Rewrite the Stars. Emma Heatherington

the window before a familiar-sounding chime above the door marks my entrance. The shop smells of my childhood – of warmth, boiled sweets, newspapers and ice cream in wafers – and I rush across to give him a hug which he receives shyly. He is thinner than he used to be and his hair, which once upon a time sported every colour of the rainbow, is pale brown, lank and light. He is thirty-two years old now but he looks at least ten years older in his navy apron, worn-out jeans and with his tired, drained face.

      ‘You got my message then?’ he asks, his eyes wide in anticipation. ‘I probably wasn’t making much sense, but I hope you understood my rambling?’

      His eyes crinkle as he smiles, which tells me he may have some good news. It’s far from what I was expecting. I didn’t listen to the voicemail he left me last night, but I can’t bring myself to tell him so. I just couldn’t do it. I was too afraid he may have found out about me and Tom and I wanted to speak to him in person, hence my unannounced visit.

      ‘Oh, did you leave me a voicemail?’ I bluff. ‘Sorry, I’m so bad at picking up messages.’

      ‘Some things never change,’ he says, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘I just said I wanted to meet up with you in the next day or two, so looks like we’re on the same wavelength, after all. I’ve something to tell you.’

      I know by his face that it’s good news, which is a huge relief. Something to tell me? What on earth could it be?

      ‘I did see a missed call,’ I confess, feeling guilty now, ‘but decided on a visit home instead. I miss my big brother.’

      Never one for big affection, he rolls his eyes and goes back in behind the overcrowded counter as another customer approaches. It’s the type of shop that used to feature in every Irish town or village but has died out over the years, replaced instead by heartless chain-stores that don’t reflect the soul of a community like this one does. Here, you can buy everything from a loaf of bread to your morning paper, but you’ll also find hardware, a pub and you can choose a coffin out the back if you need one.

      ‘I’ve a few things to tell you, one biggie and the other is a really cool idea for Mam and Dad, if you and Emily are up for it,’ he says as he punches numbers into an old-fashioned till, without acknowledging any further that I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. ‘I think it would be something different and would give Mam a lift this Christmas.’

      ‘Of course,’ I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. ‘We can talk more when you’ve finished your shift.’

      I’m a little bit worried but only because this all seems too good to be true. Matthew wanted me to come here to share some big news, and to plan a Christmas surprise for our parents. It’s like the old Matthew is back, the one who used to be so bright and full of ideas and excitement.

      He glances through the hatch behind him that looks into the bar where, as always, there is horse racing flashing on a TV high up in the background.

      ‘I can finish up here now,’ he tells me. ‘Look, do you want to pop next door and I’ll buy you a drink? Mrs Sullivan can mind this place too when I need a break. We have that sort of arrangement.’

      ‘Cool,’ I say to him. ‘I’ll let you get finished up.’

      I make my way out onto the blustery street again, my head lost in wonder and steeped in time as it always is when I come back here.

      Mrs Sullivan knows the score, I think to myself, realizing that Matthew’s ‘job’ at the shop is more for his benefit than theirs, of course. It’s a baby step back into society for him and a subtle level of responsibility that gives him a reason to keep going.

      Four years of this have passed, though. We’d all hoped he’d have got better a whole lot sooner, but depression knows no boundaries and the black dog inside him doesn’t seem to want to move on just yet. Well, not until now perhaps, as he shows this light glimmer of excitement for the first time in a long, long while.

      Mrs Sullivan, or Angela Martin as I know her as she was only a few years older than me at school, is the third Mrs Sullivan to run this place for as far back as I remember. She greets me shyly, a bit nervous as most people are around us city types who left Loughisland for wider shores, but she soon relaxes when we start chatting like I’ve never been away at all.

      ‘He’s doing so well,’ she tells me, wiping her hands on a brown and white tea towel. Nothing in here has changed a bit. The old chocolate-coloured stools at the bar are the same with their black metal legs that I used to have to climb up to reach my seat when Daddy and I would slip in here on a Saturday afternoon for a sneaky bet on the horses. I’d be fed Tayto Cheese & Onion crisps and bribed with a glass of Fanta while he chugged down a quick pint of the black stuff and prayed that his luck would come in.

      ‘I think working here can only be good for him,’ I say to Angela. ‘We’re worried sick for him, to be honest, but thanks to you and your family for giving him this chance.’

      ‘You know he wants to start a folk club?’ she says, as if she’s telling me she’s won the lottery. ‘Now, that’s a good sign! He’s showing an interest in music again at long last. Your mother is thrilled!’

      We keep our voices down as the open hatch that adjoins the bar to the shop means noise can travel, but we don’t get to chat any further as just then Matthew makes his way in and joins me.

      ‘Have you ordered?’ he asks. ‘Have what you like, it’s my treat.’

      He seems so chirpy and excited, which now all makes sense. The folk club here in the village, the job in the shop and whatever this Christmas surprise for Mam is. I dread the thought of bursting his bubble when I get round to mentioning Tom, but maybe, who knows, it could be good timing if he’s other more positive things on his mind.

      ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic,’ I say to Angela. ‘What are you having, Matthew?’

      ‘The usual,’ he says to Angela. ‘And don’t be expecting any fancy berries or glasses like goldfish bowls in here, Charlotte. A gin and tonic is a gin and tonic in Loughisland, not a bowl of mixed fruit.’

      He laughs at his own joke and Angela pretends to be offended.

      ‘The original and the best,’ I say to them both and soon we are clinking our glasses together in true Christmas spirit. ‘So, what is it you want to tell me? It’s good news, I take it?’

      Matthew sits up straight on the stool. ‘I thought, well it just came to me yesterday before I rang you …’

      His appearance may be changing each time I see him but somewhere in there is still my big brother, still the one we all looked up to.

      ‘I was thinking,’ he continues. ‘Wouldn’t it be a great idea if we were to take Mam and Dad on a summer holiday next year, just the five of us? Well, Kevin too, I suppose, as he’s family now,’ says Matthew. ‘It’s their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary this year and I think after all the crap we’ve been through over the past while, it might be something to look forward to? As a family?’

      I almost choke on my drink in delight. ‘I love it!’ I tell him.

      ‘You really think so?’

      He’s showing so much hope for the first time in ages. He’s making plans. He’s excited about something once and for all. I lean across and hug him.

      ‘That’s the best idea ever!’ I say to him, and I really mean it. ‘Let’s get onto Emily and Kevin and we’ll surprise Mam and Dad with all the detail on Christmas Day. Is that what you’re thinking?’

      ‘Exactly,’ he agrees. ‘You know, Charlotte, I remember when I was just a nipper how Mam used to stand at the kitchen sink and say that if she ever came into money, she’d love to take us all to see the pyramids in Egypt. Now I know it will take a lot of money, but if we booked it for, say, August, it would give us all eight months to save the fare and some spending money. Does that sound OK?’