Going home was something I tried to avoid in the normal course of events. Quite apart from anything else, it involved a three-hour bus journey along roads that, in places, appeared to have been recently carpet-bombed. It also meant spending time in the waking nightmare that is Busaras, Dublin's eye-poppingly ugly central bus station which, to the virgin eye, resembles nothing so much as the set of Taxi Driver.
Busaras reaches a peak of unpleasantness every Friday evening when it seems that everyone in Dublin tries to leave at the same time through the same orifice. At least I was spared that extra misery on this occasion, opting for the 11.30 Saturday morning service. Or rather, I opted for the bus which went at 11.30 on average, but actually left any time between 11.15 and 11.45, depending on the whim of the bus gods (to whom, of course, we are but playthings). There was an earlier departure, but I was trying to minimise my time at home - within reason. Arriving any later than early afternoon would send all the wrong signals. You had to watch your signals in my house.
There were quite a few people around that morning, squinting at the departures board with expressions of doubt, or sprinting frantically across the sticky floor when - a Busaras favourite, this - some bloke in an official-looking cap announced that their bus would now be leaving from a completely different gate to the one he had directed them to 10 minutes earlier. I bought a ticket and sat down in the least grimy chair I could find close to my gate (or what was currently being called my gate).
Assuming that those around me were going my way, I began to worry about which one of them I would end up sitting beside. Of all the many, many things that annoyed me about Going Home on the bus, the one that really got my dogs yapping was the sheer inevitability of my getting saddled with the least desirable seatmate available. Over time, I had tried any number of strategies to avoid this difficulty, to no avail. My first idea had been to jockey for position with an enthusiasm that bordered on violence, in the hopes of being on board first and getting a seat all to myself.
There were a number of problems with this theory. For one thing, buses are a favourite mode of transport for the elderly and it just looks bad when you elbow one of them in the face as she shuffles gamely towards the door. More than once, I had to suffer filthy stares the whole way home, having neatly shunted some pensioner aside when the bus pulled in. And it plain old didn't work in any case. Even if I did get on early and nab a seat to myself, there were always too many passengers to allow me to keep it.
So not only did I mark myself out as a selfish thug, I still had to share with whatever societal reject came sloping down the aisle with his egg-and-onion sandwiches. I soon gave up trying to get on first, and experimented with a different formula - hanging around until the bus was nearly full. The rationale was simple. When the bus was nearly full, I certainly wouldn't get a seat to myself, but at least I'd get to pick my seat-mate. Again, the scheme was a dramatic failure.
I had foolishly assumed that there would always be a reasonable pool to choose from. This wasn't true. It wasn't even nearly true. Time after time, I climbed on the bus with fingers crossed, hoping that the only reasonable-looking girl in the queue had intimidated everyone else and was, even now, hoping she wouldn't have to sit alone for the whole trip. In reality, the only free seats were invariably located next to bulbous dermatology cases who were distinguishable only inasmuch as some of them sweated more than others. Worse still, when I chose my seat-mate myself, I had only myself to blame. After two hours and four lengthy anecdotes about the peace a man feels while fishing, I'd be punching myself on the thigh, convinced that I had managed to choose the worst of a bad lot.
So it was with some dread that I surveyed the current crop, discarding couples from my calculations on the grounds that they would be sitting together and posed no threat to my happiness. To my relief, there were quite a few of them, cooing and feeding each other boiled sweets or staring morosely into space, depending on the state of their relationship. Among them was a pair of lanky teenagers, who were in some discomfort because they had each refused to remove their hand from the other's back pocket before sitting down. For maximum contrast, they were seated beside a middle-aged man and woman who had clearly spent too much time waiting in bus stations together. She had some shopping bags arranged around her feet and periodically rummaged through them, apparently looking for nothing in particular.
Meanwhile, he stared at the back of his hands as though they were a strange new life form. With mounting optimism, I realised that almost everyone there was with someone or other. And, unless I was mistaken, there weren't enough passengers to fill a whole bus. It was looking good; and when the bus finally pulled in (11.42 a.m., by the way) I held back, letting everyone else climb aboard first. I was almost last to get on and - what rapture! - found that I had several free empty options.
Foolishly thinking that this unpleasant trip had gotten off to a remarkably good start, I slid into a seat towards the back and tried to make myself comfortable. The driver was just giving the engine a final gunning in preparation for blast-off when someone outside slapped the side of the bus vigorously. A late arrival. I tensed slightly, but reassured myself that there were still several free seats. The doors swished open and an elderly female voice came whistling down the aisle.
"Oh, thankyou," it said. "I thought I'd missed you."
The driver got out of his seat and offered a helping hand to the new passenger.
"Come on now, I'm not that old," said the voice. "I'm grand. Sit yourself down."
The driver did as he was told, and the new arrival hauled herself up and in. I froze. It was a nun. A withered, pocket-sized nun. My mortal enemy! The worst of all possible seat-mates! I glanced around like a trapped animal. She wouldn't, surely, come all the way down the bus past several seats that she could have all to herself, just to spite me? My eyes widened in horror as she hobbled along the aisle, saying hello to literally everyone, individually. She moved like Tarzan through the vines, her bony hands gripping one headrest after another. At every moment she looked certain to fall, but still she kept coming. My skin crawled as I saw her go past one free seat, then another, then another. Frantically, I started trying to give off flutter vibes, twitching and rolling my eyes. But it was hopeless. She continued her relentless progress, and when I accidentally caught her eye, I knew the game was up.
"Are you keeping this for anyone?" she inquired, with a toothy smile.
I couldn't pretend that I was, but considered pointing out that she could have a whole seat to herself not six feet away.
"It . . . I . . ."
"Good," she said, and lowered herself in. "Me feet's killing me."
To explain my panic at being cornered by a nun, I would have to describe the depth of my feeling about religion. And I find that I can't. It's a problem that has plagued me for some time. I used to try engage God-fearing associates in debate on the topic, but eventually gave it up because I invariably lost. Again and again, I found myself backing down against people who said shatteringly stupid things like: "Go on then, prove there's no God." I would become so tongue-tied, so utterly dumbstruck with incredulity and indignation that I lost by default. So I don't even try any more, even though I am home to a contempt that is essentially bottomless.
And by extension, I find true believers . . . unpalatable. Nuns, especially, give me the shivers. Some people get all freaked out by clowns. With me, it's nuns. A nun, as far as I'm concerned, is a grown woman who not only believes in Santa Claus, but wants to be an elf. The prospect of a three-hour lecture from one of them filled me with a terrible creeping dread. I never even considered the possibility that she might not feel like lecturing. She was a nun, I figured, and could no more pass on the chance to lecture a "young person" than, say, Norm could pass on free beer. As the bus pulled out of the station and immediately ground to a halt in the Saturday shopping traffic, I retreated as far as I could into the corner, squeezing myself up against the window.
Cursing my lack of a Walkman, I took out a book and glared at it, hoping for the same sort of effect a cat produces when it arches its back. But she attacked before we were out of the city centre.
"Not a bad day, thank God," she said.
I didn't look up, but managed a "Hmmph." She's going to tell me about how God made the sunbeams, I thought.
"Are you going far?"
"Yes."
"Me too. All the way, in fact." I stiffened.
"Do you like travelling by bus?" she ventured.
"No."
"Oh, I love it. You get to meet people, don't you?"
"Hmmph."
"It's more social, isn't it?"
"Hmmph."
"And it's not uncomfortable." She bounced on her seat to confirm this. "Why don't you like it?"
I sighed and turned to face her, radiating bad temper.
"It takes too long," I hissed.
"But sure what's the hurry? One day you'll be an old fogey like me and everything will take time. A long time, for some things."
I made no reply and she seemed to get the hint. Exhaling softly, she folded her hands in front of her, closed her eyes and fell asleep. And that was how we sat for almost an hour, this ancient, fragile nun napping quietly while I periodically cast dagger looks in her direction, certain that she would begin speaking in tongues, or worse, at any moment. But she remained so still and silent that I actually began to forget about her, and started worrying in earnest about the scene awaiting me down the road.
There would be tears for sure. And shouting. I had had enough tears and shouting in the past two years to last me a lifetime, yet here was a fresh batch. Stevie was fond of saying that the light at the end of the tunnel was usually an approaching train, and I knew what he meant. I was feeling profoundly sorry for myself - a familiar experience - and was having difficulty thinking of anything positive that I might be able to contribute. Then, apparently at some unseen signal, my companion sat up straight and rubbed her wrists vigorously. It was as if someone had suddenly flicked her switch to "On".
"I nearly fell asleep there," she said, winking at me.
I raised an eyebrow. For the past few minutes she'd been making gentle snuffling noises that I feared might turn to fully-fledged snores.
"Would you like a bit of Toblerone?" she inquired. I shook my head.
"No thanks."
She reached into her small bag and rummaged around.
"I think I will. I like a bit of chocolate."
Grunting with the effort, she broke a bit off and popped it in her mouth. "It's very tuk."
"Sorry?"
She chewed for all she was worth and swallowed.
"I say, it's very tough, the old Toblerone."
I really had nothing to say on the subject.
"Right."
"You're having a bit of a read, then?" she asked.
In fact, I wasn't. I'd been having a bit of a fret. But I thought it was my best chance of avoiding conversation and started studying the book again.
"That's correct," I sniffed.
"I think I'll join you."
For one horrible moment, I thought she meant she was going to start reading my book too, but she dove into her bag again and drew out a paperback.
At last, I thought. Peace. And that was when everything took a turn for the strange. Almost as soon as she had found her page, she began to giggle. Her shoulders bobbed up and down and the book wobbled in her hands.
"Hoo hoo," she tittered. "Heee. Heh heh."
I shifted in my seat, and tried to ignore her.
"Ha," she nodded to herself. "Hoooo, dear me."
I actually tutted. I'm not proud of it. I tutted.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, resting a wrinkled hand on my forearm. "Am I disturbing you? I'm sorry. But this is very funny. I can't help myself."
She turned the book's cover towards me. It was The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Well, I was agog. I looked at her, then at the book, then at her. A few seconds ticked by before I spoke. She looked me right in the eye, challenging me to say something.
"It's not a very . . . nun-like . . . choice," I said.
She peered at the cover, clearly pleased with herself.
"Oh? What makes you say that?"
I was on uncertain ground here. It was as if a fundamental law of the universe had been repealed. I wouldn't have been any more shocked if gravity had suddenly been nullified and we were having this conversation in mid-air.
"Well . . . it's . . . it's . . ."
"Yes?"
"It's funny."
She slapped her thigh and began another giggling fit. "Are the poor nuns not allowed to have a laugh?" she asked me. I was suddenly very embarrassed. What was my point?
"No, it's not that, it's just . . . It's just that I don't associate nuns with humour. At all. In any shape or form."
She winked again and patted my arm again. "You weren't educated in a convent, were you?"
I had to smile.
"Close. I had the priests."
"You `had the priests'? The way other people have lice?"
Another smile from me. What the hell was this? A funny nun?
"I think I'd have preferred lice, thanks."
She executed a mock wince.
"How come?"
I was still sure that she was working up to some sort of lecture, but found myself starting to babble.
"Don't get me started. Look, no offence, but I'm not religious. Well, that's an understatement. I'm as far away from religious as you can get. I hate it. I absolutely hate it. It's pathetic, as far as I'm concerned, completely pathetic. It's beyond me how intelligent people can go along with it. Lies from top to bottom. Lies and scaremongering. Stories for scaring children. There's more . . ."
"I get the picture," she interrupted. I blushed, and felt foolish. " `No offence', you said. Why do you think I'd be offended?"
"Well, because . . . you obviously are religious. You're a nun. Last time I checked, they were only taking religious people."
We were both giggling now.
"It doesn't mean I expect everybody else to be. I used to, of course. But now I really couldn't care less. So what do you call yourself?"
"Joe," I said, wondering if this familiarity made me vulnerable in some way.
"Eh, right. My name's Frances, but that's not what I meant. Do you call yourself agnostic, or what?"
More blushing.
"Oh. No. Atheist. Well, pantheist, technically, but . . . never mind."
Sister Frances held up the crucifix that she wore around her neck and pointed it towards me.
"Back! Back!" she cried.
I laughed, and seriously considered the possibility that she might be a normal old woman on her way to a fancy dress party. Feeling emboldened, I decided to set the record straight.
"Look, er, Sister Frances," I said. "I won't try to convert you if you don't try to convert me." She smiled and nodded.
"I'll just pray for you," she said.
"And I'll think for both of us," I replied, the standard put-down.
There was a moment's silence. I thought she had taken offence, but then she nodded and returned to her book. The giggling began again almost immediately.
Asking advice from strangers has always been a dangerous trait of mine. I gave up psychology at the end of first year on the say-so of a taxi driver. So it isn't so strange that I pounced on Sister Frances. It was par for my particular course.
"Sister Frances?" I said in a voice not my own.
"Hmm?"
"Can I ask you something?"
She closed her book and gave me her full attention immediately.
"The answer is no," she said. "I don't miss sex. You can't miss what you never had."
This time I blushed from the soles of my feet.
"No, no, it's not that," I croaked. "It's a . . . personal matter."
"Oops,' she said, but didn't blush herself. "I thought sex was all young people cared about. Especially atheist young people."
I knew she was ribbing me, and let it slide.
"Well . . . eh, Sister Frances, it's . . ."
"Hold it," she interrupted. "You nearly choke every time you have to say `Sister'. Call me Frances."
"Well, Frances," I went on. "I'm going back to my mother's house to . . . to what, I don't really know. I'm supposed to . . . help, I think. There's been a sort of a . . . a crisis."
She nodded.
"Your father's dead, then?" she asked.
"What? I mean . . . what?"
"I'm not wrong, am I?"
On top of everything else, she was a closet Miss Marple, it seemed.
"Well, yeah, he is. How do you know?"
"You said you were going to your `mother's house'. A peculiar phrase, that. And you're `supposed to help'. You sound like someone with unwanted family responsibility to me."
I nodded slowly.
"And people's fathers die all the time, you know," she concluded. "It's quite obvious, really."
"Well . . . yes. He died about two years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
I never knew what to say when people said that. What were they sorry about? It wasn't their fault, any more than it was mine. If it was anyone's fault, it was God's. And he didn't even have the decency to exist.
"Yeah. Cheers," I muttered. "The thing is, it hasn't been easy for my mother . . . It's been very difficult, in fact. For her. And now, there's something new for her to worry about."
I paused, half-expecting her to say: "Your wee sister is pregnant, isn't she?" But she merely nodded for me to go on.
"I got a phone call last night. It turns out that my sister - younger sister - is . . . y'know . . . with child." What did I expect her to say, I wonder? She didn't know the real circumstances of my family life, and even if she did, how could she possibly help? More to the point, this was still a nun, after all, and Ireland was still Ireland. There was every chance, I was suddenly aware, that she might disappoint me and launch into a sermon.
"Congratulations," she said, smiling broadly.
"Excuse me?"
"Congratulations. You're going to be an uncle. Your sister is going to be a mother. Your mother is going to be a grandmother. There's going to be a whole new person running around."
I frowned, unconvinced. She didn't seem to get it.
"That's all well and good," I said. "But the girl's only 19."
"I'm not saying the situation is ideal," Frances replied. "But you can't turn back time. It's going to happen whether you like it or not, so you'd better look on the bright side. Will the father stick by her?"
"I haven't got a clue," I told her. "I've never met him. I know my mother doesn't like the sound of him."
"She wouldn't though, would she?"
"No," I conceded.
"Do you think your sister will want to get married?" Frances asked.
I hadn't even considered that. The idea of Deirdre being someone's mother seemed farcical. The idea of her being someone's wife wasn't far behind it. Every time I went home she had some new bloke in tow, it seemed. Even if this Feeny person wanted to marry her, I just couldn't picture it. She was practically a child herself, for God's sake.
"I don't know about that either," I admitted. "I haven't even spoken to her. All I know is that she's up the . . . pregnant, and my mother is fit to be tied."
Frances chewed her bottom lip, considering.
"You seem more worried about your mother than your sister," she said eventually.
I nodded slowly and deliberately, hoping to communicate the real problem without having to go into detail.
"Is your mother still a bit . . . high-strung?" Frances guessed.
"You could say that," I replied. "Or you could say that she's lost the plot completely."
"But you wouldn't say that, would you, not about your own grieving mother?"
I felt my old friend guilt creeping up my spine.
"I didn't mean that," I said. "But this is not what she needs. Or deserves."
"Maybe it's exactly what she deserves," Frances said. "You're forgetting that children are one of God's blessings. Don't look at me like that. They are. It seems terrible now because it's a what-do-you-call-it, an abstract idea. When it's a real little person, it will become a joy. Tell your mother that. Is she religious?"
I cast my eyes upward.
"Is she ever."
"Then tell her you got it from a nun."
I grinned and promised that I would.
"Now," Frances said, "We'll say a few decades of the Rosary to ask the Blessed Virgin for strength." My mouth flapped open and shut, and I felt my temper rise.
Frances wagged a spindly finger at me.
"Gotcha," she said, and laughed like a drain.
2000 Damien Owens