Other than that … well, that’s it really. Everything else about the disease is … well, I suppose it isn’t always easy to see the positives.
Iris put a brave face on it, she didn’t battle it as such. She mostly ignored it. Never mentioned it. And that worked, I think. For a long time. People sort of forgot she had it, and that suited Iris down to the ground. And while there were always reminders, should you care to look for them, these were outnumbered by Iris herself. The mighty tour de force of her. The indefatigable fact of her.
I suppose that’s what’s so wrong about where we are now. Here, on a boat that smells like dirty J-cloths. It’s so unlike her. Oddly, it’s this thought that gives me pause. And some comfort. This is probably just a temporary setback. A down day. We all have those, don’t we? God knows, Iris, of all people, is entitled to one.
I walk back to my seat with my tray of grey teas and three KitKats – the only confectionary on offer with a protective wrapping – and also an ever-so-slight bounce in my step. Perhaps bounce is an overstatement, but there is definitely more flexibility in my gait than before.
An off day. That’s what this is. We’ll be calling it a ‘glitch’ in a few weeks’ time.
YOU MUST NOT PARK IN ANY WAY WHICH INTERFERES WITH THE NORMAL FLOW OF TRAFFIC.
The ferry takes three hours to get to Wales, and to be honest, I could not say much about the journey other than it passed.
I can say that Wales smells different. And it sounds different. Mostly fumes and the blaring of car horns as I release the handbrake and now we’re on the ramp again, but this time I’m driving down the ramp, onto foreign soil.
I have no idea what’s going to happen next.
Iris does.
She tells me that I am going to buy two ferry tickets back to Dublin for Dad and myself.
I nod and don’t say anything because I need to think.
THINK.
On the way into the car park, I have a panicky thought about what side of the road English people drive on. And Welsh people. It’s the same side as us, isn’t it? Of course it is. It’s just … I hate driving in unfamiliar places. Or in the dark. Or in bad weather. I have never driven in another country. The routes I drive are well-worn and familiar. The school run, back in the day. Over to Santry where the Alzheimer’s Society holds a few events during the week; singsongs and tea and buns and round-the-table conversations like what’s your favourite food and who’s your favourite singer and whatnot. Frank Sinatra always gets a mention, and not just from Dad. Semolina is a hit when puddings are discussed. I made it for the girls once. They wouldn’t believe me when I told them it was dessert. I ended up eating theirs as well as mine. They were right, it was lumpy.
Inside the car, nobody talks. I glance in the rear-view mirror. Dad is asleep, his head resting against the window. The collar of his shirt gapes around his narrow neck. Every day it seems there is less of him. Iris, in the passenger seat, looks out her window. There is nothing to see but lines and lines of cars parked beneath harsh fluorescent lighting. These places remind me of scenes in films where something frightening happens. Something shocking. Iris loves horrors. I like period dramas. When we go to the cinema, we compromise with comedies or biopics.
I reverse into a torturously narrow space in jerking stops and starts, which shakes Dad awake. He straightens and shouts, ‘Hard down on the left,’ and I stiffen, my neck snapping as I twist my head every which way until the car has been parked without incident.
I look at Iris. ‘We’re here,’ I say, unnecessarily.
‘How are you going to get out?’ she says, nodding towards the massive Land Rover inches away from my car door.
‘I’ll climb out your side.’ There is no question of me attempting to park in a more equitable manner. This is as good as it gets. Iris opens her door, hooks her hands behind her knees, and lifts her legs out of the car. Then she places her hands on the headrest and the door handle and uses them as levers to pull herself into a standing position. I hand her the crutches, and she leans on them, her knuckles white with effort. She has a wheelchair in her house. ‘In case of emergencies,’ she told me, when I spotted it, folded, behind the clothes horse in her utility room. I don’t think she’s ever sat in it. I stretch into the back seat and open Dad’s door. ‘What are we doing now?’ he wants to know, and his face is pinched with the kind of worry that the nursing staff talk about avoiding at all costs. He needs his routine, they tell me, when I arrive to take him out for one of our adventures as I call them. Feeding the ducks in Saint Anne’s Park. He still likes doing that. Even though he’s started to eat the bread himself.
Or to that nice café in Kinsealy where the staff are kind and don’t mind if Dad tears his napkin into a hundred tiny bits and scatters them around his plate. Or takes the sugar sachets out of the bowl and lines them along the edge of the table. Or spreads jam on his ham sandwich, or ketchup on his apple tart. They don’t mention any of that, and they remember his name and smile at him when they’re taking his order as if he is making perfect sense and not getting his words all jumbled up.
‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I say. I smile and put my hand on his arm, rub gently. He looks frozen as well as worried.
‘Should I get out?’ He nods towards the door I have opened.
Iris bends towards him. ‘Yes, Mr Keogh, you can get out now,’ she tells him. ‘I’m going to take you for a cup of tea while Terry is organising your ferry tickets back to Dublin.’ She looks at me then, and I say nothing, and she nods as if I haven’t said nothing. As if I have agreed with her, because, let’s face it, that’s what most people do.
‘And a bun?’ Dad asks.
‘Of course,’ says Iris.
He negotiates himself out of the car. The sluggishness of the endeavour suits me, as I need time to think.
THINK.
I lift Iris’s bag out of the back seat. She’s travelling light. I’d say three days’ worth of clothes inside.
Which means I have maybe three days.
Three days.
During which Brendan will worry himself sick about the Canadians. There are young people in his department. Two of them with brand-new mortgages and one with a brand-new baby.
Last in, first out. Isn’t that what they say?
And Anna. Conscientious, hardworking Anna, who, despite all her conscientiousness and hard work, is always convinced that she will fail every exam she has ever sat. And these are her finals. Not a weekly spelling test. Although it is true to say that she worried about those too.
And then there’s Kate’s play, debuting in Galway next week. Which is a marvellous thing, of course it is. But she’ll be stressed about it and pretending she’s not stressed at all, which, in my experience, makes the thing you’re stressed about even more stressful.
I am needed at home.
What will happen if I’m not there?
I can’t imagine not being there. I’ve always been there.
But I’m already not there, and, so far, nothing has happened. Nothing bad at any rate. But it’s only been – I check my watch – seven hours since I left the house this morning. How can it only be seven hours? They don’t even know I’m gone yet. Brendan will assume I didn’t get on the boat, I know he will.
Because I am needed at home.
Apart