It was good to reconnect with Marjorie. They talked about a lot of things: the good old days when they were young and life seemed so much brighter, even though looking back Ireland was such a grey old place. They talked about the reality of their present. Marjorie complained bitterly about her terrible mother and her horrible job.

‘Your mother doesn’t deserve you. That bank doesn’t deserve you.’

‘Doesn’t matter what they deserve, Davey, I am where I am.’

He talked about his concerns rearing a teenage girl on the road.

‘It won’t be forever, you’ll be off the road next year.’

‘Yeah, but for how long?’ he said. It was good to talk, even if neither of them had the answer to life’s problems. He looked forward to seeing her again. He thought about her a lot. He often fantasised about her. He tried to stop, telling himself it was nonsense. He warned himself to leave her alone; he’d done enough damage in her life. Then he found himself thinking of her breasts. Oh God, she has lovely breasts. Then he wondered why he hadn’t fully appreciated that about her before.

What am I doing, Rabbit?

You’re doing a Davey.

He promised his dead sister he would absolutely, positively not have sex with her best friend when he went home because that would be selfish and wrong and he’d grown up a lot since she died.

Liar, he heard her say.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Marjorie

Chapter Thirty-Four

Marjorie

MARJORIE FIRST VISITED HER mother two days after her stroke. She had been lucky, as it turned out. She’d felt unwell and phoned for an ambulance before she collapsed. The paramedics could see her on the floor from her large front window so they kicked down the door to gain access. She was a ten-minute drive from the Mater Hospital so she received treatment in what the consultant described as the golden hour. On finally meeting Marjorie he explained to her that Vera was eighty per cent back to herself within twenty-four hours, but weakness in her legs required time and physiotherapy.

‘Can she walk?’

‘Not without assistance.’

‘You mean a stick? Or a frame?’

‘She’ll require a wheelchair for a time.’

‘What kind of time?’

‘It depends on the patient.’

‘Well, are we talking a week, a month, a year?’ Her voice was rising and panic was setting in. What now? WHAT now? WHAT NOW????

He put his hand on Marjorie’s shoulder, attempting to comfort her. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be fine.’

‘Oh I’m not worried about her, Doctor, I’m worried about me,’ she said.

He pulled away, a look of distaste on his face.