‘I’ll ring you when it’s over.’
‘Okay.’
‘Goodbye then.’
‘Goodbye.’
I lean my forehead against the mirror, close my eyes. The cold, hard surface feels good against my face. Cools it. Although the low, dense heat inside me remains. I breathe deeply in an effort to dispel it.
It’s not Brendan’s fault.
He’s just stressed about work.
And it’s a stressful situation.
Still, the resentment smoulders.
I have no right to feel resentful. I have run away from my life. At an inconvenient time. I should feel remorseful.
Shouldn’t I?
I feel tears gathering behind my eyes.
Cry-baby.
I straighten, glare at myself in the mirror. Point a finger at my face. My flushed, resentful face.
‘Stop it,’ I shout at the woman in the mirror, who looks shocked as if I have smacked her across her face.
Still, it works. Instead of crying, I pick my make-up out of my handbag, set to work on repairing my flushed, resentful face.
Back in the cellar, the crowd has thickened and the dancing continues. I stand on the rungs of a bar stool to scan the crowd for Dad. Iris appears at the bar, out of breath. ‘Those fuckers know how to dance,’ she says, leaning on the counter.
‘They really do,’ I say, looking at the blur of dancers moving across the floor. ‘Have you seen Dad?’ I ask.
Iris nods. ‘I saw him earlier. Still waltzing with Dapper Dan. French people do geriatric really well, don’t they?’
‘They’re pickled in wine,’ I say.
‘He’s not a bad mover, your dad.’
‘Mam always said he was a great dancer,’ I say. ‘But I never saw him dancing until tonight.’
The woman behind the bar refills my glass and pours a fresh one for Iris. Iris grins at me and clinks her glass against mine. ‘Isn’t this place fucking brilliant?’
‘It really is,’ I say. ‘And you were brilliant on the piano by the way. It’s been ages since you played.’
‘It felt really good, being able to play again,’ says Iris. She looks so happy. I think this might be a good time to bring up Zurich. How I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to go. Not really. How fine it would be for her to change her mind.
How fucking brilliant.
26
IF ANOTHER DRIVER IS ATTEMPTING TO PROVOKE YOU, DON’T REACT.
Dapper Dan gives us a lift home in a car – a Peugeot, naturally – that’s as well turned out as he is. He holds the front passenger door open for Dad, gestures him inside with a stiff little bow and a flourish of fingers. Iris and I are left to our own devices. From the back seat, Iris taps Dad’s shoulder. ‘Still got it, Mr Keogh,’ she says, winking at him. Dapper Dan does not speak but seems to know where we are staying. He drives even slower than I do. I’d say Iris could walk faster. He pulls up outside the guest house, removes his fedora, and kisses Dad solemnly on both cheeks. He returns the hat to his head and sits back in his seat, ramrod straight with his hands on the wheel. Acknowledging our mercis and bon nuits with the merest nod of his head, he drives away. We wave until the car – eventually – rounds the corner at the top of the road.
Dad holds the garden gate open for us.
‘Doesn’t look like Jackie Sprat and her husband are up,’ says Iris, looking at the house, shuttered and dark.
I nod, pleased. ‘They don’t seem like the night-owl types.’
‘It’d be better if they hated each other,’ Iris says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘At least there’s passion in hate. Nothing passionate about indifference.’
I don’t respond. Something twists inside me as if I’ve eaten a meal that doesn’t agree with me.
But we are not indifferent to each other, Brendan and I. It’s just … well, it’s busy that’s all. There’s always something going on. Lots to do. It’s not always easy to carve time out for your marriage. Is it? It doesn’t mean you’re indifferent.
Does it?
Dad is exhausted all of a sudden. His shuffle-walk is slower than usual. I link one of his arms as we make our way to the front door.
‘Did you enjoy yourself tonight, Dad?’ I ask him.
‘Oh, indeed,’ he says, which means he has no recollection of the evening. The dancing, Dapper Dan, any of it.
That memory has vanished.
It’s like it never happened.
‘You were dancing, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘You’re such a good dancer. I never knew that.’
‘Your mother taught me how to dance,’ he says.
Could that be true?
I never saw them dancing, but that doesn’t mean they never danced.
The thought is refreshing. It brings comfort. Just because you are the child of two people doesn’t mean you know everything about them. A part of their life together happened long before I came along.
I lead Dad to his bedroom. He stands beside the bed, looking around the small, spartan room.
‘Is this where I live now?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Tonight, you live here.’
He nods, as if he suspected as much in this new, ever-changing landscape of his life.
I knock on the wall that separates our rooms. ‘That’s my room. I’m your next-door neighbour.’
He smiles.
I hand him his pyjamas and he sits on the edge of the bed, begins to pull the bottoms on over his shoes and trousers. I crouch at his feet, catch his hands in mine, place them on his knees. I unlace his shoes, ease them off, then his socks.
‘Can you stand up, Dad?’
He stands, like an obedient child, looks at me with his watery blue eyes. ‘Does your mother live here too?’ he says.
I don’t give him any of the lines I usually give him. Maybe because of the lateness of the hour. Or the strangeness of the day. I shake my head. ‘She died.’ I shouldn’t have said that. I should have said she was gone to the shops.
But his face is more resigned than shocked. Like he already knows. ‘I miss her,’ he says, almost a whisper. I nod. ‘So do I,’ I say. I undo his belt, pull down his trousers. Unbutton his shirt. He stands patiently as I attend to him, his arms down by his sides. I wonder if he minds. This intrusion. He does not appear to be annoyed. His skin is paper-dry. I will buy some E45 cream tomorrow. Or Silcock’s Base. Something gentle.
He takes out his dentures, hands them to me. His cheeks sink into the hollow of his mouth. I put the teeth in a glass of water, put the glass out of sight. This is our system now. We are a well-oiled machine.
‘Goodnight Dad.’ I tuck the covers under his chin, kiss his forehead. Something about the sequence of my movements reminds me so vividly of my mother that, for a moment it seems like she is here, in the room with us. When I turn my head, I almost expect to see her standing there, smiling at us.
I leave the lamp on, pause at the door. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘Don’t close the door.’ His voice is small and anxious.
‘I won’t,’ I say. I stand in the corridor outside his room until I hear his light, delicate snores. It doesn’t take long.
Downstairs, Iris is waiting for me with a bottle of wine in one hand and two mugs in the other, dangling from her thumb by their handles. I suspect she has been raiding Monsieur and Madame Lalouette’s cellar. I don’t ask, although I am aware that ignorance will be no defence if a charge is levelled in the morning.
She grins at me. ‘Let’s assume the position,’ she says, heading towards the back door.
‘Can we go to the front garden instead?’ I say.
‘Sorry,’ says Iris, changing direction. ‘I forgot about the baby pigeons.’
We sit on a low wall at the front of the house, beside the statute of Joan, who looks even more splendid at night, cloaked as she is in moonlight. Iris fills the mugs and we clink and drink. ‘Do you think it’s ever too late to become an alcoholic?’ I a
sk her.
‘Nope,’ she says, lighting the cigarette she got from Dapper Dan, ‘but you’ve a ways to go before AA will take you in.’
We don’t say anything else for ages. We sit there and drink our wine and listen to the night and pass the cigarette back and forth between us. It seems like such a companionable thing to do. And I’m only doing it tonight. It’s not like I’m hooked or anything. Which, I realise, is classic addict-speak. I read enough pamphlets when the girls were teenagers.
Iris takes the last drag, pushes the butt into the warm, soft soil of a flowerbed. ‘Tell me something about you that nobody knows,’ says Iris, leaning against Joan’s legs.
‘You know everything,’ I tell her.
‘Nobody knows everything,’ Iris says. ‘Not even me.’ She grins.
I shrug. ‘There’s nothing to tell really, I’m so … ordinary.’
‘There’s nothing ordinary about you, Terry Shepherd,’ Iris says.
I pick at a loose thread hanging from the hem of my skirt. Iris sets her cup on the wall, looks at me.
‘Well, there is something I’m worried about.’
‘I’d be worried if there wasn’t,’ says Iris nudging me with her elbow.
‘I’m being serious,’ I say.
‘Sorry,’ says Iris, squeezing my hand. ‘Go on.’
I take a breath.
‘I’m worried that Brendan and I will end up like Mr and Mrs Lalouette.’
Iris doesn’t contradict me. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she puts her hand on my arm, rubs me.
‘And he might lose his job,’ I add.
Iris shakes her head. ‘Who knew the Canadians had it in them?’
‘What am I going to do about Brendan?’ I ask.
Iris doesn’t answer immediately. She’s thinking. I find myself crossing my fingers. Hoping that she’ll come up with something I can work with.
‘Well,’ she says, after a bit, ‘you only think you might end up like Jackie Sprat and her fella in there. So maybe you won’t.’
‘That’s all you’ve got?’
‘The good news is that you get to choose,’ says Iris. ‘You can stay with Brendan, hope for the best. You can leave him. Or you can change your relationship with him so you don’t end up like the Sprats.’
‘How is any of that good news?’ I ask.
‘Because you’re in charge.’
‘I suppose so.’
We take to our wine, then lift our heads, the better to see the starry sky, the butter-yellow moon.
‘Your turn,’ I say to Iris.
‘What?’
‘Tell me something that nobody knows.’
‘I’ve told you everything,’ Iris says, with a wry smile, ‘whether you wanted to know or not.’
I smile back. It’s true that Iris is not fond of holding back.
Iris sets her mug on the wall beside her. ‘There is one thing,’ she says.
‘What?’ I say.
‘You’re not to read anything into it.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s just, I feel great.’
‘Well, that’s good isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Feeling positive and—’
‘No, I mean, I feel great. Physically. I feel as good as I used to. Before I got the MS. It’s like, in the last few hours, the symptoms have just … gone away. All of them.’
It takes a moment for her words to sink in. The significance of them.
‘That’s great,’ I say. And then, ‘I know you don’t believe in Signs, but—’
‘You’re right,’ says Iris, and there is a faint warning in her tone. ‘I don’t believe in Signs.’
‘But since we arrived in France,’ I continue, ignoring the warning, ‘you just seem so much better. It could be the climate. Or the food. I don’t know but … no matter what you say, you can live with MS. You can even beat it. I’ve read reports about people whose symptoms disappear. From legitimate medical sources.’
Iris has always been sceptical of these claims. She puts the word claims in inverted commas with her fingers to highlight her scepticism.
And I know, I know. People can be suggestible. Especially people who are suffering.
But I’ve never seen Iris look better than she does here, in France.
Iris shakes her head slowly. ‘Terry, I’m not going to beat MS. All I was saying was—’
‘Maybe not beat it entirely,’ I rush on. ‘But what about the other stuff? The effect of diet and climate and lifestyle. Look at you. You said it yourself, you feel great. Your symptoms are gone.’
Iris straightens. Leans towards me. ‘Terry, listen—’
‘And have you read about the new drug?’ I say, ignoring her as I gather momentum. ‘I can’t remember the name of it, but they’re calling it a wonder drug. They’re doing clinical trials right now. In America. It’s only a matter of time before—’
‘Terry,’ Iris says again, louder this time. I stop talking. I am out of breath. She picks up her handbag, rummages inside, takes out an envelope. ‘I meant to give you this,’ she says, handing it to me.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘It’s the … you know, the arrangements,’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Everything is in hand,’ she says. ‘There’s nothing you need to do. But I know you’ll want to know the … the arrangements. For afterwards.’
‘But what about the wonder drug? You haven’t even—’
Iris shakes her head. ‘I’m going to Zurich, Terry,’ she says quietly. ‘You know that.’
‘I thought—’
‘That was the deal, remember?’
‘But you’re feeling much better. You said so yourself. You could …’
‘The reason I’m feeling better is because I’ve got a plan,’ Iris says. ‘I’m in control of what happens. That’s important to me. The most important thing. It’s always been my way, you know that, Terry. Don’t you?’
I shake my head. ‘Just because you’ve got a plan doesn’t mean you have to go through with it.’
‘But I am going through with it,’ Iris says in a soft, insistent tone. ‘I want to. And I’m glad you’re here. It makes it easier for me.’
‘And this is all about what you want, is it? What’s easier for you?’ I stand up. My anger is sudden and savage. I tear the envelope into pieces, throw them on the ground. ‘What about me?’ My voice sounds high and plaintive. The voice of a child who has been told, ‘No’. ‘What about what I want?’
‘Ah Terry, I don’t want to argue,’ says Iris. ‘Especially not with you.’
‘You just want me to agree with everything as usual, is that it? Don’t disagree Terry. Don’t say a word Terry. And don’t you dare have an opinion if it’s different to mine.’
‘Terry please. You’ll wake everyone up.’
‘I don’t care.’ I’m pretty sure I’m shouting now.
‘I understand that you’re angry,’ Iris says in that infuriatingly calm voice.
‘You don’t understand anything,’ I tell her, and now I’m pointing my finger at her, stabbing the air with it. ‘You just think I’ll drive you to Zurich, drop you off at the clinic so you can go and kill yourself in peace and quiet while I … what? Just drive home, like nothing happened? With my demented father? To my indifferent husband and my kids who aren’t kids any more?’ My voice rises and rises.
Iris picks up her sticks, uses them to pull herself off the wall. ‘I think we should call it a night,’ she says.
‘No,’ I shout, standing too. ‘I want you to say something. Something that makes sense.’
Iris looks at me, her face solemn. ‘I have told you everything. I’ve been as honest as I know how. There’s nothing more I can say. I know this is hard.’
‘If our roles were reversed, you wouldn’t allow it. You just … you wouldn’t allow it.’
‘You could be right. And I’d be wrong.’
I grip Joan of Arc’s arm to steady myself. To get my breath
back. Iris waits for me to gather myself. I want to shake her.
‘So that’s it then,’ I say eventually. ‘You’re just not going to be alive in two days’ time? Is that the plan?’
Iris nods her head slowly. Deliberately.
‘And I’m expected to … what? What am I expected to do?’
‘I’m sorry, Terry.’
‘Don’t say sorry. I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to tell me what I’m expected to do.’
‘I don’t know.’ She whispers it.
‘I thought you had all the answers.’
‘I don’t.’
‘And you haven’t cried. Not once. You don’t care. You couldn’t give a damn. You just do whatever suits you. You’re just like your mother.’
I start to cry. I am not sad. I am too angry to be sad. I am fuelled by a scalding, burning anger. I feel like I could run a hundred miles. Two hundred. With this anger. This fury. My tears sting my eyes and I blink them away. They are not sad tears. They are furious, blistering tears and I let them fall, let them storm down my face, hang along the line of my jaw then fall down the neck of my top.
‘I’m not like my mother. Please don’t say that.’ Iris takes a step forward, her hand reaching towards me. I slap it away. ‘You are. You’re running away, just like she did. And you hated her for it.’
Iris does not respond. For a moment, we survey each other, my chest heaving with the exertion of my breath. Then Iris turns, picks up her sticks and walks towards the house.
‘That’s it,’ I shout after her. ‘Run away. As usual.’ She keeps walking and does not respond.
The silence that follows is thick and heavy. I feel bowed by it. It feels like the weight of the world.
27
IF YOU FIND YOURSELF DRIVING AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC, PULL IN IMMEDIATELY TO THE HARD SHOULDER AND STOP.
I am cold.
So is my anger. I can’t remember ever feeling this angry before. I am shaking. It feels like everything inside my body is thrumming with a vicious kind of energy. My heart and my lungs and my ribs and my blood. I feel electrified, like when Hugh dared me to put my hand on the fence that time in Wicklow. It was just me, Hugh, and Mam, that time. There had been a fight. But this time, Mam had shoved him back. When we got the bus home, Dad was in the kitchen instead of out in the taxi and there was a smell of burning and we ate the steaks that Dad had tried not to burn and we never usually had steak and I remember the tough texture of it in my mouth and how long it took for me to chew my way through it. It must have been before my eighth birthday. Before Mam bought me my very own copy of Charlotte’s Web.
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