Lifesaving for Beginners (3 page)

‘Good for you.
They’re making huge leaps in human biology these days so I’m thinking, any day now.’

‘Can you stop joking around, just for a minute?’

‘How about a peace settlement in the Middle East while we’re at it?’

He sighs then.
‘I’m going to get the doctor.’

‘Good idea.
See how she’s getting on with that cure for pancreatic cancer.’

It’s only when Thomas leaves the room that I notice how quiet everything is.
Quiet as a grave, Thomas would probably say in his current maudlin form.
There’s pain down my right side.
But other than that and the dull throb in my head, everything feels the same as usual.
I’d love a cigarette.
I don’t know where my bag is.
I need my phone.
I need to phone Ed – he’ll be worried – and tell him not to worry.
Tell him that everything is the same as usual.

Nothing has changed.

Even Thomas, when he returns, seems to have gone back to his usual self.
He couldn’t find the doctor but he has somehow discovered that one of the nurses keeps hens in her back garden and they’ve been discussing feeds and eggs and coops and what have you.

It’s only when Thomas is leaving – I have to stay another night for ‘observation’– that he goes all funny again.
He says, ‘I want you to think about what I’ve said.’

I say, ‘Can you put the telly on before you leave?’

Thomas hands me the remote.
‘Here.’
His tone is brusque but then he bends down from his great height and kisses me.
Right on the mouth.
As if I’m not lying defenceless in a hospital bed, with no access to a toothbrush or toothpaste or mouthwash or anything.
He just kisses me like he always does.
No lead-up.
No warning.
Just his mouth on top of mine.
It always gets me.
How soft his mouth is.
He’s so big and farmer-ish, you’d be expecting dry, chapped lips from being out in all sorts of weather.
He kisses me for longer than would be considered appropriate in a hospital visit sort of scenario.
I don’t tell him to stop.

‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow.
Take you home.’

I think the accident has had some effect on me after all because, all of a sudden, there’s a chance I might cry.
I’d say it’s the medication they have me on.
Because of the shattered ribs.
Well, OK then, a hairline fracture on one rib.

I nod and close my eyes as if I’m going to have a nap.

When he leaves, I open my eyes and – this is the strange part – I do cry.
Not loud enough for anyone to hear.
But still.
There are tears.
I’m crying all right.
They gave me something for the pain and they said it was strong.
I’d say it’s that.
I blow my nose and lie down and close my eyes.
I want to go to sleep as quickly as I can so it’ll be tomorrow as soon as possible then I can go home and everything can get back to normal.

2 June 2011; Brighton

I’m sitting on my bed.

The house is dead quiet even though Adrian is here.
I know he’s here because, a while ago, he knocked on the door and poked his head in and said, ‘All right, Milo?
You hungry, mate?’

He never knocks on the door.

Faith and Dad and Ant are gone to Ireland.
I think they’re staying in Auntie May’s house.
That’s where Mam is supposed to be.
I don’t know where she is now.
I hope it’s not a morgue.
I saw a morgue on the telly once.
They put people in drawers and it’s really cold.
Mam hates the cold.
Her hands turn blue when she’s cold.

Dad said I couldn’t go to Ireland with them.
His jumper was inside out and his breath smelled like cigarettes, which is weird because he doesn’t even smoke anymore.
Not since he went to Scotland to live with Celia.

Faith said, ‘Don’t worry,’ when she left.
‘We’ll be back tomorrow.’
Her eyes were all red and puffy and her skin was even whiter than usual so I didn’t want to ask, ‘What time tomorrow?’
I look at my watch again but it’s still only twenty past nine in the morning.
I think Adrian is in the kitchen but I don’t want to go to the kitchen because that’s where Mam is supposed to be.
When she’s not at the café, she’s in the kitchen, baking something.
Or just sitting down, listening to the radio.
Adrian is not supposed to be in the kitchen.
He’s supposed to be at the university in London with Ant.
And I’m supposed to be in Miss Williams’s class, probably writing some story, like My Plans for the Summer Holidays.
Something boring like that.

Everything is sort of back to front.
Like breakfast.
Me and Adrian ate slices of pizza, left over from last night.
We drank Coke as well.
Even if it was my birthday, Mam wouldn’t let me drink Coke for breakfast and my birthday is the same day as Christmas Day, which is sort of like two celebrations in one, I suppose.

People keep knocking on the front door.
Neighbours, mostly.
Mrs Barber from across the road left a gigantic bowl with a lid on the top.
She said it was beef casserole.
There’s celery in it.
I hate celery.
I put it in the fridge.
Mam would call it a terrible waste if I threw it in the bin.

The clothes I wore yesterday are on the floor.
I’m supposed to put my socks and boxers into the linen basket every night.
‘There’re no skivvies in this house.’
That’s what Mam says.

I’m going to have to remember to brush my teeth from now on.
Every day.
Otherwise they’ll rot in my head.
Mrs Barber’s teeth look lovely and white and straight but that’s only because they’re not real.
Her real teeth rotted in her head because she never took care of them.
She told me that one day, when she was in the house and Mam was giving out because I hadn’t brushed my teeth.

Damo didn’t call for me this morning.
He always calls for me.
Or else I call for him.
Whoever’s ready first.
Usually me, because of Damo and the way he stays in bed way after his mam tells him to get up.
She says one of these days she won’t bother calling him.
She’ll call Mr Pilkington, the head master, instead.
But she hasn’t done that so far.

Here comes Adrian again.
He knocks and pops his head round the door.
He says, ‘You wanna go out, mate?
We could go to the park?
Or the cinema?
I think the new
Batman
one is out.’

I look at my watch.
It’s still twenty past nine.
I say, ‘The cinema’s not open yet.’

‘We could go to the park first.’

‘
Batman
’s not out till next week.
Mam said she’d take me.
She said she’d be back on Sunday.’

Adrian walks towards me.
He stands on my clothes but I don’t think he notices.
He sits on my bed.
He looks like he’s going to say something but then he doesn’t.

I say, ‘Half four.’

Adrian looks at me.
‘What?’

‘She said she’d be back at half four if the ferry was on time, which it usually is at this time of the year on account of the weather being nice.’

Adrian looks at me like I’m talking some foreign language.
Italian, maybe.
He can’t speak Italian.
He’s not too bad at French, though.

We don’t say anything for ages and then I say, ‘Is today Thursday?’
If today is Thursday, that means that Mam left yesterday but it doesn’t feel like yesterday.
It feels like ages ago.

Adrian doesn’t say anything.
He covers his face with his hands and, even though he doesn’t make a sound, I think he’s crying.
His shoulders are sort of moving up and down.

Adrian never cries.
Even when he was a kid and was always getting into tricky situations.
Like nettles, for example.
He was always falling into bunches of nettles.
Getting stung by wasps.
And bees.
And horseflies.
Except I don’t think horseflies sting.
I think they bite.
He even fractured his skull once.
The time he cycled his bike along the back wall, pretending it was a tightrope.
Mam said that was the last time she’d take him to the circus.
He still has the scar on his forehead from the stitches.
Mam said he could have supplied a blood bank for a week with the amount that poured out of his head.
The doctor said he was very lucky.

But he never cried.
Not when he got the stings from the nettles or the wasps, or the bites from the horseflies or even the fracture in his skull.
Everyone says that Adrian never cried.

He’s crying now.

I wish he’d stop.

I wish it were yesterday.

Wednesday.

I wish it was Wednesday and the ferry got cancelled because the weather was really stormy.
But it’s not Wednesday.
It’s Thursday.
And the ferry didn’t get cancelled because it’s June and the weather is lovely in June.
Glorious.
That’s what Mam says when the weather’s good.
She says, ‘Isn’t it a glorious day?’
to the regulars at the Funky Banana.

The phone rings and I run down the stairs and answer it.
I don’t know why but I keep thinking it’ll be Mam, laughing her head off and saying she’s grand and there’s been a mix-up and she’s coming home and could I put the kettle on because she’s gasping for a mug of tea.
She’s always gasping for mugs of tea.

I answer it and I say, ‘Hello?
The McIntyre Residence,’ in a posh voice cos I know that’ll make Mam laugh, except it’s not Mam.
It’s a woman and she wants to know what the arrangements are.
I don’t know what the arrangements are.
She says, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
I think she means Mam.

I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on anyway.
If it were Wednesday and the ferry got cancelled, Mam would be here and we wouldn’t be eating leftover pizza and drinking Coke for our breakfast and Adrian would be at the university in London learning about science and Damo would have called at the door and I’d be in school writing a boring story about what I’m going to do for the summer holidays or something like that.

11 June 2011; Dublin

I say, ‘Ouch.’

Thomas says, ‘You OK?’

‘You’re rushing me.’

‘I’m going at a snail’s pace.
In fact, no.
Look, there’s a snail, overtaking us.’

‘That’s a slug.’

‘He’s still pretty slow.
Sluggish, you might say.’

‘I’m glad you think this is funny.’

‘You’re not, though, are you?
You’re not glad.’

‘It’s an expression.’

‘Here’s another expression.
Cheer up!’

‘I hate people who say, “Cheer up” .
.
.’

‘What am I supposed to say to you in your current form?’

‘.
.
.
And “Relax”.
That’s a horrible thing to say to anyone.
Telling someone to relax never makes them relax.
It makes them more tense.
It’s a stupid thing to say.’

‘Here we are.’

We’re at the restaurant.
Thomas invited me when we were at the garage, ordering the Mazda this morning.
He still calls them dates.
He says, ‘Do you want to go on a date tonight?
Celebrate you ordering the new car?’
I wonder how many dates we’ve been on.
A fair few by now.

Before Thomas, I was – strictly – a three-date woman.
First date I called the ‘give it a go’ date.
I only ever went after unmerciful pressure from Minnie.
She said, ‘There’s a Maurice out there for everybody.’
Let’s hope that’s not true.

The second date I liked to call the ‘benefit of the doubt’ date.
Again, usually Minnie-induced.

The third and often final one was when I usually said, ‘It’s not you.
It’s me.’
Even though it’s never me.
Hardly ever.

On our third date, I said to Thomas, ‘It’s not you.
It’s me.’

He said, ‘What do you mean?’

I said, ‘My life is a bit .
.
.
complicated.’

Thomas said, ‘Isn’t it well for you?’
He used one of his gigantic hands to push his hair – long and grey and curly – out of his I’m-not-as-old-as-I-look face.

‘No, I mean it’s too complicated for a .
.
.
a relationship.’

‘A relationship?’
He looked amused at the word and – in fairness – in his Monaghan accent it did sound a little absurd.
‘I just asked you to come to the Galway Races with me.
Do you want to?’

‘Well .
.
.’

‘Do you?’

‘I suppose I might be able to .
.
.’

‘Grand, so.
I’ll pick you up tomorrow at ten.’

And I nodded and said OK and I went with him.
To the Galway Races.
It was hard to say why, exactly.
He kissed me there.
At the races.
Our first kiss.
Up till then he’d just dropped me home and said, ‘Goodnight now.’
Like I was a farmer from whom he’d bought a calf of good stock.

He took me by surprise in Galway.
After yet another horse he’d backed came last, he tore up his betting slip and said, ‘Well, that’s that!’
and then, for no particular reason, he kissed me.

There was no ceremony.
No sweet talk, thank Christ.
Nothing like that.
He just put his face in front of mine and kissed me.
There was no form.
No style.
It was .
.
.
well, it was all right, to be honest.
Nice, even.
He had to bend, although I have never been described as small.

That was our fourth date.
The races.
Then there were more.

The Field
at the Abbey Theatre.

Climbing to the top of Bray Head.
Thomas laughed when I called it a mountain.

Farmers’ markets where the smell of the cheese would knock you off your feet.

A boat trip to Ireland’s Eye.
He rowed.
I managed not to get seasick.

Minnie whistled and said, ‘Oh my,’ when Thomas went ahead and booked a mini-break at a cottage in the middle of nowhere.
It actually wasn’t that bad.

I followed it up with a disastrous night at the opera in Wexford.
Thomas fell asleep and snored, loud enough for the usher to issue a stern ‘Shhhh’ towards our row of seats.
He laughed that off like it was nothing and then proposed a day at the ploughing champions in Carlow, where he came second in a sheep-shearing competition.

‘Kat?’

I look up.
I look at Thomas.
He looks the same as he always does.
Everything is fine.
I have the car sorted.
We’re out.
Having our dinner.
My rib is getting better.
The doctor said I might have nightmares.
About the accident.
He said post-traumatic stress disorder was a possibility.
I suppose I should be glad.
That I haven’t had nightmares.
And no sign of any disorders either.

I think it’s Thomas the doctor should be worried about.
He hasn’t been himself lately.
It’s little things, I suppose.
Like the apartment, for example.
Since the accident, he’s stopped leaving his clothes on the floor and across the backs of various chairs and sofas.
I look in his wardrobe and they’re all there, the clothes.
Some of them are rolled in a ball on the floor of the wardrobe but they’re all in there.
In the wardrobe.

Minnie said, ‘So?’
when I told her.
‘Isn’t that good news?’

‘Yes, but he’s never done it before.
Why now?
Why is he doing it now?’

Minnie shook her head and said, ‘You’re some contrary hen.’

And last week, he went and put his name beside mine on the letterbox.
Up until then it was just my name, scribbled on a scrap of paper in blue pen.
He went and replaced it with a card that has both our names on it.
Typed in some fancy font, in capital letters.
He asked me first and I said, ‘Fine.’
But it’s a different story altogether when you come in from the shops one day and there it is.
In plain black and white.
No more scribbled blue biro on a scrap of paper.
It’s as stark as an announcement in the paper.

He looks at me over the top of his menu.
‘You all right?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I don’t know.
You’re quiet.
And you haven’t given out yet.’

‘About what?’

‘About where we’re sitting.’

‘What’s wrong with where we’re sitting?’

‘There’s a draught.’

‘Is there?’

‘You hate draughts.’

‘Why do you always think you know every single thing about me?’
My tone is sharper than it should be but I don’t think Thomas notices because he smiles.

He says, ‘I know a fair bit.’

I study the menu.

‘I know that you’ll order the seabass.’

‘Is that so?’

‘But what you really want is the steak and mushrooms and the onions with chips and a dirty big dollop of tomato ketchup on the side.’

The waitress arrives and I snap the menu shut and say, ‘The beef stir-fry, please.’

Thomas orders the bacon and cabbage and potatoes, just as I knew he would.
I take a long drink from my glass of wine and try to loosen myself out a bit.
I’m as taut as a violin string.
I’ve been like this since the accident.
The bloody miracle.
Stiff.

After we order, Thomas sits back in his chair.
He looks happy for some reason, like something good has happened.
He says, ‘Why wouldn’t I be happy?’
when I mention it.

‘So,’ he adds.
‘Today was a productive day.
You got the car ordered.’

I say, ‘Yes.’

‘The same make.
Same model.
Same colour.
You’d think it was the same car.’

‘Just because I was in an accident doesn’t mean I should go and get myself a completely different car.
There was nothing wrong with my old one.
I liked it.
I didn’t want to change it.’

Thomas shakes his head and smiles.
He leans forward and his grey eyes lighten to green in the candlelight.
He says, ‘I have a good idea.’

‘Another one?’

Last week he suggested that we buy a new bed.
Said our one – which is really my one when you get around to thinking about it – creaks.
I said, ‘It does not.’
He said, ‘It does.
It creaks like the clappers.’

I said, ‘It only creaks when we’re .
.
.
you know .
.
.’

‘Having sex?’

‘Yes.’

He said, ‘Which is as often as not.’
That happens to be true.
You’d think by now we’d be bored with that caper.

Our dinners arrive.
The stir-fry is more noodles than beef and there’s way too much of it.
I pick up my wine glass and empty it, then fill it to the top again.
Thomas eats like he always does.
As if he hasn’t had a square meal for several days.
Then he says, ‘So.
Do you want to hear my good idea or not?’

I shrug my shoulders.

Thomas says, ‘Actually, it’s a great idea.’

I’m pretty convinced that there won’t be anything great about the idea.
Although this is the man who introduced me to chocolate in chilli.
Still, I say nothing.

‘You OK, Kat?’

‘I’m fine.’

The thing is, I’m not fine.
But it’s difficult to say why not, exactly.
It’s nothing really.
It’s just .
.
.
well, nothing’s been quite the same since he came to pick me up from the hospital in his beaten-up old Saab with the Get Well Soon balloons tied onto the roof rack.
I wouldn’t get in until he’d taken them down.
He put them on the back seat of the car but they floated up and covered the back window.
They weren’t easy to burst.
He had to stamp on them in the end.

I went to open the passenger door but he got there first.
Opened the door.
I was about to get in when he stopped me.
Put his hands on my shoulders.
He said, ‘The apartment’s been fierce quiet without you.’
I came up to the pocket of his shirt.
It was pale grey and happened to go very well with his black jeans, which were definitely new as well.
No jacket, but, then, he hardly ever wore jackets.
He was rarely cold enough.

I said, ‘Did you go shopping?’

He is the only man I know who blushes.
He said, ‘Yeah.
Surprise!’

‘You never go shopping.’

‘I knew you’d be pleased.’
He put my overnight bag on the ground and gathered the lapels of my jacket in his hands and inched me towards him until I was close enough to see that curious ring of dark green round the grey of his eyes.