One Hundred Names

by Cecelia Ahern

  It was midday by the time she arrived at St Margaret’s Nursing Home, and she had promised Birdie she would be there at ten to follow up on their first interview. She had listened back to Birdie’s story so far and had some more in-depth questions to ask.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Kitty apologised to Molly, the first person she saw when she entered reception.

  ‘Hoo hoo,’ Molly chuckled at the sight of her. ‘Somebody had a good night.’

  Kitty smiled coyly. ‘Do I look that bad?’

  ‘Not if he was worth it,’ Molly winked, coming around the other side of the desk. Her hair was still blue but her nails had been painted a luminous coral.

  ‘Is Birdie going to kill me?’

  ‘Birdie? Birdie wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless the fly is perhaps Freda, the hippie. She’s outside, teaching them a movement class. Last I saw they were pretending to be leaves.’

  ‘I don’t know her well enough but I can’t imagine Birdie doing that.’

  ‘You know her just fine. She’s not, but she’d probably rather be. She’s on the lawn with her family. Don’t look at me like that, you’re not intruding, she’ll be thrilled to see you.’

  Kitty followed Molly out to the lawn where families had gathered for tea and scones. Umbrellas had been opened to protect them from the searing sun, and that is where Kitty found Birdie, sitting while the rest of her family were sprawled around her, chatting. Children were running around – Kitty wasn’t sure who belonged to whom – and teenagers were out of the circle playing with their iPhones and listening to their iPods, preferring to be absolutely anywhere but there.

  As Kitty walked towards Birdie’s family she couldn’t help but notice how distant Birdie seemed. Conversation was flowing all around her but not to her or even in her direction. Now and then somebody would deliver part of the sentence to her and she would momentarily snap out of her trance to smile and nod, but at the soonest opportunity she would drift again.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you,’ Molly said cheerfully. ‘You have a visitor, Birdie.’

  They all looked up at Kitty. Kitty looked at Birdie apologetically and made her way round to her. ‘Birdie, I’m so sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Her face seemed genuinely to light up and Kitty was pleased.

  Birdie stood and held Kitty’s hand warmly as she introduced her to the family.

  ‘This is Kitty Logan, a friend of mine. Kitty, this is my daughter, Caroline, this is her daughter, Alice, and she has a son, Edward, but he’s studying for his finals at Trinity at the moment.’

  Caroline looked proud so Kitty mouthed a wow.

  ‘This is Alice’s son, Levi, my great-grandchild. This is my eldest son, Cormac, his son, Barry, and Barry’s two children, Ruán and Thomas.’ Two young boys barely looked up from their game consoles. ‘This is Seán, his wife, Kathleen, and their youngest son, Clive. Their daughter, Gráinne, lives in Australia with her husband doing … what is it now, Kathleen?’

  ‘Computer software analysis.’

  ‘That’s it.’ And Birdie continued through the group, two more sons, one wife and one partner and some of their children, some of whom were polite and others who couldn’t care less if she were the Queen of Sheba. Soon Kitty had no idea who was who, and as soon as she sat down beside Birdie, a position she was honoured to hold, Birdie’s daughter – her only daughter, Caroline – started talking. And she didn’t stop. Not for one second. Not for a breath. She commanded the conversation, telling anecdote after anecdote, long anecdotes, without bringing anyone else in at all. Occasionally a son or two would pipe up with something and a daughter-in-law would fill in gaps, refresh their memories, correct a mistake, but all the conversation, if it could be called that, was directed, produced, edited and starred in by Caroline. She was an elegant, well-dressed, well-spoken woman, with a wonderful turn of phrase and language skills, and had an impressive amount of knowledge on various topics. She was used to speaking, comfortable with her anecdotes and recanted them in an interesting way, but it was so constant that her voice – the sheer Caroline-ness of it all – began to bother Kitty. Birdie was quiet, rarely referred to; she was merely the reason for the visit, not the subject of it. Kitty kept waiting for the attention to turn to Birdie, or for one of the grandchildren or great-grandchildren to say something, until each time Caroline started a new subject, Kitty wanted to leap across the table and strangle her. She wasn’t sure if it was the hangover, the searing heat, and the irritating wasps circulating about their heads that made it all worse, but the only thing she could hear were words jumbling around that didn’t make any sense at all.

  Molly appeared by Birdie’s side again, and without a word handed Birdie a small cup of brightly coloured pills and a glass of water. It was only then that Caroline chose to stop talking to turn her attention to her mother. When Caroline looked, everybody else looked, which made it rather uncomfortable for Birdie. Molly noticed them all staring.

  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Molly said, and despite the fact that it was an ordinary comment, everything she said in her Drogheda accent sounded brash, almost sarcastic, as if she meant something else but wouldn’t say. Perhaps it was the way her eyes glistened mischievously, her confident air, that gave the idea she didn’t feel anyone was better than she was, which of course she was right to believe, but she came across as defiant, as though she knew everyone thought they were better and she was constantly fighting it.

  ‘What are you giving her?’ Caroline asked, and it bothered Kitty that she hadn’t asked her mother that question.

  They carried out a conversation about Birdie’s drugs, why she was taking them, and then Caroline in turn suggested other drugs she should be on and happily debated with Molly on how she was right. Caroline, it seemed, was either well up on her drugs or else she was a doctor. She was one who knew all about the craft but had no bedside manner. Kitty had her summed up already.

  Caroline looked away from her mother, finally allowing her to take her pills in peace without an audience, and she began a story about a new vaccine on the market and a conversation she had had with somebody in the World Health Organization about it. At least some of the brothers were doctors too, because they seemed to understand the terminology, even added to it when they had the rare opportunity.

  ‘Molly, is there any chance I could get some of Birdie’s special tea?’ Kitty asked.

  Birdie, who had been drinking water at that exact moment, snorted with laughter and her water spluttered down her top. Caroline stopped her story to look at her mother in surprise. In fact, everybody did. Even the teenagers looked up from their electronic equipment and one even cracked a smile to the other as they watched their grandmother giggle. Kitty handed her a napkin to wipe her face.

  ‘Thank you,’ Birdie said, composed, though her eyes were moist. ‘Excuse me for interrupting you, Caroline. Please do continue.’

  Caroline studied her mother for a split second before continuing her conversation but she made sure to direct her speech at her mother so as to avoid another interruption or so she wouldn’t miss the next inside joke. They were the kind of family who, when one person spoke, kept all eyes and ears on that person until the story was finished. Pockets of conversations couldn’t break out among the others or else the entire story would come to an abrupt end until the narrator had everyone’s full attention again.

  Kitty wondered why on earth nobody asked her or Birdie how they knew one another, and why Kitty was there interrupting their family get-together. Birdie couldn’t have told them who she was before she’d arrived – Kitty was due to have been there and gone two hours previously – but if she had told them, hadn’t they any follow-up questions? Hadn’t they any interest in their mother at all? Kitty was angry on Birdie’s behalf; she felt like she was standing on a busy motorway with cars speeding past her while she waited for a gap in the traffic to run across.

  The gap came when Alice’s baby, Levi, choked on something, which sent both Caroline and Alice into
a panic. Caroline took over without asking Alice for permission, which Alice succumbed to without a fight.

  Kitty saw her opportunity.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re aware but I’m a journalist with Etcetera,’ Kitty said to the group, then turned to a surprised Birdie. ‘Did you fill them in?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Birdie seemed a little embarrassed, if not slightly nervous.

  ‘What did she say?’ one son asked.

  ‘Etcetera,’ a daughter-in-law replied. ‘It’s a magazine.’

  ‘A kind of social and cultural magazine, would I be right?’ another asked, and Kitty agreed.

  ‘Did I read in the Times that the editor passed away recently?’ a son asked.

  ‘Yes, she did,’ Kitty replied. ‘Constance Dubois.’ She still wasn’t used to saying it, that Constance was gone, dropping it into casual conversation over scones and tea as if her friend was just a topic, like hypochondriac patients and new vaccines.

  ‘Oh, yes, she was the woman who gave that dreadful man a voice. That anti-medicine man, what’s his name.’

  ‘Bernard Carberry,’ Kitty said, her blood boiling. He was a nice man, a very well-respected and highly educated man, who also happened to send her a Christmas card every year.

  ‘That’s it, the man who preaches against the evils of GPs,’ Caroline continued, laughing to belittle him, though her disdain and rage was clear. ‘He believes we should be eating grass and drinking more water.’

  ‘He believes GPs unnecessarily prescribe antibiotics and other medications without actually getting to the root of the problem, whereas the other drugs he recommends are less damaging and can build up immunity.’

  ‘Utter tosh,’ Caroline said dismissively. ‘So do you work for this man then?’

  ‘We work for the same magazine and our paths have regularly crossed.’ Kitty was determined to stay polite.

  ‘And do you agree with his conspiracy theories?’

  ‘I believe Constance Dubois was an incredibly progressive figure who had the ability to see what the new and interesting were before other publications. She recognised Dr Carberry’s studies were of great interest to a wide audience twenty years ago before the topic was really being discussed and now he is among the world’s leading lecturers on homeopathic and new-age medicines, with many GPs actually agreeing with his findings, so yes, I think a lot of heed must be paid to what he says.’

  Kitty used her firmest voice, and, as Caroline opened her mouth to speak, she took a risk and jumped in front of the traffic and hoped they would slam on the brakes in time.

  ‘But that’s not why I’m here. I have nothing to do with Dr Bernard Carberry; I don’t work in that department. My mentor and friend, Constance Dubois, has once again had the great foresight to find another person of interest to the public, a person that the country needs to read about, the kind of person who is inspiring and warm-hearted and who has a long and wonderful story to tell us all. Your mother is helping me with my story.’

  Kitty realised she wasn’t just trying to give Birdie’s family a kick up the backside but that she genuinely meant what she was saying. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t yet find the link between the people she had so far met, their stories alone were interesting to her. She saw they were all staring at her in silence. Confused, she looked at Birdie and back at them, unsure what they were waiting for.

  ‘So don’t leave us in suspense,’ Caroline finally spoke. ‘Who is it you’re writing about?’

  ‘But …’ Kitty turned to Birdie with a frown. Birdie’s cheeks had pinked and she was looking down at her skirt, fixing the hem. Kitty thought she had made it perfectly clear. Anger filled her heart. ‘I’m here for the same reason as you are.’ She reached out and took Birdie’s hand. ‘To spend time with this wonderful woman.’ And when they still didn’t get it, she said, ‘I’m writing about your mother.’

  ‘That was a nice thing you did for Birdie,’ Molly said as Kitty was leaving the home that evening. They had sat outside in the sun most of the day, spending a few hours with Birdie and asking her more about her life, delving a little further, getting a little more personal as they grew to know one another better and as Birdie learned to trust her. Kitty felt she had a good insight into Birdie’s life growing up in the chapel town with her father as principal and only teacher of the local school. With no mother for Birdie to turn to her life was strict, regimented. Her father took care of the family in every way he could but there was no physical love. No hugs at bedtime, no whispers of affection. Birdie came from a prominent family in the village and as the daughter of the principal she had a certain sense of duty and expectation. As soon as she could, she left for life in Dublin. Her one caution to herself had been not to marry her father’s type and, to her credit, she hadn’t. She had married a kind and supportive yet traditional man in Niall Murphy, a civil servant, and they in turn had bred a family of doctors.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Molly replied. ‘Word gets around here quickly.’

  ‘I meant it, you know. She’s an interesting lady.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’

  This comment intrigued Kitty and she wanted to find out more about Birdie from Molly. ‘Are you heading back to the city, by any chance? Fancy splitting a taxi?’

  ‘I’m going the other way, but I can drop you to Oldtown, if you like.’

  Kitty would take whatever she could get.

  ‘It’s Birdie’s birthday on Thursday,’ Kitty said. ‘I overheard her family asking her out for dinner.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘She says she won’t go.’

  Molly shrugged and a smile appeared briefly on her lips.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Something I should know?’

  ‘No.’

  Kitty didn’t believe her. ‘She’ll be eighty-five. Eighty-five. She should celebrate. Is there something you can do for her here?’

  ‘We usually have a cake. A chocolate one with candles. We bring it in during dinner and everyone sings. It’s nice. Birthdays don’t go unnoticed.’

  ‘I’d like to do something for her.’

  Molly looked at her. ‘You’re growing fond of her, aren’t you?’

  Kitty nodded.

  ‘Well, she won’t be here that day,’ she said, grabbing her leather jacket. ‘She’s taking a trip.’

  A swarm of residents arrived through the front door, conversation buzzing, and more piled out of the bus parked out front. The bus, an eighteen-seater, had St Margaret’s stencilled across the side.

  ‘They won the bowling match,’ Molly explained. ‘They play against teams from surrounding homes once a fortnight. You wouldn’t believe how serious they take it. I love being on driving duty, just so I can hear their tactics, and because I always wanted to be a bus driver when I was a kid, but they rarely let me. Fancy a lift to town?’

  Kitty took her up on her offer and as she sped along the potholed roads that led to the small village of Oldtown, on the back of Molly’s motorbike, she quickly understood why Molly wasn’t often allowed behind the wheel of the bus.

  Sitting in Oldtown, Kitty had over an hour to wait for a bus to the city. Pulling out the list of one hundred names, she pored over it and set to work.

  Magdalena Ludwiczak did not speak enough English to enable Kitty to have a decent conversation with her so she struck her off her list. Number five, Bartle Faulkner, was on holiday for the next fortnight, and she could hear the water lapping on the beach in the background. No, he hadn’t heard from Constance at all, and yes, he could meet up in two weeks when he was home, by which time it would be too late for Kitty’s story. Eugene Cullen, an old man, by the sound of it, told her in no uncertain terms never to call him again, and she left a message for Patrick Quinn.

  Kitty went back to the seventh name on her list.

  ‘Hello?’ The phone was answered in a whisper.

/>   ‘Is that Mary-Rose Godfrey?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I’m at work. I’m not supposed to be on the phone.’ The girl sounded about sixteen.

  ‘Okay,’ Kitty whispered, and then realised she didn’t need to and cleared her throat. ‘My name is Kitty Logan. I’m a journalist for Etcetera. Perhaps my editor Constance Dubois was in touch with you?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ the girl whispered.

  Kitty sighed and cut straight to the chase. ‘Can we meet?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. When?’

  Kitty straightened up, surprised. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, cool. I’ll be in Café en Seine at eight. Good for you?’

  ‘Great!’ Kitty couldn’t believe her luck.

  Mary-Rose hung up before they could arrange anything further like what Mary-Rose looked like or what Kitty looked like. When the bus arrived, Kitty jumped on with a spring in her step. Sitting down next to a man picking his nose and rolling the snot on the ball of his fingers couldn’t even dampen her mood. She examined her phone and contemplated sending Richie a message. She thought of the fun they’d had the night before and she smiled, then used her hand to block her face so that she wouldn’t look like a lunatic. But then she remembered how she’d felt that morning, awkward and cringing at the sight of his naked body. She decided against texting him. She took her notebooks out again; there was much work to be done. Though she had done it before, she Googled Archie Hamilton again, knowing a bit more about him now and what to focus on.

  By the time she reached Café en Seine, she knew exactly why he didn’t want to speak to her, and exactly why she wanted to speak to him more than ever.

  Kitty kissed the list before she entered the pub and thanked Constance again. She was beginning to enjoy this.