these other plans might be. He told them nothing about himself or his background. He was a man of few words. But Daniel’s background was about to catch up with him. It was 1981, then. Daniel was twenty-nine, and a man of mystery to all who knew him.
He never told his colleagues, for example, that his beautiful mother, Teresa, had abandoned him in 1956. Daniel was four at the time, an only child, his father long gone to America. Teresa was two weeks married, and six months pregnant, when her new husband took the boat to the New World. Teresa cried for three months, and then Daniel was born. Afterwards, she put away the wedding pictures and got on with things. There was plenty of work in the city in those days. All the young people were emigrating to warmer, gentler places. She got a job serving drinks in a city-centre tavern and moved to a small house on Magnolia Street, where the rents were lower than average. Half of the street had been destroyed in the war, and it was still waiting to be rebuilt. Soon she had another lover. And then another. Most of her companions were charming, and they were all good-looking, but none of them wanted to settle down with a married woman and her little boy. One by one, they made their excuses not to see her any more.
Daniel saw his mother for the last time on a sunny day in June, 1956. He was out playing soldiers with his friends in the sun-baked rubble of the ruined houses. Daniel always had to be Hitler because he was the smallest boy on the street. The bigger lads chased him up and down the road, throwing chestnut hand grenades at his bony back.
Teresa called him inside and gave him a big slice of cake with jam and cream.
“Be a good boy,” she told him. “Keep yourself clean and tidy, and work hard, and I’ll be back for you in a little while.”
Then she took him over to the house of the lady who looked after him when she was at work, and kissed him goodbye. But she did not go to work. Teresa left a note at home on the table, saying that she had to go away for a little while. She took nothing with her when she left, except her red lipstick and a pair of new shoes.
A neighbour called in at lunch-time to borrow some tea leaves, and discovered the note on the kitchen table. Within minutes, a small crowd had gathered outside the front door, where they stood whispering and waiting for information. The children were told to be quiet and stop playing their war games. The authorities were alerted. Mrs Stanley was known to have several gentlemen friends but none of them came forward in response to appeals for information.
A priest was called to the house – the PP himself, Father Ignatius Mulcahy. He said he would pray that Teresa would regret her decision and return to her young son. He would put a notice in the parish magazine, he said. He patted Daniel on the head, and sighed, and gave him a shilling. There was nothing else he could do. These lone mothers, he thought, sadly. They all went a bit funny in the end, without a firm husband to guide them. He must preach more sermons on the importance of marriage.
A young policeman with eager, green eyes searched the house from top to bottom for clues, and found a final demand for rent on the mantelpiece, and eleven other unpaid bills in a cake-tin on the dresser. It was assumed that Teresa Stanley was overwhelmed by debt, and the balance of her mind disturbed. A crime was not suspected. The little house was re-let to a couple from Portadown, who were not superstitious about moving into a house of sadness. The street was subdued for several months, but eventually Teresa Stanley was forgotten.
But Daniel did not forget. He kept the silver shilling given to him by Father Mulcahy, and he knew that his beautiful mother would be back when she was finished with her adventure. She was not like other mothers. She wore red lipstick, she was beautiful, she sang songs from the movies out loud in the house, and she did not bother with baking bread
He never told his colleagues, for example, that his beautiful mother, Teresa, had abandoned him in 1956. Daniel was four at the time, an only child, his father long gone to America. Teresa was two weeks married, and six months pregnant, when her new husband took the boat to the New World. Teresa cried for three months, and then Daniel was born. Afterwards, she put away the wedding pictures and got on with things. There was plenty of work in the city in those days. All the young people were emigrating to warmer, gentler places. She got a job serving drinks in a city-centre tavern and moved to a small house on Magnolia Street, where the rents were lower than average. Half of the street had been destroyed in the war, and it was still waiting to be rebuilt. Soon she had another lover. And then another. Most of her companions were charming, and they were all good-looking, but none of them wanted to settle down with a married woman and her little boy. One by one, they made their excuses not to see her any more.
Daniel saw his mother for the last time on a sunny day in June, 1956. He was out playing soldiers with his friends in the sun-baked rubble of the ruined houses. Daniel always had to be Hitler because he was the smallest boy on the street. The bigger lads chased him up and down the road, throwing chestnut hand grenades at his bony back.
Teresa called him inside and gave him a big slice of cake with jam and cream.
“Be a good boy,” she told him. “Keep yourself clean and tidy, and work hard, and I’ll be back for you in a little while.”
Then she took him over to the house of the lady who looked after him when she was at work, and kissed him goodbye. But she did not go to work. Teresa left a note at home on the table, saying that she had to go away for a little while. She took nothing with her when she left, except her red lipstick and a pair of new shoes.
A neighbour called in at lunch-time to borrow some tea leaves, and discovered the note on the kitchen table. Within minutes, a small crowd had gathered outside the front door, where they stood whispering and waiting for information. The children were told to be quiet and stop playing their war games. The authorities were alerted. Mrs Stanley was known to have several gentlemen friends but none of them came forward in response to appeals for information.
A priest was called to the house – the PP himself, Father Ignatius Mulcahy. He said he would pray that Teresa would regret her decision and return to her young son. He would put a notice in the parish magazine, he said. He patted Daniel on the head, and sighed, and gave him a shilling. There was nothing else he could do. These lone mothers, he thought, sadly. They all went a bit funny in the end, without a firm husband to guide them. He must preach more sermons on the importance of marriage.
A young policeman with eager, green eyes searched the house from top to bottom for clues, and found a final demand for rent on the mantelpiece, and eleven other unpaid bills in a cake-tin on the dresser. It was assumed that Teresa Stanley was overwhelmed by debt, and the balance of her mind disturbed. A crime was not suspected. The little house was re-let to a couple from Portadown, who were not superstitious about moving into a house of sadness. The street was subdued for several months, but eventually Teresa Stanley was forgotten.
But Daniel did not forget. He kept the silver shilling given to him by Father Mulcahy, and he knew that his beautiful mother would be back when she was finished with her adventure. She was not like other mothers. She wore red lipstick, she was beautiful, she sang songs from the movies out loud in the house, and she did not bother with baking bread
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