His visits during her stays in St Phelim’s were always tricky. He’d feed her, or watch her try to feed herself. He’d warble merrily about anything that came to mind, always in the present. The variations of pastel on the ward walls. The chart music on the radio. The surly lament of phones calling out from handbags stored beneath sacks of urine-drenched laundry. The wheelchair-accessible taxis ramping up and down outside, drivers making loud claims about the weather in contented country accents. The warmth of his hand in hers, her bloodless fingers closing tight around his like a newborn’s. The earth-smell of parsnips coming from the kitchens. The sweetness of the yoghurt he now used to camouflage her pills. She’d recently begun to crunch through them rather than swallow them whole. He’d thought the taste must be insufferable, whether she could name it or not.

  Sometimes, she’d focus on one of the other elderly patients in her ward, as if she’d just noticed them. Slowly she’d raise her arm and point. Was she hoping that by singling out this woman on the other side of the room all would become clear? He’d mumble an apology – so sorry, she doesn’t – and try distracting her with memes he’d bookmarked: the rapping cockatoo, the bear in the outdoor jacuzzi, the incident at Bellator 187. Or photos on his phone, the same ones he’d enthused over the day before. ‘Here’s me and the girls, here’s my new flat, look, here’s the girls last Christmas, with their mum, here’s me with wee Bantam, look at her new collar, Ma, look at the little sparkly B hanging from it, B for Bantam, Ma, spoilt rotten isn’t she, I’m teaching her the leash, not going too well, but, no pressure no diamonds, right, Ma?’

  Usually, she’d hold fast, ignoring his phone. Directing her gaze to just above its screen, she’d stare hard-mouthed at the woman on the other side of the ward. After a period of time, she’d end the siege with a burst of schoolgirl laughter. He’d turn his back to hide his grin. He’d wink at his mother; if one of us goes to war, all of us go to war.

  After lunch, he’d wheel her out. They’d trundle past the nurses’ station, past jingling medicine trolleys, the occupational therapy room, the chapel, visitors’ toilets, residents’ hairdresser (always empty), the small tea shop stocked with individually wrapped biscuits.

  They’d emerge into the daylight, head for a strip of green between the car park and the road where he’d name the trees and the birds for her. He no longer gave her flowers to inspect because once, when he’d turned back around after adjusting her wheelchair brakes, he’d spotted the remains of a primrose dangling dainty from her mouth, her thin gums rolling over the creamy petals like a cow at cud. Had he seen a sparse eyebrow rise as she looked through him?

  One afternoon they lingered beneath an oak at the car park’s edge. He was tired. He fell into silence, and just listened. Idling cars, tuneful traffic lights bleeping, the Main Entrance doors in the distance sliding open and shut for no one. And then, behind all of it, a songbird emerged.

  He allowed the tenuous little trill to just be, without feeling the need to identify the bird for his mother. He looked at her. Her eyes were closed. Was she sleeping, or had she forgotten to open them? What’s the difference? He closed his own and leaned against her, breathing in the smell of hospital detergent from the tracksuit he’d given the staff to dress her in, one he’d worn as a teen, black velour emblazoned across the shoulders with a metallic NIRVANA.

  The bird offered its air, ending each fragile verse with a melodic question mark, waiting, then repeating the same process. Soon he heard a soft low sound start at his side. He watched his mother purse her lips and try to mimic the bird call. She whistled, imitating the sound almost flawlessly, and waited. The response came after a pause, the bird returning the song with the invitational question mark still at the end, do you hear me, yes I hear you, do you hear me? Back and forth the lyrical exchange went between woman and bird, never deviating from the short song, until the pauses between them lengthened and finally the conversation expired.

  They wove back, in through the sliding doors, down to her ward. Dreading that moment when he’d feel her bewildered stare follow him as he walked away, he’d devised a new leaving process. ‘Now, my fine girleen,’ he’d say, ‘would you like to listen to some music, after our walk? Hmm? Are you tired, Ma? I’ll bet you’re well tired of the chit-chat and would love to just close your eyes and listen to some music. On the headphones. I brought your Vaughan Williams. Look, The Lark Ascending. You like this, Ma, remember? Remember The Lark Ascending? Remember Alauda arvensis, the skylark? And the woodlark, Ma? The woodlark, Lullula arborea?’

  She’d eye her surroundings, then gape at him, jaw hanging.

  ‘We’re at your bed, in the ward, Ma. You’re staying here for a few days. You’ll be getting back home soon. I’d say you’re well tired after our walk, aren’t you. So you’ll be glad to hear I’m going to leave you be, for a wee while. I’ll be back tomorrow, Ma. You rest and listen to your Vaughan Williams. Wait’ll you hear, you like this.’

  He’d shutter the headphones over her ears, settle his palm over her eyes. He’d hear the muffled opening strains of the spiralling violin, the music an impression of a lark’s unbroken song. The bird rises, circling high into the air until it is just a flickering dot in the sky, its quavering vocalization, a glass chime, remaining clear as it ascends.

  He’d feel her flutter then close her eyelids behind his hand. He’d leave before she opened them again, knowing that, when she did, she’d have forgotten he was ever there.

  As a child, she’d taught him to recognize every tree by leaf, every bird by song.

  —Do you know the difference between a woodlark and a skylark?

  —Course I do, Ma.

  —Good. Do you know the difference between a call and a song?

  —Is there one?

  —Yes, there is, son.

  —Oh. My my.

  —Indeed. And what do you call a group of larks, whether sky or wood?

  —Whether Sky.

  —I’m serious.

  —You call it an exaltation.

  —Excellent. You remembered. Well, now, smart as you are, did you know you can take a picture of birdsong? You can actually see the wee song?

  —What?

  —They take the song, shake the sound out and map it like colours in a rainbow. You can tell which bird is singing by the waviness. But you still can’t tell what they’re saying!

  —I could.

  —That, my son, would not surprise me. And did you know birds teach their young their very own secret language? And the nestlings dream about it at night when they’re tucked up with their siblings cosy in the nest?

  —I did not know that. I do now.

  —You do indeedee. The birdies singing away in bird-land dreams, getting it wrong, getting it right, bar by bar!

  —I wonder do they teach them birdy curses. That’d be something.

  —No need for curses in bird-land. Just need to listen, to memorize and, most important of all, to recall. No point in memorizing unless you can recall, am I right.

  —Same thing.

  —No, son, no it’s not. They need to remember so they can then pass that very tune on to their own babies when the time comes. Like relay races. You’re good at those. So imagine this baton being passed from bird to bird like a teeny tiny tin whistle!

  —Sounds like Chinese whispers.

  —It’s nothing like that. It’s much much bigger. A bird’s skinny wee brain is a whole universe of sparks. There’s order to it, a secret structure inside that birdbrain. Yes, birdbrain. Now guess: it’s called the what system?

  —The Chinese system.

  —It’s called the Song system. You didn’t know that, me boyo, and you with your big brawny warrior’s brain.

  —I do now.

  —All for one?

  —And one for all.

  —If one of us goes?

  —All of us go.

  His father had abandoned them both when he was six years old. Stoic as she was, she never spoke about it. She is of a generation closed to indulgence. But even as a child he could see the scour of betrayal that etched her bearing. She’d raised him single-handedly, not marrying again until he was grown and paired up himself.

  The month after his father left, she’d enrolled him in the local boxing club, fearing physical defence was the one thing she could not teach him. ‘Life can be rough, sonny,’ she said, ‘you need to fight back.’ He was the youngest in the club and, like her, small for his age. But they made allowances.

  His after-school hours were spent bantamweight-boxing when she was working, and on walks with her when she was off. They explored the mountains of Ballygawley, Bricklieve, the shorelines of Lissadell, Streedagh, Mullaghmore. But her favourite places were the woods. Slish, Union, Hazelwood, Dooney Rock. Deep among the trees, she’d pull a leaf in passing, thinking he hadn’t noticed. Ten strides later she’d put him to the test. ‘Look at this wee leaf. Look carefully, the shape, the colour, the size. Which tree is it from? Think back. What trees did we pass? Birch? Rowan? Ash? Bet you don’t remember, me little soldier. Too busy looking to see, am I right!’

  Her hands clasped behind her, she’d always walk ahead, talking back to him, knowing he was there. He followed, keeping pace, slowing, quickening, step by step. Often she’d stop mid-stride, head cocked like the hunting beagles of her Cavan youth. ‘Wait. Whisht.’ In the forest stillness, a meagre voice would make itself heard, calling out. She’d answer the bird with a mimicking whistle, sometimes adding a twist to the tune, a figary she called it, to confuse either him or the bird, he was never sure. ‘It’s telling me to get the hell out of its quarters,’ she’d explain. Bird and woman would spar in the centre of the woods, his mother holding her own despite her slow retreat.

  On one of their last walks together, she’d sung for him; a lilting lullaby she’d learnt from her mother. She’d kicked the loose leaves at her feet as she struggled to recall the once familiar lyric. ‘Doesn’t matter, Ma, forget it,’ he’d said, trying to steer her away from it. ‘But I know it,’ she’d said, ‘sure don’t I know it well.’ Berating herself, she’d persevered through to the end, with many restarts, throat clearings and embarrassed snorts. ‘Christ Almighty, I used to sing it word for word,’ she’d said to the ground as he walked homeward behind her.

  Her sitting-room blinds open, the sun shining in on the two of them together by the empty black hearth. Her hand still firm around his. The lone bird call on her Dawn Chorus CD has curved its way through the muzzing white noise.

  He feels a cramp stirring. He uses her wheelchair’s arm to slouch to a stand, careful not to move the held hand. He stretches his legs, looking at the old framed pictures arranged on her mantelpiece. A photo of his ex-wife enveloped by their three daughters, all Mickey-Moused in Disneyland Paris. A photo of his ten-year-old self, holding a giant amateur boxing belt above his head, his mother’s hand appearing off frame. A photo of her with his stepfather, planting a tree together on some anniversary. A yellowing photo of her dead parents, his grandparents, on Ha’penny Bridge in Dublin, tawny arms about each other, their lips a strange and sensual pink. He tucks back down beside her.

  The walks are over now. A silence shrouds her. It began with the forgetting of her lullaby that day in the woods, then many more small things increasing in peculiarity until there came a point when they could no longer be dismissed as eccentricities of age. Over the years, she folded steadfast inward until, in the end, she forgot how to walk, how to talk.

  First, she became fearful of driving and had begun asking him to take her into Sligo town on occasional trips whenever his stepfather was busy. ‘Would you mind, a quick spin, I’m a wee bit, would you ever?’

  On one of those journeys, they’d stood at the counter after he pulled in to refuel at Ballinode Garage. Feeling indebted to him, her pride insisted she’d pay. ‘Hould yer whisht,’ she said, as she picked chocolate bars for the girls and, seeing she had no cash, pulled a card from her wallet with elegant flourish. ‘Just a minute now,’ she said as she tried to remember the pin. A queue behind them, a cashier silent, she rapped the card off the cash register. ‘What is it again, what is it, the tip of me tongue, wait,’ her voice getting quieter. The rapping stopped. He paid, she followed him out. ‘What class of a figary was that, Ma?’ he said, to lighten her. ‘It was on the tip of me tongue,’ she said, shame blooming on her cheekbones.

  Then, after years of silence on the affair, she began asking about his ex-wife, the woman he’d left nine years ago, the woman he’d left after the birth of their third child. ‘When will yourself and the missus come over? Or will I go visit ye, at the lake? I can bring more saplings, if ye like? How are my Japanese larch faring?’

  He’d worked hard during the first year to get his mother to accept the separation. ‘Whatever you think yourself,’ she’d finally conceded. It had taken a long time to break through her faith in the supremacy of fidelity, and reach her deeper faith in her son. This vague and weary concession was as far as she could go. He was grateful for it. In recent years, he’d given up trying to drag her back from her surreal dominions, back to the stark present where he lived alone, saw little of his ex-wife, and knew his daughters only from a distance, a forum patrolled by WhatsApp and TikTok.

  Instead, he joined his mother in the guilt-free heaven where everything was exquisitely fine, and, yes, all good at home, the Japanese larch are flying, Ma, and the missus is fine, she was asking for you, yes, we’ll land in on you soon, we will, all five of us, rob a few more saplings off of you. He began to look forward to these diversions into parallel universes, he began to count on them. Things took on a seductive slant. It was enthralling to just let go, go with her. An addictive through-the-looking-glass kind of offbeat. Everything is fine, we’ve got our good things, you and me, you’ve got yours and I’ve got mine. If one of us goes, all of us go.

  Slow and steady, over the years, she clocked up these deviant forays, rooting deeper on each ramble. The first one, from his recollection, was the time she’d tried to make her martinis. His stepfather had been away for the evening. Before leaving, he’d called him at his flat, asking him to come keep careful watch over her, said he’d noticed a worrying strangeness seeping in. ‘Your mother can be quite quirky these days. Say nothing, but keep an eagle eye out.’ He was pleased by the urgent conferring of this secret new role as chief warden, and amused by the unexpected display of anxiety; his stepfather was usually so laid back.

  He’d sat at her side by the fire in the sitting room. At dusk, as was her custom, she got up, declaring it was time for a pre-dinner drink. It was. Would he like one of her martini rossos? He would. It was her regular drink and her regular time for drinking it, always served in her Cavan Crystal glasses.

  He listened to her murmuring, clinking and clanging in the kitchen. He puzzled over doors opening and closing, punctuated with long pauses of inactivity. When she returned empty-handed, he asked where the martinis were. ‘Martinis? Yes, where are the martinis. Indeed.’ She gazed at her hands. ‘Indeedee.’

  He went into the kitchen. Her crystal closet was open, two cocktail glasses missing. The utility-room door was ajar. There was a track of lilac-coloured splashes leading from beyond the utility room back in towards the kitchen sink. She’d poured lavender fabric conditioner into the crystal glasses, two-thirds up. Moving bottles to make space, she’d positioned the glasses among the household cleaners beneath the kitchen sink.

  He tidied up, made martinis, and rejoined her by the fire. ‘There y’are now, sláinte.’ She looked at him, then at the drinks. ‘Indeedee.’ He didn’t question her, she didn’t ask, but did he see a veil of unease settle on her brow as she stared through her vermouth into the fire? They clinked drinks, and she applauded him on his martini-making skills, saying he’d learnt from the best, it could be his job from now on, whenever he visited. He accepted, with solemnity, his appointment, and made several more martini rossos that night. Each time, they clinked anew. Each time, he accepted his appointment as if for the first time.

  In the years between then and now, she’d wandered on shaky limbs into the small wooded area at the bottom of her garden, looking for her workplace, the job she’d retired from years before. ‘Feck, I’ve a meeting in five minutes, where’s me bloody notes?’ She strayed between alders, lifting skirts of foliage at the base of each one. ‘Ma, didn’t you hear? Meeting’s been cancelled! Come on back inside, let’s celebrate.’

  A year later, reduced to a Charlie Chaplin shuffle, she’d faltered down her driveway towards the road, clasping two plastic bags, one with some of his stepfather’s belongings, the other with her old wellies. When questioned, she revealed impatiently that she needed to be getting back home to Cavan, the bus wouldn’t wait for her, wouldn’t wait for anyone. ‘As lovely as it is, I’ve to check out, I’m afraid I can’t stay another night.’

  ‘Just one more, we’ll hit the road for home tomorrow, one more night, for the craic. Come on, Ma. Please.’ She hesitated, carefully considering him standing before her. ‘Righto. One more night.’

  By the time they’d walked back up the driveway, her anchor had shifted from her youth to her long-lost first marriage. On seeing his stepfather wringing his hands in the hallway, she asked him who the hell he was, what did he think he was doing in her damn house, where was her husband? He hid in their bedroom and cried, after first reassuring his wife of sixteen years that he’d go find her husband, he’d bring him back to her, not to worry, he was sure her husband would never leave her. Later, his broken stepfather had smiled gratefully at him when he showed him the plastic bag she’d been clutching as she’d shuffled down the driveway. Inside were his Wellman multivitamins, his bedside book, and his favourite tie wrapped around his reading glasses.