Rachel's Holiday
Page 59

On Friday, Neil’s girlfriend, Mandy, came. For some reason I had expected a dolly-bird in a short skirt and heavy eyeliner. But Mandy could have been Emer’s older, dowdier sister. It seemed to me that Neil was looking for a mother-figure. Mandy confirmed what everyone already knew. That Neil drank an awful lot and was fond of giving his women a slap and breaking the occasional bone.
Thursday night was Narcotics Anonymous night.
When I’d looked at the notice board the first day, there had seemed to be millions of meetings. But in actuality there was only one a week. As it was my first meeting, I was curious. Almost excited. But it was just mad stuff.
What happened was, me, Vincent, Chris, Fergus, Nancy the housewife, Neil and two or three others trooped off to the Library. Where a beautiful, blonde woman with a Cork accent sat with us and tried to pretend that she’d been a heroin addict until seven years before.
She was called Nola, at least that’s what she said her name was. But she was so poised and glamorous that just by looking at her I could tell she’d never had a day’s debauchery in her life. She must have been an actress that the Cloisters used to try and convince the druggies that they could get better. But she didn’t fool me.
She asked me if I’d like to say anything and, startled, I mumbled that I wouldn’t. I was afraid she’d be cross with me. But she gave me such a beautiful dazzling smile that I wanted to climb into her pocket and stay with her. I thought she was gorgeous.
Two nice things happened that week, in the midst of my Luke-induced rage and confusion. First, I came to the end of my week on breakfasts and was now on Clarence’s lunch team, which meant lie-ins and no eggs. Secondly, I was weighed by Margot, one of the nurses, and I was under eight-and-a-half stone, which I had fantasized about for most of my life.
But when she said ‘Good, you’ve put on a couple of pounds,’ I was mystified.
‘Since when?’ I asked.
‘Since the day you arrived.’
‘How do you know how heavy I was then?’
‘Because we weighed you.’ She looked interested and pulled a white card towards her. ‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No.’ I was really puzzled.
‘Not to worry,’ she smiled, writing on the card. ‘Most people are in such a chemical fog the day they arrive here that they don’t know which end is up. It takes a while for the mists to clear.’
‘Haven’t the others been commenting on how thin you are?’ she asked.
They had, at times. How had she known?
‘Yes,’ I faltered,’ but I didn’t believe them, I just thought because they were farmers and the like, they wanted a fine hoult of a woman, as they say, with calf-bearing hips and the strength to walk four miles with a sheep under each arm and cook up a field full of spuds for the tea each evening and…’
You couldn’t make a joke about anything. As I said all that, Margot wrote furiously on the white card.
‘It’s a joke,’ I said scornfully, and looked meaningfully at the card.
Margot smiled conspiratorially at me. ‘Rachel, even jokes tell us plenty.’
There was no full-length mirror for me to verify Margot’s findings against. But as I tentatively felt my hipbones and ribs I realized I must have lost weight – the hipbones hadn’t been so clear of blubber since I was ten. While this truly elated me, I had no idea how it had happened. Years of attendance at the gym hadn’t made any impact before. Maybe I had been lucky enough to come by a tapeworm.
One thing was for sure, though, I promised fiercely, now that I had lost it, I was determined not to put it on again. No more Pringles, no more biscuits, no more eating between meals. No more eating at meals, for that matter. That should take care of things.
And before I knew it, we had reached the end of the week, raced through the cookery class and games of Saturday, and suddenly it was Sunday again.
32
On this Sunday, I was allowed visitors. What I was hoping was that Anna would come to visit with a narcotic or two about her person. I was no longer worried about drugs showing up in a random blood test. On the contrary, if they threw me out I’d be delighted.
In the unpleasant event of Anna not coming, I had a letter already written for her, for Dad or someone to ferry back, requesting that she hotfoot it out to Wicklow with a bag of drugs under her oxter for me.
While I was looking forward to some visitors, I was worried about a couple of things. First I was dreading the great mirth that would issue forth from Helen when she learned that there was no gym, swimming pool or massages. And that there were no celebrities currently in residence.
But, worse than that, I was afraid of my mother. I was dreading seeing her disappointed, martyred eyes.
Maybe she won’t come, I thought. There was a brief flare of hope before I realized that if she didn’t come, it would be far worse than if she did.
Finally, my nerves stretched to screaming point, I saw our car turn into the drive. I could hardly believe it when I saw Mum sitting in the front seat beside Dad. I would have expected her to be lying in the back covered by a blanket in case someone saw her and put two and two together. But instead there she was as bold as brass, sitting upright, without even dark glasses, a balaclava or a wide-brimmed hat. My spirits rallied until I noticed I could only see one person in the back of the car. I prayed for it to be Anna. Anna and lots of drugs.
But as the car door opened, even from my window I could hear the voices raised in argument. With acute disappointment, I realized the person was Helen.
‘Why do you have to drive so slowly?’ she was shouting, as she got out of the car. She was wearing a long coat and a furry hat, Dr Zhivago style. She looked stunning.
‘Because the shagging roads are icy!’ Dad shouted back, red-faced and flustered. ‘Feck off and let me drive the car my way.’
‘Stopit, stopit,’ hissed Mum, laden down with bags. ‘What’ll they think of us?’
‘Who cares?’ Helen’s voice carried on the cold air. ‘Pissheads, the lot of them.’
‘STOP !’ Mum hit Helen on the shoulder.
Helen hit her back.’ Get off! What are you so narky for? Just because your daughter is a pisshead too.’
‘She is not a pisshead,’ I heard Mum say.
‘Ooooooohhhh, language,’ Helen sang. ‘That’s a sin, you’ll have to say that in confession.