the same, to see it twice in the one day.’
‘Are we going home then?’ I said.
As we left the hall I took a quick glance back at Jennifer; she was beaming. It was like the rest of the hall was smudged and hers was the only face that was in full focus. I turned and Dad was staring at me.
‘Some impact,’ he said.
On the drive home Dad broke the silence.
‘I recognise the parents, what’s the surname?’
‘Jennifer’s? Beattie.’
‘Aye, that’s what I thought. He’s one of them top barristers as far as I know and the wife’s in the same line of work, legal position of some kind anyway; I would have seen him on the news a couple’a’times, you know where the barrister or solicitor or whatever has to give a statement for their client or something like that?’
‘Oh right,’ I said.
I didn’t know anything about Jennifer’s parents, or Jennifer herself. She was just as much of a stranger to me as everyone else in my year.
‘Oh turn that up,’ said Dad, as ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ came on the radio. ‘Chris Rea, some voice that man.’
I didn’t know who Chris Rea was, I just turned the dial and the song got louder. Dad sang along to the bits he knew and hummed to the bits he didn’t as I drew a shape on the misted-up window and then rubbed it out with my sleeve.
18
In Ireland it’s bad luck to cut down a fairy thorn tree.
Ronan didn’t believe that. Some say not believing is just as bad as cutting one down.
A fairy thorn once stood in the middle of the barley field; the one I’d heard about but never been to. Only a stump remained.
When the barley was high, you’d never even know it was there.
19
We didn’t put the Christmas tree up that year. Where I come from you don’t put your tree up the first Christmas after a death in the family. Ours usually stood in the dining room corner. We’d decorate it together. It wasn’t the same without it. But Granny had died in January and the absence of the tree was a reminder of her absence. And a reminder that nothing would ever be the same again.
