‘What’s your inner voice telling you?’
‘Nothing. Radio silence.’
Nola lapsed into thought. ‘In which case, you must Golden Key it.’
‘No!’ This was a device Nola was far too fond of: when a problem has myriad possible solutions but no clear answer, you put the whole snarly mess into an imaginary box and lock it with a Golden Key – also imaginary. Then, you do nothing. You don’t even think about it: as soon as it pops up in your mind, you put it back in the box and wait until the universe unfolds the answer.
You don’t drive your friends and sisters insane by discussing it until everyone is crying from tedium. No. You just keep your mouth shut and wait it out.
（The reasoning is that humans are weaklings who want the solution which gives the quickest gratification; we deliberately blind ourselves to any medium-term damage. I knew all of this; I just didn’t want to hear it.）
‘Ah, Nola! Can’t you just tell me what to do.’
‘It doesn’t work like that and you know it.’
‘Sorry. You’re right. Absolutely. Yes. Thank you. Golden Keying it right now.’
Feck that. I was getting a second opinion. But I had to choose my person carefully, so they’d tell me what I wanted to hear. Even if I wasn’t sure what that was.
My sister Margaret was very cut and dried, imbued with a bone-deep sense of right and wrong. I could hear her insisting, ‘You have to go to that funeral! She was once your mother-in-law – have some decency.’
Mum would agree, but only because she adored funerals, beadily checking out the quality of the coffin, the mawkishness of the hymns and the enthusiasm of the crying. Though she enjoyed robust good health, she was constantly planning her own send-off – ‘The saddest hymns you can find’ – and was adamant about one thing: ‘There’s to be none of this “life being celebrated” codswallop! I want people in floods.’ An expensive, hardwood coffin had been earmarked. （‘Do not get me a flimsy wicker thing. I heard of a man who slid out, slid right out and fell onto the church floor as he was being carried up the aisle. And he had no trousers on, nor underpants either, only his shirt and jacket. Do not let that happen to me.’）
Helen would tell me there was no need to go. ‘Fuck him!’ she’d say, her voice dripping scorn. ‘You owe Luke Costello nothing!’
Anna? She had a strong fondness for woo-woo codology. She’d probably agree with Nola.
Claire? Hard to know which side she’d come down on.
Dad? If he dared to express an opinion at all, no one ever paid any attention.
My best friend, Brigit? She’d be so here for this but she was busy. A mother of three boys, aged fifteen, fourteen and ten, and a girl of eight, she lived in the gorgeous wilds of north Connemara, at everyone’s beck and call. Working from home （but oh my God, what a home）， her job description was ‘part-time’ but the hours looked suspiciously closer to full-time.
A breezy text would be the way to go with Brigit. That way, if she liked the sound of things, she could get involved and if she had too much on, she could pass.
I hugged Nola and hurried back to my car, having decided to consult all of my sisters. At least that way I’d get to explore every possible option.
I reached for my phone then – spookily – at that very moment a WhatsApp arrived from Claire. Need to talk. Dilemma.
I replied, I’ve a dilemma too. Calling a summit for 8pm tonight. You round?
Yep, she said. My dilemma a private one, tho. Need a pre-summit with you.
Our family summits usually took place in Mum and Dad’s house because they lived equidistant from my sisters and me. But Claire and I arranged our sneaky pre-summit for seven forty-five.
Then I WhatsApped the Walsh family group: Mum and Dad’s, tonight, 8pm. I need advice, Luke’s mum has died, should I go to the funeral?
Immediately my phone blew up with messages, texts, voice-notes – like the internet when Beyoncé drops a surprise album. All of my sisters were on for meeting up, except for Anna, who rang to rage about the inconvenience of her living in New York. （And who advised me to ‘Put it out to the universe.’）
My next act was to call Mum, to check she’d be home. Even if she wasn’t, we’d still meet there, eat her biscuits and frighten Dad. She greeted me with, ‘Rachel? Good of you to ring. I could have been lying in a crumpled heap on the hall floor, dead for four days, without a person to notice I was missing.’
I called Mum daily and so did Margaret; Mum lived with another adult – Dad; she played bridge approximately twelve times a week; four hours each day were spent on the phone to her pals, complaining about things – she was healthier and more sociable than me.