Judy Leigh - A Grand Old Time - The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018

As Brendan smoothly turned the Panda towards the edge of the estate, Maura’s eyes were half closed in a glaze and she began to sing, in her thin, cheese-grater voice:

‘ Wonderwaaaaall … ’

She was in her own world, and he had no idea what she was thinking. He wondered if she remembered the happy times; if she recalled their many walks by the River Liffey, how he gave her his anorak once when the rain started, how she squeezed his fingers and smiled into his face. He wondered if she was thinking anything at all. His fingers made deep grooves on the fabric on the wheel, wondering where she had gone, the sweet, soft-skinned girl of his past. He sighed from somewhere, lost fathoms inside him, and looked at the traffic ahead, nose to bumper, grumbling to a halt.

Four is the luckiest number. Born on fourth of April, 1942. Fourth of five children. Four hundred thousand euros from the sale of the house. Four sausages for lunch today. Four had always been lucky for her. Her da had given her a four-leaf clover, dried between the pages of a book, when she was four years old. She’d had her son on the fourth of March. He’d been her fourth baby, the only one who stuck.

Fifteen is not a good number. Left school at fifteen. Hated school. Married Jim on fifteenth of July. Married life, from then onwards, until he died. Moved to Sheldon Lodge on the fifteenth of December. Room number fifteen. No, fifteen is definitely not a lucky number.

Evie was deep in thought when Mrs Lofthouse spoke to her. Mrs Lofthouse spoke for the second time, and the third, more loudly and with slow emphasis.

‘Evelyn. Your son is coming to see you today. Brendan? He is coming to see you.’

Evie blinked. She put on her best confused look and stared directly back.

‘I’ll just give your hair a bit of a tidy up. Brendan will be here at four.’

‘Four.’

‘Brendan – and his wife Maura. Lovely couple, Evelyn.’

Evie pulled a face. Maura was always stiff, polite, putting on a pretence of wifely perfection. Evie didn’t feel she knew her well at all, even after almost twenty years. Maura was humourless, starchy. She reminded her of the nuns at school, who insisted she must be called Evelyn and not her preferred abbreviation. She’d decided at four years old that ‘Evie’ was so much nicer, cheekier: it suited her much better than the more formal version. Evie was a chirpy name. Maura could do with being chirpier, she thought. The nuns flitted into her head again and she remembered how they had punished her for using the Lord’s name gratuitously. That was the first time she took up swearing as a hobby. The words rolled in her mouth like sweets.

‘Bollocks,’ said Evie, and looked pleased.

‘That’s just not nice, is it?’ Mrs Lofthouse’s sigh showed how much she suffered in her work. She waved the brush in the air. ‘There, Evelyn. You look lovely. Shall we put on a bit of lipstick now? Make you look bright and breezy for Brendan?’

Evie took the lipstick from Mrs Lofthouse’s fingers and turned it over in her hand. Paradise pink. Mrs Lofthouse had paradise pink lips, which hung like prawns over her huge teeth. Her teeth pushed apart in different directions, one sticking out to the right and one leaning backwards to the left. Evie took the paradise pink lipstick and applied it to her own mouth like a child with a crayon.

Mrs Lofthouse’s lips sprang apart. ‘If you are going to be silly …’

Evie employed the vacuous stare again.

‘I’ll wipe it off and we can start again. Ah, now. You look a million dollars.’

Evie gurned at her, spreading her lips wide. Mrs Lofthouse’s prawn pout clamped itself into a thin line. The visitors were due.

Evie watched her waddle away then leaned forward in her chair and gazed around the Day Room. The other residents were in wingback chairs, turned towards the TV where Jeremy Kyle was doing a lie detector test. They were mostly oblivious to the chatter; the flickering screen was reflecting in the glaze of spectacles. Evie looked at the old ladies sitting in the window. Sunlight streamed against their faces, but they hardly seemed to notice the warmth. The flowers were out in the garden; daily, a robin perched on the oak. The old ladies stared straight ahead. One of them, Elizabeth, never spoke a word. Every day, Evie would try: ‘Good morning, Lizzie, and how are you today?’

Nothing. Elizabeth continued to stare ahead. The other one, Barbara, could not hear well. Even Alex, the friendly Ukrainian lad who brought the breakfasts, had to raise his voice to startle her from her dreams. At eight in the morning, Alex would be there, his hair stuck up in a little quiff at the front, his face all smiles:

‘Barbara, darling, your eggs and sausage – here you are – eggs and sausage – Barbara?’

The aged ladies were dry, thin sticks of women in their nineties, old enough to be her own mother. She saw them in the yoga class each Tuesday, looking around and lifting their twig-like arms. A thought popped into her head: Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Deaf. She was bored, and being bored made her feel mischievous. What else could she do in this sanatorium of smiles and sandwiches, which smelt the whole day long of perfumed piss?

The clock struck four. They would be here soon. She closed her eyelids and listened to the soothing music that told the residents they were in a caring environment. The armchair had moss-green cushions with silky fringes. Evie sank back into its fat embrace.

Frank Sinatra was singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ in his jolly lilt.

Evie thought about the moon and stars: where were they, exactly? Far up in the heavens? Is that where death was, alongside Frank and Jim and the others? What about after death? Evie decided she would like to come back as a reindeer.

A playful two-dimensional sketch of Rudolph popped into the television of her imagination, its nose a beacon and its legs delicate in snow. Her eyes rolled again beneath their papery lids and suddenly Rudolph exploded and was replaced by a huge reindeer, god-like with antlers and eyes aflame. It spoke in a Hollywood actor’s voice:

‘I’m Evie Gallagher and I am god-damned pissed off …’ It glared around the forest, mounted like a sentry on the hilltop of ice, and stamped its regal hoof once, sending soft snow skywards. Evie opened her eyes suddenly to see two looming faces, twins in symmetrical concern.

Evie said, ‘I am god-damned pissed off.’

‘Mammy,’ said Brendan. ‘How are you?’ and he realised she had already answered. Maura launched herself forward, her dutiful expression on her face.

‘Mother, it’s good to see you. You’re looking well. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

Evie looked at Maura in her suit and tightly pinned curls and decided she would rather eat shit. She closed her eyes. The reindeer was gone. In its place were thin blue veins that throbbed in her lids. She heard Maura whine to the care assistant: ‘I think she’s getting worse, Mrs Lofthouse.’

‘She comes and goes, I think.’

Evie wished they would all come and go.

‘It’s so upsetting for Brendan, seeing his mother like this. It’s like she’s away with the fairies.’

‘We see it all the time,’ replied Mrs Lofthouse, hollowly. Evie was not sure what she saw all the time; Mrs Lofthouse was short-sighted and short-witted. In fact just plain short. And fat. Evie felt a hand on her arm; she knew Brendan’s touch. Her emotion was visceral and she remembered the little boy who used to clutch at her fingers as a child. She opened her eyes. He was in his late thirties now, but looked older, his hair still thick but greying, his face loosening, hanging from the sharp cheekbones: a worried face. His mouth seldom offered the boyish chuckle he had once used as his trademark, but his eyes were still rounded with hope. Evie was about to smile at him, but Maura’s grunts made her turn sharply.