Has Anyone Here Seen Larry?

by Deirdre Purcell

  I had to admire the way Martha immediately swung into action. She had even rung the nursing home where Mammy’s friend, Marian, lives. When the knock came, she was running around the pubs in the Liberties. Mammy’s travel pass was missing, and she does love that area of the city. And the publicans usually have their ear to the ground. She could have managed a bus, we thought, but we never, ever imagined she would have what it takes to actually leave Dublin.

  As for me, I was feeling totally helpless, as usual. It was so sad to see the little footstool Mammy always used and her magnifying glass on top of her slippers any old how. Mammy is very neat. She must have left in quite a hurry.

  When I answered the door and saw the policeman and policewoman, I was so afraid of what news they brought that I couldn’t speak to ask them in. They came in anyway. There had been an accident, they said, in Killarney.

  Martha and I looked at one another.

  Killarney?

  We told the police there must have been some mistake.

  But of course there hadn’t been …

  11: Look, Ma! No Hands!

  It is an amazing feeling to be hanging between life and death. You are literally floating, about six feet above yourself, looking down on your poor tired body and everything that’s going on.

  I must point out, though, that there are no lights or tunnels or anybody standing at the bottom of the bed smiling and holding their hands out to you.

  I had always hoped that I would find my darling Josie again. Maybe that comes later.

  But it is very interesting. All everyone down there sees is your body, quiet as a corpse. But you can hear what they are saying. Not only that but you can read their thoughts!

  Poor Mary. Poor Martha.

  I don’t want to be causing such pain to my two daughters – or to the others either, when they come. But the strange thing is that although in life I would have felt as upset for them as they are for themselves, at present I feel totally calm, as if their pain has nothing at all to do with me.

  It’s a lovely feeling actually. I would recommend it.

  As for my body down there, I look like a Dalek in my opinion, with all those tubes and cables. But actually, I feel quite comfortable. I don’t have to do anything at all, or be anything other than what I am. All I have to do is to live right in this present moment. To be.

  I feel free. Freer than I have been since I was a girl.

  Poor Martha. All that grief.

  Poor Mary. She’ll deal with it better, I think. Less to regret.

  I suppose the others are all packing now and getting ready to board flights. I wonder what they’re telling their kids. My grandchildren.

  I never saw that coach coming until it was too late. Honestly.

  There has been some discussion that I stood there deliberately, waiting for it to hit me. Nobody actually says the bad word, but they’re all half-thinking it. Suicide.

  No. I promise that wasn’t what happened.

  I just froze. I knew I hadn’t the time to get out of its way so I didn’t try.

  It was so big. Huge. The last thing I remember is the size of it, rearing up over me like a ship coming on to a rowing boat. And the big round ‘O’ of the driver’s mouth as he tried to pull the monster aside to avoid me.

  I could even tell you what was written on a white card taped to the inside of the huge window: Coach 3.

  My last waking thought was an absurd one. Where are Coach 1 and 2?

  I am sorry now that I did what I did – or I would be if I could feel anything other than this lovely sense of easy peace.

  It was selfish. I see that now.

  And if I was feeling normal, I would feel guilty about that poor coach driver and all those poor shocked Americans. There was even a little child there, crying her eyes out.

  But like everything else, I see my selfishness and my guilt in the distance, wrapped up in two tidy little balls. Everything is in tidy little balls at the moment, all the feelings and events and hurts. Even all the good things. My life all parcelled up and ready for the post. It’s just me now, part of the air.

  I feel I could fly out that window over there without it even being opened for me. Like Superman.

  And there is no pain.

  12: A Load of Old Bones

  Like I told you, the row at Martha’s tea party blew up out of thin air.

  We had been talking about all the usual things people talk about in Ireland these days. In my day it used to be the weather and de Valera. Now it is crime and the price of houses and asylum seekers.

  So we were discussing these things when, in all innocence, I asked Father Jimmy what did he think of the St Thérèse-mobile. Honest to God, I promise I asked it only to keep the conversation going. But Martha fires up immediately. ‘For God’s sake, Mammy, don’t start!’

  Mary jumped in then: ‘Leave her alone. She was only asking –’

  ‘She wasn’t. She was trying to stir things up –’

  Father Jimmy was looking from one to the other of them. There was a bit of salad dressing dribbling down his chin but he didn’t even notice. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘Please. It is a perfectly ordinary question. I’ll be glad to talk about it –’

  Martha was as mad as hell, of course, but there was nothing she could do.

  ‘Now, Larry,’ he turned to me, ‘what is your own opinion on the St Thérèse-mobile?’

  The St Thérèse-mobile, in case you have been living in outer space, is the car that carries the bones of The Little Flower – St Thérèse of Lisieux – all around Ireland. I am not quite sure exactly what bones are here, I haven’t paid all that much attention, but I think it might be her arm. And maybe a shin. They came in from France on the ferry and were carried ashore by Irish soldiers.

  Whichever bones are here, there are hundreds of thousands of people turning up to every crossroads, church and chapel all over the country to honour them. I even hear about it on AA Roadwatch on the radio, where they give drivers advance warning of where and when the relics are due to arrive.

  Anyway, to get back to the row.

  I didn’t pay much attention to the way Martha was fuming, because of course I was used to it. She was up on her high horse about my question because she thinks I am anti-clerical and anti-church. Just because once or twice I happened to remark that I thought it was pretty weird to be hawking a load of old bones around the place. (I do too.)

  For the sake of peace, though, I didn’t say this to Father Jimmy. ‘What do I think?’ I said to him. ‘I don’t think about it much one way or the other, Father. I’m hardly going to get to see them in any case –’

  Martha immediately took this as a criticism of her care of me. ‘That’s not fair, Mammy. How dare you behave as though you are locked up here. I take you out in that car every week to see your friend, Marian – and to get your hair done any time you want. And what about every Friday to get your pension? I stand there like a poodle in that post office while you dawdle and mess about, chatting to people. I could be doing better things you know.’

  As she carried on, I saw that the situation had got out of hand. Mary, for instance, was going bright scarlet. Father Jimmy had put down his knife and fork.

  In fairness to poor Martha, the reason she was so uptight in the first place was because Father Jimmy was here and it would have taken very little to light her fuse. I also knew she was doubly upset because now he was seeing the worst side of her and yet she wasn’t able to stop herself.

  I couldn’t shout her down. One of the things that is bad about old age is that your voice gets very weak. You don’t have the breath, you see.

  So the only way to stop her, to save her from herself, I suppose, was to keel over.

  So I did. I closed my eyes and let my head fall forward onto the plate. (Of course I couldn’t reach the plate. Too stiff.) My neck hurt like hell, but I hung there, grimly, trusting it would work.

  It did. For a moment there was stunned silence. Then: ‘You’ve killed her.�
� This was Mary, in a low, frightened voice.

  So I gave a little whimper and opened my eyes.

  There was a lot of thanking God and patting me on the back and giving me sips of water and asking me if I needed my heart patch or something to put under my tongue. After a few minutes, I did manage to persuade them that I was all right, but the row hung over us all like a bad smell.

  Although we tried to recover, praising the fairy cakes and eating far too many of them, the evening just lay there like a dead duck.

  I felt so sorry for Martha, she had gone to so much trouble, but what could I do?

  13: 20/20 Vision

  Another thing that’s good about my present state is that I have 20/20 vision. Without my specs, I can clearly see everything in this room. Even in the farthest, darkest corner. For instance, over there behind that oxygen yoke is a tiny spider’s web, only about half-an-inch wide. I bet someone sure would get into trouble if I mentioned that!

  The train journey to Killarney was a breeze. In fact it was delightful, giving the lie to what is said nowadays about our uncaring society. I waited until Martha – who was still in a post-tea-party huff – had left to go into town. Then, as soon as the front door slammed behind her, I telephoned for a taxi.

  From the moment I stepped into that taxi, everyone was so helpful. I truly enjoyed myself. The taxi-driver carried my bag for me at Heuston station. The ticket checker even signalled to the train guard to come and help me into the carriage and – here comes the best bit – this lovely guard escorted me all the way to the front of the train. He didn’t even seem to mind how slow I was, chatting away as we moved along. ‘In here, Missus,’ he said when we’d reached the top carriage. ‘We’re a bit crowded this morning, but don’t say a word. I’ll sort it out with everyone.’

  First Class! Imagine! Me! Larry Murphy from Long Lane! They bring you your food to the table. Did you know that? And the seats are so comfortable, they even have arm rests. The last time I travelled by train I was sitting on a hard bench seat covered with this green-checked fabric that was so slippy and greasy I kept sliding off it.

  Anyway, after a brilliant journey, we got to Killarney. There, too, the people could not have been more helpful.

  I asked the platform guard if he could recommend a hotel nearby. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s expensive,’ I said, ‘it’s only for one night.’

  ‘No problem, Ma’am,’ he said back, and before I knew it, he was carrying my bag and linking me down a little avenue to a huge hotel that seemed to be at the entrance to the station. But then, when we were nearly at the front door, he had to go back because someone was calling him to take a telephone call. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Ma’am?’ he asked me.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. I meant it. I really felt great at that point.

  So I took my bag from him and waved him off. Then I stood for a moment, getting my bearings.

  A horse whinnied. It seemed to be quite close too, just beyond the railings. Jaunting cars …

  So I left the bag down and set off for the entrance. I was almost there when this tourist bus turned in.

  The mistake I made was to stop dead. I froze like a rabbit in the beam of a lamp. Even if I couldn’t have got out of the way in time, at least if I’d tried, he might have missed me.

  Next thing I knew, there was all this rushing around and people yelling and other people whispering and putting jackets under my head and this poor little American child crying and crying. I knew she was American because through her tears she kept calling on her ‘Mommy’ to ‘wake up the old lady’.

  Do you know what’s really sad? Now I’ll never get to drive in a jaunting car. Oh dear! Mary is reading that note again.

  How could I have been so stupid as to write it in such a way that people could think it was a suicide note?

  Dear Martha and Mary,

  I am so sorry I have been such a

  bother to you both. Please don’t

  be upset with me. I have wanted

  to do this for a long time.

  All my love,

  Mother

  Actually, the note wasn’t meant to be that short but the taxi-man started to ring the bell just as I was writing it. I was afraid that if I didn’t get to the door quickly enough, he would leave. That happens a lot with us slow-coaches. So I just figured there was enough there to keep them going and scribbled the ‘All my love, Mother’ bit.

  Oh no! Here’s Father Jimmy! All the way down here. Who called him?

  If I have to ask I must be one step closer to the pearly gates than I thought I was.

  14: Decision Time

  If praying was electricity, there is enough of it going on here to light up the country. Within minutes of his arrival, Father Jimmy and Martha hit the rosary beads and have been at it since, God love them. At least their Hail Marys and Holy Marys are drowning out the other sounds in this room, all the hissing and pinging and bleeping. I wish now they would open the window. The place is so air-tight it is a wonder any of them can breathe.

  Are the others boarding their flights yet, I wonder? Or would they be in the air by now? I have completely lost track of time. The nurses come and go with their clipboards, carrying boxes of blood and little packets of needles. I don’t know if it is day or night, to tell you the truth.

  Mary is asleep, huddled in a corner over there with her head on her knees.

  As for Martha, poor Martha. I can see she will not sleep properly for years, if I go now. She will blame herself. She will beat herself with all the harsh words she ever said to me. She will never be able to look a banana in the face again.

  The really odd thing is that I know something they don’t. I can make a decision. I can actually decide whether or not to leave them or to stay.

  I think this is the very first time that I have had that power over my own life – and over theirs.

  The temptation to float away is very strong. Josie is somewhere out there, and Mother. I don’t give a toss about the dairy man. He was a cold, mean fish and although I hope that wherever he is, he is happy, hoping is not the same as caring.

  So I could go. I have to go anyway, sometime. And they’re all prepared.

  And it would be a pity to have the others waste their good money on flights, wouldn’t it? I can just hear James giving out about such a criminal waste of money if he rushed here and found me sitting up in bed having a little egg. He’s an accountant. From the time he could walk, he was saving money in a jam jar.

  How disappointed would they be? On balance, I think Ruth and John would probably be glad to see me alive. But I have no idea what Rebecca would feel. She lives in California and I have lost touch with her. She does write, once a month, but it is hardly communication. I believe in my heart that she writes not because she wants to, but because she feels it is her duty. I have to make allowances, I suppose. Her brat of a husband ran off with another man and left her to raise her two little boys. It isn’t easy being a single mother, even in the sunshine of California.

  So I should give them a funeral to come back to, shouldn’t I?

  Mary would cope with my death, I think. She and I have a very good relationship and although she would be very sad, she would have few regrets. On the other hand, she is due to go to Italy soon. She might feel that she had to cancel. I would hate to be the cause of that.

  What about Martha? She and I have a lot to resolve. Shouldn’t I give us the chance? I don’t want to be responsible for her living the rest of her life feeling guilty. And she has been good to me in her own odd way. If I’m to stay it will probably be for Martha …

  I can see their feelings, the colours of them: Mary’s are a soft salmon shade, Father Jimmy’s are a deep purple. Martha’s are a violent red. She desperately wants me to stay.

  Sorry Josie.

  15: Resurrection

  My knees are sore, my head is sore. I can’t even count the beads any more.

  Mammy hasn’t stirred for hours. I tried to squ
eeze her hand for a bit, to see if she would squeeze back, but there was nothing.

  It’s three o’clock in the morning. I’m alone with her at the moment. Father Jimmy and Mary have gone to the day room to make a cup of tea for themselves.

  I’m afraid to leave here even for a second. It is said that they always wait until they’re alone in order to go.

  But I can’t let her go, not yet.

  I shouldn’t have gone to the bank yesterday. If I had just come home straight from the shops I might have been in time to stop her going on the damn fool trip. What possessed her? Killarney? A jaunting car? The ambulance man who drove her to Cork told us that she came to for a minute or so as they were driving through Abbeyfeale and she whispered something about Daddy and a jaunting car.

  ‘Mammy – can you hear me? I – I love you, Mammy. Don’t go yet, please …’

  Why do hospitals always have custard creams? I don’t like custard creams.

  Father Jimmy is quite nice really – Martha guards him so fiercely that I have never got to know him until now.

  I don’t know about this laying on of hands business, though. I think I would feel pretty silly. But I wouldn’t like to offend him either.

  I asked shouldn’t all three of us do it, but he says Martha is too upset. That she would be better concentrating on the practical side of things.

  I suppose it couldn’t do any harm.

  Well, Martha finally had to leave to go to the bathroom. They have persuaded her to make herself a cup of tea.

  While she’s in the day room, Father Jimmy has also asked her to check up on the flight arrival times on the Teletext. He says that the New York flight time might be up by now.

  Now the other two are putting their hands on my body. Father Jimmy is at my head and Mary is rubbing my feet the way she always does. It’s probably a very nice sensation. I don’t feel it up here, of course.