‘Nellie.’
‘And how on earth does she know?’
‘She keeps an ear out. You know Nellie…’
‘Mum,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, okay?’
‘So it is true then? You are going to sell it?’
‘I told you, nothing’s decided. And when it is, you and Nellie will be the first to know. Brian Crowley from the board of governors is coming in to school this week. He says he’s found a buyer.’
‘Now, I’ve heard a few things about him…’ she started.
‘Mum, it’s just because he wears a shirt and tie.’ Nora was always too quick to judge. She only liked men who wore cardigans, preferably hand-knitted. By themselves. ‘Listen, whatever happens, just trust me that it’s for the right reasons. And whatever happens is going to be appropriate and sensitive. There’s not going to be a housing estate or an industrial park. What would you say if the proposal was for a community centre? You’d like that wouldn’t you?’
‘I’d prefer the trees,’ she said, looking utterly unconvinced.
*
That evening, I was foraging in the fridge for dinner. Thank God for eggs, I thought.
‘Hi, sweetheart,’ I said, hearing Rosie come into the kitchen. ‘You’re in luck. Banquet time. Oh yes.’ I held up the eggs. ‘Omelettes!’
‘Omelettes!’ She looked aghast. ‘There’s nothing else, is there? You haven’t been shopping again. Other mothers are cooking and making everything nice for their daughters doing exams and you, you don’t bother…’
‘Well…’
‘Anyway, I don’t like omelettes.’ She sounded on the verge of tears.
‘Ro, don’t tell me you’re crying over an omelette?’ I almost laughed, thinking she might join in and all would be well. But instead, she burst into sobs. ‘Rosie,’ I said, rushing to her, ‘Rosie, what’s wrong, sweetheart?’ She pushed me away. ‘It’s an omelette. Only an omelette.’
She tried to speak. ‘All the other mums are cooking proper meals,’ she said. ‘They’re all cooking things like spaghetti bolognaise and shepherd’s pie.’
‘What?’ This was becoming a little too dramatic, I thought. Rosie wasn’t usually this emotional about food. She had always been relaxed about it, even when she became a vegetarian and, we all got over that shock, it was all pretty easy. We just upped the eggs and the tins of beans.
‘And Maeve’s mum is working through the Jamie Oliver cookbook for her,’ she went on, increasingly agitated. ‘They had koftas the other night.’
‘Koftas? I wished we lived with Maeve’s mum. Maybe she could move in with us.’ I tried to make her laugh, but she looked away, furious.
‘But we don’t, do we?’ she said, tearfully. ‘We don’t live with Maeve’s mum. We aren’t eating koftas. We’re having omelettes again because you can’t be bothered.’
‘Rosie, come on, sweetheart. This is ridiculous. Anyway, you’re a vegetarian. Koftas are made from lamb. Or chicken,’ I said, suddenly doubting myself. ‘Or whatever.’
‘That’s not the point!’ And she started to cry again.
‘Come here.’ For a moment, she stood there, not quite knowing what to do and then she walked towards me and let me put my arms around her and cried into my shoulder. I could feel the tears soaking through my shirt. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Sorry, Mum.’ She lifted her head and wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands.
‘It’s all right,’ I said gently. ‘You don’t have anything to be sorry about. You’re under pressure, that’s all, working for your exams.’ As soon as I said the word, her faced changed, as though a great shadow passed over her, making her sink further into herself. ‘Listen, I know they’re awful, but you’ll get through them, I know you will. Everything will be fine.’
‘Mum… I’m not feeling well.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know I’m not ill, it’s not that kind of not feeling well. It’s something else. Like my heart is racing or I feel all fluttery inside like there’s nothing left of me. Like I’m just empty. Like permanently hungry but nothing makes me feel better.’
‘And do you feel like this all the time?’ It was just exam stress, I reasoned. Normal exam stress. And it would be over soon. Not long to go. Rosie unpeeled herself from me and went to sit at the kitchen table.
‘No, forget I said anything. I’m fine. Just not getting enough sleep. That’s all.’ Her feet were up on the chair, her knees tucked up against her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. ‘It’s just that… it’s just…’ She rested her head on her knees for a moment, as though exhausted.
‘What? Tell me.’ I went and sat on the chair next to her and took her hand.
‘It wasn’t really anything,’ she said, lifting her head. Let’s just forget it. I just need some sugar. That’s all. A Mars bar or something!’ She tried to smile. ‘And a good night’s sleep. That’s what you always say, isn’t it? I think I’ll get an early night tonight. And, Mum?’
‘Yes?’ I knew what that panic felt like, when you believed you teetered on the brink of annihilation. But you always got through it. And Rosie would too.
‘I would love an omelette, if that’s okay.’
‘After your Mars bar or before?’
‘At the same time. Melted on top?’
Chapter Five
My closest friend, Clodagh Cassidy, is a newsreader and is practically the most famous person in the country. So well-known, that she once forgot her photo ID while taking a Ryanair flight to Paris and they let her on. I know.
After dinner, I sat down to watch the news. ‘If you were watching last night,’ Clodagh was saying on screen, ‘then you will have seen our goodbye to Cathal O’Callaghan, who, after thirty-five stalwart years of weather reporting has retired to pursue his other passion, stargazing in Kerry. Well, tonight we welcome Bridget O’Flaherty, who is stepping into Cathal’s shoes.’
The camera pulled into a wide shot and a tall woman, long red hair cascading down her back wearing an emerald green body-con dress came on screen. Smiling, Bridget gave a little wave of just her fingers. We hadn’t seen the like on Irish television since Riverdance, when everything went a little bit sexy and no one knew what to do with themselves. Except this wasn’t a little. This was a lot.
Bridget was now perching herself on the front of Clodagh’s desk. ‘I’m not literally filling Cathal’s shoes!’ She laughed. ‘I don’t do lace-ups. As you can see.’ She waggled a sky-scraper patent platform seductively. I detected a slight eye flicker from Clodagh to beyond the camera.
‘So, let’s get going, shall we?’ said Bridget.
The camera went to a close shot of Bridget as she began vaguely gesturing to a blue screen map of the country, but instead of the usual cloud or rain symbols, Ireland was dotted with emojis. Donegal had a thumbs-down on top of it. Galway had a wavy hand. Cork a thumbs-up and Dublin a crying with laughter face.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you all will be wondering if ye’ll need jackets tomorrow.’ A jacket emoji popped up on screen. ‘Well, in Donegal, bring your umbrellas…’ Umbrella emoji. ‘…in Cork pack a jumper…’ Jumper. ‘And the sun screen.’ Sunglasses sun. Bridget laughed. ‘And in Dublin, it’s looking to be another gorgeous day!’ She smiled for the camera, her head slightly cocked, looking right down the lens. ‘So, that’s it for this evening,’ ended Bridget. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ And she winked.
*
By 7.30 p.m., Clodagh was on my doorstep, still in TV make-up, looking like an impossibly glamorous, a hyperreal version of herself. I’d just come down from upstairs after taking Rosie up a cup of herbal tea, which was supposed to be relaxing. And a chocolate biscuit. I suspected that they would count each other out, but Rosie had looked quite pleased with both offerings. ‘You didn’t tell me?’ I knew exactly what she was referring to. Red. We’d all been friends at college.