by Anita Notaro
It was a funny little place she called home, one of a row of tall, thin houses, just a door and two narrow windows, one on top of the other, designed to create maximum capacity living in minimum space. Not a palace, but the rent was cheap. Large families had been reared here, Annie knew from her neighbours, in the two tiny bedrooms, so small that one barely held a double bed and the other groaned under the weight of a wardrobe and chest of drawers. Most people used the parlour – the one good room if you avoided looking at the brown and beige tiled monster that dominated one wall – as another bedroom and many of the sofas that listened to gossip and innuendo during the day provided the only privacy and place for procreation at night, as the partition walls upstairs were almost translucent.
The kitchens were small and badly equipped, although a few were home to the Belfast sink, a huge ceramic basin now much sought after by designers of country kitchens and whipped out by most of the council tenants as soon as they could afford a shiny, stainless steel model half the size of the original.
Annie’s house had been painted magnolia and furnished sparsely, which suited her ideally. It had been a luxury renting a house rather than a flat, but months in the close confines of a hospital ward with no privacy and a commode as the only piece of furniture in her eye-line had made Annie slightly claustrophobic and desperate for something more than a bedsit when the time came to start over. She’d hunted in markets and junk shops, gone to every car boot and jumble sale for miles and had furnished her home with style on a shoestring, making cushions and curtains from remnants and begging plant cuttings from her green-fingered retired neighbours.
Now she washed and dusted and polished furiously, just in case she got the job and had no time to do anything for weeks, then began her usual half-hour of floor exercises, partly to keep her circulation going.
She didn’t have to worry about her weight. Since her illness her appetite had never really been the same and anyway she was always rushing about, using up valuable energy. Because she still got tired in the evenings she tended to go to bed as soon as she could, so late night binges in front of the TV never happened. She rarely drank, simply because she couldn’t afford to.
Lunch today, later than normal because of the audition, was a processed burger, beans and fries with too much salt, as usual. A watery sun poked its head through the kitchen window as she dunked her chips in lurid red sauce. She resolved to spend the afternoon cleaning the grimy glass in anticipation of a sunshine-filled spring.
At five she applied a little make-up, stuffed her hair into a bun, changed into her one good, cheap black suit and white shirt that had become just a touch faded recently, and headed for work. She worked from six to about eleven five nights a week and the restaurant treated her well and fed her even better. Owen Kerrigan, the manager, knew he had been lucky to get Annie; she was remarkably pleasant and efficient and remembered most of their regulars. They all seemed to like her.
Tonight was busy but manageable and she was glad. January was always quiet; everyone was recovering from the excesses of Christmas, even if most of their clients were not concerned about credit card bills. There were a few early diners, but many of their regulars came between eight and nine. Annie buzzed around, checking everything, her mind elsewhere. She really wanted this part – if she didn’t get it she’d have to consider giving up and getting a proper day job, one where she could afford all the things that most people took for granted. Or even just not to have to struggle all the time, watch every penny, would be nice. She was still daydreaming as Sarah, one of the waitresses, approached.
‘So, where will you go to celebrate if you get this job, then?’
‘Oh, I dunno, out for a few pints, I suppose.’ Annie had no intention of doing any such thing, but her acting skills came in handy.
‘Go on, you must have loads of famous friends.’
‘Well, I have met one or two . . .’ Annie stopped herself. ‘Actually no, I’m lying.’ They grinned at each other and continued working.
‘Still, it must be great being an actress. It sounds so glam.’
‘It’s not, trust me, though it is quite a social business, but it’s also very competitive, at least where I’m at. As well as that, I’m a bit older than most of the studenty crowd you meet in the regular actors’ haunts.’ She looked at the younger girl with the kind, smiley face. ‘I was a late starter.’
‘How come?’
‘I was sick for a while.’ It was out before she realized.
‘Oh, was it serious?’
‘Not really,’ she lied easily. Already she’d said too much. ‘Anyway, enough about me, tell me about the new waiter you fancy.’
As they chatted she wondered about celebrating if she got this job. A party would be nice. She thought of all the friends she’d had at school, Anne Rooney and Kate O’Halloran and Brenda Smith. She’d been very popular, no doubt about that. Most likely to succeed, they’d have written in her yearbook if this had been America. They’d lost contact when she left home, really. Where she came from girls left school early, got a job in a shop or factory, nabbed a boyfriend, got married and had babies, although not necessarily in that order. Her three oldest friends had about a dozen kids between them, and they were still under thirty. Annie saw them sometimes when she visited her dad and they’d have a good chat at the front door. Sometimes they even went for a sly drink in the afternoon, but not too often as money was tight. They all lived locally and relied on their parents to babysit. None of them were working but they were all happy, still buying clothes each Saturday and going to the pub at weekends, still ensconced in the same gang.
When Annie first left home she had been the most sociable of them all and was always the last one to leave the pub while on the drama course. When she started doing amateur productions she was the one who organized the party at the end of each run. Her illness had changed everything. Friends had come to see her often at the start, but they were embarrassed, breast cancer was not on anyone’s agenda. Seeing someone so ill made them feel old.
Being sick had robbed Annie of her confidence. She’d once felt untouchable, bulletproof even. But for a long time after coming out of hospital she was scared. Oh, she was still good in a crowd and great at putting on an act but not so good in a one to one situation and useless at really talking about herself. It simply made her feel too vulnerable. People treated you differently once they knew you’d had cancer: it was almost as if you might pop off on them any minute. Annie had tried it out on strangers once or twice but quickly learned to keep it to herself. And holding back robbed her of some of her vivaciousness.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, she chided herself, and resolved to ring round everyone she knew for a drink to celebrate, if she had cause to. ‘If’ was an enormous word. She said a quick prayer again, her favourite: O sacred heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in thee. Maybe if she got this job it would be a new start, she’d be back to her old bubbly self, she thought hopefully as she greeted clients and prepared to act the part of confident hostess for Owen Kerrigan once more.
At eight-thirty David English arrived with a party of seven guests. She knew who he was and greeted him warmly. She liked him.
‘Good evening, Mr English, how are you?’
‘Fine, thanks, Annie. You?’
‘Great, thank you. Can I take your coats? Would you care for a drink upstairs or would you rather go straight to your table?’
‘I’d murder a gin and tonic myself. Now, gentlemen, how about you? They do a great vodka martini here.’
They trooped upstairs and David winked as he passed. ‘Thanks, Annie, make mine a double, will you? I think I’m going to need it.’
‘Sure, I’ll send Geoff right up to take your order and talk you through the specials, you know most of our menu by heart anyway.’
David English was utterly charming, as usual, she thought although she noticed he looked tired and drawn tonight. He smiled his perfect white toothpaste ad smile and she smelt the co
ol, clean smell of him. He oozed wealth and sophistication and old money and she thought once again that he and Libby were a fabulous couple, although she’d rarely seen them here together.
The evening was hectic. Just when she thought it was never going to end, things quietened down and Owen, surprisingly, told her to go home. She was amazed to get off so early: it was not yet ten o’clock.
‘You look tired, go on, I can manage here.’
‘You’re an absolute star, I am wrecked. Thanks.’ She’d told him about the audition and he knew she was dying to get home in case they’d called.
Annie made her exit quickly. The wind chill cut right through her thin coat and she hurried along, pulling up her collar and blowing on her hands, anxious to catch the five past ten bus. A drunk sat down beside her and serenaded her throughout the entire first part of her journey, then she had to wait twenty-five minutes for the second bus, her connection having sailed by three minutes early as she charged towards the stop.
She made it home by eleven-fifteen, not at all worried about the gangs of youths she encountered as she walked from the bus. Tonight they had a fire going on the only patch of green for miles and she smelt the thick, chemical fumes of burning rubber. Tyres, she rightly suspected. Exhausted, she let herself in quickly, glad to escape the wind and the fumes, and switched on the electric coal-effect fire after checking the answering machine twice. Nothing. It made her feel restless. She didn’t really want to go to bed, even though she was knackered, but it was the warmest place in the house, so she switched the fire off again and made herself a cup of cocoa, with half milk, half water, wishing she had some wine or beer in the house. She brushed her teeth, filled two hot water bottles and tucked herself under a mound of blankets and an old duvet, to read and sip her hot drink and eventually to chase dreams.
Chapter Six
THE INTERCOM AT the front gate buzzed viciously rousing Libby from a delicious dream and she really minded the intrusion. She assumed it was students on their way home and turned over, rooting in the darkness for a warm body that she sensed wasn’t there even before she’d found the cold spot.
Blinking, she fumbled for the alarm clock light. Almost 3 a.m. Where on earth was David? she wondered, feeling a nervous sensation in her stomach. The buzzer sounded again, and this time it was insistent.
Struggling out of bed, trying to wipe away the grogginess, she fumbled towards the huge bay window, pulled back the heavy curtains and looked out over the vast shadowy lawns. She could see the beam of a car at the electronic gates, headlights pointed searchingly towards the house. She fumbled for the dimmer switch and picked up the intercom. The image in the small TV screen was blurred, or maybe it was her sleepy eyes.
She uttered a croaky ‘Yes?’
‘Ms Marlowe?’
‘What is it?’ She cleared her throat, wondering who was using her name at this time of night.
‘This is John Reynolds from Blackrock garda station. I’d like to have a word with you, please.’
‘What’s happened?’ Her voice rose a fraction and she felt her heart quicken.
‘Could you let the car in, please? I need to speak to you in person.’
She pressed the button and flung herself into her dressing-gown, pushing back an untidy mound of hair as she dashed barefoot over the thick cream pile of the carpet. The house was silent except for the fierce wind that made a strangled sound as it skated round the building. Libby’s hand was sticky as it glided along the highly polished banister but the only thing she was conscious of was her heart, now thumping out a warning. She needed to get to the messenger quickly. A neighbouring dog barked in the distance, otherwise the city snored.
Throwing open one of the huge old double doors she knew she looked frightened as she waited for the police car to curl around the sweeping driveway and deliver its unwanted information.
It must be her mother, she was breathing heavily now. Please don’t let her be dead. I haven’t called her for a few days and I meant to. Guilt threatened to consume her. She never seemed able to hide her irritation with her mother these days and maybe this was God’s way of punishing her.
John Reynolds hated these calls, was absolutely useless at them, and as he walked towards the tall, almost transparent woman in cream silk, her shocking blue eyes almost navy with fear, he wished he was anywhere else in the world. One glance told him she wasn’t prepared for what he had to say.
‘Please tell me, it’s my mother, isn’t it?’
‘May I come in for a moment?’ He held out his ID.
‘Yes, of course . . . I’m sorry.’ They stepped quickly inside and she closed over the door, but left it ajar as if sensing they’d be using it shortly.
‘Miss Marlowe, I’m afraid your husband has been taken ill. I need you to come with me to St Jarlath’s Hospital.’
‘My husband?’ She was completely thrown. I don’t understand . . . how, where . . . what happened?’
‘I don’t have much information. He was in a restaurant and he collapsed and they called an ambulance. They need you to get there immediately.’
‘Why didn’t they just call me themselves?’
‘All your numbers are ex-directory. The only identity your husband had, apart from credit cards, was a bill with your address on it. The people he was having dinner with were foreigners, apparently, they only knew his office and mobile number. So, the hospital rang us.’
‘Why didn’t they just ask David for his home number?’
‘I’m not sure, I didn’t speak to them myself . . .’
‘But he’s OK, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know anything else. I’m very sorry. If you could get ready as quickly as possible I’ll take you there now.’
Libby continued to search his face for another clue but he was young and clean and he looked tormented enough so she dashed upstairs, pausing halfway to turn and ask in a curiously calm, flat voice, ‘You’re sure it’s my husband?’
‘Yes, ma’am, certain.’
‘David English?’
He nodded silently and she felt stupid for wasting time.
Quickly she pulled on black trousers, a sweater and socks and her suede boots, not bothering with underwear. She seldom prayed but she did so feverishly now as she grabbed her long cashmere coat because suddenly the house felt icy cold, even though the temperature was controlled twenty-four hours a day. Stopping only to pick up her bag and keys from the polished Edwardian table, she was back at the door in less than two minutes. The waiting policeman was already in the car and pointed in the direction of the gate. He genuinely didn’t know any more but he’d seen enough in his short career to know it wasn’t good.
It took the longest few minutes Libby could remember to reach their destination, even though the flashing blue light made what little traffic there was around give way immediately, the last of the late-night revellers and taxi drivers staring at their car enquiringly. She was huddled against the back window, remembering all the times she’d seen an ambulance or police car or fire engine pass her by and wondered about the casualties. As a child her mother had always told her to say a prayer when she heard the nee-naw and she hoped someone was doing the same for her now.
They reached the main entrance to the hospital and to her surprise the garda continued driving.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Accident and Emergency’s over the other side.’ He spoke quietly.
Libby never realized that two words could strike so much fear into an already racing heart.
‘But he’s in the private hospital, surely?’ She stopped, reminding herself quickly that there was no point in getting angry with him.
‘Everyone is admitted through A&E initially—’ He broke off as the car came to a halt and she was out the door in an instant, before he had time to explain that his duty ended here. Libby made up her mind to pull whatever strings were necessary to ensure David had everything he needed. John Reynolds followed her inside.
The s
cene that greeted her made the televised medical dramas look under-resourced. It was chaos. The throng of damp, fearful bodies, the smell of sweat and blood and alcohol and vomit and the harsh orange light would normally have made Libby recoil, but she simply looked around blindly then made a beeline for the desk. ‘My husband, David English, was admitted a while ago.’
The clerk didn’t have to ask for her name. Everyone knew who she was.
‘If you’d like to take a seat I’ll have someone to talk to you as soon as possible.’
‘Can’t I just go to him?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting, I’ll check.’ But Libby had already turned away.
‘Can’t you do anything?’ This to the young garda.
‘I’m sure they’re doing all they can. Someone will be along in a minute.’
‘They’d better be. I can’t stand this waiting much longer.’ She fell onto a seat like a disgruntled child but he could easily see that she was frightened. He decided not to leave now as he normally would have done. Several pairs of eyes were staring at her and one or two swaying bodies looked as if they might weave a path in her direction. She didn’t belong here, but then he wondered if many people did.
‘Mrs English, I’m staff nurse Ann Jones.’ Libby looked up, taken aback slightly. Nobody ever called her that. She rose to her feet.
‘I just wanted to let you know that the doctor will be along to speak to you shortly.’
‘What happened?’ She couldn’t bear it for another minute.
