Not content with dark skirts and white shirts, some marketing genius high up the corporate ladder had decided that the atmosphere of the Shamrock and Clover chain would benefit from genuine Irish clothing. This genuine Irish clothing had evidently been thought up by someone who believed that across Dublin, right this minute, businesswomen and checkout girls were pirouetting across their workplaces dressed in embroidered tabards, knee-high socks and laced-up dancing shoes, all in glittering emerald green. With accompanying ringlet wigs.
‘Jesus. If my boyfriend saw me dressed like this he’d dump me.’ Carly lit a cigarette, and climbed up on the sink to disable the smoke alarm on the ceiling. ‘Mind you, he’d probably want to do me first. The perv.’
‘What do the men have to wear?’ I pulled my short skirt out at the sides and eyed Carly’s lighter nervously, wondering how flammable I was.
‘Look outside. There’s only Richard. And he has to wear that shirt with a green logo. The poor thing.’
‘That’s it? No pixie shoes? Or little leprechaun hat?’
‘Surprise, surprise. It’s only us girls who have to work looking like porno Munchkins.’
‘I look like Dolly Parton: The Early Years in this wig.’
‘Grab a red one. Lucky us, we have a choice of three colours.’
From somewhere outside we could hear Richard calling. My stomach had begun to clench reflexively when I heard his voice.
‘Anyway, I’m not staying. I’m going to Riverdance my way out of this place and into another job,’ Carly said. ‘He can stick his bloody shamrocks up his tight little corporate arse.’ She had given what I could only describe as a sarcastic skip, and left the Ladies. I spent the rest of the day getting little electric shocks from the static.
The Moving On Circle ended at half past nine. I walked out into the humid summer evening, exhausted by the twin trials of work and the evening’s events. I took off my jacket, too hot, feeling suddenly that, having laid myself bare in front of a room full of strangers, being seen in a faux-Irish dancer uniform, which was, in truth, ever so slightly too small, didn’t really make much difference.
I hadn’t been able to talk about Will – not the way they talked, as if their loved ones were still part of their lives, perhaps in the next room.
– Oh yes, my Jilly used to do that all the time.
– I can’t delete my brother’s voicemail message. I have a little listen to his voice when I feel like I’m going to forget what he sounded like.
– Sometimes I can hear him in the next room.
I could barely even say Will’s name. And listening to their tales of family relationships, of thirty-year marriages, shared houses, lives, children, I felt like a fraud. I had been a carer for someone for six months. I’d loved him, and watched him end his life. How could these strangers possibly understand what Will and I had been to each other during that time? How could I explain the way we had so swiftly understood each other, the shorthand jokes, the blunt truths and raw secrets? How could I convey the way those short months had changed the way I felt about everything? The way he had skewed my world so totally that it made no sense without him in it?
And when it came down to it, what was the point in re-examining your sadness all the time anyway? It was like picking at a wound and refusing to let it heal. I knew what I had been part of. I knew what my role was. What was the point in going over and over it?
I wouldn’t come next week, I knew now. I would find an excuse for Dad.
I walked slowly across the car park, rummaging in my bag for my keys, telling myself it had at least meant that I hadn’t had to spend another evening alone in front of my television, dreading the passing of the twelve hours until I had to return to work.
‘His name wasn’t really Bill, right?’
Jake fell into step alongside me.
‘Nope.’
‘Daphne’s like a one-woman broadcasting corporation. She means well, but your personal story will be all over her social club before you can say Rodent Reincarnation.’
‘Thanks for that.’
He grinned at me, and nodded towards my Lurex skirt. ‘Nice threads, by the way. It’s a good look for a grief-counselling session.’ He stopped briefly to retie a shoelace.
I stopped with him. I hesitated, then said: ‘I’m sorry about your mum.’
His face was sombre. ‘You can’t say that. It’s like prison – you can’t ask someone what they’re in for.’
‘Really? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t –’
‘I’m joking. See you next week.’
A man leaning against a motorbike lifted a hand in greeting. He stepped forward as Jake crossed the car park and enveloped him in a bear hug, kissing his cheek. I stopped to watch, mostly because it was rare to see a man hug his son like that in public, once they were over satchel-carrying age.
‘How was it?’
‘Okay. The usual.’ Jake gestured to me. ‘Oh, this is … Louisa. She’s new.’
The man squinted at me. He was tall and broad-shouldered. A nose that might once have been broken gave him the faintly bruising appearance of a former boxer.
I nodded a polite greeting. ‘It was nice to meet you, Jake. Bye then.’ I lifted a hand, and began to make my way to my car. But as I passed the man he kept staring at me, and I felt myself colour under the intensity of his gaze. ‘You’re that girl,’ he said.
Oh, no, I thought, slowing suddenly. Not here too.
I stared at the ground for a moment and took a breath. Then I turned back to face them both. ‘Okay. As I’ve just made clear in the group, my friend made his own decisions. All I ever did was support them. Not that, if I’m honest, I really want to get into this right here and with a complete stranger.’
Jake’s father continued to squint at me. He lifted his hand to his head.
‘I understand that not everybody will get it. But that’s the way it was. I don’t feel I have to debate my choices. And I’m really tired and it’s been a bit of a day, and I think I’m going to go home now.’
He cocked his head to one side. And then he said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
I frowned.
‘The limp. I noticed you have a limp. You live near that massive new development, right? You’re the girl who fell off the roof. March. April.’
And suddenly I recognized him. ‘Oh – you were –’
‘The paramedic. We were the team who picked you up. I’d been wondering what happened to you.’
I almost buckled with relief. I let my gaze run over his face, his hair, his arms, suddenly recalling with Pavlovian accuracy his reassuring manner, the sound of the siren, the faint scent of lemons. And I let out a breath. ‘I’m good. Well. Not good exactly. I have a shot hip and a new boss who’s an utter arse and – you know – I’m at a grief-counselling club in a damp church hall with people who are just really, really …’
‘Sad,’ said Jake, helpfully.
‘The hip will get better. It’s plainly not hindering your dance career.’
My laugh emerged as a honk.
‘Oh. No. This is … The outfit is related to the boss who is an arse. Not my normal mode of dress. Anyway. Thank you. Wow …’ I put my hand to my head. ‘This is weird. You saved me.’
‘Jesus. If my boyfriend saw me dressed like this he’d dump me.’ Carly lit a cigarette, and climbed up on the sink to disable the smoke alarm on the ceiling. ‘Mind you, he’d probably want to do me first. The perv.’
‘What do the men have to wear?’ I pulled my short skirt out at the sides and eyed Carly’s lighter nervously, wondering how flammable I was.
‘Look outside. There’s only Richard. And he has to wear that shirt with a green logo. The poor thing.’
‘That’s it? No pixie shoes? Or little leprechaun hat?’
‘Surprise, surprise. It’s only us girls who have to work looking like porno Munchkins.’
‘I look like Dolly Parton: The Early Years in this wig.’
‘Grab a red one. Lucky us, we have a choice of three colours.’
From somewhere outside we could hear Richard calling. My stomach had begun to clench reflexively when I heard his voice.
‘Anyway, I’m not staying. I’m going to Riverdance my way out of this place and into another job,’ Carly said. ‘He can stick his bloody shamrocks up his tight little corporate arse.’ She had given what I could only describe as a sarcastic skip, and left the Ladies. I spent the rest of the day getting little electric shocks from the static.
The Moving On Circle ended at half past nine. I walked out into the humid summer evening, exhausted by the twin trials of work and the evening’s events. I took off my jacket, too hot, feeling suddenly that, having laid myself bare in front of a room full of strangers, being seen in a faux-Irish dancer uniform, which was, in truth, ever so slightly too small, didn’t really make much difference.
I hadn’t been able to talk about Will – not the way they talked, as if their loved ones were still part of their lives, perhaps in the next room.
– Oh yes, my Jilly used to do that all the time.
– I can’t delete my brother’s voicemail message. I have a little listen to his voice when I feel like I’m going to forget what he sounded like.
– Sometimes I can hear him in the next room.
I could barely even say Will’s name. And listening to their tales of family relationships, of thirty-year marriages, shared houses, lives, children, I felt like a fraud. I had been a carer for someone for six months. I’d loved him, and watched him end his life. How could these strangers possibly understand what Will and I had been to each other during that time? How could I explain the way we had so swiftly understood each other, the shorthand jokes, the blunt truths and raw secrets? How could I convey the way those short months had changed the way I felt about everything? The way he had skewed my world so totally that it made no sense without him in it?
And when it came down to it, what was the point in re-examining your sadness all the time anyway? It was like picking at a wound and refusing to let it heal. I knew what I had been part of. I knew what my role was. What was the point in going over and over it?
I wouldn’t come next week, I knew now. I would find an excuse for Dad.
I walked slowly across the car park, rummaging in my bag for my keys, telling myself it had at least meant that I hadn’t had to spend another evening alone in front of my television, dreading the passing of the twelve hours until I had to return to work.
‘His name wasn’t really Bill, right?’
Jake fell into step alongside me.
‘Nope.’
‘Daphne’s like a one-woman broadcasting corporation. She means well, but your personal story will be all over her social club before you can say Rodent Reincarnation.’
‘Thanks for that.’
He grinned at me, and nodded towards my Lurex skirt. ‘Nice threads, by the way. It’s a good look for a grief-counselling session.’ He stopped briefly to retie a shoelace.
I stopped with him. I hesitated, then said: ‘I’m sorry about your mum.’
His face was sombre. ‘You can’t say that. It’s like prison – you can’t ask someone what they’re in for.’
‘Really? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t –’
‘I’m joking. See you next week.’
A man leaning against a motorbike lifted a hand in greeting. He stepped forward as Jake crossed the car park and enveloped him in a bear hug, kissing his cheek. I stopped to watch, mostly because it was rare to see a man hug his son like that in public, once they were over satchel-carrying age.
‘How was it?’
‘Okay. The usual.’ Jake gestured to me. ‘Oh, this is … Louisa. She’s new.’
The man squinted at me. He was tall and broad-shouldered. A nose that might once have been broken gave him the faintly bruising appearance of a former boxer.
I nodded a polite greeting. ‘It was nice to meet you, Jake. Bye then.’ I lifted a hand, and began to make my way to my car. But as I passed the man he kept staring at me, and I felt myself colour under the intensity of his gaze. ‘You’re that girl,’ he said.
Oh, no, I thought, slowing suddenly. Not here too.
I stared at the ground for a moment and took a breath. Then I turned back to face them both. ‘Okay. As I’ve just made clear in the group, my friend made his own decisions. All I ever did was support them. Not that, if I’m honest, I really want to get into this right here and with a complete stranger.’
Jake’s father continued to squint at me. He lifted his hand to his head.
‘I understand that not everybody will get it. But that’s the way it was. I don’t feel I have to debate my choices. And I’m really tired and it’s been a bit of a day, and I think I’m going to go home now.’
He cocked his head to one side. And then he said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
I frowned.
‘The limp. I noticed you have a limp. You live near that massive new development, right? You’re the girl who fell off the roof. March. April.’
And suddenly I recognized him. ‘Oh – you were –’
‘The paramedic. We were the team who picked you up. I’d been wondering what happened to you.’
I almost buckled with relief. I let my gaze run over his face, his hair, his arms, suddenly recalling with Pavlovian accuracy his reassuring manner, the sound of the siren, the faint scent of lemons. And I let out a breath. ‘I’m good. Well. Not good exactly. I have a shot hip and a new boss who’s an utter arse and – you know – I’m at a grief-counselling club in a damp church hall with people who are just really, really …’
‘Sad,’ said Jake, helpfully.
‘The hip will get better. It’s plainly not hindering your dance career.’
My laugh emerged as a honk.
‘Oh. No. This is … The outfit is related to the boss who is an arse. Not my normal mode of dress. Anyway. Thank you. Wow …’ I put my hand to my head. ‘This is weird. You saved me.’
