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It was the post Anne noticed first, strewn on the door mat, a wet footprint adorning the gas bill. Then the coat, a soggy green mound on the floor. As she bent to pick up the post she spotted a fresh muddy smudge a foot up the wall, a school shoe underneath it, and its partner wedged beneath the cabinet, clearly kicked off with force. Oisín could be careless, yes, lazy, certainly, and messy was a given, but this was out of character.
She craned her neck around the balustrade. "Oisín! Oisín!"
No response.
“Oisín!”
A grunt.
“Oisín Flanagan!”
“What!”
“Will you come down here now!”
"I'm doing my homework!"
“Then perhaps whilst you're down here you can pick up your rucksack, which might make that a bit easier.”
“Nnngh! Fine!”
Oisín’s door burst open and, as Anne hung up her own coat and handbag, he came thundering down the stairs.
“What d’you want.”
“What I would like, Oisín,” she corrected him, slipping her feet out of her heels with a small sigh of relief, “is for you to show a little respect for your father and I and put things away properly. This isn’t a hotel, Oisín, leaving a wet coat on the floor doesn’t mean ‘please replace me’.”
Her joke was met with a roll of the eyes before Oisín turned to hang his coat up.
“No need to get defensive just because your mother came up with a good joke. And put those shoes away too, mister.”
Oisín retrieved his errant shoes and dropped them carelessly onto the shoe rack, slung his rucksack onto one shoulder and stormed back upstairs.
“Oisín!” Anne called after him, neatening his shoes next to her own, “you’ve an hour to get that attitude in shape before dinner, young man!”
His door slammed in response. Anne rolled her eyes.
—
An hour later, dinner passed largely in a sullen silence. As Oisín pushed cottage pie unenthusiastically around his plate, Anne tried and failed to engage him on the subjects of his day at school, her day at work, his plans for the weekend, what he was getting his brother for his birthday, what he’d like for his own birthday. In the end, she settled on a monologue about her plans for the weekend, heading to Offaly to revisit some favourite frescoes. An offer to join her was met with a glower. The moment the last forkful of now cold potato was in his mouth, he pushed his chair back from the table and made to leave.
“Oisín!” Anne cut him off, “just where do you think you’re going.”
“Room,” he grunted, not stopping.
“You’ll come back here first and clear the table, Oisín!” she called to his retreating back.
“Nnngh, Mummm!”
“And afterwards, you're to go to the living room—”
He reappeared at the kitchen door. “Why've I gotta do that? Just let me go back to my room.”
“This isn't a discussion, Oisín. Living room.”
“Nnngh! Fine!!”
Anne knew that look so well. In those moments, he was no longer 5 foot 8, no longer 17 years old. He was three again, knee high to grasshopper and throwing a tantrum with all the passion and fury his tiny body could muster. The look on his face was the same. Even now, though he kept it largely restrained, you could see his body trying to join in. She half expected him to drop to the floor and flail.
At least now, he knew when to admit defeat. The toddler years had been exhausting.
—
With leftovers in the fridge, the oven dish soaking in the sink and the rest of the dishes in the dishwasher, Anne readied herself. She removed her apron, hung it on the hook, tugged gently at the hem of her cardigan to neaten things. Right. Oisín. She took a deep breath.
Entering the living room, Anne was pleased and slightly surprised to notice Oisín was indeed waiting. The television was on quietly, the flickering screen illuminating his glazed expression. She glanced at the screen. A couple were waking up in bed - hair suspiciously perfect, teeth suspiciously perfect, the room suspiciously large. Ah. An American sitcom. Load of nonsense, all of them. But aren’t those sheets nice… A peel of laughter and rapturous applause from the television suggested there was a great joke to that couple waking up together, but it appeared lost on Oisín, whose lips didn’t so much as twitch. Anne flicked the lights on, again apparently not registered by Oisín. He really is miles away. What’s happened, Oshie? What’s wrong with my baby boy? Anne's expression softened momentarily, before hardening again as she recomposed herself. She sat on the sofa beside her youngest, looking to see if he even noticed. “Right. What has you in such foul humour?”
“Nothing.”
“You are moping about the place with a face on you like” a slapped bottom “I don't know what.”
“Yeah I'm fine.”
I didn't come down in the last shower, young man… “Right,” Anne picked up the remote, “off with that there now.” She turned the television off, grateful that for once it worked on the first try and didn't undermine the moment. “And you're to tell me what's wrong.”
“There's nothing wrong, okay!”
Oisín's outburst took Anne aback. She removed her glasses. “Oisín Robert Flanagan. A mother always knows when something's wrong.”
Not looking at her, Oisín replied at last. “Yeah, I got dumped.”
Anne could not contain her surprise. “What!?”
“I got dumped!” His voice was sharper now, the pent up emotion exploited the crack in his shell. He looked at her, straight in the eye.
As their gazes met, just for a moment, Anne’s world froze. “Dumped? What do you mean dumped?”
“Yeah, I got dumped by my girlfriend,” came the matter of fact explanation.
“A girlfriend?” Why hadn't he told her? “You never told me you had a girlfriend.”
“Yeah, well, I don't have one anymore, do I?” He sounded close to tears.
Oh, Oshie. But perhaps it's no bad thing, a little bit of serendipity. His exams. “Well that's probably for the best given it's an exam year pet.”
Oisín shot her a look of pure contempt. She recoiled. Perhaps best save that conversation for another day then. Oisín had gathered a cushion to his chest and was clutching it as if his life depended on it. For the second time that evening, Anne saw not a boy on the cusp of adulthood, but the boy he once had been, whose woes could be fixed with a kiss and a cuddle. That gentler touch was needed again. She searched for words of comfort. “It's her loss. Girls like that are a dime a dozen.”
No response.
“There are plenty more trout in the Shannon.”
Nothing.
Anne tried harder. “You're a catch Oisín.”
He remained unmoved.
“Any girl would be lucky to have you.”
Maybe something a little less… trite.
“I've always thought you look like a young Prince William,” she offered approvingly.
Oisín's look made it clear she'd misjudged that compliment. “Ah Mom you're making it worse. Just leave me alone."
Questions raced through Anne's mind. Who was she… who were her parents, was she suitable? How long… what happened… what had they… Oh lord, they hadn't, had they? He wouldn't. Not her Oshie. She attempted to vocalise the questions, have you… no. Did you… no. Were you ever… Each time they got caught before reaching her lips, as if the words daren't leave her mouth, lest by being spoken they brought something into being.
By now Oisín was openly crying, his face buried in the arm of the sofa. Anne reached out and touched his shoulder gingerly. When no objection came, she rubbed him on the back, like she'd done all those years ago, before patting him on the shoulder reassuringly.
Maybe it was a sense memory, his body remembering the comforts of old, as Oisín stirred. “I was in love with her.”
Oh, Oshie. Your head turned by the first girl who can overlook the stench of Lynx. “Well you probably weren't in love with her pet.”
“I was!” His voice was breaking.
Know when you stop pushing, Anne. Instead she raised her eyebrows. “Okay.” They sat in silence for a few minutes, that small contact apparently working, though he would no doubt deny it, as the sobs subsided to sniffles. Anne thought about her plans for the weekend, about Offaly. Oisín would not wish to join her, she admitted to herself. The churches have stood for centuries, they could wait until her next free weekend. Oisín could not, a mother-son bonding weekend was what was needed, lots of fun activities together. Shopping and baking and board games. Oisín's head now rested back in one hand, with the other he picked aimlessly at the cushion. “The only way to get over sadness is distraction so busy busy busy busy busy busy busy—”
“Mum I don't want to do anything.”
“—busy busy busy busy.”
“Mum!”
“You should come down to the garden centre with me and I will get you to pick out a plant for yourself.” Am excellent suggestion.
“Oh wow that sounds horrific.” That'll be a no then.
“Well that always cheers me up”
They sat in silence for another minute or two, before Anne made a decision. This calls for reinforcements. Tea.
—
In the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, Anne breathed deeply. A girlfriend, then. His first. Surely. And his first heartbreak. As the teabags steeped in the pot, she fetched ramekins from the cupboard and added a digestive biscuit to each then, reflecting on Oisín's heartache, added a second to his. She poured the tea, added milk and, in a rare indulgence, added a heaped teaspoon of sugar to the rose mug she'd chosen for Oisín. It was normally forbidden. She added a scant spoonful to her own. He'll never know.
—
Back on the sofa, cradling his now empty mug, Oisín began to open up. “You don't understand, she was perfect.”
“Well I knew a girl from college,” Anne countered, “Bríde Moynihan. Beautiful beautiful girl, I tell you she had the boys,” she clicked her fingers, “like that. But last I heard, twice divorced, a son that won't talk to her and on top of that, she looks dreadful now.” She looked meaningfully at Oisín, who did not apparently appreciate the significance.
—
Back in the kitchen, loading the mugs into the dishwasher, Anne brought herself to the inevitable conclusion. They would need to Talk.
But he's still so young. My baby boy. But heaven forbid…
I’d rather hoped his father might, but it seems it’s up to me. We left it too late with Daniel and look how that turned out.
Oshie wouldn't do that, he's sensible. Well more sensible than Danny, anyway.
Sensible enough to be a father?
—
Sitting in companionable silence, Anne ruminated on how to broach the subject.
Oisín brought her from her reverie. “What if I never find anyone as good again?”
“Mark my words Oisín, in a few years time they will be knocking down my door.” “Queuing up outside.” “Beating them off with sticks.” “Have your pick of the bunch.” Each suggestion was met with equal indifference. “There are plenty of young ladies out there still.”
That got Oisín’s attention. “Yeah, like who?”
Anne needed an answer… “Well Mrs O'Toole's daughter always had a soft spot for you.”
Oisín’s turned to her, wide-eyed with disgust. “She's my cousin.”
“Third cousin.” Anne thought of the family tree that 2D paper struggled to contain, of the Flanagans sitting on both sides of the aisle on her wedding day. “We're a small island nation.”
The silence that followed was less companionable. Compose yourself, Anne Flanagan. It needs to be done. He’s not a baby anymore. She looked at her son as he fiddled once more with the cushion, at his face caught between youth and maturity. She saw at once her cooing baby boy, her contented toddler, mischievous child, her truculent teenager… and she saw the man he was becoming, could picture the creases appearing at his eyes, his hair greying at the temples, perhaps one day thinning… She saw his future. And then she saw that future.
”Right now, Oisín. There's no perfect time to talk about this but if you're going to be having girlfriends we need to be talking about being careful.”
“What?” He didn’t look up.
She chose her words carefully, as if each one might contain a landmine beneath. “You need to be careful.”
Now he looked up, his face a picture of revulsion. “Oh no, Mum, no.”
“Now—”
“No, Mum, we're not talking about it.” Oisín got up from his seat.
“We’ll need to talk about it at some point now.”
“We're not talking, no no no no no no no!” He moved swiftly to the door, before Anne could get any further.
“Sit down there young man.” Anne raised her voice, calling after her departed son, “sit back down there!” She patted the sofa for emphasis, for all the good it did in the empty room.
In response, a door slammed.
“Lord help us.” Anne buried her head in her hands. This won't - can't - be the end of it. Have another go, next time you've got a captive audience. There's the Dunbooey trip coming up, that'll offer plenty of time to talk.