DAINTY WRISTS, TINY WAIST, the neat little chin of a cat – the girl just blinks back at her. Language barrier or no language barrier, Aoife knows insolence when she sees it.
‘HERE,’ she says, patting the hall console. ‘The book is HERE. You have to WRITE’ – she mimes writing in the air. She does it very close to the girl’s face, but what of it? Aoife is the client, isn’t she? This Mitzi or Kitty or whatever she calls herself – she’d do well to remember what her work visa is for.
‘You have to WRITE the NAME of whoever visits my mother…’
The girl nods, blinking slowly. ‘Yes.’
Many Christmases ago, Aoife bought a doll for Valerie. It had dark eyes like that, hardly any of the white showing.
‘Write the TIME—’ She taps her watch, then with two hands, she demonstrates something coming towards her, ‘—they COME, and the time they—’ she shoos the imaginary person away, ‘—GO.’
‘Yes.’
‘Remind me what your name is?’
‘Katie.’ She’s wearing a very cheap chiffon blouse, big doily collar on it. The buttons run down between her small breasts. Petite – that is how that sort of figure is described.
‘Well, Katie. You write the time they come and the time they—’ Aoife chops at her forearm with her other hand and lets it finger-march in the direction of the door ‘—LEAVE.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Do you?’
‘Mum…’ Aoife turns to see her daughter standing in the door, big hands hanging by her sides, her face tilted, earnest as a child’s.
‘Mum. You’re shouting…’
‘Valerie, what are you doing in the hallway? Why aren’t you with Grandma? I told you to stay with—’
‘She’s asking for Katie.’
Aoife’s throat clogs. She can feel the redness of her cheeks. Her eyes water slightly.
‘Okay.’
She heads back into the kitchen, the petite Katie hurrying behind.
Putting her handbag on the kitchen table, Aoife calls, ‘I brought you some chocolates, Mammy.’
The carer rushes to Mammy. ‘Did you want me, Molly?’
‘Is that my Fifi giving out again?’
‘Not giving out, Mammy. I brought chocolates… I’m just telling you I brought you chocolates, and you say I’m giving out…’
Mammy doesn’t look up. She’s speaking to Katie, who is kneeling by the chair, smiling–Ha! Bright gums and a clutter of discoloured teeth. Not so pretty after all!
Valerie squeezes Aoife’s elbow. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Stick the kettle on, Valerie.’ She returns to her handbag, rooting out the chocolates. ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong. The Ladies Muck haven’t been writing their names in the book when they visit. So, I told the carers to write it in. It should be no great challenge for them to log visits in the book, should it? I bought a log book. I showed it to them. I said “you write in the names. If they don’t sign in, you write it in the book.” What could be simpler? Yet here we are: no names are logged for today, but there’s no doubt that someone has been here.’
‘How do you know, Mum?’
‘Mammy’s ring is missing, and there’s all this mess. Look. All you have to do is have a look around. Crayon under the armchair. Apple butt in the fireplace.’
‘Oh. Well, you’ve explained now anyway. I’m sure they’ll write it in from now on. Do you want coffee is it?’
The carer is standing at the threshold to the den, apparently delighted with herself.
‘Your mother has been in good form this morning. Haven’t you, Molly? You had a good appetite at lunch, didn’t you? And you are wearing your nice cardigan, aren’t you? That looks very cosy.’
Aoife smiles tightly. ‘She prefers to be called Mrs Kearney. Please do not patronise my mother.’
‘Okay.’ Lips closing over those frightful teeth, the girl walks past her to the kitchen door. ‘No problem. Well, I will leave you alone. I will be in my room if you need anything. See you later Molly.’
And off she shuffles, to snuggle down in Aoife’s childhood bedroom. She is wearing the most unprofessional shoes Aoife has ever seen – plastic clogs with rubbery flowers stuck to them.
‘Valerie, are you making the coffee or what?’
‘Hang on…’ Valerie is writing something into her phone, frowning. That’s all she’s been doing since she came back – tapping at her phone, grunting. The minute she arrived she got into bed with a hot water bottle, claiming period pain. Aoife dragged her out to brunch today – a nice little cafe in the village and she found herself worried that she might bump in to someone, that’s how bedraggled her daughter looked. She tried to talk to her a bit about what she wants out of life. ‘Don’t you think about children?’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t it be sad if Grandma never got to see your children?’
Valerie is still staring at the phone as she fills the kettle and flicks it on. Aoife can no longer deny it: her daughter is pasty and scrawny. Is she a failure already? She was so full of promise once, going off to acting school, then moving to their sweet little Baker Street flat. Aoife envisaged a lovely little life for her; not hugely glamourous, but respectable, at least. But since graduating seven years ago, Valerie’s had no more success than a television ad for bathroom cleaner and a radio ad for a gym. Sometimes she tells them she is starring in plays, but they’re not real plays. The last one was in the upstairs of a bar. ‘Profit shares’, is what she calls them. A few years ago, they gave her one of the Dublin apartments to look after. It had been in her name for years anyway. Aoife hoped it would encourage her to come home, but she’s just stayed in London, not working, not acting, not dating, living off the rent money. Aoife wouldn’t mind all that if she looked after herself, if she had parties to go to, friends to see; if she made herself attractive. Brendan thinks they spoiled her. He even suggested they make her pay rent on the London flat.
Valerie sighs, and slides her phone into her back pocket before pouring out the hot water.
‘Are there any biscuits? Do you want a biscuit, Grandma?’
‘Aoife, what is this now? What are we making?’
‘Oh!’
In the adjoining room, Mammy is sitting in her big chair, running her fingers over the book of swatches – eight different shades and qualities of satin to choose from. ‘Are you making a gown to dress me in?’
‘No, Mammy we don’t need that anymore… We’ll have some coffee, Mammy. And I brought you some chocolates… Go and take that from Grandma, Valerie.’
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing we need. We thought Mammy might like to choose what lining to use… it’s from the undertakers.’
Valerie’s face drops. ‘Mum, are you serious?’
‘Not for her Valerie – what kind of a ninny are you? I’ll explain later.’
Valerie frowns as she puts the samples on the table, but she keeps quiet. She fans some chocolate bourbons out on a saucer. They make the shape of a flower. Her every gesture is lethargic, reluctant. She doesn’t look well. She’s not even thirty, but already, if she’s not careful how she holds her face, her mouth turns down into a sloppy grimace.
‘You having a biscuit, Mum?’
‘No. None for me. Valerie, do you remember that doll you got from Santa? You called her Snowflake. She had a blue dress with snowflakes on it.’
‘Doll? I don’t remember ever being into dolls.’
‘Don’t you? Oh well. How quickly they forget… I’ll do the coffee, Valerie, you’ll only make a song and a dance of it. Put that samples thing out in the recycling will you?’
‘Where’s the recycling?’
‘Oh forget it. Give it here, I’ll put it in my handbag for now.’
Snowflake was beautiful, with a weighty, bean-stuffed body. She closed her eyes when she was on her back, and when she was moved upright the eyelids slid open with a gentle click. Valerie slept with her for years.
*
Valerie carries in the tray as though it’s a great effort, and sets it down on Mammy’s footstool. ‘Will I milk your coffee for you Grandma?’
Mammy starts. ‘Who’s this now? Who is this now with the white face?’
‘Valerie is back from London to see you, Mammy.’
‘Where is Freya? Freya? Where is she?’
‘Valerie is here to see you, isn’t this a treat? Usually we only see her at Christmas but we’ve had two visits so far thanks to your clumsiness!’ Aoife forces a tight laugh from her chest, adding, ‘Thanks to you falling over my handbag like a ninny and worrying everybody…’
Valerie looks up sharply from her phone. ‘Mum!’
‘Let’s get a photo, Valerie. Kneel down there beside Grandma and let’s get a lovely photo of the two of you… Smile, Mammy!’ A slow, silent flash. The photo is terrible.
‘One more… Oh, I really wish you’d wear the right makeup for your skin-tone, Valerie, you look like a ghoul. No. Not enough light in here…’
‘Freya? Where is the little fellow? Have you lost him?’
‘No, Mammy. No. We have that all sorted out now, remember? You chose the light blue satin. We have a nice white box. We’ll put him in beside Daddy very soon. Don’t you worry. Valerie, why don’t you tell Mammy about London?’
‘I’m back from London for a bit, Grandma.’
‘Oh yes. London is very busy these days, isn’t it?’
‘Drink your coffee, Valerie. We need to shake a leg. You start packing up the hens. I need to sort something out here with Grandma, then I’ll come and help.’
‘What? Mum! I have a really bad period, I told you.’
‘Still?’
‘Still. And I didn’t bring any wellies.’
‘Don’t be such a whinger, Valerie. Just unpack the boxes at least, and close the henhouse. I’ll be out to help you catch them in a bit.’
*
As soon as Valerie leaves, Aoife starts to unpack the clever little camera. She bought the set online – she hates the rigmarole of buying online, but how could she have explained it all to someone in a shop? All about her nieces and her half-mad sister and everything? Aoife is no specialist when it comes to these things, but it turned out to be quite simple to use. It is a discreet contraption, a ‘nanny cam’. Certainly no one will ever notice it. Aoife has spent a long time studying the instructions. She printed them off so that she could read them properly, but really, they are very simple.
Mammy is snoring now. Big, comfortable snores. Aoife touches her hand,
‘Mammy. My mammy.’
She plugs the camera in behind the TV and sets it on top of the DVD player. She sits on the couch and looks at it – it’s so tiny there’s no way a person would see it, except for the little flashing red light to show that it’s on. Aoife has considered this ahead of time, and she has brought a lump of Blu-tack with her to stick over it; no one will ever notice. And such an ideal spot for it – the DVD player, facing the whole room. She is pleased to have thought of that. She can be wily too when she wants to be… And apparently all the footage will be recorded and sent to Aoife’s computer, so Aoife can just fast-forward to when the young Ladies Muck are there.
There they will be, giving Mammy whatever sob story they give her to get themselves on her will and extract cash out of her, rifling through her handbag and trying on her jewellery, and all the while Aoife will be sitting at home in the study, watching them.
‘Fifi,’ says Mammy – it almost makes Aoife jump. ‘Fifi, my poor Cara. What will she do with all those children and only her scribbles to rely on?… that beautiful little boy – so clever. You’ll make sure Freya has enough will you? Will you sort out a cheque for her?’
Aoife’s eyes water. ‘What kind of an eejit are you, Mammy? Why should you pay for her mistakes? She has plenty of money anyway. She is using you, Mammy – how do you not see that? You think she visits because she likes it here? Ha! I cannot allow you to be used like this, Mammy, I cannot—’
Aoife can hear her pitch rising, but her mother is no longer listening.
‘Yes,’ says Mammy, ‘yes, of course you are right, darling. My Fifi. Where did we get you from? But do that for me, darling. Make sure she is looked after.’ Then she pretends to fall asleep, and then she is really asleep, the snore pushing wet through her lips.
If nothing else, this little speech of Mammy’s has proven, as if there was ever a doubt, why Aoife is right to install the nanny cam. She kisses her mother’s forehead.
Well, that took no time at all. A ruckus of clucking from the back of the garden. What has Valerie done now?
‘Katie!’ she calls up the stairs, ‘Katie can you come down here please? We’ll need you to pack up the hens for my mother…’