The One I Was by Eliza Graham Page A

she was going to say no again. Then she looked down at the long grass at her feet.
    Andrew said nothing. Surely he could see how much Mum needed help.
    ‘Let him,’ I said again.
    ‘Perhaps there are a few jobs you could look at.’ She stood up. ‘Mr …?’
    ‘Cathal.’ He rested the bicycle against the steps and came towards her, hand out. ‘Cathal Pearse.’
    ‘Cattle?’ Andrew said.
    The man’s dark-blue eyes twinkled. ‘You don’t pronounce the “t”. My mother was a romantic. She named me after some Celtic chieftain, can you believe?’ He sounded amused.
    Mum and Cathal Pearse walked along the drive, Mum pointing out weeds, Cathal nodding his head every now and again. Andrew and I stayed on the lawn. It had only been fifteen minutes since we’d picked the daisies for the chain, but already the little white petals were curling up.

15
    That evening Cathal Pearse brought in a colander of raspberries, stooping as he passed under the kitchen lintel. He placed the raspberries on the table. ‘You’ll be wanting these for your supper.’ He smiled at me with those eyes that were the colour of a new pair of jeans. ‘Thank you,’ he added. ‘For putting in a good word for me.’
    I felt my cheeks turn warm.
    ‘Who is this?’
    Smithy’s sharp tones made us all turn round. She was wearing her best beige summer suit, the one she always wore to cycle over to her niece’s, whatever the weather.
    ‘This is Cathal,’ I said. ‘He will be helping out with the garden and odd jobs.’ For a second I fancied there was a bit of Granny in my tone.
    ‘I see.’ Smithy’s pale eyes scrutinized Cathal’s open sandals and his faded trousers. He didn’t look like the old gardener had. His fingers were clean and soft.
    ‘Call me Cathal,’ he said, smiling.
    Smithy regarded him expressionlessly.
    ‘Must get on,’ he said.
    He brought in more colanders of strawberries, red currants and raspberries, filling the kitchen with the scent of berries. ‘Best to work in the cool of the day,’ he said at about six. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ Mum looked up from the kitchen table, where she was hulling strawberries, ready to make jam.
    ‘Would you like a cold beer before you go?’ Mum looked at Smithy. ‘There are still some down in the cellar, aren’t there?’
    ‘Just a glass of squash would do me.’ I made him a glass and his long, strong neck pulsed with each swallow. The drink was quickly gone.
    ‘What time should we expect you in the morning?’ Smithy asked.
    ‘About eleven,’ he said.
    She sniffed. I watched him cycle off, twiddling the almost-wilted daisies on the necklace around my neck.
    Next morning Smithy and I stood at the window and watched Mum telling Cathal what she wanted him to do in the garden. ‘Quarter past eleven, by the time he arrived,’ Smithy said. ‘And I need the rest of that soft fruit brought in.’
    ‘He said
about
eleven,’ I reminded her.
    Smithy grunted. Cathal was tugging out bindweed from a honeysuckle bush, each movement firm and precise, and graceful too. Mum walked away towards the lake. He stopped his work to watch her. When he returned to the bindweed his movements were slower. Perhaps he was feeling the heat.
    I slipped out of the kitchen and upstairs to inspect the bottle of tablets on the dressing table. I counted them. Three fewer than yesterday. Mum was keeping her promise to Granny.
    I went to find Andrew. He lay on his bedroom floor, a Meccano set spilled out in front of him in a grey-and-red metal heap. ‘Don’t step on anything.’ Without looking at me he reached for a screw.
    ‘I didn’t know you had all this.’ Surely there were enough metal pieces to build a full-size crane.
    ‘Smithy brought it up from the basement. She says it’s forty years old at least.’
    ‘It must have belonged to the refugee boys.’
    ‘Lucky things.’ He tightened the screw and examined the joint he’d constructed.
    ‘Not lucky to leave their homes and parents,