Pause. Babble.
‘Just don’t bother me if you see visitors, ’K Jim?’
Pause.
‘Thanks . . . Look, I knows ya don’t . . . She’s yar niece . . . ’K . . . ’K . . . See ya . . . Night . . . But Jesus, not a word. Promise? Night. Byeebyebye . . .’
Click. Beep.
The familiar whirr of the laptop sounded at three a.m., put to its photographic-merry-go-round and soon after, Margaret Rose snored out as she held her phone tight in her right hand and close into her chest like the dead in coffins for ever left clutching rosary beads and photos of loved ones.
Chapter 8
Early Monday morning, Jim was back, sitting on Margaret Rose’s bed licking a large pink ice-cream cone that matched his shirt and cheeks.
‘I’ve it sorted, Jim,’ she said, as she emerged from the shower and waved the Nokia in one hand and swung her washbag in the other like scales of justice.
‘Jays, it’s a bit early for ice cream, no? Oh fuck, shit,’ she wailed out.
‘Oh . . . ya OK, Mags?’
‘Yeah, grand, just bit me cheek. Shit. Am I bleeding?’
She patted her face and attempted to open her mouth wide, while Jim took a look inside and scrunched up his nose.
‘Jaysus, you’d want to go aisy with that stuff, Mags,’ Jim said, lowering his voice. ‘Yar man said it’s not good the amount yar at it. Ya could hit a nerve,’ he hissed, looking around anxiously.
‘Isn’t that what I’m hoping far?’ she said, laughing with one side of her face paralysed. ‘Ah, don’na start now you, not you as well. I’m delirious with tiredness . . . and have I any other choice?’ It was a rhetorical question. ‘No. So ’nuff outta ya.’
I liked when she showered first, leaving the bathroom warm and homely. The windowless square box, coated in its rectangular white tiles with a shower that had no border or boundary, only a dark brown drain that ran close to the toilet bowl, so that if you showered for any length of time the entire place flooded, and sometimes the water gushed out under the gap in the door, so much that the bottom of the door was mildewed and warped. There was the obligatory white plastic chair plonked there like a sun-bleached Van Gogh painting and an SOS cord hanging from the ceiling. That people sat to shower in the chair unnerved me. The door also unnerved me for it opened straight out onto the Ward, and there was far too much white ceramic space to comfortably shove your leg up and out to double-lock it, maintain dignity. Though here, thinking about dignity was naive at best.
Jim listened to her hushed instructions as the two of them sat out on the edge of the bed, clearing his throat once or twice after he had finished the cone’s wafer. He plucked a tissue from her elaborate gold tissue box with red flowers dotted all over it, and wiped his large hands. Bits of dry tissue clung on between his fingers, sticking to the ice cream. I pretended sleep. He took instructions on tickets, collecting his brothers, the Maughans, and they would carry Paddy home he said, if they had to, even in a zipped-up bag, and yes, he reassured her that all of her brothers, according to Jim, were most concerned she’d have another stroke, and yes, even the ones not talking to her seemed the most irate about the situation Paddy had left her in, everyone was talking about it, especially after the Facebook post, which they both agreed was utterly humiliating to everyone in the family. And they were all up for righting a terrific wrong, even though there was a car auction in Ennis tomorrow night, but they were more than willing to forgo this and head over and drag Paddy home. For the wedding, and to console his sick wife, like a husband should.
‘Manchester has her booked in at midday. I’ll drop a pin in the place and link ya on this.’ She nodded at the machine to locate the city that was to take on the weight of Niquita Sherlock.
‘Sound.’
‘Couldn’t sort it in Birmingham. So sorry, they’re fully booked.’
‘Short notice.’
‘Yar right, ’tis woeful short notice, sorry that you’ll have to travel onwards . . .’ Margaret Rose said, carefully, to avoid taking a chunk out of the inflated cheek.
‘Ya sure this is right, Mags?’
‘What? Which part?’ She raised one eyebrow.
‘All of it.’
‘Ah . . . now . . . don’na start again, Jim. Of course it’s right, we canny end up embroiled for ever with the O’Keefes. And as for Paddy . . .’ she said, stopping, and rubbed the cheek. The wounded. ‘Just, no words.’
‘’K,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
A lispy spittal ran down her chin. I guessed Novocaine. Manchester would deal with the bother in the uterus. Like it had helped so many times before, with Irish women, rollie cases, taxis, coffees, airport toilets, sobbing, solitude, trauma, travel, Solpadeines, secrets. Jim was accompanying his niece, and he’d see her right, well, as right as he could manage.
‘It needs sorting. Jim. Simple as . . .’
He nodded again. He promised to look after her very well. He was then to go on to Birmingham, meet up with the brothers.
‘And Jim, when you go on to Paddy’s place . . . best leave Nick a night in the Travelodge, in the honour of God, last thing she needs is travelling onwards, after . . . it.’
It.
‘She has a real soft spot far Paddy. So say nothing too bad about him.’
Keep Niquita happy. White chocolate. Topshop, though she mightn’t be up to it, and Solpadeine. Blister pack. Twenty-four. Passport bottom drawer, key here around ma neck. Here. Take it. Marie Stopes. Manchester. Birmingham.
‘Lots of Solpadeine. She’s like myself. And remember ta keep it all ta yarsells. Not a word.’
‘’K.’
She handed him a tower of magazines and a phone charger.
‘OK, OK, Mags, jeez, calm yarself or ya’ll have a proper stroke.’ Jim had the face of a man who remembered none of the exhaustive information he had unwittingly procured for himself.
Michal wheeled in his steel trolley of Monday’s breakfast and brushed hard against Jim as he was leaving in a hurry to get himself organised. The glossy magazines fell asunder. Margaret Rose raised her eyes to heaven as Michal and Jim fumbled on the ground. Her phone rang as Dolly Parton’s ‘Nine to Five’ blared from her laptop. She quieted it. Answering the phone, ‘Ah, shush yarself, pet . . .’ she said, pawing her rosary beads and waving Jim onwards. ‘I knows yar upset, Niquita. Nick . . . ya needs to slow down . . . yar breaking up, love. Hello, hello. Nick . . . What is it, what’s happened? Nick?’
Pause.
‘Ah, love. What’s all the tears about? I canny make out your words, love . . . yar in very bad coverage, move around . . . No, no, it’s not . . . it’s not me . . . ah, better.’
natter natter natter natter natter natter natter natter
‘Ya’ll have ta slow down . . . Who rang ya?’ She placed her hand flat on the top of her head.
Margaret Rose knew exactly who and what it was had upset Niquita Sherlock.
‘Calm down . . . I’m sure he wasn’t drunk . . . Look it, if that’s what he wants, Nick . . .’
She lowered her tone.
‘Yar far better off without him . . . What ja think I mean? You knows well what I mean . . . Oh, now, hush please, love. I hate hearing ya like this . . .’
Jane screamed out from her bed. ‘Is it morning? Agggh. It’s raining. Damn it.’ Jumping up and out of bed she plucked handcream bottles and cups and pillows and began thrusting them into the middle of her bed. ‘Everyone just needs to lie down quietly and later we should set a nice tea out on the big lawn, and hope that the rain stays off. We’ll do our best to avoid the thistles, cursed things those flat thistles and if
it looks grey or nasty sure we can bring out the umbrellas.’
‘Yes, Niquita,’ Margaret Rose said. ‘No, ’tis just poor Mrs Lohan. Woman beside the window . . . uh-huh, yeah . . .’ Then covering her mouth with her hand, ‘Ya’ll be all right, I’d say, love, and ya don’na want ta hear this, but my gut feeling is he did mean ta break it off . . . Why? Well, for
wan thing, he probably knows yar too good far him . . . What ja mean what do I mean? I mean he knows yar too good for him . . . It is not a daft thing ta say . . . Look, fuck’im, Nick. Respect yarself. Plenty more fish in the sea . . . Ah don’na hang up . . . Love? Hello? Hello? Nick?’
Jane stared long and hard at a box of tissues, then plucked out five and folded them into perfect triangles, placing them down beside the heap of items on her bed. At first she seemed pleased but then she began crying into them. ‘Rain, no one said it would rain. Rain. No rain was promised. This is really dreadful.’ Jane howled at the window.
‘Ah, great, yar still there . . . Look, there’s bigger shames in life than Jonathan breaking yar line . . . I knows yar upset, peteen, but that’s the way. Now tell people ’twas you broke it off. Ja hear me? Don’na give him wan more inch . . . No, I agree, yeah. Yeah . . . True, ya aren’t exactly comfortable with time on this. Sorry.’
Long silence.
‘I know ya don’t want ta lie, loveen, but ja really think telling him the truth now will help you? He won’na marry you now far sure. It’d be a lot easier if ya made a quick decision. Less invasive.’
Niquita was as strong-willed as her mother. Some minutes passed and Margaret Rose blew upwards, her bottom lip protruding.
‘He’s no good ta ya . . . and he won’t be a good father . . . Ya have to listen to me, please, love. Jesus, Nick . . . it’s far the best.’ Margaret Rose was beginning to sound exasperated. ‘I know well it’s yar choice. Think about it . . . OK, well, that’s good then . . . Maybe come in and we can chat face ta face. And chat with Mic . . . Really? Well, maybe ya need ta take her advice . . . She loves ya so much . . . Yeah, I know, it is pressure, yar running outta time, love, last thing ya need is yar father or wan of the Lally family finding out and going blabbing it.’
It was quiet now. Jane sat down on the floor, disgusted with the rain that was unsettling her picnic planning, and thrust herself forward into Child’s Pose, head between her outstretched hands.
‘Don’na mind him . . . Do not tell him . . . Are ya gone mad? Remember what Mamó said, the lie told with good intent’s better than a bad truth . . . That’s right, love . . . That’s right . . . Shush now . . . Shush . . . Ya’ll need ta bring a bag . . . Oh, I don’na know . . . A coupl’a loose tracksuits . . . Pads.’ Pause. ‘In the bathroom press, love . . . Jim will bring everything else . . . stop now . . . That’s life . . . ’Twill be OK, love . . . Loves ya too, see ya very soon.’
*
Niquita Sherlock arrived back on the Ward very soon after the hurried phone call, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, draped in a black Juicy Couture holdall across her body. She was inconsolable, but certain. And then she was in no need of consoling and totally unsure of it. This flip-flopping went on.
Jane lay humming in Child’s Pose as Niquita stared at her while lifting the bag off over her head and placing it down on the ground.
‘I’m sure, certain, I’m so sure . . . What the fuck’s up with her, like?’ she said, distracted, nodding at Jane. Margaret Rose smiled. Niquita then lay on the bed and her mother stroked her face.
‘I think it’s yoga,’ she said. ‘You know, love, you’ve more time, you can think about this . . . You don’t have ta, I mean . . . ’Tis very quick . . . Maybe I’m rushing ya?’
Niquita hissed that Jonathan O’Keefe was a cunt. And she wanted rid of him. Margaret Rose corrected her language. But agreed he was a bad sort. Then popped her daughter’s gum bubble with her finger, clearly happy with the sudden change of heart, and they laughed. But soon after the laugh, Niquita began to wail out again, and her mother ran her hand warmly along her daughter’s bare flat midriff.
Niquita jumped when Jim arrived back, pulling a bright wheelie suitcase after him, at the same time Michal Piwaski was giving out elevenses, close to midday. Cup-of-tea. Custard cream. Michaela walked alongside him, she was there for goodbyes, as she picked a custard cream off Michal’s trolley and began nibbling one side of it. They all laughed at Jim’s suitcase. Then the girls set to taking turns plaiting each other’s hair. Tight.
I imagined Margaret Rose at home, holding court in her kitchen, back in charge. I thought of my own kitchen, too large, impersonal. Joshua, Nathan and Jacob’s Daily Activity lists were plastered on one wall, and we were rarely if ever there, off fulfilling the list after a breakfast full of omega and vitamin C shots and probiotics and everything else I could make them ingest to send them out into the world with minimal guilt. Jackets, hats, scarves, waterproof shoes, hand sanitiser, tissues, smoothies, water bottles, music lessons, karate, swimming, CoderDojo, violin, creative writing, drama, indoor soccer, outdoor football, orchestra, art classes and play therapy. Even when we were all home together, they’d leave for their bedrooms, often watching the same Netflix shows from different rooms.
‘Look, love,’ Margaret Rose said to her young daughter, squeezing her tight, ‘it’ll be OK, I promise, and please text. Love ya.’ She then patted Jim’s lower back. ‘Take good care of her, Jim, ja hear me?’
‘Promise, Mags.’
‘Bye, Mammy, love ya too.’
‘Text me when ya get there. Text from da clinic too. Text me when it’s over. OK?’
‘Yeah, yeah, OK, OK, quit fussing,’ Niquita said, impatiently, looking away from her mother.
‘And don’na forget, ta text, ya know, when . . . ya know. After. Ring me or Mic, if ya, ya know . . . ya need anything.’ She muttered, ‘Or ya change yar mind. ’Cause ya can, if ya like. Change yar mind.’ She said it ever so slowly.
Niquita nodded and twisted her Juicy bag across her thin body.
Michaela hugged her sister tight and then kissed her uncle on both cheeks.
‘Text me.’ Michaela looked at her mother. ‘’Tis awful quick, ya sure ’tis the right thing?’
‘Hush, you,’ Margaret Rose scolded Michaela.
‘I knows, but I jus wan’na get it done. Now.’
And the two left with the wheels of the rollie case trucking out along the corridor and Michaela swapped her sister’s place on the bed and hugged Margaret Rose.
Margaret Rose looked deeply unhappy. Agitated.
‘Far the best,’ she said to herself over and over, until she fell asleep for an afternoon nap while Michaela drank down her mother’s tea.
Chapter 9
After lunch, two young student nurses arrived attempting to open a bottle of bright orange energy drink between them; the taller of the two women held the bottom while the smaller twisted the top with her hand, curving her hips away in the opposite direction. They began taking turns supping from the bottle, and the smaller woman opened out a window for air. Legend night. But OMG that taxi driver. Creepy. The smaller one had an arc of mascara underneath one eye and some silver glitter on the back of her hand.
Monday-morning rounds were underway in the late afternoon, and the trainees had been drafted in to keep an eye on Shane. There was some concern. It wouldn’t be long. They had no idea how long and no, neither of these young nurses-in-training had ever watched anyone die. Oh God, they might die themselves. OmG like. oMg like. WTF. What if they faint? Poor man, it would be awful watching him die, they didn’t feel they had adequate training for this, and instead of making them worried this made them giggle. The energy drink came down the both nostrils of the smaller one with the black arc under her eye. They took to fits of discussing last night, checking Snapchat and then standing ever so straight at times as though on sentry-like duty. Is he dead yet? Ease. To. Him. Yes, family called. But no sign of them. That’s sooooo sad. Lit. Lol. Soz. I’m just giddy. Lit. But fuck me. How will we even know? His eyes are closed already. He’s kinda cute, right? Right. He’s lovely. Isn’t he? They decided he was lovely.
I agreed, lovely Shane.
They gave him a bed bath to pass the time, make him more comfortable and maybe even blow-dry his hair, and yes, they could use Margaret Rose’s hairdryer. Don’t wake her. She won’t mind. Whisper Thank You.
Hearing is the last to go.
Vigil at the bedside.
Hankies, phones, Club Orange, energy drinks, crisps, rosary beads and apologies.
One ran out for Juicy Fruit. And then for Hula Hoops. And salted popcorn. Sweet.
His input was nil.
His output was nil.
His peg feeds had stopped.
Jane woke Margaret Rose and they searched deep in their nightstands, tugging out extra religious paraphernalia for The Cure to Save Shane. Margaret Rose was busy. This was the best way to be after Niquita’s exit. Jane was busy, as this was her only way. The search for this cure went in a hierarchy of inanimate but precious objects, with head nods, and everything was displayed on the stripped shiny mattress of Jane’s bed like an eccentric May altar. The two women hummed and hawed as they pawed over beads and cards and plastic statues of saints full up with water. If they could only get in the mitten of Padre Pio or a drop of blessed oil of St Thérèse of Lisieux or even a lock of St Francis of Assisi’s hair, even a hair from one of his pets, but they were unsure that Assisi had left behind any cure at all. But he was a lovely man. Yes. Lovely man. Loved animals.
As You Were Page 8