Matters of Life & Death

by Bernard Maclaverty

  I don’t like this room. You can’t lock the door. Anybody can come in. And did. One morning an old man in his dressing gown came in and started washing himself in my sink. I just stayed under the bedclothes. Didn’t put my neb out till he’d gone. God knows what he was washing. I didn’t dare look. Rummaging in his pyjama trousers and splashing and clearing his throat.

  My only son, Christopher, wouldn’t let me down. He’s very good to me – he comes home a lot – never misses. Every November the car pulls up and he steps out of it smiling like a basket of chips. Just him – straight from the airport. Since I came in here he’s taken to holding my hand like I’m his girlfriend. And he sends flowers at every turn-round. I call him my only son but that’s not strictly true. I had a boy before Christopher – Eugene Anthony – but he died after three days. Not a day of my life goes past without me thinking of him at some stage or other. The wee scrap. A doctor told me later that he died for the want of something very simple. A Bengal light. They discovered that years afterwards. A Bengal light could have saved him, some way or other – don’t ask me how . . . And that only made it worse, knowing that. I knew very little at the time – I wasn’t much more than a girl. Lying in the hospital with my bump like some class of a fool. A baby started crying somewhere and I said is that my baby? I hadn’t a clue. Not a clue of a clue kind. Sometimes I blame myself for wee Eugene. God love him. I think I was nineteen at the time. But I was well and truly married.

  ‘Tablets.’

  ‘Is it that time already, Gerard?’

  ‘Your son’ll soon be here.’

  ‘What! How do you know?’

  ‘He phoned. Last night. I told you, Cassie.’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Do you not think I’d remember something as important as that.’

  ‘Here’s a wee sup of water to wash them down.’

  ‘I’d better tidy myself, if that’s the case.’

  Gerard opens the door and shows a man in. I swear to you I didn’t know who it was.

  ‘Christopher, what a delightful surprise.’

  Aw – the hugs and kisses. He’s very affectionate – kisses me on both cheeks. In front of all the others.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m rightly.’

  ‘Did they not tell you I was coming?’

  ‘I’m the last one to know anything in here. They tell me nothing.’

  He likes to hold me at arm’s length.

  ‘I think you’ve put on some weight.’

  ‘They’re making me drink those high-protein strawberry things all the time.’

  ‘You weren’t looking after yourself at home. That’s why you were down to six stone.’

  He takes me for a walk in the walled garden stopping here and there to look at what plants are beginning to bud.

  Christopher says, ‘You’re shivering.’

  ‘It’s freezing.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘It would skin a fairy.’

  ‘I’ll have to buy you a winter coat.’

  ‘Don’t bother your head. I wouldn’t get the wear out of it.’

  ‘I’m only joking.’

  ‘The price of things nowadays would scare a rat.’

  Sometimes of late I get a bit dizzy, become a bit of a staggery Bob. I bump into him coming down a step.

  ‘Careful.’

  He takes me, not by the elbow, but by the hand.

  ‘Your tiny hand is frozen,’ he says and laughs. ‘I have a meeting with the doctors now.’

  ‘Is that my window there?’

  ‘No, you’re on the other side of the building.’

  ‘Do you ever hear anything of that brother of mine?’ Christopher looked at me as if I had two heads.

  ‘Paul’s dead.’

  ‘Jesus mercy.’ I nearly fell down again, had to hold on hard to Christopher’s arm. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Last year.’

  ‘Why was I not told?’

  ‘You were. He had a severe stroke.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At his home. In Belfast. I’ve told you all this many times.’

  ‘Well it’s news to me. Poor Paul. We were always very great. God rest him.’ And then my chin began manoeuvring and I couldn’t stop myself crying.

  ‘Poor Paul.’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself so – every time.’

  I keep myself very busy in here. I don’t mind helping out. When they ask me to set the tables or make up the bed, I don’t complain. If I see anything needing done, I do it. Makes me feel less out of place. The way some of them in here leave the wash-basins! And there are other things about toilets . . . it’d scunner you, some people’s filthy habits. I draw the line at heavy work, like hoovering or anything like that, I’m not fit for it now but I don’t mind going round and giving my own room a bit of a dust. I was always very particular. Or straightening the flowers. The others watch television all the time. They sleep in front of the television, more like. I don’t see one of them doing a hand’s turn.

  But what really galls me, is I can’t make Christopher a bite to eat when he comes. All the way from England. Not even a cup of tea. In my day I could make a Christmas dinner for ten. And a good one, at that. Holy Mother of God. And now I struggle to put on my tights.

  Eugene Anthony was baptised not long after he was born – they suspected something, but they never told me. I was kept in the dark as usual. From start to finish. They’ve done something strange to my ears – that time they removed the rodent ulcer. My ears have never been right since. Black and as hard as the hammers of Newgate. It feels like they’ve put them on backwards too.

  I’m sitting in the recreation room with the rest of them. They’re nearly all sleeping. Chins on chests. There’s a thing on the wall.

  WELCOME TO EDENGROVE

  TODAY IS FRIDAY

  The date is 1st

  The month is March

  The year is 2001

  The weather is cloudy

  The season is winter

  Christopher has let me down. Badly. Doesn’t believe in God any more. That was the worst slap in the face I’ve ever had – as a mother. Said it to me one night in a taxi. Talk about a bolt from the blue. After the education I put him through. What a waste. With his opera and jumping on and off planes and all the rest of it. In one of the most Catholic cities in the world. It’s a far cry from the way I was reared – but it doesn’t matter what you get up to if you stop practising your religion. If you turn your back on God. What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and so shall lose his soul. Never a truer word. But, please God, he’ll come round – before it’s too late. I pray for him every night. What a terrible waste.

  Another terrible slap in the face was the day I had to give-away my niece’s baby. In a sweetshop in Newry, of all places. That was where the priest had arranged the meeting. Among the liquorice allsorts and the dolly mixtures. And me having to hand over that wee bundle across the counter. All the more galling for me because of what happened to Eugene Anthony. The family counts at times like that. Everybody weighed in – driving and money and what have you. Of course she should never have had the child in the first place. And her not even considering getting married. I always said that. It was a sin – utterly wicked. So bad the whole thing had to be hushed up. There wasn’t one of the neighbours knew a thing about it, thank God. She went to the Good Shepherd nuns for her confinement. Someplace they have on the Border. It’s funny that, the way it doesn’t show, sometimes – the way they can hide it. If they’ve done wrong. Something to do with the muscles – holding it in. There might be something else . . .

  Maybe the best way to pass is to do nothing. That way you can’t make mistakes. So just sit your ground. Take nothing under your notice. But that way they’ll say there’s something wrong – she’s not in the same world as the rest of us. Doolally, in fact.

  I sees a doctor and a nurse – it was wee Gerard wi
thout the moustache – come into the recreation room. And of all things! they have Christopher with them. That doctor looks too young. His hair sticks up like a crew cut.

  ‘Christopher – when did you arrive?’

  ‘We’ll go to your room – it’s quieter – for a chat,’ he says.

  ‘My name is on the door.’

  I love it when he holds my hand like I’m his girlfriend. In my room we all get settled. And right away I get a bad feeling even though Gerard folds his arms and smiles at me. There’s something about the way Christopher is clearing his throat.

  ‘Well, we’ve come to a decision but we want to involve you in it,’ he says. ‘You know how you’ve been losing weight and not looking after yourself. And singeing the curtains with holy candles? You could have burned the house down, and yourself with it.’ I just keep shaking my head. ‘For six weeks or so the doctors and nurses in here have been building up a picture of you – and it’s their opinion that it would be a danger for you to go back to living alone. Even with help and support. Now as you know it’s impossible for me to come home and look after you. So the best option for you is residential care.’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘That’s an old people’s home.’

  ‘It’s not like that nowadays. Not like the old days . . .’

  ‘The accommodation is state of the art,’ says the doctor with the crew cut.

  ‘They have their own hairdressers and chiropodists,’ says Gerard. ‘Cassie’s a great one for the style.’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve researched this.’ This time it’s Christopher talking. I’m getting confused about who’s saying what. I keep looking from one to the other – watching if their mouth is moving, wondering if my backwards-on ears are playing me up. ‘There are people who thrive when they go into such places. They’ve been alone at home – isolated and lonely – and find it’s great to meet new people of their own age.’

  ‘Not if they’re all doolally, like in here. Who wants company like that?’

  ‘I’ll have a look around at the various options. Choose the best place or, at least, the best place with a vacancy. But we might have to wait a while. Dr Walsh here says everywhere is full at the moment. And you can’t go home. It would be dangerous – you might set up another shrine and burn the place to the ground.’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘I’m only joking, Mother.’ Christopher smiles and puts his hand on mine. ‘But it has to be your decision. We are not putting you in. We’re telling you what the situation is and letting you decide. The doctors are saying you’d be best in residential care. And I think I agree with that. But the decision is yours.’

  ‘Well, if it’s for the best.’ I hear the words coming out of me and they are not the words I mean to say. I go on saying things I don’t mean. Why am I doing this? Why am I saying this? ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance. What’ll we do if there’s no places?’

  ‘Not to worry, Dr Walsh says you can stay on here until we get somewhere.’

  ‘People die,’ says Gerard.

  ‘Somewhere nice. Overlooking the sea – out at Bray. Or the North Side, Howth maybe.’

  ‘The North Side – yes.’

  It’s dark. There’s a strip of light under the door. If I turn to the wall I’ll not see it. Away in the distance somebody’s clacking plates. You can’t lock that door. Anybody could come in. And climb into the bed. That oul man rummaging in his pyjama bottoms.

  I want to be in my own house. With my own things around me. My china cabinet, my bone-handled knives and forks. The whole set’s no longer there. But after so many years, what would you expect – wee Christopher digging with soup spoons. I’m like a penny bap gone stale in the window – I’ve no say. I don’t want to be a nuisance. That’s the last thing I want to be. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been in here. All I know is that I’d like to go home, if you wouldn’t mind. Maybe my brother in Belfast could help. Paul is so methodical. Maybe – even better – if I got Christopher on to them he could sort it out – go and talk to the doctors. Convince them. And I could go home . . .

  UP THE COAST

  She came into the gallery the next day by herself. The bell chinked as she opened the door. The place was full of sunlight. The boy on the desk looked up. He recognised her and blushed a little. How sweet. He was in shirtsleeves. She asked if he’d gotten away at a reasonable hour the night before. He smiled and said it was OK. There hadn’t been too much mess and nobody’d got very drunk, which was almost unheard of. And the wine had been a better choice than usual. It had really been a great opening. He had the loveliest eyes. Had she seen any reviews yet? She shook her head. No. She wasn’t emotionally robust enough for that at the minute. Especially when her life’s work was involved. One thing at a time. He smiled and nodded as if he understood. She was more apprehensive that there was to be a profile in the Guardian magazine. With a yet-to-be-taken photo. But she said nothing about this in case he’d think she was showing off.

  He congratulated her on her sales. The fourteen works available to buy had all gone. Somehow last night there had been a feeling of stampede. Red stickers kept appearing and some people felt they were going to miss out.

  ‘The hair may be turning grey but I’m not dead yet,’ she kept saying to everyone. ‘There’s more to come.’

  Last night had been so fraught with people that she wanted to have another, more contemplative look on her own. She hadn’t selected the pictures for the retrospective herself nor had she had anything to do with the hanging. It had all been done by the gallery.

  The three white rooms were empty and utterly quiet. In the first, the sunlight fell on the boards of the floor. They creaked a little as she put her weight on them. She took out her glasses to read the labels. Only one or two things had survived from Art College days. And they were beside her grandchild series. So much for the chronological approach.

  The second room was entirely devoted to the four large works to have survived from the Inverannich experience. There were others in various parts of the world but to have called them in would have been too expensive. She let her eyes traverse the space. They were good. All four of them. They each had something different to say. The stones took on a life of their own – like Plath’s mushrooms. Strong, elbowing forward, butting for attention. Our story must be told. They had become the dispossessed, the abused – in contrast to the abject submission of the people of Inverannich as they’d left. The homesickness – the wrench from the land and everything dear to them. She’d read somewhere of the wailing and lamentation – the processions of people with a lifetime’s paraphernalia making their way to the boats. It was a subject done by one of her favourite painters, William McTaggart, in the last century. Three times he returned to it – the emigrant ship. It waits in the distance as the departing boat rows towards it. Figures twisted with grief and loss merge with the rocks on the foreshore. In his last canvas, above the waiting ship is a barely perceptible fragment of rainbow.

  Her almost abstract rendering of these same events in greys and greens, blacks and yellows brought her back to the anger at their making – the cross-hatching, the savaging of the paper surface. Always she wanted to be open to the accidental. These large works had been done from sketches and notebooks she’d retrieved from her camp the summer after. They were part of the healing process. Of the cat there had been no sign.

  Alongside each was a framed picture with compartments. Every item – be it a grey stone or an oystercatcher’s feather or a limpet shell or a page of a notebook – had a compartment to itself within the frame. They had the beauty of being themselves as well as the balance they achieved against or alongside one another. The cheap tear-off notebook pages with their pale blue lines covered in her dense, distinctive scribble had yellowed after so many years – changed colour like verdigris on sculpture – as they’d come to an accommodation with their surroundings.

  Several works in the
third room had been landscapes painted onto assemblies of these same writings and sketches – page after page after page, their content partly obscured by rough brush strokes – sea colours of Prussian blue and ultramarine. She approached one of the works and adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose to read the handwriting. Her handwriting. Her thoughts from so long ago made her cringe. Had she been so self-important? It was something about the tone:

  Day 2.

  I am amazed at the changes in the light here – not hour to hour, but minute to minute. So difficult to pin down. The landscape and seascape has such colour. I’d like to be able to do an Ivon Hitchens here but inhabited – highlighting the transience of people in such a place as this – borders and boundaries between one colour and the next, the shade and light. The balance between representation and allowing the paint its head.

  When I get time to sit down and look around me this place is truly amazing. Yesterday was about practicalities. When I landed it was wet and blustery and the mountains, whose shape I knew from the April visit, had disappeared altogether. Shrouded, as they say. The black rocks in the bay spilled with white waterfalls after being swamped by wave after wave. Worst possible conditions for putting up a tent.

  Today is what is required. The sky is blue and cloudless, the mountains magnificent. Green foothills become sand dunes, become the beach. Most black rocks are covered with lichen the colour of mustard. And the sea. It is such a presence continually roaring onto the beach. Waves are amazing things. Far out they rise as dark parallels. The best moment is when they break, the dark turquoise colour before the white spills curving down the face. Then the white spreads its length with a roar. On the gravel beaches to the north as the wave rushes in – the crest has such force it sets the tiny black stones hopping against the white foam.