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7
BEFORE YOU START YOUR JOURNEY, YOU SHOULD PLAN WHERE YOU WILL STOP TO REST.

My mobile phone beeps, indicating a text message, which is probably either from Brendan or one of the girls. I don’t tend to give my number to people. But I can’t look at the phone because I am driving.

I am driving on an unfamiliar road somewhere in England – we must be in England at this stage, we left Holyhead hours ago – and the cars that are not passing me are beeping at me even though I’m driving at – I glance at the speedometer – ohmydearlord – sixty-five miles an hour. I slow down. More beeping.

The motorway would have been quicker of course, but I do not thrive on motorways. I did it once. The M50. Even elderly drivers honked their horns, albeit apologetically, as if they had no alternative.

Iris yawns and stretches. ‘Where are we?’ she says. But I can’t answer her, because I don’t know. ‘Tell me again why you don’t have a GPS system in the car?’ she says, connecting her phone, which has run out of battery, to her charger.

‘Because I don’t need one,’ I say. ‘I usually know where I’m going.’

I hand Iris the road map. Except it turns out that Iris is not as good at map reading as I had assumed.

‘Why had you assumed that?’ Iris wants to know, and it is a fair question. In fact, now that I know the truth, my assumption seems preposterous. She picks my phone out of my handbag, tosses it back inside when she sees the ‘no service’ sign on the screen.

Dad, realising that things are not brilliant, has taken to reading aloud every road sign we pass, and there’re rather a lot of them, so there’s a lot of reading aloud, which would ordinarily be fine, but, in this instance where there is a sizeable chance that we have missed our turn – or turns – it is not fine.

I am sorry to say that it is annoying.

‘Dad, it’s okay, you don’t have to—’

‘Bangor,’ he calls out. ‘Is it that one, Terry?’

‘No, I don’t thi—’

‘Chester,’ he shouts later.

Iris abandons the map.

‘Birmingham,’ roars Dad.

It begins to rain. Traffic builds up as the afternoon dwindles. Iris slumps against her seat, as if she too has run out of battery. If pressed, she’ll say that fatigue is the worst thing about MS, even though she never seems tired. Apart from now. But I suppose today is … well, it’s not your common-or-garden kind of day.

I long to pull onto the hard shoulder and consult the map, but you can add hard shoulders to the list of things I’m terrified of. You’re putting yourself in harm’s way, stopping on a hard shoulder.

I drive on.

‘Milton Keynes,’ shouts Dad.

I glance at the petrol-tank gauge. It is less than a quarter full. And I can’t mention it, because if I do, Dad will worry, and when he gets hold of something to worry about, he keeps at it and at it, like the skin he picks off his ears and his lips even though you beg him not to, and you lather them with Vaseline when the medicated cream the doctor prescribes fails to work.

I keep on driving.

Iris’s plan was to travel by taxi on motorways through England and France.

In this first part of her plan, she has allowed herself to be thwarted. Which gives me cause to hope.

The rest of her plan contains a worrying paucity of logistical detail. Other than the deed itself. Which is scheduled for Saturday morning.

Five days. Not three.

She has packed light.

But there is a meeting with the doctor on Friday evening. To get the prescription. And to make sure Iris is of sound mind. Or, if my plan goes to plan, to cancel the deed because Iris will have changed her mind.

Iris never changes her mind.

But there is a first time for everything.

And a deed is not a deed until it is done.

Today is Monday.

I have time.

‘Luton,’ Dad calls out.

‘Watford.’

I am cautiously optimistic that we are going in the right general direction.

Ahead, a petrol station. Where I can fill the tank and consult my A–Z. Get my bearings. It’ll be alright.

The apartment Iris has booked is in Stoke Newington.

‘Is that near the Hippodrome?’ I ask, leafing through the guidebook.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Promise not to laugh?’

‘I’m pretty sure I won’t laugh.’

‘It’s got a secret garden.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s a roof terrace really,’ Iris admits, reddening. ‘But there’s a touch of The Secret Garden about it. You’ll see.’

Iris seems so certain that I’ll get us there. Today. On time.

Stoke Newington is an hour’s drive from Watford, according to the book. Which also tells me that it is 7.4 kilometres from the Hippodrome in Leicester Square where Jason Donovan is playing tonight. Or 4.6 miles, since it’s England and this is the measurement used here. I allow myself a small moment of optimism when some signal returns to my phone. I manage to find the apartment using an app on my phone, which I’ve never used before, since I’ve never driven anywhere I didn’t know the way to before. The woman’s automated voice sounds bored with an edge of impatience. Now, I’m worrying about roaming charges and the congestion tax, but Iris tells me roaming charges have been discontinued, while, with a couple of casual swipes on the screen of her freshly-charged phone, she pays the tax.

She makes everything seem so simple.

What is not simple is the London traffic, lines of it stretching through gridlocked junctions, along what seems like the same street, over and over again. But then I see the street signs, the names of which bring home to me how far away from home we are.

Turn left. Turn right. Turn right. Turn right again. Turn left. Take the second exit here. Straight through the junction there. It feels as though this is how I will spend the rest of my life, following the endless directions issued by an automated voice. It feels as if we will never arrive, so when we do, I am awash with equal measures of drenching shock and exquisite relief.

I look around. I am stopped outside an efficient-looking custom-built apartment block that does not suggest gardens, secret or otherwise. It does, however, have an underground car park to which Iris has the code.

The apartment itself, on the top floor of the block, appears spacious, and this impression is enhanced by the furniture, which is spare. And the echo of our footsteps bounces against the bare walls. There are narrow, steep steps up to the roof, which will be difficult to negotiate on crutches. However, Iris will negotiate them because she was right. There is a secret garden. Although garden might be a little suggestive. The area is small, and what there is of it has more in common with the secret garden at the beginning of that book than the one that flourishes beneath the horticultural attentions of Mary Lennox and her friends. The flowerpots and baskets are overstocked with the remains of last year’s annuals, and vigorous weeds line the gaps between the patio slabs. But while the minuscule water feature is fighting a losing battle with rust, the sound of the water falling over round, smooth stones is pleasant enough, and the deckchair beside it provides a bright splash of red against the vivid green of the ivy that has wrapped itself around the wrought-iron railings that enclose the space and ensure that nobody stumbles off the edge.

Instead of the shy little robin redbreast that shadowed Mary Lennox around the garden, there is a pair of ragged crows, perched on a satellite dish and inspecting me with cold black eyes. I step towards them and flail my arms. They don’t move.

At least the railings seem sturdy enough. The ground is a long way down.

Inside, the walls are painted a watery shade of cream and the grey floor tiles are cold underfoot. The kitchen, usually my favourite part of any house, is a line of gleaming appliances and spotless cupboards and marble countertops. The cooker looks as though it’s never been switched on.

Clinical. That’s the word for this kitchen. A wave of loneliness comes over me then, pure and potent. I nearly buckle under the weight of it.

I check my phone for the source of the earlier beep. A missed call from Brendan. I will of course phone him back. Just not now. I’ll do it later. Or tomorrow, when my head might be clearer. I need to clear my head. Get some fresh air. I need to get out of this kitchen. Out of this apartment that seems spacious but is not.

And, I remember, I need knickers. And socks. And a change of clothes. And pyjamas and a toothbrush. And a hairbrush.

Oh, and some sterling.

Which, for some reason, reminds me that I need a plug adaptor.

For France.

If we ever get to France.

Which we probably won’t. Because surely Iris will come to her senses before then?

I settle Dad in front of the telly, look for some sports or wildlife programme, or maybe a western. I happen upon Ronnie O’Sullivan playing snooker against Mark Selby in the Crucible. Dad immediately straightens in the armchair, folds his arms across his chest. ‘Quarter-ball on the green,’ he says, nodding towards the screen.

He manages to retain vocabulary for certain things. Snooker is one of those things. A testament perhaps to his collection of trophies and medals that once lined the shelves of my parents’ ‘good’ room, and now fill an enormous cardboard box in a dark corner of my attic.

Ronnie drapes himself along the edge of the table, the cue sliding through the V between his thumb and finger, towards the white ball. He pots the green. ‘That’s how it’s done, Ronnie, my boy,’ Dad tells him.

‘I’ll be back in a minute, Dad,’ I say, moving towards the door.

‘Sure thing, love,’ he says, without lifting his eyes from the screen.

Iris is in one of the twin beds in the smaller of the two bedrooms. In her Women’s Mini-Marathon T-shirt which she ran for the Alzheimer’s Society last year.

It was only twelve months ago that Iris ran ten kilometres and it didn’t cost her a thought.

Now she’s in bed in the middle of the afternoon.

‘What are you doing?’ I say.

‘I’m having a rest.’

‘You never have rests.’ I realise my tone could be described as accusatory. It’s like she’s standing on a soapbox, proclaiming the fact of her MS to anyone who will listen. It’s like she’s rubbing it in my face.

‘I often have rests,’ Iris says. ‘It’s just that I have them in my own house so you don’t see me.’

‘Well, you never say that you’re having rests in your own house.’

‘I know you’re angry with me,’ Iris says. ‘I get it.’

‘Why would I be angry with you?’

‘Because of this.’ Iris gestures around the bare room. ‘This … situation.’

‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I just came up to let you know that I’m going shopping. I wondered if you need anything?’

Iris shakes her head. ‘No. Thanks. Where are you going shopping? I didn’t see a Marks and Spencer around here.’ She grins. We both know how dependent I am on Marks & Spencer. But I can’t help it. It’s just such a … comfortable shopping experience. I know where everything is, and it’s not too expensive, and the quality is reliable, and yes, the clothes mightn’t make you stand out in a crowd, but that’s not what I’m aiming for, when I dress myself every morning.

‘You can leave your dad here,’ Iris says. ‘I’ll keep an ear out for him.’

‘Ah no, you won’t be able to get any sleep.’

‘I’m not sleeping. I’m just resting.’

‘Okay then, if you’re sure. I won’t be long. I’ll get some food.’

‘No, don’t. I’m taking you and Mr Keogh out for dinner tonight. I thought we’d go to a tapas restaurant.’

‘That sounds great.’ It’s not exactly a Sign. And I’m sure Iris doesn’t remember, but the first time I tasted tapas was with her.

Iris lifts her head, props it on her hand. ‘Do you remember those tapas we had? On Suffolk Street.’

I sit on the edge of her bed. ‘I do.’

‘You told me that night how Wilbur the pig turned you into a vegetarian on your eighth birthday, remember?’

‘I remember,’ I say, smiling.

Mam collected me from school that day, the two of us sitting on the top deck of the bus, playing I Spy, getting off in town, me gripping her hand as we walked across O’Connell Street towards Eason’s bookshop. I scanned the footpath for a policeman. Mam always said if I got lost, I should find a policeman, so I used to keep an eye out for them, just in case.

I read the whole book that day. Charlotte’s Web. Which was how I discovered that food like rashers and sausages and ham and pork all came from pigs like Wilbur. I locked myself in the bathroom and thought about all the rashers and sausages and ham and pork I had eaten. Mam just smiled when I told her that I wouldn’t be eating meat any more. Dad said, ‘You’ll eat what your mother puts in front of you and be bloody grateful for it.’

When Iris pressed me as to why I was a vegetarian in the tapas restaurant that night, I ended up telling her my Charlotte’s Web story.

‘That’s pretty impressive for an eight-year-old,’ she said. I remember the way she looked at me when she said that. An admiring sort of look, which I felt was unwarranted since I had no other tales to tell of heroic childhood deeds. I had mostly been a timid, careful child. But that night in the restaurant, when Iris looked at me like that, I felt perhaps there was more to it. More to me. It was … well, it was lovely.

Iris turns onto her side. Her eyes are closed. I move towards the bedroom door. ‘Terry?’ Iris’s voice is heavy with drowsiness.

‘Yes? I’m here.’

‘They were really good tapas, weren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Now get some rest.’

I walk out of the bedroom, through the hall towards the sitting room. I find I am humming the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus, which is odd as I am not a hummer, as a rule. I remember Iris singing it at the top of her voice on our way to the taxi rank when we left the tapas restaurant that night. And when I joined in – it wasn’t a conscious decision, it just happened – Iris threw her arm around my shoulder and sang even louder. And while it’s fair to say that I am not a natural singer and certainly not in public, nor am I comfortable with such familiarity, I raised my voice too and reached my arm around Iris’s waist.

That was before she needed her sticks. Her hands shook when she examined the menu, but she never referred to it or offered an explanation. Maybe she presumed I knew about her MS from that most dreaded of office shrubbery, the ‘grapevine’, which was the case.

I often forgot she had MS. I told her that once – I was apologising for it, actually – and she said it was the nicest thing anybody ever said to her. She was preparing to climb Carrauntoohil in County Kerry at the time. I was helping her pack, and she threw an enormous bag of pills into the top compartment of her rucksack, and that’s when I made the comment. Iris never had time for her MS. She was too busy getting on with the business of life and it’s funny, even knowing what I know now about primary progressive MS and what an awful diagnosis it is, I would still say that I have never known anybody as in love with life as Iris is. She makes living seem … I don’t know … sort of exotic. Something to be tasted with relish. Like tapas for the first time.