‘No, it’s OK.’ Anyway, I couldn’t remember which shop – all I knew was it was in Grafton Street. Next thing I know, Garv is placing a pad in front of me. ‘Draw them,’ he says. ‘Put down colour, size, everything you know about them.’
I tried to talk him out of it, but he was insistent. Which only made me feel worse. It was a sign of how bad things were, of how close we were to toppling over the edge, if he had to employ such extreme measures to try to make me happy.
Like a private eye, he pounded the pavements in the centre of Dublin, armed only with my diagram. He went into shoe shop after shoe shop with the folded bit of paper, asking people, ‘Have you seen these shoes?’
He tried Zerep, who didn’t have them, but thought that Fitzpatrick’s might. Fitzpatrick’s hadn’t seen them either and tried to send him to Clarks. But Garv said I wouldn’t have been in Clarks, that their shoes were too comfortable, so they suggested he try Jezzie. Who tried to fob him off with a pair that were too low and didn’t have a ridged sole. Off his own bat Garv tried Korkys, and though the staff couldn’t help, a customer – a shoe aficionado – overheard and insisted that the sandals were in Carl Scarpa. And sure enough, paydirt was hit in Carl Scarpa.
‘I just hope they fit,’ Garv said, opening the bag when he got home.
‘They’ll fit.’ I was quite prepared to chop my toes off, if necessary. I was so appalled at the trouble he’d gone to, especially in view of my unworthiness, that I wouldn’t have been able to admit to anything being wrong.
He held them up. ‘Are they the right ones?’
I nodded.
‘Your ruby slippers,’ he said, handing them over. And though they weren’t ruby – more of a turquoise, really – or slippers, I put them on, clicked my heels together three times and said, ‘There’s no place like home.’
Tightly we held on to each other and for a while there I thought we might make it. Isn’t it strange that sometimes the memory of an act of kindness can cause more pain than the cruel stuff?
Meanwhile, Floyd just didn’t give a damn whether the bag containing my sandals and everything else ever turned up.
‘Where is it?’ I begged. ‘It’s been lost for nearly a week now.’
Floyd fixed me with a dazzling melon-wide grin. ‘Relax, mon.’
And maybe in other circumstances I would have. Perhaps if I’d had a proper night’s sleep in the previous month, if my nerves hadn’t been stretched see-through, if I hadn’t hung so much hope on this holiday. Instead I heard myself shout, ‘No, I won’t fucking relax.’
Garv put his hands on my shoulders and firmly marched me to a pretty white bench. ‘Sit here,’ he ordered. Resentfully I sat while Garv leant over the desk at Floyd. ‘Now listen to me,’ he threatened. ‘That’s my wife. She hasn’t been well. She’s come here to feel better. There’s no beach, the weather is shite, the least you could do is find her bag.’
But despite his macho intervention, the bag didn’t turn up till the final day and our mood didn’t turn up at all.
At the airport coming home, the pall of depression that hung over the pair of us could almost have been photographed. We’d thought the holiday would heal us, but it had only highlighted the divisions. Not only was I not pregnant but we were further apart than we’d ever been.
As I thought about all the terrible things that had happened with the weather and the bag and the food poisoning (oh yes, two gippy tummies, one overworked bathroom, let’s not go there), I wondered if Garv and I were jinxed. Then an unexpected terror got me as I understood that the disasters had actually been the best thing about the holiday – because they meant Garv and I had had things to talk about. The only times we’d been animated or in agreement had been when we were venting about what a kip it was or when we were planning the various tortures we’d inflict on the JCB drivers or Floyd or the chef who had given us the dodgy swordfish.
For the first time ever, as far as I could remember, Garv and I were running out of things to say to each other.
36
The exity bit of LAX, where the recent arrivals emerge, was choked with people waiting. As well as the Dublin plane, a flight had recently landed from Manila, and another from Bogota, and it looked like thousands of relatives had turned out to greet the passengers. I’d already spent almost forty minutes standing with a stretched neck, being jostled and shunted by the vacuum-packed throng. Every time the glass doors slid back to reveal yet another family group, a happy wail went up from somewhere, and a fresh heave had me stumbling all over my neighbours as people sought to burrow through to their visitors.
The more time that passed without my lot appearing, the more lighthearted I became – they must have missed the plane. Great, I could go home to Ireland. What a pity I hadn’t thought to bring my stuff with me, I could just have left there and then. But at the exact moment I’d decided they definitely weren’t coming, my senses pricked up and my hopes slid away. I still couldn’t see them, but I knew they were about to show – not thanks to any sixth sense, but because I could hear them, their voices raised in disagreement.
And then they appeared. Mum with a mysteriously orange face – the mystery was explained later when I saw the palms of her hands, also a browny-orange colour. She’d been at the fake tan again. No matter how many times we told her she just couldn’t handle it, she wouldn’t listen.
I caught a quick glimpse of Dad, almost invisible behind an overladen trolley. He was wearing khaki shorts. Fetchingly accessorized with varicose veins, argyle socks and black laceups. Behind him came Anna, and I got a surprise – actually, a shock – when I saw her. She’d had her hair cut – styled. She looked great. And then came Helen, her long, dark hair glossy, her green eyes sparkling, her mouth curved in a contemptuous smile as she surveyed the waiting multitude. Even from a distance, I could see what she was mouthing: ‘Where the fuck is she?’ With a sigh, I positioned my elbows outwards, like I was about to do the Birdie Song, and prepared to push.
The reason for the delay? One of Anna’s bags hadn’t turned up, and only after they’d filled out the forms was it spotted taking a twirl for itself on the Bogota carousel. Also the trolley wasn’t helping. Capricious and unpredictable, it had caused skinned ankles and bruised calves all round. Put it this way – if it was a dog, you’d have muzzled it.
I tried to talk him out of it, but he was insistent. Which only made me feel worse. It was a sign of how bad things were, of how close we were to toppling over the edge, if he had to employ such extreme measures to try to make me happy.
Like a private eye, he pounded the pavements in the centre of Dublin, armed only with my diagram. He went into shoe shop after shoe shop with the folded bit of paper, asking people, ‘Have you seen these shoes?’
He tried Zerep, who didn’t have them, but thought that Fitzpatrick’s might. Fitzpatrick’s hadn’t seen them either and tried to send him to Clarks. But Garv said I wouldn’t have been in Clarks, that their shoes were too comfortable, so they suggested he try Jezzie. Who tried to fob him off with a pair that were too low and didn’t have a ridged sole. Off his own bat Garv tried Korkys, and though the staff couldn’t help, a customer – a shoe aficionado – overheard and insisted that the sandals were in Carl Scarpa. And sure enough, paydirt was hit in Carl Scarpa.
‘I just hope they fit,’ Garv said, opening the bag when he got home.
‘They’ll fit.’ I was quite prepared to chop my toes off, if necessary. I was so appalled at the trouble he’d gone to, especially in view of my unworthiness, that I wouldn’t have been able to admit to anything being wrong.
He held them up. ‘Are they the right ones?’
I nodded.
‘Your ruby slippers,’ he said, handing them over. And though they weren’t ruby – more of a turquoise, really – or slippers, I put them on, clicked my heels together three times and said, ‘There’s no place like home.’
Tightly we held on to each other and for a while there I thought we might make it. Isn’t it strange that sometimes the memory of an act of kindness can cause more pain than the cruel stuff?
Meanwhile, Floyd just didn’t give a damn whether the bag containing my sandals and everything else ever turned up.
‘Where is it?’ I begged. ‘It’s been lost for nearly a week now.’
Floyd fixed me with a dazzling melon-wide grin. ‘Relax, mon.’
And maybe in other circumstances I would have. Perhaps if I’d had a proper night’s sleep in the previous month, if my nerves hadn’t been stretched see-through, if I hadn’t hung so much hope on this holiday. Instead I heard myself shout, ‘No, I won’t fucking relax.’
Garv put his hands on my shoulders and firmly marched me to a pretty white bench. ‘Sit here,’ he ordered. Resentfully I sat while Garv leant over the desk at Floyd. ‘Now listen to me,’ he threatened. ‘That’s my wife. She hasn’t been well. She’s come here to feel better. There’s no beach, the weather is shite, the least you could do is find her bag.’
But despite his macho intervention, the bag didn’t turn up till the final day and our mood didn’t turn up at all.
At the airport coming home, the pall of depression that hung over the pair of us could almost have been photographed. We’d thought the holiday would heal us, but it had only highlighted the divisions. Not only was I not pregnant but we were further apart than we’d ever been.
As I thought about all the terrible things that had happened with the weather and the bag and the food poisoning (oh yes, two gippy tummies, one overworked bathroom, let’s not go there), I wondered if Garv and I were jinxed. Then an unexpected terror got me as I understood that the disasters had actually been the best thing about the holiday – because they meant Garv and I had had things to talk about. The only times we’d been animated or in agreement had been when we were venting about what a kip it was or when we were planning the various tortures we’d inflict on the JCB drivers or Floyd or the chef who had given us the dodgy swordfish.
For the first time ever, as far as I could remember, Garv and I were running out of things to say to each other.
36
The exity bit of LAX, where the recent arrivals emerge, was choked with people waiting. As well as the Dublin plane, a flight had recently landed from Manila, and another from Bogota, and it looked like thousands of relatives had turned out to greet the passengers. I’d already spent almost forty minutes standing with a stretched neck, being jostled and shunted by the vacuum-packed throng. Every time the glass doors slid back to reveal yet another family group, a happy wail went up from somewhere, and a fresh heave had me stumbling all over my neighbours as people sought to burrow through to their visitors.
The more time that passed without my lot appearing, the more lighthearted I became – they must have missed the plane. Great, I could go home to Ireland. What a pity I hadn’t thought to bring my stuff with me, I could just have left there and then. But at the exact moment I’d decided they definitely weren’t coming, my senses pricked up and my hopes slid away. I still couldn’t see them, but I knew they were about to show – not thanks to any sixth sense, but because I could hear them, their voices raised in disagreement.
And then they appeared. Mum with a mysteriously orange face – the mystery was explained later when I saw the palms of her hands, also a browny-orange colour. She’d been at the fake tan again. No matter how many times we told her she just couldn’t handle it, she wouldn’t listen.
I caught a quick glimpse of Dad, almost invisible behind an overladen trolley. He was wearing khaki shorts. Fetchingly accessorized with varicose veins, argyle socks and black laceups. Behind him came Anna, and I got a surprise – actually, a shock – when I saw her. She’d had her hair cut – styled. She looked great. And then came Helen, her long, dark hair glossy, her green eyes sparkling, her mouth curved in a contemptuous smile as she surveyed the waiting multitude. Even from a distance, I could see what she was mouthing: ‘Where the fuck is she?’ With a sigh, I positioned my elbows outwards, like I was about to do the Birdie Song, and prepared to push.
The reason for the delay? One of Anna’s bags hadn’t turned up, and only after they’d filled out the forms was it spotted taking a twirl for itself on the Bogota carousel. Also the trolley wasn’t helping. Capricious and unpredictable, it had caused skinned ankles and bruised calves all round. Put it this way – if it was a dog, you’d have muzzled it.
