Chapter 26
26
THE BOYS OF THE NYPD CHOIR…
‘ Mu-um !’ Saul hollers into his phone. He is FaceTiming me, but as I can only see his chin and the ceiling of what I think is a pub, I’m not sure why.
‘Saul?’ I say, raising my voice in the hope he will be able to hear me over the din of the revellers wherever he is out now. It’s clear, however, that he’s not at home in his student digs watching his bank account to try and scrape it through to the end of term.
‘Mum! It’s “Fairytale of New York”,’ he bellows before lifting his phone so close to his face that I can see up one nostril.
I love this song. We love this song. My boys and I. We sing it every year together. I feel a moment of longing for them pull at my soul – until, that is, Saul belches loudly before declaring he’s going to be sick and the FaceTime call ends suddenly.
‘How am I supposed to not worry about that boy?’ I ask Daniel, who simply gives his eyes a bit of a roll which I take to mean, ‘You’re fighting a lost cause there.’
Saul has always been a bit of a dreamer. He takes life much less seriously than Adam and while at times that’s quite admirable, at other times I worry he will never get his act together. He only just managed to get a place to study in Manchester thanks to the power of Clearing.
I know there is no point in calling him back. He’s worse than useless at answering his phone when I call at the best of times, never mind when he’s out with his mates and three sheets to the wind. I have to trust that he will be well able to get home safely – but I’ll make sure I check his location on ‘Find My Phone’ during the night.
How on earth did my parents cope without this new-fangled technology that allows us the ability to contact or track our children at will? I can’t imagine the abject horror I’d feel if the boys were reliant on a public phone and a topped-up phone card to stay in touch with me – as was the case when I was at university in Belfast all those years ago. The world really has transformed in the last three decades, I think, as I scroll to Adam’s number and call him. It’s probably unfair to put responsibility for his sibling on his shoulders, but I can’t pretend it’s not helpful to be able to have someone have eyes on Saul when the need arises.
When Adam answers, I can hear a similar din in the background although it’s a little more muted. ‘Hang on, Mum,’ he calls. ‘I’m just heading to the smoking area where it’s a bit quieter.’ There is muffled chat as I wait for him to speak again. I’m actually quite relieved to hear that he is out and enjoying himself. Adam has a bit too much of my sensible approach to life about him and it worries me at times. I don’t want my handsome boy to reach forty-seven years of age and find himself worrying about the things he could’ve done and the fun he could’ve had.
‘Right. Hi, Mum. I’m here. What’s up? Is something wrong? Is it Granny or Daniel?’ The worry in his voice upsets me. I should’ve known he’d have gone straight to the worst-case scenario. He is his mother’s son after all.
‘No. Nothing is wrong. Everything’s fine. I’m just checking in,’ I say and feel guilty for the lie.
‘Well, I’m out tonight. Christmas drinks with friends,’ he says and he sounds a mixture of relieved and jubilant. ‘You’ll never guess who’s here!’
‘Is it Saul?’ I ask, thinking it would be better if I just get to the point. ‘Because he’s not long off the phone with me and he seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much maybe.’
There’s a sigh and new guilt piles on top of my old guilt. I recognise the weariness even in the sound of his breathing. ‘Yes, Saul is here,’ he says, a little deflated. ‘And yes, he is enjoying himself a lot, just like Saul always does. But don’t worry, Mum. I’m keeping an eye on him. As usual.’
It could be that I’m paranoid and all my feelings are floating dangerously close to the surface but I feel his annoyance radiating down the phone in waves and I realise I’ve not asked about him or let him tell me who is there and he must sometimes feel like the invisible child. Having Ruairi as an older brother, I know that feeling only too well myself.
‘You’re very good,’ I say. ‘You really are. And are you okay? Are you enjoying yourself? Who is it that’s with you?’
There’s a pause – it’s not particularly long but it’s long enough to make me worry that he is genuinely and irreparably annoyed with me, prone as I am to catastrophising.
‘I’m good, Mum,’ he says. ‘I’m having a good night. And a great weekend. I took time off work because Jodie is over.’ There’s a little something in his tone that grabs my attention.
‘Jodie? Jodie Cassidy? Niamh’s Jodie?’ I ask. She’s certainly the only Jodie I know and the only one he’s ever mentioned to me before.
‘What other Jodie is there?’ he asks and this time there is no mistaking things. That sounds very much like the voice of a man with a crush. They’ve been friends their entire lives and he has never expressed any sort of romantic interest in her. I wonder if that has changed? I’m about to try and wheedle some more information out of him when I hear the music get noticeably louder in the background and there are a flurry of excited voices all chatting over one another.
‘Mum… I’ve got to go. I’ll keep an eye on Saul. Don’t worry. I’ll call you tomorrow if I get the chance,’ Adam says and he is gone before I’ve even had time to draw breath enough to answer him.
How strange though, that Jodie is in Manchester with my boys and Niamh didn’t mention it during our day together. Not when we were in Asda shopping, or in the car, or at Sonas this afternoon. Once again it nips at me that something was not as it normally is with Niamh and it annoys me that I don’t know what it is. Niamh and I have always shared everything. We have had no secrets. That became even more the case when our terrific trio became a dynamic duo after the great falling out of 2013. We normally discuss every worry together – and none are too small or too big. Having an absolute mental breakdown over what to feed the children for tea? This was fair game for an hour-long messenger conversation between us. The time Niamh found a lump in her breast and was terrified while waiting for her hospital appointment to come through? I was there by her side, having a good old feel of her boob every time she was worried the lump had got bigger or changed shape. Thankfully, it turned out that she just has – as the doctor called it – ‘lumpy breasts’, which were thankfully, in this case, nothing to worry about. We had quite the relieved laugh about that afterwards as we tried to make lumpy breasts sound like something to be coveted. ‘It’s the latest trend, darling, don’t you know?’ Etc.
If she’s keeping quiet now, I don’t like it. And I don’t like that she hasn’t mentioned that Jodie is over with the boys. There’s no way she won’t know where Jodie is. They speak umpteen times a day.
Surely it can’t be the case that she thinks my boys are not good enough for her precious first born. Although in fairness with Saul, she might have a point. He’ll wise up and settle himself eventually but for now, it would take a brave and/or stupid woman to take him on.
No. It can’t be that. It has to be something more serious than that. My mind drifts back to the lumpy breast incident. Could it be another health scare? A new lump? Could it be that she fears something more than hormonal fluctuations are behind a new lump? It’s scarier now, what with Kitty dying just last week from breast cancer. It has brought it all into our minds in sharp focus. I’ve even made sure to give my boobs a thorough examination in the shower twice since hearing the awful news. No. It can’t be that. The timing would be too cruel.
The familiar clutch of fear tightens around my middle. I think I could handle almost anything else except Niamh getting sick. She is my person. The most positive and loving friend a woman could ever ask for. The universe would be a complete bastard to foist an illness on her just as we all made a very conscious decision to embrace our lives to the full.
Then it comes to me that she still hasn’t opened her letter from the time capsule. In fact, she seems really, really unwilling to do so. Could it be that she doesn’t want to read about the hopes and dreams she once had when she knows she may not have much time left? I feel the Prosecco I so enjoyed earlier churning in my stomach ominously. The room takes on a slightly fluid feeling as waves of worry come at me.
Still, my phone sits, silent and dark, on my lap. I don’t know if I should text or call her. I don’t know how she would react to being questioned. If she wants me to know whatever it is that is bothering her, then she would’ve told me. Niamh doesn’t like being put on the spot, but she might really, really need a friend right now and I’m not sure if I just need to be more forceful with her.
Before I even realise it, I’m crying. Daniel sits up and is doing his very best to lick the salty tears from my cheeks. There must still be a trace of whatever gorgeous products Gabby used on my skin though, as he stops, grimaces and jumps down off the sofa. He ambles across the room to, presumably, get as far away from me as possible, and gives me the filthiest of looks. How dare I season his favourite snack?
To my shame, I give him the finger in return. ‘I’m allowed to feel my feelings,’ I tell him. ‘And get lovely facials.’
I’m done holding everything in and pretending I’m fine when I’m not. I’m not making myself uncomfortable just to make life a little easier for someone else. Even if that someone, in this case is ‘just a dog’. He gives a little bark in response. It’s more of a ‘whatever’ than anything with any real malice behind it, and I know he still loves me. So at least that’s something.
I probably should just call Niamh and then I can stop this super spiral from spiralling any further.
I have the perfect opener. A simple, ‘Ooh, I didn’t know Jodie was visiting Adam and Saul,’ would ease us into the conversation where I beg her to be okay and not be battling cancer. However, my gut is telling me to play this one carefully and the fact my subconscious is sending me warning flares just makes me more worried about the entire situation.
I try to apply rational thinking. I have no concrete reason to believe Niamh may be deathly ill or going through some similar-level life trauma.
Maybe it’s just the case that it’s been a long and emotional day. Between my mother shouting my size all over the supermarket, my near orgasmic experience in the spa, worrying about my son and now this anxiety about Niamh, it’s entirely possible all my emotional stability features are off-kilter and misfiring all over the place. That’s what I get for drinking in the afternoon and allowing a child to realign my chakras for me.
I’ll get an early night, I decide, and thankfully Daniel is forgiving enough not to stay in his huff but instead pads dutifully up the stairs behind me. To distract myself from worrying, I run through the list of the seven Walton children, prefacing each name with ‘Goodnight’ as I get changed and crawl into bed.
I resolve to call Niamh first thing in the morning.