Rules of the Road

8

MAKE SURE YOUR VEHICLE IS ROADWORTHY.

Outside, it’s overcast and close. And I have to shop. For clothes. I hate shopping for clothes.

There’s no Marks & Spencer. There’s a Tesco Express. And a Starbucks. I buy a toothbrush and toiletries and a takeaway cup of decaffeinated coffee.

The clothes shops are boutiques with bald, angular mannequins in the windows and no price tags on anything. Then I spot a Sue Ryder charity shop across the road.

I’ve never bought anything in a charity shop, although I’ve contributed many black bin bags of the girls’ toys and books and clothes over the years. Not that I’m blowing my own trumpet or anything. It’s just, like I said, I hate waste, and Hugh said not to bother posting the girls’ clothes because his wife wasn’t big on hand-me-downs for Isabella, and besides, the price of the postage to Australia would negate the advantage, wouldn’t I agree?

Hugh’s wife – Cassandra – is a funny one. Not funny exactly, just a bit … aloof perhaps.

The last time Hugh and Cassandra came home, little Isabella was only two, so it must be, oh, five years ago now. They left Isabella with Brendan and me, while they stayed at the Merrion Hotel. They said they didn’t want to discommode us and they didn’t think the Merrion was really suitable for children. Besides, they knew I’d love to spend as much time as possible with my niece.

Which was true, but maybe not at four o’clock in the morning, which was the time she woke, what with the jet lag and the strange surroundings.

She ended up sleeping in my bed every night. Brendan slept in the spare room. He said he didn’t mind.

This must be a swanky part of London because the charity shop is like a proper boutique with an accessories section and an immaculately turned-out young woman with terrifying eyebrows behind the counter and a bright, fresh smell that has no bearing on old, discarded clothes and worn-out shoes.

The young woman eyes me, and I brace myself.

‘Can I help you?’

I always say, No. Thank you. I always say, I’m just browsing.

‘No thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m just browsing.’

‘What are you browsing for?’ asks the woman. Her name badge – handwritten in large, flamboyant print with a love heart instead of a dot over the i – says Jennifer.

‘I kind of need … everything,’ I say.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘You’ve come to the right place. I’d say you’re a …’ She looks me up and down, ‘ten?’

‘Yes, I—’

‘And I’m going to say, given your height, you’re a size seven shoe.’

I nod. She studies my breasts with great concentration.

‘34B?’

‘Yes. How did you …?’

Jennifer shrugs. ‘I’m just doing my job,’ she says with grave conscientiousness. ‘I’m going to step beyond my remit now and tell you a few things about yourself,’ she says, and I am suddenly terrified that she can see right inside me. That she knows everything.

Jennifer narrows her eyes at me. ‘You’re a reluctant shopper.’

‘Eh, well, I suppose you could say th—’

‘Yes or no is fine.’

‘Oh, em, right then, I … yes.’

‘You usually shop in Marks & Spencer.’

‘How did you kn— Sorry. Yes.’

‘You have no interest in style.’

‘Eh, well …’

‘Yes or no?’

‘I suppose not, no.’

‘You like comfortable clothes.’

‘Yes.’ That’s an easy one. Who doesn’t like comfortable clothes?

‘That you can hide inside.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t—’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Well … I don’t … Although I suppose I—’

‘Today’s your lucky day,’ Jennifer tells me, pointing to the fitting room. ‘Get in there and take your clothes off.’

‘All of them?’

But she has swept away and is already pulling various garments off hangers and – worryingly – talking to herself as she does.

My fear of being rude overrides all else and I do as I am bid. I leave my bra and knickers on. She didn’t mean me to remove them? Did she?

No. I’m sure she didn’t.

Besides, they don’t sell underwear in charity shops.

Or maybe they do now?

But no, they couldn’t. It’s all second-hand stuff isn’t it?

Even I draw the line at hand-me-down knickers.

‘Eh, I don’t need underwear,’ I call from behind the heavy velvet curtains that separate me from the sales assistant.

She does not respond, although I know she heard me because she paused in her conversation with herself.

‘Are you decent?’ she is good enough to ask, and I am about to tell her that I am standing here in my bra and knickers, only so that she is prepared for it, when she flings back the curtains and surveys me. While the bra and knickers are Marks & Spencer, they are fairly old. Even Marks & Spencer’s underwear gives out eventually.

Mine haven’t given out exactly. They’re just … a bit tired looking.

‘Let’s start with this skirt and top,’ Jennifer says, looking at me in the mirror. I look too and see what she sees. My tired old knickers and bra, my sagging breasts and stretch-marked belly and pasty skin and hairy legs. I see it all. The full glare of me – long and skinny with mousy hair and washed-out blue eyes – in the full-length mirror cruelly lit by bright, Hollywood-style bulbs.

All the better to see you, my dear.

I wrestle myself into the skirt (dry-clean only) and a run-in-the-wash top even though I’ll never buy them because they’re not my colour – a raucous green and purple – and they’re not my style – the skirt’s too short and the top is too, I don’t know, too green and purple.

Still, at least I’m covered up now.

‘Well?’ asks the young woman.

Something sharp on the waistband of the too-short skirt digs into my skin, and the V of the top’s neckline turns out to be a very long V so that I would spend all my time looking down, checking that I am still decent.

I feel a panic-buy coming on.

‘I’ll take them,’ I say. I need to get out of here. I know it could be worse. I could be in one of those awful boutiques where the women comment on my height and say, ‘I know just the thing,’ even though you’ve already told them that you’re only browsing and the just the thing turns out to be a scarf for eighty euros that you won’t ever wear because you don’t ever wear scarves.

Jennifer folds her arms and examines my face. ‘Why would you take them?’ she asks.

‘Eh … I … because they’re lovely?’

‘No they’re not.’

‘Then why did you give them to me to try on?’

‘It was a test.’

‘Oh.’

‘Which you failed.’

Jennifer smiles, and I notice a speck of bright-red lipstick on one of her front teeth which makes me feel a tiny bit better.

‘Okay,’ she says, unfolding her arms and rubbing her hands together. ‘We are going to practise, okay?’

I nod. I’ve no idea what she means.

I suddenly wonder if this is one of those television programmes where they make fools of people like me. But she’s looking right at me so I can’t scan the shop for hidden cameras.

‘I’m going to show you an outfit, and you’re going to tell me exactly what you think of it. And I’ll know if you’re lying.’ She glares at me like I’ve already told a lie, so I say, ‘Okay,’ and she smiles then and there’s the speck of lipstick again, and so we begin.

If it were a quiz, it would be the quick-fire round.

She holds up outfit after outfit. She’s calling them ensembles. They’re not just tops and skirts or tops and trousers. She adds jewellery. Belts. Hats. Shoes. Jackets. Arranges me so that I’m facing the full-length mirror and holds the first ensemble against me.

‘Well, it’s … it’s really lovely but—’

‘I just need one word,’ explains Jennifer, with end-of-tether patience. ‘An adjective preferably. Okay?’

‘Okay. But … before you begin, could I just quickly ask … do you have anything navy?’

‘Navy?’ she says. ‘What for?’

‘Well, because, you know, I like navy, and—’

‘Nobody likes navy,’ she says. She holds the ensemble – none of which is navy – up again.

‘Garish,’ I manage.

‘Oh. Right. Well done. This one?’

‘Tacky.’

‘Is that not the same as garish?’

‘No. Tacky refers mainly to poor taste and quality whereas garish could be good quality but lurid.’

‘Impressive. This one?’

‘Itchy.’

‘This one?’

‘Skimpy.’

‘This one?’

‘Fussy.’

‘This one?’

‘Scanty.’

‘This one?’

‘Dressy.’

Jennifer runs out of clothes before I run out of adjectives. She lets her now-empty arms hang by her sides, appraises me anew. I can tell she is surprised, and I feel ridiculously pleased about this. Emboldened, I point at a summer dress that I will never wear because it is a linen dress. A linen dress, the colour of early morning mist, that will both crease and stain easily. A linen halter-neck dress that will stop just short of my bony knees, and then there’s the rest of my legs, south of my bony knees, which I’d have to shave, and …

‘Good choice,’ says Jennifer, nodding with naked approval. ‘What else?’

In the end, Jennifer manages to persuade me to buy three carrier bags full, containing:

 bright-pink bomber jacket (silk – will have to be hand-washed in cold water);

 puffball red skirt (cotton – machine washable);

 green leopard-print A-line skirt (acrylic – the washing instructions tag is no longer attached, but I imagine it should be washed inside out, at a safe thirty degrees);

 brown (dark-chocolate brown, say 70% cacao) kitten heels, which I will never wear because I never wear heels (suede);

 silver-grey ‘boyfriend’ cardigan with long fitted sleeves (80% acrylic, 20% wool, will hand-wash for safety);

 a bright-pink tulle high-waisted midi-skirt (as yet unidentified synthetic mix);

 a lime-green T-shirt with bright-pink limes all over it (the softest cotton!);

 a pale peach cropped jumper with three-quarter-length sleeves (mohair!);

 brown ‘gladiator’ summer sandals (leather);

 two spaghetti-string tops (1. Scarlet! 2. Orange!!);

 one pair of white ‘skinny’ jeans (denim) with – subtle-ish – diamanté detail on back pockets (short, cold-water cycle, add a thimble of vinegar);

 a silk shirt-dress, much too short and impractical given the delicacy of the fabric and its shade of palest blue, which Jennifer says is the exact shade of my eyes (strictly dry-clean only);

 a black one-shoulder, one-sleeve top, which seems sort of lacking to me, but which Jennifer assures me is made for me, citing my jutty-outy collar bones and my freakishly-long arms. (I forgot to examine the washing instructions before purchase …);

 two bras (one a black, lacy affair, and the other so soft and white, it’s impossible to believe it’s ever been through even a delicate cycle);

 a straw hat with a pink gingham ribbon that Jennifer, with no trace of irony, says will make me stand out from the crowd.

Oh, and the linen summer dress, at the bottom of the bag, already creased.

Jennifer shakes her head.

‘I didn’t think you had it in you, Terry,’ she says because we’re on a first-name basis now.

‘Neither did I.’ Just because I now own the clothes doesn’t mean I have to wear them. There could be a Marks & Spencer in Dover, couldn’t there?

‘And you have to wear them. I’ll know if you don’t.’ Again that feeling that she can see right inside me. That she knows everything.

I try hard not to tell her anything. I tell her about the girls, obviously.

Brendan says I could go on Mastermind and have the girls as my specialist subject and I’d come away with the chair, quicker than you could say, I’ve started so I’ll finish.

I say I am on a driving holiday with my father and Iris. She doesn’t comment on the fact that I am on holiday without a change of clothes. Instead, she wants to know if Iris is my best friend.

I say, ‘Yes,’ even though the very fact of our friendship continues to remain a surprise to me. We’re like chocolate and chilli, me and Iris.

I do not say that Iris is my only friend. People tend to feel awkward around those who admit to such limitations. I have lots of acquaintances of course. But Iris … well, I don’t think Iris knows how to be an acquaintance.

*

Iris – quite literally – barged through the front door of my quiet, orderly life. Of course, I was aware of her before she did that, since she was the person who was in charge of the Alzheimer’s Society; the chairperson or the managing director or the CEO; I’m not entirely certain of her title, Iris is not one for such things. She joined as a volunteer after her father passed away. The Society had done a lot for Mr Armstrong – who was riddled with dementia, as Iris put it – and Iris said it was her turn to do something for them. So she joined, and within a short period of time, she had given up her job as Sister-in-charge at the Coombe Hospital, and was running the place.

The first time I spoke to her, she asked for my help.

No. That’s not true. She didn’t ask. She just happened to be in the kitchenette at the back of the hall where the Alzheimer’s coffee morning takes place twice a week, struggling with the lid of the coffee jar. She bore down on the jar as if the weight of her body might convince the lid to turn, but even though the weight of her body is significant – there isn’t an ounce of fat on her, mind; she just happens to be a strong woman – and even though her hands are enormous – she’d tell you that herself, hands like shovels, she’d say – she couldn’t get her hands to come to grips with the lid of the coffee jar that morning. Of course I didn’t let on that I’d noticed. I busied myself looking for jam. Dad had developed an insistent taste for blackberry jam smeared between two digestive biscuits. And still she struggled, so I reached out my hand and curled my fingers around the jar. I looked straight ahead, at the blackened grout ridging the tiles around the sink. I somehow already knew that Iris was averse to accepting help. I sensed her long fingers slipping away, so I slid the jar down to my end of the counter, and, with my two good hands, I turned the lid and passed it back to her, all the while concentrating on the grout. Perhaps I thought about vinegar and bread soda. How a combination of both might shift the grease. She might have mumbled a brief thanks, which I perhaps acknowledged with a nod. Then I located the jam, checked the best before date, and left the kitchen to the sound of the whistle of the kettle, high-pitched and insistent.

It was a few weeks later that I met Iris properly. I was at home. It was dinner time. We were eating mushroom risotto, so it must have been a Monday or a Wednesday, which were the days I cooked Kate’s favourite dinner. Anna’s days were Tuesdays and Thursdays. We got a takeaway every Friday, and I grilled tuna steaks on Saturday nights because Brendan loves them. Sunday was not set in stone, although I usually did a curry, which – luckily – pleased everybody.

It’s harder than you might think, pleasing everybody.

The doorbell rang and I answered it, and there was Iris Armstrong.

I was so surprised to see her, I didn’t even say hello. It was Iris who spoke first. ‘There she is. The hero of the hour.’

I didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about.

‘Are you going to ask me in?’ she said, and it was only then I noticed the rain. Drizzle really, but unpleasant nonetheless when you’re standing at somebody’s door getting soaked by it.

‘Oh gosh, sorry, I … of course, come in.’

Iris walked around the kitchen table, shaking everybody’s hand. She never mentioned the fact that we were in the middle of dinner.

‘You’re a lucky man,’ she said to Brendan, clapping his shoulder. ‘Having a woman like Terry in your life.’ She smiled at him, and Brendan did the only thing anyone can do when Iris Armstrong smiles at them. He smiled back. I can see Brendan’s face even now, bright, as if it were lit by the power of Iris’s smile.

I stood at the kitchen door, at a loss as to what to do or say. I think I was worrying about feeding her. Was there enough food left over to warrant an invitation to eat with us? And whether Iris liked mushrooms. Lots of people don’t.

‘You must be so proud of her,’ said Iris, looking at the girls and Brendan in turn. When nobody responded immediately, she turned to me, then back to the table, put her free hand on her hip. ‘You didn’t tell them,’ she said. Her tone registered little surprise. Even back then, before we were friends, Iris seemed to know exactly who I was.

‘Tell us what?’ Brendan glanced from me to Iris and back to me, and his look was sort of fearful. Maybe fearful is too strong. But this wasn’t what usually happened in our house at dinnertime. A stranger in our kitchen. Making declarations. Not that Iris was a stranger exactly. I just … well, I hardly knew her.

‘Your mother saved Ted Gorman’s life today,’ Iris said.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t exactly say I—’

‘Ted is one of the Society’s biggest donors,’ Iris went on, wrestling herself out of her coat and draping it on the back of a chair before sitting down. ‘And today, when he was having a tour of one of our day-care facilities, he collapsed, and Terry here performed CPR on him and saved his life.’ She picked up a slice of garlic bread and took an enormous bite so that, for a moment, the only sound in the room was Iris’s molars grinding the crust. ‘I’ve just come from the hospital, and his doctor told me that if it hadn’t been for Terry’s swift action, Ted would be on a slab this evening.’

There was a stunned silence. The girls looked at me. Brendan looked at me. Iris looked at me. I felt the familiar heat of my blood rushing up the length of my neck and into my face.