WHITE SKY

By Peter O’Connor

http://peteraoconnor.blogspot.com.au/https://www.facebook.com/pages/Peter-

A-OConnor/360839490599334

© Peter O’Connor 2015All rights reserved.

He tried to ignore it, but there wasdull ache inside of him. A seeping,creeping numbness like somebody hadput a slab of cold metal next to hisheart. He looked out of the coachwindow at the sky and tried to thinkabout that instead.

The sky was like dough ready to bekneaded, ready to be baked intosomething nice but for now just paleand flat. It was like dirty snow, exceptit wasn’t really. It contained one bigcloud like a great mother shipstretching to the horizon where a tepidstrip of blue held a few small cumulusscout ships.

He felt the too-tight squeeze of thering that she had given him, the onehe’d retrieved from the bin after she’dtold him. A couple of days after. But hedidn’t want to think about that.

The sky was a big porcelain expanseof alabaster chalk flavourednothingness. There was a cloud. It wastrue. Distant spires threatened to rip itasunder and spill its contents on faraway towns. The sky was blatantly notvery interesting. Closer to hand, hisbreath fogged on the window of themurmuring bus revealing the words Ilove you. He hadn’t written them. Hewiped them away.

The bus sighed its way along the

damp streets of Dublin towards theferry port where the boat waited thatwould take him home, or if not homethen at least back to where he nowlived. London. He stared impassivelyout of the window, his eyes lighting onthe rich green grass of parklands orfollowing the flight of a solitary crow.The streets were damp; he could onlyspeculate about the crow. Occasionalraindrops speckled the window. Soonit would pour.

He didn’t know these streets, hadnever lived in this part of the city. Itmeant nothing to him but it still feltsomehow familiar, knowable. Thejourney brought him out to the coast

intermittently and when it did hewould watch the curling waveletsbreaking on the shore, or the littleboats with their sails furled waitingquietly in the harbour. Here, they werehuddled together with many moresimilar craft; there, standing alone tiedto a buoy.

He felt a weight in his bladder, nottoo urgent, felt his stomach tightagainst the belt he wore. A fry-up hadbeen waiting for him when he aroseeven though it had been seven-thirtyin the morning. His parents had got upto see him off. His mother’s love wasexpressed in tears, hugs and kisses; hisfather’s in fried eggs bacon and

sausages. Both were appreciatedequally but the latter left him feeling alittle bloated and queasy.

After a time the bus arrived at theport and the passengers made theirway through customs. At 10.07 theferry Ulysses left its moorings, edgedout of the harbour and began thejourney to Holyhead.

He could feel the cold breeze on hischeeks as he watched it go. He felt alsoa curious inertia of the heart forthough he knew what it meant to bestanding there by the harbour wall -the implications were clear – hewouldn’t have to confront the resultsof his actions for some time, hours

certainly, days maybe. After that, andwithout even speaking to her, shewould know. She had set him theultimatum.

“If you’re staying with me out ofsome martyrdom, out of some stupidsense of gallantry that’s no good tome. You have to think of thiscommitment in the long term.”

He could see her standing atVictoria coach station, her bellyswollen with child. He couldn’t imagineher expression though. Would she befrantic, fearful or calm? In a way healmost wished he could have goneback to London and hid from her atthe vital moment so she would get her

answer but he would be able to seeher reaction. He wished he could goand not go, say yes and no.

“So I’ll wait for you at the coachstation. If you’re not there then I’llknow I’m on my own now, and that’sfine. People will think badly of you.You can always tell them the truth,save face. Then I’ll be the bitch. Thewhore. What people think doesn’tinterest me at this stage. It’s yourchoice Michael. Only you can decide ifyou want to stick around and help meraise another man’s child.”

The bus would empty at last andshe would still wait, peering throughthe crowds. She expected him to

return. She thought she had controlover him. She would wait because shewould not be able to accept the factthat he had rejected her. She thoughthim incapable of doing such a thing.Did she think he was her puppet,jolted by her every whim, her subtlestfrowns dragging him in directions hedidn’t want to go? Her ultimatum waspathetic. Maybe he should havereturned to witness her reaction whenhe got off the bus, her barelyconcealed smirk of triumph, only tospit in her face, call her a dirty trampand tell her there was her answer. Hewasn’t going back to her. He hated her.

He hated himself.

She answered just before theanswering machine kicked in. He couldhear her taking a drag of a cigarettebefore she uttered an exasperatedhello. He couldn’t believe she wassmoking. She’d promised him thatshe’d given up.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Michael.”

“Great. Michael. Look, I can’t talknow. Margaret from work is here.”

“I just thought…”

“Where are you anyway?”

“I thought you’d be at the station.”

He heard her blowing out smoke.She could do this in any number ofways that spoke of her annoyance, herimpatience, and her ire. She had amplequantities of each and extra reserveswhere he was concerned.

“It’s chucking it down mate. I’m notgoing out in that. Anyway, did youreally expect me to be waiting for youall forlorn and heartbroken? Cop onMichael. Are you coming back or not?”

Michael felt the ferry sway beneathhis feet and had to grip the side of thephone to steady himself. Behind himin the duty free shop bottles clinkedand rattled. He’d waited all day in theferry port. After his initial decision not

to get on the ferry he found that hejust couldn’t leave the port. He justcouldn’t make his feet do their job andwalk him away. It was too final, tooabrupt. He wandered to and frorubbing his forehead and feeling theweight of the choice crushing down onhim. Two worlds had shimmeredbefore his eyes. In one of them he wasin London with Theresa and the childthat he would raise as his own. In theother he was starting again, trying tofind someone else to love him, living inDublin. He bit his fingernails andstared out at the sea. Eventually he’dgone into the ferry ticket office. Theywouldn’t take his original ticket sohe’d had to pay for another. All day he

had sat around wondering if he wasdoing the right thing. Agonising. Heloved her. That’s what had swayedhim. That’s what led him here, to thispoint. That was all that mattered. Heloved her and he would love her child.That’s why he was on the ferry now,why he was ringing her to let her knowthat he was on his way and thateverything was going to be all right.

“Michael?”

It was her voice; the indifference ofit, which caused him once again tochange his mind; the cadence ofannoyance, the inflection ofdispleasure, as if he was anaggravation that she must suffer.

‘Michael!’

Michael looked out the window ofthe boat. It was all blackness outthere. Squalls of wind-driven rain beatagainst the windows as the boatlurched to and fro. It was a mystery tohim how anybody managed tonavigate in such conditions. He gentlyreplaced the phone in its cradle andstaggered off in the direction of thebar.