‘Tough tits?’ Iris raises her eyebrows at me and I know she’s mocking me because I am not the type of person who says tits, tough or otherwise. I say breasts, of course, if I have to refer to them at all, which I generally haven’t since I stopped breastfeeding.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Tough tits.’ I emphasise the word. Tits.
It sounds funny, the word. Maybe the repetition of it. I don’t know. Whatever the reason, we end up laughing and Iris’s eyes water so it looks like she’s crying and it dawns on me that I’ve never seen Iris cry before.
This seems incredible, given that I have known Iris Armstrong for seven years. But no, I’m certain that she has never cried in all that time. Not even when the doctor gave her the news about her MS. I remember her that day, shrugging and saying, ‘It is what it is,’ in a resigned, almost disinterested way.
Perhaps already, she was making her plans.
Iris stops laughing, clears her throat. ‘Look, Terry, I don’t want to have to worry about you,’ she says, but her voice is not as adamant as before. I sweep in with a brisk, ‘Well then, don’t,’ as if not worrying is as easy as deciding not to worry. I stand up and make a great production of lifting and folding the coat I slept under. Subject closed. I hold my breath.
‘Is that real fur?’ Iris looks at the coat. I think I’ve won this round. Won is the wrong word. Yet I can’t help feeling sort of elated.
‘No it’s not,’ I say, although I’m not certain of this. There’s a meaty smell off the coat. And it’s heavy too. Perhaps I did sleep after all. I seem to remember jerking awake at one point, convinced that Coco Chanel was laid out on top of me.
In the kitchen, Vera is wearing a leopard-print apron over her clothes. And the same shoes. The black high heels. No popsocks. The bulge of bunions. The tops of her feet are blue with sluggish circulation, shot through with raised, knotted veins. Her feet are the feet of an elderly woman, but her shoes are the shoes of a woman who will give you short shrift if you offer to carry her shopping bags.
I am surprised to discover that Iris is wrong.
Vera does cook.
At least, she’s cooking today.
She has covered her head with a scarf, turban-style, also leopard print. A cigarette dangles precariously from the corner of her mouth and it’s just a matter of time before the long, thin ash falls into the pan.
The pan is crammed with rashers and sausages and white and black pudding, and is perched on a portable camping hob, connected to a gas cylinder, which obviously prompts worry about carbon monoxide poisoning.
Iris reads my mind, grins and tells me I’d be better off worrying about food poisoning.
Luckily Vera can’t hear us over the sizzle of meat.
She turns around. ‘’Bout time you lot got out of the scratcher. How’d you like your eggs?’
‘There’s no need for you to cook, Vera,’ says Iris.
‘Why? Ain’t you hungry?’ says Vera.
‘I’m starving,’ I say before Iris gets a chance to respond. ‘We all are, aren’t we?’ I widen my eyes at Iris, who sighs and shakes her head. ‘Fine,’ she says.
I smell burning.
‘What can I do to help?’ I say.
‘Not a thing, sweetheart. You sit yourself down and pour some tea. I made a pot.’
Vera ushers us to the table, which she has set with mismatching plates and stained cutlery and chipped mugs. In the middle of the table, a loaf of white bread, ketchup, brown sauce, a bag of sugar, and a fresh carton of milk.
‘Where’s the lord of the manor?’ Vera asks.
‘He’s still asleep,’ I say. ‘He had a long day yesterday.’
‘So you staying in London for a few days, then?’
‘We’re leaving today,’ Iris says in the curt way she uses when she is talking to her mother.
‘Here you are, Iris,’ says Vera, setting a plate piled with food in front of her daughter. ‘Get that into you, love. You look like you could do with a bit of feeding up.’
It’s true to say that Iris has lost some weight recently. I only notice it now that Vera has said it.
‘I’ll just have an egg,’ I say as Vera begins to load a second plate. She turns slowly towards me, holding a fork in one hand. Grease drips from the prongs onto the floor.
‘Watcha mean?’ says Vera.
‘I mean, just, you know, an egg. Any kind of egg.’
‘Why would you just want an egg?’ says Vera.
‘Well … the thing is …’
‘Terry is a vegetarian,’ says Iris.
‘A vegetarian?’ says Vera. She says the word slowly, rolls it around her mouth as if she is tasting it.
‘Yes,’ says Iris. She takes a slice of bread out of the bag, butters it.
Vera looks at me. ‘So … you don’t eat meat?’ she says.
‘No.’
‘What do you eat then?’
‘Well, you know, vegetables and …’
‘But no meat?’
‘No.’
‘You can’t just eat vegetables.’
‘I eat other things as well.’
‘What other things?’ says Vera, as the grease from the fork continues to drip onto the floor.
‘Lots of things. Like eggs. And cheese. And beans. And—’
‘I got beans!’ Vera says, her face flooding with relief.
‘Don’t worry. An egg will be lovely. I love eggs.’ I smile a wide, wide smile to demonstrate to Vera how much I love eggs. Vera looks at Iris, who nods. ‘It’s true. Terry really loves eggs.’
Vera shakes her head again before turning to face the carnivorous pan.
The arrival of Dad in the room provides a welcome distraction.
‘Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian, an’ all,’ Vera says, pronging four sausages with the fork and shaking them towards Dad in a vaguely confrontational manner.
‘They’re burned,’ he says, pointing at the sausages that are indeed hard and black.
‘He says that about all food,’ I tell Vera, which is not true. He only says it about burned food.
I stand up and usher Dad into my chair, butter a slice of bread for him, smear it with jam. Vera pours him a cup of tea.
Iris – in fairness to her – makes her way through the mountain of food on her plate. ‘Thank you,’ she says to her mother when she manages to finish it. ‘That was … lovely.’
‘Least I can do,’ says Vera. Her voice is careful. The two women look at each other and I hold my breath because I don’t know what will happen next. If something will be said that can never be unsaid.
But nothing happens. Nothing is said.
Vera puts Iris’s plate on the arm of the enormous armchair – there is no room left on the counter – and sits down.
‘Are you not having any breakfast?’ I ask her.
‘’Course I am,’ she says, holding out her cigarette in one hand and her mug of tea in the other. ‘Tea and a fag. I can be vegetarian too, see?’
We all laugh. It sounds good, that blend of laughs. It sounds like a good and certain thing, our laughter in that small space that smells of burned food and cigarette smoke and long-gone dog.
So afterwards, when Iris stands up and says, ‘We should go,’ it doesn’t sound as bad as it might have. Before the laughing I mean. It just sounds like a casual statement of fact.
We should go. Vera offers to drive us to the carpark in Chinatown but Iris declines.
‘Thanks but we’ll get a taxi,’ she says. My relief is solid and glorious.
We gather our coats and our bags and we head for the door.
‘Ta-ra now,’ says Vera, stubbing her cigarette out on a rasher rind. ‘Thanks for popping in,’ like we’re regular visitors.
Dad waves and shuffles towards the door. Vera stands beside Iris. ‘You be careful now,’ she says. ‘No more falling down, yeah?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ says Iris.
Vera looks at Iris then. Really looks at her. ‘Your dad did a right good j
ob with you,’ she says.
I wonder what Iris will say, but she doesn’t say anything. She just nods.
‘You know where to find me now. If you’re ever in need of some TCP. Or TLC.’ Vera does her cackle-laugh.
Iris says, ‘Goodbye then,’ and Vera stops laughing. Iris leans on her sticks and follows Dad out the door.
I bring up the rear. Vera glances at me and I pause in front of her.
In the end, I hug her. I don’t know why. Her slight, bony frame fits easily into the circle of my arms. At first she stiffens, but, strangely for me, I persist. I keep hugging her, and eventually she relents. I feel her body flag, yield. Her shoulders lower and her arms, which were rigid by her sides, loosen. She lifts her hands, flutters them along my arms, allows them to rest briefly on my shoulders.
Vera is hugging me back.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ I say into the scratchy fabric of her headscarf.
When I release her, her face is flushed, as though she has applied two circles of rouge to her cheeks. ‘You better keep your wits about you,’ she says, ‘if you’re going to keep up with that pair.’
14
DETOURS SHOULD BE CLEARLY MARKED TO AID THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC.
The car is still in Chinatown, in the car park, exactly where I left it. My surprise is such that I realise I expected it to be gone. Towed away by the car park management perhaps. Or stolen. Or damaged.
I am further surprised to discover that I was not all that worried about any of these outcomes. I was resigned.
Resignation is undeserving of its negative connotations. It can be a good thing. Because Iris, it seems, is also resigned. She appears to have resigned herself to the changed circumstances of this trip. To the fact of Dad and me. Being here.
I force my face to remain impassive when the ticket machine displays the amount I owe.
‘I’ll pay,’ says Iris, taking her bank card out of her wallet.
‘No,’ I say, feeding twenty-pound notes into the ravenous mouth of the machine.
‘I have a lot of disposable income now,’ Iris says. ‘And not much time to dispose of it.’ Her tone is jocular.
‘I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about that,’ I say.
‘I’m not talking about it, I am merely making a passing reference to it in a comical fashion,’ Iris says.
‘It’s not that comical.’
‘It’s black humour.’
I pull the receipt out of the machine, stuff it into my purse. I don’t know why I keep it. Habit, I suppose. I keep all my receipts. Record them in a ledger at the end of each month. Have done for years. It’s not really a ledger, not in the professional sense. Just a record of outgoings. Brendan says there’s no need, but I do it anyway. You’re more careful when it’s somebody else’s money you’re spending.
Sometimes the girls asked why I didn’t have a job like their friends’ mothers. Even a part-time one. They didn’t understand. They were my job. I did it to the very best of my ability and it’s okay that I never got thanked, or paid, or promoted or a gold watch at the end. It’s okay that nobody patted me on the back and said, Well done. I’m fine with that.
It’s the niggling sensation that your daughters might look at you now and feel the tiniest bit sorry for you.
That’s the bit that stings.
I take the receipt out of my purse and tear it up. Toss the pieces into the glove compartment, like someone who couldn’t care less. Because this is not Brendan’s money. It’s mine.
I drive through the streets of London. There are ten million Londoners, and on this Tuesday morning, it feels like all of them are here. In their cars and on their bikes. Crammed into their buses and taxis. Steam erupts from a vent in the road ahead, and below, the rumble of the Tube. Above, planes circle like vultures, waiting for their chance to land.
Iris takes her phone out of her bag, opens a GPS application, but I don’t need it because I remember the way back to the Airbnb.
I can scarcely believe it.
Turns out my sense of direction isn’t as bad as I thought.
Turns out that being familiar with a route means driving it once.
Iris is impressed. I can tell.
When I pass the Sue Ryder shop, I see Jennifer, standing outside, having a cigarette. I check my mirror; there is no traffic behind me, which, given it’s London, seems like a definite Sign. I stop the car, put my hazard lights on.
‘What are you doing?’ asks Iris.
‘Why are we stopping?’ asks Dad.
I don’t answer them. Instead, I open the door, step onto the road.
‘Jennifer,’ I shout. ‘Hi. It’s Terry. From yesterday.’
Jennifer looks at me. So do about a hundred other people, which was not my intention. Still, there’s nothing I can do about that now. I twirl. A full 360 degrees. The mohair jumper clings to my body, and the pink tulle high-waisted midi-skirt carousels around my legs. I close my eyes so I can’t see anyone’s reaction to a middle-aged woman twirling in public.
I do one full rotation and then I open my eyes. The world is a little skewed now, which just goes to show how unused I am to twirling.
‘I’m wearing my clothes,’ I shout at Jennifer, spreading my arms. Which, I realise, is a bizarre kind of thing to proclaim in the middle of a street in broad daylight.
‘You look amazing,’ Jennifer shouts back, barely audible over the blare of the horns of cars that have now collected in a line behind mine.
I wave in an apologetic way to the nearest driver. His mouth is moving fast, and there are specks of white spittle on his fleshy lips. His arms are gesticulating wildly, and his face floods with the colour purple.
I worry that he’s going to do himself an injury, I really do.
I get back into the car, turn off the hazards and release the handbrake.
‘What’s gotten into you?’ Iris asks, looking at me like I’ve got, I don’t know, a unicorn horn growing out of my forehead.
‘That was Jennifer. From Sue Ryder’s. Remember I was telling you about—’
‘Yes I know, but … you were twirling. In the middle of the road.’
‘I know.’
‘Well?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say to Iris, and I really don’t. I haven’t a clue.
Iris leans back against her seat, eyes me cautiously as though I’m an animal escaped from the zoo. Or a circus, God love them. Either way, she’s looking at me as if she’s not quite sure what to expect, and for this, I cannot blame her.
In the Airbnb, I sit Dad at the kitchen table and feed him his tablets. Ten of them. He can only take one at a time now, and sometimes he spits them out and holds them in this hand, like an offering.
That’s what I’m doing when I make the decision about Dover. About visiting the white cliffs before we get on the ferry.
I have done the maths and I am certain we have time.
After Iris is out of the shower, I put Dad in the bathroom with his electric shaver. He loves shaving. Sometimes he does it twice a day. I think it’s because it’s something he remembers how to do. The ritual of it. It’s entrenched in his memory, buried deeper than the disease can reach.
A dig in the grave. That’s what he calls a shave. I gather my new wardrobe, pack everything into Dad’s suitcase.
Iris is sitting on the roof terrace. She has changed into her tiger-print harem pants and a bright-yellow T-shirt. I should probably do the same. My clothes smell of Vera’s flat; cigarette smoke and Coco Chanel.
Iris sits in the deckchair, her long legs elevated on a stool. Her hair darkens to nearly black when it is wet. She looks like her old self. She looks great.
The cramped roof terrace looks more like The Secret Garden, with Iris in it.
‘Have you got sunblock on?’ I say.
‘You’re mammying me,’ she says.
‘Occupational hazard,’ I say.
I sit beside her. ‘So. What are you up to?’
‘Just smelling
the roses.’ Iris says.
‘How’s your ankle?’
‘Grand.’
‘Do you want me to change the dressing on your forehead?’ I ask. ‘And I’m not mammying you by the way. It’s just, you know, important that you keep it clean.’
‘Thanks,’ says Iris. ‘I appreciate your help by the way. I don’t know if I said that. I was too busy being mad. About falling in the first place. And then Vera rocking up.’
‘Are you still mad with me? About Vera?’
Iris considers the question before she says, ‘No.’ So I know she means it.
I look at my watch. ‘Do you want help?’ I ask. ‘Packing?’
‘There’s no hurry,’ she says. ‘The ferry’s not until half seven this evening.’
‘I thought we’d go earlier.’
‘We’ll just be hanging around the port.’
‘I thought we could be tourists for a bit.’
Iris shakes her head. ‘I just want to get to where I’m going without any more distractions.’
‘I know, but have you ever seen the white cliffs at Dover?’
‘We’ll see them from the boat.’
‘That wouldn’t be the same,’ I say.
‘Yes, but what about my ankle?’ Iris counters, pulling up her trouser leg and pointing at the swelling there, with a sort of triumphant flourish.
‘You can use your sticks,’ I say.
‘But my wrists!’
‘You said they were grand, remember?’
This feels low. Using Iris’s positivity against her. Still, it’s effective because I feel Iris hesitate.
‘Okay, then, if you really want to.’ She sighs and allows herself to look tired, but I don’t take the bait. Instead, I jump up and say, ‘Great. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.’
So here we are, in the car, driving towards the white cliffs of Dover and looking like three ordinary people, notwithstanding Dad’s propensity to take his teeth out and wave them at overtaking cars.
‘Do you want to know where we’re going, Dad?’ I say. He hasn’t asked me in ages.
He shakes his head. ‘Your mother won’t be there, will she?’
‘No.’ I don’t know why I don’t tell the usual lies. I think it might be because he doesn’t usually couch the question in negative terms. Your mother will be there, won’t she? That’s what he would normally ask.
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