can we just say that it’s for personal reasons?’
The week goes by in such a blur of meetings, deadlines and conferences, that I barely have time to give the whole thing another thought. The only time this impinges on my consciousness is whenever I call Lily for one of our little chats during the day and she’ll say, sweet as you like, ‘Mama, Mama! I’m having the best time EVER with Auntwie Helen and I never want another nanny ever again! I want her to live with us forwever!’
‘That’s wonderful, pet, but you know Auntie Helen will have to go back to Cork soon, and Mama’s going to have to find another minder for you …’
‘NO! NO other nanny! I only want Auntwie Helen FORWEVER!’
I sigh deeply and mark this under the mental file, ‘to be dealt with later’.
‘AND you know what else, Mama?’
‘No bunny, tell me.’
‘I know what I’m going to wear when I get to meet my daddy! And I leawned a new tune on the piano to play for him! AND I drawed a picture of me and him too!’
‘Well you know sweetheart,’ I tell her gently as I can, ‘we’re all doing out very best to find him, but maybe he doesn’t live here any more. Maybe he’s moved to another country,’ I tell her, desperately trying to shield her from disappointment. But of course, she’s not even three yet. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word disappointment.
‘You’ll find him Mummy,’ she tells me proudly. ‘You can do anything! You’re like Superwoman ‘cept only better!’
Thursday afternoon and still no word back from Jim, not a progress report, nothing. I text him and get a curt message back saying, ‘BACK OFF AND GIMME A CHANCE, WILL YOU?’
Fair enough. Tail between my legs, I meekly do as I’m told.
The weekend comes and goes, and still nothing. Then, just as I’ve abandoned all hope and am wondering how in hell I’ll break it to Lily, Jim calls me out of the blue the following Monday afternoon.
‘Where are you?’ he asks gruffly, but then that’s Jim for you. Never any kind of a preamble or a hello-how-are-you, none of the above.
‘In the office.’ Where else would I be?
‘Can you get out of there for half an hour? I need to talk to you, face to face.’
I glance at my watch. Could I somehow find a window to get out of here? I tap on the computer screen to bring up today’s schedule, but I’m totally chocka. I’m about to ask him if I can call him back later and see if I can squeeze something in then, but he’s having none of it.
‘I’ll be in the underground car park off Abbey Street in ten minutes. Just be there.’
Oh Christ, if anyone sees me?
Somehow though, I manage to slip out of the office undetected, asking poor, puzzled Rachel to tell anyone who’s looking for me that I’ll be right back. Her stunned expression at something this unheard of says it all. Like I’ve just told her that I’ve handed in my notice and am now off to start selling copies of The Big Issue on the corner of Tara St.
Sweating and palpitating, heart pounding so that the sound of the blood pumping through my ears almost deafens me, I get into my car and weave my way through the heavy early evening rush hour traffic all the way to the Abbey St. car park.
He must have news for me, he must have …
My mobile is beeping the whole way there, but I ignore it and keep driving, just focusing on the road ahead.
Mouth dry, chest walloping, I eventually get to the car park and mercifully, there’s no queue to get in. I slide the car down the ramp inside, take a ticket and then slowly drive round in circles. Next thing, the passenger door of my car is opened, nearly giving me a quadruple heart attack as Jim jumps in, looking even more wizened and gnarled than I remember him, a trail of cigarette smoke wafting after him.
‘Park over there, in the right, then turn off the engine,’ he barks at me and I obediently do as I’m told. But then, there aren’t too many people who contradict Jim on a regular basis.
Next thing, he’s fumbling round his jacket pocket then producing a battered notebook which he flips open and starts referring down to.
‘Just out of curiosity Eloise,’ is his opener, ‘where in the name of arse did you come across this waster anyway? I mean, look at you. And look at your life. What I can’t figure is, what’s the guy to you? What can a tosser like him possibly have to do with you?’
I look pleadingly across at him.
‘OK if I say “don’t ask”, and let’s just leave it at that?’
He shakes his head, sending dandruff flakes flying everywhere, and gets back to his notes.
‘Well for starters, the fecker keeps changing his name. I traced him from Darndale where he was calling himself Bill or Billy O’Casey, to D.C.U. …’
‘D.C.U.?’ I interrupt. Dublin City University. What is it about this guy and universities?
Suddenly I start to feel an irrational hope. I knew it. I knew we were dealing with a rough diamond here, someone with a thirst for knowledge, wanting nothing more than to pull himself up in the world …
‘– where he changed his name again. This time to James Archer.’
‘Changed his name again?’
‘Yeah, signed up for a creative writing course but then dropped out after only three weeks …’
‘But why would he do that?’
‘For Christ’s sake, let me finish, will you? So that’s about two years ago and then he resurfaces again, but this time he’s calling himself Brown. Robert Brown. Got a job working in a Statoil garage on the Long Mile Road and was sharing a flat with two other guys, let’s just say who are known to Gardai.’
Okay. ‘Known to Gardai’ is not a phrase that you want to hear when trying to trace the father of your child.
‘… And from this point on the search starts to get interesting. So I fished around a bit, asked a few questions, talked to a couple of contacts that I have and it turns out this guy has fallen in with a right shower of messers.’
‘How … Just how bad?’ My voice sounds tiny, like it’s coming from another room.
‘All of them have criminal records the length of your arm, been in and out of remand homes since they were in nappies. Nothing major, not long stretches, but this gang your man is in with, they’ve done time for breaking and entering, shoplifting, car theft, you name it. So I make a few more inquiries …’
‘… And?’ I’m nearly hopping off the edge of my seat now, half-dreading what’s coming next.
‘… And surprise surprise, he’s only gone and changed his name again, which doesn’t make my job any easier. Calls himself Oscar Butler now …’
‘Oscar
