And the entire matter landed on Jim, who neither caused it nor fixed it.
‘Killing a child. Well, that’s murder, I hope ye all know that?’ Paddy said. ‘Since ye all know so much ’bout everything.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mags . . .’ Jim nodded apologetically in his sister’s direction.
‘I’ll tell you, Mrs High and Mighty Morals, you’ve reached a new low now, ya have. Ta tells ya da truth, I’m awful shamed yar m’wife, I really am. Like . . . if things were different, I’d lave ya here. Disown ya.’ Paddy was shouting now, more certain of himself, darting his wild eyes around the Ward.
Michaela played with the beads and didn’t look at her sister, unsure of how this should play out, in the short term, and longer. Unsure of whose side she was on. Or whose side she should be on. She was buying time. Niquita moved and slowly lay back, naturally, with her mother. Margaret Rose put her arm around her daughter, gently kissing the top of her head and with both daughters lounging on her bed, she hissed back at her husband, ‘Disown me, disown me always, whenever ya like, ’cause, Paddy, yar a good-far-nathing bastard, ja hear me?’ Margaret Rose said. ‘And I tells you this, it was a sorry day I married ya. And all da time ya were off with Bernie Kelly. All these years –’ she stood up out of bed, moving Michaela with her like a small tide – ‘ya brought nathing ta dis family . . . but work. But you listen well ta me now . . .’
Margaret Rose began counting out on her fingers, starting with her thumb.
Thumb – ‘I was a good wife.’
She spoke rapidly now.
Finger one – ‘I did well by m’family and by yars –’ finger two – ‘and yar people.’
Ring finger – ‘I was a good mother, and I loved m’boys and girls.’
Pinkie – ‘I tried my best with you and I kept our place nice in far tougher times than now. And that’s enough. I never split myself with loving or running foolish around after any other man . . .’
‘Ah, would ya listen . . . who’d have ya?’ Paddy said.
Both girls cried out.
The Queen can move in any direction. Forward – backdiagonal/all moves, fast.
King moves slowly. Awkwardly. A step at a time.
‘Ah, now, that’s a low blow . . . even far you, Paddy. And only far ma brother –’ she motioned to Jim – ‘ya’d have ruined us, so don’na come in here and give me lip about my girls. They’re my girls, and they certainly don’na deserve Jonathan O’Keefe laughing at them, or taking his dirty way with them. Ya know what, ’tis an awful pity you didn’t you come in here and demand his number far getting fresh with her? And do something useful . . . like a father should.’
‘Ah, stop, they’re well able ta look after themselves, that pair,’ Paddy said, glancing at the two girls, ‘. . . and signs on yarself that yar not dying neither? Big hoax, I suppose?’
He was correct.
But there was nothing behind his words now, everyone knew it, and he couldn’t seem to withstand the pain of his bruised leg, rubbing at it constantly. Margaret Rose did not shut her mouth and Margaret Rose would not stop until she had made her point clearly, and knocked the King over.
Checkmate.
‘All them times you were off getting Bernie to open her legs for ya . . . I stayed.’
Paddy muttered something.
‘I did my best and I’ll continue ta stay and I will do my very best by them, but ya’ll listen ta me now, don’na ya dare come in here, Paddy Sherlock, claiming all sorts about murder and yar girls, when ’tis not you that’ll pick up the pieces . . . and yar own morals are out of kilter.’
‘Ya finished, are ya? Morals? What are ya spouting about?’ he shouted, spitting his words slowly now; standing down was not a trait of their union, either of them. But the fight was dying.
She lay back.
‘I am. I’m well finished. Finally . . .’ she said, looking up at the ceiling. ‘And if ’tis shame yar afraid of, ya’ve given us plenty of it. Michaela and Niquita will marry whomever they wants. Jim’ll look after us, you won’na see us wronged, Jim?’ Margaret Rose looked at her brother.
‘No, no, I promise, no,’ Jim said, uncomfortable at being dragged back into the row.
‘Well, I knows you won’t, ya pansy,’ Paddy shouted at Jim.
‘Ya need ta watch yar mouth. Ya’ll only love wan of us, I’ve had it now,’ Margaret Rose said loudly, sitting up again, wagging the finger at him, ‘and Bernie hasn’t a penny, so g’wan off with ya, g’luck with that.’ She waved him off with her two hands like a sweeping-pan brush.
Up. Down. Dismissed. But he was a dismissed man with nowhere to go.
Not in the short term.
He softened, and began explaining that he couldn’t love just one of them, and wasn’t that why all the bother began in the first place. And if he could, then none of this would have happened.
‘Look . . . it’s just . . . Mags, ’twas my grandchild, that’s all,’ he finished, gently.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ she said on a sharp in-breath, ‘ya have others, some ya never see. Evan fell a few weeks ago, but you wouldn’t know, yar never here.’
‘Ah, fuck this. I love them children as me own. I canny be listening to this –’ he looked at Niquita, hopeful – ‘is there someone to fix my tea?’ They both shook their heads. He looked around at us all, eyeing our takeout, ‘Anyone?’
No one answered. He didn’t push it. Not today. Paddy turned awkwardly and before he left, he put out his hand to shake his wife’s, but she refused it, looked away. Paddy blessed himself and began to mumble prayers that he couldn’t finish; so, rather embarrassed, he turned and left the Ward.
‘Wasn’t even a baby,’ Michaela shouted out after him, far enough out of earshot, but conscious of her mother’s hurt. Niquita kissed her mother and said, ‘I’m so sorry, Mammy, I just taut he’d help us, I was just sad for the baby being gone . . . and,’ she paused, ‘. . . well, I missed him.’
‘I know, love, but try ta put it out of yar head now, ya need ta get on with life. I know that’s easier said than done, but Jonathan O’Keefe is a bad sort, didn’t I promise you this? Ya should’a kept your mouth closed like I begged. See, it might be harder on ye both now, but it’ll be OK, yar father never solved any problem, you should know that, love. He only made them.’
They opened some Kimberley biscuits, the ones individually wrapped that you get at Christmas, with the thick chocolate, and slowly peeled the black-and-purple wrappers off. Michaela came over offering me one and I smiled with my lips pursed tightly, like you’d do at a funeral. I’m-sorry pursing. I took a chocolate biscuit, as it would have been impolite and awkward not to. She took my wrapper off for me, and unpeeled one for Alex too, and she shared one with Jane by lobbing it on her bed, unopened, afraid to go too close.
Mammy was awake again, and that was all that mattered.
I held the chocolate biscuit until it melted in my hand.
‘I’m just going to head and heat this up,’ Alex said, quietly, carrying the takeout bag away.
Chapter 21
‘Shit, you OK?’ I said. Margaret Rose was combing her hair when all her visitors had left for chips.
‘Ah, look, loveen, these things happens, I’ll be fine.’
‘Sure?’
‘Ah. I’ve been through worse. I’m just glad really he’s back, and . . . in one piece. Look it, what can I say . . . sure yar husband is yar husband and as well him as another, or so they say. I canny remember who said that, but there’s a lot of truth in it.’
I nodded, though she didn’t seem convinced, or seemed desperate to convince herself.
‘I’ll always take Paddy back, because he’s mine, ya know?’ she said. ‘And . . .’ she hesitated, ‘I made a solemn promise in front of God.’
‘Yes,’ Jane said, thumbing the wrapper, trying to open her biscuit. ‘Yes, you did. Promise in front of God. Like me.’
It was bleak. But true. True to them both.
Margaret Rose got up out of bed, and rummag
ed underneath. She lifted a large Tesco bag for life and came over to me, dropping it on my bed.
‘Just a few things, tide ya over. Got wan of me own lads ta sort it far ya. My boys are good, ya know?’
‘I know,’ I said.
Maybe it made her a little more comforted, at my isolation, perhaps. My self-imposed isolation. Two jars of apple drops, three naggins of vodka, because, though not a drinker herself, she couldn’t say the same about me from the amount of times I went on about it.
‘Ya could keep wan handy under yar pillow.’
We laughed.
Some Take a Breaks, pink fluffy pyjamas that said ‘Sweet Dreams’ with matching socks that had little moons on the soles. She placed it on the ground and handed me an envelope. A mass card for the sick with Mary on the front holding out her hands and looking upwards to the sky, with the most ridiculously thin nose.
‘God is good,’ she said, watching me stare at the card. I patted my bed, and she sat. ‘I’m sorry, maybe ’twas the wrong things ta get ya . . .’
‘It was so kind, specially the vodka . . .’
‘But ya know what I meant,’ Margaret Rose said, eyeing the card. ‘It’s just, everyone sick should have wan or two masses said far them. They might bring ya some good. Well, I suppose, they canny do ya any harm at the very least.’
We laughed again.
Jane opened up all our curtains wide to let the Good Lord in and upon seeing the Hegartys who were sleeping, she crept slowly over towards them. ‘Little lambs,’ she said, sneaking up to them, flicking water from a white plastic cup onto Claire and Hegs, waking both of them. ‘What are you doing?’ Claire shouted at Jane, rubbing her nose. ‘Go away. Go back to your bed. No one wants you here.’ She swatted at the old woman but Jane wasn’t moving back.
‘Ah, bless the little ones. And you poor thing here, here with her,’ she said to Hegs, nodding at his daughter. He was just opening his eyes and Jane climbed up onto his bed, looking down over him.
‘Please,’ Claire said, coming around to the right-hand side of the bed. ‘Don’t. Please just leave him. Please, not here . . . this isn’t the place.’
‘She was beautiful, longest eyelashes I ever saw,’ Jane said, and she began to rub down his eyelids, as Hegs groaned out. ‘You are . . . just like her. Just like her, oh, Ann. Oh, my God, I am so sorry, I love you. I do, I really do.’
Margaret Rose moved from me, and attempted to coax Jane back to bed.
‘Come on now, good woman, he needs ta sleep.’
‘You, well, you are nothing like her,’ Jane hissed at Claire. ‘Not one part of you.’
Hegs was awake now.
‘Please, Mrs Lohan, please, no, leave him be.’
‘I love you, Ann, it’s so sad to see you in here . . . like this. I am so sorry. And your hair, it’s all gone.’
Hegs didn’t flinch.
She blessed him again with her fingers, crying now, as Margaret Rose linked her and began stepping her gently back to her own bed.
A text from my mother.
. . . How are you feeling? Any more word from the docs? I’d really like to see you. x (Emoji of a doctor with a pair of glasses and yellow hair)
Good, hope to get out today or tomorrow. Miss you.
Delete Miss You. I Love You. All the best.
Hoping to get out soon, miss you, c u later. (Double heart emoji, pink, swish)
Return message about how cold it had turned and a freezing-blue face with ice hanging out of his mouth. And then a clapping hands. She’d hit a wrong key.
. . . I’ll leave in some food, tell Alex to be careful on the roads, it’s to freeze later. Xz
Thanks. X
‘Michal and Molly up a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g,’ Jane sang.
‘Shush now, good woman, and lift your leg now . . .’ said Margaret Rose.
‘FIRST COMES MARRIAGE AND THEN BABY IN A CARRIAGE.’ Jane pointed at Shane’s empty bed. ‘I saw them, you see, all curled up together like two little field mice. Field rats. Field rats.’
First do no harm.
Claire hit Hegs’s buzzer.
Molly ran onto the Ward, stirring a drink for Jane which splashed over the rim and down onto the tiles.
‘Now, now, what’s wrong, hun?’ She smiled at Margaret Rose. ‘Thank you, darl, I’ll take her from here. Drink a little now, that’s it, and open . . .’
‘I don’t want it . . . I don’t like it, you’re trying to poison me,’ Jane said to Molly. ‘I don’t want it and I won’t take it and you cannot make me. I’m not drinking it, I won’t and you can’t make me, you haven’t even told me how Tom is, and my dog, you see, do you know I have a bit of a burger for my dog, you’d better not have taken it.’
‘Hey,’ Alex said, returning with the bag, steaming saag and coriander.
‘You’ll have ta lie still, hun, come on Jane, now, now,’ Molly said.
‘I know you, oh, now, I know you . . .’ Jane said. ‘I most certainly do, from somewhere, don’t I, my dear?’ she asked. She pulled open Molly’s lips and shoved her thin small index finger in, then pulled out her tongue. Molly turned her head downwards, her hands too occupied to defend herself.
‘You really have the most beautiful teeth, has anyone ever told you that? You are, in actual fact . . .’ Jane announced, ‘beautiful,’ and with a loud cackle she banged her foot on the steel side grille of the bed. ‘A little pretty mouse curled up with your Polish man.’
Molly turned and placed the drink on Jane’s nightstand, then ever so gently, began trying to fix the covers around her, but it was no use, Jane was up again.
‘Caw,’ Jane screamed. ‘I do know you, ah, I know you now, caw, ca-caw.’ Jane began pulling clothing from herself, and stepping out of the navy top. She was entirely naked as she waltzed over towards the empty bed and began pirouetting. ‘Full up of ghosts there, full of dead ghosts and I don’t like you, not one bit,’ she said to Molly. ‘I know what you’ve done. See, I have you now, oh, you silly girl. Not a place to be up to your business.’
‘Jane, come back to bed, g’lady, you’d be more comfortable if ya just . . .’ She took Jane gently by the arm. ‘We need to git you dressed now, girl. Have you knickers under here?’
‘Oh, I surely do, have them, knickers, but we can buy a pair here in any case, lovely boutique this, but I surely do, was I making a nuisance of myself? I hope not, I like shopping here, and I hope to return. Mother says if I make a nuisance or a pest out of myself, I won’t be allowed, you know, return.’
‘Knickers?’ Molly repeated, distracted.
‘Try da purple bag,’ Margaret Rose said.
After she had searched in the holdall, Molly lifted Jane’s legs by the ankles, like a blacksmith would shoe a mare, and tried to coax each foot into the knickers. Jane stood on her two flat feet with the knickers around her ankles.
And she sang
And she sang
Michal and Molly up a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g
‘Here and there and everywhere, here and there and everywhere,’ to the tune of ‘God Save the Queen’. Jane then leaned in and hugged Molly Zane so ferociously that Jane tumbled forwards up and off her bed, knocking Molly off balance, both of them falling hard onto the windowsill, Molly first, but she held Jane tight like a rugby ball. Wallop. The sheet of glass fell out from its putty and dropped to the ground, smashing and shattering into bright confetti. The two women clung to one another.
Chapter 22
It was pitch dark outside. It took ninety seconds to move everything from the Ward under the big lights. Except Hegs and Jane. He was too unstable to move anywhere, and she was being sedated. There was a hollowing wind coming in through the open pane. The Ward was finally officially deadly dangerous.
I don’t remember who packed my bags. I don’t remember who swarmed in to move us all. I don’t remember if by then, I looked more like the guy from The White Stripes or Patti Smith or still Michael Keaton. I resolved not to look in mirrors any more.
Off
in a tiny side room, Alex wasn’t giving up, as he tried to serve out the hot food with a spatula thing and pour red wine into plastic cups. I wasn’t sure of the timing, but it was impulsive and this excited me.
‘Fucking hell, it’s not safe here.’ Alex was flustered, his eyes darting around the tiny room. ‘What the fuck’s a colposcopy?’ he said as he read the health posters and warnings on the wall. His hands were shaking and he drank from the cup.
‘You don’t want to know . . .’ I muttered.
‘Christ. That window,’ he said, interrupting me. ‘It was so clearly . . .’ he trailed off, agitated. ‘Rattling,’ he decided on, his eyes fixed on the soap dispenser that was poorly attached to the wall, lopsided, hairy rawlplugs sticking out.
I had escaped a little, just a little.
‘You look lovely,’ he said, suddenly staring at me. ‘Really lovely.’
‘Here, take this off me.’
We unclipped the wires from the telemetry machine they had brought out with me, Big Brother, and freed the little clips from each of the steel nipples.
‘Are you actually sitting on a commode?’ Alex asked as he circled me for attachments.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Bon appetit!’
We laughed as he started to crunch a poppadum. Then he lifted the bottle of wine, throttled it by the neck and drank straight from it. ‘Ah, here, I can’t do it, Sinéad, I just can’t,’ he said, taking another fast swig. ‘We’re not, well, to be fair, we’re not organised, I’m not that kind of person, you know, that would know what to do . . . it’s terrifying . . . and I need to get you that special bed.’
As You Were Page 22