I tell them I can. Anna sits them down, Kate pours them tea, Brendan cuts them slices of cake, Vera offers to roll them cigarettes, and Dad sits beside Sheila and holds her hand. I open the information booklet and go through it with Tom, show him what services might help.
‘Mum,’ says Anna, pointing. ‘Look.’ I follow the line of her finger and see them. Carers and their loved ones. Moving towards the bus.
Lots of them.
A crowd.
‘We’re going to need more cake,’ I say to Brendan, who grabs his jacket and jogs for the shop across the road. I hug Tom and Sheila before they leave even though I told myself to maintain a calm, professional distance.
Tom hugs me back. His bright-blue eyes water. ‘Thank you,’ he whispers.
In the end, every bun, tart and cake is eaten, the flasks are emptied and re-filled several times, the information booklets pressed into hands or packed into handbags, the notebooks written in and the pens squirrelled into pockets. Brendan pushes the awning back and the girls pack the signage away. Vera pats me on the arm. ‘You done good, girl.’ She mumbles it and doesn’t make eye-contact. I gather her in my arms and hug her, careful not to squeeze her brittle body too tightly. When I release her, I gather Anna and Kate in my arms, which is not as easy as it was when they were little. Inhale them. Whisper my thanks. ‘We didn’t do much, Mum,’ Anna says. Kate nods in her solemn way. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘You did everything. As usual.’
I swell with the kind of pride that’s dangerous. The kind that is supposed to come before a fall. I can’t help it.
The librarian comes out as we finish packing up. She has the stern, rigid look of someone who commands order and quiet without ever having to say, Ssshhh. Like the policewoman who questioned me when I arrived back in Dublin. Just procedure, she said. Which turned out to be the case since Iris had already sent them the recording, the morning she died. ‘The only reason Terry came was to try to change my mind,’ she said in the video.
The librarian stops just beyond the reach of my arms as if she has heard about my propensity for physical contact. ‘You got a great crowd today,’ she says.
‘Thanks so much for letting us use the car park,’ I say. I hug her. She looks startled and two bright-red circles bloom on her cheeks.
‘You’re leaving now?’ she says, more of an order than a question. I nod. She looks behind me, at the writing on the side of the bus.
‘Who is Iris Armstrong?’ she asks.
Her image appears like a flare, sudden and vivid.
Iris.
Sometimes the loss of her is glaring. Sharp to the touch. Sometimes, the world feels impossible, wrong, without Iris in it.
Today I don’t feel sad. I feel grateful. That I knew her. That I loved her. That she loved me.
She is grinning at me, her hands on her hips as though she is waiting to hear what I might say, with her paltry store of patience. She stands straight and tall without her sticks, and there is something so gloriously vibrant about her, it seems absurd that nobody else can see her.
Who is Iris Armstrong? There are so many things I could say. So many stories I could tell. So many attributes I could list.
In the end I say one thing.
‘Iris Armstrong was my friend.’
About the Author
Ciara Geraghty lives in Dublin with one husband, three children and an adopted dog. Rules of the Road is her seventh novel. You can find out more about Ciara’s books at Facebook.com/CiaraGeraghtyBooks/
Also by Ciara Geraghty
Saving Grace
Becoming Scarlett
Finding Mr Flood
Lifesaving for Beginners
Now That I’ve Found You
This is Now
About the Publisher
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