Lifesaving for Beginners

cancelled because it’s June and the weather is lovely in June. Glorious. That’s what Mam says when the weather’s good. She says, ‘Isn’t it a glorious day?’ to the regulars at the Funky Banana.
    The phone rings and I run down the stairs and answer it. I don’t know why but I keep thinking it’ll be Mam, laughing her head off and saying she’s grand and there’s been a mix-up and she’s coming home and could I put the kettle on because she’s gasping for a mug of tea. She’s always gasping for mugs of tea.
    I answer it and I say, ‘Hello? The McIntyre Residence,’ in a posh voice cos I know that’ll make Mam laugh, except it’s not Mam. It’s a woman and she wants to know what the arrangements are. I don’t know what the arrangements are. She says, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ I think she means Mam.
    I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on anyway. If it were Wednesday and the ferry got cancelled, Mam would be here and we wouldn’t be eating leftover pizza and drinking Coke for our breakfast and Adrian would be at the university in London learning about science and Damo would have called at the door and I’d be in school writing a boring story about what I’m going to do for the summer holidays or something like that.

11 June 2011; Dublin
    I say, ‘Ouch.’
    Thomas says, ‘You OK?’
    ‘You’re rushing me.’
    ‘I’m going at a snail’s pace. In fact, no. Look, there’s a snail, overtaking us.’
    ‘That’s a slug.’
    ‘He’s still pretty slow. Sluggish, you might say.’
    ‘I’m glad you think this is funny.’
    ‘You’re not, though, are you? You’re not glad.’
    ‘It’s an expression.’
    ‘Here’s another expression. Cheer up!’
    ‘I hate people who say, “Cheer up” . . .’
    ‘What am I supposed to say to you in your current form?’
    ‘. . . And “Relax”. That’s a horrible thing to say to anyone. Telling someone to relax never makes them relax. It makes them more tense. It’s a stupid thing to say.’
    ‘Here we are.’
    We’re at the restaurant. Thomas invited me when we were at the garage, ordering the Mazda this morning. He still calls them dates. He says, ‘Do you want to go on a date tonight? Celebrate you ordering the new car?’ I wonder how many dates we’ve been on. A fair few by now.
    Before Thomas, I was – strictly – a three-date woman. First date I called the ‘give it a go’ date. I only ever went after unmerciful pressure from Minnie. She said, ‘There’s a Maurice out there for everybody.’ Let’s hope that’s not true.
    The second date I liked to call the ‘benefit of the doubt’ date. Again, usually Minnie-induced.
    The third and often final one was when I usually said, ‘It’s not you. It’s me.’ Even though it’s never me. Hardly ever.
    On our third date, I said to Thomas, ‘It’s not you. It’s me.’
    He said, ‘What do you mean?’
    I said, ‘My life is a bit . . . complicated.’
    Thomas said, ‘Isn’t it well for you?’ He used one of his gigantic hands to push his hair – long and grey and curly – out of his I’m-not-as-old-as-I-look face.
    ‘No, I mean it’s too complicated for a . . . a relationship.’
    ‘A relationship?’ He looked amused at the word and – in fairness – in his Monaghan accent it did sound a little absurd. ‘I just asked you to come to the Galway Races with me. Do you want to?’
    ‘Well . . .’
    ‘Do you?’
    ‘I suppose I might be able to . . .’
    ‘Grand, so. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at ten.’
    And I nodded and said OK and I went with him. To the Galway Races. It was hard to say why, exactly. He kissed me there. At the races. Our first kiss. Up till then he’d just dropped me home and said, ‘Goodnight now.’ Like I was a farmer from whom he’d bought a calf of good stock.
    He took me by surprise in Galway. After yet another horse he’d backed came last, he tore up his betting slip and said, ‘Well, that’s that!’ and then, for no particular reason, he kissed me.
    There was no ceremony. No sweet talk, thank Christ. Nothing like that. He just put his face in front of mine and kissed me. There was no form. No style. It was . . . well, it was all right, to be honest. Nice, even. He had to bend, although I have never been described as small.
    That was our fourth date. The races. Then there were more.
    The Field at the Abbey Theatre.
    Climbing to the top of Bray Head. Thomas laughed when I called it a mountain.
    Farmers’ markets where