Ciara Geraghty - Rules of the Road

Instead of the shy little robin redbreast that shadowed Mary Lennox around the garden, there is a pair of ragged crows, perched on a satellite dish and inspecting me with cold black eyes. I step towards them and flail my arms. They don’t move.

At least the railings seem sturdy enough. The ground is a long way down.

Inside, the walls are painted a watery shade of cream and the grey floor tiles are cold underfoot. The kitchen, usually my favourite part of any house, is a line of gleaming appliances and spotless cupboards and marble countertops. The cooker looks as though it’s never been switched on.

Clinical. That’s the word for this kitchen. A wave of loneliness comes over me then, pure and potent. I nearly buckle under the weight of it.

I check my phone for the source of the earlier beep. A missed call from Brendan. I will of course phone him back. Just not now. I’ll do it later. Or tomorrow, when my head might be clearer. I need to clear my head. Get some fresh air. I need to get out of this kitchen. Out of this apartment that seems spacious but is not.

And, I remember, I need knickers. And socks. And a change of clothes. And pyjamas and a toothbrush. And a hairbrush.

Oh, and some sterling.

Which, for some reason, reminds me that I need a plug adaptor.

For France.

If we ever get to France.

Which we probably won’t. Because surely Iris will come to her senses before then?

I settle Dad in front of the telly, look for some sports or wildlife programme, or maybe a western. I happen upon Ronnie O’Sullivan playing snooker against Mark Selby in the Crucible. Dad immediately straightens in the armchair, folds his arms across his chest. ‘Quarter-ball on the green,’ he says, nodding towards the screen.

He manages to retain vocabulary for certain things. Snooker is one of those things. A testament perhaps to his collection of trophies and medals that once lined the shelves of my parents’ ‘good’ room, and now fill an enormous cardboard box in a dark corner of my attic.

Ronnie drapes himself along the edge of the table, the cue sliding through the V between his thumb and finger, towards the white ball. He pots the green. ‘That’s how it’s done, Ronnie, my boy,’ Dad tells him.

‘I’ll be back in a minute, Dad,’ I say, moving towards the door.

‘Sure thing, love,’ he says, without lifting his eyes from the screen.

Iris is in one of the twin beds in the smaller of the two bedrooms. In her Women’s Mini-Marathon T-shirt which she ran for the Alzheimer’s Society last year.

It was only twelve months ago that Iris ran ten kilometres and it didn’t cost her a thought.

Now she’s in bed in the middle of the afternoon.

‘What are you doing?’ I say.

‘I’m having a rest.’

‘You never have rests.’ I realise my tone could be described as accusatory. It’s like she’s standing on a soapbox, proclaiming the fact of her MS to anyone who will listen. It’s like she’s rubbing it in my face.

‘I often have rests,’ Iris says. ‘It’s just that I have them in my own house so you don’t see me.’

‘Well, you never say that you’re having rests in your own house.’

‘I know you’re angry with me,’ Iris says. ‘I get it.’

‘Why would I be angry with you?’

‘Because of this.’ Iris gestures around the bare room. ‘This … situation.’

‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I just came up to let you know that I’m going shopping. I wondered if you need anything?’

Iris shakes her head. ‘No. Thanks. Where are you going shopping? I didn’t see a Marks and Spencer around here.’ She grins. We both know how dependent I am on Marks & Spencer. But I can’t help it. It’s just such a … comfortable shopping experience. I know where everything is, and it’s not too expensive, and the quality is reliable, and yes, the clothes mightn’t make you stand out in a crowd, but that’s not what I’m aiming for, when I dress myself every morning.

‘You can leave your dad here,’ Iris says. ‘I’ll keep an ear out for him.’

‘Ah no, you won’t be able to get any sleep.’

‘I’m not sleeping. I’m just resting.’

‘Okay then, if you’re sure. I won’t be long. I’ll get some food.’

‘No, don’t. I’m taking you and Mr Keogh out for dinner tonight. I thought we’d go to a tapas restaurant.’

‘That sounds great.’ It’s not exactly a Sign. And I’m sure Iris doesn’t remember, but the first time I tasted tapas was with her.

Iris lifts her head, props it on her hand. ‘Do you remember those tapas we had? On Suffolk Street.’

I sit on the edge of her bed. ‘I do.’

‘You told me that night how Wilbur the pig turned you into a vegetarian on your eighth birthday, remember?’

‘I remember,’ I say, smiling.

Mam collected me from school that day, the two of us sitting on the top deck of the bus, playing I Spy, getting off in town, me gripping her hand as we walked across O’Connell Street towards Eason’s bookshop. I scanned the footpath for a policeman. Mam always said if I got lost, I should find a policeman, so I used to keep an eye out for them, just in case.

I read the whole book that day. Charlotte’s Web . Which was how I discovered that food like rashers and sausages and ham and pork all came from pigs like Wilbur. I locked myself in the bathroom and thought about all the rashers and sausages and ham and pork I had eaten. Mam just smiled when I told her that I wouldn’t be eating meat any more. Dad said, ‘You’ll eat what your mother puts in front of you and be bloody grateful for it.’

When Iris pressed me as to why I was a vegetarian in the tapas restaurant that night, I ended up telling her my Charlotte’s Web story.

‘That’s pretty impressive for an eight-year-old,’ she said. I remember the way she looked at me when she said that. An admiring sort of look, which I felt was unwarranted since I had no other tales to tell of heroic childhood deeds. I had mostly been a timid, careful child. But that night in the restaurant, when Iris looked at me like that, I felt perhaps there was more to it. More to me. It was … well, it was lovely.

Iris turns onto her side. Her eyes are closed. I move towards the bedroom door. ‘Terry?’ Iris’s voice is heavy with drowsiness.

‘Yes? I’m here.’

‘They were really good tapas, weren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Now get some rest.’

I walk out of the bedroom, through the hall towards the sitting room. I find I am humming the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus, which is odd as I am not a hummer, as a rule. I remember Iris singing it at the top of her voice on our way to the taxi rank when we left the tapas restaurant that night. And when I joined in – it wasn’t a conscious decision, it just happened – Iris threw her arm around my shoulder and sang even louder. And while it’s fair to say that I am not a natural singer and certainly not in public, nor am I comfortable with such familiarity, I raised my voice too and reached my arm around Iris’s waist.

That was before she needed her sticks. Her hands shook when she examined the menu, but she never referred to it or offered an explanation. Maybe she presumed I knew about her MS from that most dreaded of office shrubbery, the ‘grapevine’, which was the case.

I often forgot she had MS. I told her that once – I was apologising for it, actually – and she said it was the nicest thing anybody ever said to her. She was preparing to climb Carrauntoohil in County Kerry at the time. I was helping her pack, and she threw an enormous bag of pills into the top compartment of her rucksack, and that’s when I made the comment. Iris never had time for her MS. She was too busy getting on with the business of life and it’s funny, even knowing what I know now about primary progressive MS and what an awful diagnosis it is, I would still say that I have never known anybody as in love with life as Iris is. She makes living seem … I don’t know … sort of exotic. Something to be tasted with relish. Like tapas for the first time.