‘Fuck, now look what you made me do.’
‘You know, type A, determined like . . .’
‘Right,’ I said, calming down. This was a compliment.
Wheeze.
‘I want to be cremated.’
‘Fuck, Sinéad. Where did that come from? Jeez, what drugs you on?’
I ignored him, breathing through a huge pressure. ‘Well, no one knows anything, when things can go . . . wrong . . . I mean, it’s a conversation we all should have. So I just thought. Like if I were to die suddenly you need to make a hair appointment immediately. I’m a state,’ I said, as I grabbed a fistful of my brassy yellow hair in my hand, ‘especially the roots, and to be honest, if Chloe has time, she should think about toning it too, you know, before laying out my body, they’ll all be gawping in. I’m orange, tone them down, now I’m not fucking joking, if I die, make sure you get them to dye it. It’ll take time, but it’s worth it. Give her three hours to do it, someone should stay with her though, no one likes a client who can’t talk back, otherwise they’ll stay orange, don’t rush it. The medicine has played havoc with my hair, and my nails, Sarah will need to do them, not you . . . no offence.’ I knew being laid out would mean Gawpers. ‘Oh, and don’t forget a tip, I usually give a fiver, but you know, this is different circumstances, so, well, I’ll leave it up to your discretion.’ Round our way, they love if you’re laid out at home and they get a cup of tea. They clatter the cup off things to show their presence, and walk upstairs and have a good look around your house, check if you’re wearing a wig, or if the corpse has glasses on. My granny was laid out with ridiculous frozen-ice-blue eyeshadow, and she looked like Ivana Trump and not at all like herself.
‘Ah, fuck off, crazy woman,’ he said, laughing nervously. ‘Who’s going to highlight your hair when you’re dead? That’s really sick, you know, you shouldn’t be talking like that, it’s dangerous . . . What’s with all these insane requests?’
‘Look, just make sure it’s a cremation and make sure not to allow any of those knob-ends I know and hate, near the place.’ I had to say it, I was afraid now, and it was all coming out arse-ways, but if I threw it into the air, he’d have to remember some of it. ‘It’s just, I don’t want everyone looking at me.’
‘Sure, y’know . . . I’ll send invites, will I?’ he laughed. ‘Are you sure you’re eating? Promise.’
‘Yes . . . invites, invites are a great idea. Yeah, of course I’m eating, it’s just the drugs for my chest, and they knock stones off you.’
‘Christ,’ he said, and thrust his head forward into his hands. He began pressing his index fingers into both dry temples, two dots of red nail varnish on his thumb. ‘Ah, here, Sinéad, no one sends fucken invites to a funeral, they’ll think you’re a diva. This hospital is playing with your head.’
‘I’ll be dead, I don’t give a toss what they think.’
‘I do . . . I do care about you. About it. Jesus, can we stop this morbid conversation. Is it him?’ He nodded over at Shane.
‘Maybe. Yes. It’s so intense, you know, just watching him. And no fucken prayers, I’ve had enough prayers in here, none, nothing . . . I’ll come back and haunt you, I mean it.’
‘I’ve no doubt you’ll do that anyway.’
He began laughing hard now.
‘I love you,’ I said, desperate. ‘I do, you know . . . love you so much.’
God, it was awkward.
He tapped his fingers off the nightstand and looked upwards and then he bit his lip. I tried to appreciate this was coming out of nowhere. I rubbed his hand, to settle him, and connect. We were never heavy on public displays of affection.
‘This isn’t like you. You sure you’re OK? There’s nothing you’re not telling me?’ he said, and he thrust the arm away, blowing hard out through his nostrils.
‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, just so run down.’ I paused, ‘I do really love you, look, fuck it, I need you to hear this . . .’ You can’t even block out hearing things. And if you do, some part of you will remember, like a twitchy leg or an itchy nose.
They say drowning is awful.
I tried to tell him.
I think I’m drowning.
I am. I’m drowning.
Save me.
First my eyes watered, then a most ferocious throbbing at the back of my head, under my arms stung, my windpipe closed in like a lump of toffee had jammed in it, and my nose worked but it was a pinhole and trying to take in the air as I desired, well, the nostrils couldn’t do it. The pressure was tremendous.
Alex rang the bell quickly and roared out. I hadn’t seen urgency like this since he split me up from the swans. The pressure was getting worse. Ten. Pain. 10. All over. Pressure.
*
The seas remember to come in and out. The waves are solar-powered. They stay going even in the dark of night. They’ll take deck chairs and towels and rubber shoes, tennis rackets, buckets and spades, beach balls and picnic tables, tins and rollies, plastic coffee cups and nappies. They’ll gobble seaweed and leave it back. They’ll lunge at jellyfish. They’ll take your coastline. Your breath. The sea comes in hungry and can take your son and daughter under, caressing them, swallow them whole.
*
Buzzers went off and everything froze.
As I like it.
‘We’ve given her magnesium, no more steroids, give her a break for a minute, she’s crashing, some adrenaline and epinephrine, please, and perhaps some atropine. Code Blue. Move. Move. Quick as you can. Thank you.’
‘Could you get out of my light? Trying to find a line. Fuck.’
Potatoes falling from the sack. Thump. Heartbeats. Thump. Onetwothreefourfive.
‘Someone needs to give this more time, OK, start the count . . .’
‘Is that what she wants, does anyone know what she wants?’
‘Of course it’s what she wants . . . she can’t be more than what? What age is she? Anyone? Age? Quick as you can . . . Age?’
‘Jesus, more fluids maybe? Someone. Now. Nurse. Now.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘No idea. OK. Line in. And move. Next. Twenty milligrammes. Thank you.’
‘Who’s looking after her? Any chance of that file? Quick as you like.’
‘What in the name of God are on her feet?’
‘OK. File . . . here.’
‘Read. Loud.’
‘Thirty-nine. Female. Oh, shit. Perhaps Mr . . . You should take a look here.’
‘Are they slippers?’
‘Jesus, they can’t be!’
‘Paddles. Ready. OK. Clear. Now.’
‘Yes, they’re blobfish slippers, sir.’
Charge –
Charge again.
chargechargechargechargecharge –
‘FUCK SAKE NOW. Hurry up. Quick – OK, sorry, sorry, next. Another line and good. Thank you.’
Jesus.
‘Why did she let herself get into this state?’
‘Please stop screaming but I know, it’s the twenty-first century – right?’
‘Right!’
‘I think she was . . . it seems, I don’t think she attended, yeah, nothing, look . . .’
‘Noooo.’
‘Yeah, take a look, here, and look.’
‘OK and clear again . . .’
‘OK now, Ms Hynes, we know this is frightening, but just stay with us . . . OK . . . we will do all we can, just try to breathe . . . all we can to . . .’
Save you.
Code.
Charge again.
A freckly nurse pulled off my rings and frantically began removing my red nail varnish off my index finger, the paint transferred to her cotton ball in the shape of my fingernail, and she held on to it like a child grasping the ear of a stuffed rabbit.
I really don’t want them to think I’m lazy. Still can’t move my fingers. Move your fingers, I scream at myself.
G’wan, dare you, show them you’re not lazy! That’s it. Good girl.
&nbs
p; Father again – Christ, let me not die to the sound of him. I think of waves. I lie back and do the dead man’s float.
‘I think she’s gone. Is she gone?’
I can’t see you. I can’t see.
You’re not sick at all, you’re a fucking chancer, you really are, it’s all those colourful mad vitamins your mother’s giving you, and that fish oil, eat the fucken fish and don’t mind taking it in a tablet, what sort of shite is that, don’t be such a cunt, there’s too much work for doing and you acting like a cunt, your brothers are out there already, hands frozen off them, and they don’t have this sucky moody face on them, what in the honour of Christ is wrong with you? Animals don’t feed themselves, you know?
My mother intervenes, whispers something.
OK, OK, well, drink up a bit of tea and put on a coat and come out, I’ve a horse for you to ride.
He whispers something back at my mother, he’s angry now and she has her head hung low. She has lovely hands and she smiles at me with her thin lips. I think she mouths that she loves me, or maybe she’s saying to unload the washing and hang it out.
And maybe two, but we’ll have to saddle up the young Cloverfield colt and see if he takes to you, and sure then we can have another mug of tea. Your mother will ready us something. And maybe you’ll lie across the new yearling then? Lovely crossbreed, jays, he’s a lovely keen little motor on him.
I can’t see.
I leaned my body halfway across the neck of the young yearling, my pelvis on his withers, to eventually prepare his back for weight; he began to dance and push himself forward on his two outstretched front legs, eventually arching downwards and lifting his back up fast like a cat, he bounded forward and hurled me off, blowing out hard, terrified, as he propelled me into the sky. I fell down on the flat of my back, after coming down on his neck first, breaking my fall, the mane hot, blood spurted from my nose. Something prodded through my T-shirt. The horse escaped over the high wall, in desperation, and flipped over it, just toppled, head first, injuring himself. He cut his hock and a big knee came up, soon a second big knee. They never go down, two big knees. Unsellable. Ruined. Father caught me by the hair at the nape of my neck, to show me what I had done, how I am ruining him, Father. I will be the ultimate ruination of him, and I cried out, sorry, and shook, tried to tell him to leave me alone. He lifted my head from the hair at the nape of my neck, twisting it around his fist, and banged my head forwards off a rusty barrel, over and over. The clangs seemed to come from the next field over, like a church bell in an Italian city. And lifted and banged it again, spraying blood, until my head whooshed and I didn’t feel any pain at all. I see his teeth and shaking lips, quivering, the sun was going down behind his shoulder. Red. Red sky at night. Delight. The colt blew over the wall at me, apologetic, his big wide brown eyes, head down. He had given in and I could mount him. But I passed out. The wet sand heated up all around me and was warm. I was so grateful for passing out.
If I love any horse, it is a seahorse.
And then you could wash up yourself, or do whatever you want, maybe even a bit of homework or study. But shir, what is it they have ye all doing? Learning lines, learning off reams and reams of stupid lines. Forget them. Today, today indeed today you can ride the stallion. The stallion. And forget learning lines for anyone. Make up your own. Gods make their own . . .
Indeed.
I can’t move my legs. I am overheating. I dive under the waves again and I fan my hands in front of my face. The young yearling with the two big knees gently nuzzles me. We are so sorry to each other. Well, horse, we could have managed this better.
You’re not sick at all, loveen, I’ve told you this a million fucken times. You need to toughen up.
‘Did you hear me, love? Go with it, go into it, go into it, and stop fighting.’
‘Can someone ask her to try and relax? Anyone?’
‘Is that her husband?’
‘Are you her husband? What’s your name, love? Love? Name?’
‘Shit, sir, quick, quick as you like . . .’
‘Jesus Christ, GET HIM OUT!’
‘OK, OK, sir, sir, you really must, this way, please.’
‘Get him to leave, somebody take him out – ’
‘He wants to stay, he’s insisting –’
‘And could someone take off the blowfish slippers? I can’t work on her looking at them – Christ.’
‘Blobfish, they’re blobfish,’ Alex says. He stays.
I dive under the water again, but I’ve gone out of my depth and there’s a net.
‘OK. Everyone, as you were. Again. Count.’
‘What’s your name, love?’
I grab a yellow paisley necktie tight with my fist and wrap it round my wrist.
Never wrap the lead rope around your fucken arm like this. I’ve. Told. You. A. Thousand. Times. Now that’ll show you. Don’t mind rubbing your face. It’s only a slap. If you do this with a big horse, and he’s stronger, remember he’s always stronger, he’ll pull your arm clean out of the ball and socket at the shoulder and clean off you, like a Christmas cracker snap, and I try to tell you, but I can’t. Do. You. Ever. Listen. CHRIST.
I try to scream, but the doctor’s holding my face in his hands and they are soaked wet.
He’s Alex.
Alex, his name is Alex. My Husband. And he’s so far away right now that he could be standing on top of Mount Blanc. That time. We ate apricots. Drank wine. Chewed tobacco.
They shove something down my throat. I gag. I gag up my tongue. I gag up my tits, my tummy, my vagina. My legs pulled upwards and inside of me and I gag them up too. I leave it there, the gagging. There is nothing left inside of me. The fear on Alex’s face is like a dirty winter’s hangover from March. But we’re in April now. And I love him. Guilt. And this fucking elbow on my sternum.
Now the heel of a hand bangs me and I’ve pissed myself. Again. I want to pull a face.
I consider diving one last time.
‘Oh, sir, shit. Look, sir, I have her notes, she didn’t return, she said she was moving, would get treatment elsewhere, or something?’
‘OK, charge again, it’s the least we can do.’
I can do the dead man’s float for ever.
I’m gathering up some Connemara ponies in the Railway field, they usually run with a couple of older horses, or a donkey, to calm them down, the ponies dart among the heavier horses, no good for anyone now, their stumbling legs slowing them down, heavy swollen hocks from wallops off the stone walls, old hunters, but still the sun shines on their dappled rumps and over the strawberry-roan arches of their backs. Sheep run with them, pick and graze, shiny greased maggots wriggling at their back openings as the soil is heating up with fine weather. The dark grey ponies will turn a snow white as years go on, and sometimes, after they’ve left us, I’ll no longer recognise them, that’s if I’m fortunate enough to ever come across them, but I rarely am, fortunate. I’m not there to watch them turn into old reliable ponies for kids with ribbons in their hair who do ballet or play piano in Devon or Shropshire. Father always sold the stock without telling me, no goodbye, we didn’t get one to keep, we broke them, bridle, bit, saddle, rider, ground poles, cross poles, stone walls, and then moved them on. He sold them off to a Rose Cottage or Amble Lane Farm, far from the rough west coast of Ireland with gates rusty and unhinged, squeaky and cumbersome like people, necessary, swinging this way then that then staying stuck, held together with yellow lutein baling twine, needing a good lift from the lower rung to open and shut. In the end I stopped loving the ponies when they’d arrive as young foals, plucked giddy and frightened from the mother. We simply worked them and eventually we stopped calling them by their names, referring to them by sex and colour. And when a fancy horse truck would arrive in the yard with a yellow reg to collect them, I’d hide under the bed.
I never said goodbye.
This, Father said, makes us tougher. But later it made loving harder. I was always ready to
let
go.
Chapter 12
Margaret Rose held Alex’s upper arm tight between her two hands. I didn’t remember introducing them, and hoped he’d be polite. I was mad I hadn’t told him about the fish with regional accents I’d read about on Wired. Some scientist in Exeter had been studying it for years, how cod have chats. I had meant to tell him. He’d love it.
‘You’re going to have to try and count, OK, Sinéad, right, you need to try, count with me, count to a hundred, count to a hundred.’
‘One, two . . .’ I was making no sound.
‘Come on!’
Count, I thought, like you’re counting small diamonds in sieves, or crumbs of precious metal, or the tiny pieces of stones that were crushed under the tyre of your car, that emerald, remember when you ran over it? Count like tributaries going to sea, like the hairs Alex left on the bed on the last morning before you ended up here. Seven hairs incidentally. Five lines now attached to you. Spells trouble. Count the days you whined for yourself. Count the number of times you watched The Simpsons and fell asleep. Count the number of lazy days you’ve wasted. Count the number of days you’ve wasted, hungover. Count the number of days you were late home for dinner. The number of days you stayed out until the next day.
Count the number of times some fuck told you to smile. ‘A smile is the prettiest thing you can wear, girls.’ Smile, love. G’wan. Prettiest thing you can wear. FFS. (Unless you’re a soldier or an undertaker or a surgeon or disciplining your children or a million other things you could be doing where a smile is wholly inappropriate.)
As You Were Page 13