Trio - [50]

Whenever she had imagined this it had been so different. A long, slow decline, an illness, sitting at her bedside. The dilemma of care homes and sheltered housing. Visiting, nursing. In all her fantasies there had always been time to say goodbye.

It was horrible seeing her but she had to do it. She had never seen Peter and what he might have looked like had haunted her as a child. She had imagined his skeleton showing through or a scary look on his face. She had to view Lilian now to make it real and so she’d not plague herself with fancy notions of how she looked. They went into the room. Lilian was laid out on a trolley, a sheet up to her shoulders. She looked false. As though someone had made a poor copy of her. Her face was slumped, her mouth pulled down, she looked sulky or grumpy. Nothing like her usual expression. Her eyes were closed, no hint remained of their cat-like quality, the beautiful green colour. No glasses on now. Her hands looked more real – the familiar way her nails were bitten down. The wedding ring and engagement ring still there. Grief broke over her and with it came a whirl of bitterness, a flood of rage and fear.

How dare you, she thought, how dare you leave me. She wanted to shake her, wake her up, force her to put those arms about her, give her solace. Come back. A sequence of nevers flowed through her, surging like waves against the shore: never smile at me, never ring me up, never say my name, never share a menu, never.

How dare you go and die. She put her hand over the cold one and let tears burn and drip down her face. When she got tired she pulled the chair up and sat right next to the bed, lay her head against her mother’s shoulder.

They had shared a bed after Dad had died. For months she had the comfort of her mother’s soft warm body to save her from loneliness and fears. When had Lilian cried? Not in front of Pamela.

She could smell her mother’s hairspray mixed in with the hospital smells and a trace of the floral perfume she liked, Lily of the Valley. Time passed. She let her mind float, bobbing from one memory to another. Time passed. She grew cold and nauseous. She felt filthy from the journey. There were things to do, an avalanche of things, but she didn’t know how to leave.

It was dark outside when there was a knock on the door. Her aunt and uncle. The spell was broken. When it came to it, it was easier to walk out with them, off to be consumed by the practicalities of death. Leaving her mother lying there alone.

Megan Marjorie

Nina

Megan

He roared his head off when Father baptised him. Megan grinned. ‘Sign of good luck,’ she whispered to Brendan. Francine, in Brendan’s arms, looked solemnly on, an anxious eighteen-month-old. He gave her a little tickle in the ribs and she wriggled and smiled.

‘Aidan Stephen Conroy,’ the priest said. They’d argued for hours over the middle name though they both liked Aidan. They’d had it in mind for Francine but then she turned out to be a girl. Brendan quite liked the idea of calling him Aidan Brendan but Megan pointed out that would be ABC in initials. Well, Brendan had retorted, it’ll be ASC if you call him Stephen. That’s OK, she’d replied with a logic that escaped him.

They went through to the church hall for the christening party. They’d done the buffet themselves with plenty of help from Maggie Driscoll and Kate Conroy. Proud grandparents. And the band were happy to play for a free slate at the bar. Michael, one of Megan’s brothers, was doing the disco. She hoped he’d stay upright long enough to see them through to the end.

Megan told Brendan to get her a rum and Coke and settled down with Aidan and Francine at the centre table. From this vantage point she could see the whole of the room: the sweep of tables and chairs arranged around the wooden dance floor, the bar to her right, the stage at the left and ahead the entrance. Anyone coming in and she could see them. Aidan began to fuss again and she rooted in her bag for his bottle and the little jar of baby food.

She moved the highchair round and got him strapped in. His eager face was alight, burbling with anticipation.

Brendan set the drinks down and took Francine off. Two of Megan’s sisters plus kids and both sets of grandparents sat down with her. She put Aidan in his seat, tied his bib on and started feeding him. The band struck up with a jig and like a flash the older crowd were up, twisting and whirling and giving it all they’d got. Showing the youngsters how it was done. Megan leaned over and took the ciggie her mammy had abandoned in her haste.

She looked over at her father, Anthony, whirling Mammy about. His face was the colour of beetroot these days but his hair was still black. He’d a belly like he was about to pop. Mammy looks old, Megan thought, the skin on her arms hung loose, her lips were thinner, eyes hooded as her face had succumbed to gravity. Maggie still sported ginger hair but it came from a bottle and in-between treatments it faded to the colour of pale rust.

Aidan had finished and was squirming in his chair. She lifted him up and sniffed at his bum, well-padded beneath the christening gown. ‘Jesus, Aidan,’ she complained, ‘been saving that one up, haven’t yer?’