“Elle,” he said, and Leslie detected a shudder in his voice.
Elle didn’t have to introduce him. Leslie knew it was the prick who had broken her new friend’s heart.
“Vincent,” Elle said.
“How weird is this?” He raised his hands in the air. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns.”
“Funny old world,” she said. “How’ve you been, Vincent?”
“Good. You?”
“Great,” she said, but it was unconvincing. Neither of them mentioned the car-burning incident and subsequent payoff. The blonde remained at the bar.
“This is Leslie,” Elle said, looking beyond his shoulder at the blonde. “Who’s your friend?”
Vincent turned to the blonde and called her over with a nod of his head. She approached slowly and stood slightly behind him.
“This is Caroline.”
Caroline smiled. She seemed familiar, but Elle couldn’t work out how she knew her face.
“Nice to meet you,” Caroline said nervously. “I love your work.”
“Thanks,” Elle said. “Do I know you?”
“I’m an actress.”
Elle nodded. “Of course you are,” she said, and she looked at Vincent and shook her head. She remembered where she’d seen her before. It had been at one of her own exhibitions. The photographer had made them stand together for a press shot. That exhibition had been just before China.
Vincent attempted to disguise a gulp by clearing his throat. “We should go,” he said to Caroline, who seemed more than happy to move on.
“You should have gone a long time ago,” Elle said.
Vincent nodded and grabbed Caroline’s arm and escorted her out of the lovely pub that served the best fish in Ireland before they’d even had a chance to look at the menu.
Leslie looked at Elle, who seemed lost in thought.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m more than okay,” Elle said, and she sighed and grinned a little.
“You are?”
“He was screwing her all that time.”
“And that’s okay?”
Elle nodded. “It must be, because I can’t seem to make myself care.”
Leslie smiled at her young friend and squeezed her hand, and Elle’s heart soared just a little higher.
Rose had been throwing up all week. She was steadfast in her refusal to seek medical attention, but eventually when Jane witnessed her doubled over in severe pain holding her stomach and throwing up in her kitchen wastebasket, she’d had enough of her mother’s stubbornness and made the call to their family GP. Jane was flying out to London for the Jack Lukeman gig that evening.
Dr. Griffin arrived at ten as promised and a very grateful Jane, knowing he hated making house calls, especially to her mother, met him on the steps of her home. Together they made their way to the basement apartment.
“How’s she behaving?” he asked.
“Same as ever.”
“Still experiencing mood swings?”
“Dr. Griffin, what you call her mood swings, we call her personality.”
Jane smiled, but Dr. Griffin just shook his head. He’d been the Moore family’s practitioner for well over thirty years, and he really cared for the girls and Kurt, but Rose Moore was his worst nightmare. Jane opened the door, and he braced himself and followed her inside.
Rose was in the sitting room, asleep on the chair. Jane and Dr. Griffin looked at each other, both silently acknowledging that it was time to wake the beast.
Jane approached gingerly. She slowly and gently laid her hand on her mother’s arm and shook it ever so slightly. “Rose.”
Rose stirred a little; Jane backed off.
Rose’s eyes opened, and she focused on her daughter and the doctor. “What?”
“Rose, I’m here to give you a checkup,” Dr. Griffin said.
“Did I ask you to come?”
“No,” he said before sighing audibly.
“Well, then.”
“Rose, you are sick,” Jane said in her most forceful tone, “and I’m not going to let you rot down here, so let the doctor examine you.”
“How charming of you, Jane, but you are forgetting about a little thing called free will, and if I am rotting and I wish to continue doing so, that is my business and my business alone.”
“Don’t make me hold you down, old woman,” said Jane.
“You can try.”
Jane seemed serious, but so did her mother, and despite her age and illness, Dr. Griffin was sure that she’d put up a good fight.
“Okay, ladies,” he said, holding his hand in the air. “Rose, please just let me examine you. I won’t take longer than three minutes.”
“You have two,” she said.
A minute later, Dr. Griffin was pressing on Rose’s stomach and she was trying not to scream, but one press too many and she couldn’t help but grab his ear and drag him off her. He called out, and Jane extricated his ear from her mother’s closed claw. He stumbled back, rubbing his reddened and bruised earlobe.
Rose then grabbed Jane’s hand and squeezed it as hard as she could and pulled her in close. “Don’t you dare bring that man in here without my permission again!” she hissed. Tears sprang into Jane’s eyes. Rose let go and Jane backed away, rubbing her hand much like Dr. Griffin had his ear.
Dr. Griffin packed up his bag before turning to Rose. “Your stomach is inflamed, and that’s what’s causing the pain and vomiting. I’ve no doubt you are suffering from recurrent diarrhea and possible pancreatitis. And I know for sure that however uncomfortable you are now, it will only get worse.”
“Well, thank you for your medical opinion, Dr. Griffin. You know where the door is.”
“Stop drinking, Rose,” Dr. Griffin said. “If you don’t, you will die.”
“I’m an old woman, Doctor. It would be incredibly focking odd if I didn’t die. Don’t you think?”
Rose loved to curse. She loved to pepper the word “fuck” into her sentences when she deemed it appropriate. However, her accent ensured that it sounded like she was saying “fock,” “focker,” “focking,” or “focked.” She liked that it meant she was devilish enough to curse but not coarse enough for it to be instantly recognizable.
Jane and Dr. Griffin left her alone. She flicked on the TV and took a bottle of wine and an unwashed glass from the cabinet beside her chair. She unscrewed the cap and poured the wine into the wineglass. She took a sip and rested the glass back on top of the cabinet, all the while mumbling to herself. “Stop drinking or you’ll die. Who does he think he is? I’m seventy-one years old and I haven’t died yet, more’s the focking pity.”
Dr. Griffin followed Jane up the steps and into the main house. In the kitchen she made him tea, and for the one hundredth time he went through the kind of gastrointestinal damage her mother was doing to herself.
“What can I do?” Jane asked.
“Ban the booze,” he suggested as though it was his first time.
A frustrated Jane shouted, “I can’t! She’s got her own money, she’s perfectly capable of buying her own booze, and she’s got friends who bring her presents of booze. They don’t think she has a problem; she doesn’t think she has a problem. My sister seems to think that just because she’s not in bars or clubs doing shots till four a.m. I’m insane to even suggest she has a problem, and my son thinks she’s hilarious. When she falls asleep with the heater on, it’s old age; when she falls in the shower, it’s her arthritis; and when I dare to address the problem, I’m deemed to be hysterical at best and a ‘focking’ bitch at worst!”
Dr. Griffin laughed a little at Jane’s impression of the way her mother said “fucking” before becoming serious again. “Rose has been a functioning alcoholic for over thirty years, but time is running out and her body is slowly giving up.”
Jane absentmindedly scooped out sugar from the bowl, then poured it back in. “I’m doing my best.”
“I know.”
“Can I have h
er committed?”
“Your mother isn’t mentally ill.”
“I know that, you know that, but how long would it take for them to realize that?”
Dr. Griffin grinned. They sat in silence for a minute or two, drinking tea.
“It’s simple, Jane. If she doesn’t stop soon, her health will deteriorate to a point where she will have to be hospitalized, and then she will be forced into sobriety. Whether or not it’s too late to save her is anyone’s guess.”
“Sorry about your ear,” Jane said, changing the subject.
“Does Rose behave violently toward you a lot?”
“No,” Jane said, laughing the matter off. “I think you inspired the violence.”
“Well, if it gets too much you’ll let me know.”
Jane nodded. “It’s a pity, because when she’s in good form she’s almost fun to be around.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Dr. Griffin stood and fixed his jacket to signal his desire to exit. It had been a long time since he’d seen the pleasant side of Rose Moore. In fact, he could pinpoint the year: it had been the spring of 1983, three months before she had called him to the house to declare her husband dead.
Jane waved the doctor off and closed the door. She tried to take off her ring, but following her mother’s attack her finger had swollen, making its removal difficult.
The phone rang, and it was Tom wanting to know if she wished to share a taxi to the airport. She agreed because she was running late and wouldn’t have time to park the car in the long-term car park. The gig was a late show. They had decided not to fly out until six that evening, which was a blessing because she still had a full day’s work ahead of her.
A meeting she had with an artist by the name of Ken Browne ran late. She was really impressed by his work and energy, and they ended up talking for a long time, sharing stories over coffee. His bright blue eyes shone as he spoke about his latest painting, and he rubbed his bald head and smiled a wide smile that seemed to take over his rugged features. He had been in a rock band for years, and it was written all over his face. He was an accomplished guitar player, and he told her stories about his adventures on the road and talked about how he incorporated music into his artwork. They spent a very enjoyable two hours together, and by the end of their meeting they had agreed that he would show his work in her gallery in July. Kurt appeared in the gallery just after lunch with a packed bag and announced he was staying with Irene for the weekend. Irene’s mother was on another post-breakup holiday and, as her dad was too busy boffing his new girlfriend to be interested in Irene, Kurt felt a responsibility to care for her.
“No way,” said Jane.
“Mum, I’m going.”
“You and Irene are not staying there unsupervised.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“No way, no way!” she shouted. She always repeated herself and shouted when she couldn’t think of something else to say.
“She’s upset. I’m not leaving her,” he said calmly.
Jane calmed down. “So bring her to ours.”
“What’s the difference? You’re going to London.”
“Your grandmother’s here.”
Kurt started to laugh. “You’re serious?”
“It’s better than nothing.”
“Where’s Elle?”
“She’s gone down to the country with Leslie for a few days.”
“Mum, why don’t you admit that you need me to care for Gran and not the other way around?”
“That’s not it. She’s perfectly capable of looking after herself for two days.” She was lying, and there was a list of things she wanted him to do for his grandmother burning a hole in her pocket.
“Why don’t you just tell the truth?” he said.
She didn’t know why she felt it necessary to lie except that maybe she didn’t want her son to feel obliged to care for her mother the way she did. And now her son had caught her in a silly and unnecessary lie and it embarrassed her, so she dismissed him angrily. “Fine, Kurt, go off with your girlfriend! Do your own bloody thing!”
“Fine. I will.”
He walked out of the gallery, leaving her to stew.
What is wrong with me? Why couldn’t I have said, ‘Son, I need your help this weekend’? How hard is that? It’s not hard at all. Jesus Christ, Jane.
She then had to sort her mother’s prescriptions and pick up some take-out menus and cash. When she finally returned to her mother’s it was ten minutes before Tom was due to turn up in the taxi.
Rose was displeased. “It’s a bit bloody late to be thinking about me now,” she said.
Jane ignored her and put the menus on the coffee table beside her.
Rose picked one up. “Jane?” she asked innocently. “Am I Chinese?”
“Don’t start, Rose.”
“Because I don’t look Chinese, I don’t speak the language, the only paddy I know is a person, and it will be a cold focking day in hell before I eat anything commonly described as flied lice.”
“That’s racist.”
“That’s fact.”
“You’re a pig.”
Rose held up the menu. “Well, then, maybe it’s my year.” She picked up the other menu. “Indian?”
“I’m leaving,” Jane said.
“Oh yes, I’ll have an order of dead babies dumped in a river, followed by some Kama Sutra with a side order of shitting in the streets.”
“Stop now, you insane old hag! Eat chips for two days for all I care! Don’t forget your medication, and all the numbers you could possibly need are on the fridge.”
“Fine, go off and enjoy yourself, leave a sick old woman on her own!”
“Thanks, Rose, I will. Try not to die before I get back,” Jane said with a grin because two could play the old woman’s game.
Rose licked her teeth. She always licked her teeth when she wanted to hide a smile.
“Is that because you don’t want to deal with the smell?” she asked.
“If I didn’t want to deal with the smell I would have turfed you out years ago.”
Jane walked out the door and Rose broke into a smile. Touché, Janey, touché.
Tom had checked them in online, so they ran through the airport and joined the queue at the gate. He bought two coffees from a vendor, and they managed two sips each before their row number was called. An air hostess made a no-no gesture at the coffee with her hand and tut-tutted them. Neither Tom nor Jane had the will to argue with her, so they handed over their full cups of coffee and walked through the gate and onto the plane in silence. Once seated, Tom took the opportunity once again to thank Jane for coming, and she responded that he was most welcome for the third time that evening and possibly the fortieth time since they had decided on the trip.
Tom was nervous. He didn’t know what to do with his hands and he kept shifting in the seat. He had cut his hair and manicured his nails, and he’d bought a suit that fitted him. He had shaved and he looked handsome—probably the way he had looked before Alexandra vanished, or at least close to it.
Jane was worried that all this effort and hope would not be rewarded. She knew they were clutching at straws, and although she appeared outwardly positive for the sake of Tom’s sanity, she worried that she might have contributed to him having false hope. Now that they were actually flying to London to attend a Jack Lukeman gig in the hope of spotting someone named Alex with a passing resemblance to Alexandra, it seemed more than desperate, it seemed mad.
“The hotel is really close to the club,” Tom said.
“Great.”
“Just a walk away.”
“Fantastic.”
“We could just eat in the hotel if you like?”
“Lovely.”
“Or we could go out. I’m sure there’s a place between the hotel and the club. I just don’t want to move too far away.”
“The hotel is perfect.”
“Oh okay.”
“Nice suit,” Jane said after a pause
.
Tom nodded. “I thought I’d better make an effort if I’m going to see my girl.”
“It’s unlikely, Tom, you know that it’s unlikely.” She wanted to cry for him.
“I do. Still, you never know.”
“Yeah.”
He closed his eyes and she read her magazine and they didn’t speak another word for the rest of the flight.
The plane landed on time, and Tom and Jane quickly found a taxi to take them to their hotel. They split in the lobby and agreed to meet half an hour later. Jane showered and changed while Tom paced his hotel room over and over again, counting down the minutes until he might see Alexandra again.
They met in the hotel restaurant. Jane ordered steak and salad; Tom ordered the same, but he only picked at it. Jane tried to allay his anxiety with idle chat. Since his encounter with Rose, Tom had developed sympathy for Jane and had become her sounding board. She told him about the incident with the doctor, which entertained him, and of course Rose’s reaction to the take-out menus made him laugh out loud. Jane laughed too, because her mother was always funny from a distance. She told him about Kurt and their stupid fight and berated herself for being a bad mother. Tom disagreed and told her that she was a great mother, but then he hadn’t witnessed the fight she’d had with her son when he was sixteen and he wanted to leave school to join the army after watching Black Hawk Down twenty-five times in the space of a week. He had approached her while she was working on her computer at the kitchen table, and he’d sat opposite her and folded his arms, and when Kurt folded his arms it indicated he meant to talk business. She’d looked up and asked him what he wanted, and he’d told her straight out as if he was asking for the price of a CD that he wanted permission to join the army. She had laughed it off at first, but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t joking. Jane said no. Kurt refused to accept no for an answer, and their argument spiraled so out of control that Kurt called his mother the c word and stormed out of the kitchen, slammed the door, walked into his bedroom, slammed that door and locked it, and put his music on blaring. His mother, shocked by his language and red-faced from roaring, stomped down the hall and banged and kicked at his locked door, calling him a disrespectful little bastard. He screamed I hate you and she screamed I hate you back and managed to calm herself down only after she’d kicked a hole through the door and broken her small toe. Tom hadn’t been witness to the time she’d left the child in a pram outside a shop and didn’t notice that she’d left him behind until she got home and her mother inquired as to his whereabouts. He hadn’t been there when Kurt was six and a kid aged eight started to bully him in the schoolyard. Kurt had confided in Rose rather than in her, and when Rose told her, instead of taking her mother’s advice to back off, she barged into the school and grabbed the bully by the neck and threatened to break his legs if he ever touched her son again. It was obviously the worst move she could have made because there was a schoolyard full of witnesses, including a teacher and a visiting nun, and of course the child’s parents threatened action against her, and following a meeting with the headmistress it became apparent that the best course of action in light of Jane’s aggression toward a minor would be if she pulled Kurt out of the school altogether.
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