Rules of the Road. Ciara Geraghty

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      ‘I know that, but—’

      ‘And what about Anna? She gets so stressed at exam time. And these are her finals.’ I want to tell him I know all that. I am her mother. These are the things I know. Like Anna being stressed and her skin being bad. I’m positive she’s not applying the cream I got for her eczema as regularly as she’s supposed to.

      ‘The best thing to do is go home, Terry. I won’t work late tonight. I’ll do my best to be home in time for dinner. We can talk about it then.’

      I picture Brendan, arriving home from a hard day at the office and no dinner on the table and the washing still hanging on the line in the back garden. Anna brought a week’s worth over yesterday, and I promised her I’d …

      THINK.

      I think about Iris.

      Say I went.

      I can’t go.

      But say I did.

      Could I persuade Iris to change her mind? I’ve never persuaded anyone to do anything. I couldn’t even talk Brendan out of having the vasectomy after Anna was born.

      ‘Terry? Terry? Are you there?’ I hear the bristle in his voice, straining to get back to his important meeting.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘So I’ll see you tonight?’

      ‘Well, I …’

      ‘Terry, this is nonsensical.’

      ‘I have to go.’ I hang up.

      I’ve never hung up on Brendan. Ever. It’s true that we rarely communicate by telephone, but still, I’ve always held a civil tongue in my head and allowed him to finish his sentences and said my goodbyes before disconnecting the call.

      Outside the terminal building, people stand and smoke or punch buttons on their phones or search for something in their handbags or stare into the middle distance.

      There is no sign of Iris. The boat is leaving in – I check my watch – seventy minutes. And you have to check in thirty minutes before departure. Giving me forty minutes to come up with something.

      THINK.

      Everything Brendan said is true. Apart from Iris having notions. Iris has plans, not notions.

      ‘Do you think your mother will be back soon?’ I look at Dad. Without his dentures, his cheeks are hollow. He looks old. And cold. And so thin. When did he get so thin?

      ‘Yes,’ I say. I wish it were true. Mam would know what to do. She would have advice although she offered it only when it was sought. Even then, she maintained that people never really wanted advice, just someone to listen to them.

      I think about Iris, sitting on the boat, her long fingers drumming the armrest of her chair, anxious to be off, regretful that things did not go according to plan. If they had, I would not have read her letter until next week, and by then, it would have been too late.

      But it’s not too late.

      Not yet.

      THINK.

      I ring Celia Murphy, my next-door neighbour, who has a key for our house. She gave me her front-door key, so I felt I had to reciprocate. I mind her cats when she goes to those juicing seminars in Scotland, and she gives us pears from her tree in the autumn, although none of us like pears. I stew them with ginger and brown sugar and put them in Tupperware containers in the freezer. The freezer is full of Tupperware containers of stewed pear. I don’t know why. My mother hated waste. Perhaps that’s it.

      ‘Celia? It’s Terry, I … No, nothing’s wrong, not a thing, sorry to disturb but, I … well, I need a favour and …’

      Celia launches into a monologue about her cats, Fluffy and Flopsy. One of them is sick. I can’t make out which one. When she pauses for breath, I attempt to divert her.

      ‘Oh no Celia, I am sorry to hear that, hopefully the vet will …’

      She’s off again. I grip the phone harder, dig it into my ear. ‘Listen Celia, sorry to interrupt, but I need your help. It’s urgent.’ I’m not quite shouting, but the silence that follows has a sort of stunned quality. I rush into it.

      ‘It’s just … well, I’m filling out paperwork for Dad and I need his passport. And eh, mine too. No, no, nothing serious, it’s just … just some paperwork, they’re always looking for something or other, these nursing homes. You’ll find them in the middle drawer of the sideboard in the dining room. Could you … Oh that’s great. Thank you. No no, there’s no need for you to bring them to the nursing home. But you’re so kind to … I’ll … I’ve ordered a taxi to collect the passports. Yes. Yes, that’s what I’ve done, I’ll … Sorry Celia the line is bad, I’d better go, yes, bye, bye, bye, thanks, bye, bye, thanks, bye.’

      I hang up. If I stop and think about what I’m doing, I won’t do it, so I don’t stop. I don’t think. I ring a taxi company in Sutton, tell the man who answers what I need. This is not the type of service they usually provide, the man tells me. I say I wouldn’t normally ask, but this is urgent. I assure him of my ability to pay. I do my best to seem like a person who doesn’t take no for an answer. I bombard him with details. Celia’s address, my mobile number, my bank card details. ‘How soon can one of your drivers be here?’

       4

       BUMPS ON THE ROAD.

      There are speed bumps up the ramp to the ferry.

      ‘Oh dear,’ Dad says, when I drive over one. He is a bag of bones, rattling with each jolt.

      ‘Sorry Dad, it’s the speed ramps,’ I say.

      ‘Where there are speed ramps, road users should take extra care and expect the unexpected,’ says Dad. I put my hand on his shoulder and he smiles. I need to find his dentures when I park. I need to find Iris. My stomach muscles clench. My stomach is always the first thing to let me down. The doctor says this is where my stress lives. In my stomach.

      ‘Will you sing me a song, Dad?’

      ‘I used to squawk out a few numbers all right. Back in Harold’s Cross, remember?’

      Harold’s Cross is where my father grew up. He lived in Baldoyle with my mother for nearly forty years and he never mentions it. But he can tell you the names of the flowers his mother grew in the long, narrow garden at the back of the house in Harold’s Cross.

      ‘Sing “Summer Wind”. I love that one.’ I love them all really. Dad starts to sing.

      ‘The summer wind, came blowin’ in from across the sea

      It lingered there to touch your hair and walk СКАЧАТЬ