Together Forever

by Siân O'Gorman

  I laughed. ‘You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘I can’t work out if he has some kind of facial paralysis and actually can’t, or doesn’t find anything I say remotely amusing or, perhaps, never learned how to. Grew up with fundamentalists or whatever.’ She stopped. ‘Actually, do you have any yogurts?’ she said. ‘I’m starving. Haven’t eaten since the morning. I know you have those nice ones. You always do.’

  I stood up and fetched one and a spoon. ‘You’ve got to eat more than a yogurt, you know. It’s not good for you.’

  ‘Of course it’s not good for me! Of course this is wrong and terrible, but I can’t remember the last time I derived any pleasure in any food that wasn’t a yogurt since… since we were students and always stopped for a kebab on the way home. Do you remember? God, they were nice.’

  ‘So buy a kebab.’

  She shook her head at me. ‘You think this is easy, don’t you? You try being on television every night. You wouldn’t believe the letters I get. From women! They hate my hair, or my blouse, or my earrings. Or I look like I’ve put on weight. Or my make-up was all weird. Or that blue is not my colour or my mouth is a funny shape. And, if you were subjected to that, you’d be starving yourself as well. And looking at your mouth in the mirror all the time to see if it was wonky.’ She paused. ‘It’s not, is it?’

  *

  The sound of a key in the door. ‘Yoo-hoo! Mammy!’

  ‘Mammy?’ she mouthed, shaking her head. ‘When are you going to leave?’

  I shrugged helplessly.

  ‘There you are!’ Michael opened the kitchen door. ‘And Clodagh…’ His smile died on his face. Unlike the farming community of Ireland, he was no fan of Clodagh. She was too brash for his liking, too loud. And she wasn’t much of a sycophant. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ he said. ‘Again.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Clodagh, pleasantly. ‘And what brings you home,’ she said. ‘Brussels closed for business?’

  ‘Well, Clodagh,’ he said patiently, ‘Brussels is a city and therefore can’t technically shut. But if you are referring to the European Parliament then it is still open but I’m just not there. I have Dublin business to take care of.’ He went over to the fridge and poured himself a glass of milk and drank it down in one. ‘Now milk is a drink, wouldn’t you say Clodagh?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a drink, you could say that Michael.’

  ‘No, but it’s a drink. It’s the kind of drink that men don’t drink.’

  ‘Don’t they?’ Clodagh looked puzzled. ‘Is there a law?’

  ‘There should be,’ said Michael, a faraway look taking over his face. ‘There could be. In fact, I might do a focus grouping on the subject. I think if we made people – men – drink milk then it would be good for everyone. Good for farmers, good for bones, good for the Irish economy. It could be seen as a patriotic thing to do.’

  ‘So you’re going to make it a law?’ said Clodagh. ‘The new milk quotas?’

  ‘Ha! That’s a good one. Well, I just said it might be worth investigating. At the moment, men are bombarded with beer adverts. Drink this beer or that alcoholic beverage but no one says the same about milk. And why is that? Hmmm?’

  We shook our heads. ‘Not alcoholic?’ I suggested.

  ‘Unless you add vodka,’ said Clodagh. ‘Then it’s a drink drink.’

  ‘No, milk is a man’s drink, only I seem be aware of that fact.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Clodagh. ‘People have been drinking milk for millennia.’

  ‘But not straight out of the carton,’ said Michael. ‘After a gym session. Or in a pub. And why not?’

  ‘There’s a conspiracy against cows?’

  ‘No. Men!’ Michael was triumphant. ‘You hadn’t thought about that had you? We are told to drink beer and wine and caffeine and all those things that are bad for you. But no one develops a campaign to encourage men to drink milk. Which is good for you. Which might keep you alive. So hence my new campaign. Once I’ve passed SIPL, I’ll pass milk.’

  Clodagh laughed. ‘Sounds like you need a doctor.’ She stood up to leave.

  ‘There’s something on your face, Michael,’ I said. ‘On your top lip. A milk moustache.’

  ‘Aha!’ he wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll just have to bring that into the legislation. Milk moustaches are now cool. Hipsters have their beards. Real men have milk moustaches.’ He laughed. ‘That’s my slogan. I can see it now. And dairy farmers are going to love me. I’m thinking a cabinet position by the next political term.’

  He was incorrigible and unstoppable, undaunted by potential failure and possible ridicule, he was a proper politician and as I’ve said before, you had to admire them.

  ‘Got a slogan for you,’ he said. ‘What about Milk Makes Men Men?’

  At the door, we hugged goodbye. ‘You with Mike the Milkman and me with Maximus Pratt. I don’t know which of us has done better.’

  ‘If we didn’t laugh…’

  ‘We’d cry. And laugh. At the same time.’ She hugged me again, tighter this time. ‘And thanks for allowing me to let off steam.’

  *

  Over the previous week, I had declined all Nora’s calls to me and, studiously ignoring her when I drove into school, even though, out of the corner of my eye, I could see her getting up to come towards the car or trying to wave. But by the Friday afternoon, I had felt wretched about the whole thing. And she didn’t look happy either, her face turning from eager enthusiasm at the sight of my car at the beginning of the week to resigned deflation by the end.

  Eventually, after another sleepless night, I had to do something. Michael, I assumed, wherever he was, would have been sleeping soundly, his app registering his uninterrupted hours of deep sleep. It was ironic he could sleep so well, and always had done, even though he made decisions every day with directly affected people’s lives, yet I couldn’t sleep because I was worried about the sale of a few trees.

  Just after 6 a.m., I got out of bed, pulled on my tracksuit bottoms. And I began to drive towards where I knew Nora would be. The Forty Foot.

  It was going to be a beautiful day and as I rounded the corner at Sandycove, the sea was shimmering across the bay. A group of seagulls were stretching their wings on the wall by the beach, easing themselves into the morning and for one moment, I felt like undressing and slipping into the cool water, feeling it on my skin, the ripples of the waves against my face, the salt on my lips. But then, I remembered. The thought of the water, the darkness below, the seaweedy depths, the rocks, the unknown. I pulled my jacket around me, glad to be on dry land.

  ‘Beautiful morning,’ said a man, coming the other way, towel rolled under his arm, dressing gown on over his trunks. I stood at the edge of the rocks. Out there, somewhere, in the Irish Sea was my mother. I scanned the water. Nothing. But suddenly there she was, a tiny dot among the waves. Head sticking out of the water, as she swam around in a lazy, languorous, undulating breaststroke, her freckly arms propelling her gently through the water as she was lifted and bobbed over the gentle waves. And then she flipped over onto her back and floated there, looking up at the sky, seeming entirely at peace and utterly free.

  And then, flipping back over, she began swimming back to shore, her slow stroke pulling her closer and closer to me. Slowly but surely, she began to appear. Not just a red-haired dot but a person, with a nose and a mouth.

  Just before the seabed became too shallow and the rocks too close, she flipped over again, soaking her head and her face, allowing the water to penetrate her scalp, to wash over her face. A daily baptism. And with the grace of a seal, she found her footing and pulled herself up the steps.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, you know, just doing my Christmas shopping.’

  She grinned. ‘And I thought you were looking for me. To say sorry for not taking my calls. For ignoring me. Rosie told me to give you time. So I am.’ She waved to another swimmer. ‘Morning, Mary… yes, b
eautiful…’ She walked over to her towel, which was in a heap with her clothes and bag, and picked it up.

  ‘You should be saying sorry to me!’ God, she was infuriating. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘For me to say sorry? But why? What for?’ She began rubbing herself.

  ‘The protest… listen…’

  ‘Tabitha, I’ve explained everything. It’s not personal. It’s just something we have to do. We are compelled to do it. I don’t know why we have to fall out about it. You know I don’t believe in falling out with anyone…’

  ‘But it feels personal, like you are targeting me. And it’s embarrassing.’

  ‘But that doesn’t matter, does it? That kind of thing, worrying about what people think of you, doesn’t matter. Not in the grand scheme of things.’ She stood there, naked from the waist up while she found her bra and shirt.

  ‘Well, what is the grand scheme of things?’ It was so simple for Nora. Life was in black and white, us and them, capitalists and socialists, swimmers and non-swimmers. Rarely did other people’s points of view entered her consciousness, which made her navigation of the world easier for her but far more complicated for those around her.

  ‘The trees. The wildlife. The principle.’

  ‘Principle?’

  ‘Yes, if none of us had principles, then we’d be in a very sorry state.’

  ‘Mum, just stop it will you? Stop the protest…’

  ‘Will you stop the development?’ She waved to someone else. ‘Morning, Gordon… yes, so beautiful. We are lucky, are we not?’ She turned back to me, expectantly. ‘The school should retain control over that land. Our greatest resources are being used as collateral in an exchange for money. This is the kind of struggle that we indigenous people need to make a stand about. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. You are my daughter after all.’

  ‘Indigenous?’ I laughed. ‘You’re not a Native American.’

  ‘Maybe not, but as a proud Irish woman I know how precious land can be taken from us. Trees and oxygen and wildlife and nature can’t be measured and sold like a piece of silk. I think Dalkey deserves better than that. Have you not thought about other ways of using the land?’

  I paused, thinking back to the day when Red and the children came down. That was good use of the land. But no, we needed the money. It would be better for the long-term gain of the school. Nora was just using emotion to win. ‘Mum, I told you. It’s full of nettles and brambles.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with them? Your grandmother used both of them. Nettle soup, do you remember. And bramble jelly.’ She was pulling on her trousers now, buckling her belt.

  She paused. ‘Can we just forget about it? I’ll carry on and you’ll carry on and no hard feelings? Hello, Fiona, yes, lovely day.’

  ‘Well, would you just stop? Nellie and Arthur and the others, they can carry on. But you, would you retire gracefully?’

  ‘I can’t, Tabitha,’ she said, as we began to walk to my car. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t. I am an environmentalist. That’s what I do, have always done. I can’t give up now.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘Principle.’ She shrugged. ‘Bloody-mindedness.’ She laughed. ‘That’s what Rosaleen used to say about me. She used to say I was my own woman. And I think she might say the same about you.’ She smiled at me.

  ‘Bloody-minded?’ I tried to look outraged but I quite liked the idea that I was a little bit bloody-minded. She’d won me over, as she always did.

  ‘Tell me about Rosie, the poor loveen. I phoned her yesterday, did she tell you?’

  ‘I don’t really know. She seems better.’

  ‘I’ll get her swimming again, that’s what I’ll do. It’ll do her the power of good.’ She looked at me. ‘And we’ll go to West Cork. I’ll get the two of you down there if it’s the last thing I do. It’ll be fun. When was the last time you had fun?’

  I tried to think.

  ‘See!’ she said triumphantly.

  She looked at me as we stopped at the car. ‘Tabitha…’ Finally, she was going to say sorry.

  ‘Yes?’ I would be gracious and accept her apology, but I would also say how much she had hurt me and that it was not acceptable.

  ‘Could you give me a lift home? Puncture. I had to walk this morning.’

  She smiled at me. That was the problem with Nora, she was charm personified. She never let anyone be annoyed with her for too long.

  ‘In you get.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning as I drove past the protestors, Nora waved at me to stop and when I slowed down, she leaned into my window. ‘Come and say hello to Christy.’

  ‘Christy Power?’ I said. ‘Red’s dad Christy?’

  She nodded. ‘The very one. He’s writing a poem, or a collection of poems. He’s just read one out to us. “Nora’s Last Stand”. I told him there was no way it was going to be, but he said it flowed better this way.’

  I parked the car and walked over to them. Christy was sitting on Nellie’s flowery picnic chair, with his notebook, sucking on an old chewed pencil ruminatively.

  ‘Well, young Tabitha,’ he said, and began to try and get up.

  ‘Hello Christy,’ I said, easing him back down. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I meant to come down weeks ago, swell the numbers a bit, but my legs haven’t been so good.’

  ‘There are new people here every day,’ I said. ‘It’s turning into a day care for the retired.’

  ‘You see, Tabitha,’ he said. ‘You never lose your passion. Eyesight, ability to sprint 100 metres, to cook a soufflé, but you never lose your principles.’

  ‘Since when did you cook a soufflé, Christy?’ said Nellie. ‘I don’t think it was on soufflés you were reared.’

  ‘Bacon and cabbage,’ he said, giving her a wink. ‘Like we all were. But I wouldn’t mind a soufflé. Just to see if they are as nice as they sound…’

  He was right, I thought, as I listened along. They had created something, my mother and her pals, they had created a sense of community, a cause, a reason to be, out of passion and commitment. They had created a space for people to come down, have a chat, pass the time of day, hold placards and feel part of something greater than they were.

  ‘So, you’re never going to sell the land, are ye?’ said Christy. ‘It’s a bit hare-brained, wouldn’t you say. Have these fine people not convinced you yet? You are going to tell the developers where to go, aren’t you?’ He was smiling at me but Christy meant business. They all did. These were not pensioners who gave up. Christy had survived the death of his wife, bringing up a son on his own. He’d left school at fourteen and had worked his way up in the council to a nice, desk job. And he wrote poetry.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It’s kind of hard to make a decision when you have protestors clouding your thoughts.

  ‘I know you’ll do the right thing,’ he said. ‘Whatever the outcome. You’ve got a good heart, you have.’

  ‘Tea, Christy?’ said Robbo. ‘Nice and hot?’

  ‘Thank you, lad,’ said Christy. ‘I was just saying to your mother, how nice it was that you and Red were… you know, friendly again.’

  Nora just gave me a shrug and a weird smile, as if she hadn’t contributed to this particular part of the conversation.

  ‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘Are you here for the day, Christy?’

  ‘I think so. If Robbo over there keeps the tea coming.’ He gave Robbo a wink.

  ‘The more the merrier,’ said Nora. ‘We need all the reinforcements we can get. Now, Tabitha, at this board meeting tonight, you’re to tell this Brian Crowley, that you won’t be selling.’

  ‘But, Mum, it’s not that simple,’ I said, crossly. I admired the protestors and couldn’t help but be impressed by the community they had created, a mini movement. It may not be of the magnitude of the Sheep’s Head Peace Camp but it was significant. But it still didn’t take away from the fact that our school needed mon
ey.

  ‘Well, whatever you decide,’ said Christy, ‘we all know your heart is in the right place. Decisions can be difficult.’

  I flashed him a grateful smile, touched by his kindness.

  ‘They don’t have to be,’ said Nora. ‘This decision is wrong. Pure and simple.’

  ‘Let me just write that down,’ said Christy. ‘It’ll be good for the poem.’

  *

  Nora had been right, I thought. I didn’t have fun anymore. The last time I had gone out was to Celia’s soiree and that didn’t count. But at Clodagh’s party, there surely was an opportunity for fun and to prove to my mother that I too could have a laugh. Drinking, music… and Red. He didn’t make me feel fun. Just awkward.

  And then there was the not insignificant issue of what I was actually going to put on. I mean, what did people wear to parties these days? At Celia’s, everyone was in various shades of taupe. But to a cool, media party?

  Unless you counted my collection of sensible suits for school or my tracksuit bottoms and cashmere jumpers (all slightly bobbly, if truth be told), I had nothing to wear. And the thing was, I wanted to look sexy. Attractive. Still got it. That kind of thing. Things that I hadn’t asked of myself in years. If Red was going to be there, I didn’t want to turn up in my easy-care separates.

  Jeans. Try the jeans. And my black top. Better perhaps than with the black trousers? What about my ballet flats? Hmmm. I assessed myself in the mirror. No. No way. I looked like a nun on a night-off. Maybe it was the way I was standing, slightly hunched? I pulled myself up, ballerina style.

  ‘Mum! Oh my God!’ Rosie was standing at the door, laughing. ‘Oh my god what are you doing, you look ridiculous!’ She looked effortlessly gorgeous as always, in her old tracksuit bottoms, long hair loosely tied. ‘Mum… you haven’t gone mad, have you?’

  ‘I think I might have. I was just trying to look nice. It’s Clodagh’s party and it’s going to be full of scary media folk. No one eats, apparently, and they all have personal trainers and dieticians and food coaches and…’ I sounded pathetic, I knew that. ‘I just want to up my game…’