Matters of Life & Death

by Bernard Maclaverty

  Eventually Susan said, ‘How would I know who bought it for her?’

  ‘All the times you were out together – she never gave you the slightest hint?’

  ‘No.’ Susan shook her head. ‘Did she give you the slightest hint when you were together?’

  ‘No. But as you say – we’re very different. Ellie was your pet. She would confide more in you than me.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Susan wept. ‘She got days off. How do I know where she went – or who she went with?’

  ‘So she did go with somebody? Who? If you were to guess, Susan, who would you guess?’

  Still Annie changed the chain from hand to hand. Susan stared down at the pink satin eiderdown on the floor.

  ‘You are not going to like this,’ she said. ‘But I would guess Mr Burns. I know you despise him but . . . she was very fond of him.’

  ‘I might have known,’ Annie almost spat the words out. ‘The one and only lodger I ever had to put out. I couldn’t stand to be under the same roof one more night after that display of behaviour.’

  ‘It was only a kiss.’

  ‘She had her eyes closed. And for all I know, so had he. She would go for the likes of him because she knew it would annoy me. The most unsuitable man she could think of.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘So you know what it was like. How might I ask?’

  ‘They were very fond of each other. Maybe more than fond.’ Susan returned her sister’s stare. She admitted that, after Frank Burns had been sent packing, the young ones had met in her company. Other times – they might’ve met by themselves, for all she knew.

  ‘So he didn’t move away.’

  ‘He’s in Kansas Avenue.’

  ‘And you stood by and watched this pair?’ Annie’s voice rose in pitch.

  ‘Yes. But not all the time. Maybe they were married, who knows – she talked enough about it – maybe they found a priest who did it for them. Mr Burns knew a curate in St Patrick’s from his own part of the country. There’s no give with you, Annie. The girl’s dead.’

  ‘Did she ever tell you she was married?’

  Susan nodded her head.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me.’ She dropped the chain and the ring onto the linen of the bed and buried her face in her hands. Then she took her hands away from her face and said, ‘Susan you’re a fool. An utter and complete fool. Poor Ellie’s immortal soul . . . all because of your foolishness.’

  ‘Yesterday – she only told me this yesterday – when she felt so ill she thought she was going to die.’

  ‘She was a good judge of one thing, at least.’

  ‘She said she wished she’d been really married.’ Susan shook her head sadly. ‘Maybe they weren’t married – maybe they had only plighted their troth or something – maybe they were only playing at being married, playing at being man and wife.’

  Annie stared at her sister and shook her head almost in disbelief. She said, ‘Susan will you go down and get me a pair of scissors. The wee nail scissors.’ Susan stared back at her, then did as she was told. She left the room and went down the creaking stairway. Annie shouted after her, ‘They’re in the sewing basket, I think.’

  Susan went to the sideboard, crouched and found the pannier where the sewing and embroidery things were kept. She had to scrabble about hunting for the scissors. There was a green pincushion bristling with needles. Tiny hanks of embroidery threads in all the colours of the rainbow. Spools of white thread. Eventually at the bottom she saw what she was looking for. She trudged back up to the return room still on the verge of tears. She handed the scissors to Annie.

  ‘She wasn’t married. Not truly,’ said Annie. There was a change in her voice. It had lost its note of worry.

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I checked. Just now. For my own peace of mind.’

  ‘You checked what?’

  Annie said nothing but began to clean under Ellie’s nails with the point of the tiny scissors. Then she gave her sister a look.

  ‘Jesus Mary and Joseph,’ said Susan.

  The weather was unseasonable for the middle of June. Susan had to hold her hat on her head or the wind would have whipped it, hatpin and all, as she struggled up the Antrim Road towards Kansas Avenue. In her other hand was the small leather purse Ellie had used for her rosary beads. In it now was the gold ring and its chain – in her mouth, terrible tidings for Frank Burns.

  THE ASSESSMENT

  They’re watching me. I’m not sure how – but they’re watching me. Making a note of any mistakes. Even first thing in the morning, sitting on the bed half dressed, one leg out of my tights. Or buttoning things up badly. Right button, wrong buttonhole. Or putting the wrong shoes on the wrong feet. I don’t think there’s a camera or anything, but I just can’t be sure. I know computers can do amazing things because Christopher tells me they can. It’s his work, and good work by all accounts. He has a new car practically every time he comes home. Or he hires a new one. He’s very good – comes home a lot – never misses. And sends cards all the time. Mother’s Day. Birthday. Christmas and Easter. Mother’s Day.

  The nurses ask questions all the time – quiz you about this and that, but I don’t know which are the important things. Some of them are just chat but mixed in with the chat might be hard ones.

  ‘Did you enjoy your tea Mrs Quinn?’ Any fool can answer that but ‘How long have you had those shoes?’ might be a horse of a different colour. Or ‘Where did you buy that brooch?’

  ‘It’s marcasite. My son bought it for me. Look at the way it glitters.’

  You wouldn’t know what they could take from your answer. Before I came in here they wanted to know who the Taoiseach was and I told them I’d be more interested in finding out what the Taoiseach was. Then they realised I was from the North. Somebody out of place. I told them I took no interest in politics. My only real concern is . . .

  Christopher would have something sarcastic to say. ‘Mother, don’t be such a fool – you’ll be in there to see if you can still cope living on your own. A week, two weeks at the most. They’ll just keep you under observation. Surely you’ve heard that. She’s in hospital and they’re keeping her under observation.’

  ‘Don’t mock me Christopher.’

  I have every present Christopher ever bought me. I cherish them all – mostly for his thoughtfulness. I imagine him somewhere else, in some airport or city, trying to choose something I’d like. And I look after them. Dusting and rearranging. Remembering the occasion – Mother’s Day or birthday, Easter and Christmas. A cut-glass rabbit, Waterford tumblers, leaded crystal vases. When the sunlight hits that china cabinet it’s my pride and joy. Tokens of affection. Things you can point to that say . . .

  I don’t want to be a nuisance. That’s the last thing I want to be. So I make myself useful. Looking after the old people in here. The rest of them just sit sleeping – in rows – I couldn’t do that – I have to be doing.

  It’s such a strange thing to go to bed on the ground floor, at street level almost – although my room faces out to a courtyard at the back. All my life I’ve slept upstairs. Feel that somebody’ll be staring in at me every morning when I open the curtains. Some gardener or janitor. Getting a peep. Giving you a fright. Maybe that’s part of the watching – keeping me on the ground floor. If they find out something I’d like to be the first to know. Let me in on what . . .

  I don’t like this room. You can’t lock the door. They say no locked doors. Anybody can come in. And has.

  I’m glad I like Daniel O’Donnell because they play his songs all day long. After a while you don’t hear them. In the TV room all the women sit in rows and sleep – me among them. A man hairdresser comes in to do everybody’s hair and if you heard him – I say a man but he has this pansy voice. But everybody likes him. There’s something about him that reminds me of Christopher – the way he turns. But Christopher’s voice is all right. His voice is fine.<
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  If there was a camera I think I’d notice. But I wouldn’t notice a microphone – they can hide them where you’d never find them. They could be listening. Waiting for me to talk to myself. Mutter, mutter. So I’d better not. I’ll not open my cheeper for as long as I’m in here. Maybe they’ve got something nowadays to know what you’re thinking. I wouldn’t put it past them. Holy Mother of God, the thought of it. They wouldn’t be able to make head nor tail of what I’m thinking . . .

  But they are watching me. Making a note of any mistakes. Half dressing myself. Or buttoning up something wrongly. Or putting the wrong shoes on the wrong feet. An old woman used to visit Mammy and the tops of her stockings fell down – like a fisherman’s waders. That’ll be me soon enough. A laughing stock. Nobody has enough courage nowadays to . . .

  There are no rules here. Just get up when you like. Eat when you like. Sleep when you like. Christopher was a terrible riser – when he came home from university in England. He’d lie till one o’clock in the day sometimes. But he passed all his exams with very high marks. First-class honours. Must have been studying in his sleep.

  The problem here is I don’t know what you have to do to pass. Or what will fail me. So I’m stymied. It’s like going into the kitchen and saying why did I come in here. So you just drink a glass of water whether you want it or not and forget about it. Or think . . .

  The question is – what’ll happen? If I pass I can go home and look after myself for a while longer. If I fail . . .

  In here it’s like an hotel instead of a hospital – with waiters, not nurses. There’s a terrible tendency for the men nurses to grow wee black moustaches. I hate them. Always did. I said to Christopher if you ever grow a moustache, you needn’t bother coming home again. But moustaches or no moustaches they’re watching me and taking note of any mistakes.

  My favourite is Gerard – he has suddenly appeared in front of me – a nice open face. He’s kindness itself. It’s funny that – to be thinking of someone and they just appear. Sometimes I think there’s more . . .

  ‘You wouldn’t grow a moustache – sure you wouldn’t, Gerard?’

  ‘No chance, Mrs Quinn. I tried to grow a beard once and my mother said I was like a goat looking through a hedge.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll never do it again.’

  ‘I promise. Now could you lift up a bit and I’ll get this other leg sorted. And then we’ll get the tablets into you.’

  ‘You’re very good, Gerard.’

  ‘Once the tights are on and secured, Mrs Quinn, you can face anything or anybody.’ His name is in big print pinned to the lapel of his white housecoat. He pours me some water and hands me my medication on a tray – three different-coloured capsules. I take them and swallow them down with the water. He smiles.

  ‘Thank you. How long have I been in here Gerard?’

  ‘Six weeks. But doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself.’

  ‘If you find anything out I’d like to be the first to know.’

  Old age is something you never get better of. I don’t seem to have as many blemishes on my face as I used to. But maybe that’s because my sight is failing. Like everything else. It’s like on television when you find out that the head of the police is really the baddie. And you’ve told him everything. Where does that leave you, eh? That must be the worst feeling in the world – when you think somebody is on your side and he turns out to be on the other side. Like a penny bap in the window – you’ve no say in anything. What use is a bap in the window when all’s said and done? Precious little . . .

  Christopher must be very good at his job. It’s thanks to him I’m in here. He moved heaven and earth to get me a place. They’re few and far between in Dublin, so I’m told. Maybe if you refuse to answer any of the questions you’ll pass. The only people who’ll succeed are the ones strong enough to refuse to take part. But that’s not me.

  This is a strange place. The patients are all doolally except me. I’m the only one in here with any common sense. In the North it’s called gumption. Down here it’s in short supply. There’s a notice on the front door which says it must be kept shut ‘as residents may wander’. In more ways than one.

  They don’t like us Northerners. From the day and hour I moved here I sensed it. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. They couldn’t give a damn. The Troubles – that’s something that happens north of the Border. Nothing to do with us.

  And I hate the way they talk. Like honey dripping. Smarm and wheedle – like they can’t do enough for you, like you’re the Queen of the May – and all the time they’re ready to stab you if it suits them. Probably when your back’s turned. It’s why that wee Gerard is my favourite – he’s from the North. I feel at home with him. Comes from Derry. He doesn’t smarm and wheedle like the rest of them. I never could stand that Terry Wogan – I don’t know what anybody sees in him. He should have stayed in the bank.

  I’d never have come south if it hadn’t been for Vincent. He was from Galway, a different kettle of fish entirely. But his job was here in Dublin. And I was his wife.

  Yesterday I was going to the toilet and I heard knocking. There was a glass door at the end of the passage and a woman was standing on the other side of it with her hat and coat on. She had one hand flat to the window and she was rapping the glass with the ring on her other hand. Tip-tip-tip. And she was shouting but I couldn’t make out what she wanted. I could see her mouth and I thought she was saying let me out. I tried the door but it wouldn’t budge. There were three or four other people standing behind her, standing there like Brown’s cows – queuing, as it were. So I went and got one of the nurses, the one without a moustache – and says I to him – there’s people wanting out down there and I pointed. He says, ‘That’s OK Mrs Quinn. That’s just the special unit. Take no heed of them, God love them. They’re being assessed for specialist treatment.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you called me Cassie.’

  The next time I went to the toilet they were still there, the one with her hat and coat on, tapping the glass with her ring finger. Tip-tip-tip. Sometimes in here I want to cry but crying might lose you marks. So I don’t.

  They’ve done something to my ears. The time they removed the rodent ulcer from the side of my eye – just a local anaesthetic. But in the process they did something with my ears. They’ve never been right since. Black and as hard as bricks. And what’s more it feels like they’ve put them on backwards.

  My name is on my door to remind me which room is mine. It’s very confusing when you come into a new place like this. Corridors with doors that all look the same. Like a ship. You think you’re going into your room and it’s a store cupboard or a toilet. That’s the kind of thing they’re watching out for. But Mrs Cassie Quinn in big letters on a wee square of paper pinned to my door – that helps.

  I never did a test before. An exam. Except maybe for the Catechism. You had to learn it off by heart before you could make your first Holy Communion. And that wasn’t today nor yesterday. I can still mind it.

  ‘Who made the world?’

  ‘God made the world.’

  Or Oranges Academy. To do shorthand. And typing. But it didn’t really feel like an exam – you knew what you could do, give or take a word or two, before you went in. You’d be a wee bit nervous in front of your machine – maybe one or two of the keys would stick. Or you’d go deaf. Or you would suddenly freeze up. My best was seventy-five words a minute. But I’m out of the way of it now. The fingers would never cope. Two words a minute, more like. And oul Mr Carragher teaching and talking and dictating away for all he was worth with cuckoo spit at the sides of his mouth. I’m too old for tests. Or maybe I’m just too old to pass them.

  The peas they gave us for dinner last night were so hard you could have fired them at the Germans.

  I suppose before our first Holy Communion was a test. Father McKeown came into our school and asked us the Penny Catechism. And woe betide you if you didn’t answer up, loud and
clear. Who made the world? God made the world. Very good. And who is God? You, yes you at the back. God is the creator and sovereign Lord of all things . . . Everybody laughed when he asked Hugh Cuddihy what do we swallow at the altar rails when we go to Communion and he said fish. But Father McKeown was furious. Shouting at us for not being able to tell right from wrong, silly from serious. I kept very still hoping Father McKeown wouldn’t see me, wouldn’t ask me a question. But he did. You, you – him pointing at me – how many persons are there in God? Three persons, Father, the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Very good. Next? I remember I couldn’t stop smiling. Very good, says he. To me. Very good.

  It’s funny how I remember all this from long ago but nothing from this morning.

  ‘When did your husband pass away?’ Gerard asks.

  ‘Vincent died in nineteen fifty-four.’

  ‘That’s forty-seven years ago.’

  ‘As long as that? Seems like yesterday. Vincent was the best husband and father that ever there was. The only thing – he was always very demanding. But he was a joker as well.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘If we’d a fallout he’d bring me a bunch of weeds from the front garden. Dandelions.’

  Christopher said I was becoming very forgetful. Forgetting to eat. Forgetting to get up in the mornings. Forgetting to turn off a ring on the cooker and it blasting away all night. Just as well it wasn’t gas, he said. All I could do was stare down at my shoes and him at the other end of the phone. Serves me right for telling him. I’d lost weight and it was nice to see he was worried about me. My next-door neighbour, Mrs Mallon, had phoned him, it seems. I was away to nothing. I wasn’t eating. Wasn’t looking after myself.

  That’s why they’re watching me. Asking me all these questions. Making a note of any mistakes. Dressing myself like a doolally – maybe coming out of the toilet with your skirt tucked into your pants. Buttoning things up wrongly. Or putting on the wrong shoes. Looking out of place. Poor Emily McGoldrick used to visit us when she was old and the tops of her stockings fell down – like a fisherman’s waders. We’d’ve got a clip round the ear if we’d made any remarks. Mammy was like that. Never let the side down.