by Marian Keyes
“Let’s ask the woman herself. Ellen, are you worried?”
“Ah, sure, I’m just getting old,” Ellen said.
But Lydia saw the little flicker. Ellen knew that something somewhere was gone a bit wonky, but like everyone else—Murdy, Ronnie, Raymond, Buddy here—she didn’t want to know what it was.
“You heard your mother. I’ve a waiting room out there full of real sick people so don’t be wasting my time.”
“Look, just send her for the scan and then we can see.”
Buddy rolled his eyes at Ellen. “Kids! Sent to try us. See you Thursday night, Ellen.”
“Please,” Lydia said. “Please would you refer her for a scan? She can’t have one without a letter from you.”
“And I’m not writing it because there’s nothing wrong with her. Good day to you.”
Lydia walked away. A doctor with decades of experience had said that Mum was okay. But she knew he was wrong. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Ellen she was losing it in case he was bounced from the quiz team. Since his wife had died, he was lonely. Thursday nights meant a lot to him.
What else could Lydia do? Wait until Mum got worse, then try again?
And lo and behold, Mum got worse. She had always been house-proud and germ-aware but, overnight, she abandoned all cleaning duties. Lydia arrived one icy Sunday afternoon to find every pot and pan and plate and cup her mum possessed piled in higgledy-piggledy, teetering stacks. There was a strange smell—a smelly smell. Gone-off meat or something. Christ! And there was no reasoning with her. It was like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Her mother seemed to have been replaced by an entirely different woman. And Ronnie and Murdy did nothing—nothing!—to help. It was amazing to her, fucking amazing, that they would let their mum live in this squalor. But what was worse was that Mum didn’t mind. She didn’t even notice.
To prevent an outbreak of bubonic plague Lydia drove down from Dublin every five or six days and cleaned like a fury.
Fury is right. Now I understand why she wouldn’t wash up after herself. Which hardly seems fair to poor Andrei and Jan. Not that I’m here to judge. Or am I . . .?
The next thing to go was Ellen’s grip on numbers. Not always, some days she was grand, but on other days her understanding of decimal points went haywire and a five euro note became the same as a fifty. A bad business when you drove a taxi and had to deal with money. Heated exchanges ensued when Ellen vastly overcharged customers. Worse again, certainly as far as Lydia was concerned, was when Ellen started giving change from a hundred euro to those who’d proffered a tenner. (Flan Ramble was particularly gleeful about this glitch in Ellen’s sanity. “I could have come home that night ninety euro to the good. Only that I’m an honest joe. But there’s plenty knocking around town who’re buying drinks for everyone in the house.”)
Ellen stopped paying her bills. Because she stopped being able to write her signature. Because she was no longer convinced about who she was. (“Is that my name, Lydia? It doesn’t feel right.”)
Lydia brought each new set of problems to her brothers and laid them at their feet like a cat with a dead crow, and they responded to each offering with a variety of deflections: that Lydia was a drama queen; that Ellen was menopausal; that care of the sick was women’s work.
“You should come home and mind her,” Raymond said. “You’re the only one with no ties.”
“Fecking Ronnie has no ties!”
But Ronnie was a man.
Lydia spent most of her waking life being eaten up by corrosive rage. She was twenty-six, she wasn’t meant to have these sorts of worries, it was all wrong. She was the baby of the family, the only girl; her brothers were meant to be sappy and dotey about her. Bastards.
Now and then, just for the variety, she’d swap feeling homicidal with resentment for feeling sick with dread, wondering what form Ellen’s next caper would take and when it would hit. The only thing that stopped her going mental from fear was the certainty that sooner or later something freaky enough would happen to make the lads take notice.
Sure enough, the kitchen curtains went up in smoke a couple of weeks back and it was a proper fire: the window panes had cracked from the heat, the ceiling paint had blistered so badly it would have to be redone and the walls were as black as pitch. If it hadn’t been for beady-eyed Flan Ramble, who spotted it before the whole house took, who knew what would have happened. But Murdy, Ronnie and Raymond (and Ellen, actually) insisted that no, the house had never been in danger of burning down, and Lydia realized that it was time for a fresh assault on Fuckbucket Scutt.
“A letter for a scan,” Lydia told his receptionist (Peggy Routhy, as it happened). “I’m not leaving until he writes it. And I’m good at waiting. All taxi drivers are. In Dublin, sometimes I have to wait eleven hours before I get a fare.”
Peggy Routhy entered the inner sanctum and, in ringing tones, urged Buddy Scutt to let Lydia “whistle.” Clearly, Peggy still held a grudge over being charged for the trip to the maternity hospital while she was in labor. Small towns, Lydia thought, with contempt. No such thing as professional detachment, personal relationships colored everything.
Peggy returned from the office and smirked at Lydia. “No go.”
Grand. She could wait. “Hello, Mrs. Tanner,” she said loudly. “What’s up with you? Bad chest? Don’t know why you’re here to see this gobshite. He hasn’t a clue. He should be struck off. STRUCK OFF, I’m telling you. Wait till I tell you how he misdiagnosed my poor mum—”
Peggy Routhy got buzzed into the office, and after an absence of several minutes she reappeared with an envelope, which she handed to Lydia.
“For Mum’s scan?”
“No.”
Lydia jumped to her feet and barged into Scutt’s office.
“You can’t go in there without an appointment!”
Scutt was behind his desk.
“What’s this?” Lydia waved the envelope.
“Sending her for a second opinion,” he said. “If he thinks your mother needs a scan, which I very much doubt, he can refer her. But I’m not doing it.”
The scan had become a point of principle, Lydia realized. A personal struggle between herself and Scutt. He wouldn’t give in. He couldn’t. It would mean that he was admitting he’d been wrong.
“Who are you sending her to? It’s got to be an expert.” Someone who knew about memory loss, confusion—yeah, okay, Alzheimer’s, she may as well admit it, because even though the word terrified her, her internet searches kept coming back to it. “A doctor who knows about mums turning into madzers. And not anyone who knows Mum personally. Not some fool like you.”
“William Copeland is his name,” Buddy said unpleasantly. “Consultant neurologist, a whiz with madzers.”
Day 37 . . .
Katie turned the page of the storybook and kept reading and, in her crib, Vivienne sighed with sleepy pleasure.
. . and the king of the fairies said to Killian, “You have succeeded in your task. You may have your wish. You can become all-knowing.”
“Now I will leave this place,” Killian said. “And show everyone my great knowledge.”
The king said, “Not so fast.”
Katie stopped reading and looked doubtfully at the cover of the book. Celtic Myths, it alleged. Something called The Man Who Knew Everything. Not a story she’d ever encountered before tonight.
Vivienne stirred in her crib—why had the story stopped?—and hastily Katie continued reading.
“Only as a spirit can you be all-knowing. You must surrender your life.”
Killian was angry. “You have tricked me,” he said. “And how come, if I am all-knowing, I did not know about this?”
The king of the fairies was compassionate. “You did not read the small print. Never was it said that you would know everything. It was said you would have the ability to know everything—but you would have to work for it.”
This was the oddest bloody story, Katie thought, looking again at the cove
r. It was unbelievable the kind of shit that got published. But she might as well finish it. Vivienne seemed to be enjoying it.
“I do not wish to surrender my life,” Killian said.
“You must. Human beings cannot know everything,” the king of the fairies said. “The burden would be too great to be carried.”
“Let me live.”
In sorrow, the king said, “The time for that is passed, your life is claimed. You may choose to be born into a new life, but when you become mortal again all your knowledge will vanish. What do you choose? Knowledge or Life?”
Killian considered, but the choice was an easy one. “Life.”
“You may decide whom you wish to be born to. Use your great knowledge. Choose wisely.”
There were many people, the length and breadth of Ireland, whom Killian could choose from. He visited the north, the south, the east, the west, calling upon the blessed, the beautiful, the rich, the clever. But his heart led him to one couple, humble, good people, who loved each other deeply, so much so that their souls had merged and become as one. “This man and this woman have the purest hearts in all the land. They have endured much sorrow but I could make them happy.”
“Go.”
When Killian’s spirit had become housed within his new mother, the king of the fairies tapped Killian on the head. “With this touch, I retrieve your knowledge and gift you with innocence in order that you may be born again.”
Killian began to tingle and spark. Like an incoming tide washing away traces on the sand, he disappeared little by little, clearing the way for his soul to be rewritten by a brand-new person.
And the man and woman, humble, good people, kind and loving companions who shared the one soul, who had endured many sorrows in their lives, who had lived through times of fear and loneliness and despair, were full of heart and restored to happiness and love when they learned that their baby had fi nally been sent to them.
THE END
And that was it. Katie flicked forward a few pages, wondering if she’d missed something, but it didn’t look like it. How . . . odd. Despite the strangeness of the story, Vivienne had fallen asleep, her face sweet and peaceful in the glow of the pink night-light. Katie tiptoed from the room and hurried to the kitchen, ready for her glass of wine.
“The Man Who Knows Everything?” she said to MaryRose. “It was really weird.”
“Never heard of it. She has so many books in there.”
“Nothing like what we were told as kids.”
“Because we were told the one about the good girl with long hair who gets rescued by a prince with a company Lexus and a job in the finance sector.”
Katie’s face crumpled and slowly she lowered herself into the sofa.
“Have wine, have wine.” Anxiously, MaryRose thrust a glass at her.
“I’m drinking too much.”
“Good, good. At least you’re taking care of yourself.”
“I was doing okay, you know.” Katie looked up beseechingly. “I was doing grand. The first few days I was downright fecking blasé. I’d got so sick of being let down, I was certain I was doing the right thing. But I hadn’t thought it through. Every morning, no matter where he was, I used to read out my thought for the day from my diary . . . and now I can’t any more.”
“Here’s my phone. Ring him. Just say yes.”
She’d told MaryRose about the proposal. She’d told everyone because she wanted them to talk her into it.
“But he was a little pissed off. If I’d said yes, we’d have gone right back to me being number five or six on his priority list. Wouldn’t I?”
“Maybe he’s learned his lesson.”
But what if he hadn’t? “I’d have had to go through all this again at some stage. I’ve already done ten days of agony. I can’t waste them.”
MaryRose tried to top up Katie’s glass, even though it was brimming over.
“I just have to keep going.” Katie managed a watery smile. “When you think about it, my life is so good. I have my friends and my sister and my job—”
“And shoes! You have such beautiful shoes.”
“Yes—”
“And cake! Not much in life that can’t be fixed by cake.”
“Cake, yes, cake.”
But after an uneasy pause, Katie toppled forward until her forehead was almost on her knees. “I’m always going to be the childless woman who has to read bedtime stories to other people’s kids.”
“You could have a baby! If that’s what you wanted.”
“It’s just that now there’s no chance of . . . anything.” Katie addressed her lap. “I might as well be dead.”
“But you don’t have to be childless or dead or in Nantes with that Hortense—Conall asked you to marry him! He’s learned his lesson, he loves you, he’s serious about a future with you.”
“But what if he isn’t, MaryRose? What if I’m just fooling myself? And I think I am, you know. Fooling myself, I mean. Oh God, I don’t know what to do!”
Day 37 . . .
Dinner, telly, cookies, more cookies, bed—didn’t they ever get bored, Matt and Maeve? No wonder Maeve had to risk her life every day on her bike; it was the only way to ensure she got a bit of excitement.
They were lying on their couch, watching a holiday-home-in-the-sun show, but Maeve’s mind was far away, thinking, for some reason, about when she and Matt had got engaged.
Before they told anyone, Natalie had guessed.
“Fast work!” she said.
“It’s been five months.”
Indecently soon, perhaps.
“But when you know, you know, right?” Maeve said.
“Congratulations.” Nat grinned. “Throw the bouquet my way.”
“You’re a star, Nat, so you are,” Maeve said.
“Poor David’s not going to be happy,” Nat warned. “He’s still waiting for the two of you to break up.”
“Oh God.” Maeve shoved her face into her hands. “You know, I think I’m going to leave Goliath and try to get a job someplace else. It’s too tough on David, seeing Matt and me every day.”
“He really hasn’t forgiven you.” Natalie made it sound almost funny.
“I know and the guilt is wrecking my head.” David was still refusing to talk to Maeve—and, of course, Matt—and he showed no interest in hooking up with any other girls.
“It’s his ego,” Natalie said. “He just couldn’t believe a newbie like you would dump him.”
“Don’t say that. He’s entitled to his feelings. But I want to keep this engagement business as low key as possible, I don’t want to be rubbing his nose in it.”
However, all that changed when Hilary Geary insisted she absolutely must throw an engagement party in her gracious Carrickmines home. “It would be a sin not to mark this happy, happy occasion!” Hilary said. “We’ll greet the guests with champagne cocktails,” she said, writing in her notebook. “And we’ll have a full bar in the dining room. And you must invite everyone from your work! It’s not every day that the most beautiful girl in the world agrees to marry your son!”
Maeve had a pretty good idea that she wasn’t exactly the kind of girl that Hilary Geary would have picked for her son (she’d probably have preferred someone who was more into clothes and manicures and table arrangements), but if Hilary had reservations about Maeve, you’d never know. Hilary kept going on about how gorgeous Maeve was, what wonderful skin she had, how perfect she was for Matt and how beautiful she’d be in her wedding dress.
Maeve quite liked the idea of a party—except for the worry of David.
“We can’t,” Maeve told Matt. “It would upset David too much.”
“We have to. We haven’t a hope of stopping Mum,” Matt said. “Any excuse for a drink. I mean it—I know what she’s like. That party is happening, one way or the other.”
So should they invite David or should they not? Maeve agonized.
“It’d be a right poke in the eye not to invite him, but will it l
ook like we’re gloating if we do?”
“Look, just invite him and let him make up his own mind,” Matt said.
“No, Matt, please . . . it’s not so simple. He’s upset.”
“It’s like this, Maeve: he wanted you, I wanted you, I got you. End of. Time for us all to move on.”
“You’re too pragmatic.”
“That’s right. I’m brutal.” He nudged her and she smiled in response, then said ruefully, “Matt, have a heart, think of his feelings.”
“I have been thinking of his feelings. I’ve done it for the last five months. And, actually, for the three months before that as well. That’s enough.”
“Okay, I’ll invite him.”
When he hadn’t responded one way or the other by the day of the party, Matt said, “I guess we can take that as a no.” Maeve wasn’t so sure. She half-expected the guests to arrive and find their way into Hilary and Walter’s beautiful detached home barred by David and a group of his sympathizers, carrying pickets and noisily urging them to boycott the event.
But it all went off fine. David didn’t come and Maeve didn’t know whether to be sorry or relieved.
Day 37 . . .
The real pisser, Lydia felt, was that Ellen had the ability to hold it together for short periods of time. When she guided her mum into the office of William Copeland, she almost had to stop herself from saying: Here’s my mum, just give us the referral for the scan and we’ll be on our way. But the neurologist insisted on “drawing out” Ellen, who responded by chatting charmingly. In response to his gentle questioning, she correctly name-checked the president, then—and this is what killed Lydia—she could do basic sums. The woman who was lining the pockets of half of Boyne by not being able to recognize a tenner, was able to multiply six by twelve. Then, oh fecking then, she aced a short—very easy, Lydia noted anxiously—IQ test.
