I sipped at my latte, staring out of the widow, and was embarrassed when a sad little sigh came out from my throat. I looked up, but no one had noticed. There were only a few customers inside. They were occupied either with young children or with their mobile phones. Some framed black and white photographs on the wall caught my eye. They were a series of street photos of kids during The Troubles. Tough looking kids posing beside burnt out buildings or climbing on army tanks. I squinted to see the dates – early ‘80’s. I hadn’t even been born yet. I shook my head. I was lucky. I should feel lucky. I scraped the foam off my mug with a teaspoon and licked it, before sinking the remainder of the coffee down my neck. Rory Gallagher came on the radio – with Slumming Angel. It made me smile – when we were dating, Mike always used to call me that.
“Yes, Grace Anderson please, I’m her niece.”
“Oh yes, I remember you,” replied the kind faced receptionist from behind the desk, “Go on through there.”
“Thank you,” I said, starting up the green pastel coloured hallway.
There was a piercing smell of bleach about the place, with a waft beneath it of some kind of cooked mince coming from the dining room as I passed by. My auntie’s room is near the end of the first wing. I smiled at everyone I passed, though walking these halls always made me feel uncomfortable. I smiled at the nursing staff rushing past, the old man slumped in a chair that dwarfed him and at the elderly lady with a frame who repeatedly shouted ‘nurse’ at the ceiling. As I neared the room, a familiar figure emerged into the hall. It was my cousin Caroline. She strutted out the door and towards me, fixing on a wide smile as she spotted me.
Jeez, she’s such a pain.
A pain and a snob. Perhaps she felt superior to me because her mother hadn’t run off when she was a child before dying alone and on drugs. Fair enough, I suppose. She was Auntie Grace’s only other family – my uncle died a couple of years ago from cancer.
“Victoria,” she said, her voice ringing out like a fine piece of Irish crystal tapped with a silver spoon.
“How are you Caroline?” I asked, managing to form my own half smile.
We embraced; hands patting backs, handbags knocking together, then we backed away from one another.
“Terrific. Great to see you -how are you, chick, it’s been ages?” she said, open – mouthed, dramatic. She was a year older than me, but looked better. In saying that, she could afford the expensive peroxide in her hair and the Botox in her forehead. Her mouth remained open.
Frig me – a horse would have been embarrassed with that expression.
“Grand, yeah, I’m fine.”
“Still doing the… er,” she struggled for the words painfully, “… little shows?”
I gave her an even look, “Yes Caroline, I’m still a professional musician.”
“Good, wonderful,” she said, her own smile still hanging on, “I’m still kept busy – auditing Brian’s books, keeping house – and then there’s Mammy of course. James got another promotion you know?”
“Did he? Great,” I said, not attempting to even feign much enthusiasm. Her husband was another arrogant twat.
“How’s Auntie Grace doing?” I asked, changing to a subject that actually interested me.
“She’s doing okay, not brilliant, her form’s not bad,” she said, betraying some genuine emotion. “They do a wonderful job with her. Of course, we’d rather have her live with us,” she said, returning to her Mrs. Bouquet manner. “But I just wouldn’t have the time to care for her properly there, what with all of my other commitments.”
Yeah – no job, no kids, no responsibilities.
I shot a passive smile, “Okay then, nice to see you, I’ll go on in.”
“Just wonderful to see you, chick,” she said, and we patted awkwardly again. I tried not to wince at the ‘chick’ a second time.
As she breezed off, I knocked on the door and turned the handle.
“Hello Auntie Grace,” I spoke quietly, peering into the room.
“Hello love,” came a gravelly but warm reply.
As I stepped quickly across to her, I tried not to share any shock with my face. She appeared much greyer than she had the week before. An oxygen mask lay across her neck to one side, the strap still dangling over one ear. There was a drip linked up to her arm and a monitor clamped to one frail finger.
“Don’t worry about those things,” she said with a chuckle. My attempt at hiding my feelings apparently proved to be rubbish.
I smiled and kissed her on her cheek.
“How are you?” I asked, pulling a blue plastic chair over beside her.
“I’m alright – still here love. That’s a start chuck,” she added, with another chortle that provoked a small coughing fit.
“You’re looking well,” I lied.
Yes, her eyes still sparkled, but her grey hair hung straggly around her now hollowed out face and in truth she looked terrible.
“You’re a geg,” she said and caught my eye. “That’s a load of old cobblers. But you can’t keep a good man down. Now love – do you want a wee coffee – there’s the machine outside there. Or I could ask a nurse?” she said gesturing vaguely to the door. “Pass me my purse dear.”
“No, not at
