The Day That George Became Real

Short Fiction ~ June O' Sullivan

First Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 19   

The day that George became real was a murky Thursday in November. The streets were full of flipped umbrellas and sodden leaves clinging to the ankles of soaked shoppers. Terry had been looking for George for about six months. Since the day after his mother’s funeral when Valerie called by the house. A favourite niece of his mother’s, Terry presumed she wanted to lay claim to some keepsake. Instead she made strong tea and held his hand as she unravelled the story that had been a secret knot inside of her. The details were slim but the tragedy shone through the gaps.
A fling, a boy, a void, a silence.
A long, deep, suffocating silence.
He had arranged to meet George in Bewley’s Cafe. Long past its former glory the place appealed to Terry for its nostalgia. He used to come here with his mother every Friday after school. He could feel the neck scratch of his school jumper and taste the almond sweetness of the cherry bakewell as he sat waiting. He thought it was neat, poetic almost, to meet George in a place where the ghost of their shared mother lingered so strongly in Terry's mind.
Terry was sure he would know George the moment he saw him. So he was surprised when a tall gentleman in a beige mackintosh cleared his throat loudly behind him and spoke one word "Terry".
It was a declaration, not a question.
Time stood still for Terry as his mind raced to catch up with the situation. He had lived through it in his imagination so many times in recent weeks that he was now thrown by how different the reality was. No heartfelt hugs, no tears, no mutual recognition. It felt all wrong. He may as well have been meeting his accountant.
 
George peered down at the rotund, balding man who had declared himself his brother. He had resisted all temptation to search for Terry’s picture online once he had got in touch. Just as he had resisted the temptation all his life to search for the family that had chosen to give him up. He was given up, like a bad habit. When people asked about his family he always spoke about his own children. They were grown and gone from him now. His daughter complained to him that he was an absent father. Maybe there was truth in that but he preferred to let them go their own way and not bother them; the odd call now and again and maybe a gift cheque at Christmas.
George had done well for himself. He liked to tell people that he was a self-made man. He had earned his success with blood, sweat, tears and the calluses on his hands. His attire now belied little of the hod-carrier who evolved into the owner of one of the largest construction companies in England. There had been the occasional drunk-fuelled longing to find his roots, unearth his people, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to go back to where he wasn’t wanted. 
When Terry made contact his first impulse had been to slam the phone down. But then he thought, "Why not? Why not meet this half-brother of mine and let him see what I’ve made of my life.” So here he was. Terry. The brother who had been given everything.
George scraped back the chair, sat and leaned across to shake Terry’s hand.
“Nice to meet you Terry. Can I get you anything?”
He gestured at the teapot. Terry shook his head.
“This is unbelievable. Isn’t this unbelievable George? The two of us here together. If our mother could see us!”
George smiled. “So Terry, what can I do for you?”
“Do for me?”
“Well, maybe you need some money? The funeral expenses were covered by you I presume.”
George produced a well-thumbed cheque book from the pocket of his mackintosh. Terry stared at it.
“This isn’t about money George. This is about us. Two brothers. “
“Half-brothers.”
“Well ok, if you want to split hairs. But brothers nonetheless.”
“Depends on your take on things ,Terry, my good man. I’m not the sentimental type. We are half-brothers true but really when you get down to the nitty gritty we are merely a collection of the same genetic material. No more. We are two sides of a coin. Our mother flipped that coin and we ended up with very different lives.”
“But our mother....”
“Our mother  - Eileen - chose to give me away Terry. That’s grand. I’ve made do with the hand that was dealt me. I’ve made do very well in fact.”
“She was a good woman.”
“That may be. I don’t see the point in raking over old ground. I only agreed to meet you because I had business in Dublin. Are you sure now about the cheque?”
Terry nodded. His gaze rested on the table-top and stayed, even when he heard the scrape of George’s chair on the tiles.
“I’ll head off so. I’ve a few things to take care of. Nice meeting you.”
Terry lifted his head in time to see the steely grey head disappearing under an expansive golf umbrella and out onto the rain-splattered cobblestones of Grafton St. He pulled from his pocket an old black and white photograph of his mother that he had brought along to show George. She was standing with her left hand on Terry’s head, squinting into the camera. Her right hand hovered over an empty space where there was nothing.
George’s heart pounded in time to his footsteps. He was relieved. It was over. All those years of struggle finally come to fruition. He stopped at the edge of the footpath looking left and right for the oncoming LUAS. Then he stepped into its path.

~

​June O’Sullivan lives on an island in Co. Kerry, Ireland. Her writing has appeared in the Leicester Writes Short Story Anthology 2022, The Ogham Stone Journal, The York Literary Review, Seaside Gothic, The Storms Journal, The Waxed Lemon, Sonder and online as part of the National Flash Flood Day. She is a student of the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Limerick.

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