The Marble Collector

22

‘Dad had a secret life,’ I say, hearing my voice shake as the adrenaline continues to surge through me at the discovery. In the background I hear Alfie having a meltdown over baked beans; he doesn’t want beans, he only wants marshmallows, or Peppa Pig shaped pasta. Aidan tries to calm him down while listening to me. I keep talking. ‘He was an entire other person. Hamish O’Neill,’ I say angrily. ‘Did you ever hear him use that name?’

‘Hamish O’What? No! Alfie, stop. No way, honey. Tell me more. Fine, you can have marshmallows for dinner.’

Confused by who Aidan is addressing at any time, I just keep talking. ‘I met these men in the pub, they were on his marble team, they had never even heard of me. Said Dad was secretive, one of them thought he was a spy…’ My voice breaks and I stop talking, concentrate on the road. I’ve taken two wrong turns and an illegal U-turn where everyone beeps me out of it.

‘Sabrina,’ Aidan says, worrying, ‘do you want to wait until I’m home to look into this further?’

‘No,’ I snap. ‘I think it’s rather apt. Don’t you? With everything you’ve been saying about me.’

He’s quiet. ‘Sabrina, you’re not him, that’s not what I was saying.’

‘I’ll call you later. There’s somebody else I need to see.’

‘Okay. Just…’

‘Don’t say if I think it will help, Aidan.’

He’s silent.

Alfie suddenly roars down the phone, ‘Beans make you fart, Mammeeee,’ before we’re cut off.

I never called Mattie Granddad because Dad never called him Dad. I must have questioned it at some stage as a child, but I don’t ever remember the answer, I don’t remember ever wondering why he wasn’t Granddad, I just always knew he wasn’t Dad’s dad. I was told that my granddad died when Dad was young and Mattie married my grandma, who quite honestly scared me. They both did.

But it strikes me as odd now, at thirty-three years old, that despite the fact Mattie raised my dad from the age of six, I never considered him my granddad. Disrespectful.

Grandma Molly was tough, not soft like my Nana Mary and I felt she viewed me as though I never acted grateful enough, reminding me of my pleases and thank yous a thousand times a day and leaving me jumpy and never completely comfortable.

In later years Mum told me Grandma Molly always said to her, ‘You give that child too much.’ She also used to have a go at Mum about not having any more children, which for some reason wasn’t happening for them. Now it could be treated, back then, Mum just kept trying. I think that had a huge part to do with how their relationship went sour, apart from the fact they were very different people who had different opinions on almost everything. Mum couldn’t take the criticisms from her mother-in-law, who’d spent her entire life having and raising children, it was the entire point of her life.

‘I wasn’t used to someone not liking me,’ Mum once told me. ‘I tried really hard with her, but she still didn’t like me. She didn’t ever want to like me.’

The one thing they had in common was their love of Fergus.

When Dad visited Grandma Molly he did so mostly on his own. He called in on her from time to time, on the way home from work or on the way into town. Sometimes I was with him, sometimes not. We’d all meet at Christmas for an hour on Christmas morning. I’d sit quietly, overly thankful for my new set of pyjamas, while they all chatted. She died when I was fourteen and it felt like somebody I didn’t know had died. Secretly I felt a bit relieved that I wouldn’t have to visit her any more. Visiting her was a dreaded chore. Then at the funeral I saw my cousins, who I barely knew, all in tears and being consoled by my uncles over their loss, and I felt so guilty because I didn’t care as much as they did. I didn’t feel the loss like they did. And then I cried.

When I married Aidan I felt the right thing to do was invite Mattie to the ceremony and reception. Mattie didn’t come.

I have rarely given Mattie much thought. My children don’t know him, I never visit him. My mum abhors him, thinking him a vile old man who got even worse when Molly died. But again, I feel guilty about that. I thought Dad wanted nothing to do with his family, he certainly behaved that way, and I thought it was no big deal if we went along with that, if it was a relief to us. But now I wonder why I didn’t probe, press, encourage, wonder. Why? And as his secrets come to the fore, I want to know these people. I want to know why Dad became the way he became.

Mattie is almost ninety years old and lives alone in a ground-floor one-bedroom flat in Islandbridge. I know his address because I send him an annual Christmas card. A photo of the kids every year. He’s not expecting me to call.

‘Who is it?’ he yells.

‘Sabrina,’ I say, then add just in case: ‘Sabrina Boggs.’

‘Who?’ he yells.

I hear the door being unlocked and we stand face to face. After squinting and glaring, looking me up and down, it is clear that a further explanation is required.

‘I’m Fergus’s daughter.’

He takes me in again, then turns and shuffles back to his armchair in front of the TV. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a stained white vest beneath and he makes an effort to button it up with his gnarled fingers. He’s older but pretty much exactly as I remember him during my childhood visits. In an armchair, distracted by the TV.

‘Sorry I didn’t go to your wedding,’ he says straight away. ‘I don’t go out much to social things.’

I’m embarrassed. The wedding was in Spain and I knew he wouldn’t make it. ‘I know Spain wasn’t easy for a lot of people, but I wanted you to know you were welcome.’

‘Made a change for me to be invited somewhere instead of the Boggs,’ he chuckles. He’s missing some teeth.

‘Oh, yes,’ I redden again. ‘It was a numbers issue, my family is so big that we just couldn’t include everyone.’

His stare doesn’t make it easier for me.

‘You’re not in touch with them.’

‘With… my uncles? I wish that hadn’t happened,’ I say, genuinely meaning it, though I never realised it before. Sitting before me is the man who raised my dad and he’s a stranger to me. ‘Dad wasn’t close with them, unfortunately, and I suppose that had an effect on me and them,’ I explain.

‘They were as thick as thieves,’ he says, the thick sounding like ‘tick’. ‘They called him that. Tick. Did you know that?’

‘They called Dad thick?’

‘No. Tick. Because he was the smallest. The smallest Boggs.’

I have a feeling the house was split into Doyles and Boggs. I never asked Dad about whether it was an issue for them growing up. Why didn’t I?

‘But he held his own,’ he says. ‘He outsmarted them.’

I feel proud.

‘Not that it was hard, with them pack of feckin’ eejits,’ he snorts.

‘Does the name Hamish O’Neill mean anything to you?’

‘Hamish O’Neill?’ he asks, frowning, like it’s a test and he’s failed. ‘No.’

I try not to express my disappointment.

‘But there was a Hamish Boggs,’ he says, trying to be helpful. ‘The eldest Boggs boy.’

I nod, my mind whirring. I’d forgotten about Dad’s eldest brother up until now, his name hardly mentioned. ‘I’ve heard of Hamish. Were he and Dad close?’

‘Hamish?’ he says, surprised, as if he hasn’t thought of him since he died. ‘Him and Hamish were glued together. Your da would follow him around like a lapdog; Hamish would throw a stick and your dad would scramble to get it. Hamish was clever, you see. A dumb git, like I said, but he was clever. He’d find the smartest fella in the room and he’d keep him under his thumb. Did that to your da. It worried his ma no end.’

This is new to me. I sit up.

He thinks for a while.

‘Smartest thing to do was keep Hamish away from the lot of them. I kept telling Molly that.’

‘And did she?’

‘Well he died, didn’t he?’ he says, and laughs a cruel laugh. When I don’t join in, he brings it to a slow end. ‘That lad didn’t get what wasn’t deserved,’ he says, finger wagging at me.

‘How did Hamish die?’

‘Drowned. London. Some fella punched him, he was worse for wear, fell into a river.’

I gasp. ‘That’s awful.’ I’d known he’d died, but never knew the details. Never asked for them. Why hadn’t I?

He looks at me, surprised that someone would think it so tragic after all these years, as though Hamish wasn’t a real person. And now I can see he’s wondering what my visit is about.

‘Was my dad very upset when Hamish died?’

He thinks about it, shrugs a little. ‘He had to view the body. Flew over on his own. Angus wanted to go, but sure I couldn’t be sending all my staff away to London,’ he raises his voice defensively, still fighting a forty-year-old argument over sending Dad over on his own. ‘Ara’ it was probably tough for him on his own over there. His ma was worried. First time away and all that, seeing his brother dead, but he had to go – the authorities thought it was him that was dead.’

‘They thought my dad was dead?’ I’m not sure I’ve heard correctly.

‘Seems good ol’ Hamish had been using Fergus’s name in London. God knows why, but if you piss off enough people like that boy did you’d have to change your name ten times over. He’d probably have worked his way through the entire family if he hadn’t died.’

My heart pounds at that discovery, a clear link to Dad’s alternate name.

‘Come to think of it I remember hearing about a Hamish O’Neill,’ he says suddenly. ‘Funny, you’ve reminded me now. Knew it was familiar when you said it. Here’s a funny story…’ He shifts in his chair, livens up. ‘I’d been hearing things about a lad, Hamish O’Neill, playing marbles locally. Didn’t mean anything, but Hamish wasn’t a common name around and when you’d hear it, a fella would listen out, and O’Neill, well, that was Molly’s maiden name, before she became Boggs, and then Doyle. It didn’t mean anything, but I told Molly. I was drunk, shouldn’t have said it maybe, we were at the wedding – Fergus’s wedding – and, no offence to your ma, but it was so hoity-toity the fuckin’ thing drove me to the drink and gave me a loose tongue. So after I tell her, she chats to your da, him in his fancy blue suit and frilly shirt and looking like a poofter, and I see her slap him across the face. “You’re not him,” she says.’

He’s laughing at this, laughing so hard, at the image of my dad being slapped by his mother on his wedding day. My eyes fill with tears and I try to blink them away.

‘That put him in his place,’ he says, wiping his eyes. ‘Now I never knew if it was your da playing or if it was another fella, a coincidence as they say, but there weren’t many who played marbles at that age, not around where we lived anyway. Ever since he was a mucker he’d be out on the road all day, playing, you’d have to bate him to get in for dinner. Every birthday and Christmas present, all he wanted for was feckin’ marbles. All the lads were the same, but your da was the worst because he was the best. He even hung out in some dodgy places with Hamish, Hamish taking him under his wing thinking he’s some bigshot agent making a few quid from his baby brother. I told your da when he was a teenager: “You’ll never meet a wife if ye keeps playing those feckin’ things.” He gave up when Hamish died. At least it did him good that way.’

I came here looking for answers, for insight into Dad’s life, though I wasn’t sure if I’d get them. But if Hamish used Dad’s name in London, it explains why Dad used Hamish’s name for marble playing. As a sign of respect? Remembrance? To honour him? To bring him back to life? And no wonder Dad played marbles in secret, when everyone around him was telling him to stop. But why continue this into his adult life?

‘How did Dad feel about Hamish having used his name?’

‘Couldn’t understand it myself, but your da took it as a compliment. Proud as punch that Hamish had stolen his name. Like he was something special. Puffed-out chest and all at the funeral. Silly boy didn’t realise that Hamish was getting him in a world of trouble using his name. If Fergus had set foot in the wrong place at the wrong time, Hamish could have got his brother killed. But Hamish was like that, I told you: a leech. Sucking up everything in a person and moving on.’

There’s a long silence.

‘How did you and Grandma meet?’ I ask suddenly, wondering what possessed her to marry this man after the death of her husband.

‘Met her in the butcher’s shop. She bought her meat from me.’

That was it.

‘Must have been true love to marry a woman with four children,’ I say, trying to bring positivity to it.

‘Those four runts?’ he asks. ‘She’s bloody lucky I married her at all.’

I take in the surroundings. It’s simple and clean, he is keeping it well.

‘Laura will be here soon,’ he says, following my gaze. ‘Tommy’s daughter.’

‘Oh, right. Of course.’ I try to think of the last time I met my cousin.

‘She comes on Fridays, Christina on Mondays, the lads every day in between, checking up on me to make sure I haven’t keeled over and have maggots coming out of my eyes. That’s why they moved me over here: Laura lives across the way, they can keep a better eye on me that way, stop me getting up to mischief,’ he chuckles. ‘“Are ye all right, Grandda? Are ye still alive, Grandda?” Ah, they’re a good lot, the Doyles. Tommy and Bobby’s kids. Bobby’s not with the ma any more, you hear that?’

I shake my head.

‘Sad to hear that, I liked her. But Bobby can’t get enough of the women, never could, and Joe can’t stand them. He’s a queer, you know that?’

‘He’s gay, yes, I know.’

‘I blame his ma for that, always suffocating him – don’t go here, don’t go there – while the rest of them went out and about and raised themselves.’

‘I’d say he was gay no matter how she was with him,’ I say, having had enough of him now.

He laughs, ‘That’s what he says, but what do I know?’

Silence then. Uncomfortable. We’ve both reached the end of our chat.

‘How’s your da?’

‘He’s okay.’

‘Still doesn’t remember much?’

‘Not everything.’

‘No harm,’ he says, almost sadly to himself. ‘They wish he’d remember them though. Talk about it all the time.’

‘Who?’

‘The Boggs boys. The Doyle boys.’

‘Of course Dad remembers them.’

‘Not the recent years.’

‘Well I suppose they weren’t close in recent years,’ I say.

‘But they were,’ he says, riled up like I’ve accused him of lying. ‘These past few years they’d started meeting up again. They played marbles, would you believe. Them and his new woman. They all liked her. No offence to your ma, but they said this one was good for him. Kept them all together. He doesn’t remember any of that?’ He looks at me like he doesn’t believe my dad’s memory loss.

I shake my head, completely taken aback.

‘Do you know her name?’

‘Whose?’

‘His… girlfriend. This woman.’

‘Ah now,’ he waves his hand dismissively. ‘Never met her. But the boys know. They can tell you.’

With a weak, ‘Tell your ma I was asking for her,’ he closes the door and I just manage to avoid my cousin Laura, who’s carrying a vacuum cleaner and a bucket and mop across from an opposite flat on the other side of the courtyard. I sit into my car feeling stunned by what I’ve learned.

I search through my phone for my Uncle Angus’s number. He is my godfather, the one I have most contact with, which is limited to text messages on birthdays on the years that we remember.

I dial his number and hold it to my ear, my heart pounding. Hello Uncle Angus, Sabrina here, you haven’t heard from me in almost a year but I’ve just learned that you and Dad were pals again before his stroke and I’ve also just learned that you knew his girlfriend. Could you please tell me, who is she? Because I don’t know. I seem to be the only one, apart from Dad, who doesn’t know.

No answer. I hang up the phone, feeling angry and stupid once again. As the anger surges through me I turn the key in the ignition and pull out. As I drive towards the hospital I hear Mattie’s words in my head, calling Hamish a leech.

At the time I felt Mattie was overly harsh. I could understand Dad feeling special and honoured by the fact Hamish hadn’t forgotten him when he’d moved away. Dad obviously looked up to Hamish his whole life, thought the world of him, it was an honour for his brother to have taken his name. But as the anger seeps through me, I feel Mattie’s words now.

Whether he planned to or not, Hamish did suck some of the life from Dad, and in doing so not only stole a part of Dad from me, but worse, Hamish stole a part of Dad from himself.