It was a few days into the Christmas holidays and I had been working at Feeney’s Funeral Home each one of them. It was ‘the busy season’, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my first visit to Ronan’s house and when it would happen.
Late home from Feeney’s one evening the phone rang during dinner. It was Mrs McCoy.
‘Sorry it’s took us so long to get things organised, Brendan,’ she said, ‘it’s been non-stop. I’m sure it’s the same with you!’
‘Yeah, non-stop,’ I said because I didn’t know what else to say.
‘There’s just so much going on at the moment with setting Ronan’s routines and hospital appointments and we’re having modifications done to the house for Ronan, and none of us aresleeping very much, so yes, we’rehopingwe’ll be a bit calmer by Christmas but no guarantees, Brendan …’
‘Would you ever get round to inviting the fella over, Emma?’ I heard Mr McCoy say in the background.
‘Sorry, yes, would you be free to come visit on Christmas Eve, Brendan, 2 p.m.?’
‘Yeah, I’ll double-check but I’m sure that’ll be totally OK,’ I said.
‘And you’ll have to be forgiving of the state of the house at the minute,’ she said.
‘And the state ofus!’said Mr McCoy.
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Mrs McCoy, laughing. ‘It’ll be great to see you, Brendan. We’re not having many visitors over Christmas, you’ll be our first, then we’ll have my parents over on Christmas Day. And, of course, if your mum and dad want to join us they’d be more than welcome. But just to say again, Aaron and I are still trying to keep on top of everything, so forgive us if we have to take a wee moment while you’re here and help Ronan with anything if he needs it.’
‘Of course,’ I said, suddenly worried again, remembering the canteen incident.
‘But I’m sure everything will be OK when you’re here, Brendan, even just the mention of your name sends Ronan into fits of laughter, so seeing you in the flesh is going to be a great gift on Christmas Eve.’
I wanted to believe her but I was still convinced Ronan didn’t want to see me after I’d ruined his first day at school.
‘Speaking of gifts,’ I said, ‘I got Ronan something. He used to like optical illusions so I saw this book that had loads in it and wondered if now … if he would like something like that?’
The book came with a pair of glasses that made some of the pictures 3D; one page had a T-Rex that snapped out at you with the glasses on.
‘That sounds perfect,’ said Mrs McCoy. ‘I’d just say maybe don’t wrap it in foil paper, Brendan. Ronan’s quite sensitive to crackly sounds; I’ve had to do away with all the tinfoil in the kitchen, I’ve no idea what I’m going to wrap the turkey in!’
‘We’ve these wee gift bags, not crackly or anything, if I put the book in that?’
‘Perfect.’
‘OK, great. Well, I’ll see you on Christmas Eve, probably just my dad and me; Mum’s working over Christmas.’
‘No problem, Brendan, we’ll see you then.’
There was a funeral on Christmas Eve morning. After I’d cleaned the hearse, Mr Feeney gave me an envelope with my Christmas bonus in it and told me to have a good break. When I got home I had a quick lunch before Dad drove me to Ronan’s house.
It took twenty minutes to get there, driving along narrow bumpy roads past cattle farms, the steam rising from the tin huts where the herds sheltered from the cold. The McCoys’ bungalow was in the corner of a small housing development surrounded by fields. Ronan often talked about growing up there; how it was the best of both worlds living between the village and the country. He told me that before his granda died, he’d run across the fields to his granda’s farm in less than ten minutes, and he could walk to the village in less than five to buy theBeanoand a 10p mix-up. It felt good to finally see his home, but sad that I hadn’t been there sooner.
Dad pulled up outside number eight. A concrete ramp looked like it had been recently added in front of the doorsteps and a pile of bricks were stacked at the side of the drive. There was also some temporary-looking plywood panelling down the side of the front door, which had a holly wreath hung on the knocker. I knocked underneath it.
‘Augh well, Brendan,’ said Mr McCoy, opening the door,‘and well, Cathal,’ he said to my dad. They hadn’t met each other properly in person before. They shook hands. ‘Happy Christmas to yous both, come on ahead on in.’
We wished him a Happy Christmas, too, and stepped towards the warmth of the hallway.
‘Mind yourselves on the way in there, we’re in the process of getting the door widened so we don’t have to take Ronan through the garage to the patio doors at the back. We got all the inside ones done. The workmen said they’d be finished with everything before Christmas but here we are with the front door still not sorted – bunch of hangmen! Come on in.’ He closed the door behind us. ‘Emma and Ronan are in the front room there, Brendan, just straight on down the hall.’
I was going to ask if I should take my shoes off but the floor looked like bare concrete.
‘Wooden floors getting laid in the new year,’ said Mr McCoy, ‘easier for the wheelchair.’
I made my way down the hall towards the door at the end that was open with a crack of light. The walls on either side had framed photos all the way along. I glanced from one side to the other as I went: Ronan on a beach as a toddler building a sandcastle; Ronan as a baby in his mother’s arms; Ronan’s school picture from first year; a framed newspaper cutting of Ronan running a local road race. We passed a door; it had a Liverpool poster stuck on it and a placard in Liverpool colours with Ronan’s name on it.
