Me and You. Claudia Carroll
in one foster home after another but says none of them ever really worked out and she just drifted around from Billy to Jack, rootless. Then when she was about fifteen, she was placed with an older, widowed lady called Mrs Kennedy and the pair of them just idolised and adored each other right from the word go. To this day, Kitty considers Mrs K., as she affectionately calls her, to be the only real family she ever had, even though she was only homed with her for over a year.
But when Kitty was only about sixteen, the poor woman started to become seriously ill with Alzheimer’s, followed by a series of strokes. Awful for her and just as bad for Kitty too, though she never let on. Instead, she just did what Kitty always does: tried to keep the show on the road single-handedly for as long as she could.
Anyway, it got to stage when authorities decided Mrs K. couldn’t care for herself any more, never mind a sixteen-year-old, so on what Kitty calls the most Dickensian day of her life, they broke them up and packed Mrs K. off to the best-equipped care home going, for someone with her condition. Meanwhile, Kitty was sent off to yet another foster family, and from that point on, she just completely clams up whenever I gently probe her for more about her back-story.
Mrs K. is being well looked after, though, and to this day, Kitty still visits her at the care home every chance she gets. Only trouble is, it’s just outside Limerick, a bloody two-and-a-half-hour journey from here. Kitty’s amazing though; drives down to see her every day off that she can. I’ve even gone with her a few times, but find it all just sad beyond belief. There are days when Mrs K. doesn’t even recognise Kitty; confuses her with one of staff nurses in care home and for some reason keeps calling her Jean.
Also, I’m just not a born natural round ill people, like Kitty is. Kitty will laugh and joke and even bounce round other wards to visit all Mrs K.’s pals; you can always tell what room she’s in by the loud sound of guffaws that follow her about everywhere. Like a one-woman Broadway show. Whereas I never know what to say or do, just sit tongue-tied in corner, then end up coming out with weak, useless crap along the lines of, ‘Well, she’s certainly looking a whole lot better, isn’t she?’
Even worse, the days when Mrs K. doesn’t know us are lately becoming the good days; sometimes she won’t talk to us at all, just sits rocking away to self and singing theme tunes from TV shows, bird-happy, away in own little world. Keeps confusing me with one of the tea ladies called Maureen, and every now and then will screech at me, ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Maureen? I hate bloody egg and onion sandwiches!’
Heartbreaking. My own family may not exactly be the Waltons, but Kitty’s story at least makes me appreciate what I have that bit more.
So maybe I’m finally on the money here. Because if something did happen to Mrs K., I just know in my waters Kitty wouldn’t think twice about hotfooting it all way to Limerick, would she? And she couldn’t phone me to explain on account of … well, maybe there being no mobile signal down there?
Has to have been what happened. And the only reason it didn’t occur to me before now is that for past few years, although Mrs K.’s mental state is deteriorating fast, she’s been so physically strong that not even Kitty was worried about her for the longest time.
‘Joyce, I think I should call the care home. Now.’
‘Of course,’ she says firmly. ‘You can use the phone from my office; you’ll have a bit more privacy. It’s just off the kitchens. Come on, I’ll show you.’
Obediently I follow her and the pair of us weave our way through the Christmas boozers, worry now vom-making in my throat. Don’t know what Kitty will do if anything’s happened to Mrs K. Especially not now, at Christmas. She’s the only person in the whole world that Kitty considers family; it would just be too bloody unfair by far.
Joyce efficiently brings up number of Foxborough House care home on her computer and even dials for me. Hands trembling nervously now as the number starts to ring.
‘Foxborough House, how may I help you?’ comes a polite, breezy, unstressed voice.
‘Hi, there, I was wondering if I could enquire after Mrs Kathleen Kennedy? She’s in room three eleven on the ground floor.’
‘May I ask if you’re a family member?’
Gulp to myself, stomach clenched, somehow sensing bad news. The worst.
‘Family friend.’
‘Well, I’m happy to tell you that Mrs Kennedy is absolutely fine, just ate a hearty dinner, in fact.’
‘Sorry, you mean … She’s OK then? There’s no emergency with her?’
‘No, none at all.’
‘And, well … I was just wondering if Kitty Hope had been to see her at all today? She’s my best friend and—’
Receptionist’s voice instantly brightens tenfold at the very mention of Kitty’s name.
‘Oh, yes, I know Kitty well! Such a fantastic, lively girl, isn’t she? We all love it so much when she comes to visit, she really cheers up everyone’s day round here. But you know, the last time I saw her was about a week ago. I remember distinctly, because she mentioned that she’d be away for Christmas, but that she’d be in to see her mum as soon as she got back. At New Year, I think she told us.’
Joyce looks hopefully at me and I shake my head. So, no emergency, then.
Kitty’s still gone AWOL.
1.05 p.m.
Right then. I’ve been in Byrne & Sacetti for ages now, can’t loiter round any longer. Also, it’s not fair to delay poor old Joyce any more, not when it’s like Armageddon in here. So I hug her goodbye and she smiles her warm, confident smile and tells me not to worry a bit. That Kitty will turn up safe and well and we’ll all look back on this and have a good laugh.
Attempt to give watery grin back at her, but I’m an appallingly unconvincing actress.
1.08 p.m.
Then, just as I’m facing back out into the snowy street outside, my mobile suddenly rings.
Check to see who it is, hoping against hope … Not it’s not Kitty, but it’s the next best thing! Her boyfriend, Simon! He HAS to have news, just has to …
I dip into the doorway of a fairly quiet pub, away from the noisy street and the blaring sound of Christmas Eve traffic before answering.
‘Simon! Can you hear me?’
‘Hey, Angie, how are you?! I’m sorry about the delay in getting back to you, but I’m back at home, plus I’d to take a whole clatter of nieces and nephews to see Santa today and to buy all their Xmas presents. Bloody mayhem in Smyth’s toy store, there were near riots over the last of the Lalaloopsy Silly Hair Dolls. Tell you something, I’ve never needed a stiff drink so badly in my life!’
Such a relief to hear his soft Galway accent. Strong. Reassuring. Bit like a pilot making an announcement on an Aer Lingus flight. For first time today, I feel safe. Calm. Somehow, it’s all going to be OK. I’m far too stressed out to cop why he’s on about Lalaloopsy Dolls, then remind myself: Simon comes from a massive family with approximately fifteen nieces and nephews, or whatever it was at last count.
‘Simon,’ I interrupt, a bit rudely, ‘is Kitty with you?’
‘With me? What are you talking about?’
Stomach instantly shrivels to the size of a sultana.
‘You mean … you don’t know where she is then?’
‘No, isn’t she with you? I thought you pair were having your lovely, relaxing, girlie treat day today? That I’ve been explicitly banned from, and told not to even call till hours later, when you’re both roaring drunk on champagne?’
Fill him in. On everything, on how I’ve been everywhere and phoned just about everyone, looking for her. I even tell him bit about cops, who all but laughed at me and politely told