The Marble Collector: The life-affirming, gripping and emotional bestseller about a father’s secrets

‘What’s that you’ve got there?’

I open my hand, reveal the red marbles in the mesh bag.

He just stares at them. I wait for him to say something but nothing comes. He barely blinks.

‘Dad?’

Nothing.

‘Dad?’ I put my free hand on his arm gently.

‘Yes.’ He looks at me, troubled.

I loosen the drawstrings on the mesh purse and roll them into the palm of my hand. As I move the marbles in my hand they roll and click together. ‘Do you want to hold them?’

He stares at them again, intently, as though trying to figure them out. I want to know what’s going on inside his head. Too much? Everything? Nothing? I know that feeling. I watch for that sliver of recognition again. It doesn’t come. Just bother and irritation, perhaps that he can’t remember what he wants to remember. I stuff the marbles in my pocket quickly and change the subject, trying to hide my disappointment from him.

But I saw it. Like a flicker of a flame. The ruffle of a feather. The flash of the sea as the sun hits it. Something brief and then gone, but there. When he saw the marbles first, he was a different man, with a face I’ve never seen.

I’m home from school, a fever, the first and only day of school I’ve ever missed. I hate school; I would have wanted this any day at all in the whole entire year. Any day but today. The funeral was yesterday – well, it wasn’t a proper one with a priest, but Mattie’s pal is an undertaker and he found out where they were burying our baby sister, in the same coffin as an old woman who had just died in the hospital. When we got to the graveyard, the old woman’s family were finishing up their funeral so we had to wait around. Ma was happy it was an old woman she was being buried with and not an old man, or any man. The old woman was a mother, and a grandmother. Mammy spoke to one of her daughters who said that her ma would look after the baby. Uncle Joseph and Aunty Sheila said all the prayers at our ceremony. Mattie doesn’t say prayers, I don’t think he knows any, and Mammy couldn’t speak.

The priest called round to the house beforehand and tried to talk Mammy out of making a show of herself by going to the grave. Mammy had a shouting match with him and Mattie grabbed the brandy from the priest’s hand and told him to get the fuck out of his house. Hamish helped Mattie get rid of him, the only time I’ve seen them on the same side. I saw the way everyone looked at Mammy as we walked down the street to the graveyard, all dressed in black. They looked at her like she was crazy, like our baby sister was never really a baby at all, just because she didn’t take a breath when she came out. Even though they’re not supposed to, the midwife had let Mammy hold her baby after she was born. She held her for an hour, then when the midwife started to get a bit angry and tried to take her from Mammy, Hamish stepped in. Mattie wasn’t there and he took over, he lifted the baby out of Mammy’s arms and carried her down the stairs. He kissed her before he gave her back to the midwife, who took her away forever.

‘She was alive inside of me,’ I heard Mammy say to the priest, but I don’t think he liked hearing her say that. He looked like it was a bit disgusting for him to think of things living inside of her. But she did it anyway, made up her own funeral at the graveyard, and it was cold and grey and it rained the whole time. My shoes got so wet, my socks and feet were soaking and numb. I sneezed all day, couldn’t breathe out of my nose last night, the lads kept thumping me to stop me snoring and I spent the whole night going from hot to cold, shivering then sweating, feeling cold when I was sweating, feeling hot when I was cold. Crazy dreams: Da and Mattie fighting, and Father Murphy shouting at me about dead babies and hitting me, and my brothers stealing my marbles, and Mammy in black howling with grief. But that part was real.

Even though I feel like my skin is on fire and everything around me is swirling, I don’t call Mammy. I stay in bed, tossing and turning, sometimes crying because I’m so confused and my skin is sore. Mammy brought me a boiled egg this morning and put a cold cloth on my head. She sat beside me, dressed in black, still with a big tummy looking like she has a baby in there, staring into space but not saying anything. It’s kind of like when Da died but this is different; she was angry at Da, this time she’s sad.

Usually Mammy never stops moving. She’s always cleaning, cleaning Bobby’s nappies, the house, banging sheets and rugs, cooking, preparing food. She never stops, always banging around the place, us always in her way and her moving us out of the way with her legs and feet, pushing us aside like she’s in a field and we’re long grass. Now and then she stops moving to straighten her back and groan, before going back to it again. But today the house is silent and I’m not used to that. Usually we’re all shouting, fighting, laughing, talking; even at night there’s a child crying, or Mammy singing to it, or Mattie bumping into things when he comes home drunk and swearing. I hear things that I’ve never heard before like creaks and moaning pipes, but there’s no sound from Mammy. This worries me.

I get out of bed, my legs shaking and feeling weak like I have never walked before, and I hang on tight to the bannister as I go downstairs, every floorboard creaking beneath my bare feet. I go into the living room, joined on to the kitchen, tiny at the back of the house like they forgot it and added it on, and it’s empty. She’s not here. Not in the kitchen, not in the garden, not in the living room. I’m about to leave when I suddenly see her in black sitting in an armchair in the corner of the living room that only Mattie ever sits in; so still I nearly missed her. She’s staring into space, her eyes red like she hasn’t stopped crying since yesterday. I’ve never seen her so still. I don’t remember it ever being just me and her before, just the two of us. I’ve never had Mammy to myself. Thinking about it makes me nervous: what do I say to Mammy when there’s nobody around to hear me, to see me, to react, to tease, to goad, to impress? What do I say to Mammy when I’m not using her to get a rise out of someone else, to tell on someone, or know if what I’m saying is right or wrong because of their reactions?

I’m about to leave the room when I think of something, something I want to ask, that I would only ask if it was just me and her, with no one else around.

‘Hi,’ I say.

She looks over at me, surprised, like she’s had a fright, then she smiles. ‘Hi, love. How’s your head? Do you need more water?’

‘No thanks.’

She smiles.

‘I want to ask you a question. If you don’t mind.’

She beckons me in and I come closer and stand before her, fidgeting with my fingers.

‘What is it?’ she asks gently.

‘Do you … do you think she’s with Da?’

This seems to take her by surprise. Her eyes fill and she struggles to talk. I think if the others were here I wouldn’t have asked such a stupid question. I’ve gone and upset her, the very thing Mattie told us not to do. I need to get myself out of it before she yells or, worse, cries.

‘I know he’s not her da, but he loved you, and you’re her mammy. And he loved children. I don’t remember loads about him but I remember that. Green eyes and he always played with us. Chased us. Wrestled us. I remember him laughing. He was skinny but he had huge hands. Some other das never did that, so I know he liked us. I think she’s in heaven and that he’s minding her and so I don’t think you need to worry about her.’

‘Oh, Fergus, love,’ she says, opening her arms as tears run down her face. ‘Come here to me.’

I go into her arms and she hugs me so tight I nearly can’t breathe but am afraid to say. She rocks me, saying, ‘My boy, my boy,’ over and over again, and I think I might have said the right thing after all.

When she pulls away I say, ‘Can I ask you another question?’

She nods.

‘Why did you call her Victoria?’

Her face creases again, in pain, but she composes herself and even smiles. ‘I haven’t told anyone why.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘No, pet, it’s just that nobody asked. Come here and I’ll tell you,’ she says, and even though I’m too old, I squeeze onto her lap, half on the armchair, half on her. ‘I felt different with her. A different kind of bump. I said to Mattie, “I feel like a plum.” Says he, “We’ll call her Plum, so.”’

‘Plum!’ I laugh.

She nods and wipes her tears again. ‘It got me thinking about my grandma’s house. We used to visit her: me, Sheila and Paddy. She had apple trees, pears, blackberries, and she had two plum trees. I loved those plum trees because they were all she talked about, I think they were all she thought about – she wouldn’t let those trees beat her.’ She gives a little laugh and even though I don’t get the joke, I laugh too. ‘I think she thought it was exotic, that growing plums made her exotic, when really she was plain, plain as can be, like any of us. She’d make plum pies and I loved baking them with her. We stayed with her on my birthday every year, so every year my birthday cake was a plum pie.’

‘Mmm,’ I say, licking my lips. ‘I’ve never had plum pie.’

‘No,’ she says, surprised. ‘I’ve never baked it for you. She grew Opal plums, but they weren’t reliable because the bullfinches ate the fruit buds in winter. They used to strip those branches clean and Nana would be crazy, running around the garden swatting them with her tea cloth. Sometimes she’d get us to stand by the tree all day just scaring them away; me, Sheila and Paddy, standing around like scarecrows.’

I laugh at that image of them.

‘She gave the Opal more attention because it tasted better and it grew larger, almost twice the size of the other tree’s plums, but the Opal made her angrier and didn’t deliver every year. My favourite plum tree was the other tree, the Victoria plum. It was smaller but it always delivered and the bullfinches stayed away from that one more. To me, it was the sweetest …’ Her smile fades again and she looks away. ‘Well, now.’

‘I know a marble game called Picking Plums,’ I say.

‘Do you now?’ she asks. ‘Don’t you have a marble game for every occasion?’ She prods at me with her finger in my tickly bits and I laugh.

‘Do you want to play?’

‘Why not!’ she says, surprised at herself.

I’m in such shock I run up the stairs faster than I ever have to get the marbles. Once downstairs she’s still in the chair, daydreaming. I set up the game, explaining as I go.

I can’t draw on the floor so I use a shoelace to mark a line and I place a row of marbles with a gap the width of two marbles in between. I use a skipping rope to mark a line on the other side of the room. The idea is to stand behind the line and take it in turns to shoot at the line of marbles.

‘So these are the plums,’ I say to her, pointing at the line of marbles, feeling such excitement that I have her attention, that she’s all mine, that she’s listening to me talking about marbles, that she’s possibly going to play marbles, that nobody else can steal her attention away. All aches and pains from my fever are gone in the distraction and hopefully hers are too. ‘You have to shoot your marble at the plums and if you hit it out of line you get the plum.’

She laughs. ‘This is so silly, Fergus.’ But she does it and she has fun, scowling when she misses and celebrating when she wins. I’ve never seen Mammy play like this, or punch the air in victory when she wins. It’s the best moment I’ve ever spent with her in my whole life. We play the game until all the plums are picked and for once I’m hoping I miss, because I don’t want it to end. When we hear voices at the door, the shouting and name-calling as my brothers return from school, I scurry for the marbles on the floor.

‘Back to bed, you!’ She ruffles my hair and returns to the kitchen.

I don’t tell the others what me and Mammy talked about and I don’t tell them we played marbles together. I want it to be between me and her.

And in the week that Mammy stops wearing black and bakes us plum pie for dessert, I don’t tell anybody why. One thing I learned about carrying marbles in my pockets in case Father Murphy locked me in the dark room, and going out with Hamish and pretending to other kids that I’ve never played marbles before, is that keeping secrets makes me feel powerful.

Mid-morning and back home, I lug Dad’s boxes into the middle of the living room floor and separate two I already know, boxes of sentimental and important items that we had to keep. I move them aside to make way for the three that are new to me. I’m mystified. Mum and I packed up his entire apartment, but I did not pack these boxes. I make myself a fresh cup of tea and begin emptying the same box I opened earlier, wanting to pick up where I left off. It is peculiar to have time to myself. Taking care and time, I start to go through Dad’s inventory.

Latticino core swirls, divided core swirls, ribbon core swirls, Joseph’s coat swirls. I take them out and line them up beside their boxes, crouched on the floor like one of my sons with their cars. I push my face up to them, examining the interiors, trying to compare and contrast. I marvel at the colours and detail; some are cloudy, some are clear, some appear to have trapped rainbows inside, while others have mini tornadoes frozen in a moment. Some have a base glass colour and nothing else. Despite being grouped together under these various alien titles I can’t tell the difference no matter how hard I try. Absolutely every single one of them is unique and I have to be careful not to mix them up.

The description of each marble boggles my mind too as I try to identify which of the core swirls is the gooseberry, caramel or custard. Which is the ‘beach ball’ peppermint swirl, which is the one with mica. But I’ve no doubt Dad knew, he knew them all. Micas, slags, opaques and clearies, some so complex it’s as though they house entire galaxies inside, others one single solid colour. Dark, bright, eerie and hypnotic, he has them all.

And then I come across a box that makes me laugh. Dad, who hated animals, who refused every plea for me to get a pet, has an entire collection of what are called ‘Sulphides’. Transparent marbles with animal figures inside, like he has his own farmyard within his tiny marbles. Dogs, cats, squirrels and birds. He even has an elephant. The one which stands out the most to me is a clear marble with an angel inside. It’s this that I hold and study for some time, straightening my aching back, trying to grasp what I’ve found, wondering when, what part of his life did this all occur. When we left the house did he watch us drive off and disappear to his ‘farmyard animals’? Tend to them privately in his own world. Was it before I was born? Or was it after he and Mum divorced, filling his solitude with a new hobby?

There is a little empty box, an Akro Agate Company retailer stock box, to be precise, which Dad has valued at a surprising $400–$700. There’s even a glass bottle with a marble inside, listed as a Codd bottle and valued at $2,100. It seems he didn’t just collect marbles, he also collected their presentation boxes, probably hoping to find the missing pieces of the jigsaw as the years went by. I feel a wave of sadness for him that that won’t happen now, that these marbles have been sitting in boxes for a year and he never knew to ask for them because he forgot that they were there.

I line them up, I watch them roll, the movement of colours inside like kaleidoscopes. And then when every inch of my carpet is covered, I sit up, straighten my spine till it clicks. I’m not sure what else to do, but I don’t want to put them away again. They look so beautiful lining my floor, like a candy army.

I pick up the inventory and try once more to see if I can identify them myself, playing my own little marble game, and as I do so, I notice that not everything written on the list is on my floor.

I check the box again and it’s empty, apart from some mesh bags and boxes which are collectable for their condition alone, despite there being no marbles inside them. I flip the top of the third box open and peer inside, but it’s just a load of old newspapers and brochures, nothing like the Aladdin’s cave of the first two boxes.

After my thorough search, which I repeat two more times, I can confirm that there are two missing items from the inventory. Allocated turquoise and yellow circular stickers, one is described as an Akro Agate Company box, circa 1930, the original sample case carried by salesmen as they made their calls. Dad has priced it at $7,500–$12,500. The other is what’s called World’s Best Moons. A Christensen Agate Company original box of twenty-five marbles, listed between $4,000–$7,000. His two most valuable items are gone.

I sit in a kind of stunned silence, until I realise I’m holding my breath and need to exhale.

Dad could have sold them. He went to the trouble of having them valued, so it would make sense for him to have sold them, and the most expensive ones too. He was having money troubles, we know that; perhaps he had to sell his beloved marbles just to get by. But it seems unlikely. Everything has been so well documented and catalogued, he would have made a note of their sale, probably even included the receipt. The two missing collections are written proudly and boldly on the inventory, as present as everything else in the inventory that sits on the floor.

First I’m baffled. Then I’m annoyed that Mum never told me about this collection. That objects held in such regard were packed away and forgotten. I don’t have any memory of Dad and marbles, but that’s not to say it didn’t happen. I know he liked his secrets. I cast my mind back to the man before the stroke and I see pinstripe suits, cigarette smoke. Talk about stock markets and economics, shares up and down, the news or football always on the radio and television, and more recently car-talk. Nothing in my memory bank tells me anything about marbles, and I’m struggling to square this collection – this careful passion – with the man I recall from when I was growing up.

A new thought occurs. I wonder if in fact they’re Dad’s marbles at all. Perhaps he inherited them. His dad died when he was young, and he had a stepfather, Mattie. But from what I know about Mattie it seems unlikely that he was interested in marbles, or in such careful cataloguing as this. Perhaps they were his father’s, or his Uncle Joseph’s, and Dad took the time to get them valued and catalogue them. The only thing I am sure of is the inventory being his writing; anything beyond that is a mystery.

There’s one person who can help me. I stretch my legs and reach for the phone and call Mum.

‘I didn’t know Dad had a marble collection,’ I say straight away, trying to hide my accusatory tone.

Silence. ‘Pardon me?’

‘Why did I never know that?’

She laughs a little. ‘He has a marble collection now? How sweet. Well, as long as it’s making him happy, Sabrina.’

‘No. He’s not collecting them now. I found them in the boxes that you had delivered to the hospital today.’ Also an accusatory tone.

‘Oh.’ A heavy sigh.

‘We agreed that you would store them for him. Why did you send them to the hospital?’

Though I didn’t recognise the marbles, I do recognise some of the other boxes’ contents as items we packed away from Dad’s apartment before putting it on the market. I still feel guilty that we had to do this, but we needed to raise as much money as possible for his rehabilitation. We tried to keep all the precious memories safe, like his lucky football shirt, his photographs and mementos, which I have in our shed in the back garden, the only place I could store them. I didn’t have room for the rest, so Mum took them.

‘Sabrina, I was going to store his boxes, but then Mickey Flanagan offered to take them and so I sent him everything.’

‘Mickey Flanagan, the solicitor, had Dad’s private things?’ I say, annoyed.

‘He’s not exactly a random stranger. He’s a kind of friend. He was Fergus’s solicitor for years. Handled our divorce too. You know, he pushed for Fergus to get sole custody of you. You were fifteen – what the hell would Fergus have done with you at fifteen? Not to mention the fact you didn’t even want to live with me at fifteen. You could barely live with yourself. Anyway, Mickey was handling the insurance and hospital bills, and he said he’d store Fergus’s things, he had plenty of space.’

A bubble of anger rises in me. ‘If I’d known his solicitor was taking his personal things, I would have had them, Mum.’

‘I know. But you said you had no space for anything more.’

Which I didn’t and I don’t. I barely have space for my shoes. Aidan jokes that he has to step outside of the house in order to change his mind.

‘So why did Mickey send the boxes to the hospital this morning?’

‘Because Mickey had to get rid of them and I told him that was the best place for them. I didn’t want to clutter you with them. It’s a sad story really: Mickey’s son lost his house and he and his wife and kids have to move in with Mickey and his wife. They’re bringing all their furniture, which has to be stored in Mickey’s garage, and he said he couldn’t keep Fergus’s things any more. Which is understandable. So I told him to send them to the hospital. They’re Fergus’s things. He can decide what to do with them. He’s perfectly capable of that, you know. I thought he might enjoy it,’ she adds gently, as I’m sure she can sense my frustration. ‘Imagine the time it will pass for him, going down memory lane.’

I realise I’m holding my breath. I exhale.

‘Did you discuss this walk down memory lane with his doctors first?’

‘Oh,’ she says suddenly, realising. ‘No. I didn’t, I … oh dear. Is he okay, love?’

I sense her sincere concern. ‘Yes, I got to them before he did.’

‘I’m sorry, I never thought of that. Sabrina, I didn’t tell you because you would have insisted on taking everything and cluttering your house with things you don’t need and taking too much on like you always do when it’s not necessary. You’ve enough on your plate.’

Which is also true.

I can’t blame her for wanting to rid herself of Dad’s baggage, he’s not her problem any more and ceased being so seventeen years ago. And I believe that she was doing it for my own good, not wanting to weigh me down.

‘So did you know he had a marble collection?’ I ask.

‘Oh, that man!’ Her resentment for the other Fergus returns. The past Fergus. The old Fergus. ‘Found among other pointless collections, I’m sure. Honestly, that man was a hoarder – remember how full the skip was when we sold the apartment? He used to bring those sachets of mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise home every day from whenever he ate out. I had to tell him to stop. I think he was addicted. You know they say that people who hoard have emotional issues. That they’re holding on to all of those things because they’re afraid of letting go.’

It goes on and I allow 90 per cent of it to wash over me, including the habit of referring to Dad in the past tense as though he’s dead. To her, the man she knew is dead. She quite likes the man she visits in the hospital every fortnight.

‘We had an argument about a marble once,’ she says bitterly.

I think they had a fight about just about everything at least once in their lives.

‘How did that come about?’

‘I can’t remember,’ she says too quickly.

‘But you never knew he had a marble collection?’

‘How would I know?’

‘Because you were married to him. And because I didn’t pack them up, so you must have.’

‘Oh please, I can’t be called to account for anything he has done since we separated, nor during our marriage for that matter,’ she spouts.

I’m baffled.

‘Some of the items are missing,’ I say, looking at them all laid out on the floor. The more I think about it, and hearing that they were in the possession of his solicitor, the more suspicious I am becoming. ‘I’m not suggesting Mickey Flanagan stole them,’ I say. ‘I mean, Dad could have lost them.’

‘What’s missing?’ she asks, with genuine concern. The man she divorced was an imbecile, but the nice man in rehabilitation must not be wronged.

‘Part of his marble collection.’

‘He’s lost his marbles?’ She laughs. I don’t. She finally catches her breath. ‘Well, I don’t think your dad ever had anything to do with marbles, dear. Perhaps it’s a mistake, perhaps they’re not your father’s, or Mickey delivered the wrong boxes. Do you want me to call him?’

‘No,’ I say, confused. I look on the floor and see pages and pages covered in Dad’s handwriting, cataloguing these marbles, and yet Mum seems to genuinely know nothing.

‘The marbles are definitely his and the missing items were valuable.’

‘By his own estimation, I’m guessing.’

‘I don’t know who valued them, but there are certificates to show they’re authentic. The certs for the missing marbles aren’t here. The inventory says one item was worth up to twelve thousand dollars.’

‘What?’ she gasps. ‘Twelve thousand for marbles!’

‘One box of marbles.’ I smile.

‘Well, no wonder he almost went bankrupt. They weren’t mentioned as assets in the divorce.’

‘He mightn’t have had them then,’ I say quietly.

Mum talks like I haven’t spoken at all, the conspiracy theories building in her head, but there’s one question she’s failed to ask. I didn’t pack them and she didn’t know about them, but somehow they found their way to the rest of Dad’s belongings.

I take Mickey’s office details from her and end the call.

The marble collection covers the entire floor. They are beautiful, twinkling from the carpet like a midnight sky.

The house is quiet but my head is now buzzing. I pick up the first batch of marbles on the list. The box of bloodies that I showed to Dad, listed as ‘Allies’.

I start to polish them. Kind of like an apology for not ever knowing about them before.

I have a knack for remembering things that people forget and I now know something important about Dad that he kept to himself, which he has forgotten. Things we want to forget, things we can’t forget, things we forgot we’d forgotten until we remember them. There is a new category. We all have things we never want to forget. We all need a person to remember them just in case.