‘This year, weather girl. Next year president of the world.’ Clodagh slapped down some magazines. ‘She’s taking over the planet. She’s on the cover of four of these.’
‘She gets away with leather trousers,’ I said. For the cover of the Irish Woman, Bridget was in an Aran jumper, her hands around a hot chocolate. Strapline: ‘Getting Cosy with TV’s latest superstar’.
‘TV’s latest monster more like,’ said Clodagh. ‘Listen to this. “Always take off your make-up. I never go to bed without making sure I’m cleansed and toned,” said the red-haired beauty. “I drink three litres of water a day and it’s muesli for breakfast. No Full Irishes for me!” the weather-girl laughed.”’ Clodagh sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘She sounds so bloody nice, doesn’t she? Little do they know… She told me I was getting old. But in a nice way. Well-meaning.’ Clodagh pulled a face.
‘But you’re not. You’re forty-two.’
‘Yes, in a rational, normal world, I am the proverbial spring chicken. But I was chatting to Jackie, the make-up artist, and we were talking about Botox, does it work, where the best place to go is.’ She held up her hand. ‘Before you say anything, I’m not doing it. We were just talking. Starving myself is one thing, being injected with an unknown substance is a step too far in the pursuit of youthful loveliness. Anyway, we didn’t realise that Bridget, who I thought was on her phone, Snapchatting or whatever. Tindering probably. She’s single and on the look-out, apparently. So Jackie is pretty militant about Botox, she says your choice is to have it or never go outside, stay in permanently darkened rooms.’
‘You forgot ageing gracefully.’
‘There’s that. Or there’s ageing disgracefully. Anyway, so we are chatting away and guess who pipes up? Got it in one. So Bridget says, “The problem is, Clodagh, you got old. It happens to everyone. You’ve had your moment in the sun.” And then Jackie says it’s the sun that’s the problem and everything got a bit confused, but when I asked Bridget if she had meant to be so rude, she said she wasn’t being and that she was so sorry if she hurt my feelings, but had I ever thought about buying a cat because they are great company when you are old.’
‘She’s just got a weird sense of humour.’
‘Jackie and I were just looking at each other, shaking our heads, and all I could think about was that I had been thinking about getting a cat. I never liked them, but suddenly they seem like the perfect addition to my life. I mean, I used to like to buy new things. But now all I’m fantasising about is having a little cat to welcome me home at night. But obviously I didn’t tell her that.’ She sighed. ‘And Max has given her an extra minute. Lucinda is furious.’
‘Surely there’s not enough actual weather?’ Ireland was decidedly unexciting in its meteorological conditions. The whole country would become hysterical with excitement if it snowed for more than half an hour or if the sun came out and it was properly hot in the summer so that people left work early to clear the supermarket shelves of charcoal and sausages. Mainly, things were pretty boring weather-wise.
‘She’s so popular with the viewers, apparently, that they want less news and more weather. Well, more Bridget, really. She told me today, while I was still reeling from the getting old and cat comment and self-soothing with an apricot yogurt. Said she wondered why Max hadn’t told me and thought I would have known. And then she said she hoped I wouldn’t be too upset by it and she has admired me since she was tiny. When she was leaping around the living room learning her Irish dancing steps, I’d be on in the corner. I am the reason she got into broadcasting.’ Clodagh let out a snort. ‘Broadcasting! Ha! I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts Irish dancing tomorrow. Riverdances onto the set, playing the tin whistle. And I’ve just got to roll with it.’
‘What does Max say?’
‘He won’t talk about it with me. He says that his conversations with the talent…’
‘The talent?’
‘Those of us on air… he says they’re private. Between him and their agents. In Bridget’s case, her terrifying mother.’
‘But Max must be on your side… surely he must be aware of how precarious you feel…’
‘He is all about figures and ratings and approval panels and focus groups. He doesn’t do emotions or feelings. He’s all about the job. Which is why, supposedly, he’s such a brilliant manager. And so terrible at showing empathy.’
I shook my head. ‘What are you doing with all these lunatics, Clodagh? Why don’t you give it all up, do a nice knitting course, get into basket weaving?’ I didn’t understand why she put up with this crazy world and with Max. But then, she didn’t understand why I put up with Michael.
‘You’ll meet the lunatics at my party,’ she said. ‘Now…’ she paused. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but Red’s coming. I met him the other day and mentioned it. How are you too getting along?’
‘Fine. It’s weird but it’s almost as though it would be so easy to slip back into something. Every time we talk, we find ourselves talking so normally, as though nothing ever happened, but then we both pull back as soon as we remember.’
Clodagh contemplated me for a moment.
‘You still love him,’ she said.
‘Leave it Clodagh,’ I said. ‘Please. It’s complicated, I won’t deny that but…’ She was right, though. I still loved him and there was nothing I could do.
‘Mid-life crisis,’ Clodagh deduced. ‘Not to worry, I’m having one too.’
‘Are women allowed to have them? I thought they were strictly the preserve of men.’
‘What are we allowed to have then?’ she said,
‘Funny turns, hot flushes, menopausal meltdowns, mental breakdowns…’
‘Well, whatever I’m having, it feels like I need to do something different.’ She looked at me. ‘We could get a flat together, like the old days. You move out. Rosie will be in college soon and we could hang out in our pyjamas, eat toast… just like we used to. Come on, what’s stopping you? Think about it,’ she persisted, ‘you would never have to see Celia ever again.’
‘Now I’m tempted. A life without my mother-in-law is something I would seriously contemplate.’ I laughed. ‘But really, there’s nothing wrong. Michael and I rub along…’
‘Rub along?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘When was the last time you rubbed along?’
‘Listen, there is nothing unusual about us. It’s just your common or garden lacklustre marriage, nothing for you to worry about.’ But I was thinking about Red when I spoke. What would he say if he knew things between me and Michael were cool to the point of freezing? Would he pleased that my marriage hadn’t quite worked out for me or would he be sorry that I threw him and us away for lack-lustre?
‘And that’s good enough for you?’
‘It hasn’t been that bad,’ I insisted. ‘Michael’s a good person.’
‘With good teeth,’ said Clodagh. ‘You forgot the teeth.’
‘Blinding,’ I agreed.
‘His teeth alone would get you home on a dark night in a power cut,’ she said.
‘But what about you Clodagh? What’s it been… six months? When is Maximus moving in? Or are you having cold feet?’ I hoped she was. What if she married him out of sheer loneliness, shackled to him for the rest of his life. ‘Are you hoping to be Mrs Max Pratt? Clodagh Pratt?’
‘It doesn’t go well, does it?’ she grinned. ‘But no. Not yet. Maybe never. Sometimes you need to be in a relationship to remember all the good things about being single.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like never compromising, not having to share your bed. Never explaining.’ She sighed. ‘I Miss that. And it means that I can eat yogurts for dinner and watch Game of Thrones and wear my old Waterboys’ T-shirt and no one can judge.’
‘And is there any one you would give your Waterboys’ T-shirt up for?’
‘Apart from Mike Scott himself,’ she said, ‘no. Anyway, I don’t think Max has ever knowingly eaten a yogurt, or seen Game of Thrones or worn a T-shirt. He’s on the uptight spectrum. Rarely smiles. The only thing that makes him happy is work.’
I laughed. ‘You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.’
‘I can’t work out if he has some kind of facial paralysis and actually can’t, or doesn’t find anything I say remotely amusing or, perhaps, never learned how to. Grew up with fundamentalists or whatever.’ She stopped. ‘Actually, do you have any yogurts?’ she said. ‘I’m starving. Haven’t eaten since the morning. I know you have those nice ones. You always do.’
I stood up and fetched one and a spoon. ‘You’ve got to eat more than a yogurt, you know. It’s not good for you.’
‘Of course it’s not good for me! Of course this is wrong and terrible, but I can’t remember the last time I derived any pleasure in any food that wasn’t a yogurt since… since we were students and always stopped for a kebab on the way home. Do you remember? God, they were nice.’
‘So buy a kebab.’
She shook her head at me. ‘You think this is easy, don’t you? You try being on television every night. You wouldn’t believe the letters I get. From women! They hate my hair, or my blouse, or my earrings. Or I look like I’ve put on weight. Or my make-up was all weird. Or that blue is not my colour or my mouth is a funny shape. And, if you were subjected to that, you’d be starving yourself as well. And looking at your mouth in the mirror all the time to see if it was wonky.’ She paused. ‘It’s not, is it?’
*
The sound of a key in the door. ‘Yoo-hoo! Mammy!’
‘Mammy?’ she mouthed, shaking her head. ‘When are you going to leave?’
I shrugged helplessly.
‘There you are!’ Michael opened the kitchen door. ‘And Clodagh…’ His smile died on his face. Unlike the farming community of Ireland, he was no fan of Clodagh. She was too brash for his liking, too loud. And she wasn’t much of a sycophant. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ he said. ‘Again.’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Clodagh, pleasantly. ‘And what brings you home,’ she said. ‘Brussels closed for business?’
‘Well, Clodagh,’ he said patiently, ‘Brussels is a city and therefore can’t technically shut. But if you are referring to the European Parliament then it is still open but I’m just not there. I have Dublin business to take care of.’ He went over to the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk and drank it down in one. ‘Now milk is a drink, wouldn’t you say Clodagh?’
‘Yes, it’s a drink, you could say that Michael.’
‘No, but it’s a drink. It’s the kind of drink that men don’t drink.’
‘Don’t they?’ Clodagh looked puzzled. ‘Is there a law?’
‘There should be,’ said Michael, a faraway look taking over his face. ‘There could be. In fact, I might do a focus grouping on the subject. I think if we made people – men – drink milk then it would be good for everyone. Good for farmers, good for bones, good for the Irish economy. It could be seen as a patriotic thing to do.’
‘So you’re going to make it a law?’ said Clodagh. ‘The new milk quotas?’
‘Ha! That’s a good one. Well, I just said it might be worth investigating. At the moment, men are bombarded with beer adverts. Drink this beer or that alcoholic beverage but no one says the same about milk. And why is that? Hmmm?’
We shook our heads. ‘Not alcoholic?’ I suggested.
‘Unless you add vodka,’ said Clodagh. ‘Then it’s a drink drink.’
‘No, milk is a man’s drink, only I seem be aware of that fact.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Clodagh. ‘People have been drinking milk for millennia.’
‘But not straight out of the carton,’ said Michael. ‘After a gym session. Or in a pub. And why not?’
‘There’s a conspiracy against cows?’
‘No. Men!’ Michael was triumphant. ‘You hadn’t thought about that had you? We are told to drink beer and wine and caffeine and all those things that are bad for you. But no one develops a campaign to encourage men to drink milk. Which is good for you. Which might keep you alive. So hence my new campaign. Once I’ve passed SIPL, I’ll pass milk.’
Clodagh laughed. ‘Sounds like you need a doctor.’ She stood up to leave.
‘There’s something on your face, Michael,’ I said. ‘On your top lip. A milk moustache.’
‘Aha!’ he wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll just have to bring that into the legislation. Milk moustaches are now cool. Hipsters have their beards. Real men have milk moustaches.’ He laughed. ‘That’s my slogan. I can see it now. And dairy farmers are going to love me. I’m thinking a cabinet position by the next political term.’
He was incorrigible and unstoppable, undaunted by potential failure and possible ridicule, he was a proper politician and as I’ve said before, you had to admire them.
‘Got a slogan for you,’ he said. ‘What about Milk Makes Men Men?’
At the door, we hugged goodbye. ‘You with Mike the Milkman and me with Maximus Pratt. I don’t know which of us has done better.’
‘If we didn’t laugh…’
‘We’d cry. And laugh. At the same time.’ She hugged me again, tighter this time. ‘And thanks for allowing me to let off steam.’
*
Over the previous week, I had declined all Nora’s calls to me and, studiously ignoring her when I drove into school, even though, out of the corner of my eye, I could see her getting up to come towards the car or trying to wave. But by the Friday afternoon, I had felt wretched about the whole thing. And she didn’t look happy either, her face turning from eager enthusiasm at the sight of my car at the beginning of the week to resigned deflation by the end.
Eventually, after another sleepless night, I had to do something. Michael, I assumed, wherever he was, would have been sleeping soundly, his app registering his uninterrupted hours of deep sleep. It was ironic he could sleep so well, and always had done, even though he made decisions every day with directly affected people’s lives, yet I couldn’t sleep because I was worried about the sale of a few trees.
Just after 6 a.m., I got out of bed, pulled on my tracksuit bottoms. And I began to drive towards where I knew Nora would be. The Forty Foot.
It was going to be a beautiful day and as I rounded the corner at Sandycove, the sea was shimmering across the bay. A group of seagulls were stretching their wings on the wall by the beach, easing themselves into the morning and for one moment, I felt like undressing and slipping into the cool water, feeling it on my skin, the ripples of the waves against my face, the salt on my lips. But then, I remembered. The thought of the water, the darkness below, the seaweedy depths, the rocks, the unknown. I pulled my jacket around me, glad to be on dry land.
‘Beautiful morning,’ said a man, coming the other way, towel rolled under his arm, dressing gown on over his trunks. I stood at the edge of the rocks. Out there, somewhere, in the Irish Sea was my mother. I scanned the water. Nothing. But suddenly there she was, a tiny dot among the waves. Head sticking out of the water, as she swam around in a lazy, languorous, undulating breaststroke, her freckly arms propelling her gently through the water as she was lifted and bobbed over the gentle waves. And then she flipped over onto her back and floated there, looking up at the sky, seeming entirely at peace and utterly free.
And then, flipping back over, she began swimming back to shore, her slow stroke pulling her closer and closer to me. Slowly but surely, she began to appear. Not just a red-haired dot but a person, with a nose and a mouth.
Just before the seabed became too shallow and the rocks too close, she flipped over again, soaking her head and her face, allowing the water to penetrate her scalp, to wash over her face. A daily baptism. And with the grace of a seal, she found her footing and pulled herself up the steps.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘Oh, you know, just doing my Christmas shopping.’
She grinned. ‘And I thought you were looking for me. To say sorry for not taking my calls. For ignoring me. Rosie told me to give you time. So I am.’ She waved to another swimmer. ‘Morning, Mary… yes, beautiful…’ She walked over to her towel, which was in a heap with her clothes and bag, and picked it up.
‘You should be saying sorry to me!’ God, she was infuriating. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘For me to say sorry? But why? What for?’ She began rubbing herself.
‘The protest… listen…’
‘Tabitha, I’ve explained everything. It’s not personal. It’s just something we have to do. We are compelled to do it. I don’t know why we have to fall out about it. You know I don’t believe in falling out with anyone…’
‘But it feels personal, like you are targeting me. And it’s embarrassing.’
‘But that doesn’t matter, does it? That kind of thing, worrying about what people think of you, doesn’t matter. Not in the grand scheme of things.’ She stood there, naked from the waist up while she found her bra and shirt.
‘Well, what is the grand scheme of things?’ It was so simple for Nora. Life was in black and white, us and them, capitalists and socialists, swimmers and non-swimmers. Rarely did other people’s points of view entered her consciousness, which made her navigation of the world easier for her but far more complicated for those around her.
‘The trees. The wildlife. The principle.’
‘Principle?’
‘Yes, if none of us had principles, then we’d be in a very sorry state.’
‘Mum, just stop it will you? Stop the protest…’
‘Will you stop the development?’ She waved to someone else. ‘Morning, Gordon… yes, so beautiful. We are lucky, are we not?’ She turned back to me, expectantly. ‘The school should retain control over that land. Our greatest resources are being used as collateral in an exchange for money. This is the kind of struggle that we indigenous people need to make a stand about. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. You are my daughter after all.’
‘Indigenous?’ I laughed. ‘You’re not a Native American.’
‘Maybe not, but as a proud Irish woman I know how precious land can be taken from us. Trees and oxygen and wildlife and nature can’t be measured and sold like a piece of silk. I think Dalkey deserves better than that. Have you not thought about other ways of using the land?’
I paused, thinking back to the day when Red and the children came down. That was good use of the land. But no, we needed the money. It would be better for the long-term gain of the school. Nora was just using emotion to win. ‘Mum, I told you. It’s full of nettles and brambles.’
‘And what’s wrong with them? Your grandmother used both of them. Nettle soup, do you remember. And bramble jelly.’ She was pulling on her trousers now, buckling her belt.
She paused. ‘Can we just forget about it? I’ll carry on and you’ll carry on and no hard feelings? Hello, Fiona, yes, lovely day.’
‘Well, would you just stop? Nellie and Arthur and the others, they can carry on. But you, would you retire gracefully?’
‘I can’t, Tabitha,’ she said, as we began to walk to my car. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t. I am an environmentalist. That’s what I do, have always done. I can’t give up now.’
‘Why can’t you?’
‘Principle.’ She shrugged. ‘Bloody-mindedness.’ She laughed. ‘That’s what Rosaleen used to say about me. She used to say I was my own woman. And I think she might say the same about you.’ She smiled at me.
‘Bloody-minded?’ I tried to look outraged but I quite liked the idea that I was a little bit bloody-minded. She’d won me over, as she always did.
‘Tell me about Rosie, the poor loveen. I phoned her yesterday, did she tell you?’
‘I don’t really know. She seems better.’
‘I’ll get her swimming again, that’s what I’ll do. It’ll do her the power of good.’ She looked at me. ‘And we’ll go to West Cork. I’ll get the two of you down there if it’s the last thing I do. It’ll be fun. When was the last time you had fun?’
I tried to think.
‘See!’ she said triumphantly.
She looked at me as we stopped at the car. ‘Tabitha…’ Finally, she was going to say sorry.
‘Yes?’ I would be gracious and accept her apology, but I would also say how much she had hurt me and that it was not acceptable.
‘Could you give me a lift home? Puncture. I had to walk this morning.’
She smiled at me. That was the problem with Nora, she was charm personified. She never let anyone be annoyed with her for too long.
‘In you get.’