“It’s the legs that go first, they say.”
“The mobility.”
“That or upstairs.”
“The wits.”
“The common sense.”
At eighty-five years of age, Eileen Breslin had heard it all before.
As she pushed her trolley around the Iceland frozen goods supermarket, clutching her stash of discount coupons held together with an elastic band, she stopped for a word here and there with the shelf-stackers and her fellow shoppers.
She had to be selective in her purchases of course.
Only the less bulky items. So no heavy tinned goods or large glass bottles.
HP Sauce; Zoflora disinfectant; a Veda loaf; those Hovis digestive biscuits that Joe liked.
She’d have to go to Tesco’s for them.
Then to the Post Office to pick up her pension. (Mustn’t let it lie or build up to a noticeable sum. You never know… they might take it back off of you.)
Then to Dan Gilroy’s for her cut, mixed soup vegetables.
Then home again.
The walk to the bus stop.
The ‘wee dander’ around the shops.
It was at the very hub of her well-being.
It got her out of the house.
Got ‘a bit of fresh air’ blew around her.
It helped tire her out. Helped her sleep better.
It was about independence.
‘Not being a burden to no-one’ became her mantra.
But most of all, it was about getting her day in.
Long, unending days when nothing seemed to happen.
No-one seemed to call.
Well, maybe you might see the young parish priest two or three times a year.
And someone might drop by to collect your envelopes if you couldn’t make it to Mass.
There were the soaps.
And the Hallmark channel. But all they seemed to show were repeats these days.
And her books.
Her reading.
Where would she be without her books?
Maeve Binchy, Cathy Kelly, Marian Keyes.
It wasn’t that Anne was inattentive.
A bad daughter.
Not at all.
A better daughter you couldn’t want or wish for.
Anne made sure she wanted for nothing.
A hard worker too.
She stayed on late working at those council offices so many nights, and for no thanks.
But she wasn’t a girl you could talk to.
Really talk to.
She kept so much bottled up inside her.
Too much.
Like her father, God rest him.
It wasn’t healthy.
Maybe it was why she had never married.
But they never talked about that.
When they did talk, it was mostly about Joe.
Sure, wasn’t Joe worse off than any of them?
It kept her going.
She needed her wits about her to look after poor Joe.
Couldn’t go under until she was sure he was sorted out.
She knew that a fall or stumble at her age could end in disaster.
A broken arm or hip and… well, she would no doubt go downhill very fast after that.
And who would be there for Joe then?
Couldn’t expect Anne to do it.
Wouldn’t be right.
She walked slowly, scouring the ground in front of her for raised manhole covers or uneven pavement slabs.
Amazing, the pound coins and 20ps you’d find lying at your feet just by looking down.
She would go to see Dr Kelly and maybe the chiropodist later in the week.
She could pick up Joe’s prescription for his medicines, get her ears syringed and her feet done and it would get her out and about.
A bit of fresh air.
Put the day in.
Joe still went through a powerful amount of dressings.
And now he had a notion of some wee girl again.
After all these years.
She wanted to ask Anne if it was a good idea.
To be opening up all that hurt again.
About marriage and children and families and whatnot.
After how things had finished with Delores and how depressed he’d been after it all.
Knocked him right back, it had.
Had to see the ‘big doctor’ about depression and all sorts.
Anne just said that Joe was an adult and deserved a life as much as anyone else.
Sure, didn’t she know that already… but that wasn’t the point.
She wasn’t a mother.
She didn’t understand.
It would be good to get back in.
Get a bit of dinner on for the both of them coming in.
Have a cup of tea and a lie on the sofa with the rug around her.
Watch Loose Women and maybe nod off for the afternoon.