As if the Parkinson’s wasn’t enough, the subsequent blood tests showed high cholesterol levels, so he’s also cut back on cheese and butter. Though Diarmuid said it’s important not to lose weight, he is down three kilos. How could he not be? He wonders if he needs to go to the toilet again. All that water he has to drink with the Levodopa has him worn out from pissing. Maybe that’s what’s keeping him awake. But no, there’s no need to go.
Dopamine. There’s a pun there too, somewhere. That’s another exercise – linking words. That dope of mine. No. More dope for the dopamine. No. You’re a dope without dopamine. Almost.
It is still dark, still deep in the night. The glare of a neighbour’s security halogen light invades the bedroom. That light is nothing less than a disgrace. He wonders if that’s what woke him. He will definitely speak to Mrs Hegarty about it. Even if it were pointed downwards, but it comes straight in through the curtains.
It goes off again. Darkness is restored.
He twists and turns and lies on his back. A second pillow would be nice when he lies like this but when he turns on his side, one pillow is better. He presses his legs together to stop them moving.
His new friend, the resting tremor, whom he has nicknamed RT, starts up again. He’d forgotten that it’s worse when he’s on his back, so he turns on his side and thinks about the hurling. He imagines playing in an All-Ireland final. As Cork’s full-back. The rock that Kilkenny attacks crash and founder on. Heroic catches in forests of hurleys. Mighty clearances high, high, way up into the forward line. Alan Dunlea and Billy Dunlea, the heroes of Cork.
Alan Dunlea is asleep.
Maureen Dunlea is awake.
Alan seems to be asleep. The tossing and turning has stopped for a while. And the tremor, thanks be to God.
Sarah, Conor’s girlfriend, or partner, or whatever they call them these days, had been pleasant enough. A bit stand-offish, maybe. Maureen had thought that Conor wasn’t serious about Sarah, but she’s not so sure now.
It was awkward, meeting in the hotel like that, with Conor and Alan going off to the match afterwards. Not together, though. God forbid they would do anything together.
Why he brought her to the game instead of his father, especially given the diagnosis, God only knows. But he must have had his reasons. Thinks too much about things, does Conor. He’s lost weight again, too – Sarah doesn’t seem the cooking type.
Maureen thinks that she will probably never know what happened between Conor and his father, but she has her suspicions. The falling-out seemed to happen around the time of Alan’s affair with that slut of a secretary. And she a married woman too, for God’s sake. It must have been that. Conor must have found out, somehow. How stupid of Alan. When it came to sex, he hadn’t ever been led by his brain, but by that thing of his. After Maureen found out about the first woman, Claire – if she was the first one – she had made it very clear that sex in the marriage bed wouldn’t be on offer again. That was during her pregnancy with Anthony, so Conor would have been three. Twenty-six years ago now. Lord save us, where do they go?
She thought it would teach him a lesson, bigger fool she. To be honest it had been a relief not to be performing again those first six months. With Anthony so colicky and up most nights. And after the trouble she’d had with the birth. God, she thought she was going to die that day in the Erinville. It felt more like a bus was coming out of her, not a baby. An extra stitch for the husband, the doctor had joked, the cheek of him. Well, it was wasted.
The horrible memory comes back to her. When she’d eventually regretted her declaration and had grown frustrated. The night she’d relented, and made her move, and turned to Alan and stroked him. Her shock when he turned away. That little sound he made, almost like a snigger.
‘Alan?’ she’d said, half in hope, half in pleading.
‘Go to sleep, Maureen,’ he said.
And that was that.
She didn’t speak to him for a month afterwards, but that wound down too. What was the point? A lot of people lived without sex. It wasn’t as if she was going to walk out or anything; the boys needed a father as well as a mother. Later, when they were gone and living their own lives, she was too set in her ways to up sticks and start again. Anyway, the shame of it. No.
She remembers when poor Tom died what her friend Helen had told her about facing into a celibate future without him. That night Helen was drunk when Maureen had called over, about a month after the funeral. Apparently herself and Tom used to joke when they hadn’t had sex for a while, and call each other ‘Cobweb Mickey’ and ‘Fossil Fanny’. It took Maureen a while to get it, but then she did. She visualised her own vagina fossilising and hardening inside her, like a rock. A ridiculous notion, when you think about it, but it stayed with her, somehow.
Maybe Sarah had been nervous. That would explain her quietness, but it was more than that, too. She had a blank look, almost like she didn’t understand, or didn’t care. Maybe she’s a bit dim, but surely not.
And that accent! God, what do they call it again? Plummy. That’s it. She’s a gorgeous-looking girl, no doubt about that, if it really matters so much. Maybe Conor takes after his father there, too. No. He couldn’t.
Never gave her an ounce of trouble, Conor, growing up. Not once. Those lovely times in the house in Derrynane, when it was just her and the boys, who were hanging with tiredness and asleep at nine. Those everlasting summer evenings, with a book to look forward to, and the radio, and a glass of wine and a fag. Another long day on the strand to follow. Those long, sunny days, just tanning away and reading. So relaxing. Neverending.
Maureen Dunlea is asleep.
Alan Dunlea is awake.
He tries to match his breathing with Maureen’s. He read somewhere once that if you do that, you’ll get to sleep more easily. But it doesn’t work.
How nervous she was this morning, before the meeting with Conor’s girlfriend. Never shut up all the way up in the car. She was always fierce possessive about the boys – Conor especially. It had been very good of Jim and Carole to bring them up to Dublin. That trip to IKEA was a fabrication, surely. A pity Jim has no interest in hurling. Rugby was always his thing in school and now it’s all ‘Munster this’ and ‘Munster that’. Carole is so like Maureen since she lost the weight. They’re like twins, though Maureen is four years older. Or is it five?
A fine bit of stuff, Sarah, no doubt about that. Glowing, she was. The English have such poise, especially those upper-class women. God, that cut-glass accent. Reserved, but hard to blame her in the circumstances. If he were twenty years younger, he’d have given Conor a run for his money. Ten, even. Now, that’s all over too, of course, along with everything else.
He turns on his back, then on to his right side, facing Maureen. He presses his legs together again.
Maureen said Conor wasn’t that serious about Sarah. Never knew what he wanted at all, Conor. Never will. Feckless. He won’t stay in that job either, no matter how well it pays.
Alan wonders if he had been too hard on the boys, growing up. But discipline is a critical element of any child’s development – boys especially – and look how well they’ve both done. Yes, he didn’t do many of the usual things with them, but a father’s first role is to provide for his family and make his children self-sufficient and independent. Pampering never did anyone any good at all. That’s just the way it is. Anyway, he could hardly get a look-in, with Maureen fussing over them all the bloody time.
The rows when Conor and Tony got older were bad. But he had to be firm. They had to learn who was boss. Now, it didn’t help that things went so wrong between himself and Maureen. Hard to justify those women, maybe, but life is for living too. If Maureen ever found out the full extent of it; those prostitutes in Dublin, and Carole that time, up against the wall in Lahinch. Ripped the knickers clean off her. God, that was a close call. The height of stupidity – with his wife’s sister, of all people. But by God did she want a good fucking, too, and Alan Dunlea was th
e man to give it to her. Yes, life is for living. No regrets.
All water under the bridge now, anyway. They stuck the course and the lads are looked after.
He smiles when he thinks about the match again. What it must feel like, to win an All-Ireland. The final whistle, the cheering, the walk up the steps, the banquet and the trip home, the camaraderie, the open-top bus tour. The celebrations, the girls throwing themselves at you.
Alan Dunlea is asleep.
Maureen Dunlea is awake.
Saint Luke’s Home is the best option. By far the best option, from the brochures she’s seen and the visits she’s made. Helen’s mother is very happy there, and it’s so convenient. When the tremors get too bad and he can’t walk. Full-time care, there’s no other way. They have physiotherapists, too.
It’s just a matter of being practical, as he’d say himself. ‘We are where we are, Maureen. Face facts. This is the situation we have to deal with, so deal with it we will.’
She thinks of the bridge games in Monkstown Golf Club. Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons. Lasagnes with wine from Marks and garlic bread. To be able to have a fag in peace. A new Fiesta, one of those automatic ones. Walks with Carole, she’s always on to her since she lost all the weight. Netflix. Everybody has it except them; he won’t hear of it. Some great series, Mary says, and you can watch the episodes one after the other, with no ads. Salsa dancing, maybe; Margaret said she’d do it with her.
It’ll be hard for him to settle in the home, no doubt about that, but he’ll get used to it in time. And they can medicate, if necessary. Money isn’t an issue, his pension will still be coming in, and Conor and Anthony will help.
Long summer days in the house in Derrynane, when Conor and Sarah and their children will come to visit. Or maybe the children could come on their own, when they’re a little older. She could get a Polish girl to help her, like the one the Murphys have. Gosia. Lovely little thing – she’ll do anything she’s asked. Maureen wonders if the Netflix will work on that old television in Derrynane.
The feeling of hope and anticipation on those summer drives down to Kerry. Of leaving everything behind. Through Macroom, on to Ballyvourney after the bends. Over the county bounds. On to Kilgarvan, Kenmare, Parknasilla, Sneem and Caherdaniel. Then that winding little road down into Derrynane. Such a lovely drive, into the setting sun.
Maureen Dunlea is asleep.
Alan Dunlea is awake.
There goes that bloody light again. For God’s sake. He counts the seconds before it turns off. He doesn’t need to open his eyes such is the glare. RT is going goodo. He turns on his side again. Fifteen. He presses his legs together to stop them from moving.
He sees a faint natural light in the room now. The dresser has taken form – it’s nearing dawn.
Maureen is lucky that she can sleep so easily. The minute her head hits the pillow. If only he had it as good.
He recites the important terms he’s learned off by heart from that book. Dopamine: chemical substance in the brain that transmits impulses from nerve cell to nerve cell, regulating balance and … movement. Levodopa: drug which changes into dopamine in the brain. Dystonia: sustained muscle contractions and cramps that some people with Parkinson’s experience. Restless leg syndrome (RLS): an irresistible need to move the legs and a frequent, no, a common cause of sleeplessness for people with Parkinson’s. Antioxidant:
Alan Dunlea is asleep.
Maureen Dunlea is awake.
He’s asleep again. Could he not stay still for two minutes? All that tossing and turning. She was always lucky when it came to sleep, but now is probably a good time to move into the spare room. She’s thought about it often enough, God knows.
He didn’t react at all to the diagnosis – so typical of him. You’d swear the doctor told him he had a touch of flu. She was surprised he’d allowed her to go with him to the neurologist. Deep down he must have been worried. Sitting in the tatty old corridor in the South Infirmary for what seemed like hours. Frozen with the cold after the walk over from the City Hall car park. Which he insisted on, of course, because he still gets in there for free.
The words pouring out of the doctor’s mouth and drifting away, like smoke. The only ones that registered were Parkinson’s Disease and inevitable deterioration. Why do they call it a disease, if it’s not catching? She thought diseases were something that could spread, like smallpox, or AIDS, or tuberculosis.
He’d put on his work face, of course. She knows it well. The important public servant one. Principal Officer, Cork City Council. Rattled off questions to the doctor, Ó Mangán, or was it Ó Mahúna – some Irish name, anyway. He was a cold fish too, and well able for Alan.
The drive home in silence. She was more shocked than him, or maybe he just didn’t want to show it. He always was too proud for his own good. He insisted on driving, of course. Then the rush to the Internet. The interrogation of what exactly the doctor had said. Only then did she realise why he had brought her with him in the first place – in case he didn’t remember something, some detail. ‘The devil is in the detail.’ That’s another favourite. Then the whiskey. Hard to blame him for that, in fairness, even if she had a desperate job that night getting him up the stairs to bed.
His head stuck in those books every minute of every day, since. As if reading medical books will help. Probably make things worse, if anything.
Hannah had always wanted to marry a doctor when they were in those digs together in Wellington Road. Must have been 1964 or 1965. All she ever talked about was doctors, before she met Jerome. Those North Infirmary dances she used to be dragged off to. Maureen had never seen the attraction – they were all so full of themselves. Ironic, when you look at who she ended up with.
They were great days, though. That lilac chiffon dress, and those pumps. That lovely lamé gold foldover clutch – you can’t get them any more. Her first time, with Peadar. She had expected it to hurt more. She thought he was the one too, her head pressed against his shoulder to those slow waltzes in the Arcadia Ballroom. More fool, she. Once he got what he wanted, he lost all interest. Oh, what a beautiful dancer, though. Fred Astaire wasn’t a patch on him. Waltzes and foxtrots. Two-steps. Didn’t matter to Peadar. The feet of an angel. Waltzes and foxtrots. Two-steps.
Maureen Dunlea is asleep.
Alan Dunlea is awake.
He shudders when he thinks of the moment he knew Conor was behind him in the kitchen. That time, after his sixtieth birthday party, when they’d all come home and he’d had too much whiskey. Pressing himself up against Conor’s girlfriend’s bottom like that, as she washed some glasses at the sink.
She had started it, in fairness. Gave him the look at dinner. A saucy little bit. He was just about to put his arm around and cup her breast. She didn’t resist, either. Pushed back against him, if anything. Pert little bottom.
That moment, when he knew that somebody was standing by the door. The shock on Conor’s face, the rage, the coldness. The coldness ever since. Even this morning in the hotel. Even since the diagnosis. He wonders if Conor will soften in the end; you’d think he’d be over it by now.
No. It will ever be thus. That’s a quote from somewhere. He tries to locate it, but it won’t come. Shakespeare, maybe.
Antioxidant: an enzyme or alternative organic substance capable of counteracting the damage done, wait, the damage done by the oxidation of the body. Bradykinesia: a slowness of movement. Dyskinesia: an involuntary movement, a disruptive side-effect of Parkinson’s medication. Restless leg syndrome (RLS): the irresistible need to move the legs and … and a common cause of sleeplessness for people with Parkinson’s. It is irresistible too.
Substantia nigra: a small part of the brain that degenerates. What a great word: degenerate. Alice used to call him that. Herself, too. ‘We’re an awful pair of degenerates,’ she’d say, lighting up a fag, after they’d ridden the arses off each other in that little flat of hers in South Terrace. That shaky little bed – it’s a wonder it didn’t
fall apart. Alice. The smirk of her, when he’d arrive to the door, half-cut and ready for action. She was always ready for action, the little minx. An awful shame she got that job in Dublin – she had been a great secretary, too. Plenty more where she came from, but Alice was one of a kind.
Alan Dunlea is asleep.
Maureen Dunlea is awake.
A terrible pity she didn’t have more time with Sarah, to suss her out properly on her own. If only Conor had brought Alan to the match, instead of her. The two women could have gone shopping. Or sat in the hotel all day and had a nice lunch and a glass of wine. Gotten to know each other. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d waited in a hotel lobby for Alan, but she wouldn’t have minded today with somebody new to talk to. Conor’s girlfriend – maybe his wife, someday, the mother of his children. They might even come back to Cork to raise a family; sure, London isn’t a fit place for that at all.
And Sarah might make a good wife and mother too. Who’s to know? So what if she has a posh English accent; sure we all have accents of one kind or another. Maureen remembers the slagging she got about her Stradbally accent when she first came to Cork. That little rip from Douglas, the manager’s secretary. An accent is no reason to judge somebody.
Maureen hopes their first is a boy. Actually, two boys first and then a girl. Girls are hard work. She would have liked one, herself, after Anthony.
Not to be.
But the boys are so easy to manage. So, what’s the word? Malleable. You can get around boys. Give them a ball or some rackets and they’ll run around the strand all day hitting it. And swimming, and shouting, and feeding. Eat anything, boys. That’s all they want. Running and swimming and shouting and eating on the strand. Grand.
The First Sunday in September Page 14