by Alex Barclay
Laura and Edie exchanged glances.
‘Thanks, Murph,’ said Edie. ‘And what are myself and Laura?’
‘Papering over the cracks,’ said Murph.
Edie laughed. ‘You are right about Alan and Clare, though.’
‘I’m a lucky woman,’ said Clare. ‘God, I wouldn’t fancy being on the singles scene at this hour of my life.’
‘Jesus,’ said Murph, looking at Patrick – ‘now it’s us getting attacked. It’s like a Lazy Susan of insults. Four of us taken out in ten seconds. Have we left anyone out? Do we need to spin it again?’
‘I’m still reeling from the fact you know what a Lazy Susan is,’ said Clare.
‘But here’s some advice for you, Clare – if you ever do end up on the “singles scene” – God forbid – calling it that would keep you on it for the rest of your life.’
‘I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being single,’ said Clare, ‘but when you’re married as long as I am, the idea of dating is terrifying. It sounds to me like everyone just shows up with a giant carpet bag of life experiences, empties it out all over the table, and points out the crappiest bits.’
‘Are you mad?’ said Laura. ‘I left that big bag in my wardrobe when I met Frank. In with all the skeletons. Then I sold the wardrobe on Done Deal and bought a white dress with the proceeds.’
‘But do you ever wonder why some fuckers get married?’ said Murph. ‘Like, do they just pick the same road they’ve seen everyone else go down, and they’re halfway along it, and they realize they’ve lost sight of everyone else up ahead, and that, actually, they could never really see the bits further along the road, and suddenly they go, “Fuck”. And, at this stage, they’re holding someone’s hand on one side, and they look down at the other hand, and there are a couple of smallies hanging off that. And now … now they’re responsible for a whole pile of other lives. And they’re not trapped … but they’re not free. They can’t go back, though – they can never go back. All they can do is walk on with whoever’s holding their hands or they can go on away ahead on their own. Or do they listen out for the echo of someone else’s “Fuuuuck”, and leg it up to them, and see what their story is.’
Everyone looked at him. He looked into his glass. ‘What IS this shit?’
Laura laughed. ‘Did you ever think … some fuckers get married because they fall in love? And they stay in love? And that love … is a beautiful thing?’
‘Are you messing with me?’ said Murph. ‘Was that all just bits of an Ed Sheeran song?’ He turned to Helen. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, they’re lining up at the door,’ said Helen.
‘And rightly so,’ said Murph.
Laura put her empty glass down. ‘No one warns you about the kids thing, though.’ She eyeballed Murph and Patrick. ‘Don’t do it, lads. Don’t have kids.’
Murph looked at her. ‘What – did you think I was about to run into town for one?’
‘I’m serious,’ said Laura. ‘You need to know this. While I have you. I love my babies, they’re mental, and I love them to bits, and don’t get me wrong – I wouldn’t be without them, but … no one tells you. No one who’s had kids is going to tell you it was a massive mistake because it’s so awful. I love them, I do. But I sat down one day, and I realized: I’m never going to South America again—’
‘That’s rather specific,’ said Clare.
‘It’s never going to happen,’ said Laura. ‘I know it won’t. I loved it. I loved everywhere I went. And I’ll never see any of those places again—’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Clare.
‘It’s not,’ said Laura. ‘Every penny goes on the kids.’ She paused. ‘Unless … has anyone spotted a slippy tile or a lump somewhere in the carpet? I could trip, crack my head open and sue the shit out of Johnny and Edie. Next stop – South America.’
‘You could be a mule,’ said Murph. ‘All expenses paid.’
‘Seriously – this is my life,’ said Laura. ‘I make dinner, I feed the kids, I make their lunches for the next day, I feed Frank, I resent the whole lot of them, I fight with the kids at bedtime, and the minute they’re asleep, I feel so guilty that I want the kids back up again to hug them and say I’m sorry, so I fight with Frank instead. Then I prick around on Facebook ’til two in the morning, then I give out to myself, go to sleep, get up, and do the same shite all over again. And at the weekend – more of the shite, less of the pricking around on Facebook. Like, I’m not a prison officer at all if you think about it. I’m actually a prisoner – at work, at home. And in between, I’m a prisoner in a Nissan Micra.’ She paused. ‘I’m looking at those photos of us, and our little faces, and it’s just … sad. It’s making me sad.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Murph. ‘Is it Tears O’Clock already?’
Edie and Clare exchanged glances. Clare glanced down at Laura’s glass.
‘What?’ said Laura, looking at her. ‘What was that face in aid of?’
‘What face?’ said Clare.
‘That was judge face,’ said Laura.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Clare.
‘At least you get paid to judge now,’ said Laura. ‘The rest of us have to do it for free.’ She turned to Helen. ‘You must get judged a lot these days.’
Johnny and Murph gave shocked laughs. Patrick held his breath. Clare shook her head at the Prosecco bottle Edie was holding.
Helen laughed. ‘Thank you, Laura! Thank you! I do!’
‘It must be a pain in the hole,’ said Laura.
‘It is!’ said Helen. ‘People see the wheelchair and it’s like they make up their mind about something – it could be anything – I can see it happening and I’m thinking: What’s going on this time?’
‘Like … what?’ said Murph. ‘They don’t start talk … ing … slow … ly … to … you … do they?’
She laughed. ‘They do! Or they’re afraid to talk to me in case I’m mentally impaired and I’ll suddenly start flapping about the place and they’re mortified. Or the pity eyes.’ She held up her hands. ‘And I do get it – it’s not like I’m going around waiting to be offended. I just want to have the chats, half the time. Unless I’m exhausted or I’ve a headache or …’ She shrugged. ‘It’s the same as anyone.’
‘Well, I’m definitely going to have a headache in the morning,’ said Laura. ‘And I’m definitely going to have trouble walking later. So I’ll know exactly how you feel.’
Everyone laughed.
‘OK,’ said Edie, standing up. ‘Can we raise our glasses to the kindest, most caring woman I know—’
‘All of us know,’ said Murph.
Everyone stood up.
‘—who has been looking after us for as long as we can remember,’ said Edie, ‘who’s come to our rescue on so many occasions we’ve lost count, who’s done the same for every single patient who’s walked through the door of the hospital—’
‘Even Consofuckinlata,’ said Laura.
‘Who also,’ said Edie, ‘went above and beyond to help Johnny and Dylan and me settle back home …’ She paused, her hand to her chest. ‘Sorry – I’m getting emotional, now. But, Helen – seriously, I’ve no doubt I speak for all of us when I say you are the most selfless person we know. And it’s not just about what you do for us. It’s your warmth, and your smile, and that calming look in your eye that has this … effect. Like—’
‘Two Xanax,’ said Clare.
‘I couldn’t have said it better myself,’ said Edie. ‘So … to Helen!’
‘To Helen!’
Helen took a long sip of champagne. ‘I shouldn’t be drinking this—’
‘Get it in to you!’ said Murph.
‘Thank you, everyone,’ said Helen. ‘And thank you, Edie. You’re far too good.’
‘And while we’re here,’ said Edie. ‘Another announcement. Thanks to Helen’s design input, the inn has been awarded a five-star rating from a UK website that rates hotels on wheelchair-friendliness.’
/> Helen’s eyes were wide.
‘Look at her – stunned,’ said Murph. ‘Fair fucking play.’
‘So, on a selfish level,’ said Edie, ‘thank you for giving me one of my proudest moments.’
‘I loved doing it,’ said Helen. ‘I should be thanking you.’
‘Ah, lads, you’re making me puke, now,’ said Laura. ‘What have I ever done for anyone?’
‘Do you want me to answer that?’ said Murph.
‘Murph!’ said Edie.
‘What?’ said Murph. ‘I’m saying credit where credit’s due.’
‘Seriously, though,’ said Laura, turning to Helen. ‘Fair play. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for anyone.’
‘Would you stop it, the lot of you?’ said Helen. ‘You’d think I was a saint.’
‘You are!’ they all said.
15
HELEN
St Gabriel’s Hospital
Castletownbere, 2006
Sister Consolata was sleeping, her hands folded on top of the tight covers. Helen stood by the window, staring out over the harbour, lost in the sparkling strip of the moon’s light on the water.
She turned around and walked over to Sister Consolata’s bedside. She noticed that everything on the locker had been moved to the left; the statue of the Virgin Mary, the Bible, the prayer book, the rosary beads. In their place was a black, leather-bound book that she recognized, but knew didn’t belong there. There were two red rubber bands wrapped around it, barely containing what had been slid between the pages.
She picked it up. She realized then it was Father Owen’s diary. She glanced at the door, then rolled the rubber bands off. It sprung open on a page with two In Memoriam cards wedged in the gutter. She opened them and saw two familiar faces from town, and read the prayers. Then she flipped through the rest of the diary, letting it fall open wherever it was at its fullest, catching brief glimpses of raffle tickets, addresses written on scraps of paper, lists of Ministers of the Eucharist, a menu for a takeaway that was no longer open and, towards the back, in Father Owens’ flowing, slanted script, the beginnings of a eulogy. Then:
Sister Consolata’s kindness … insert examples …
Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Good luck with that, Father,’ she whispered.
She closed the diary, wrapped the rubber bands around it, and put it back. She turned to Sister Consolata and watched her chest rise and fall as she slept, her face remarkably serene.
Helen shook her gently awake. Sister Consolata opened her eyes, and slowly focused on her. She frowned and turned to look at the clock.
Helen smiled and nodded. ‘I know, Sister. It’s late. Were you asleep? Did I disturb you?’
Sister Consolata tried to bat her away with her hand.
‘Do you know where I was today, Sister?’ said Helen, her eyes wide, arms spread. ‘I was in hospital myself! Getting great news! A diagnosis! Multiple Sclerosis! Thirty-five years of age! Can you believe that? M Fucking S! That I’ve seen so many patients with over the years! So I know it all!’
A frown flickered across Sister Consolata’s face. Helen leaned in and smoothed down the top sheet. She smiled. ‘Are you at peace, Sister?’
Sister Consolata closed her eyes, as if to answer yes.
‘Good for fucking you,’ said Helen.
Sister Consolata’s eyes snapped open.
Helen bent close to her ear: ‘Because how the fuck does the whole thing work? That a bitch like you gets to be in the whole of their health until this hour of their life, and still get to be at fucking peace? After all the shit you did. With everything you put Jessie through. Do you remember that, you auld bitch?’
Sister Consolata’s eyes were wider then, fearful.
‘Good enough for you!’ said Helen. She glanced towards the diary on the bedside table. ‘Did Father Owens hear your confession?’
Sister Consolata blinked.
‘Oh, you want me to know that, all right,’ said Helen. ‘Sure, no wonder you’re at peace. All your shite’s been taken care of – is that it? You’ve said your bit and off you go.’
Sister Consolata tried to swallow.
‘Did you lay it all out for him?’ said Helen. ‘For Father Owens? Did you say? “I confess to … tormenting a poor child right up until the last? Do you think Jessie’d have been as drunk that night if she wasn’t trying to block out the poisonous shite you kept coming out with? Did you tell Father Owens you blackened the name of a lovely man like Jerry Murphy? Did you tell him – Jesus! – I could go on and on! INSERT EXAMPLES! There’s enough of them! So, did you? Did you name your sins?’
Sister Consolata gave a few weak coughs and pointed towards her mouth. Helen paused, then reached for a foam swab from the bedside locker, dipped it in water, and ran it across her lips. Sister Consolata closed her eyes, and rested her head back down on the pillow.
Helen’s heart pounded. She put her hands down on either side of Sister Consolata’s shoulders, and used all her weight to tighten the covers across her chest. ‘Answer me, you bitch. Answer me! Did you name your sins?’ She pushed her hands down hard one more time, then took them away. Sister Consolata’s head lifted, then landed without a change crossing her face.
‘Nothing?’ said Helen. ‘Nothing? Not a word?’
She reached down and whipped the pillow out from under Sister Consolata’s head, holding it over her face in a white-knuckle grip, her biceps bulging against the short sleeves of her uniform. ‘I could do it,’ she said. ‘I swear to God. And no one would be any the wiser.’ She came closer with the pillow. ‘Answer me, you bitch. Answer me! Did you name your sins?’
Sister Consolata’s lips parted and with two gnarled fingers, she beckoned Helen down to her. Helen paused as she leaned in, momentarily trapped by the venomous black of her eyes. A shiver ran up her spine as she lowered her head.
Sister Consolata whispered: ‘Did you name yours?’
16
Helen raised her hand. ‘OK, I hate to be the bearer of boring news, but I’m going to have to go to bed. I’m shattered. It’s suddenly hit me.’
‘Nooo,’ said everybody. ‘Don’t go.’
‘I don’t think the party’s going to end if I’m not here,’ said Helen.
‘But there’ll be less boobs in it!’ said Murph. ‘Fewer. Jesus – what kind of example am I to my students?’
‘Helen – no! Please don’t go,’ said Laura.
‘Laura’s Party Break-up Panic,’ said Murph. He looked at Helen. ‘If you’re wrecked, can’t you fall asleep where you are?’ He paused. ‘Ah, come on, lads – I’d say that to anyone who was in any kind of a chair.’
‘Lads!’ said Helen. ‘No one is offending me! I have enough strangers walking on eggshells around me. I definitely don’t need you lot at it.’
‘Fine,’ said Clare. ‘But don’t go to bed.’
‘See – this is why people need to get hammered,’ said Murph. ‘No fading.’ He looked at Helen. ‘Can anyone do anything for you? Can we do anything to stop you leaving?’ He pointed to the wheelchair. ‘Is there a brake on that thing you can’t reach?’
They all laughed. ‘No, but thank you,’ said Helen. ‘And I will see you all for breakfast.’
Murph and Laura exchanged glances.
‘“Helen Maguire was always known for her optimism”,’ said Murph.
‘Are you writing my eulogy already?’ said Helen.
‘See?’ said Murph. ‘You can’t say a thing without her taking offence.’
Helen laughed. ‘You know I’d love to stay, but I just can’t.’
Edie stood up. ‘Come on – let me show you to the stables.’
‘Is there no room at the inn?’ said Murph. ‘Anyone want to lay me in the manger? I could do this all night.’
‘Can I come for a gawk?’ said Clare. ‘I love converted stables.’
‘Who says they’re converted?’ said Murph. ‘I’m telling you – they don’t give a shit.’
‘I wouldn’t mind
a nose in the library too,’ said Clare.
‘Ah, lads,’ said Murph, ‘are ye all going to be off now talking about curtains and shite? And I’ll be stuck drinking the honesty bar dry? On “Guys Go Free” night?’
‘Well, I’ve no interest in sitting around talking about curtains,’ said Laura. ‘So, I’m with you.’
‘No one’s going to be talking about curtains,’ said Clare. ‘But nosing was always going to be part of the deal.’
‘And we won’t be long,’ said Edie. ‘We’re not going to keep Helen up if she’s wrecked. And it’s not like we did much to the library. I mean – we spruced it up, but we didn’t want to be the owners who—’
‘Turned it into a casino,’ said Murph.
‘Not that I had any great attachment to it,’ said Edie. ‘I think the viewing was the first time I’d been in it.’
Murph nodded at Patrick. ‘You were a big reader. You used to go up there too, didn’t you?’
‘Did you?’ said Clare.
Patrick looked at her. ‘Yes.’
‘“Why are you so surprised?” said Murph, mimicking her.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Clare. ‘All I’m saying is I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, you were hardly in the place morning, noon, and night,’ said Murph.
‘No,’ said Clare. ‘Wednesday afternoons. And maybe during a few free classes. And the odd Saturday. And mid-term breaks. And—’ She paused. ‘It’s amazing I had any friends.’
‘We needed you for the table quiz,’ said Murph. ‘To win a prize sponsored by your dad. Covered in boats.’
‘“Covered in boats”,’ said Clare. ‘One boat. Tastefully ironed on to an anorak.’
‘That everyone’s mams would iron over by mistake,’ said Laura.
‘Ooh – Clare’s fierce proud of Daddy,’ said Murph.
‘I’m “fierce proud” of his logo … designed by his daughter,’ said Clare, pointing to herself. ‘I drew the boat part. I was ten, so don’t judge. Daddy got them to add the gold around it.’
‘And then he cut loose in a merchandising shop up in Cork and slapped it on everything,’ said Murph.