Work Text:
Anne Flanagan awoke to the dawn chorus with a smile. She allowed herself the grace of enjoying it for the minute before her alarm rang. The alarm hushed, she opened the curtains, bathing the room in a golden sunrise. She looked to the other side of the bed. Empty. Unmade, of course. Cold. Honestly, the hours that job demands, you’d think he was a senior diagnostic consultant for ventilation systems! At least then there might be money to replace the double glazing. A gift bag atop her dressing table caught her eye, addressed to My Annie . She inspected the contents - tissue paper concealing gardening gloves, more periwinkle than the requested cornflower, and a small box. She opened it to find… yes, earrings again. At least Oisín came by his obliviousness honestly. There was a time when the obvious could, should, have been pointed out. But that was decades ago, missed in love’s first flush. She nestled the earrings safely into her jewellery box, amongst 31 other unworn pairs. Would a new necklace just one year be too much to ask?
—
“Morning, Oisín.” Anne piled pancakes onto two plates. “What time do you call this? 7:15 and you’re only now up? And that tie’s a disgrace.” She added yoghurt and blueberries. “You’ll get a sanction, and if not I’ve a mind to give you one myself!”
“Happy birthday, Mum!” Oisín placed an envelope and a small parcel, wrapped in floral paper, on the kitchen table. “No time for breakfast, I’ve taken a fiver from your purse, I’ll grab something on the way, meeting Barry to go over Maths, bye!”
“I’ve made banana oat pancakes, pet, as a special treat,” Anne called after his retreating back, adding “and straighten that tie” as the door slammed. God, grant me the serenity… She scraped Oisín’s unwanted pancakes onto her plate. A birthday indulgence. And it’s a sin to waste food.
—
Encumbered by a bouquet from the Whist girls, a generous box of chocolates from her life drawing tutor, and a bag groaning with homework to mark, Anne shouldered the front door open. The presents had been delivered next door, and exchanging pleasantries with Ann O’Connor whilst that cursed cat clawed ladders into her tights had done nothing to relieve a long day. She gathered the colourful envelopes scattered across the doormat, setting them aside to open once her work was done. For now a pot of tea and a Hobnob would bring some cheer. She settled into her favourite armchair, tuned into Lorcan Murray - Mozart, lovely - and started marking.
—
Anne heard a key in the lock. “Is that you, pet?” she called out, looking up from the page she was covering in neat red crosses.
Oisín appeared in the doorway, dropping his kit bag on the floor. “Needs washing,” he mumbled, “match tomorrow.” He turned and left.
“Will you wait a minute?” Anne followed him into the kitchen. “I thought we might spend some time together, a birthday treat, play some Rummikub.”
“I’ve got homework, Mum. 1500 words on Pride and Prejudice, due tomorrow.”
“They’ve given you one night—”
“They’ve given us a month.” He poured a glass of juice. “But I've not started.”
“Jesus wept!” Anne pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll call you for dinner. And put those Taytos back!”
“Nnngh, fine!” He thrust the packet of crisps at her, pulled a face and made for the stairs. Within a minute, booming bass was filtering through his bedroom door.
“That hardly sounds like music that’ll put you in the mindset for Austen, Oisín!”
—
“Oisín! Oisín! Dinner!”
Oisín thundered down the stairs, jumping the last three and landing with a thud.
“The tiles, Oisín!” Anne admonished, as she had the previous day and would, no doubt, the next. “If you’re after knocking one loose it’s your pocket money’ll pay for it again!”
He appeared at the kitchen door. “Sorry, Mum. What’s for dinner, I’m famished!”
“We’ve some lovely battered hake.” She cut off Oisín’s indignant spluttering. “You’ll eat it.”
“You can have mine. Birthday treat. I’ll have the potatoes or whatever.”
“Three portions!?” Anne gasped. “Oisín, I’ve my figure to think of.”
“Three?”
“Your father’s called, he won’t be home, and it’s a sin to waste food, Oisín.” She placed two fillets onto his plate. “No, they have to be eaten and you’ll be grateful you’re in a warm house with food on your plate.”
“Barry could come over? And have Dad’s?”
“It’s my birthday, Oisín. Your brother’s not so much as called, your father’s in Tralee, all I ask is a nice meal with my baby boy - and this your last year before college.”
Oisín sighed. “Never call me your baby again and I’ll eat it.”
Anne heaped rice alongside the fish. “Besides, Barry won’t eat fish,” she mused, “or mushrooms.”
“Mushrooms? Oh, Mum, no!”
“A lovely mushroom risotto.” She handed the plates to Oisín. “Will you take those to the table, good lad. It’s a Jamie, he’s trendy.”
“But I hate mushrooms! Mummm!”
“Well there are five types in there, you’ll like one.”
“If you used the poisonous type.”
“Oisín Robert Flanagan, I have been slaving over a hot stove for two hours - two hours on my birthday, mark you.” Anne punctuated her words with the rice-flecked wooden spoon in her hand. “And you will eat it and I will not hear another word of complaint.”
“Nnngh! Fine. At least the residual booze in the risotto might blunt the edge.”
“Oh I wouldn’t be using wine now, with you being underage. Getting carted away by the Gardaí? On my birthday?” Anne clutched at her heart. “The shame of it! No, I’ve used apple juice.”
—
Anne surveyed her kitchen. The surfaces gleamed, the pan was soaking on the stove - chipping off the layer of burnt rice could wait, a rare concession - and the dishwasher rumbled softly. With a frown, she picked a stray grain of rice from the worktop and ran a cloth over it once more. She thought of the remaining homework awaiting marking, of the uniforms needing ironing. She poured herself a small glass of whiskey - then, on reflection, a rather larger one. With a small sigh, she dropped into a chair at the table, glancing at the clock. 9 and not home yet? Another toast to yourself then. Happy birthday, Anne Flanagan.
She turned her attention, at last, to the parcel Oisín had left there, taking in the wonky seams, the lumpy folds and a conspicuous patch job where the paper had clearly not quite met. Will he ever listen? Measure twice, cut once. She picked up an old, bone-handled letter opener - her dearly missed granny’s, kept now for birthdays, condolences and, Lord willing, perhaps one day a wedding or two - and carefully ran it under each length of tape. Such profligacy! Does he think it grows on trees? And they say the young’uns are going to save the planet, 'they' having clearly never actually met a teenager. An inch on the short sides and two on the long would suffice! Best buy a replacement roll, it wouldn’t do to go to the drawer the morning of the O’Connor twins’ confirmations next month and find an empty roll, now, would it - no doubt he’ll not have thought to leave it on the side to show it’s empty either. Carefully, Anne removed the wrapping paper, noting with more than a little pride that Oisín had used a short length of tape to secure it to the contents. So he can listen! She averted her eyes until the paper was folded neatly and put to one side for reuse later.
It was a picture frame, a handwritten price label still on the back - ever his father’s son. €3.59, no expense spared! She turned the frame over. It was clearly from a charity shop - hopefully a suitable one - wooden, carved, finished in gold paint. Ornate but not too fussy. By some miracle the boy had actually got it right! It held a pencil sketch. Or was it a photo with one of those TikTok filters? Anne peered closely. No, there was texture there, graphite on paper. An occasional smudge, a shadow of a mistake not quite erased - honestly, did he really not know which side his own mother’s beauty mark was on? And there was the odd detail, here and there, that was not quite right. A crease in the blouse, a wrinkle at the corner of the eye, a curl just slightly out of place. It couldn’t possibly be a photo.
He must have drawn it.
When had he become so talented?
Anne picked up the envelope, slitting it neatly open, and withdrew a birthday card - a cartoon thermometer beside cheery text. ‘70? Relax, it’s only 21 in celsius!’ Why make that joke? Did he even understand Fahrenheit? Perhaps he’d explained the significance within. Anne opened the card.
Then realisation dawned.
70? 70!? He thinks…
“Oisín Robert Flanagan you get downstairs this instant!”
