She didn’t scoff but came close. The door was still only half open and she rasped,
“You haven’t been before?”
I wanted to shove the door, storm in. It went without saying this woman and I would never be friends, but even tense cordiality wasn’t likely. I said,
“If I’d been here before, would we be having this conversation? But then, who knows? Maybe this rigmarole is a regular process.”
There, the lines were drawn. This was a woman who didn’t often get cheek or, as I felt she’d have put it, impertinence. I could see how close she was to slamming the door. I asked,
“So, can I see my mother or am I going to need a warrant?”
She gave my cane a look of scorn then opened the door, a mound of post at her feet. They looked like bills. The Final Demand variety. I’d seen enough to recognise the envelopes. I moved by her and the smell hit. A blend of ammonia, old clothes, urine and Wild Pine. The latter is the air freshener of choice in institutions. Sold by the truckload and made in Taiwan, it is cheap and odious. Once you’ve encountered it, you never mistake it for anything else. It has a cloying sweetness that sticks itself to everything. It’s worse than any smell it poorly attempts to disguise. I remembered my first dances, in the showband era. Woolworth’s had a branch on Eyre Square, now occupied by Supermac’s. Their speciality was a sixpence bottle of perfume. Every house in town had claim to at least one bottle. The dancehalls were electric with the aroma.
I noticed a huge vase of flowers and put out my hand.
Plastic.
Of all the horrors of commerce, these are among the worst. On a par with the three flying ducks that adorned the walls of a thousand households. I turned to her, asked,
“And you are?”
“Mrs Canty. I’m the matron.”
I nodded as if I gave a toss. She said,
“Your mother is in room seven.”
She seemed on the verge of more but stifled it, said,
“If you’ll excuse me, the home won’t run itself.”
She stomped off, hostility trailing in her wake. I found room seven, the door open, and, taking a deep breath, I went in. Using my cane, I was no advertisement for the outside world. The room was dim because the bulb had the lowest voltage. Last time I experienced that was in my bedsit hovel on Ladbroke Grove, “Madame George” as my theme song.
There were three cots-you couldn’t call them beds-metal frames pulled up alongside to keep the occupants in or help out, I didn’t know. I approached the first, a woman of vast years, on her back, her mouth open, spit leaking from her mouth. The second held my mother. She was propped up on pillows, her eyes open. Since I’d last seen her, she had deteriorated to a huge degree. Her once lustrous black hair was white and lank. The eyes focused and she whispered,
“Jack?”
My heart was pierced, I wanted to weep. Guilt, rage and remorse tore through my stomach. I felt bile in my throat and the taste of actual vomit along my gums. I said,
“How are you doing?”
Not my finest moment. She lifted her hand, the arm as thin as paper, asked,
“Will you bring me home?”
Home. We had no home, never had. We’d lived in a house of seething hostility, all created by her. I said,
“Sure I will.”
Her eyes were wild and moved furiously. She said,
“Move closer, Jack, they’ll hear us. They’ll say I’m not being a good girl.”
I stayed twenty minutes, seemed twenty years. I kept repeating I’d rescue her. She was close to being what the Irish call seafóid, meaning a person soft in the head or, in modern terms, having lost it. When I was leaving, she said,
“Pray to Herself to save me.”
The matron was unlocking the door. I said,
“An old man over there, he said this was a kip. He was seriously understating it.”
She slammed the door behind me.
Sin scéal eile.
(That’s another story.)
Back at Bailey’s, I thought about Jeff’s friend and decided there wasn’t a whole lot I could do. I rationalised, if he was innocent, then he’d be OK. I didn’t buy that shit for a minute but figured my involvement wouldn’t help, so I did nothing. As for my mother, the only solution was another nursing home. I knew a decent one would be expensive, and I couldn’t afford it. So again, I did nothing.
The phone rang and I leaped at the distraction. It was the ban garda. She opened,
“I got the book.”
“Terrific. Can you drop it off here?”
No reply and I had to go,
“Ridge, you there?”
When she answered, her indignation was evident.
“What do you think, I’m your messenger boy?”
“No…I…”
“You always lay down the times, terms and locations of our meetings.”
Did I?
I asked,
“Do I?”
She didn’t bother to answer, said,
“It’s my birthday. Margaret is treating me to dinner at the Connemara Coast Hotel. We’ll be in the lounge after for coffee…say 9 P.M.?”
“But that’s…”
“In Connemara, yes. You’ll remember it’s my home.”
“It’s miles out. How am I supposed to get there?”
I swear she was laughing. With relish she suggested,
“Take a bus. When they see the cane, you’ll probably get half fare.”
Click.
I’d lost that round hands down. There’d been a time when Ridge was deferential, nigh submissive. I’d definitely intimidated her. Like all the women I knew, time took care of any shaky power I had. I rang Bus Éireann, and after thirty minutes of numbing frustration, I got the timetable. I’d gone through that rigmarole of “for information push 1, for bookings push 2, for prepaid holidays push 3.” There didn’t seem to be a button for civility.
A song had been going round in my head that I couldn’t identify. Put the radio on and, by one of those weird coincidences, here it was. By Pink, titled “Like a Pill”. What it did was make me feel old. I’d no business listening to the “antidote” to Britney. Sometimes, you can have too much information. The news kicked in and the guards said a man had been helping with their inquiries on the attack on the young girl. He had been released without charge. I rang Jeff and he confirmed it was Pat and, yes, he’d been released. I said,
“No worries then.”
He didn’t answer and I asked,
“Jeff?”
He sounded strained, said,
“It’s not the guards I’m worried about.”
And hung up. I considered calling him back but let it go. That was one item I could cross off my list. The post came, delivered to my room by Janet, who said,
“Isn’t it a miracle?”
“The post?”
“Aw, don’t be pulling my leg. I mean about your drinking.”
“Oh, right.”
She gave me a warm smile, affection oozing from her, asked,
“Do you say your prayers, Mr Taylor?”
“Um, yes, of course, in Irish, too.”
This wasn’t a complete lie. When I’d said them, a long time ago, I had said them in Irish.
She handed me a leaflet, said,
“It’s the November Dead List.”
For a surreal moment, I thought she was telling me who was due to die, then I realised it was outlining the dates for “Cemetery Sunday” and the list of special masses during the month. She said,
“So you can visit your loved ones. I know you miss them.”
She had that right, then,
“ ’Tis fierce weather.”
And she was gone. I folded the leaflet, rolled it tight and lobbed it, forgot my bad knee and attempted a kick.
Bad idea.
Pain coursed along my thigh and I had to rest. If I was superstitious, and being Irish it comes with the territory, I’d have said it was punishment for mockery. I looked at the post-two letters. One saying I could avail of the opportunity to have a free meal at the Radisson if I filled in a loyalty card. The second was from a solicitor acting on behalf of Stewart and enclosing a substantial cheque. The tone of the letter suggested that if I wasn’t satisfied, more funds were readily available. I was satisfied.