He chews on his lower lip, the way he used to when he was concentrating, watching a horse race on the telly, or studying the form in the paper.
‘Do you think I’ll see her soon?’ he says.
I hesitate. ‘Well … if you believe in, you know … God and heaven and stuff like that …’
‘Heaven?’
‘Yes. It’s a place you go. Some people believe you go there. When you … die.’ Why am I saying that word? Out loud? I don’t want Iris to hear me saying it. And why didn’t I tell Dad what I usually tell him? Instead of talking about death. Talking about what happens after you die, depending on what you believe.
I suddenly realise that I don’t believe. I haven’t for ages. Maybe not ever. Which is funny when you consider that I still go to mass. Not every Sunday, but some Sundays. I still go. So does Brendan. And I have no idea what he believes any more. Or if he believes any more.
‘I think death is a positive thing,’ says Iris, glancing at me from the passenger seat.
‘Death?’ says Dad, his eyes wide.
‘Why on earth would you say that?’ I hiss at Iris.
‘Sorry,’ Iris says. ‘I just mean, without death, life wouldn’t be so precious, you know? We’d just … exist I suppose.’
‘You’re right, Iris,’ I say. ‘Life is precious.’ My tone is pointed. Which is not helpful. It must be the effects of last night’s fitful sleep. A night like that would sharpen anyone’s tone.
‘I say my three Hail Marys every night in bed,’ Dad says.
‘Do you, Dad?’ This surprises me. That he remembers the words, for starters. He always used to say, Lower me down the mossy bank and that’s a wrap. I never thought he believed in an afterlife. I mean, yes, he went to mass every Sunday with my mother and made sure Hugh and I did too. If we went to a different mass to them, Dad would quiz us when we got home. Who said mass and what the gospel was about and who did Saint Paul write a letter to in the second reading. It was nearly always the Corinthians.
‘I don’t want to die,’ Dad says in a small voice.
‘We’re going to see the white cliffs of Dover, Mr Keogh, Iris pipes up then in the bright, breezy voice of distraction.
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re famous.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a detour,’ I say, ‘and afterwards, we’ll be—’
‘Detours should be clearly marked to aid the flow of traffic,’ Dad says.
‘Don’t worry, Dad, I know the way,’ I say.
Which may not, strictly speaking, be true.
15
IF YOU ARE TOWING ANOTHER VEHICLE, MAKE SURE THE TOW BAR IS STRONG ENOUGH.
We stop at the Visitors’ Centre so that Iris can use the facilities, Dad can have a cup of tea and a slice of Bakewell tart, and I can study the information panels on the walls, where I learn much, most significantly:
The cliffs are made of chalk and are constantly crumbling;
One must NEVER walk on the edge of the cliffs because they’re made of chalk and are constantly crumbling;
It’s a long way down. Three hundred and fifty feet to be precise.
On a map, a trail is shown, leading east from the Visitors’ Centre to the South Foreland Lighthouse. Too far for crutches. And for Dad with his recently acquired shuffle, as if he’s wearing slippers that are too big for him.
I look over at him. He has cut his tart into minuscule pieces and has corralled them on the edge of his plate. He ushers one of the tiny pieces to the centre of the plate with his knife, lances it and guides it towards his mouth. He used to wolf his food.
‘Dad?’ He looks up, his knife midway to his mouth with its little cargo of cake. I start most of my sentences to him with that word. Dad. So he will know. So he will remember that I am his daughter.
I try to imagine me, forgetting Anna or Kate. I can’t imagine it. And it’s not just because I have a poor imagination. They are hot-wired into my brain, my children. There are certain things that people can’t forget. Like Dad, with rules of the road and his Frank Sinatra story – although that never happened, obviously. He made that up after he began displaying symptoms. The consultant said that can sometimes occur. Even so, it is a story that Dad believes to be true and knows by heart, just like the lyrics to all his favourite songs.
My daughters are my lyrics. My rules of the road. My memories of them must surely be safe. Outside the reign of this disease.
‘Oh. Hello,’ Dad says. ‘When did you arrive?’
‘Just now,’ I say. There was a time when I would try to encourage him to remember.
‘Dad, I need to make a phone call,’ I say. ‘I need to phone Brendan.’
‘Brendan?’
‘My husband.’
‘Oh yes. Of course.’ I used to hate it when he pretended to remember. Now, it makes me glad. It’s like an effort that he makes, just for me.
‘I’m going to go outside to phone him. There’s better reception outside.’
‘Okay.’
‘So, will you stay here? Until I get back?’
‘No sweat,’ he says, which is one of his old expressions and I study his face to see if I can glimpse him there, but he just smiles and says, ‘When did you arrive?’
‘I’ll be back in a minute, okay?’
The tiny parcel of cake drops off the blade of his knife and he chases it around his plate, spears it, guides it to his mouth.
Outside there is a bench in the sun and I sit on it with my phone in my hand. This will be the third time I’ve phoned Brendan during work hours since Monday. Before then, I had rung him five times at the office in all the years he’s worked for GoldStar Insurance.
The first time, I was in labour with Kate in the fruit and veg. aisle in Superquinn. Well, I thought I was. Kate eventually arrived two weeks later.
Then there was the time that Anna caught her finger in the hinge of her doll’s pram. And when Kate stood on the piece of glass on Portmarnock beach.
The day my mother died.
And the day I lost Dad in town. That was the day Brendan slid the brochure for Sunnyside over to my side of the kitchen table. He was right, really. About Dad. It was harder than I thought.
His phone rings and rings and I’m trying to work out what message I’ll leave on his voicemail when he answers with his curt, ‘Brendan Shepherd.’
‘It’s me,’ I say.
‘I know.’ There’s the impatience he has employed for all of my – now, eight – phone calls to him at work. I feel my heartbeat pick up speed as if we are in the middle of a terrible argument, which we are not.
‘Why did you say Brendan Shepherd then? If you knew it was me? Why didn’t you just say hello?’ My voice is louder than it needs to be. There is an edge to it.
‘That’s how I always answer the phone,’ says Brendan.
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘It’s all right,’ he says, and I can feel my anger again, rising like bile from an empty stomach and I don’t know why I feel angry, I really don’t.
‘Actually, I’m not sorry,’ I say.
‘Are you angry with me?’
‘No. But I just … I didn’t mean to say sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Habit, I suppose.’
‘Are you okay, Terry?’
‘Yes.’
‘When are you coming home?’
‘It … depends.’ He doesn’t ask what it depends on. I suppose he knows. But still, it would be nice if he said something.
‘Kate is driving up this evening,’ he says then.
‘Kate? Why? Is everything all right?’ Kate visits, of course she does. But not without notice. Lots of notice. Besides, she is up to her eyes in preparation for opening night.
‘Yes, calm down. Everything is fine,’ says Brendan as if he is rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, which is the thing he does when he is tired. ‘She’s getting some paperwork from her bedroom, she said.’
‘What paperwork?’
&nb
sp; ‘I don’t know. I’m just telling you what she said.’
‘There’s no paperwork in her room.’
‘I didn’t give her the third degree. She’s a grown woman.’
Brendan has been telling me that my children are grown women for years. And I know they are. But I also know that Kate is not coming home for paperwork, because I clean her room every Friday and I can attest to the fact that there is no paperwork in her room. And none belonging to her anywhere else in the house.
And then it clicks.
She’s coming home for Egg.
Some kids have a comfort blanket. A soother. A thumb. Kate had Egg. Egg was a soft, squashy yellow pig. My mother bought it for her. They were inseparable, Kate and Egg. Kate slept with him, brought him to playschool and to primary school. When she got too old for such things, she brought Egg anyway. I worried about this – what the other children might say, what they might do – but I also admired it, because Kate did not share my worry about what the other children might say or what they might do.
Egg was Kate’s lucky charm. She was convinced that, without Egg, all of the good things that happened to her would stop happening. Of course, I worried about this too. What if Kate lost Egg? Or he fell out of the buggy? Or got left behind at the playground where she insisted on bringing him, pushing Egg in the baby swing for as long as he wanted, which was always a long time.
After Kate’s first-year exams in English and Drama at Trinity – Egg was secreted into the examination hall, in Kate’s satchel – the pig was, well, decommissioned you might call it. Put on the shelf in Kate’s room, its once soft yellow body now a hard, matted grey in spite of the care I had employed in Egg’s personal hygiene over the years. He was a collection of missing parts; one eye, half an ear, three legs, no tail. Every week, when I dust and vacuum the girls’ bedrooms, I try not to catch Egg’s one good eye as he slumps, forgotten, on the shelf in Kate’s room.
Except he is not forgotten. Because Kate is coming back for him, which means Kate is stressed.
And I’m not there.
My daughter is stressed. Stressed enough to come home. I should be there.
‘Terry?’
‘What?’
‘I was just wondering if you’ve done anything about the hotel in Galway yet? Kate will ask me and …’
‘No,’ I say. And there it is again, the anger, flaring like a distress signal. Maybe I’m getting my period? No, it’s not due. Or maybe I’m menopausal? It could be that, I’m getting to that age, surely?
‘No?’ Brendan can’t believe it. And in fairness, under ordinary circumstances, I’d be on top of things like that.
‘No,’ I say again, and then I add, ‘Have you?’ I don’t know why.
‘What? No! Of course not. Terry, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation here, with the Canadians. It’s wall-to-wall meetings and endless reports, and then there’s the accent. It’s just so relentless. I mean, they’re anxious that you don’t mix them up with Americans, but then it’s all have a nice day and my great-grandfather was from Bally bloody Bay.’
‘Brendan, I—’
‘… and they’ve started interviewing my staff. For the luxury of keeping their own jobs …’
‘Brendan?’
‘… was initially supposed to be a fifteen per cent rationalisation process, but it’s perfectly obvious that the scope of it is far greater than—’
‘BRENDAN!’ I shout it, and a wood pigeon in a nearby silver birch tree takes to the air in a frenzy of wings.
Brendan stops talking.
‘I was just …’ I say, ‘… trying to get your attention.’
Down the line, I hear the rasp of his fingers across his jaw, which will already be shadowed by stubble in spite of the rigorous shave he will have subjected it to this morning.
‘You have my attention,’ he says.
‘Oh. Okay. Good.’
‘What were you going to say?’ he asks.
‘I can’t remember,’ I say.
‘Maybe you were ringing to let me know where you are?’
‘Yes,’ I say, although I’m not entirely sure why I rang. And I wish I hadn’t now. I wish I didn’t know about Kate.
‘So,’ he says after a bit, ‘where are you?’
‘Dover.’
‘Dover? I can’t believe you’re—’
‘Listen Brendan,’ I say, and even though I’m not shouting or even raising my voice, he stops in the middle of his sentence. Stops short.
‘I’m going with Iris. As far as I have to. I’m not leaving her on her own. She’d do the same for me. So I would appreciate it if you could stop exclaiming every time I tell you where I am. Is that something you can do?’
‘Your timing couldn’t be worse,’ says Brendan.
‘There’s no need for you to tell me that. I already know,’ I say. ‘And I already feel bad about it. But as I say, I’m not going to leave—’
‘This is serious, Terry. You could be in real difficulty with the authorities.’
‘You haven’t told anyone, have you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Because there’s no need, you know. I’m going to stop her.’
Brendan laughs. A short, brittle laugh. ‘Nobody can stop Iris. She’s like an army tank, once she gets going.’
‘Well I will. I’m going to make her change her mind.’
He pauses for a moment, then says, ‘You really think you can, don’t you?’ His tone is surprised. It makes me want to hang up.
‘So listen,’ I say, ‘you’re going to have to phone the hotel in Galway yourself. Sort out whatever needs to be sorted out, okay? It’s much too expensive for me to be ringing them from England. Or France.’
‘France? Bloody hell, Ter—’
‘I’m going to hang up now.’
‘No! Wait, I … how are you fixed for money? Did you bring your laser card? And your American Express?’ This is how Brendan apologises, I suddenly realise. He throws money at the situation.
‘I have everything I need,’ I tell him.
‘Okay. Okay, good. That’s … good.’
And I should probably leave it there but instead, I say, ‘My mother left me some funds in an account.’
‘Oh, you never said.’
‘No.’
‘I mean, it’s fine, I just …’
‘She called it a running away from home account.’ It’s like I can’t stop talking.
‘Is that what you’re doing?’ A bemused tone now. As if it is a ludicrous notion. Me. Running away from home.
Or just leaving. Leaving is more dignified.
He’s probably right. It is ludicrous. I am not someone who leaves.
‘I don’t think so.’ I can tell from the silence that he is as shocked by my response as I am.
Of course I’m not leaving.
For starters, where would I go?
On the other end of the line there is silence.
‘The line is bad, Brendan, I better go. I’ll ring you later, okay? Or tomorrow. All right?’
I hang up.
I know what he’ll be thinking. He’ll be thinking it’s because of Iris. I don’t think he ever really took to Iris. The gale force of her compared to my gentle breeze.
Brendan prefers a gentle breeze.
‘Are you going out with Iris again?’ That is his usual refrain, now that I think about it. The undercurrent of resentment there, beneath the calm surface. You only notice the pull if you dive in, which I do not. Instead, I invite him along. To the book festival or the play or the pub quiz or the concert. Because I know he won’t come.
It’s not really my cup of tea.
That’s what he says.
It’s not his cup of tea.
But what is his cup of tea?
You cannot be married to someone for a quarter of a century and not know what their cup of tea is.
Can you?
Of course I know what his cup of tea is. He likes to play gol
f. Or at least he plays it every Sunday afternoon. When he comes home, I ask how his game went and he says terrible or dreadful or desperate, and I say why? and he’ll say something about the course or the weather or his gammy knee and I’ll say, oh no or poor you or better luck next time and he’ll ask what’s for dinner? even though we nearly always have curry on Sundays, and then I tell him about my plans for that evening and he says, oh, you’re going out with Iris again? and I invite him along and he says it’s not really my cup of tea and then I put the kettle on and he starts the Sudoku and I make him a cup of tea just the way he likes it – half a spoon of sugar and a dribble of milk – and after dinner he says, leave the washing up, I’ll do it, and I kiss his cheek before I go to the thing with Iris that is not his cup of tea and now that I’m thinking about it, I realise that sometimes my mouth doesn’t even touch his cheek. When I kiss him.
And now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t actually remember the last time I kissed him. Properly I mean. On his mouth. With my arms tight around him and my eyes closed.
I wish I could stop thinking these things. They aren’t that important, in the scheme of things.
You can’t run away from home just because you don’t remember the last time you kissed your husband with your eyes closed. Or with your arms tight around him.
That’s not something you could tell Angela in number thirty-four. It has to be something significant. An affair perhaps. Or a gambling addiction. Or, I don’t know, some sort of cruelty.
Brendan says he’s too tired to have an affair.
And he’d never put more than five euro on a Cheltenham race once a year.
And when we had a mouse in the kitchen that time, he fashioned a trap with a plastic bottle and toothpicks and elastic bands. When he caught the mouse, he released it into the field behind our house.
So I can’t cite cruelty when I’m trying to get Angela from number thirty-four to understand why I’ve run away from home.
And why am I trying to get Angela from number thirty-four to understand anyway?
I shouldn’t care about Angela from number thirty-four. I shouldn’t care what she thinks about me running away from home.
Rules of the Road Page 13