Iris never changes her mind.
But there is a first time for everything.
And a deed is not a deed until it is done.
Today is Monday.
I have time.
‘Luton,’ Dad calls out.
‘Watford.’
I am cautiously optimistic that we are going in the right general direction.
Ahead, a petrol station. Where I can fill the tank and consult my A–Z. Get my bearings. It’ll be alright.
The apartment Iris has booked is in Stoke Newington.
‘Is that near the Hippodrome?’ I ask, leafing through the guidebook.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Promise not to laugh?’
‘I’m pretty sure I won’t laugh.’
‘It’s got a secret garden.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s a roof terrace really,’ Iris admits, reddening. ‘But there’s a touch of The Secret Garden about it. You’ll see.’
Iris seems so certain that I’ll get us there. Today. On time.
Stoke Newington is an hour’s drive from Watford, according to the book. Which also tells me that it is 7.4 kilometres from the Hippodrome in Leicester Square where Jason Donovan is playing tonight. Or 4.6 miles, since it’s England and this is the measurement used here. I allow myself a small moment of optimism when some signal returns to my phone. I manage to find the apartment using an app on my phone, which I’ve never used before, since I’ve never driven anywhere I didn’t know the way to before. The woman’s automated voice sounds bored with an edge of impatience. Now, I’m worrying about roaming charges and the congestion tax, but Iris tells me roaming charges have been discontinued, while, with a couple of casual swipes on the screen of her freshly-charged phone, she pays the tax.
She makes everything seem so simple.
What is not simple is the London traffic, lines of it stretching through gridlocked junctions, along what seems like the same street, over and over again. But then I see the street signs, the names of which bring home to me how far away from home we are.
Turn left. Turn right. Turn right. Turn right again. Turn left. Take the second exit here. Straight through the junction there. It feels as though this is how I will spend the rest of my life, following the endless directions issued by an automated voice. It feels as if we will never arrive, so when we do, I am awash with equal measures of drenching shock and exquisite relief.
I look around. I am stopped outside an efficient-looking custom-built apartment block that does not suggest gardens, secret or otherwise. It does, however, have an underground car park to which Iris has the code.
The apartment itself, on the top floor of the block, appears spacious, and this impression is enhanced by the furniture, which is spare. And the echo of our footsteps bounces against the bare walls. There are narrow, steep steps up to the roof, which will be difficult to negotiate on crutches. However, Iris will negotiate them because she was right. There is a secret garden. Although garden might be a little suggestive. The area is small, and what there is of it has more in common with the secret garden at the beginning of that book than the one that flourishes beneath the horticultural attentions of Mary Lennox and her friends. The flowerpots and baskets are overstocked with the remains of last year’s annuals, and vigorous weeds line the gaps between the patio slabs. But while the minuscule water feature is fighting a losing battle with rust, the sound of the water falling over round, smooth stones is pleasant enough, and the deckchair beside it provides a bright splash of red against the vivid green of the ivy that has wrapped itself around the wrought-iron railings that enclose the space and ensure that nobody stumbles off the edge.
Instead of the shy little robin redbreast that shadowed Mary Lennox around the garden, there is a pair of ragged crows, perched on a satellite dish and inspecting me with cold black eyes. I step towards them and flail my arms. They don’t move.
At least the railings seem sturdy enough. The ground is a long way down.
Inside, the walls are painted a watery shade of cream and the grey floor tiles are cold underfoot. The kitchen, usually my favourite part of any house, is a line of gleaming appliances and spotless cupboards and marble countertops. The cooker looks as though it’s never been switched on.
Clinical. That’s the word for this kitchen. A wave of loneliness comes over me then, pure and potent. I nearly buckle under the weight of it.
I check my phone for the source of the earlier beep. A missed call from Brendan. I will of course phone him back. Just not now. I’ll do it later. Or tomorrow, when my head might be clearer. I need to clear my head. Get some fresh air. I need to get out of this kitchen. Out of this apartment that seems spacious but is not.
And, I remember, I need knickers. And socks. And a change of clothes. And pyjamas and a toothbrush. And a hairbrush.
Oh, and some sterling.
Which, for some reason, reminds me that I need a plug adaptor.
For France.
If we ever get to France.
Which we probably won’t. Because surely Iris will come to her senses before then?
I settle Dad in front of the telly, look for some sports or wildlife programme, or maybe a western. I happen upon Ronnie O’Sullivan playing snooker against Mark Selby in the Crucible. Dad immediately straightens in the armchair, folds his arms across his chest. ‘Quarter-ball on the green,’ he says, nodding towards the screen.
He manages to retain vocabulary for certain things. Snooker is one of those things. A testament perhaps to his collection of trophies and medals that once lined the shelves of my parents’ ‘good’ room, and now fill an enormous cardboard box in a dark corner of my attic.
Ronnie drapes himself along the edge of the table, the cue sliding through the V between his thumb and finger, towards the white ball. He pots the green. ‘That’s how it’s done, Ronnie, my boy,’ Dad tells him.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, Dad,’ I say, moving towards the door.
‘Sure thing, love,’ he says, without lifting his eyes from the screen.
Iris is in one of the twin beds in the smaller of the two bedrooms. In her Women’s Mini-Marathon T-shirt which she ran for the Alzheimer’s Society last year.
It was only twelve months ago that Iris ran ten kilometres and it didn’t cost her a thought.
Now she’s in bed in the middle of the afternoon.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘I’m having a rest.’
‘You never have rests.’ I realise my tone could be described as accusatory. It’s like she’s standing on a soapbox, proclaiming the fact of her MS to anyone who will listen. It’s like she’s rubbing it in my face.
‘I often have rests,’ Iris says. ‘It’s just that I have them in my own house so you don’t see me.’
‘Well, you never say that you’re having rests in your own house.’
‘I know you’re angry with me,’ Iris says. ‘I get it.’
‘Why would I be angry with you?’
‘Because of this.’ Iris gestures around the bare room. ‘This … situation.’
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I just came up to let you know that I’m going shopping. I wondered if you need anything?’
Iris shakes her head. ‘No. Thanks. Where are you going shopping? I didn’t see a Marks and Spencer around here.’ She grins. We both know how dependent I am on Marks & Spencer. But I can’t help it. It’s just such a … comfortable shopping experience. I know where everything is, and it’s not too expensive, and the quality is reliable, and yes, the clothes mightn’t make you stand out in a crowd, but that’s not what I’m aiming for, when I dress myself every morning.
‘You can leave your dad here,’ Iris says. ‘I’ll keep an ear out for him.’
‘Ah no, you won’t be able to get any sleep.’
‘I’m not sleeping. I’m just resting.’
‘Okay then, if you’re sure. I won’t be long. I’ll get some food
.’
‘No, don’t. I’m taking you and Mr Keogh out for dinner tonight. I thought we’d go to a tapas restaurant.’
‘That sounds great.’ It’s not exactly a Sign. And I’m sure Iris doesn’t remember, but the first time I tasted tapas was with her.
Iris lifts her head, props it on her hand. ‘Do you remember those tapas we had? On Suffolk Street.’
I sit on the edge of her bed. ‘I do.’
‘You told me that night how Wilbur the pig turned you into a vegetarian on your eighth birthday, remember?’
‘I remember,’ I say, smiling.
Mam collected me from school that day, the two of us sitting on the top deck of the bus, playing I Spy, getting off in town, me gripping her hand as we walked across O’Connell Street towards Eason’s bookshop. I scanned the footpath for a policeman. Mam always said if I got lost, I should find a policeman, so I used to keep an eye out for them, just in case.
I read the whole book that day. Charlotte’s Web. Which was how I discovered that food like rashers and sausages and ham and pork all came from pigs like Wilbur. I locked myself in the bathroom and thought about all the rashers and sausages and ham and pork I had eaten. Mam just smiled when I told her that I wouldn’t be eating meat any more. Dad said, ‘You’ll eat what your mother puts in front of you and be bloody grateful for it.’
When Iris pressed me as to why I was a vegetarian in the tapas restaurant that night, I ended up telling her my Charlotte’s Web story.
‘That’s pretty impressive for an eight-year-old,’ she said. I remember the way she looked at me when she said that. An admiring sort of look, which I felt was unwarranted since I had no other tales to tell of heroic childhood deeds. I had mostly been a timid, careful child. But that night in the restaurant, when Iris looked at me like that, I felt perhaps there was more to it. More to me. It was … well, it was lovely.
Iris turns onto her side. Her eyes are closed. I move towards the bedroom door. ‘Terry?’ Iris’s voice is heavy with drowsiness.
‘Yes? I’m here.’
‘They were really good tapas, weren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Now get some rest.’
I walk out of the bedroom, through the hall towards the sitting room. I find I am humming the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus, which is odd as I am not a hummer, as a rule. I remember Iris singing it at the top of her voice on our way to the taxi rank when we left the tapas restaurant that night. And when I joined in – it wasn’t a conscious decision, it just happened – Iris threw her arm around my shoulder and sang even louder. And while it’s fair to say that I am not a natural singer and certainly not in public, nor am I comfortable with such familiarity, I raised my voice too and reached my arm around Iris’s waist.
That was before she needed her sticks. Her hands shook when she examined the menu, but she never referred to it or offered an explanation. Maybe she presumed I knew about her MS from that most dreaded of office shrubbery, the ‘grapevine’, which was the case.
I often forgot she had MS. I told her that once – I was apologising for it, actually – and she said it was the nicest thing anybody ever said to her. She was preparing to climb Carrauntoohil in County Kerry at the time. I was helping her pack, and she threw an enormous bag of pills into the top compartment of her rucksack, and that’s when I made the comment. Iris never had time for her MS. She was too busy getting on with the business of life and it’s funny, even knowing what I know now about primary progressive MS and what an awful diagnosis it is, I would still say that I have never known anybody as in love with life as Iris is. She makes living seem … I don’t know … sort of exotic. Something to be tasted with relish. Like tapas for the first time.
8
MAKE SURE YOUR VEHICLE IS ROADWORTHY.
Outside, it’s overcast and close. And I have to shop. For clothes. I hate shopping for clothes.
There’s no Marks & Spencer. There’s a Tesco Express. And a Starbucks. I buy a toothbrush and toiletries and a takeaway cup of decaffeinated coffee.
The clothes shops are boutiques with bald, angular mannequins in the windows and no price tags on anything. Then I spot a Sue Ryder charity shop across the road.
I’ve never bought anything in a charity shop, although I’ve contributed many black bin bags of the girls’ toys and books and clothes over the years. Not that I’m blowing my own trumpet or anything. It’s just, like I said, I hate waste, and Hugh said not to bother posting the girls’ clothes because his wife wasn’t big on hand-me-downs for Isabella, and besides, the price of the postage to Australia would negate the advantage, wouldn’t I agree?
Hugh’s wife – Cassandra – is a funny one. Not funny exactly, just a bit … aloof perhaps.
The last time Hugh and Cassandra came home, little Isabella was only two, so it must be, oh, five years ago now. They left Isabella with Brendan and me, while they stayed at the Merrion Hotel. They said they didn’t want to discommode us and they didn’t think the Merrion was really suitable for children. Besides, they knew I’d love to spend as much time as possible with my niece.
Which was true, but maybe not at four o’clock in the morning, which was the time she woke, what with the jet lag and the strange surroundings.
She ended up sleeping in my bed every night. Brendan slept in the spare room. He said he didn’t mind.
This must be a swanky part of London because the charity shop is like a proper boutique with an accessories section and an immaculately turned-out young woman with terrifying eyebrows behind the counter and a bright, fresh smell that has no bearing on old, discarded clothes and worn-out shoes.
The young woman eyes me, and I brace myself.
‘Can I help you?’
I always say, No. Thank you. I always say, I’m just browsing.
‘No thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m just browsing.’
‘What are you browsing for?’ asks the woman. Her name badge – handwritten in large, flamboyant print with a love heart instead of a dot over the i – says Jennifer.
‘I kind of need … everything,’ I say.
‘Right,’ she says. ‘You’ve come to the right place. I’d say you’re a …’ She looks me up and down, ‘ten?’
‘Yes, I—’
‘And I’m going to say, given your height, you’re a size seven shoe.’
I nod. She studies my breasts with great concentration.
‘34B?’
‘Yes. How did you …?’
Jennifer shrugs. ‘I’m just doing my job,’ she says with grave conscientiousness. ‘I’m going to step beyond my remit now and tell you a few things about yourself,’ she says, and I am suddenly terrified that she can see right inside me. That she knows everything.
Jennifer narrows her eyes at me. ‘You’re a reluctant shopper.’
‘Eh, well, I suppose you could say th—’
‘Yes or no is fine.’
‘Oh, em, right then, I … yes.’
‘You usually shop in Marks & Spencer.’
‘How did you kn— Sorry. Yes.’
‘You have no interest in style.’
‘Eh, well …’
‘Yes or no?’
‘I suppose not, no.’
‘You like comfortable clothes.’
‘Yes.’ That’s an easy one. Who doesn’t like comfortable clothes?
‘That you can hide inside.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t—’
‘Yes or no?’
‘Well … I don’t … Although I suppose I—’
‘Today’s your lucky day,’ Jennifer tells me, pointing to the fitting room. ‘Get in there and take your clothes off.’
‘All of them?’
But she has swept away and is already pulling various garments off hangers and – worryingly – talking to herself as she does.
My fear of being rude overrides all else and I do as I am bid. I leave my bra and knickers on. She didn’t mean me to remove them? Did she?
No. I’m sure she didn’t.
<
br /> Besides, they don’t sell underwear in charity shops.
Or maybe they do now?
But no, they couldn’t. It’s all second-hand stuff isn’t it?
Even I draw the line at hand-me-down knickers.
‘Eh, I don’t need underwear,’ I call from behind the heavy velvet curtains that separate me from the sales assistant.
She does not respond, although I know she heard me because she paused in her conversation with herself.
‘Are you decent?’ she is good enough to ask, and I am about to tell her that I am standing here in my bra and knickers, only so that she is prepared for it, when she flings back the curtains and surveys me. While the bra and knickers are Marks & Spencer, they are fairly old. Even Marks & Spencer’s underwear gives out eventually.
Mine haven’t given out exactly. They’re just … a bit tired looking.
‘Let’s start with this skirt and top,’ Jennifer says, looking at me in the mirror. I look too and see what she sees. My tired old knickers and bra, my sagging breasts and stretch-marked belly and pasty skin and hairy legs. I see it all. The full glare of me – long and skinny with mousy hair and washed-out blue eyes – in the full-length mirror cruelly lit by bright, Hollywood-style bulbs.
All the better to see you, my dear.
I wrestle myself into the skirt (dry-clean only) and a run-in-the-wash top even though I’ll never buy them because they’re not my colour – a raucous green and purple – and they’re not my style – the skirt’s too short and the top is too, I don’t know, too green and purple.
Still, at least I’m covered up now.
‘Well?’ asks the young woman.
Something sharp on the waistband of the too-short skirt digs into my skin, and the V of the top’s neckline turns out to be a very long V so that I would spend all my time looking down, checking that I am still decent.
I feel a panic-buy coming on.
‘I’ll take them,’ I say. I need to get out of here. I know it could be worse. I could be in one of those awful boutiques where the women comment on my height and say, ‘I know just the thing,’ even though you’ve already told them that you’re only browsing and the just the thing turns out to be a scarf for eighty euros that you won’t ever wear because you don’t ever wear scarves.
Rules of the Road Page 6