Listen to the author reading this story:
Seán stands under the perspex shelter in Dublin Airport to avoid the November rain. Kavanagh’s bus is late. Not that he’s in any rush home to Tramore. He worries that the suit draped over his arm is getting wet and tucks the cover tight around it. He’d thought of squashing it into his suitcase, but Sheila wouldn’t approve.
‘You’d think you’d make more of an effort for your own mother’s funeral,’ he imagines her saying. ‘Showing up in crumpled clothes. Always out to shame me.’
Seán fantasises about arriving at the church in the suit he wore for his thirtieth birthday party. Now that would embarrass her. Give her another reason to haunt him.
The party, three months earlier, had been some night. A packed Street 66, people spilling into the smoking area on Parliament Street. Rainbow flags hanging from the rafters, glitter balls glistening, Jenny Greene on decks. Although the details of the night are a bit hazy, he’d never forget the buzz. It was safe booking the coolest gay bar in Dublin. Ma and Da would never come. Mind you, he didn’t ask them. His sisters Aoife and Ciara neither. The girls were pissed off afterwards when they saw photographs on Instagram.
‘Fuck sake, Seán. We’d have loved it. Ashamed of us, are you?’
His sisters were great, but he wasn’t sure what they’d make of his Dublin life. Easier to keep it separate. He’d no idea how it was going to work out living back in Tramore. He’d interviewed for a position in the library and was kind of surprised to get it. Dublin had been fun, but Tramore was home. He was ready to return. And maybe it was time for Ma to face facts. Too late for that now he remembers.
As Kavanagh’s coach lumbers around the corner, Seán thinks about how he’s going to have to arrange his face into that of a grieving son in two hours’ time.
How will Da manage? Maybe he’ll be relieved too. According to the media, women were usually the victims of coercive control. Funny to have a label for it now. For years Seán had thought of it as bullying. But when he’d try to talk to anyone about Ma, it sounded trivial. Little things with a huge cumulative effect.
Sheila was never cruel to his sisters Aoife and Ciara. They were born eleven months apart. Irish twins. A unit with little room for their brother Seán who arrived four years later. Tony and Sheila’s longed-for son. Their biggest disappointment. It was obvious from early on he was never going to work the farm with Da. Sheila couldn’t wait for him to leave school and move to Dublin. ‘More going on up there,’ she’d said. ‘More opportunities for you.’
Of course it was Aoife, always the big sister, who’d phoned him. It was midnight and he was just in from the pub. Knew immediately something was wrong.
‘Seán, do you have someone with you?’
‘Why? No. I’m in the flat by myself.’
A pause.
‘Aoife, what? Is Da, ok?’
Another pause.
‘It’s not Da. It’s Ma.’
Relief flooded through Seán.
‘Ma? Jesus. What?’
‘She’s dead. Ma’s dead.’
‘What?’
‘She’s dead Seán. Heart attack on the prom.’
Seán sank to the ground snagging his back off a kitchen press handle. He’d no idea how he felt. Happy it wasn’t Da. Guilt at that thought. A sense of finally being free maybe. Relief that nobody could read his mind.
‘What happened?’
‘She was walking the prom. Stopped to talk to Marie Fitzgpatrick. Collapsed right in front of her. Marie said it was like she was having some sort of spasm.’
‘Poor Ma,’ Seán said wondering if he really felt that.
‘She didn’t mean to be hard on you, Seán,’ Aoife said, as if she’d access to his thoughts.
He remained quiet.
‘The ambulance brought her to Ardkeen. No siren, just silence.’
‘Where’s she now?’
‘Still in Ardkeen. The morgue.’
‘Aoife!’
‘You asked. When can you get down?’
‘Not tonight. I’m pissed.’
‘Fuck sake, Seán.’
‘I’ll get the bus in the morning.’
‘Ok. I’ll pick you up in the Majestic car park. Let me know when you’re nearly there.’
‘Will do.’
‘And Seán.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m happy you’re moving home. Especially now.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ Seán said as he hung up and stayed sitting on the kitchen floor.
On the bus to Waterford, Seán stares at the bag containing the suit that he’s worn twice in his life. First time was his debs twelve years ago. The second was Ross’s wedding last year. Both events in the Majestic Hotel. Both nights to forget.
He remembers standing beside his friend Róisín for the official debs photo, wishing he was anywhere else. Róisín was beautiful in her tight red dress, her straight hair a mass of bouncing curls, her glasses swapped for the contact lenses she hated wearing. They’d been the best of friends since they first sat beside each other in junior infants in Stella Maris. Their friendship made easier as they got older by the fact neither of them was straight.
Ross was in the same junior infants’ class too. They hadn’t hung around with each other for years, but Seán was always acutely aware of Ross’s presence.
On the night of the debs, Seán was queuing for one of the cubicles in the men’s toilet. They all seemed to be full of young fellas taking turns to puke.
‘Sorry Seán,’ Ross said, as he walked into the bathroom and whacked him with the door. ‘Tight in here.’
Their eyes locked and Seán felt himself harden.
‘Do you fancy coming outside for a smoke when you’re done?’ Ross asked. Seán nodded.
He gave up on the cubicle, used the urinal, and followed Ross out the front door of the hotel.
It was fairly crowded with groups huddled against the cold, laughing and smoking, oblivious to anyone but themselves.
Ross motioned to Seán to cross over the road towards Splashworld. Seán could feel himself stirring inside his trousers. The two young men maintained a walking pace down past the amusements, locked up for the winter.
Half-way down the prom, Ross reached for Seán’s hand and held it in his. Neither of them spoke. Despite the cold Seán could feel darts of electricity shoot through him. The headiness of the pints drunk and joint smoked freeing him. His head was cloudy but the pulsating in his groin was almost audible.
Minutes later, they reached the Rabbit Burrows. They ran through the dunes stumbling and laughing before they collapsed as one into the sand and marram grass. They kicked off their shoes and Ross tore Seán’s tux off him, attempting to remove his own at the same time. All the while he covered Seán’s face and neck with frenzied kisses. When it happened, the release was breathtaking. Afterwards, Seán spoke first.
‘That was unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable.’
‘Shh, come here to me, Seán,’ Ross said as he pulled him into his arms.
They lay together a short while, sheltered by the dune, ignoring the cold wind, feeling only the warmth of the other.
‘We’d better head back,’ Ross finally said.
‘Do we have to?’
‘It’s not fair on Róisín and Sarah.’
They stood up and strolled up the prom, holding hands until they were in sight of the Majestic.
Walking across the road into the hotel, Seán thought he’d rather be anywhere else.
But at least they hadn’t been missed. The dance floor was heaving as their friends jumped around and roared along to The Black-Eyed Peas. Seán spotted Róisín and forced himself through a gap beside her.
Ross and Seán continued their relationship after Seán moved to Dublin. They’d more fun and freedom in the capital. Seán was proud introducing him to his new friends. No wonder he felt betrayed when Ross told him about Sarah’s pregnancy.
‘It’s you I love Seán,’ he’d said. ‘But Sarah’s pregnant. I can’t abandon her.’
It was as if he believed he’d had no part in it.
‘Fuck off Ross. It’s over.’
The wedding was devastating. Seán debated not going. In the end he had, due to some warped sense of loyalty. It was difficult watching Ross, the doting dad of Ellie, now three, and not wonder about what might have been.
As the bus makes its way over the sixteen-year-old ‘new’ bridge that bypasses Waterford city, Seán remembers to text his sister.
He wonders will Da be with her to meet him and begins to think about the time he told his father he was moving to Dublin.
Seán was helping him scrape down the slurry slats. The eyes of fifty cows, poking through the adjoining pen, appeared to hang onto every word spoken between father and son.
They worked rhythmically standing side by side, focused on their own section.
‘Da, I’m sorry it’s come to this,’ Seán shouted over the sound that echoed off the concrete walls.
‘We’d some happy times here, but farming’s not for you lad. I’ve always known that. Sure, I’d have to drag you out of bed for the milking and listen to you complain about the smell of the slurry,’ his father laughed.
‘But I’ve always loved the cows. They listened to my chat. Kept me sane.’
‘We all love the cows son. We look after them and they look after us.’
The men are silent as they continue their rhythmic work deep in thought. Tony finally spoke first.
‘I wish you’d let me drive you up.’
‘I want to get the bus, Da,’ Seán replied eyes focused on the scraper as it glided over the slats.
‘What time’s it at? I’ll drop you down for it.’
‘10. Thanks.’
‘You’ll be freer in Dublin. Can be yourself.’
‘Hope so, yeah.’
‘Your mother had her own issues growing up you know.’
‘Don’t, Da.’
‘It wasn’t easy for her.’
‘You’d think that would make her kinder.’
‘Maybe.’
‘She knew before I did Da. It’s obvious. From the night in the bath.’
His father sighed.
‘I should have spoken to her then. Haunts me to this day.’
When Roisín was six, she’d got a kitchen from Santa Claus. Seán loved playing ‘Chef’ with her any time he was over in her house. They’d cook and serve lavish meals made of plastic. Seán told Sheila he was going to write to Santa and ask for a kitchen that year. Sheila was bathing him at the time and Seán had his head tilted back for her to wash his hair. As soon as he’d mentioned the kitchen, a rage came into her eyes. Before it fully registered, she’d grabbed his hair and pulled him under.
‘Get those filthy dirty thoughts out of your head,’ she hissed, through gritted teeth.
Seán had no idea what he’d done wrong. His head hurt like hell as Sheila threw a towel at him, stormed out of the room, and banged the door behind her. He dried the suds into his body before taking his pyjamas off the freezing cold radiator and putting them on.
‘She’d probably have denied it Da.’
‘Maybe. But I should have talked to her.’
As the bus approaches the Majestic and turns left into the car park, Seán sees Da’s mud splattered Land Rover parked in a corner. He descends the bus’s steps and Da, Aoife and Ciara walk towards him. His heart lifts.
Caroline Heffernan is an MA student in Creative Writing at University of Limerick. She was longlisted for HOWL New Irish Writing 2024, and Fish Publishing’s 2024 Short Memoir Prize. She was shortlisted in Knocklyon Literary Festival’s Flash Fiction competition 2025; published in Seawords pamphlet 2024, thanks to dlr Arts Office, and in Ray D’Arcy’s A Page from my Life (2020).