Colm Tóibín

House For Sale - Colm Toibin

A short story published in the Dublin Review

She waited for the right moment to tell the boys, and when she began, she was shocked at how concerned they both seemed, how attentive, as though listening carefully could yield something that would have a serious effect on their future, as though this were only the beginning. As she spoke to them about how useful the money would be, she learned that they already knew that she had planned to sell the car, although she had not told them this.
‘Will we still be able to go to the university?’ Conor asked.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What made you think about that?’
‘Who will pay?’
‘I have other money saved up for that, or maybe it will be free by the time you finish school.’
The boys remained absolutely still; they watched her intently, and when she went out to the kitchen and turned on the kettle and came back into the room, they had not moved. She had never seen them frightened before.
‘We’ll be able to go on holidays to different places,’ she said. ‘We’ll be able to get a caravan in Curracloe. We’ve never stayed in a caravan.’
‘Will we be able to stay there the same time as the Mitchells?’ Conor asked.
‘If we like. We could find out when they’re going and go at the same time.’
‘Would it be for one week or two weeks?’ Conor asked.
‘Or longer if we liked,’ she said. ‘And we’re not selling the the car.’
‘Are we going to buy a caravan?’ Donal asked.
‘No, we’ll rent one. Buying one would be too much responsibility.’
‘Who’s going to buy the house?’ Donal asked.
‘It’s very private now. If I told you, you couldn’t tell anyone, but I think that May Larkin’s son who’s in America is going to buy it.’
‘Is that why she came here?’
‘I suppose it is, yes.’
She made tea and the boys pretended to watch the television. She had, she knew, unsettled them. Conor had become all red-faced and Donal was staring at the floor with the face of someone who was awaiting punishment. Anything she said, she knew, would make things worse. She picked up a newspaper and tried to read. She knew it was important to stay in the room, not to leave them, despite an urge to go upstairs and do anything, empty out cupboards, wash her face, clean the windows. Eventually, she felt she would have to say something.
‘We could go to Dublin next week.’
They looked up.
‘Why?’ Donal asked.
‘For a day out, you could take a day off school,’ she said.
‘I have double-science on Wednesday,’ Donal said. ‘I can’t miss it, and I have French with Mrs Duffy on Monday.’
‘We could go on Thursday.’
‘In the car?’
‘No, we could go on the train. And we could see Fiona, that’s her half-day.’
‘Do we have to go?’ Conor asked.
‘No. We’ll only go if we like,’ she said.
‘What will we tell the school?’
‘I’ll send in a note saying that you have to go to the doctor.’
‘I don’t need a note if it’s just one day,’ Donal said.
‘We’ll go then,’ she said. ‘We’ll have a nice day out. I’ll write to Fiona.’
She had said it only to break the silence and to let them know that there would always be outings, things to look forward to. But it made no difference to them. The news that she was selling the house in Cush seemed to bring home to them something which they had been managing not to think about. In the days that followed, however, they brightened up again, as though nothing had been said.

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