Lifesaving for Beginners

the time.
    The bus driver looked suspicious when he saw me but he didn’t say anything. Not even ‘hello’. He just gave me my ticket and my change and went back to looking at his newspaper, at a picture of a woman in her togs, and he didn’t drive off till nearly twenty to.
    I say, ‘Yes, I love carbonara.’
    May says, ‘And do you like garlic bread?’
    I nod.
    May says, ‘And I’m guessing you wouldn’t say no to a bit of chocolate cake?’
    I shake my head.
    ‘With a blob of ice cream on the top?’
    I nod.
    ‘Vanilla do you?’
    I nod again, even though the truth is that I’d prefer chocolate ice cream.
    May claps her hands together and rubs them. ‘We’re in business, so.’ I know she’s going to hug me. I just know it. And then she does. She has a different smell to Mam. Not a bad smell. Just different. But she feels pretty much the same. Sort of warm and squashy. Her hair tickles my face. She has a tight hold on me. She says, ‘You’re a great boy, Milo,’ when she stops the hug and stands up straight. Her eyes are really bright. The same blue as Mam’s. I hope she doesn’t cry. Then she ruffles my hair and then she leaves. She doesn’t cry.
    Donabate is still in Dublin but it looks like the countryside, on account of the fields. There’s a caravan park beside Auntie May’s house. That’d be legend. To live in a caravan. When you get bored, you can just hop in your caravan and drive away.
    We pass an ice-cream parlour when we come out of the train station but Faith says, ‘No,’ because we’re going to get a taxi to the house and there’s no way the driver will let a messer like me into the car, with ice cream dripping everywhere. We end up walking all the way to Auntie May’s house from the train station and not one single taxi passes us by, only three normal cars and one man walking a really skinny dog.
    It’s freezing and the wind would cut you in two. That’s what Mam used to say. But then she’d say, ‘At least it’s dry.’ Before Dad went away, he called her his weather girl because she was always talking about the weather and looking at the sky to see what would happen next.
    The farther I walk, the heavier my bag gets. Faith’s bag has wheels but she has to lift it over tree roots that cut through the path every so often. I’m glad when Faith stops to light a cigarette. I cup my hands round my mouth and blow into them a couple of times.
    Faith says, ‘Are you cold?’
    I say, ‘No,’ because I promised I wouldn’t complain.
    ‘Do you want me to put your bag on my back for a while?’
    ‘No, thanks.’ You don’t get girls to carry your bag, no matter how tired you are. No way.
    The road to Auntie May’s house is the longest road I’ve ever been on. Dead straight with no end in sight. It just goes on and on. Then, all of a sudden, it ends. Right in front of the sea and then we’re at the house. It takes about five hours to get there, I reckon.
    After dinner, Uncle Niall plays chess with me. He’s the type of adult that lets kids win. He pretends to be dead annoyed when I say, ‘Check,’ or ‘Checkmate’. He clutches his head as if he’s got a really bad pain in it and he says things like, ‘You jammy little git,’ except he’s smiling so I’ll know he’s only messing.
    Auntie May and Faith are looking through photo albums. I’ve seen them before, those photographs. There’s loads of Mam in there. Mam and May. On the beach. Mam and May in bumper cars. Mam and May at the Tower of London. Mam and May on a boat. With their arms round each other and scarves wound round their heads. They’re always laughing. I say, ‘No, thank you,’ when May asks if I’d like to look at the photographs. I’m glad I’m playing chess with Niall, even though he’s the type of adult that lets kids win.
    Faith says, ‘I’m just . . . I’m so angry with her. I don’t even feel sad anymore. I’m just . . . I’m furious.’ It’s weird because Faith doesn’t sound angry. Her voice is really low. She sounds tired. She probably is tired. I’m tired too. Sleeping in a tree house is not as legend as you’d think.
    May nods and says, ‘Anger is all part of it, you know. Part of the grieving process.’
    ‘No, I’m angry with her for not telling me.’
    May puts her hand on Faith’s shoulder. Squeezes it. ‘She called you her lucky charm. The doctor told her she’d never be able to carry a baby to full term. But after they adopted you, your mother got