Michael O’Sullivan
by telling people about them, well, you couldn’t really call his secret, well, a secret. To tell wasn’t risky; who’d believe utter nonsense like that after all? For example, would you believe someone who told you that the tooth fairy was real or that Santa Claus really did travel around the globe on Christmas Eve handing out gifts? I very much doubt you would. So you see, the only harm that came from Michael’s drunken tales merely earned him funny looks and an eccentric reputation with the locals at the Smiling Shamrock.
However, to see, to bear witness, was quite a something else. No one other than Michael O’Sullivan had ever seen them. Or so he was told - not anybody existing in these times anyway.
‘Sssh! I t’ink someone’s comin’! Quick! Under here!’ The footsteps from outside his room grew louder. ‘Now don’t be arguin’ I tell you, you’ll be seen!’ The door handle began to lower…
Michael lived on the first floor in a room that was the closest to the stairs. The interior of his exceedingly humble abode consisted of an uncomfortable bed, a wood-wormed-riddled chest of drawers, a battered bookcase, a chair that only looked fit for a bonfire and a wonky wardrobe that Michael had complained continuously about until he was blue in the face. He had been promised a new one… six months ago.
‘Michael O’Sullivan!’ A stout lady, wearing a tatty, brown cardigan, glowered at him from the doorway. ‘Over t’irteen hours you bin a sittin’ up here. We see less of your face than the taxman sees the inside of a church (Poppy’s wit always managed to wangle a smile out of Michael). And you can wipe that silly grin of your face. It’s supper time - an’ you better not be late mind you, or you won’t be gettin’ none at all.’
Just as Michael thought that was it, his as-regular-as-clockwork telling-off was over, she went on, exchanging her bossy manner for a hushed, almost whispering tone. ‘If you be comin’ down now you might have a surprise waiting for you when you return,’ she said with a wink, as if coaxing a small child with the promise of sweets if they ate up all their greens.
A surprise! What on earth could that be? Michael’s mind automatically veered towards his crooked wardrobe over in the corner of his room. Was now a good time to mention it, he wondered. His mouth, which had fallen open ready to make another plea closed on account of the knowledge that it would probably just be another waste of his breath.
‘Oh,’ she added, sparing a frown over at Michael’s canary, Cleopatra, in her cage that Michael, more often than not, forgot to lock, ‘and that poor bird could be doin’ with bein’ let out - wouldn’t do anyone any harm,’ she told him wistfully.
I wouldn’t be too sure of that, thought Michael, his mind straying to the miniscule man concealed under his covers.
He waited for her departure before carefully uncovering his uncomfortable mattress of its shabby, cream-coloured blanket.
‘Phew! That was mighty, mighty close,’ he sighed. ‘Now don’t be a movin’ - what’s that you be sayin’? Ah, well, of course you wouldn’t be but don’t be anyway.’
Michael O’Sullivan, once a respected figure in the insurance community (though back in the days when the Jackson Five were topping the charts and bell-bottom trousers were in fashion), struggled to his feet. The springs of his old bed groaned as his legs took his weight. He had been reading a book, a very thick and chunky book - reading it of course before he had had company that is - and he carried it over to the scratched and chipped dressing table where he lay it inattentively, nearly almost half dangling over the edge.
Michael had children, four in fact. He had been a father for sixty-one years, a grandfather for twenty-eight years, and a great-grandfather for eight months, though unfortunately was still waiting for the opportunity to meet the acquaintance of his great-grandson. But that was all about to change, as, out of the blue, four weeks ago, his granddaughter, Kerry, had contacted him to say that they were suddenly going to be paying him a visit. They lived in Boston, USA, and would be over as soon as they could. The soonest they could manage was this approaching Sunday. Michael had not been shocked to receive the call. Quite the reverse.
It was no great secret that his family considered Michael, to put it nicely, among the wrong side of sanity - the side of sanity that merits raised eyebrows and muted voices. This had been mostly - no, solely - due to the event that occurred fifteen years ago. ‘Don’t be a worryin’ about her,’ Michael said with a soft chuckle, in view of the fact that Snotch was eyeing Cleopatra apprehensively as he, Michael, reached to pull open the door. ‘You’re as safe as houses,’ he consoled, as he stepped across the threshold, looking back over his shoulder at Snotch who didn’t appear quite as confident as Michael sounded. Michael’s smile waned as his gaze turned to his bed that seemed to be getting worse with each passing night. Obviously a new bed would be more principal over a new wardrobe any day but Michael knew that Poppy’s budget was, unlike her build, slim, so he’d never bothered to ask. He wasn’t looking forward to tonight when the time came for him to lie on it again. ‘Oh, I wish I had a new bed,’ he muttered to himself miserably as he pulled the door closed behind him.
Like everything else Michael owned the key to his door was in a dire condition, and after several painstaking minutes he finally managed to lock the door to his room. Paranoia compelled him to glance both left and right (no one was spying on him - as usual). His right trouser pocket was where he situated the key. Tapping his pocket merrily he began to whistle a tune Snotch had taught him. It was a jolly melody and he almost danced his way down to supper. Michael hobbled in and seated himself as far away from everyone as he could possibly manage. Had there been a table outside in the street then Michael would have gladly opted for that. There was Tom Dibble struggling to make any progress with his roast beef, even with the help of his new top set. Next to him sat Seamus Milligan, the most annoying individual ever to lay claim to a Zimmer-frame. Across from them both was Mrs Collins.