Chapter 70
70
Early August brought two lots of glad tidings. Tiding one came via a phone call from Helen. “Great news! Mum’s failed her eye test and been put off the road.”
“What way is this news ‘great’?” I asked.
“Her car! The Honda Civic that Brogue-face gave her? You can have it, she says. An advance on your inheritance. Like I said, great news .”
Wait now…“Is she upset?”
“She’s fucking furious! It’s your doctor who’s behind it, the prick who wouldn’t give the HRT—”
“Lowry Riordan?”
“Him. She’s writing to the medical council to get him struck off. Maybe Dr Propofol could give a second opinion?”
Dr Propofol was Dr Muireann. In April she’d given me a six-month script for HRT; as a result the extended Walsh family regarded her as a “Tame” doctor. Claire had wanted to ask her for Ozempic.
“Don’t call her that,” I pleaded. “She’s incorruptible. I deserve that HRT.”
“Calm the kaks, I’m only messing. The car is yours.”
The second part of August’s good news was that Queenie was coming home! Which meant that Brigit and Colm would also be back. I’d be surplus to requirements so decisions needed to be made. Try Dublin, to give the job search another go? Or…return to New York?
But within moments of Brigit tumbling from the car on her return, she’d grabbed me and muttered right into my ear, “Don’t think you’re going anywhere. We were always going to take on staff the nearer we got to the opening. Starting September, we’ll be gearing up fast , we’ll need you for three and a half days a week. Right up to the launch, which will be in March. Okay?”
Relief that those big, frightening decisions could be deferred, combined with the knowledge that my puny will was no match for Brigit’s, had me nodding obediently. “Okay.” Then. “Where’s Queenie?”
“Here!” Taller than I remembered, her hair a mass of wild curls, she was hefting a big bag with ease. “Who’s coming for a swim?”
“Everyone!” Colm declared, seemingly restored to the cool, confident man I’d known back in the day.
Beside the car, Brigit was crouched over a suitcase, unzipping it.
“Lenehan,” Colm ordered, “Ree, Bridge, Anna, get your togs.”
“But I haven’t—” A swimsuit was flung at me.
“You do now,” Brigit grinned.
The luggage abandoned in the front yard, we made our way down to the pebble beach, splashing and squealing in the cool, green water. Further out to sea, four dolphins were playing.
It was hard to believe this was real. Queenie was back. Queenie was better . Look at her there, drenching us all, laughing her head off.
Quietly, Lenehan asked me, “Are you crying?”
“Nope. Salt water in my eyes.”
“Yep. Same here.”
—
“Anna.” Someone was at my front door, banging away like the house was on fire. “Basking sharks in the bay! D’you want to come out and see them?”
It was Hal. I tumbled off the couch I’d been sleeping on and opened the door. “Morning,” I mumbled. “What time is it?”
“Nearly seven. Did I wake you?”
“Sharks?” Jacqui’s son Ollie came thundering down the stairs in his PJs. “Can I see them?”
“No!” Jacqui yelled, from my bedroom. “He’ll fall out of the boat and get eaten.”
“I won’t!”
Jacqui appeared in silky sleep shorts and a tiny top, her hair tumbling around her. “Morning, Hal.”
“You’re a fecken goddess,” Hal said. “Telling you, you could start your own religion. Sign me up now!”
“Oh Jesus, don’t encourage her.” Griff came down the stairs after her.
“Lookit, they’ll be gone,” Hal said. “Who’s coming?”
“Basking sharks don’t eat humans,” Ollie said.
We braced for a lecture on the natural world but Hal spoke first. “The lad is right. He’ll be safe with me.”
At that, Jacqui, Griff and I—even Hal—almost collapsed laughing. Nevertheless, Jacqui said, “Okay, he can go.”
“Anna?” Hal asked. “You coming?”
“No.” Three times in the past three weeks I’d been woken early to see the basking sharks. I wasn’t exactly over them, but given the choice between marveling once more or another hour in bed, the bed won. Truly I had gone native!
“And Miss Trea?” Hal enquired.
More laughter. Trea never got up before mid-afternoon. M’town was overrun with teenagers who spent their evenings on the dunes, snogging, experiencing first love and getting langeroo on wine stolen from their parents’ stash.
As promised, Jacqui and her family had come for a week, but because it was August, no holiday rentals were available. So Jacqui and Griff were staying in my room, Trea and Ollie in the small twin room and I was on the pull-out couch.
Despite us all being on top of each other, there was no snark, no pass-agg remarks about the last of the milk being drunk, etc. Jacqui was as fun and hilarious as she always was, Griff was no trouble, Ollie, though tedious if you got locked into a monologue on, for example, the mating habits of puffins, was a little dote. And I never saw Trea.
Except…that evening, just as we were about to go down the town for our dinner, she appeared, talking to someone on her laptop.
“You want to come for food?” Jacqui asked her.
“Nah. You do you.” But her smile was nice.
I skirted behind Trea to get my phone off charge—to my shock the person on screen was Joey. I caught only a glimpse but it took a few days to feel normal again.
In general, I did a good job of remaining positive during my busy, busy days, but lying in bed at night, listening to the noise of the sea, I often fantasized that he was with me.
His absence was always there. I even missed the things we’d never get to do. One night, lots of us went into Galway (in the Dementia minibus) to go dancing. It was genuinely joyous—then my heart stabbed with pain that I’d never have a night like this with Joey.
But I was alive and life was long and new adventures would unfold.