'Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.' Gibran Khalil
"70?" I said.
"I’m 82," he said proudly. "It’s not every 82-year old that can lift luggage like that.”
I couldn't help but overhear their conversation. They were on their way to a wedding of a grand-niece in Kildare. The women seemed to be cousins and were glad of the opportunity to catch up. The husband kept chipping in with puns and other useless conversation, but the women ignored him.
We were just pulling out of Thurles, the last stop before Dublin when the husband caught my eye. He said, “Guess how old I am?”
“You’re 82,” I said
He looked hurt and said, “How do you know?”
“You told me,” I said.
The two women laughed.
His wife then leaned across the table, “I’m sorry about him,” she said, “but I don’t write his script.”
I then remembered I needed to contact Mary. I pulled out my phone and texted, ‘Sorry, I missed you last week. You’re probably down in Roberts Cove these days. When would be a good time to drop down next week?’
Two minutes later, Mary replied, ‘I’m very sorry Ger but I've got cancer, I have three weeks to live.’ I wanted to jump off the train and run all the way back to Cork. Until that moment I didn’t realise how much I loved her.
As soon as the train pulled into Dublin, I rang Mary. It was true. She had been complaining about back pain for years and they finally found the reason why. She had a tumour in her spine and cancer in her bones. She told me she was going for treatment. If it worked, it might give her another seven years. “Seven years would be good,” she said, “I can deal with seven years.”
Over the next year, Mary was in and out of the Mercy and Erinville Hospitals all within walking distance of where I worked. The Erinville is an old hospital with dreary rooms. It was clear, the nurses adored Mary and her eternal cheerfulness in the face of her illness. Mary, always glamorous in her lilac coloured satin pyjamas, chatted to the nurses as they plumped pillows behind her back and tucked blankets in and around her body as if they were old friends. She, in turn, accepted their kindness cheerfully.
Another time, a Saturday, she was admitted to the Mercy. I texted her, "I'm on my way in, what can I bring you?"
“I’d love a drink.”
I stopped off at Galvin’s Off Licence on the Douglas Road and bought six bottles of West Coast Cooler, a bottle of Moet Chandon, and a couple of packets of Taytos. With the bottles clinking in a plastic Dunnes Stores bag I arrived at her bedside. Tony was with her. “I got you the drink you asked for,” I told them.
Mary looked at me surprised, "But Ger, I can’t drink."
"But you said..."
"Ah, Ger cop on.”
"I’ll leave them with you," I said. "You can use them to celebrate when this is all over."
The following November, Mary’s daughter Katie turned 18 and was having a party to celebrate. Mary invited all her friends and extended family to the party. It was held in a pub in Passage West.
Glamour is very important to Mary and I wanted to make the effort. I wore the only pair of heels I owned, tights, a skirt that was a little bit long, but it had a frilly hem so it looked dressy, and a black jumper. I asked my son, “How do I look?”
He looked at me and said, “You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
I went looking for the full-length mirror in the hall. It was true. I had dressed from head to toe entirely in black. I looked like a Sicilian widow.
“Ah, the hell with it,” I said, “I’m dressed now.” I put on a coat, also black, grabbed Katie’s present and left.
I found the pub and parked on the street outside. I went inside and looked around. No sign of anybody I knew. I asked the barman, “Where’s Katie’s party?”
He pointed to the stairs and said, “Upstairs in the roof garden.”
I climbed the two flights of stairs until I reached a single door. I pushed it open and entered another country. It was a large flat open space with huge potted palm trees and hundreds of fairy lights strung from pole to pole and beautiful people everywhere. Hollywood had nothing on these girls with their 8-inch heels, floor-length flowing dresses, tanned bodies and hair extensions. I wandered in this forest of people until Katie took pity on me and identified herself. Relieved to see a friendly face, I pressed the gift into her hand and said, “Where’s your mother?”
“Down in the bar.”
I shot back down the two flights of stairs.
I found Mary with a huge gang including her mother Sheila, brother Jerry, husband Tony, son Russell and long-time school friends Honor and Val. There was a live old-time band. Mary loves a singsong and we sang all night.
At about 11 pm, Mary said, “Ger could you give me a hand with the cake?”
“No problem,” says I.
Mary asked the barman for the cake. He brought out the box from the kitchen. The cake measured 12 inches by 9 and was in the shape of a hairdryer. Katie is a trainee hairdresser. I carried the cake up the two flights of stairs and Mary brought the breadknife, matches and candles. When we reached the single door, Mary stuck the candles into the cake and lit them with the matches. Handing me the knife and the matches, I threw open the door and Mary entered the rooftop paradise with the blazing cake.
The DJ stopped the music. All the guests gathered around Mary and Katie and sang Happy Birthday and For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow. Katie blew out the candles to huge cheers. The DJ started the music again. Mary handed me the cake and the bread knife and started dancing with Katie. I had just turned towards the door when a beautiful 18-year-old girl tottered towards me on her 8-inch heels. She gestured to me to dance too. I looked around to find a chair and put down the cake. The girl then caught both my hands and started to sway slowly from one foot to the other.
‘Hmm,’ I thought to myself. ‘She’s had a few drinks.” I looked at her kindly and said, “Are you Katie’s friend?”
She nodded eagerly and then said kindly, “You’re Katie’s Granny, aren’t you?”
The smile froze on my face. I managed to keep going until the song ended. Mary and I re-joined the others at the bar. I told Mary what the girl said.
“Ah, she probably meant well," said Mary.
“I know,” I said, “That’s the problem!"
For Mary's birthday, the 1st of June, Tony hosted a small party at home to include close friends, her neighbours and her mother, Sheila. At around 9pm, Mary became tired and went up to her bedroom to rest. She pleaded with everyone to stay on and enjoy themselves. After ten minutes, Katie tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Mam wants to talk to you.” I went up to Mary's bedroom and while she sat up in bed resting against several pillows, I sat on a chair and chatted. Then one by one, the other guests joined us. Mary was so happy. The entire party gathered around her. Then Honor told a joke. That was my cue. I told a polite one to test the waters. They laughed. Then Honor told another and I another, each one getting more risqué than the last. Sheila didn’t like the way things were turning.
"I don't think I like your jokes," said Sheila. She had a warning glint in her eye. I looked at Mary. She winked at me. I kept going.
Again, the warning signal from her mother, "Oh, you're very rude." But as long as Mary was laughing, we kept going.
That summer was Mary's last. We didn’t know it. Mary had convinced herself and everyone around her she had seven more years. The last memory I have of Mary before she became really ill is of her sitting on the deck of her mobile home in Roberts Cove. The sun was setting over the cornfields of Tracton behind us and Mary was where she was happiest, surrounded by her friends, and her beloved mother sipping a white wine spritzer. Everybody in Roberts Cove seemed to stop by for a chat. Mary knew everybody and everybody that knew Mary loved her. You couldn’t help yourself.
It’s Mary’s birthday this Monday, June 1st. It always marks the beginning of summer for me. She would have been 56. I think about her every single day.
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