Again, Rachel, page 22
‘Quin’s never going to go for it.’
‘Try him.’
‘How solid are we?’ Quin asked.
‘Hundred per cent.’
‘Okay. Then I wouldn’t mind meeting him.’
‘Seriously?’ I was dismayed. ‘But you don’t like Kallie.’
‘I don’t trust her, that’s different. And I’m …’ He spread his hands. ‘I want to know what he’s like. Just need to check that I’m more built and better-looking than him.’
‘You are.’ Objectively speaking, Luke was good-looking but Quin’s cast-iron confidence was very sexy. And, unlike Luke, Quin was lovely to me.
‘Ah yeah, I know that.’ Quin grinned. ‘Look, I’m curious about him. What’s the harm in meeting up?’
I heaved out a sigh. ‘Your competitiveness has a lot to answer for.’
‘How do you feel about it?’
‘I can’t think of anything more awful. And I want to go. Which doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it is.’
‘So we’ll do it. Call him back.’
When Luke answered, I blurted, ‘Tell Kallie we’ll have dinner with you.’
‘Oh. Sure. When?’
‘Tuesday evening.’ Then I said, ‘It’s going to be exhausting.’
After a silence, he said, ‘Likely. But probably still worth doing.’
‘Have you been talking to Nola? No, never mind, nothing. Okay, where should we go?’
‘How was the fermented hay place?’
That was typical Luke – no clue about how hard it would be to get in there.
‘Forget I said that,’ he added. ‘I don’t want to eat fermented hay.’
‘It was delicious.’ Actually, it hadn’t been bad. ‘You can see pictures of it on Quin’s Insta.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
That was one of the things I’d forgotten – Luke wasn’t very adventurous.
‘I’ll book a place and text you,’ I said. ‘Any dietary requirements?’
‘None.’
‘You’re not a vegetarian?’
‘Not any more.’ Was there a smirk in his tone?
‘Fine.’ I hung up and yelled, ‘Well, fuck you!’
Quin was good at restaurants. ‘Not too cheap but not too showy,’ I told him. ‘No tasting-menu bullshit and plenty of bland food.’
‘“Bland food”? No way, Rach.’
‘Just do it!’
‘Okay, don’t take my head off. Can I just ask …? How about Peruvian?’
‘No.’
‘Schezwan?’
‘No. Quin, seriously. No! Okay, what about Jake’s Place? They bring extra potatoes and vegetables with the main course, that’s the sort of thing he likes.’
Quin blinked. ‘Wow. That’s –’
‘– I know. But that’s who he is. Or was …’
‘The tables are very close together in Jake’s Place – you sure about this?’
‘Definitely. They’re always quick there, wanting to get you out to ship another crowd in. Quick works for me.’
When the table was booked, Quin began vacillating between angst about Luke’s good looks and strutting around, making muttery threats about ‘putting some hurting’ on him.
‘Should I feed you across the table?’ he asked.
‘Do.’
At least we were able to have a laugh about it.
33
Dennis’s wife Juliet was a surprise – high heels, expensive handbag, alluring perfume, excellent blazer. Her look was modern, very cool. I was wondering who she reminded me of and I realized it was – of all people! – Claire.
Okay, she wasn’t as fashion forward as my eldest sister but she wasn’t the downtrodden woman with red-raw hands I’d expected. The mistake was on me – Dennis was such a charmer it should be no surprise that his wife was a prestige version.
As for their seventeen-year-old daughter Joya, she was fabulous. Long lavender hair with two tight angel horns. Fabulously baggy jeans, a graffitied hoody, a neon-pink neck-purse and car-tyre sandals, worn with stripey socks.
Abigail, the elder daughter, hadn’t come. But getting Juliet and Joya counted as a win. And because there was no way I was chancing a rerun of Patch’s visit, I’d coached them until we were all blue in the face.
When Juliet and Joya followed me into the Abbot’s Quarter, everyone looked startled at the onslaught of glamour. The high heels, the lipstick and the hair – these weren’t things they saw much of these days.
Dennis stumbled to his feet. ‘Joya –’ he stuttered, moving towards her.
‘Dad, no.’ She gave him the hand. ‘Don’t touch me.’
You could almost taste the shock in the room – this fabulous creature was Dennis’s daughter? This stylish, yoga-toned woman was his wife?
Juliet and Joya weren’t even settled in their chairs when Dennis started, ‘Before anyone says anything, can I –’
‘No, Dennis, you can’t.’
‘What about my side of the story?’
‘You’ve been here two weeks. We already know your side.’
‘But how will –’
‘Please stop talking. Start listening.’
I began with Joya, who was twisting her body into a pretzel of reluctance. ‘I don’t want to be here,’ she murmured.
‘Shur, g’wan away home!’ Dennis exclaimed. ‘No harm, no foul. Good girl, off you go.’ He half stood, wrenching a fat roll of soiled-looking fifties from his hip pocket. ‘Let me just give you some –’
‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Joya is staying. Sit back down and put that money away.’
When everyone had settled, I asked, ‘Joya, what kind of father is Dennis?’
‘It depends.’ Her voice was hesitant. ‘On which version of him you get.’
‘What does that mean?’ Dennis sounded wounded.
‘Like, he can be in great form. On those days you can ask him for anything and he’ll say yes. On the bad days he yells a lot. Yells at Mum.’
‘About what?’
‘Stuff like, one of his constituents, her washing machine broke, so he said Mum would do it. But he didn’t ask Mum, just came home with two bags of other people’s laundry. Mum told him to do it himself but he said that it wasn’t his job.’
‘So who did it?’
She shrugged. ‘Dunno. But not him, I bet. But that wasn’t out of the ordinary, he’s always making promises. Then breaking them. Like, a while ago, he gave Abigail and me each a credit card, with a limit of four hundred euro. He said we could buy whatever we wanted and he’d pay it off every month. But that never happened, not even once.’
‘Money, money, money, that’s all ye ever want!’ Dennis exploded.
‘We never asked for those cards,’ Joya exclaimed. ‘You gave them to us and of course we were psyched, don’t be cross with us for that. Then we found out it was bullshit. More bullshit.’
‘Can you tell Dennis what you’ve noticed about his drinking.’
Nervously, she said, ‘Sometimes we don’t see you for days, Dad. Then I get up to go to school and you’re lying on your face outside the house, passed out drunk. Always, the first thing I think is that he’s dead. It really scares me.’
Dennis looked stricken.
‘You’re never not drunk.’ Joya’s chin wobbled. ‘But the worst was I was out in town with my friends and we saw your car. A lady was driving, you were in the passenger seat and you looked lit. My friends … they were laughing. It was so embarrassing. I said you were giving the lady a driving lesson, that was why you weren’t driving. They didn’t believe me, but they said nothing because they felt so bad for me.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I was ashamed of you, Dad. I wished I had a different dad. I’m sorry, Dad,’ she squeaked, and began to sob.
I asked her if she’d like to leave and she shook her head, so I turned to Juliet.
‘You’ve been married twenty-two years? When did you realize he was an alcoholic?’
‘He was always a drinker,’ she admitted. ‘But in the early days he was great fun. In later years, even when he’d get very drunk and make a show of us all, he could talk his way out of it – he could sell Magnums to the Eskimos. But maybe about five years ago, it changed.’
‘How?’
‘He’d always been Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The outside world got the chat and the jokes, but at home he had a terrible temper on him.’
‘I never laid a finger on you!’ Dennis declared.
‘You didn’t have to,’ Juliet said.
‘Dennis has told us …’ I referred to my notes. ‘“My wife is never satisfied. She’s always asking for things.”’
‘I have a job,’ Juliet said. ‘I earn my own money. I never ask him for anything. Not any more.’
‘But’, Dennis blustered, ‘you’re always whinging about wanting things done in the house.’
‘Like what?’ Juliet asked. ‘Like? What?’
‘Well, why wouldn’t you do Mrs Fallon’s laundry? You told me to do it.’
‘In the end, who did do Mrs Fallon’s laundry?’ Juliet’s eyes were narrowed and Dennis squirmed. Addressing me, Juliet said, ‘He’s a terrible husband and a terrible father – there are no boundaries or discipline, except for when he loses his temper. And he doesn’t come home at least three nights out of every seven.’
‘What is your wish for Dennis?’ I asked.
‘I don’t want him drinking himself to death on my watch.’
‘That won’t happen!’
‘Tell your daughters,’ Juliet said. ‘They’re the ones who love you. I don’t care any more. I’m ready to divorce you.’
‘Wait now!’ Dennis was the colour of parchment.
‘You don’t want Juliet to divorce you?’ I asked him.
‘I do not! She’s my wife!’
‘You love her?’
‘With my life!’
To Juliet, I said, ‘Do you know where he is on those nights he doesn’t come home?’
Juliet nodded.
‘I’m on Patch’s couch,’ Dennis said loudly.
‘Where does he stay?’ I prompted Juliet.
‘With the woman he was “giving driving lessons” to. Her name is Maudie Letter.’
‘That woman is an absolute lunatic! I helped her to fill out the forms for her mother’s home help and she turned into a bunny-boiler lunatic. She had me pestered.’
‘A bunny-boiler lunatic?’ I repeated back to him and waited for him to nod. Then I got to my feet and opened the door. Standing outside were Murdo and a blonde-haired woman, whom I invited into the room.
Maudie belied her homely name; she had a very cute Reese Witherspoon look about her.
Dennis was dumbfounded. When he could speak, he looked at me and yelled, ‘Rachel! Why did you bring them in on the same day?’
‘You think this is a coincidence?’ Juliet said. ‘The three of us came in the car together, we’re going to Harvey Nichols in Dundrum after this. By the way.’ She took Maudie’s left hand and demonstrated it to the room. ‘Congratulations are in order. Dennis is engaged!’
As soon as they were gone, Dennis began to wail, ‘She’s making it up. They’re all making it up.’
‘Ah, you’re grand,’ Chalkie patted him. ‘Come for a cup of tea.’
‘Tea,’ Giles said. ‘And biscuits.’
‘But she’s ruined my good name!’
‘I know, I know …’
As soon as they got Dennis back into group, they’d hit him with the truth, but for the moment they were his friends, his comrades, they understood his shame and fear and all they wanted to do was mind him.
… with the exception of Ella, who, right now, was watching him with contempt.
34
After lunch, when I led Chalkie’s partner Skye into group, Ella had to suppress a squeak of distress – because Skye was gorgeous: a mixed-race beauty oozing charm and intelligence.
Bronte, by contrast, barely blinked, just let her eyes glance over Skye in a careless, uninterested way. Very impressive. Because no matter how cool she played it, no matter how much Chalkie appeared to disapprove of her, there was a spark there, potent enough to power Dublin for a week.
This was Skye’s second visit to group because I was fast running out of ideas to break Chalkie. Rixer, the young man whose bail money Chalkie had stolen, had sat in this room and detailed the ways Chalkie’s theft had derailed his life. It should have been devastating, but Rixer was too fond of Chalkie to really put the boot in.
The route to breaking an addict’s denial was usually via the testimony of a person they loved. Chalkie cared about dozens of people – most of them members of disadvantaged communities – but from what I could see, there were only three people he actually loved: Skye and his two children.
‘Chalkie,’ Skye was saying. ‘If you relapse, you’ll die. I don’t think you’re getting that.’
My fear was that Chalkie was getting it and didn’t care.
‘Up to now, you’ve been lucky,’ she said. ‘Every time you’ve relapsed, you’ve survived. But one day you won’t come back.’
‘Ah, Skye … Baby, don’t cry. I’m not worth it.’
‘This is what I mean!’ she declared. ‘You put no value on yourself! But so many people love you.’
‘Chalkie,’ I said. ‘Is there anything you’re consciously aware of that’s holding you back?’
He sighed. ‘The God thing. I can’t do it.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Ah, don’t gimme that! I’ve been to NA meetings, they’re always going on about God. You know my feelings on religion.’
Well, I sensed I was about to find out …
‘“Religion was invented when the first conman met the first fool.” So said Mark Twain. Listen, I want to stay away from heroin, but don’t insult my intelligence and ask me to believe in God.’
I knew how he felt. For a long time, I thought only stupid people believed in all of that.
Twenty years earlier, Nola had told me, ‘It doesn’t have to be the hairy oul’ know-all in the sky, but you need something. If a normal person has a disaster, they can cope with their feelings. But the likes of you and me? We’re not able. So we need to involve something else, bigger and better than us. Even if it’s imaginary.’
To Chalkie, I said, ‘The god they talk about in meetings has nothing to do with organized religion. Is it the word “god” that’s too much? Could you use “higher power” instead?’
‘It’s the concept, missus! Why does there have to be anything at all?’
‘Because addicts are egomaniacs. They tend to become their own gods. But your higher power can be anything, Chalkie. Anything other than you. Pretend, Chalkie. Fake it till you make it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because recovery is easier when you accept that you don’t control everything. In fact, life is easier if you live it that way.’
Despite my own initial resistance, a cloudy, amorphous almost-belief had eventually settled, when I noticed that, no matter what was going on for me, I always felt better after an NA meeting. Even when I hadn’t wanted to go. Even when several of the people there annoyed me. Somehow, by the time the last person had finished sharing, I could appreciate how our collective spirit created something greater and better than the sum of our individual energies.
If ever I tried to analyse the magic, it fell apart immediately. But eventually I could connect with that feeling even when I wasn’t at a meeting.
Who knew, maybe in time Chalkie would find something?
‘Think about it,’ I said.
‘No.’ He was suddenly adamant. ‘Only one person I can depend on and that’s me.’
‘But can you? Depend on yourself? Your own best judgement has had you using heroin for seventeen years.’
‘I’ve stopped. I’m here.’
‘Stopping is easy. Staying stopped is the hard part.’
‘I’ll stay stopped.’
My heart sank. Something needed to change with Chalkie, because the feelings that drove his every relapse were still stashed in some secret part of him. It wasn’t his fault. Whatever, wherever they were, they were just too painful to be felt.
But without connecting with them, he’d go back out into the world, where his relapse was inevitable. And right then, I couldn’t bear that thought.
As soon as group ended, I had a strong urge to call Gemma Kaye, the mother of Harlie’s friend, Tegan – the young woman who’d died from alcohol poisoning. I didn’t understand the urgency burning in me but suddenly it seemed imperative to persuade Gemma Kaye to visit. We’d spoken last week. She’d been reluctant but I’d sensed that if I kept pressing, she’d agree. I’d no clue what this had to do with Chalkie, but I did it anyway.
35
On my knees by the flower bed, I gently, gently, gently loosened the aster seedling from its pot, taking extra care with the roots, then placed it into the hole I’d dug with my beautiful new trowel. After the intensive mollycoddling the seedling had got in the warm utility room, it looked vulnerable and tiny as it set sail on the high seas of the great outdoors.
Don’t worry, I instructed this little lad as I crumbled handfuls of compost around it. Your soil is the right pH, you’re in a lovely sheltered spot and you’re surrounded by your pals.
I didn’t actually talk out loud to my plants but I couldn’t deny that, in my head, a lively dialogue took place.
You’re too big now to be eaten by the birds, I promised. And if a late frost comes, I’ll be straight out with the bubble wrap, to keep you warm. And don’t worry about Crunchie, she’s afraid of flowers. Ever since she ate a bedful of daffodils and vomited for three days, but no need to go into the details.
When I’d bought my house, it had a lot in its favour – the perfect size, near to work and, handily, the right price (a low one). But it stood in a biggish patch of ground. There was a lot of grass, which I’d have to cut and I knew nothing about lawnmowers, about any gardening really. But thanks to what Garv had shown me, I was very interested.
So Nola took me to a garden centre and made me buy a load of ‘beginners’’ bulbs: snowdrops, daffodils, crocuses. Under her watchful eye, I planted them. Then, for several months, absolutely nothing happened except that the weather got very cold.
