Chapter 3
3
GUESS WHO’S DEAD?
With my mother retrieved from the attic, thankfully without any broken bones, we are sitting at her kitchen table drinking tea. My heart rate is almost back to normal after the whole thinking-my-mother-was dead-but-instead-finding-her-dangling-out-of-the-attic incident. I’m still completely baffled by her actions though.
‘Why on earth would you think it was a good idea to try and climb up into the attic?’ I ask while my mother examines each of the turnovers I brought with me to decide which one has the most icing and jam.
‘It’s my house and my attic. Who else is there here to go up into it but me?’ She sniffs, turning the pastries over and tapping their bottoms as if she’s Mrs Berry herself.
‘I could’ve gone up. Or Ruairi. Or if you waited a few weeks the boys will be back for Christmas and they could’ve done it for you,’ I say, my heart twanging a little at the mention of my boys who have been away from home for a full ten weeks now. While the upside of having twins is that you get the two for one bonus of only having to endure labour once, the downside has been that both my chicks flew the nest at the same time. The house is much too quiet without them.
‘Nonsense,’ my mother says, cutting through my thoughts. ‘You’ve enough to be doing with your work and that dog. And Ruairi is even busier. Did he tell you he’s turning people away now? Can’t meet the demand. He’s going to hire some new staff in the new year.’
I nod. Of course he is. Ruairi, once a wee shite is now a big shite, but a successful one. A solicitor with his own practice, specialising in claims, he’s developed quite the reputation for getting big pay-outs for his clients. He’s never been busier. Or richer.
‘Right so, the boys. They’d have loved to help,’ I say as my mother proffers the most icing deficient of the turnovers in my direction.
‘Ah, when the boys come home, they’ll be looking to rest from all their schoolwork and all. The last thing they’ll want to be doing is helping their old granny out,’ she says, before taking a bite from her pastry.
‘It’s the least they could do and don’t let them fool you that it’s all study and long sessions over the books,’ I say. I don’t mention their Instagram feeds which have showcased what can only be described as drunken shenanigans on a regular basis. An Unexpected Wave of Sadness washes over me as I wonder if I will ever, ever experience drunken shenanigans again. I mean, they’d probably kill me if I even tried them these days, but God I miss the recklessness of youth.
My mother shakes her head, dispelling any hint of criticism of ‘her boys’. If my mother was able to let Ruairi away with murder when he was young, it would be fair to say she’d happily let Saul and Adam get away with a full-on killing spree. The sun shines directly from their arses – a belief I share when I’m in a good mood.
‘That doesn’t answer the question either,’ I said. ‘What was so important you had to risk life and limb to get hold of?’
‘Sure, I told you upstairs. I can’t be dying and leaving things in a state. I’m just trying to get my affairs in order.’
I feel the bite of pastry I’d just taken turn to ash in my mouth so I take a drink of my tea to try and wash it down, hoping it doesn’t stick in my throat and end me prematurely. The absolute shame that would come from dying by turnover would be mortifying, especially given my need to lose a few stone.
‘Getting your affairs in order?’ I ask. ‘Mum, do you have something to tell me?’
I know that I don’t really want to know the answer. I am scared of it, but not knowing doesn’t make it go away.
‘I’m seventy-six, Rebecca. I’m not immediately planning to die but I can’t escape the fact that it’s out there. And let’s be honest, I’m not likely to become more agile and able for climbing into attics as time goes on so I figured if I got it all done now it would be sorted and it would save you and Ruairi a lot of heartache when I do die.’ She speaks in such a measured and matter-of-fact way you’d think she was discussing what bin to put out or what she was going to make for dinner, not planning for the aftermath of her own death.
‘There’s a will, of course. Your father made sure of that, but there’s more than that to be dealt with. I don’t want you two to have to go hoking through all my paperwork and belongings once I’m gone. If I declutter now, it will be as easy as giving me a good send off, selling the house and collecting your inheritance. As little fuss as possible. That’s what I want.’
I stare at her, mouth agape, horrified by her calmness towards her own demise as if it wouldn’t be utterly catastrophic for all concerned.
‘Obviously, if I need nursing care or to go into a home before then…’
‘You’ll not be going into a home,’ I interrupt. ‘If you need care, you’ll come live with me. Or I’ll come here. We’ll work it out. But you will not be going into a home.’ Tears sting at my eyes at the very thought of Roisin Burnside in some grey and depressing nursing home, staring with vacant eyes out of a net-curtain-clad window into a soulless car park or something equally grim.
‘No offence to you my love,’ my mother says, ‘but should the time come that I do need care, I don’t want to burden you or your brother with that.’
‘You’d hardly be a burden!’ I protest.
‘You say that now, Rebecca, but I’m still in my right mind and fully continent. Well, mostly continent,’ she says with a small smile. ‘I am seventy-six after all. You may well feel differently in the future when I need someone to wipe my bum or remind me not to strip in public or something equally embarrassing.’ She’s of course trying to make light of it, but I can see the worry the behind her eyes. Roisin Burnside is nothing if not a proud woman determined to keep a hold of her dignity no matter the circumstances. She cared for her own parents towards the ends of their lives and while I never saw her complain, I know it took a toll on her that remains to this day.
‘Mum…’ I say, ready to reassure her that I absolutely have no issue with any bum wiping or gentle reminding, but she raises her hand to silence me. I know better than to continue. When my mother is done with a conversation, it is categorically and emphatically over.
‘Which reminds me,’ she says. ‘I haven’t told you who died yet.’
Ah, the Derry Death Notices edition of Guess Who? I’d forgotten that treat was waiting for me. ‘As long as it’s not you,’ I mutter under my breath, aware I’m skating dangerously close to the forbidden topic of conversation.
If my mother hears me, she chooses to ignore it. ‘Mrs Bishop told me yesterday. Which reminds me, did you pick up those few items for her? Her hip is giving her awful bother at the moment and I didn’t want to risk her going out in case it iced over. Last thing she needs is a fall right now, not with her lot at the other side of the world.’ Mrs Bishop’s two children live in England, but as far as my mother is concerned, they might as well be in Australia. Anything that requires crossing a body of water is too far away for my mother’s comfort. She wasn’t even terribly happy when I moved to the other side of the River Foyle after I got married.
‘Yes, Mum. I got what you asked for and I’ll drop them in next door when I’m finished with my cup of tea. I’ll need to be heading back soon anyway – work to be done and all that!’ I say, hoping she’ll understand that I don’t have all day to sit and chat.
‘Yes, yes. I understand. You’re very busy.’ She takes another bite of her turnover. She is clearly in no rush to tell me who died. Or show me what it is she has found while Marie Kondo-ing her very existence. I raise an eyebrow at her in the hope she takes the hint.
‘Right, okay,’ she says. ‘Well, Mrs Bishop told me yesterday that she had been down at Mass and the priest – that lovely young fellah with the beard and the Belfast accent – was reading out the deaths and I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you, but Kitty O’Hagan is dead.’
My blood really does run cold this time. My cup clatters as I drop it back onto the saucer.
‘Kitty O’Hagan, as in, Laura’s mammy?’ I ask, my mind instantly flooded with memories of sitting around Laura’s kitchen table having the mad craic before multiple nights out. Kitty O’Hagan giving us a lift into town, never once complaining at how rowdy or annoying we were being. ‘Enjoy your youth, girls. It doesn’t last long,’ she’d say. Laura would roll her eyes and complain that her mum was being a craic killer. But her mum was never a craic killer. She was a bona fide craic bringer.
‘The very same,’ my mother says. ‘Much too young,’ she adds. ‘It just goes to show we never know what’s around the next corner. This is why it’s important to get my affairs in order.’
My mother’s sudden interest in climbing into attics makes more sense now, I suppose, but honestly, I’m still trying to digest the news that Kitty has died.
‘Do you never see Laura any more?’ she asks. ‘I’ve not heard you talk about her in forever. I always thought the pair of you would make friends again. She’s a lovely girl. I always liked her.’
‘What happened?’ I ask, my mind racing.
‘Between you and Laura? Do you not know that yourself?’
‘No. To Kitty. What did she die from?’ I ask.
‘No idea,’ my mum replies. ‘But I thought you should know in case you wanted to go and show your respects. You were always in and out of that woman’s house when you were younger. Do you remember I used to joke we should just take your bed up there and let you move in? Regardless of whether or not you and Laura are speaking, you should go and pay your respects.’
I nod, my head already full of thoughts of Laura and what she must be going through. I know it well. The shock. The disbelief. The exhaustion as you push through the surrealism of it all. People in and out of the house and you just wanting to tell them all to go away – that you are broken and you understand they are sad, and they want to pay their respects but you are only just holding it together and you need to scream until you throw up. That you don’t want people here to gawk at the coffin in the corner. To drink tea and eat sandwiches as if the most catastrophic event of your life isn’t unfolding amid the Mass cards and sympathetic handshakes. ‘We’re sorry for your troubles,’ they say and I’ve no doubt they are but there’s a big part of them that is looking at you, witnessing your grief and thinking, ‘We’re just so thankful these troubles aren’t at our door.’
‘Do you know when the funeral is?’ I ask. I’ll have to call Niamh. She mustn’t know yet. If she did, she’d have called me. She’d have picked up her phone and hit my number and made sure to speak to me. Some things were too important for a WhatsApp message.
‘Well, from what Mrs Bishop said, she died on Wednesday night so I’d hazard a guess the funeral will be tomorrow, unless they’re waiting for people to fly in,’ my mother says.
In Derry we dispatch our dead with remarkable efficiency. There’s a standard of two nights for a wake – where we bring our dead home to be surrounded by friends and family – before a funeral. If someone dies late in the day, those two nights will often extend to three. The same goes if family need to travel from wherever in the world they now live. People tend not to want a Sunday funeral Mass – where the service takes place as part of the ordinary weekly Mass and can feel less personal – so my mother is probably right. It is Friday morning and tomorrow one of the very best friends I have ever had in my life will be laying her mother to rest and I’ve not so much as spoken to her.
‘You should’ve told me!’ I blurt.
‘I tried to tell you last night but you were more concerned with that dog and his business,’ she says, her lips pursed in an expression which wouldn’t look out of place on Maggie Smith playing a blinder as the Dowager Countess in Downton Abbey .
‘You should’ve made me listen!’ I say, guilt flooding my system that I didn’t have the time yesterday to hear about Kitty O’Hagan’s death. That I’m such a horrible person I’ve not been there to hug my friend and extend my condolences. She must be utterly devastated. Her brother, Conal, must be devastated too. It was always just the three of them against the world.
‘Made you listen?’ My mother sniffs. ‘Rebecca Louise Burnside, in the almost forty-seven years you have been on this planet, nothing I have ever done has made you listen.’
She has a point, of course, but still. She should’ve tried.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. The last thing I want to do on the day I hear Laura is mourning her mother is to start arguing with mine. ‘It’s just a shock… and I wasn’t expecting it. She’s so young. I just can’t quite believe it.’
‘Ach, I know,’ my mother says, up on her feet without so much as a wince or an expression that her back aches. It’s remarkable really. I’m thirty years her junior and have already reached the random-pain-noises stage of life. ‘She was a lovely woman. A strong woman too. I’d never have thought it would be me who would outlive her…’ She starts to clean up the tea things even though I’m not even finished my first cup yet. That means this whole thing has rattled her too. My mother always goes into super-clean mode when she’s anxious. That she’s decided to sort out her affairs too makes me think that Roisin Burnside is experiencing anxiety on a level she’s not known before. There’s been too much death around this last few years.
But Kitty O’Hagan was young, all things considered. She was ten years younger than my mother. Only sixty-six. Too young to be dead. The news comes at me again in another wave of disbelief. No, I do not like this stage of life where parents start to die and it feels like we’re all on borrowed time.
How do I reassure a seventy-six-year-old woman, and myself for that matter, that she has years left when we’ve just been shown again that life can be so arbitrarily cruel?
My mind races back to all those days spent hanging out in Kitty’s kitchen, or Laura’s bedroom. We got up to so many stupid things – dance routines, applying make-up very badly, trying to learn how to walk in heels, which ended in a sprained ankle and a trip to A&E for Niamh.
And then there were the projects. There was the summer we spent designing our own magazine and fancying ourselves as revolutionary journalists. Of course, this was before computers were the norm, or able to do anything more than act as glorified typewriters, so we hand-wrote our stories, illustrated with our best markers and absolutely ripped off other magazines by sticking their pictures onto our pages. We kept Pritt Stick in business that year.
While other teenagers were out drinking two-litre bottles of cheap cider up on Derry’s City Walls, we were geeking out designing our own range of super-trendy fashion. My daddy had brought a ream of 500 pages of crisp white paper home from his work and we spent a summer drawing as many rah-rah skirts, shell suits and bomber jackets as possible. We watched The Clothes Show each Sunday with the reverence we would have saved for Mass in the past and God love our parents, but they never laughed at us or told us to get a life. Kitty even managed to keep a straight face when the three of us, in our Dunnes Stores jeans, Primark T-shirts and Nicks (not Nike) trainers, described our style as ‘Urban Funk’.
I wish I could remember the name of our fictional magazine or fashion house. I wish we still had those glorious projects to look at again now.
That’s when another memory comes back to me. It was the summer of 1994. We were post GCSE, on the brink of womanhood and still dodging anything remotely cool. Although in fairness, both Laura and Niamh were making strides towards coolness by occasionally getting past the bouncers and into Squires nightclub. As such behaviour was very strictly verboten in my house, I instead doubled down on the dorkyness and suggested our summer project be putting together a time capsule.
‘These are the formative years of our lives,’ I had declared with all the conviction of a sixteen-year-old who thought she knew everything. ‘We should keep a record of them. We should mark this occasion.’
So we did. And if I’m not very much mistaken, the resulting creation is still buried in the back of the wardrobe in my old bedroom. Unless, that is, my mother has decluttered it in her attempts to put her affairs in order.
‘Mum,’ I ask. ‘Do you remember that time the girls and I made a time capsule?’
‘God, love, I barely remember my own name these days. And you lot were always up to something.’ She fills the kettle to make more tea, even though she has just cleaned away the cups. She’s definitely more rattled than she’s letting on.
‘You must remember,’ I tell her. ‘You came up with some ideas of what we could put it in. I’m pretty sure it’s upstairs in my old room somewhere. Unless you’ve decluttered it over the years?’
She pauses for a moment as if trying to pull the memory from the back of her mind and place it in the here and now. I watch her closely, waiting for the ‘penny dropping’ moment to appear across her face. It doesn’t.
‘Nope. No memory of it. But I do know that I’ve not touched that wardrobe of yours. If you stored something in it then, chances are, it’s still there.’
‘Great,’ I say, a little fizz of excitement bubbling inside me, mixed with a little bit of deep cringe at how utterly lacking in any kind of cool we were. What other sixteen-year-olds spent their summer holidays making time capsules – for fun?
Still, the cringe isn’t strong enough to stop me from hightailing it to my old bedroom and starting to dig through the wardrobe. I come across old photo albums, which have half the pictures missing. I vaguely remember pulling them out at different stages to plaster on the walls of my university digs, or in my first flat. I’m not sure what became of them after that. I find a box of my old school books – my spidery handwriting in blotchy blue biro scrawling my class name and the name of my teachers. I swear there is still the faint whiff of the damp temporary classrooms at the back of the school. A mixture of mould, varnish and chalk dust. Another box yields the black pair of two-and-a-half-inch heels I wore to my school formal in Upper Sixth. I remember thinking they were so high I feared I’d topple off them. Today’s formal attendees would laugh at me from atop their four-inch platform heels. Or they’d style it out and wear Converse under their prom dresses and everybody would think they were absolute style icons.
Eventually, at the very back of the wardrobe, under a fine layer of dust, I find it.
A dusty shoebox sealed with thick, now-yellowed sticky-tape. Pulling it out, part of me is surprised it doesn’t disintegrate as soon as it hits the light. How long must it have been there, hiding away? If it was the summer after our GCSEs then that was 1994 which means… Oh God… it’s almost time to open it.
Glancing down at the box, I see our names signed on the lid. There’s me – spelling my name Becki, with an i, because I thought it was cool. There’s Niamh’s name, in purple biro, of course. Subtlety was never her strong point. And then, in swirly, feminine letters is Laura, with a little love heart drawn after her name. Just the sight of it is enough to make my heart break for what she is going through, and for the friendship we lost along the way.
It’s then I spot the instructions, written in purple glitter ink, along the side of box. ‘DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2024! WAIT THIRTY YEARS!’
Close enough, I think.