Time Out

by Emma Murray

  I am aghast at this. ‘What was wrong with breast-feeding?’

  ‘It was a sign of being poor. Breast-feeding meant you couldn’t afford the price of formula,’ she says, wrapping her hands around her mug.

  I shake my head in disbelief. Even over forty years ago, new mums just couldn’t win.

  ‘But we didn’t give a fig what they thought,’ she says, lifting up her chin, proudly. ‘We just did our own thing and giggled about them behind their backs.’

  I raise my cup of tea in a ‘cheers’ gesture and we clink mugs.

  When she puts her mug down, her expression suddenly grows dark.

  ‘Then of course, your father died suddenly,’ she says, twisting her wedding band, ‘and I was all over the place.’

  I am gripped because she has never told me how she coped after my dad died. I can’t imagine her falling to pieces; to me she has always been so strong and confident.

  ‘I couldn’t look after you, Saoirse,’ she says, through a half-sob.

  The sound is so unexpected that it takes me a moment to reach over the table to comfort her.

  ‘It was the shock of it, you see,’ she says, giving me a pleading look, and I squeeze her hand to show her I understand.

  She takes a few deep breaths, stealing herself to carry on.

  ‘It was Trish and Joan who took you between them. Every day for weeks, they would pick you up in the morning and drop you off at bedtime. I would spend the day crying, put you to bed, and then cry all through the night. I wasn’t fit to take care of you.’

  A sudden memory shoots through me. ‘Was there a house with a green door?’

  She bursts out laughing, and says, ‘Yes! That was Trish’s house! It’s amazing what kids pick up on.’

  We smile at each other for a bit, and then I ask her, as gently as I can, to tell me how she recovered from my father’s death.

  ‘It sounds like a cliché but time is really a healer,’ she says. ‘Besides, I was running out of money, which gave me the kick up the arse I needed to get some training, which is how I became a teacher.’

  My eyes well up as I think about how hard it must have been for her, losing her husband, and having to start her life all over again.

  ‘Grief is a terrible thing, Saoirse; if it wasn’t for my friends, I don’t think I could have carried on. They gave me hope and the courage to pick myself up and start again. Because of their support, I became a survivor,’ she says. ‘And because of them, I was able to be your mother again.’

  That does it. We sit there holding hands, neither of us bothering to stem the flow of our tears.

  ‘I was so worried about you, Saoirse. You never talked about your father, you know. You packed everything away in that little box in your mind, and never opened it,’ she says, wiping away my tears with one thumb, and I suddenly feel about five again.

  ‘You didn’t do anything wrong,’ I say fiercely. ‘I was being well looked after. I don’t even remember any of it!’

  And it’s true: I don’t remember being traumatised by my father’s death at all, but in hindsight, maybe that’s where I learned to compartmentalise.

  ‘Apart from the house with the green door,’ she says with a watery smile.

  ‘Apart from that,’ I say, through a snotty chuckle.

  I let go of her hands and get up to grab a box of tissues. After we have blown our noses and wiped our eyes, I say to her, ‘You had such a tough time, Mum.’

  But she surprises me by shaking her head.

  ‘Not as tough as it is now. Things are different now, Saoirse. People don’t live in close communities like ours any more, or go to church, or make the effort to know their neighbours. That’s why people are going on social media, because they no longer have those real-life connections. They are lonely. It’s loneliness that’s the real killer. And there’s nothing lonelier than being a new mum when you don’t have your real friends around you.’

  Ain’t that the truth, I think.

  And suddenly, I know exactly how I’m going to pitch my book.

  ‘I haven’t thought about all this stuff in years,’ she says, with a sigh. ‘Just think, I’m almost seventy and the memories are as clear as yesterday.’

  My heart skips a beat. Jesus. With everything going on, I’ve completely forgotten that her birthday is at the end of the month. And it’s a big one. But I have an idea. I tell her that she’s going to come over to London and we’re going to have a family do to celebrate.

  Her face brightens.

  ‘I’ll do a couple of lasagnes!’ she says.

  ‘Mum, it’s your birthday! You’re not doing the cooking!’ I say, although she does do the most amazing lasagne. Even David, who hates all things pasta related, loves my mum’s lasagne.

  She holds up one hand in protest and I back down.

  ‘Fine, I’ll do the cake,’ I say.

  ‘Grand,’ she says. ‘And you’ll be inviting Bea.’

  As this is a statement rather than a question, I don’t bother arguing the fact that Bea isn’t exactly family, but seeing how much my mum loves her, it would be hard to say no. Besides, Anna will be delighted to have Harry around to trash our house while we’re eating.

  ‘And Jen,’ she adds.

  My heart gives a little leap. I think a trip to London is exactly what Jen needs to give her some distance from her heartbreak.

  ‘Done!’ I say.

  ‘Right, I’m off to check the eBay,’ Mum announces, pushing back her chair.

  I smile.

  ‘I’m off to call David,’ I say.

  She looks at me and nods. ‘Good girl,’ she says. ‘He’s a good one, Saoirse. Don’t let him go.’

  I blow out some air in reply. Deep down, I know she’s right. We may have lost our way, David and I, but I’m determined to find a road back again.

  I grab my phone and head into my bedroom. It’s barely 9 a.m. and I am already emotionally exhausted. At this time of day, David should be walking from the Tube station to his office. Just as I’m searching my contacts for his number (I still don’t know it off by heart), my bedroom door opens with a crash. It’s my mother still in her flowery nightie with a wild look in her eyes. She brandishes her phone at me. I groan inwardly, thinking this has got to be another eBay drama.

  ‘Have you seen the breaking news, Saoirse?’ she says frantically.

  I look at my phone, but nothing has flashed up yet. I hate breaking news. I’m jaded from it.

  She shakes her head impatiently.

  ‘It’s another terrorist attack!’ she says.

  Immediately I feel sick.

  ‘Who have the bastards targeted this time?’ I say. In my head I’m thinking poor France, or poor Belgium, or poor Turkey, or poor Spain – because when terrible things happen the countries become as human as their inhabitants.

  My mother sits abruptly down at the end of the bed and whispers, ‘It’s London, Saoirse.’

  London. Again.

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Suicide bomber has blown himself up in the City,’ she says. She taps into the news site and says, ‘Three dead so far,’ and my mind starts to race. Anna will be fine because she is staying in Bea’s house, and Bea will be fine because she works miles from the City, in Canary Wharf. My mind stops then and my whole body freezes.

  David.

  David works in the City.

  My mother stares down at her phone and lets out a terrible whimper.

  ‘Where in the City?’ I say, my voice trembling.

  My mother tells me the place.

  It’s the street David works on.

  Part III

  London, Present Day

  He waits for your love

  He wants to be your husband

  Let him, Saoirse. Please

  20

  David’s phone rings out and goes to voicemail. I call his office but nobody picks up. My mother, still glued to her news feed, tells me that all the buildings on that street have been evacuated. I call t
he helpline number and the woman on the other end, sounding as hysterical as I do, tells me to call everyone David knows. I do that, and no one knows any more than I do. In desperation, I call Bea at work.

  She answers the phone, sounding annoyed.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m NOWHERE NEAR the terrorist attack. London is a BIG PLACE! Now leave me the fuck alone!’

  ‘It’s me,’ I say, in a quiet voice.

  ‘Saoirse!’ she says, immediately contrite. ‘Sorry, I thought it was yet another of my South African relatives that my mother ordered to contact me to see if I was still alive. They’ve been bothering me all day.’

  ‘Is Anna OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course she is!’ Bea says impatiently. ‘It’s not as though Maria decided to take it upon herself to bring two mental children into the City to see the sights. She’s with my little horror, the pair of them causing mischief as usual.’

  ‘Bea, David isn’t answering his phone,’ I say, a sob catching in my throat.

  ‘Christ, Saoirse. What’s wrong with me? I forgot he worked on that street. I didn’t think.’

  I tell her that I’ve called everyone I can think of, and nobody has heard from him.

  ‘I left for work before he dropped Anna over this morning,’ Bea says, sounding very tired. ‘Have you tried Rose?’

  Of course! Rose – David’s mother. I haven’t called her. I thank Bea and hurriedly hang up.

  Rose answers the phone, breathless.

  ‘Saoirse, I’m rushing out to a golf match,’ she says. ‘Can this wait?’

  I fight the urge to shout at her. Trying to keep calm, I ask her if she has seen the news. She tells me she never switches on the TV before 7 p.m. (which is a dig at me as she disapproves of my turning on the TV for Anna at any given opportunity).

  ‘Rose, there’s been a terrorist attack in the City of London,’ I say, my voice starting to tremble. ‘Right by David’s office. I can’t get hold of him, Rose. Please tell me you’ve heard from him.’

  I lean against the door jamb, the tears spilling down my face.

  She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I give her this time because I imagine she is in shock, and then she says in this sulky, childlike voice, ‘I doubt if I would be the first one he would call in a crisis, Saoirse.’

  She is so cold about it that I want to scream at her and tell her what a horrible, shitty, complete COW of a mother she is. So I do.

  I start by telling her that she is an ice-cold bitch who should never have adopted David in the first place, and how she doesn’t give a shit about Anna or indeed anyone else but herself. Then I tell her that she has made everyone else’s lives a misery, including her dead husband’s, and I finish by telling her that if I ever see her again, it will be far too soon. I sign off with, ‘Go fuck yourself, Rose,’ and then jam the button on my phone until her hateful name disappears from my screen.

  I walk into the living room where my mother is staring at a TV screen filled with dazed people in suits covered with silver sheets being rushed off into ambulances. Although the cameras try not to zoom in too much, you can see the stretchers.

  ‘Over twelve people confirmed dead,’ my mother says, rubbing her eyes. ‘Not to mention those injured.’

  I close my eyes for a moment. I refuse to believe that David is on one of those stretchers.

  My mother gets up wearily from the couch.

  ‘Did you try Rose?’ she says.

  ‘I did,’ I say.

  ‘Any sign of David?’

  ‘No,’ I say, and I don’t bother telling her about the call because Rose isn’t important enough to think about.

  We look at each other for a moment completely at a loss. Then my mother suddenly clenches her fist and waves it at me.

  ‘I know how to locate David!’ she says.

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘I have his phone tracked,’ she replies, rushing over to the couch to grab her phone from the armrest.

  Fighting the urge to ask her why the fuck she is tracking my husband’s phone, I race over to look at the map on her screen. And there it is. The icon of David’s phone.

  ‘Where the fuck is it?’ I say, crying openly now. ‘Please tell me it’s not on the street.’ Because I know if David’s phone is lying on the street, there is a strong likelihood that he might be badly hurt or worse.

  My mother zooms in with trembling fingers, and shakes her head.

  ‘No, Saoirse. His phone isn’t on the street,’ she says.

  And I feel dizzy with relief. Maybe David got out after all.

  Then she calmly puts the phone down, and takes me by the shoulders.

  ‘His phone is in St Thomas’s Hospital in Westminster,’ she says.

  And I feel my knees collapse under me.

  I never realised how useless I am in a crisis until now. David’s in hospital. David is hurt. Probably dead. And I can’t even focus enough to phone the hospital, because I don’t want to know the answer. My mother leaves me in my place on the floor, and starts to tap her phone furiously. She holds it to her ear and waits, her face creased with worry. My mind clouds over with a comforting numbness; whatever she finds out will not break through the impenetrable mental fog. And then she throws her phone in frustration onto the kitchen island and utters a loud, ‘FUCKING CHRIST’, which makes me want to giggle a bit, given my mother’s staunch stance against both swearing and blasphemy.

  ‘I can’t get through to the hospital,’ she says, holding her head in her hands. ‘The lines must be jammed.’

  I say nothing.

  She narrows her eyes a little bit and reaches for her phone again. I yawn and practise zoning out some more. It’s much better this way.

  I’m not sure how long I have been sitting here when I hear a familiar, but decidedly unwelcome voice.

  ‘Saoirse, snap the fuck out of your little box,’ the voice says, from somewhere above me.

  I raise my head wearily to see Jen – no make-up, sunglasses falling off her head – glaring at me.

  She reaches down, grabs both my hands and pulls. I try to make my body a dead weight but I can’t. It feels unnatural to be standing. I feel myself wobble and she puts her arms around me and half-drags me to the couch, where she allows me to plonk down once more into a sitting position.

  She turns to my mother.

  ‘Brenda, I’ll get her sorted out. Book her a flight to London. She needs to find David,’ she says.

  My mother gives her a quick nod and disappears into her bedroom with the motion of someone who is grateful to be given a task.

  Then Jen sits beside me with a sigh.

  ‘Listen, you don’t know anything bad has happened yet, OK? You need to go and find out for yourself.’

  I manage a nod, because everything she says makes perfect sense, but I’m not feeling very logical right now. If nothing bad has happened to David then why hasn’t he called me?

  She looks away for a moment and shakes her head.

  ‘The whole thing is bloody awful. I bumped into Dee on the way over here and she told me that Ryan has already left for London. Apparently he has some family there who might be affected.’

  At the mention of Ryan, I snap my head up and my mind suddenly clears. Ryan’s already gone. No more little box. I need to fucking do something.

  My mother returns, waving her phone.

  ‘I’ve managed to book you on the last seat on the next flight from Dublin to London!’ she says, breathless.

  Jen gives her the thumbs up.

  ‘It’s the 11 a.m. flight from Dublin,’ my mother continues, flushed now from her little victory.

  ‘Who’s Saoirse flying with?’ Jen says.

  My mother’s expression falters a little. ‘Ryanair,’ she says in a small voice.

  ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake, Brenda,’ Jen says, tutting.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, rising to my feet. I feel a rush of adrenalin swoop over me now there is a plan in place.

  ‘I don’t
give a shite if it’s Ryanair. I’d swim across the fucking sea at this stage,’ I say, and then march towards my bedroom to throw some things into a bag.

  Jen follows me.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry you have to do this alone,’ she says.

  ‘You heard my mother – only one seat left!’ I say, and I know my voice sounds far too chirpy but I need to get moving.

  My mum appears in the doorway. ‘I’ll drive you to the airport in my car, Saoirse,’ she says.

  ‘And I’ll return your rental car,’ Jen says.

  I open my mouth to protest and close it again. Like it or not, I need the support.

  Half an hour later, I’m packed and ready to go.

  My mother and I don’t speak on the way to the airport and I am grateful for the silence. I look at the news of the attack on my phone but the content doesn’t change. Then I stare out of the window and curse the weather. It is the one hot, sunny day of the year and I feel bitter because surely this is the day where it should be cold, dark and damp.

  As we pull into Departures, I get out of the car, my legs feeling heavy and stiff. My mother hurries round to the boot of the car, hands me my suitcase and gives me a quick hug. Then she grabs me by both shoulders and brings her face close to mine.

  ‘Saoirse, I need you to listen to what I’m about to say,’ she says.

  I force myself to meet her gaze.

  ‘This is your time,’ she says with force. ‘I grew up in the terrible grip of terrorism. People in my day were terrified of going into central Dublin. Every car might have had a bomb in it; every department store the same. And when you finally started to relax, some prick with a clipboard would march over to you, cocky as you like, and try and persuade you to ‘join the cause’. We were just kids, Saoirse. Kids desperate to do a bit of shopping or go and take in a film at the cinema, but we had all these fears…’

  She lets go of my shoulders and stares at the ground for a moment. Then she lifts her chin and says quietly, ‘In our case, the situation became salvageable. Eventually, there were two sides that were ready to put down their arms and negotiate. It was never going to be perfect but peace was possible.’