After a long, awkward pause, he said, ‘How’s Helen?’
He always asked – and I appreciated it. No one else seemed worried.
Although, why would they be? Helen was fine.
91
‘Hi.’ I smiled at a woman who looked vaguely familiar.
I had dropped into a Thursday evening NA meeting in Blackrock. It wasn’t one of my regulars but it was as good as any.
‘Kitchen’s that way.’ Someone pointed to the side of the room.
After I’d made a mug of camomile tea, I was looking for a chair when I felt something behind me. I turned to see a knot of radiant faces – to my astonishment it was Chalkie, Bronte, Giles, Roxy and Lowry.
‘Rachel!’ Bronte declared. ‘Is it really you?’
‘What …？’ Giles looked stupefied with shock. ‘Why are you here?’
I glanced at Chalkie, who discreetly drew an imaginary zip across his mouth. Clearly, he hadn’t told the others about me being in recovery.
‘Same reason as you,’ I told Giles.
‘Is this a new development?’ Roxy was absolutely stunned. ‘Or …’
‘Not new.’ I smiled. This was funny. Lovely. I was delighted to see them.
But almost my first thought had been, Are Chalkie and Bronte a thing? It was hard to tell just from looking at them.
‘Are we allowed to talk to you?’ Lowry asked.
‘Course we are, ya cretin.’ This from Chalkie. ‘We’re all equal in NA.’
‘And outside of NA,’ Giles said.
Chalkie slanted him some reluctant approval. ‘We’ll make a socialist of you yet.’
‘You absolutely won’t.’
I beamed around at the five of them. ‘Every one of you looks great.’
‘Clean and serene,’ Chalkie said. ‘That’s us.’
‘How come you’re all together tonight?’
‘We do it all the time!’ Roxy said.
‘Touring,’ Lowry said. ‘Keeping it fresh. Trying out lots of different meetings.’
‘We’re friends,’ Chalkie said. ‘Good friends.’ Then, watching me, he mouthed, Just.
Okay. Good. That was the right thing for both of them.
‘Are you in touch with …？’ Then I wished I hadn’t asked. At least one of the recent ducklings wouldn’t have made it.
‘Dennis and I text,’ Bronte said. ‘He’ll be bouleversé when he hears about us meeting you.’
‘I’m in contact with Trassa,’ Giles said. ‘She’s doing well. Very well. And Harlie’s good. Sober. Going to AA.’
An awkward silence followed.
‘Ella, though …’ Chalkie said. ‘She … ah. Went back on the tablets.’
My heart slid towards my toes.
But it happened. Not everyone who went to rehab was ready or able. Or willing. Maybe Ella’s time would come in another year or so.
And maybe it never would.
That was addiction, the ugly truth of it. Some addicts would never recover.
Meanwhile, there were five people here tonight who were getting well and I’d played a part in it. There was a lot to be happy about.
‘Sit in here with us.’ Chalkie urged me into the middle of their cluster of chairs.
‘All that time you were running group,’ Bronte mused, ‘you were in recovery?’
‘We were terrified of you,’ Giles admitted.
‘And kinda obsessed,’ Roxy said. ‘Wondering what you did when you weren’t scaring us shitless.’
‘If you had a cat?’
‘A boyfriend?’
‘A girlfriend?’
‘Where you bought your trainers …？’
‘No wonder you were so good at it.’ Bronte was still chewing over my dual identity. ‘Are all the counsellors in recovery?’
‘In the Cloisters? I think I’m the only one at the moment. But the woman who was my counsellor when I was there –’
That made them squeal. ‘You went to the Cloisters too!’
‘Yes.’ They were so cute. ‘She was in recovery.’
Sister Josephine. The greatest of them all.
Almost ten years ago, she’d died, having helped literally hundreds of us get clean and sober. She was still my inspiration every single day.
92
Four nights later – a Monday – I zipped into the Dundrum car park, heading for Aldi. I had twenty minutes before it closed.
Hurrying past Marks & Spencer, making for the top floor, the over-lit mall was almost deserted. Someone had once told me this was the very best time to do your weekly shop.