Rules of the Road. Ciara Geraghty

       4

       BUMPS ON THE ROAD.

      There are speed bumps up the ramp to the ferry.

      ‘Oh dear,’ Dad says, when I drive over one. He is a bag of bones, rattling with each jolt.

      ‘Sorry Dad, it’s the speed ramps,’ I say.

      ‘Where there are speed ramps, road users should take extra care and expect the unexpected,’ says Dad. I put my hand on his shoulder and he smiles. I need to find his dentures when I park. I need to find Iris. My stomach muscles clench. My stomach is always the first thing to let me down. The doctor says this is where my stress lives. In my stomach.

      ‘Will you sing me a song, Dad?’

      ‘I used to squawk out a few numbers all right. Back in Harold’s Cross, remember?’

      Harold’s Cross is where my father grew up. He lived in Baldoyle with my mother for nearly forty years and he never mentions it. But he can tell you the names of the flowers his mother grew in the long, narrow garden at the back of the house in Harold’s Cross.

      ‘Sing “Summer Wind”. I love that one.’ I love them all really. Dad starts to sing.

      ‘The summer wind, came blowin’ in from across the sea

      It lingered there to touch your hair and walk with me …’

      He remembers all the words, and even though his voice no longer has the power and flourish of before, if I close my eyes and forget everything I know and just listen, I can hear him. The ‘before’ version of him.

      I don’t close my eyes of course. I am driving. In unfamiliar environs.

      An Irish Ferries employee gestures me into a space. It’s a tight one. The car starts beeping, indicating that I am approaching some impediment; the side of the boat on one side and a Jeep on the other. Dad twists in his seat, anxious as a fledging perched on the edge of the nest. ‘Careful there,’ he says. ‘Careful.’ His face is pinched with fear and he puts both hands on the dashboard, bracing himself for an impact.

      It’s hard to believe I was ever afraid of him.

      I shiver. ‘Are you cold, love?’ my father asks. He puts his hand on my arm, rubs it, as if to warm me. It does. It warms me.

      I smile at him. ‘Thanks Dad.’

      I find his teeth buried in the pages of the Ireland roadmap I keep in the pocket of the passenger door. Brendan and I used to talk about going away for weekends when the girls were old enough to look after themselves. Just getting in the car on a Friday evening and driving away, wherever the road took us type of thing.

      I don’t know why we never got around to it.

      The wind is brisk when we get out of the car. Everything Dad needs is in the suitcase. Enough for a week, the manager said. But I have nothing other than the clothes I’m standing up in. The shoes – navy Rieker slip-ons – are comfortable and warm. And the navy trousers from Marks & Spencer are good travelling trousers. Hard-wearing and slow to crease. My navy and cream long-sleeved, round-necked top is a thin cotton material that does little to cut the draught. At least my cardigan is warm. I pull it across my chest, fold my arms to keep it there. My ponytail – too girlish for my age, my daughters tell me – whips around my head and I catch it in my hand, hold it down.

      My other hand keeps a tight grip on the clasp of my handbag into which I have stuffed banknotes. The man at the ticket booth eyed me suspiciously when I pushed the bundle of cash through the gap at the bottom of the glass partition. I don’t carry money about my person as a rule. But I extracted the money from an account I’ve never used before. My mother opened it for me a long time ago but I only discovered it after she died, three years ago. I found the bank card in the blue woolly hat in the top drawer of her dressing table. I found all sorts in that hat. Her children’s allowance book. The prize bonds she got from her mother for her twenty-first birthday. My first tooth. A lock of Hugh’s white-blond baby hair. Her marriage certificate.

      Stuck to the bank card on a scrap of paper was the PIN number – my birthday – and a note.

      A running-away-from-home account, she had written. Just in case you ever need to.

      I was shocked. At my mother, who, I was certain, did not approve of running away. Bearing up was her philosophy. Making the most of things.

      I didn’t tell Brendan. He might have taken it the wrong way.

      Iris doesn’t know we’re on the boat.

      I haven’t worked out what I’m going to say yet. I don’t know what Iris will say either. There will be expletives. I know that much.

      ‘Where was I?’ says Dad, as if we are in the middle of a conversation from which he has become temporarily distracted.

      ‘We’re going to find Iris,’ I tell him, linking his arm. I sound definite, like someone who knows what they’re doing. I lead him towards the door. He shuffles now, rather than walks, as if he is wearing slippers that are too big for him. Progress is slow. Inside, there are flights of stairs, and progress becomes slower.

      ‘Hold onto the bannisters, Dad.’

      ‘Yes, but … where are we going?’

      ‘We’re going on an adventure,’ I tell him. ‘Remember when you used to bring me and Hugh on adventures? To Saint Anne’s Park? We’d be Tarzan and Jane, and you’d be the baddie, chasing us up the hills. Remember that?’

      ‘Oh yes,’ he says, and he does the laugh he does when he can’t remember but pretends he can.

      Although maybe Hugh doesn’t remember either. He’s been in Australia nearly ten years now. Mam didn’t cry at the airport. She wouldn’t have wanted to upset him. He invited her to visit lots of times, but she said it wouldn’t have been practical, with Dad the way he was.

      She should have gone.

      I should have persuaded her to go.

      Dad and I reach the bottom of the stairs. Set in the door at the bottom is a circular window, and through the glass I see a seating area with a hatch where you can get tea.

      And I see Iris. Reading. I can’t make out the title of the book, but it doesn’t matter because I know what book it is. The Secret Garden. Iris’s version of a comfort blanket.

      Her father bought it for her when she was a child. After her mother left. Iris remembers him reading it to her at bedtime. He’d never read to her before. That’s how she worked out her mother wasn’t coming back.

      I open the door and a wave of heat and babble hits me and I feel my father flinch.

      ‘I don’t …’ he begins.

      ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ I tell him. He has forgotten that his favourite drink is a pint of Guinness with a measure of Bushmills on the side.

      ‘And a bun,’ I say. He nods and I persuade him through the door.

      Iris has a window seat. One hand holds the book while the other is wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of tea. Her head leans against the window. Through it, grey waves rise and fall, dragging their white manes behind them. And the land, falling away with the distance we have already come.

      I usher Dad towards her table. He clutches my arm as a small boy barrels towards us and I steer him out of harm’s way as the child, and