Lifesaving for Beginners

by Ciara Geraghty

  You can’t argue with bulgy veins. I say, ‘My pleasure,’ and I start signing. Even the cramping of my hand is not enough to quell my outpourings of affection.

  ‘What’s your neighbour’s name?’

  ‘Dolores.’

  To darling Dolores, so sorry to hear about your troubles. Hope you are back on your feet very soon. All my love, Kat xxxxxxxxxx

  I write eight more variations of that, then I start on the other pile. The woman’s name is Kerry. I start to write. ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s with a C. And an ie.’

  ‘Cerrie?’

  ‘That’s me. And could you sign this one for my boyfriend?’

  To Des . . .

  ‘With a Z.’

  To Dez

  ‘This one’s for Florence.’

  ‘With an F.’ My little joke.

  ‘No, with a Ph.’

  ‘Phlorence?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  I sign and sign. I’m nearly there. Behind Kerry – Cerrie – Thomas is on the phone. I hear his voice, soft and low. Wispa bars. My mouth waters.

  ‘Here’s the last one. Can you make it out to Lola?’

  ‘Sure.’ Lola. You can’t go wrong with Lola.

  ‘Eh, there’s an H at the end,’ says Cerrie. I add the H – Lolah – and Cerrie smiles. ‘You’re much nicer than I thought you’d be.’

  ‘Er, thank you.’ It takes her ages to put the books back inside the rucksack. I try to help but she says no. They have to go back in chronological order. I don’t say, ‘Have a safe trip back to the asylum, won’t you?’ I say, ‘No problem. And thank you for coming. And give my best to Dolores, won’t you? And to Dez, Phlorence and Lolah, of course.’

  Eventually, she hoists the rucksack on her back, turns and leaves.

  ‘There you are.’ That’s what Thomas says when I look up. He smiles his old familiar smile and says, ‘There you are.’ I feel like he’s right. Here I am. It’s taken me so long to get here but I made it in the end.

  I say, ‘I’ve missed you.’ It slips out. I’m still springing leaks, it seems.

  He looks shocked. I can’t blame him.

  He doesn’t say, ‘I’ve missed you too.’ I decide not to take it as A Sign.

  Instead, he says, ‘You never got in touch.’ He sounds hurt, like he wanted me to get in touch. A feeling surges, like a tide coming in. I recognise the feeling. It’s hope.

  ‘I thought about you every day. I missed you every day.’ I say it real matter-of-fact. It’s the only way I can manage. ‘I just . . . I didn’t want to call you. I didn’t want to presume. And I knew you had your own stuff going on . . .’

  ‘You mean Sarah?’

  I nod.

  ‘That was a mistake.’ I stand up. He doesn’t call it a disaster, which I would have preferred. But a mistake. That’s something. Someplace to start.

  I say, ‘I know all about mistakes. But it’s like Samuel Beckett says, about failing. You have to try again. Try harder. Fail better.’

  ‘Fail better?’

  ‘Yes. That’s my plan. I’m going to fail better. No point in setting expectations too high, with my track record.’ That earns a smile. A small one.

  I move around to his side of the table. Stand beside him. Close enough to touch.

  ‘I’m not expecting you to forget about everything that’s happened. For us to pick up where we left off. But I want you to know things about me. I want you to know everything. Like all those times I said no, I really meant yes. Yes to everything.’

  He looks at me then. Right at me. ‘Yes to everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like bog snorkelling? Yes to bog snorkelling?’

  I think about bog water between my toes, damp and dirty. I say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes to a weekend in Leitrim?’

  I think about Leitrim. All those cold lakes. The endless grey skies. I say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes to fishing? Fishing in Leitrim?’

  An image of a bucketful of bloody fish guts swims to the surface of my mind. I dunk it with both hands. I say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kite-surfing?’

  I see myself in a full-body plaster cast. I say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kayaking?’

  ‘Yes.’ That one’s a doddle, as Minnie would say.

  ‘Down the river Liffey.’

  Oh Christ, the Liffey. The stinking, sludgy, smelly Liffey. I look at him and I say, ‘Yes.’

  He smiles but he doesn’t ask me anything else. It’s like he’s run out of things to ask. I’m at the end of the road. The possibilities are dwindling. This is it. This is how it ends. It’s like someone is about to shout, ‘Lights out.’

  But then I remember that I’ve nothing to lose. So I go right ahead and say, ‘I was wondering . . . will you be hungry on Friday night around eight?’

  ‘There’s a fair to middlin’ chance.’

  ‘Because I was thinking – if you’re not busy or anything – you could come over on Friday night for dinner.’ I put my hands behind my back. Cross my fingers, like Milo does when he’s hoping for something good.

  ‘Are you cooking?’

  ‘Ah, well, I . . .’

  ‘I’m just messing with you.’

  ‘I’ll get really nice takeaway. And cheesecake from the deli.’ The bait is on the line. There’s nothing more I can do.

  Thomas shifts from one enormous besandalled foot to the other. ‘Well . . . I suppose it would do no harm to talk. And I could collect those cords.’

  ‘The yellow ones?’

  ‘They’re beige.’

  ‘Sure. You could pick them up.’ Now is not the time to mention that I threw them off the balcony one night in a fit of wine-induced pique. They snagged on a gutter. They’re still there, as far as I know.

  And that’s when Thomas says, ‘All right. Friday night, so. I’ll see you then. We can . . . talk.’

  I nod towards his copy of the book. ‘Do you want me to sign that?’

  ‘Sure.’ He hands me the book. I pick up my pen. Open the book. Bend my face to the page. I’ve thought about it so many times. What I would write if he asked me to sign the book. I went through dozens of inscriptions. Clever ones. Pithy ones. They’ve deserted me now, like rats off a sinking ship. I suppose I never really believed that I’d have to come up with something. I never thought he’d ask me to sign it. Why would he? After everything?

  But here he is. Asking me. I close my eyes and write the first thing that comes into my head. I hope Minnie never reads it.

  To Thomas,

  You were right.

  When you said I loved you.

  Whatever happens, I know this much is true.

  Yours

  Kat

  Acknowledgements

  The terrible thing about acknowledgements is that there’s always someone you forget. Like Avril Rankin. Avril taught me everything I know about dog pounds and rescue centres during the writing of Finding Mr Flood. I can’t believe I forgot to thank her, but I did. So here I am remembering. Thank you Avril. For everything.

  My sincere thanks to the McGowan family, especially John, Sinead, Mary, Bernard, Dave and Lyndsey-Anne. For sharing their stories with me and for their hospitality and generosity.

  A huge thank you to Aine Maguire-Keane, who told me her story with her usual sincerity and charm and good humour.

  Thank you to my local G.P., Cathal Martin, who provides me with medical conditions for people who don’t exist and – more importantly – tells me how to make them better.

  Thanks to the Adoption Association of Ireland who helped me with the research for this book.

  Thanks to the Arch club in Portmarnock, for facilitating me.

  Thank you to Neil MacLochlainn for telling me the way things are in schools in the U.K.

  ‘To Emma McEvoy for giving me the seed of an idea that grew and grew until it became a plant and then a bush and then a tree and then a forest and then a story. What you told me has no bearing on the story to be found with
in these pages but the seed, you gave me the seed to grow. Thank you.

  To Owen O’Byrne, who put my manuscript on my Kindle and who fixed my laptop when the professionals told me it was hopeless . . . Thank you so much.

  A big debt of gratitude is owed to Eileen Kavanagh who read a draft of this book and was so generous with her time and her expertise in providing invaluable feedback and insight. I will return the favour any time.

  Thanks to my sister, Niamh Geraghty, who reads the many, many drafts of my books and laughs at the bits that you’re supposed to laugh at. Even if I had other sisters, you’d still be my favourite one. And to Niamh MacLochlainn, who read the manuscript in one sitting and who is always so generous and supportive with her feedback.

  Huge thanks to the staff at Hachette Books Ireland and Hodder & Stoughton in the U.K., especially my editors, Ciara Doorley and Francesca Best. I have learned so much from your patient and careful work on my books. Thank you for helping me tell my stories.

  An enormous thank you to my agent, Ger Nichol, who is always in my corner. Thank you for believing in me, even when I don’t. Especially when I don’t.

  Writers need readers. Otherwise, you’re just alone, in a room, talking to yourself. It still surprises and delights me when someone contacts me to let me know that they’ve read a book that I’ve written. It’s even better when they say that they enjoyed it. And some of them aren’t even related to me. So a huge thank you to all the people who read my books. I really, really hope you enjoy this one.

  I am, as always, indebted to my family: my parents Breda and Don, to whom this book is dedicated. This is one small thing I can do for you in return for the many huge things you have done for me over the years. And to my children Sadhbh, Neil and Grace. They are the people who live with the person who writes the stories. They have their own stories to tell about that experience and those stories aren’t always good . . . So thank you all, for your patience and your love.

  And to my friend, Frank MacLochlainn. Thank you for your friendship, your support, your understanding and your love. I couldn’t do it without you.

  Finally, to Maeve Binchy, who died this week. I will never hear your stories, on the page or the radio or the television, again. I will miss that. I will miss you. You inspired me. You told me that I could do it too. You told all of us. Thank you so much.

  Ciara Geraghty, 8th August 2012

  About the Author

  Ciara Geraghty lives in Dublin with three children, one husband and a dog. Lifesaving for Beginners is her fourth novel.