Cecelia Ahern 3-Book Collection: One Hundred Names, How to Fall in Love, The Year I Met You. Cecelia Ahern
moment.’
Caroline looked proud so Kitty mouthed a wow.
‘This is Alice’s son, Levi, my great-grandchild. This is my eldest son, Cormac, his son, Barry, and Barry’s two children, Ruán and Thomas.’ Two young boys barely looked up from their game consoles. ‘This is Seán, his wife, Kathleen, and their youngest son, Clive. Their daughter, Gráinne, lives in Australia with her husband doing … what is it now, Kathleen?’
‘Computer software analysis.’
‘That’s it.’ And Birdie continued through the group, two more sons, one wife and one partner and some of their children, some of whom were polite and others who couldn’t care less if she were the Queen of Sheba. Soon Kitty had no idea who was who, and as soon as she sat down beside Birdie, a position she was honoured to hold, Birdie’s daughter – her only daughter, Caroline – started talking. And she didn’t stop. Not for one second. Not for a breath. She commanded the conversation, telling anecdote after anecdote, long anecdotes, without bringing anyone else in at all. Occasionally a son or two would pipe up with something and a daughter-in-law would fill in gaps, refresh their memories, correct a mistake, but all the conversation, if it could be called that, was directed, produced, edited and starred in by Caroline. She was an elegant, well-dressed, well-spoken woman, with a wonderful turn of phrase and language skills, and had an impressive amount of knowledge on various topics. She was used to speaking, comfortable with her anecdotes and recanted them in an interesting way, but it was so constant that her voice – the sheer Caroline-ness of it all – began to bother Kitty. Birdie was quiet, rarely referred to; she was merely the reason for the visit, not the subject of it. Kitty kept waiting for the attention to turn to Birdie, or for one of the grandchildren or great-grandchildren to say something, until each time Caroline started a new subject, Kitty wanted to leap across the table and strangle her. She wasn’t sure if it was the hangover, the searing heat, and the irritating wasps circulating about their heads that made it all worse, but the only thing she could hear were words jumbling around that didn’t make any sense at all.
Molly appeared by Birdie’s side again, and without a word handed Birdie a small cup of brightly coloured pills and a glass of water. It was only then that Caroline chose to stop talking to turn her attention to her mother. When Caroline looked, everybody else looked, which made it rather uncomfortable for Birdie. Molly noticed them all staring.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Molly said, and despite the fact that it was an ordinary comment, everything she said in her Drogheda accent sounded brash, almost sarcastic, as if she meant something else but wouldn’t say. Perhaps it was the way her eyes glistened mischievously, her confident air, that gave the idea she didn’t feel anyone was better than she was, which of course she was right to believe, but she came across as defiant, as though she knew everyone thought they were better and she was constantly fighting it.
‘What are you giving her?’ Caroline asked, and it bothered Kitty that she hadn’t asked her mother that question.
They carried out a conversation about Birdie’s drugs, why she was taking them, and then Caroline in turn suggested other drugs she should be on and happily debated with Molly on how she was right. Caroline, it seemed, was either well up on her drugs or else she was a doctor. She was one who knew all about the craft but had no bedside manner. Kitty had her summed up already.
Caroline looked away from her mother, finally allowing her to take her pills in peace without an audience, and she began a story about a new vaccine on the market and a conversation she had had with somebody in the World Health Organization about it. At least some of the brothers were doctors too, because they seemed to understand the terminology, even added to it when they had the rare opportunity.
‘Molly, is there any chance I could get some of Birdie’s special tea?’ Kitty asked.
Birdie, who had been drinking water at that exact moment, snorted with laughter and her water spluttered down her top. Caroline stopped her story to look at her mother in surprise. In fact, everybody did. Even the teenagers looked up from their electronic equipment and one even cracked a smile to the other as they watched their grandmother giggle. Kitty handed her a napkin to wipe her face.
‘Thank you,’ Birdie said, composed, though her eyes were moist. ‘Excuse me for interrupting you, Caroline. Please do continue.’
Caroline studied her mother for a split second before continuing her conversation but she made sure to direct her speech at her mother so as to avoid another interruption or so she wouldn’t miss the next inside joke. They were the kind of family who, when one person spoke, kept all eyes and ears on that person until the story was finished. Pockets of conversations couldn’t break out among the others or else the entire story would come to an abrupt end until the narrator had everyone’s full attention again.
Kitty wondered why on earth nobody asked her or Birdie how they knew one another, and why Kitty was there interrupting their family get-together. Birdie couldn’t have told them who she was before she’d arrived – Kitty was due to have been there and gone two hours previously – but if she had told them, hadn’t they any follow-up questions? Hadn’t they any interest in their mother at all? Kitty was angry on Birdie’s behalf; she felt like she was standing on a busy motorway with cars speeding past her while she waited for a gap in the traffic to run across.
The gap came when Alice’s baby, Levi, choked on something, which sent both Caroline and Alice into a panic. Caroline took over without asking Alice for permission, which Alice succumbed to without a fight.
Kitty saw her opportunity.
‘I don’t know if you’re aware but I’m a journalist with Etcetera,’ Kitty said to the group, then turned to a surprised Birdie. ‘Did you fill them in?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ Birdie seemed a little embarrassed, if not slightly nervous.
‘What did she say?’ one son asked.
‘Etcetera,’ a daughter-in-law replied. ‘It’s a magazine.’
‘A kind of social and cultural magazine, would I be right?’ another asked, and Kitty agreed.
‘Did I read in the Times that the editor passed away recently?’ a son asked.
‘Yes, she did,’ Kitty replied. ‘Constance Dubois.’ She still wasn’t used to saying it, that Constance was gone, dropping it into casual conversation over scones and tea as if her friend was just a topic, like hypochondriac patients and new vaccines.
‘Oh, yes, she was the woman who gave that dreadful man a voice. That anti-medicine man, what’s his name.’
‘Bernard Carberry,’ Kitty said, her blood boiling. He was a nice man, a very well-respected and highly educated man, who also happened to send her a Christmas card every year.
‘That’s it, the man who preaches against the evils of GPs,’ Caroline continued, laughing to belittle him, though her disdain and rage was clear. ‘He believes we should be eating grass and drinking more water.’
‘He believes GPs unnecessarily prescribe antibiotics and other medications without actually getting to the root of the problem, whereas the other drugs he recommends are less damaging and can build up immunity.’
‘Utter tosh,’ Caroline said dismissively. ‘So do you work for this man then?’
‘We work for the same magazine and our paths have regularly crossed.’ Kitty was determined to stay polite.
‘And do you agree with his conspiracy theories?’
‘I believe Constance Dubois was an incredibly progressive figure who had the ability to see what the new and interesting were before other publications. She recognised Dr Carberry’s studies were of great interest to a wide audience twenty years ago before the topic was really being discussed and now he is among the world’s leading lecturers on homeopathic and new-age medicines, with many GPs actually agreeing with his findings, so yes, I think a lot of heed must be paid to what he says.’
Kitty