Like One of the Family (8 page)

When Hero had finished drinking she collapsed back on the floor in her favourite position between her young master's knees. Her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth and she panted noisily, tired from her recent exertions. Hugh stroked her head, feeling choked and sad and desperately guilty. Halligan indicated that he should lift her up and hold her in his arms.

Hugh settled Hero as firmly as he could across his knees, petting her and whispering to her all the time. The dog whined a bit as though sensing what was to come.

‘Now, the thing to do is to hold her leg steady for me, there's a good lad,' the vet advised, as he approached with the syringe. With his free hand he fondled the dog's floppy ears before moving lower and gently parting the animal's fur in his search for the vein in his leg. ‘Don't let her move on me now,' he murmured. He withdrew the needle and straightened up with a relieved grunt. ‘That's it. Good dog now.'

Hugh felt Hero jerk in his arms and saw her eyes rolling sightlessly in her head and her paws wildly paddling the air, before her head fell heavily against him. He cradled the shuddering animal fiercely against his chest, and his heart was unbearably stricken as he watched her in her death throes. After a few minutes Hero gave a last convulsive heave and lay still. Halligan went out closing the door after him.

Hugh buried his face in the dog's warm coat that he had always taken such a pride in and, as the familiar smell and feel of her filled his senses, the dam of feeling broke inside him and he sobbed into her fur.

In the period leading up to Christmas Claire did not see Eddie at all. She stopped back after school most days to rehearse a review her class were putting on in the New Year. Unexpectedly she found herself drawn into a group consisting of June, Imelda and Sheena, all of whom had aspirations to be actresses. They chose to do a skit on
Fawlty Towers.
Sheena, as Sybil Fawlty, wore an auburn wig and padded herself out in one of Jane's bras. Imelda, who was the tallest of them, was just right for Basil and blonde-haired June for Polly. Claire was blonde too but was unsurprised to find herself cast as Manuel. She discovered she had a natural ability to play comedy, which was strange because she was the shyest of the four.

Rehearsing for the review helped take her mind off the worsening situation at home. For a time after the McArdle's party her parents had seemed more in accord but during the Christmas holiday period, without the saving trips to work or school to distract them, there had been one acrimonious dispute after another.

One afternoon in January her mother called over to the McArdle's house for coffee and a chat. Claire was playing cards with Ruthie and heard Jane saying, ‘You could just leave, you know. Take the children and start again. You've got a job and he'd have to pay something towards their welfare.'

‘I can't see myself doing it,' Annette said.

‘Why not? You'd be better off.' Jane sounded angry. ‘No one should have to put up with that kind of situation.'

‘I never thought it would turn out like this,' Claire heard her mother say tiredly, ‘I expected better somehow. But there it is, the luck of the draw.'

And now her parents were in the middle of another dispute. They had moved into the dining-room for privacy, but the door was not quite shut and Claire could overhear what they were saying. She sat with her head deep in her book, wishing she wasn't there but unable to get up and leave.

‘So I'm getting strident, am I?' Annette demanded. ‘Well if I am it's because I can't seem to get through to you any other way.'

Claire felt a sense of inevitability sliding over her. The knot in her stomach tightened. Lately her father and mother acted as though they hated each other.

‘I have tried,' Annette went on, ‘It's not easy going back to work after so long. But there's not much use in me trying if you won't.'

‘We've been into all that,' Jim said.

‘I know but I just can't believe you... you say one thing and then you go right on doing the other.' Her mother sounded agitated, Claire thought.

‘It means nothing,' Jim said. ‘I've told you.'

Annette banged the table with her fist. ‘You keep on saying that. But I can't accept it. I mean it must mean something or you'd give her up.'

This is awful, Claire thought. She turned the pages of her book but she hadn't read a line. If only she had somewhere to go. She glanced towards the door but she didn't want to go up and sit in her cold bedroom. She could go over to Sheena but
he
would be there, so she stayed with her head bent over her book.

Their review went down very well on the night. After they had finished their act Claire and Sheena changed out of their costumes and slipped down to the back of the hall to sit with Hugh and Terry. The four of them sucked lemon drops and watched the rest of the programme. In the front row Jane sat with Annette as Eddie had a medical dinner which prevented him coming. Her own father had promised to be there. ‘You can book me a seat in the parterre,' Jim had joked, but although, at the start of the night, she had peeped through the curtain and anxiously eyed the darkening rows, there had been no sign of him. Claire was not really surprised.

Hugh thoroughly enjoyed the review. He thought that Claire was the best and funniest actress, but then he was prejudiced. Inspired by the stage show, he made a whole series of sketches, colouring the costumes in pastels and mounting the lot on cardboard. He hung them on the walls of his bedroom and when his father remarked on them, he flushed with pleasure. After that he began to take his drawing more seriously and spend more time at it.

Hugh propped his one and only photograph of Claire against his transistor radio and made several pen and ink drawings of her holding the pup, but he wasn't really satisfied with any of them. She was far nicer, he knew.

Hugh was too shy to show the drawings to Claire. He kept them hidden in a box under his bed, knowing that if his brother ever found them he would never stop ragging him.

Towards the end of January Eddie and Terry began planning a duck shoot, as they did every year at this time. For days their conversation was totally centred on the most ideal locations and conditions, the best guns and cartridges. Terry, like his father, was a natural with firearms, as he was with anything needing co-ordination and skill. Hugh had no interest in blood sports and invariably found his attention wandering at the first mention of guns, until one evening, when sprawled behind the couch reading a comic, he heard them mention his name and sat up and took notice. Eddie was saying: ‘How about taking Hugh along with us on the shoot this year?'

‘Oh Dad! Do we have to?' Up to this their sporting confraternity had been exclusively limited to his father and himself, and that was how Terry liked it.

Eddie laughed. ‘We don't have to bring him but he's old enough I think.' Eddie had noticed how low the boy's spirits were since Hero's death, and he was looking for some way of making it up to him.

‘He'll probably cry when we kill anything,' Terry said in disgust. ‘He's such a wimp.'

Hugh reared up from behind the couch at that. 'No, I'm not,' he protested.

‘Of course not. Our Hugh's no weakling,' Eddie said staunchly, but with a sly grin at Terry, which seemed in Hugh's hyper-sensitive state to imply there might just be some truth in it.

The night before the shoot Eddie insisted on the boys watching him as he cleaned and oiled the guns. Then he loaded up, slipping the cartridges into the breeches and snapping the gun closed.

‘Never point it at anyone,' Eddie told them. ‘That's the first rule. And the second, always keep the safety-catch on until you're ready to take aim.'

Terry looked bored. ‘I know all that, Dad,' he said. ‘You've told me billions of times.' He wanted to impress on Hugh just how often he'd been through it all before.

‘It can never be repeated too often,' Eddie said sternly. He emptied the shotgun and handed it to Hugh. ‘Now let me see you loading up.'

Hugh took it from him gingerly.

‘Treat it with respect but don't be afraid of it,' his father advised.

Hugh fumbled for the cartridges and dropped some on the floor.

‘Clot!' Terry said automatically.

Hugh bent to pick them up and hit the gun off the table. He flushed and looked at his father.

‘Go on,' Eddie encouraged him. ‘You'll soon get the hang of it.'

When Hugh had the gun loaded his father made him empty it and do it all over again, until he was able to do it without faltering. By this time Hugh felt more confident although he knew that it was not the loading, but the shooting of the gun that troubled him. He only prayed he would not look a fool before his father.

Next morning they rose at 3.30 a.m. and drove to Wexford. The sky was still dark when they reached the sloblands and parked the car by the side of the road.

Three times that morning they heard honking and the furious beating of wings overhead. Eddie and Terry brought down seven birds between them and all Hugh's shots went wide. His dejection increased with his brother's derision, his father's laughter. Hugh went out several more times with Eddie and Terry but though his aim improved and he even succeeded in hitting ducks once or twice, the whole business of killing sickened him He was careful, however, not to allow Eddie see his revulsion and, whenever he could, made excuses to get out of going.

In February when Christopher had sat the entrance exam for his new school and been accepted for the following autumn, Claire's father told her that he and Annette were going to separate.

‘Oh no!' Claire wailed, thinking with her mother more cheerful lately everything had seemed to be going better between them. When they had all gone out to New Year's Day lunch in a restaurant, Annette and Jim had drunk a bottle of wine and been full of jokes and laughter in the car on the way home. And she had tried so hard herself. She had really thought she was succeeding. It was ages since he'd complained about having no hankies or socks. She stared miserably at her hands.

‘Just for six months,' her father said, ‘and then we'll see.'

‘But what about us?' She was nearly crying, ‘Chris and myself?'

‘Your mother and I need time away from each other to think things out. Decide what's best for all of us.'

‘But what about the summer holidays?' They were to have gone camping in France this year. Oh how could they do it? Claire felt sick and trembling, her confidence all gone.

‘It won't be so bad.'

How could he say that? It would be terrible. Some of the girls in her class were from broken homes. They had the lowest marks in the class and were always in trouble. Claire hated to think that she now numbered in that unenviable statistic.

Christopher blamed Annette for everything. ‘She shouldn't have gone back to work,' he told Claire shrilly. ‘That's what it's all about, you know. Dad hates her working. I've heard him say so. Mothers should stay at home or they shouldn't be mothers.'

In the past their father had said something of the sort. While Claire honestly felt their home life would have been much easier if this were the case, she was struck by how unfair such a view was. After all, it wasn't Annette who stayed out late every night and only shared family mealtimes on Sunday. Her mother always encouraged them to study and, if needed, was there to hear their homework. If lately she had lapsed it was only because she was finding her return to work a strain. And why shouldn't her mother work? Claire thought. With the right kind of back-up support from their father and help in the house once or twice a week, she could have easily managed to keep the household running smoothly. At the same time, Claire loved her father. No one was entirely to blame for anything. She had learned this from the books she read. Her father and mother were made up of both good and bad. Young as she was Claire could make these distinctions. The pity of it was that they could not bury their differences and live in harmony. But she kept these thoughts to herself. Like Christopher, she felt despondent and rejected.

Claire's father moved out on a Sunday. Before he went away they all sat about the dining-table and ate their last meal together.

Annette sat, red-eyed and withdrawn, at one end of the table, ladling soup into bowls. For the occasion she had cooked their favourite dinner of roast beef, parsley stuffing and roast potatoes. Claire toyed with her portion, too full of tears to eat. Her father looked at his loaded plate as though he didn't know where to begin.

‘Will you say grace or shall I?' Annette asked.

He shrugged, ‘Whatever you like,' and left it to her.

Grace? When did they ever say grace, Claire thought. But Annette was determined to bless this last supper. ‘For what we are about to receive Oh Lord...' she began, the words fluid and familiar on her tongue. Suddenly her voice died in her throat. She bowed her head and a tear fell on her hand. Claire looked away uncomfortably. Please God don't let her cry, she silently begged. Her father cleared his throat.

‘Now don't start that,' he said.

‘What?' Annette found her voice.

‘This emotional blackmail.'

‘If you can think that there's no point in saying anything more.' She spoke with painful dignity.

‘Annette, just what are you trying to say?' He was frowning, but he strove to be patient. What he would really like to do, Claire thought, is slap her about.

‘You must allow me some emotions after fifteen years of wedded bliss,' Annette said ironically. ‘I'm not apologising for my feelings, nor am I using them as a means of getting back at you.'

‘Very well,' he conceded. ‘I'm sorry. I spoke quickly, without thinking. I was afraid you were going to cling on to me. Make it all so much harder.'

‘I suppose I might if I thought it would make any difference,' Annette said very quietly.