Four is the luckiest number. Born on fourth of April, 1942. Fourth of five children. Four hundred thousand euros from the sale of the house. Four sausages for lunch today. Four had always been lucky for her. Her da had given her a four-leaf clover, dried between the pages of a book, when she was four years old. She’d had her son on the fourth of March. He’d been her fourth baby, the only one who stuck.
Fifteen is not a good number. Left school at fifteen. Hated school. Married Jim on fifteenth of July. Married life, from then onwards, until he died. Moved to Sheldon Lodge on the fifteenth of December. Room number fifteen. No, fifteen is definitely not a lucky number.
Evie was deep in thought when Mrs Lofthouse spoke to her. Mrs Lofthouse spoke for the second time, and the third, more loudly and with slow emphasis.
‘Evelyn. Your son is coming to see you today. Brendan? He is coming to see you.’
Evie blinked. She put on her best confused look and stared directly back.
‘I’ll just give your hair a bit of a tidy up. Brendan will be here at four.’
‘Four.’
‘Brendan – and his wife Maura. Lovely couple, Evelyn.’
Evie pulled a face. Maura was always stiff, polite, putting on a pretence of wifely perfection. Evie didn’t feel she knew her well at all, even after almost twenty years. Maura was humourless, starchy. She reminded her of the nuns at school, who insisted she must be called Evelyn and not her preferred abbreviation. She’d decided at four years old that ‘Evie’ was so much nicer, cheekier: it suited her much better than the more formal version. Evie was a chirpy name. Maura could do with being chirpier, she thought. The nuns flitted into her head again and she remembered how they had punished her for using the Lord’s name gratuitously. That was the first time she took up swearing as a hobby. The words rolled in her mouth like sweets.
‘Bollocks,’ said Evie, and looked pleased.
‘That’s just not nice, is it?’ Mrs Lofthouse’s sigh showed how much she suffered in her work. She waved the brush in the air. ‘There, Evelyn. You look lovely. Shall we put on a bit of lipstick now? Make you look bright and breezy for Brendan?’
Evie took the lipstick from Mrs Lofthouse’s fingers and turned it over in her hand. Paradise pink. Mrs Lofthouse had paradise pink lips, which hung like prawns over her huge teeth. Her teeth pushed apart in different directions, one sticking out to the right and one leaning backwards to the left. Evie took the paradise pink lipstick and applied it to her own mouth like a child with a crayon.
Mrs Lofthouse’s lips sprang apart. ‘If you are going to be silly …’
Evie employed the vacuous stare again.
‘I’ll wipe it off and we can start again. Ah, now. You look a million dollars.’
Evie gurned at her, spreading her lips wide. Mrs Lofthouse’s prawn pout clamped itself into a thin line. The visitors were due.
Evie watched her waddle away then leaned forward in her chair and gazed around the Day Room. The other residents were in wingback chairs, turned towards the TV where Jeremy Kyle was doing a lie detector test. They were mostly oblivious to the chatter; the flickering screen was reflecting in the glaze of spectacles. Evie looked at the old ladies sitting in the window. Sunlight streamed against their faces, but they hardly seemed to notice the warmth. The flowers were out in the garden; daily, a robin perched on the oak. The old ladies stared straight ahead. One of them, Elizabeth, never spoke a word. Every day, Evie would try: ‘Good morning, Lizzie, and how are you today?’
Nothing. Elizabeth continued to stare ahead. The other one, Barbara, could not hear well. Even Alex, the friendly Ukrainian lad who brought the breakfasts, had to raise his voice to startle her from her dreams. At eight in the morning, Alex would be there, his hair stuck up in a little quiff at the front, his face all smiles:
‘Barbara, darling, your eggs and sausage – here you are – eggs and sausage – Barbara?’
The aged ladies were dry, thin sticks of women in their nineties, old enough to be her own mother. She saw them in the yoga class each Tuesday, looking around and lifting their twig-like arms. A thought popped into her head: Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Deaf. She was bored, and being bored made her feel mischievous. What else could she do in this sanatorium of smiles and sandwiches, which smelt the whole day long of perfumed piss?
The clock struck four. They would be here soon. She closed her eyelids and listened to the soothing music that told the residents they were in a caring environment. The armchair had moss-green cushions with silky fringes. Evie sank back into its fat embrace.
Frank Sinatra was singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ in his jolly lilt.
Evie thought about the moon and stars: where were they, exactly? Far up in the heavens? Is that where death was, alongside Frank and Jim and the others? What about after death? Evie decided she would like to come back as a reindeer.
A playful two-dimensional sketch of Rudolph popped into the television of her imagination, its nose a beacon and its legs delicate in snow. Her eyes rolled again beneath their papery lids and suddenly Rudolph exploded and was replaced by a huge reindeer, god-like with antlers and eyes aflame. It spoke in a Hollywood actor’s voice:
‘I’m Evie Gallagher and I am god-damned pissed off …’ It glared around the forest, mounted like a sentry on the hilltop of ice, and stamped its regal hoof once, sending soft snow skywards. Evie opened her eyes suddenly to see two looming faces, twins in symmetrical concern.
Evie said, ‘I am god-damned pissed off.’
‘Mammy,’ said Brendan. ‘How are you?’ and he realised she had already answered. Maura launched herself forward, her dutiful expression on her face.
‘Mother, it’s good to see you. You’re looking well. Can I get you a cup of tea?’
Evie looked at Maura in her suit and tightly pinned curls and decided she would rather eat shit. She closed her eyes. The reindeer was gone. In its place were thin blue veins that throbbed in her lids. She heard Maura whine to the care assistant: ‘I think she’s getting worse, Mrs Lofthouse.’
‘She comes and goes, I think.’
Evie wished they would all come and go.
‘It’s so upsetting for Brendan, seeing his mother like this. It’s like she’s away with the fairies.’
‘We see it all the time,’ replied Mrs Lofthouse, hollowly. Evie was not sure what she saw all the time; Mrs Lofthouse was short-sighted and short-witted. In fact just plain short. And fat. Evie felt a hand on her arm; she knew Brendan’s touch. Her emotion was visceral and she remembered the little boy who used to clutch at her fingers as a child. She opened her eyes. He was in his late thirties now, but looked older, his hair still thick but greying, his face loosening, hanging from the sharp cheekbones: a worried face. His mouth seldom offered the boyish chuckle he had once used as his trademark, but his eyes were still rounded with hope. Evie was about to smile at him, but Maura’s grunts made her turn sharply.
‘You’re back with us again then, Mother?’ Evie twitched her nose; Maura’s perfume was attacking her throat and making her choke.
‘I am not your mother,’ she wheezed.
‘Mrs Lofthouse, could Mammy have a glass of water please?’ Brendan called out and the care assistant waddled over like a frontline sergeant major holding a cup like a bayonet. Evie expected her to shout, ‘Chaaarge.’
Mrs Lofthouse said, ‘Come on, Evelyn, drink up.’ Evie took a mouthful then sat up, looking at each of them. She thought of the film about the hobbits, sitting around the table for a hobbity talk, each stunted, each poised, each waiting their turn. Evie coughed again and the water in her mouth sprayed in all directions. She spat and choked and laughed at the same time, a cachinnation of triumph. She flopped back in the comfy armchair, put her arms on the supports.
An hour passed. The conversation was slow and stilted. Evie stared through the window at the place where the path started and wound away towards the road. Brendan shifted in his seat and smiled towards his mother and then at his wife.
‘We can’t stay too long, Brendan,’ Maura said.
He rose up slowly, his eyes on his mother. ‘All right, Mammy, I’ll see you next week, same time.’
‘She probably can’t hear you, Brendan. It is so upsetting for him to see her like this.’
‘We see it all the time,’ mused Mrs Lofthouse.
‘Bye Mammy.’ Brendan kissed the top of her head. Evie almost reached out to him. Maura shook her head and pursed her lips. Evie scrutinised her daughter-in-law for several seconds.
‘Maura?’
‘What is it, Mother?’
‘Did anyone ever tell you? You have a mouth like an arsehole.’
Brendan’s face brightened, a smile flickering on his lips, and he looked at Evie with tenderness and something close to desperation.
‘Come on, Brendan.’ Maura’s mouth was now screwed tightly in anal closure. Brendan saw his mother wink at him before he rushed out after his wife.
Mrs Lofthouse snorted. ‘We’d better clean you up, Evelyn.’
‘I’m coming back as a stag,’ Evie announced.
Evie was sitting at her dressing table in room 15, second floor: her room. On the door was a small notice which read: ‘Please respect my dignity. Knock before entering and wait. I may be asleep.’ In the mirror, Evie saw the room reflected behind her: the single bed with the red rose duvet cover, her little chest of drawers, the shelf with her photos, the moss-green curtains and magnolia walls and the mouse-grey carpet. This was her home now, thanks to the sale of the house. Maura had said the house was too big for her, but room 15 was far too small. Brendan had thought she would have company in Sheldon Lodge and, when she had first looked round it, the thought of spending her first Christmas alone made the place look like a hotel. The bedrooms were attractive, as was the dining room with the little tables set for four, and Barry, the cheerful chef in his pristine checked pants, had promised her that he would let her have real butter on her toast. The manager, Jenny, had been friendly and welcoming, enthusiastic about the new lifestyle Evie would enjoy – fitness programmes and music nights and watercolour painting. Evie had looked with a child’s hopeful eyes at Sheldon Lodge, at the twinkling tree and the decorations, signed the forms and moved in. Christmas had turned out to be turkey, torpor and television.
The triple mirror held her reflection, and her mother’s face looked back at her from three angles, hollow-eyed. Her mother had had no teeth when she died. Evie still had all her own teeth, bar one. Her mother had been grey but Evie’s hair was soft and brown, although the roots were streaked with silver. Her mother was all done in at forty; Evie was seventy-five, but she was certain she was not done yet.
‘Hot chocolate for you, Evie? Rich Tea biscuits or Penguins?’ Evie glanced over her shoulder to see Alex, his smiling face peeping around the door. Alex placed the tray down, and lifted off a mug and a plate of biscuits. ‘Everything all right for you today, darling?’
‘I’d rather have a nice glass of Merlot.’ She chewed her lip. ‘Alex – do you like it here?’
Alex’s cheeks lifted with laughter. ‘I am here for three years, Evie. I have girlfriend here. Work is good and the people are friendly. Dublin better than Kiev for me, that is for sure.’ Evie looked miserable and turned away. ‘Why you don’t like it here, Evie?’
‘I am bored, Alex.’
‘There is television, darling. Banjo player is coming in later. Maybe now you can play dominoes downstairs with Barbara?’
‘I don’t give a shite for dominoes.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘It’s driving me mad.’ Evie’s eyes were intense. ‘I’ve come here by mistake.’
Alex shook his head. ‘Maybe tomorrow things are better?’ he suggested, but his face lost its smile as he picked up the empty tray and left Evie alone again. She lifted the cup. The hot chocolate was tepid and the biscuit tasted like grit.
Evie looked around at her room. She could not live like this for the rest of her days. Images came to her of static yoga classes and gurning banjo players and the two old ladies who stared, unblinking, at the television. Her fingers clutched at the neck of her jumper and as the idea came to her she stood paralysed, and could only feel the beating of her heart. In one movement, she was in front of the dressing table.
She tugged open her top drawer, lifting underwear to find her purse, her driving licence, her cheque card. Below were more familiar things: her bus pass, a passport, some jewellery, a small umbrella. She touched the four-leaf clover that her father had given her so many years ago, still dried and pressed in tissue paper, now between the pages of her small photograph album that was crammed with pictures of a younger Brendan in shorts with his father Jim. She found the mobile phone that Brendan had given her for Christmas so they could keep in touch, still in its box. These items were no longer relics of the past – they were tickets to new freedom. Without thinking, she pushed them all into her small handbag. June in Dublin was always pretty, and the Monday morning shops would be full of people. She would spend time breathing fresh air; just a small scent of the real world was already in her nose. Evie knew the door codes and the schedules of Sheldon Lodge. Each day ran like clockwork. It would not be difficult. That night, she slept the sleep of the smug.