Chapter 8
I HATE YOU, TOMORROW
Becca
Patience is not and never has been my strong suit.
If I have heard my darling mother tell me it was a virtue once in my life, I have heard her say it approximately a million times.
And usually followed by ‘a watched kettle never boils’ and a reminder that ‘what is for me will not pass me’.
I know she means well when she says this, but it really, really doesn’t help me cope with my in-built dislike for waiting for things.
It doesn’t matter if the things are good, or bad. I do not like waiting all the same. If I know something is going to happen, I’d very much just like to get on with it. I will have no peace until I do.
And I have no patience or peace right now. Why did I tell Conal I would be too tired to see him tonight? I mean, I am exhausted and would love a quick nap, but I also know my chance of drifting off into a peaceful sleep is pretty much non-existent.
Every time I close my eyes, even to blink, I hear ‘we need to talk’ echoing again. I thought if I tried to distract myself with walking Daniel and cleaning my house until it sparkled, I’d feel better and, assisted by physical exhaustion, be more than able to have a good night’s sleep.
But no, instead I just ached from head to toe, and still couldn’t relax.
I tried to follow up on the admin from the Fab Forties Club meeting, adding member details to the database, but as the numbers weren’t exactly interstellar, it didn’t take all that long.
A couple of ideas have come in from the girls about what to try next.
An art class which may or may not involve some form of nudity is one option.
I’m not sure. I don’t think I have the mental energy at the moment to try not to laugh like a schoolgirl at someone trying to maintain a serious expression while their genitals are on show.
I also have a completely irrational fear that Roy Cropper from the coffee shop will be the model, because sometimes the universe has a very perverse sense of humour.
The other suggestion was an informal choir – one where the actual ability to sing isn’t a prerequisite.
Niamh sent that idea, having heard about it from one of the music teachers at school.
It seems very wholesome and dare I say cheesy for Niamh, but to my surprise she had an uncharacteristic level of enthusiasm for it.
I always suspected she was a closet fan of the hit TV series Glee.
There’s a frustrated Rachel Berry in her, of that I have no doubt.
I popped her an email telling her to set it up and then promptly fell back into my ennui – where I continue to languish – exhausted but too tired to sleep.
All night I have battled with myself, once again, wondering if it would come across as too needy or neurotic to call Conal and ask him to tell me what it is he wants to talk about.
I’m reluctant. In my experience, aka with Simon, men do not like their women needy and neurotic.
While I know, of course, that Conal is not like Simon – not even one little bit – it has come to my attention that I still carry the wounds from my divorce. Who’d have thought it?
So I vow to stick to my very firm resolution not to send a very emotionally needy message asking him what it is he wanted to talk about before segueing into a slightly unhinged plea for him not to dump me and to just give us one last try.
But as I thump my pillow repeatedly to try to take out some of my frustration on it, and to also try to make it a little more comfortable to sleep on, I am regretting that decision.
So I sit up, grab my phone from my bedside table and do the only sensible thing to do in these circumstances – I have a complete emotional breakdown in the group chat with Niamh and Laura.
Niamh
Are you still freaking out about that?
Becks
Is it not obvious I’m still freaking out about it?
Niamh
The statement ‘I’m going to die alone and Daniel will feast off my rotting corpse’ did indicate that, I suppose. But you know that’s a nonsense, don’t you?
Becks
You think so? Really think so?
Niamh
Of course I do. Daniel will be dead a long time before you. Isn’t he, like, 107 or something already?
Becks
You’re a cold bitch, Niamh Cassidy. He is just a baby and will live forever because I have declared it so.
Niamh
You know I’m only kidding and have a soft spot for the big floof.
Becks
And you don’t think I’ll die alone?
Niamh
Of course not! Conal loves you. He’d be mad not to. Isn’t that right, Laura?
Becks
I don’t think Laura is online. Probably getting an early one after her big day. At least I hope that’s what it is and she isn’t just avoiding the conversation because she knows something we don’t and she doesn’t want to break Conal’s confidence.
Niamh
She’s online for sure. All the wee blue arrows are lighting up. It means she’s reading this. @Laura! Come out, come out wherever you are! You can tell us all about your day at school!
Becks
And reassure me a little?
Three dots indicating that Laura is typing stay on the screen, occasionally blinking away, for most of the next three minutes.
I watch them as if waiting for the secrets of the universe to be revealed to me.
Laura and Conal are close. Not in a creepy co-dependant kind of a way, but as adult siblings go they get along very well.
There is something in the shared trauma of nursing a parent through a protracted cancer battle that will form the deepest of bonds.
There can be no secrets, nor any airs and graces, when you are spending consecutive nights being lectured on how to be good to each other by your dying mother.
When Conal and I started seeing each other, Laura did make a point of saying she wasn’t going to get involved in the ins and outs of our relationship.
She had no desire to hear whether or not her brother is a generous lover, or act as a go-between.
But that was ten months ago, and surely she must see how serious things between us are now.
Surely she must have an idea of what his intentions are – and the longer she types, the longer my mind is jumping to all sorts of not-happy conclusions.
She is outlining the many ways in which I have failed her brother, perhaps.
Although I cannot think of any – except perhaps that I am not mad about football, and have two Liverpool supporters as sons, when he is football mad and would die for Man United.
It’s hardly cause to be dumped over though. Is it?
While I watch the screen, I do the only thing I can think of to do for a second time and tap out a message in a private conversation with Niamh.
Becks
Is she writing the Magna Carta or something?
Niamh
I’m not sure how long the Magna Carta actually is. Or really what it actually is. I didn’t pay attention in history.
Becks
Well, neither did I! But that was mostly because I was messing around with you. But since we don’t know how long the Magna Carta is, let’s go for a modern reference. The Good Friday Agreement or something.
Niamh
I’ve no idea how long that actually is either, if I’m being honest.
Becks
Thirty pages or so. I think. From memory. Do you think she is writing thirty pages? It’s taking long enough.
Niamh
Don’t fret. You know Conal. It will be fine. You could ask him, you know?
Becks
But I’m scared!
Niamh
I know. But it’s Conal. He loves you. I’d put money on it – and I’m not normally a gambling kind.
Becks
What the fudge is she typing? It’s taking forever!
Niamh
Fudged if I know.
I click back into the original conversation and it appears Laura is no longer typing.
Nor has anything been posted. What on earth is going on?
Is it possible that Laura is now annoyed at me too?
Have I just made things worse? The sinking feeling that has been coming and going all day settles deep into the pit of my stomach and gets comfortable as if it is in for the long haul.
I can feel it pulling up a metaphorical chair and wrapping itself in a big blanket of my stomach acid.
And there is no Gaviscon strong enough to tackle this particular bout of indigestion.
I’m worried that if I message Laura again to push for a response, I might come across as too emotionally needy and desperate.
Not that I’m sure there is an acceptable level of emotional neediness.
This situation is a giant balls.
I’m about to allow myself to sink into the very pits of depression when my screen lights up with a new message.
This time from Saul – the elder of my twin sons – who is currently in Manchester.
Glancing at my watch, I see that it is almost ten – and messages that arrive from Saul at this time are usually fuelled by copious pints of Guinness.
I love my son right down to his very bones. Along with his brother, he is the love of my life. But I am having a romantic crisis here and the last thing – the absolutely very last thing – I am able for right now is some drunken philosophising with an inebriated student.
Still, I can’t possibly take the chance of ignoring his message by pretending to be asleep.
Everyone knows that the patron saint of mammies with children at university will smite me if I do.
It will be the one occasion where there actually, genuinely is a proper crisis and not just one of the existential variety over the state of world politics, or the socio-economic difficulties facing the young generation.
Or whether or not the all-Ireland battle for supremacy between Northern Tayto and Southern Tayto could be the real barrier to unification.
A quick glance at my screen reveals something altogether different, however.
MUM!!! DID YOU KNOW GRANNY IS ON TIKTOK????
Below he has posted a link to an account with the username @TwoOulDolls and I genuinely don’t know whether to be horrified or impressed – so I think my poor, frazzled nervous system settles on a combination of both.
I don’t know if I’m strong enough to click on the link so I take a moment to just stare at it and watch it like it’s an unexploded time bomb.
A second message from Saul lands.
MUM!!! Seriously though. She’s kind of a legend. Go Granny! Didn’t know she had it in her!
Okay, so now I suppose I really do have to look. Isn’t it funny how just minutes before I was in a state of panic over my relationship potential imploding and a possible new ice age between Laura and me, and now I get to worry about my mother being ‘kind of a legend’ on TikTok.
My father, if he were still alive, would find this exceptionally funny. I’m not quite there yet. I tap a message back to Saul telling him that, for my sins, I will watch it and then I’ll get back to him.
Taking a deep breath, I click on the link and wait for the app to open and buffer through to the right video.
Dear God… the thumbnail is of my mother looking horrified as Jimmy the security man tries to drag her away from the section of Asda reserved for the big pants kind of lingerie.
No delicate little lacy wisps of fabric here – just my mother in front of the (admittedly very comfortable) belly-warming full briefs in plain white cotton.
The video starts to play, showing Mrs Bishop waving madly as she journeys up on the travelator towards the womenswear section.
A caption pops up on the screen.
See what happens when we are let loose in Asda.
Suddenly both my mother and Mrs Bishop are on the screen, doing a piece to camera.
Okay, they aren’t quite looking at the lens and have a quick argument about whether or not ‘this thing is working’ before they start talking properly, both using their very best phone voices.
Hyacinth Bucket has nothing on Roisin Burnside when she switches on her best posh elocution.
‘Hi, guys,’ she says, and I almost choke. Hi, guys? My mother is talking like an experienced TikTokker. ‘Today we’ve come to Asda in Strabane to get the messages. For those of you not from the Northwest of Ireland – the messages are what we would call your goods. You know, your shopping.’
‘Your groceries,’ Mrs Bishop chimes in authoritatively.
‘We thought we’d use this trip to show you what is on offer in Strabane Asda. Strabane, you see, is what some might call a hidden gem of a place in County Tyrone,’ my mother says.
‘Who would call it that, Roisin?’ Mrs Bishop asks, and once again I almost choke. The rivalry between Derry and Strabane is a thing of legend around these parts.
I watch as they wander around the shop, talking about the great deals on offer, and I think maybe I was worrying about nothing.
The thumbnail, I figure, might be clickbait.
Not that I’d expect my mother to know what clickbait is, but before this morning I’d never have thought she’d have known what TikTok is either.
I start to relax, just a little, before the ‘skit’ begins and I see my mother, bold as brass, act out being escorted from the premises before persuading poor Jimmy to grin at the camera with her and Mrs Bishop – all three of them with their thumbs up.
I’m caught between abject horror and admiration for them both, and I am grateful to my bones that this has provided a distraction from the horror of ‘we need to talk’.