DAY 11,991

Halloween

I listened to the news on Radio 1 as I tidied up the cottage. There had been a fatal collision on the road between Monaghan and Castleblayney. I clocked it with the second of dismay one feels on hearing this commonplace news, wondered who had been killed. Some young man no doubt, speeding on that stretch of road, where we would drive later. Death is an everyday occurrence, obviously, visiting families as often as birth or marriage. But it was not knocking on my door that day so I ignored it, as we must do to get on with life.

We locked up at about ten, and set off, stopping on the boreen to deposit the plastic sacks of rubbish with a neighbour, Charlie, as we had pre-arranged. I had cleaned out the freezer, which had been full of food years past its sell-by date, and so there were a few black sacks. Bonnie, Charlie’s dog, was not outside, which was just as well, because the sack would have driven any dog crazy. It stank to high heaven: overnight the frozen contents had melted, and were clearly rotten. The pong lingered in the car and on my hands for some hours, and I worried that I had left it to Charlie to dispose of the disgusting stuff. I was still in the zone where one worries about small offences, or possible offences. The zone of the normal.

On the way back, we stopped at a restaurant attached to a garden centre on the outskirts of Monaghan town and had lunch. Bo ordered a prawn sandwich once again, to my amusement: he was being reckless with shellfish, probably because he was still feeling a sense of relief thanks to his recent clean bill of health. We lingered in the garden centre, which was, to our surprise, already stocked with Christmas decorations and paraphernalia. I bought a small white tree that took my fancy. It was beautiful, and looked like a birch tree covered in frost. I knew exactly where I would put it, when we decorated the house for Christmas, although it seemed premature to be thinking of such matters before Halloween had even passed. ‘No harm in being prepared!’ said Bo, comfortingly.

Normal time.

Not far outside Monaghan the motorway between Castleblayney and Carrickmacross was closed, cordoned off, gardaí directed us to a side road. I remembered the fatal accident I had heard reported on the radio that morning. So they were still examining the scene. I sighed. What did I feel? Frustration, mainly. What a waste – fatal accidents happened frequently on that stretch of road. I couldn’t imagine anything else, who he was, how his family felt. Needless death, and an inconvenience for us. We took the detour, which brought us along a narrow country road for several miles.

We got back to Dublin at about seven o’clock in the evening. The house was dark and cold.

Bo complained of a sore toe.

When we were going to bed, I had a look at it. The third toe on his right foot had a white blister on the tip, with a black centre. The toe was swollen.

‘I think you should go to the doctor tomorrow,’ I said. ‘That foot specialist you saw two or three years ago told us we shouldn’t hang about if anything went wrong with your feet.’

Bo had been worried about his feet for a long time. He often got severe cramps in his calf, and the circulation to his feet was very poor. The blue veins that criss-crossed his uppers like maps disturbed him, and he was often convinced that there was a problem. The podiatrist, in the Blackrock Clinic, had assured us that there was no real problem, apart from poor circulation, and told us not to worry. ‘But if you cut your foot or anything like that, go to a doctor straight away – don’t waste time.’

I googled ‘feet’ – perhaps I googled ‘gangrene’? – and saw images of toes that looked a bit like Bo’s. I wondered if he had dry gangrene. Creeping gangrene? I determined to go to the doctor first thing in the morning.

This was my first mistake, a wrong diagnosis based on googling.

I had a busy schedule on Thursday. At 6.30 p.m., I was due to launch a children’s book, The Secret of the Sleeveen, by Brenda Ennis, in the Irish Writers’ Centre, and later, at 9.30 p.m., I was performing at a big ‘concert’, an event in honour of the National Folklore Collection, and a fundraiser, which was taking place in Liberty Hall. I was doing a short presentation on the Urban Folklore Project. Although I had written my book launch speech and my presentation for the concert in Donegal, I still had some phone calls to make, to ensure that the clips of sound recordings I wanted to play at the concert had been collected from the Folklore Archive, and that all was well. I had left a DVD with the recordings for collection in the archive on Friday, before we went to Donegal. But somehow I anticipated a glitch. And a glitch occurred – nobody had collected the DVD and at this stage nobody knew where it was.

We went to the medical centre. The doctor we usually saw was not available so we saw another GP. On visits to consultants, of which there had been many, I usually went in to the meeting with Bo. But on this occasion I stayed in the waiting room. Why?

I know exactly why.

Three weeks earlier, we had been in Bruff in Limerick, where Bo was giving a lecture in memory of his colleague and good friend, Dáithí O hÓgáin, who died of cancer in 2011. Bo gave his talk on Friday night. On Saturday, there was a packed schedule of lectures and presentations, followed by an outing to Lough Gur in the afternoon. Bo went to all the lectures. I took a break from the final session of the morning, and met him and others for lunch in a pub before the Lough Gur outing. Everything ran late at this event so by the time Bo got to the pub we had about fifteen minutes to spare for lunch, before the bus was due to depart for the trip. He had to go to the loo. While he was gone, a waitress took the order, and I ordered my own sandwich and exactly the same for Bo – since I knew he wouldn’t be fussy and, of course, know what he likes to eat. I noticed, or thought I noticed, one of his colleagues giving me a sharp look, suggesting that I was being disrespectful, patronising, not considering that Bo might like to place his own order. It occurred to me that yes, I could be too bossy.

That’s what influenced me that day in the waiting room. I was still feeling guilty about that sandwich. I thought it would be good for Bo to be alone with the doctor, that he didn’t need me around all the time.

Bo came out of the doctor’s office in cheerful mood. The toe problem was just gout, not anything serious. Bo has had gout for about twenty years – he first got it when we were on a camping holiday in Italy in 1993. It recurred periodically, and was treated with Difene, an anti-inflammatory, which usually cured it very quickly. The gout always affected Bo’s big toe, however, not any of the others, and that is why we didn’t recognise it this time. I wondered about the white blister on Bo’s toe but thought it might be the result of a cut, by the neighbouring nail.

Gout. Not gangrene then. What a relief!

‘He prescribed a new kind of medicine,’ Bo said, by which he meant one he himself had not used before. ‘It’s very strong and can have side effects but I’ll try it.’

We collected the pills in the local pharmacy and drove home.

I had to phone the young woman who was organising the evening’s concert to discuss the fate of my sound recordings. I also needed to buy sweets and nuts for the children who would call to the house that night, because it was Halloween. And I had an appointment with the hairdressers.

Too many things to do on one day.

Bo’s toe was still sore. So he went back to bed. I was cross with him, and told him he shouldn’t have eaten all that shellfish – which had almost certainly caused this gout. I felt pressurised, and wondered how I would deal with the schedule for the night – the thought of pulling out of either of the two commitments was unthinkable – which shows how silly we human beings are. The book could easily have been launched without me – there were if anything too many speakers. The concert in Liberty Hall had a packed programme and was also far too long – in fact, by the time I appeared on the stage, at 10.30 p.m. that night, some people in the audience had already left to catch their buses home.

Bo asked, how many of these pills should I take?

I didn’t have my glasses – where were they? Not there. I snapped at him, told him to read the label himself. I got irritated when Bo forgot that I couldn’t read without glasses – it had been several years since I could do that.

Rather impatiently, he had a look at it. Three once a day, he said.

I was surprised and said, that’s unusual, isn’t it?

I was standing at my dressing table, maybe brushing my hair, and Bo was in bed. The room was rather dark, although it was now about noon. He popped three pills into his mouth impatiently and swallowed them, without water. I was alarmed. I ran downstairs, found my glasses, came back up and read the label.

‘It says one three times a day!’ I said. ‘How could you have been so bloody stupid?’

I ran downstairs again. Why? There is a phone by our bed. I suppose I ran down to get the telephone directory, which is in the hall beside the main phone. In the bright big kitchen, I phoned the surgery and explained to the receptionist what had happened. She put me through to the doctor. Thank goodness he is still there, I was thinking. I was still in ordinary time, where doctors leave the surgery at some particular time on the clock, where the time on the clock matters. He said he would phone the hospital, and ring back. He rang back quite quickly.

‘It’s not a toxic dose,’ he said. ‘If it is a toxic dose, you could take him to the hospital and get an antidote. But it will probably be all right. If he gets sick, take him to the hospital.’

But what does ‘if he gets sick’ really mean? Did I really take this in? No. Why didn’t I ask him, ‘What do you mean, sick?’ Why didn’t I say, ‘Well, let’s play safe?’ I know why. I was busy. I had stuff to do, commitments, I wasn’t about to let people down – the writer of the children’s book, the organisers of the concert. I didn’t want to go to the hospital and I was relieved this wasn’t necessary.

I read the leaflet that came with the pills. (For some reason, the name of the pills reminded me of Chaucer, and ‘The Pardoner’s Tale’, one of Bo’s favourites, came to mind. It is a story about poison, and the impossibility of cheating fate, or ‘that traytour, Deeth’. ‘See ye that ook?’ is the line that popped into my mind. Under the oak tree, death awaits.) Side effects included vomiting and diarrhoea. But of course they are side effects to many pills. They are the possible side effects of almost every pill Bo takes – five or six different tablets every day.

Bo felt okay. He ate some lunch, drank some tea. I telephoned our son Olaf, and told him Bo wasn’t well and that I had to go out. He asked when I had to go. Five o’clock. I won’t be home until late, maybe midnight.

We were still at the stage where time mattered. Little bits of time; events that would soon seem unspeakably trivial still mattered. We were in ordinary time, the place where we live, when it mattered whether Olaf would have time to get back to his flat that night. When it mattered that I would have time to get my hair blow-dried, to buy sweets for Halloween callers. We were still in ordinary time, the clock ticking, the diary full of appointments, each prefi xed by its time. Launch 6.30 p.m. (or should that be 7?). Concert 7.30 p.m. (but you can arrive at the interval, i.e. 9). Hairdresser 2.30 p.m.

I went to my hairdresser, then to Tesco where I bought lots of bags of sweets for the trick or treaters. At ten to five, Olaf was on the doorstep.

‘Not sure what Bo will eat,’ I said.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll do something.’

Olaf is very quiet, and does not use words lightly. He is totally reliable, very, very kind. Many times, I have called on him to stay with Bo, while I am out doing something. He and Nadezhda, his partner (now wife), have always come. For an evening, for a weekend. She comes all smiles, he comes silently, they never complain or fuss. I had no qualms about saying goodbye to Bo. By now we were very friendly again. Bo was tired and a bit queasy but none of the terrible side effects had occurred. I guessed he would be all right in a day or two.

‘Drink a lot of water,’ I said.

Did I kiss him goodbye? Maybe.

Somehow I thought water would dilute the impact of the pills. I had read that they were slow release so I was still a bit worried.

I headed off. The launch was great – a very enthusiastic event, for Brenda, who had a huge circle of friends and family. It was her first book, people had been hearing about it for a long time, and were delighted that it had come to fruition. Her daughter had composed a piece of music for the occasion, which she played on the harp. I gave my talk, about Samhain. This is the night when the dead and the fairies come out to wander on earth. It is a dangerous night, when the dead walk the earth and you may meet a ghost. It is also the season of storytelling …

All this, I said, and much more, and everyone clapped, and told me it was wonderful.

I grabbed a few sandwiches – how lucky there is food, I said, to Kelly Fitzgerald, who had introduced me to Brenda, but who was also rushing to Liberty Hall and the concert.

Liberty Hall was packed with people. I crept into the back of the balcony and listened to what remained of the first half of the concert. Many brilliant traditional musicians and singers. Vincent Woods and Doireann Ní Bhriain were introducing it, with a mixture of warmth and professionalism. I was impressed by their ability to come up with some appropriate, often witty, comment, after every performance.

At the interval, I tried to find the green room. As I wandered around the foyer, I met some people from the audience – Maj O Catháin, for instance, who asked if Bo was there.

‘He’s not feeling very well,’ I said, lightly, realising that it sounded like a white lie.

Eventually I went backstage, where a festive atmosphere prevailed – bottles of beer and wine, many young people running around, waiting to go on or off. The buzz was infectious. I remembered how it felt, putting on plays, which I had done long ago in the 1990s. The excitement of the theatre, the sense of purpose, of total commitment to the show, the pleasurable pressure of all that. I found myself, though, left alone in a dressing room, and I wondered where everyone was – I didn’t realise there were several dressing rooms and I had landed in the first, outer one. I read over my script, made some last-minute revisions, as I always do.

I phoned Olaf from the green room. Bo was feeling ‘a bit queasy’, he said, using a phrase that would be repeated several times over the next week. He had eaten some supper but vomited it up.

(‘If he gets sick take him to the hospital.’)

Now he was asleep. Too preoccupied to feel more than mildly uneasy, I told Olaf to go home, that everything would be all right.

Eventually, at 10.30, it was my turn – I had been preceded by the Swords Mummers, so colourful and otherworldly in their magnificent straw costumes. Vincent said a few words about the Urban Folklore Project, introduced me, and I stood at the podium and delivered my brief talk. I could not see the audience – the auditorium was black, and I was flooded in light. But they laughed at my jokes and I got that sense of rapport you can get, from the stage. I introduced my first recording, which was of Lyrics Murphy, a man I collected from in Ringsend – by coincidence, I had first met Lyrics on another Halloween night, long ago in 1979. I gave a rather full introduction to this astonishing man, who had been passionately interested in his home, Ringsend, and had under his own steam documented some of its lore, especially its vast range of nicknames. I had been instructed to nod to the light box up at the back to give them to cue to play the recording.

‘And now we’ll listen to Lyrics Murphy,’ I said and raised my head and hand to the box. ‘Talking about nicknames in Ringsend.’

The voice of a woman, from Black Pitts, describing midwives and childbirth, flooded the vast theatre.

Another glitch.

The audience didn’t seem to mind. Once they realised what was happening, they listened to Rosanna O’Reilly – who was colourful and hilarious – and gave themselves to the moment. I apologised, although it was not my fault – or was it? I should have insisted on a rehearsal. But how could I have done that? Where would I have got the time, on that hectic day? I should have come home from Donegal earlier. But. But. Many ifs and buts.

As soon as I was finished, feeling deflated – because no matter how minor a glitch is, it is deflating, and one feels like an idiot, and one wishes it hadn’t happened – I dashed across to Tara Street DART station to catch the train home. I just missed one, and had to wait for almost half an hour – this long wait always feels like an eternity at that hour of the night. When the train came, it was a two-carriage train. Drat, I thought, now I probably won’t even get a seat. But I did.

I sat in the corner, opposite a tall man with a head of curly grey hair. He looked rather thespian, like a Shakespearian actor. Although I was very tired, I opened my Kindle and began to read – I have many books on my Kindle and I chose a short story by Margaret Drabble, a comfort read for me, since I knew this would pass the time easily, and absorb me just enough to keep me interested on the trip home. The train journey from the city centre to Shankill takes about forty minutes, which is long enough, especially if you’ve been waiting for half an hour for the train. At night it always feels much longer.

After a while the man opposite spoke.

‘Excuse me,’ he said in a refined voice. A bit Englishy. ‘Is that a Kindle?’

I confirmed that it was.

We conversed for the rest of the journey home. I had a moment’s hesitation – I knew I could return to my reading and he would respect that. But I decided he was not a dangerous man who was planning to rob/rape/murder me as soon as I got off the train. Also, he was educated. He knew something about literature – he had been a friend of Francis Stuart and advised me to read all of his work. I have read Black List, Section H, more than once, and liked it, but had a hazy memory of it.

The man was still on the train when I got off, so I guessed he lived in Bray, and wondered who he was. I thought, we may see him at the Mermaid – Bo and I sometimes went to the Mermaid Arts Centre in Bray on Monday nights, when they show a movie, from some group called European Film Art. We always met people we know, on those Monday nights, which we enjoyed very much. We’d been there just a few weeks before, although the last movie we had seen was Woody Allen’s Blue Jasmine, in the cinema in Dún Laoghaire. We never missed a Woody Allen movie.

When I got home, it was after midnight. Bo was asleep and didn’t wake when I slipped into bed beside him. It was nice and warm there, as always, and I curled up safely and fell asleep.