Dad, who has abandoned the sports pages and has been following the conversation with his head like a tennis umpire, looks at me, waiting for my response, although I can think of none.
Iris smiles. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Keogh?’
‘And a bun?’ he asks. I don’t know if he remembers that I promised him a bun. Or if it’s just an association he has with tea. Probably the latter. New information seems to glance off him, like hard rain against a window. Iris places the palms of her hands on the table, uses them to lift herself out of the chair. She refuses to wince, but her discomfort is visible all the same. When pressed, she has described the sensation in her limbs as stabbing, hot and thorough. She says she prefers the pain to the numbness. The numbness is what makes her walk as though she’s had a few too many glasses of ginger and brandy. The pain is what makes her refuse to wince.
‘I’ll go,’ I say, standing in one fluid movement. It feels unfair; my fluidity of movement, her concentrated effort. Although there is no point talking about fairness when it comes to MS.
Fairness has nothing to do with it.
It feels good to queue, even on a boat where the ground beneath your feet might not be as stable as you’d like. To do something as normal as queue. All around me, snatches of conversations.
‘… and then I said, well if you’re that nervous of strangers, you shouldn’t have gotten into the Airbnb business in the first place …’
‘… a reddish-brown. That would suit your colouring, and my stylist reckons …’
‘… and I was like, I’m so over that, and she was like …’
‘… the hire-car company said they’d only upgrade if …’
Ordinary, pedestrian conversations. As if everything is normal and life is trundling along on its usual rails.
I thank the man behind the counter and lift my tray. There is a smell of un-rinsed J-cloth that makes me twitch and think about grabbing every single cloth – the smell suggests more than one – throwing them in a bucket with Milton and water and leaving them there for at least an hour, even though the bleach could break down the fibres of the cloth, especially if they are a sub-standard brand.
I walk slowly with the tray, careful not to spill the tea, which has a not very hopeful grey pallor.
Iris is listening to Dad telling one of his stories, her face alive with interest, her head nodding along to all the details she has heard before, as if she has never heard them, as if this is the first time. She was always great with Dad. Great with all of them at the Society. Probably because of her experience with her own father. Although that was early-onset. A different animal altogether. ‘Probably the best one to get,’ Iris said. ‘I’d liken it to being struck by lightning. It takes you by storm, but it’s over nice and quick.’
It took eighteen months. Iris requested a leave of absence from the hospital where she worked at the time, and moved back into her father’s house. They watched re-runs of Neighbours every afternoon on UK Gold. Mr Armstrong jerked awake when he heard the theme music, pointing at the screen every time his favourite actor – Jason Donovan – appeared. Iris never worked out why, but thought it might have something to do with Jason’s teeth; perfectly white and even and on display every time he smiled his frequent and lengthy smiles. She bought Jason’s first album around that time. ‘It was like putting a soother in a baby’s mouth,’ she told me. ‘Especially for You’ was her dad’s favourite. Iris’s too, in the end.
I didn’t know her then. Back when she didn’t have MS. Or hadn’t been diagnosed yet, at any rate, although Iris says that she always got pins and needles in her legs as a kid. Sparkles. That’s how she described them to her dad at the time. Sparkles in her legs. So maybe it was there all along. In the wings, as Kate might put it. Waiting for its cue to take centre stage.
Her dad’s death. That might have been a cue. Anyway, that’s when she started experiencing symptoms. Turns she called them. Blurred vision, staggering, tripping, banging into the architraves of doors as if she’d suddenly lost touch with spatial awareness. And then the pain. Pain in her muscles, her joints, her limbs, her head. These turns didn’t happen all at the same time. They took turns and did not persist, so that, at first, Iris thought she was imagining them. Or she put it down to the tiredness she was feeling then. All the time. The doctor, vague, cited an auto-immune deficiency. Said it could be caused by stress which was natural, under the circumstances. With the recent death of her father and her new job – new career – as communications officer for the Alzheimer’s Society. He described these things as stressful. Iris disagreed. Her father dying was the least stressful bit of the whole process, she told me. ‘If he’d been a dog, he would have been put out of his misery long ago,’ she said. I agreed with her. I’ve seen the liberties this disease takes.
Iris told me that the first thing she felt when she was finally diagnosed was relief. That it wasn’t Alzheimer’s. She had experienced sporadic short-term memory issues and had thought the worst, which is so unlike her. That’s more my area of expertise. It turns out that memory problems can be another symptom of MS. Another little gift, as Iris puts it. Left at her door like a cat leaves a dead bird.
But there was nothing relieving about Iris’s diagnosis. Primary progressive Multiple Sclerosis.
‘I’ve been upgraded,’ Iris said when she came out of the hospital that day. The day she finally got the diagnosis. She didn’t want me to go with her that day. ‘It’s just routine,’ she said. I insisted. I had a bad feeling. And yes, I do have a habit of expecting the worst. But I had observed some deterioration in Iris’s movements at that time. A heavier lean on her walking stick. A slower gait. A tautening of the skin across her face that hinted at fatigue and unexpressed pain.
‘What do you mean? Upgraded?’ I said. Already, I could feel my heart inside my chest, quickening. I knew how Iris could dress up a thing. Make it sound acceptable.
And she did her best that day.
But it isn’t easy to dress up primary progressive MS.
‘We’ll get a second opinion,’ I said, as we walked down the corridor.
Iris stopped walking. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I know it’s true.’ Her voice was quiet.
She was in a relationship at that time. Harry Harper. He was an artist and a year-round swimmer, which was where Iris met him. They met at sea.
Iris said theirs was a casual relationship and the only reason it had gone on so long was because of the sex, which she declared thorough. And she loved his name, being a fan of alliteration.
But she really liked him. I could tell. He was unselfconsciously handsome, interesting and interested. And he was thoughtful. Kind. He always matched Iris’s pace, was careful not to hold too many doors open for her, and remembered that she disliked dates, so he never put them into the sticky toffee pudding he made for her because he knew that she loved sticky toffee pudding but hated dates.
He had no children and one ex-wife with whom he played squash once a week.
And while Iris didn’t believe in The One – one-at-a-time is her philosophy – I could tell that she thought a lot of Harry.
And then she got the upgrade as she called it, and she ended her relationship with him shortly after that. She said she refused to be a burden to anybody.
‘You’re not a burden,’ Harry said.
‘I will be,’ Iris told him.
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t matter to me.’
‘It matters to me,’ Iris told him.
And that was that.
I always tell the girls, when they complain about this or that, that they must look at the situation objectively and try to find something positive in it.
The only positive thing about this version of the disease is that people don’t usually get it until they’re older, and so it was with Iris, who wasn’t diagnosed until she was forty-five.
Other than that … well, that’s it really. Everything
else about the disease is … well, I suppose it isn’t always easy to see the positives.
Iris put a brave face on it, she didn’t battle it as such. She mostly ignored it. Never mentioned it. And that worked, I think. For a long time. People sort of forgot she had it, and that suited Iris down to the ground. And while there were always reminders, should you care to look for them, these were outnumbered by Iris herself. The mighty tour de force of her. The indefatigable fact of her.
I suppose that’s what’s so wrong about where we are now. Here, on a boat that smells like dirty J-cloths. It’s so unlike her. Oddly, it’s this thought that gives me pause. And some comfort. This is probably just a temporary setback. A down day. We all have those, don’t we? God knows, Iris, of all people, is entitled to one.
I walk back to my seat with my tray of grey teas and three KitKats – the only confectionary on offer with a protective wrapping – and also an ever-so-slight bounce in my step. Perhaps bounce is an overstatement, but there is definitely more flexibility in my gait than before.
An off day. That’s what this is. We’ll be calling it a ‘glitch’ in a few weeks’ time.
5
YOU MUST NOT PARK IN ANY WAY WHICH INTERFERES WITH THE NORMAL FLOW OF TRAFFIC.
The ferry takes three hours to get to Wales, and to be honest, I could not say much about the journey other than it passed.
I can say that Wales smells different. And it sounds different. Mostly fumes and the blaring of car horns as I release the handbrake and now we’re on the ramp again, but this time I’m driving down the ramp, onto foreign soil.
I have no idea what’s going to happen next.
Iris does.
She tells me that I am going to buy two ferry tickets back to Dublin for Dad and myself.
I nod and don’t say anything because I need to think.
THINK.
On the way into the car park, I have a panicky thought about what side of the road English people drive on. And Welsh people. It’s the same side as us, isn’t it? Of course it is. It’s just … I hate driving in unfamiliar places. Or in the dark. Or in bad weather. I have never driven in another country. The routes I drive are well-worn and familiar. The school run, back in the day. Over to Santry where the Alzheimer’s Society holds a few events during the week; singsongs and tea and buns and round-the-table conversations like what’s your favourite food and who’s your favourite singer and whatnot. Frank Sinatra always gets a mention, and not just from Dad. Semolina is a hit when puddings are discussed. I made it for the girls once. They wouldn’t believe me when I told them it was dessert. I ended up eating theirs as well as mine. They were right, it was lumpy.
Inside the car, nobody talks. I glance in the rear-view mirror. Dad is asleep, his head resting against the window. The collar of his shirt gapes around his narrow neck. Every day it seems there is less of him. Iris, in the passenger seat, looks out her window. There is nothing to see but lines and lines of cars parked beneath harsh fluorescent lighting. These places remind me of scenes in films where something frightening happens. Something shocking. Iris loves horrors. I like period dramas. When we go to the cinema, we compromise with comedies or biopics.
I reverse into a torturously narrow space in jerking stops and starts, which shakes Dad awake. He straightens and shouts, ‘Hard down on the left,’ and I stiffen, my neck snapping as I twist my head every which way until the car has been parked without incident.
I look at Iris. ‘We’re here,’ I say, unnecessarily.
‘How are you going to get out?’ she says, nodding towards the massive Land Rover inches away from my car door.
‘I’ll climb out your side.’ There is no question of me attempting to park in a more equitable manner. This is as good as it gets. Iris opens her door, hooks her hands behind her knees, and lifts her legs out of the car. Then she places her hands on the headrest and the door handle and uses them as levers to pull herself into a standing position. I hand her the crutches, and she leans on them, her knuckles white with effort. She has a wheelchair in her house. ‘In case of emergencies,’ she told me, when I spotted it, folded, behind the clothes horse in her utility room. I don’t think she’s ever sat in it. I stretch into the back seat and open Dad’s door. ‘What are we doing now?’ he wants to know, and his face is pinched with the kind of worry that the nursing staff talk about avoiding at all costs. He needs his routine, they tell me, when I arrive to take him out for one of our adventures as I call them. Feeding the ducks in Saint Anne’s Park. He still likes doing that. Even though he’s started to eat the bread himself.
Or to that nice café in Kinsealy where the staff are kind and don’t mind if Dad tears his napkin into a hundred tiny bits and scatters them around his plate. Or takes the sugar sachets out of the bowl and lines them along the edge of the table. Or spreads jam on his ham sandwich, or ketchup on his apple tart. They don’t mention any of that, and they remember his name and smile at him when they’re taking his order as if he is making perfect sense and not getting his words all jumbled up.
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I say. I smile and put my hand on his arm, rub gently. He looks frozen as well as worried.
‘Should I get out?’ He nods towards the door I have opened.
Iris bends towards him. ‘Yes, Mr Keogh, you can get out now,’ she tells him. ‘I’m going to take you for a cup of tea while Terry is organising your ferry tickets back to Dublin.’ She looks at me then, and I say nothing, and she nods as if I haven’t said nothing. As if I have agreed with her, because, let’s face it, that’s what most people do.
‘And a bun?’ Dad asks.
‘Of course,’ says Iris.
He negotiates himself out of the car. The sluggishness of the endeavour suits me, as I need time to think.
THINK.
I lift Iris’s bag out of the back seat. She’s travelling light. I’d say three days’ worth of clothes inside.
Which means I have maybe three days.
Three days.
During which Brendan will worry himself sick about the Canadians. There are young people in his department. Two of them with brand-new mortgages and one with a brand-new baby.
Last in, first out. Isn’t that what they say?
And Anna. Conscientious, hardworking Anna, who, despite all her conscientiousness and hard work, is always convinced that she will fail every exam she has ever sat. And these are her finals. Not a weekly spelling test. Although it is true to say that she worried about those too.
And then there’s Kate’s play, debuting in Galway next week. Which is a marvellous thing, of course it is. But she’ll be stressed about it and pretending she’s not stressed at all, which, in my experience, makes the thing you’re stressed about even more stressful.
I am needed at home.
What will happen if I’m not there?
I can’t imagine not being there. I’ve always been there.
But I’m already not there, and, so far, nothing has happened. Nothing bad at any rate. But it’s only been – I check my watch – seven hours since I left the house this morning. How can it only be seven hours? They don’t even know I’m gone yet. Brendan will assume I didn’t get on the boat, I know he will.
Because I am needed at home.
Apart from all that, am I really thinking about dragging my father behind me for three days? And apart from all that, Iris will go berserk if she even suspects that I am considering doing anything other than what she has told me to do.
THINK.
In the terminal building, Iris shows me where the ticket sales office is. ‘We’ll be in here, okay?’ she says, nodding towards a café that smells like the oil in the deep-fat fryer needs changing as a matter of urgency.
Iris smiles her full-on, no-holds-barred smile at me. ‘Thanks Terry,’ she says.
‘For what?’
‘Just … for being so understanding.’
I nod.
I understand nothing.
I stop outside the ticket sales
office. Iris turns just before she and Dad enter the café and I make a great show of rummaging in my bag for something. My purse, perhaps. Yes, my purse. I find it easily. I make a great show of finding it. Kate will not be casting me in one of her plays any time soon. In my peripheral vision, Iris waits. My father looks around in his confused, vexed way as if he has no idea what he is doing here but he is certain it is nothing good.
I walk into the ticket sales office, my purse held aloft like a prize.
Once I am out of Iris’s line of vision, I take out my mobile. There’s a missed call from Brendan. I dial his number. The girls are always at me to programme people’s numbers into my phone, but I prefer doing it this way. It gives me time to gather my thoughts. Work out what I’m going to say.
Brendan answers the phone immediately, as if he’s been sitting beside it, waiting for it to ring.
‘Terry?’ he says. ‘Where are you?’
The small speech I had prepared deserts me. It wasn’t a speech exactly, just, you know, a collection of words. Sentences. An explanation. I had the words ‘unforeseen circumstances’ in there somewhere. I’m pretty sure I did. Now there’s nothing. Just a blank space in my head where the small speech had been.
‘I’m in Holyhead,’ I say.
‘Holyhead?’ As if he’s never heard of it.
‘Yes. The ferry port in Wales.’
‘What the hell are you doing there?’ His use of the word ‘hell’ jolts me. We don’t use words like that. And I can’t remember the last time he raised his voice. Not even at the telly when Dublin played in the final. In fact, I can’t remember the last time we argued, me and Brendan. It’s been ages. Years, I’d say.
‘Well, Iris is talking about going to a concert.’ This seems so … preposterous all of a sudden.
‘A concert?’ Brendan’s tone is halting, as though he’s positive he’s misheard.
‘Jason Donovan,’ I offer, just to get it out of the way. ‘He was in that soap opera, remember? Neighbours.’
Rules of the Road Page 4