‘The second taxi it is, then,’ the American says, and walks to his taxi, glancing back twice.
‘Hey,’ I protest, and watch him, entranced.
I float to my taxi and we both pull our doors closed at the same time. The taxi driver and Dad look at me like they’ve seen a ghost.
‘What?’ My heart beats wildly. ‘What happened? Tell me?’
‘Your hair,’ Dad simply says, his face aghast. ‘You’re like a boy.’
As the taxi gets closer to my home in Phisboro, my stomach knots tighter.
‘That was funny how the man in front kept his taxi waiting too, Gracie, wasn’t it?’
‘Joyce. And yes,’ I reply, my leg bouncing with nerves.
‘Is that what people do now when they get their hairs cut?’
‘Do what, Dad?’
‘Leave taxis waiting outside for them.’
‘I don’t know.’
He shuffles his bum to the edge of the seat and pulls himself closer to the taxi driver. ‘I say, Jack, is that what people do when they go to the barbers now?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Do they leave their taxis outside waiting for them?’
‘I’ve never been asked to do it before,’ the driver explains politely.
Dad sits back satisfied. ‘That’s what I thought, Gracie.’
‘It’s Joyce,’ I snap.
‘Joyce. It’s a coincidence. And you know what they say about coincidences?’
‘Yep.’ We turn the corner onto my street and my stomach flips.
‘That there’s no such thing as a coincidence,’ Dad finishes, even though I’ve already said yes. ‘Indeedy no,’ he says to himself. ‘No such thing. There’s Patrick,’ he waves. ‘I hope he doesn’t wave back.’ He watches his friend from the Monday Club with two hands on his walking-frame. ‘And David out with the dog.’ He waves again although David is stopping to allow his dog to poop and is looking the other way. I get the feeling Dad feels rather grand in a taxi. It’s rare he’s in one, the expense being too much and everywhere he needs to go being within walking distance or a short bus hop away.
‘Home sweet home,’ he announces. ‘How much do I owe you, Jack?’ He leans forward again. He takes two five-euro notes out of his pocket.
‘The bad news, I’m afraid … twenty euro, please.’
‘What?’ Dad looks up in shock.
‘I’ll pay, Dad, put your money away.’ I give the driver twenty-five and tell him to keep the change. Dad looks at me like I’ve just taken a pint out of his hand and poured it down the drain.
Conor and I have lived in the red-brick terraced house in Phisboro since our marriage ten years ago. The houses have been here since the forties, and over the years we’ve pumped our money into modernising it. Finally it’s how we want it, or it was until this week. A black railing encloses a small patch of a front garden where the rose bushes my mother planted preside. Dad lives in an identical house two streets away, the house I grew up in, though we’re never done growing up, continually learning, and when I return to it I regress to my youth.
The front door to my house opens just as the taxi drives off. Dad’s neighbour Fran smiles at me from my own front door. She looks at us awkwardly, failing to make eye contact with me each time she looks in my direction. I’ll have to get used to this.
‘Oh, your hair!’ she says first, then gathers herself. ‘I’m sorry, love, I meant to be out of here by the time you got home.’ She opens the door fully and pulls a checked trolley-bag behind her. She is wearing a single Marigold glove on her right arm.
Dad looks nervous and avoids my eye.
‘What were you doing, Fran? How on earth did you get into my house?’ I try to be as polite as I can but the sight of someone in my house without my permission both surprises and infuriates me.
She pinks and looks to Dad. Dad looks at her hand and coughs. She looks down, laughs nervously and pulls off her single Marigold. ‘Oh, your dad gave me a key. I thought that … well, I put down a nice rug in the hallway for you. I hope you like it.’
I stare at her with utter confusion.
‘Never mind, I’ll be off now.’ She walks by me, grabs my arm and squeezes hard but still refuses to look at me. ‘Take care of yourself, love.’ She walks on down the road, dragging her trolley-bag behind her, her Nora Batty tights in rolls around her thick ankles.
‘Dad,’ I look at him angrily, ‘what the hell is this?’ I push into the house, looking at the disgusting dusty rug on my beige carpet. ‘Why did you give a near-stranger my house keys so she could come in and leave a rug? I am not a charity!’
He takes off his cap and scrunches it in his hands. ‘She’s not a stranger, love. She’s known you since the day you were brought home from the hospital—’
Wrong story to tell at this moment, and he knows it.
‘I don’t care!’ I splutter. ‘It’s my house, not yours! You cannot just do that. I hate this ugly piece of shit rug!’ I pick up one side of the clashing carpet, I drag it outside and then slam the door shut. I’m fuming and I look at Dad to shout at him again. He is pale and shaken. He is looking at the floor sadly. My eyes follow his.
Various shades of faded brown stains, like red wine, splatter the beige carpet. It has been cleaned in some places but the carpet hairs have been brushed in the opposite direction and give away that something once lay there. My blood.
I put my head in my hands.
Dad’s voice is quiet, injured. ‘I thought it would be best for you to come home with that gone.’
‘Oh, Dad.’
‘Fran has been here for a little while everyday now and has tried different things on it. It was me that suggested the rug,’ he adds in a smaller voice. ‘You can’t blame her for that.’
I despise myself.
‘I know you like all the nice new matching things in your house,’ he looks around, ‘but Fran or I wouldn’t have the likes of that.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry I shouted at you. You’ve been nothing but helpful this week. I’ll … I’ll call around to Fran at some stage and thank her properly.’
‘Right,’ he nods, ‘I’ll leave you at it, so. I’ll bring the rug back to Fran. I don’t want any of the neighbours seeing it outside on the path and telling her so.’
‘No, I’ll put it back where it was. It’s too heavy for you to bring all the way around. I’ll keep it for the time being and return it to her soon.’ I open the front door and retrieve it from the outside path. I drag it back into the house with more respect, laying it down so that it hides the scene where I lost my baby.
‘I’m so sorry, Dad.’
‘Don’t worry.’ He seesaws up to me and pats my shoulder. ‘You’re having a hard time, that I know. I’m only round the corner if you need me for anything.’
With a flick of his wrist, his tweed cap is on his head and I watch him seesaw down the road. The movement is familiar and comforting, like the motion of the sea. He disappears round the corner and I close the door. Alone. Silence. Just me and the house. Life continues