The lads gathered round the thing and poked it with a stick.
“It’s a seagull.”
“It was a seagull. Now a former seagull.”
“ʼe’s deeed.”
“Why’s he not still a seagull? I mean, look, he’s got the wings and the beak and everything.”
“He’s shuffled off this mortal coil. This is a former seagull.”
“Howay lads, man! Let’s gan. I’m bloody freezin’!”
The wind off the sea was darting onshore to nip at their exposed skin as the November sun surrendered and slunk off behind the limestone cliffs. Mist advanced.
Like three swallows in formation, they ran up the beach as one. Over the seawall … hand… toe ... toe ... perfect landing. Onto the grass. Kicking something. A can. All the way. Up to the road. Wait … wait ... wait. Over. Past the dog. The pub. Jonesy’s house. Home. Cheeks warm. Something baking. The muffled news. “And in Belfast today, another …”
“Get those dirty shoes off now. I just cleaned this floor.” Shoes formed a pyramid in the corner. “Neatly please, Michael, on the rack.”
Micky scanned the kitchen and confirmed his original impression. Just him and his mam and Danny and Joey. Dad watching the news in the other room. Bill still working at the ʼyard, getting as much overtime as he could. Maureen doing homework or hair or something upstairs.
“Can Joey stay, Mam?” Micky asked.
“Of course he can stay, but is he wanting us to feed him? ʼCos we’re having our tea in five minutes.” His mam laughed, always cheerful, then addressing Joey: “Of course, darlin’. You like fish pie, don’t you?”
Micky did his “Yeah! Goal!” punch-the-air thing for the other two lads.
Danny, he didn't have to ask about. When Danny showed up, it was tea, homework, a little bit of telly—no rubbish!—and, more often than not, staying over in the spare bunk bed in Micky and Bill’s room, sometimes for days. Danny’s parents were a bit different. Lecturers, both of them, at the Technical College. He taught engineering. She taught English and writing—and history, much to the irritation of Micky’s dad. “How can a woman like that one understand history?” he’d mutter when Danny wasn't over. Protestants of course, but Baptists or Quakers or something. No one quite knew. Decent enough folks, but always away at some conference or meeting. Leaving Danny to fend for himself—or have Micky’s family fend for him, which they were happy to do. The door to the hall swung in followed by a slug of cold air, followed by hairspray, white plimsolls, dark denim, fake leather, cut T-shirt, wavy long red hair, pale-green eyes, tiny gold crucifix, and the merest suggestion of midriff when standing absolutely straight. Maureen.
“Oh, my God. The three stooges. Gosh. I said gosh, Mam.”
“Aaareet, our Mo!” Joey puffed up his chest and grinned at Maureen after infinitesimally swift sidelong glances at Micky and Danny.
“It’s Maureen to you, Joseph.” But she did smile, albeit indulgently, at the awkward boy gawking at her, with grass stains and sand on his pants, a missing tooth, and a holey sock. “Jimmy’s back soon, right?”
“Friday, I think. Or tomorrow. If the IRA doesn't shoot him again. Ha—right!”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, God forbid. Micky’s mam crossed herself.
“Come round ours tomorrow night, Mo-reen. He might be home. But if not, we could …” Joey’s voice trailed off. “Erm … have some tea and maybe, er, listen to some of Jimmy’s records or ...” He got tangled up in his words and missing his brother and that funny feeling he had every time he saw Micky’s sister. Her eyes filmed over, glossy and warm, and he wondered if anyone else noticed. Danny did, as usual, and decided to step into the embarrassing void opening up in the kitchen.
“Ironic, I think the word is …” Danny paused for effect, “that the only Catholic soldier in the entire British army was shot by the IRA.”
“Not in the entire army, Daniel. Maybe just in his unit. Anyway to the divvil with all of them. They’re all heathens, shooting and bombing each other.” Micky’s mam breathing heavily, taking the fish pie from the oven. “Micky, tell your dad tea’s ready, and everyone wash their hands.” The trio rushed the kitchen sink, competing for the soap.
“And you, Mo’. ”
“I washed mine upstairs, Mam.” Maureen, indignant.
The three lads had already pushed past Mo into the dining room, home to the heavy wooden table covered in white cloth, and more icons on the wall than in a small chapel. Micky took his new usual place (when Bill wasn’t there), head of the table, opposite Dad. Danny and Joey either side, Maureen the side Joey wasn't on, Mam next to Dad.
“Dad, tea!” Micky yelled over his left shoulder, toward the living room.
Pulling a trail of Dunhill smoke and Bay Rum, Micky’s dad filled the doorframe. "Kennedy" they’d taken to calling him at work. He was the spitting image of the president and Dad assumed the role with gratitude. You could pick up a lot worse names at the ʼyard as a new manager. Only day he took off work was after the assassination. Said it was the flu, but everyone understood. Now, more than a decade later, he still looked the part with just a touch of gray.
“Ah yes, a quiet tea in polite conversation with loved ones. I suppose that will have to wait ʼtil tomorrow. How are we, gentlemen? I use the term, of course, very loosely.” He chuckled at his own joke and at the trio and assumed his seat at the head of the table.
“Very well, Mr. Boyle,” chimed Danny. He’d always liked Micky’s Dad. “And yourself, sir?”
“Not too bad, Daniel. And, Joseph, my man. How are you? Jimmy home yet?”
“Aaareet, Mr. Boyle, aye. Our Jimmy’s back Friday—or tomorrow.” He stole a glance at Maureen who was studying the map of Ireland on her placemat.
“Well, our Mo’s been counting the days since the letter came. I’m quite sure we won’t see her much at all after Friday,” said Mr. Boyle.
Maureen bit her lip, quiet. She and Jimmy had been boyfriend and girlfriend since he’d left school and she’d stayed on to do her A-levels. He said he would marry her when he came back, and she said, “He’d bloody better.” She’d read the letters his parents had gotten from the regiment, and she knew that not all of him would be coming back. The kneecap was gone for good, although that was being replaced, and they said he’d be walking already, then running, even play for the black and white if he wanted! Which he wouldn’t. He was born and bred red and white. Something else though, something his mam and dad weren’t saying, was missing. She’d read between the lines and inside the unopened envelopes and spent Saturday mornings in the library with books on shell shock and, what they called it now—combat fatigue. He hadn’t been hit by a shell, and fatigue wasn't in his nature, or hadn’t been. He’d been kneecapped by a man in a black balaclava and then forced to watch as two civilians, one not much older than Jimmy, a kid really, were “kneecapped in the head,” as his captors joked. They dumped him on the street. “For you, Jimmy, the war is over.” The man cracked himself up. “Your job now is to tell your English countrymen what happens to informants in Belfast.” Jimmy said nothing. He was picked up by an armored patrol eight hours later. He’d said nothing since.
Micky’s mam pushed the door open. “Fish pie,” she stated without ceremony. “I hope it’s okay. Didn’t really have much fish and the potatoes were getting a bit old. Anyway, I used some of last night’s—”
Dad had heard enough. “Jac-que-line.” Three distinct syllables. Ever since the Kennedy name had stuck to Dad, the fact that his wife’s real name was Jackie was a source of endless fascination and amusement for the folks in town. He didn’t like that. Maybe his natural aversion to being a center of attention. Maybe even the thought that his wife was being equated to an international sex symbol. From then on, to him she became Jacqueline, “her real proper name,” as he said.
Mam didn’t mind either way. “I wish I had her money!” was all she’d say. That one time in Torquay, she tried on those huge sunglasses at the news agent. “Looks the part,” he’d said, and he’d bought them along with his newspaper. The only frivolous purchase either of them had made. She hadn't worn them since. Never sunny enough up North, really, was it?
“This fish pie is fit for a king—and a queen.” Dad looked at Mam. “And a princess.” He nodded approvingly at Maureen, still lost in the placemat map. “And …” His arm swept across the table, right eyebrow raised, a slightly puzzled look on his face. “A bunch of court jesters.” The lads burst into half mock-outrage, half laughter, and started punching each other’s arms for reasons only lads of a certain age know. Maureen, startled, shifted an inch away from Danny and shook her head at Dad.
“Settle down, gentlemen. Michael, you know what to do.”
“Bless—”
“Wait. Wait ʼtil your mam sits down.”
“Sorry, Dad, sorry.” At the top of his voice, "Bless us, O Lord …”
Mam took in the scene and silently thanked the Holy Family for her admittedly sometimes unholy one, as she had a thousand times before. When Maureen had arrived after forty-eight hours of labor, more or less in one piece, she’d thought it a bit silly to be thanking God two or three times a day for a piece of fish or corned beef. Shouldn’t she be thanking him for her family, especially when they’re right here around the table? She’d asked Father McCardle about it, and after thinking carefully, it seemed, he said that a silent prayer would be fine, so as not to disturb the others. She squeezed in an extra prayer for Joey’s brother. May Our Lady of Perpetual Help bring him comfort.
“And these thy gifts.”
Time hung fragile in the dining room, like smoke. Things ached for change. Mam looked at Micky and his friends—nervous cubs circling manhood. Looking for a lead. Let them look to their dads. Even Joey’s, the shop steward. Once he called Dad a management cunt in a meeting at the ’yard, then came round that night to apologize. Nothing personal, like. Just his job. All the world’s a stage, innit? Shakespeare from the shop steward! A few whiskeys dissolved etched lines and revealed a picture shared—good jobs and plenty of ʼem for a long time. Aye, they could drink to that.
“Which we are about to receive.”
And Bill. The Hard Man. Worker. Thinker. Socialist. Six foot tall and half that wide. Entered a room and the air would knot up like a navvy’s forearm. Something would be going down—debate, argument, fight, party. They’d wait, try to gauge his expression. Go with his flow. The only socialist Mam knew who loved money. Forget the means of production—that’s for fools, he’d say, his voice hoarse from too many union meetings. Control the money—the path to self-realization. That phrase rubbed her a bit. It was Anne’s influence to be sure, his girlfriend and Danny’s sister. Alabaster skin, blonde, pale-blue marbled yet translucent eyes with a pit of ambition behind. Faerie queen or witch, depending on the hour. Too attractive and too intelligent. Dad left for Bill unspoken. But she gets it, he’d grudgingly allow. She’d be going down to Oxford next year.
“From thy bounty.”
Mam’s and Maureen’s gazes crossed, searchlights scanning the room. Maureen locked onto the Blessed Virgin behind Mam. Mam onto the Sacred Heart behind her daughter. This was as close as they came these days, but it was better than it had been. She’d soon have her girl back, maybe after Jimmy was home. Messengers climbed the beams—hearts in one direction, question marks the other. Up, down. It was going to be all right.
“Through Christ our Lord. Amen!” Micky and the lads punched the last two syllables into the air.
Knives and forks readied as Mam portioned out the pie. Dad first; then Joey, the guest; Danny the half guest, half family; then Maureen, Micky, and a quick check to see everyone’s OK, then her own.
Five silent seconds passed.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Michael?”
“If a seagull is lying dead on the beach, is it still a seagull?”
“Well now, that’s a very interesting question, isn’t it?” Dad responded. Danny perked up. This was an intellectual discussion he could follow, unlike in his house where things became very complicated very quickly. “But you put the answer right there in the question. You told me a seagull is lying on the beach and then asked me if it’s a seagull. So, there you have it.” Dad, pleased with himself, turned back to the pie.
Danny and Micky, disappointed with this answer, weren't having it. Joey was already thinking how best to ask for more pie.
“Dad, though,” Micky protested. He didn't want to win the argument this easily. “Danny says it’s a former seagull, not a seagull.
Dad should have known he wasn't getting off so easily.
“Fair enough, but look, you’ve still got the answer in the question. An adjective—former—describes a noun—seagull—right, so …” Dad could have been a teacher, but he really didn't like kids. His own were OK, and one or two of their friends, but that’s as far as his patience went.
“Mr. Boyle,” Danny enthused, "if I may …” He’d seen some barrister say that on the telly and had been practicing all week. “The object we saw on the beach certainly looked like a seagull but had none of the capabilities one expects a seagull to have. It couldn’t fly. It couldn’t even walk and, even if you put a fish right there on the sand, it couldn’t see it, let alone pick it up! How could that thing then have any claim to being a seagull?”
Danny was a clever bugger—not as clever as his sister, but clever enough to get into trouble in and out of school, Dad thought. But he didn’t mind him.
“Daniel raises an excellent question," Dad continued. "Is a thing defined by what it can do? If a seagull can’t fly or walk or see a fish or pick it up, can he still be called a seagull?”
“Well, if he’s dead, he can’t call himself anything, can he?” Mam offered carefully. She didn’t want to derail Dad, but really, some of these conversations when Danny came over made her head spin and the tea get cold. She could see Joey squirming and looking around.
“Would you like some more pie, darlin’?” she asked.
“Aye, please, Mrs. Boyle. And I was gunna say that our Jimmy can’t walk. Me Mam telt us he’s comin’ home in a wheelchair and that I shouldn’t take the er … (he almost said piss) mickey.”
Maureen’s searchlight eyes panned the table, then fixed on Joey.
“He will walk. He will, though. He will.” She scratched out the words. Insistent. Eyes fell. “Everything. Better. We’ll make sure,” she whispered into the plate.
Joey felt the lump in his throat. Mo had never talked to him like that. Either ignored him or smiled, but not that.
One silent second. Danny was staying out of this one. They all looked to Dad.
“Aye,” he said softly on the in-breath. Not his moment. Mam’s.
“What our Mo means to say, darlin’, is that things will be a little different and then they’ll be better. Maureen (she almost said loves) cares for your brother a lot, and she’s going to help him get back to normal. So everything’s going to be good. Isn’t that right, our Mo?”
“Yes,” Maureen agreed.
The lump in Joey’s throat subsided. Proper smile. Nice. Like she’d always been. Like the Virgin Mary and that girl from Top of the Pops. Was he the only one what saw it? That resemblance to the two perfect symbols of womanhood (in 70s Northeast Catholic boy England, anyway).
Dad’s moment arrived. “So, this seagull, then—if indeed it is a seagull," he said, nodding toward Danny, “is still, at present, as far as we know ...” He glanced beachward. “Not displaying many of those characteristics that we usually ascribe,” he smiled to himself at the word, “to seagulls on these Northeastern shores. I say many, gentlemen.” He surveyed the three lads under gray-flecked, crag brows. “But not all. For example, our friend,” (he’d heard that phrase on the telly from some barrister, maybe the same one Danny saw) “on the beach still has wings, a beak, feathers, and other identifiers …” He smiled again at yet another interesting word (he could have been a writer, Jacqueline always said) “that say to the passerby—seagull. So how should we balance these factors in making our determination, hmm?” He paused. The three needed more, so he went on. “And is this determination ours to make?" Pause. More was needed. “Or is this really between our friend the seagull and His Maker?”
Mam had seen this coming. Back to religion again and some inevitable blasphemous uttering. She was having none of it.
“Yus are all liking the fish pie, aren’t you? And we’re all happy calling it a fish pie, and I hope you’ve noticed that the fish in there, he’s not swimming around with his mouth gaping open or, well, doing any of those other fishy things now, is he?”
Danny tried not to stop chewing, stared at Mam briefly, then, hoping no one had noticed, focused intently on the pie in front of him. Another intellectual woman in town and on this very street! Could it be possible? He’d long ago concluded that his sister and, of course, Ayn Rand were the only two female thinkers. His mother? More of a thinking assistant to his father. And that was fine. Women got things done—everywhere, all the time—while men talked and theorized and built fine structures of logic and hypothesis. Yet here now was Mrs. Boyle, after making tea, no less, casually dropping a huge slobbering idea concerning entropy, the encoding of information, and the whole second law of thermodynamics slap into the middle of the table, splashing bits of fish (yes, still fish!), mashed potatoes, and whatnot over the family and guests. He looked around the table at everyone but Mam. The traditional mam. The platonic ideal of the Northern working-class/bourgeois helpmate, as his sister—not without some admiration—would call her, had put the ball on the penalty spot in front of the yawning maw of a goal and invited him to kick.
“It's a lovely bit of fish, Mrs. Boyle,” Danny croaked. Pathetic. Toe in the grass. Ball still sitting there. Crowd too disgusted even to boo.
Joey took a crack. “Aye, and ʼe’ll not be swimming anywhere now, will ʼe ? But ʼe’s a lovely fish, aareet!”
And once again the plucky, working-class son of a shop steward puts it away with a nonchalance you don’t often see on the rain-sodden, ice-cold pitches of Northeast England. Aye, they’ll be raising a few pints of broon on Tyneside tonight!
Danny tried to regain his intellectual footing. “Indeed, as Thomas Aquinas, one of your,” he nodded to the table in general, “great saints noted, ‘The essence of a thing persists.’ But will this particular fish ever swim again? That is doubtful, to say the least.” Back in the game.
Micky perked up. “Well, we’re swimming in PE tomorrow, and I reckon with this fish inside me I’ve another shot at first or maybe second if that lanky bloke (he almost said bugger) from Jarrow isn’t there.”
“So, the fish is still a fish and, improbably, still swims," Dad said, "at least in PE tomorrow. I think that’s a happily-ever-after story now, isn’t it, gentlemen?” Dad tried to bring the discussion to a close as he saw Maureen’s mood deflating out of the corner of his eye.
“I believe, Mr. Boyle, that what we’re talking about is the encoding of information, the reversibility of physical processes and, really, the whole subject of entropy,” Danny volunteered. Half question, half statement. His reading had gotten out of control recently with the philosophy and physics books his parents left strewn around their house.
One second passed, almost two … Did Catholics not believe in entropy? Or were they, for the moment, just focused on picking that last bit of sauce off the plate with that fragrant, firm brown bread, with real butter that he never got at his house?
Dad did that thing with his lips and tongue and a sort of a smacking sound, pushing his polished-clean plate—knife and fork aligned perfectly on a radius—half an inch forward with the flats of his hands.
“Well, I saw Mam earlier, erm, encoding some apples into a pie and putting it through a, er, baking process, so I for one would like to take a look at the result of that experiment when everyone’s finished!”
Relieved, Danny added, “Yes sir, Mr. Boyle. Why, Maxwell himself would be a demon not to want some of that apple pie!” The joke, not even funny, went over everyone’s head. Danny blushed a bit, though he was happy he hadn’t caused a ruckus with his entropy comment. This happened a lot with him. Thankfully, the Boyle tea table was a forgiving environment where he could try out his silliness—unless the subject was football, a topic Mrs. Boyle had banned from the table, but occasionally still came up, whereupon Danny would nod in silent comprehension, not agreement or disagreement, at whatever anyone said, especially Bill.
Tea concluded with apple pie and quiet satisfaction. Umm-hmms in stereo bubbled around the table. Click-scrape of spoons on bowls—liiitle bit more of that custard maybe. Even Maureen had some. Her own. Not off Mam’s plate. Silent, post-prandial, communal contemplation.
Then Dad said, “We give Thee thanks for all Thy benefits …”
Micky, head bowed, shot sly looks at the lads, smirking—the unemployed prayer, they called it. That fishy talk had bored him a bit, but he knew one thing for sure.
“… through the mercy of God. Amen.”
“We’re going back to the beach," Micky said, “see that seagull or whatever it is. Maybe he’s flown off or ... you know.”
“It’s pitch black out there and it’s freezin’, and you lads have no business being on the beach this late and … Dad?” Mam appealed for a veto.
“Well.” With the briefest of pauses, Dad’s notorious soft spot for letting lads be lads was ill-concealed.
“I’ll go with them, Mam.” An adult shimmered into the spot where Maureen was sitting. “It’ll be okay.”
“Well, put a jumper on, and your big coat and … be careful.”
“Of course, Mam.” The adult Maureen, now reassuring her. Where had the teenager gone?
“Let’s go, you three.”
Back down to the beach. Cozy houses, pub, dog-not-happy, chilly out. Clouds, black like the grass, allowing the moon a peek on and off, getting damp now, ships twinkling on the sea, flat, still-cold out there. Sand, not wet, but waves boasting in, reaching, shrinking out.
“Where is he then?”
“He was here, up from the concrete, right next to the log.”
“Washed away, poor deeed bugger.”
“No, the tide’s still coming in. It hasn't been up here yet.” No one knew how Danny knew that, but they took it as true.
“Gone then.”
“But, Micky, man, where’s ʼe gone like?”
“And more importantly, gentlemen,” Danny echoing Mr. Boyle, “how did he go there?”
“Dog musta got ʼim.”
“They don’t eat seagulls. Won’t even touch a dead one.” Danny, unquestioned.
Clouds switched the moon on.
“There he is.”
“That’s the bugger (Joey actually said it). That’s ʼim—bloody (said that as well) flyin’.”
“How do you know, Joey? Are you sure?” Maureen whispered.
“Aye, ʼe ʼad that black bit on his back. That’s ʼim. Honest.”
“Couldn’t say it’s not.” Danny’s assertion was enough for Micky.
“It’s definitely him. Definitely.”
Maureen stared out after the gull. Of course she couldn't actually see all of him, but she saw Joey’s black bit on the back and the hovering over the dark swell, spotting, diving, catching, snatching fish-still-fish, turning, looping over, back to the beach. Was it the same one? Had to be.
Joey watching too. Got to be. He would know. Couldn't both be wrong. She mouthed a prayer. Hail Mary ... She never believed in saying the few magic words and that everything would be better, as Mam did. She never asked God or His mam for anything. But right now, maybe if something could happen, it should. If a fish is still a fish, even in a pie, and if a seagull can get up and fly again, then yeah, she can rebuild Jimmy—and herself. Blessed is the fruit ... No miracles. No bargains, but if, maybe, Mary could mention to her son that he should let anything happen, no matter how improbable. If the essence of a thing persists apart from existence, then she’d just get all those bits of essence and put them back where they once were, where they should be. Now and at the hour of our death.
“Boys, we got what we came for. Let’s head back.”
Hurrying against the pushy wind, they reached the house in silence.
“You boys go in. I’m popping over to talk to Joey’s mam and dad for a bit.”
Nods. A sniffle.
“We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, me and you, Joey. I hope you’re all right with that.”
Neil Burns retired after 40 boring years in business, thereupon unleashing a torrent of creativity with the short story, 728, which he then developed into a collection of eleven. His deep insights into the overlooked everyman and misunderstood everywoman will catch you unawares and keep you thinking long after you have put the book down. He grew up in the Northeast of England, the forgotten end, and now enjoys the fruits of a New Jersey suburban lifestyle with zero guilt. Zero.
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