‘My father is here. Edward McCarthy.’
‘Only two people are allowed by his bedside,’ she explains. ‘The rest of your family are in the lounge.’ She points along the corridor. ‘The whole village.’
Two dozen people are crammed inside a space meant for half that number. My uncles and their wives, cousins and second cousins. There aren’t enough seats for everyone, so some are leaning against walls, or sitting on windowsills. Four teenagers are kneeling around a jigsaw puzzle on a coffee table.
‘She’s here!’ says Daragh, who lumbers towards me, almost tripping over a pair of outstretched legs in his eagerness to reach me first.
Heads turn but I glimpse them only briefly before Daragh smothers me in his arms.
‘How is he?’ I ask, as his chest hairs tickle my nose through the undone buttons of his shirt.
‘Poorly,’ says Daragh, stroking my hair. ‘But I’ll kill the fucker if he dies.’
‘He’s not going to die,’ says Finbar.
‘I know that,’ says Daragh, ‘I’m trying to lighten the mood.’
‘You’re a right comedian.’
Finbar has a grandchild sitting on his shoulders, a little boy, who has to duck his head to avoid hitting the ceiling.
I notice Henry, who is surrounded by my aunts. No doubt they are quizzing him on his religion, politics, parents and employment status.
‘What did the doctors say?’ I ask.
‘They’re going to operate in the morning,’ says Daragh.
‘If he’s strong enough,’ says Aunt Mary, his wife.
‘What sort of operation?’
‘A heart bypass.’
‘I knew something was wrong,’ says Daragh. ‘He had that turn at his party.’
‘Doc Carmichael is fuckin’ useless,’ says Finbar. ‘We should pay him a visit.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ I say.
His wife Poppy is hovering. ‘Constance did a wonderful thing. She gave Eddie CPR until the paramedics arrived. She was breathing into him and pumping his chest. She saved his life.’
‘Who knew she had it in her?’ says Daragh, speaking with a new respect.
‘Hid that light under a bushel,’ says Finbar.
‘What’s a bushel?’ asks Daragh.
‘Fuck knows,’ says Finbar. ‘Maybe it’s like the two birds?’
‘Nah, that’s a bush, not a bushel.’
Poppy ignores them. ‘I’ll tell Constance that you’re here.’
‘You don’t have to bother her.’
‘Eddie has been asking for you.’
As she moves towards the door I notice Tempe, who is standing alone between the wall and a vending machine. She waves briefly, pushing her hand down again, as though not wanting to attract attention.
‘You didn’t have to come,’ I say.
‘I wanted to … but I didn’t think it would be so …’
‘Busy?’
‘Hectic.’
Tempe isn’t good in crowded rooms. It’s not the number of people that bothers her – she’s fine in busy galleries and museums and on packed Tube trains. She has a problem when everybody else seems to know each other and she is the odd one out. Her normal bravado and confidence seem to desert her when there are too many potential conversations. With small gatherings, she can make eye contact and remember people’s names.
‘I didn’t realise you had such a large family,’ she says.
‘They’re a clan.’
‘I’m sorry about your father.’
‘He’s going to be fine, apparently.’
She glances at Henry, who seems to be purposely avoiding her.
‘What happened to Mrs Goodall?’
‘She’s safe.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he see you?’
I nod and glance at the door, waiting for Mary to return. ‘I can’t talk about it now.’
‘Right. Sure. I’ll go.’
Her coat is lying across the back of a sofa. One of my cousins has to lean forward for her to retrieve it. She feels the pockets, checking for her keys and then remembers that Henry drove her.
‘I’ll ask him to drop you home.’
‘No. That’s OK. I can take a bus.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Uh-huh.’
She slips out so quietly that nobody else notices or will remember her being here.
35
‘He’s in the last bay,’ says the nurse.
She is leading me between beds that are bathed in a soft light and partitioned by machines and curtains. Most have visitors sitting in semi-darkness, heads bowed and talking in whispers, saying prayers, making promises. All except for Edward McCarthy, whose laugh is like an empty barrel rolling down a hill.
I find him propped up by pillows, entertaining his audience of two. Constance is half-sitting on the bed, stroking his hand. Clifton is slouched in an armchair, his legs spread wide, glancing at a TV on the ceiling, which is showing the football with the sound turned down.
I watch them for a moment, hiding in the shadows, taking a mental inventory.
‘Hello, Daddy.’
His face breaks into a grin and he opens his arms. ‘Man has to have a heart attack to see his own daughter.’
‘It usually takes something dramatic,’ I say, accepting his embrace.
Constance doesn’t quite know how to greet me. Her right wrist is in a brace.
‘What happened?’
‘I think I overdid the CPR.’
‘Yeah, my ribs feel broken. Go easy next time.’
‘There won’t be a next time,’ she says, punching his shoulder. He overreacts and she is suddenly all over him, apologising. He winks at me. I scowl at him. Why am I pandering to his ego?
‘Only two visitors allowed,’ says the intensive care nurse, who is sitting on a stool, almost hidden by the machines.
‘I’ll go,’ says Clifton. ‘I need to medicate.’
‘You’re going for a smoke,’ says Daddy. ‘Don’t let Finbar have one or Poppy will gut you like a fish.’
I take the chair, which is still warm from his body.
‘What happened?’
‘My heart stopped for twelve minutes. I should have been a goner.’ He glances at Constance, and I see the love. I don’t feel jealous or resentful. Everybody deserves to be loved like that.
An orderly arrives, wheeling a trolley bed. He’s wearing earbuds and has tattooed arms that poke from the sleeves of his tunic top.
‘Edward McCarthy?’
‘That’s me.’
‘We’re moving you to the York Ward.’
After checking his full name and date of birth, the beds are lined up and Daddy shimmies from one to the other, trying to hide the pain involved. Pillows are arranged and the sides of the bed are raised.
‘I should tell the others,’ says Constance. Immediately, I have visions of a McCarthy convoy escorting the transfer, making it look like a mafia funeral.
We’re moving along the corridor to the service lift. As the doors open, we’re joined by a tall slim woman in dark blue surgical scrubs. A pair of glasses hangs around her neck and honey-blond hair peeks from beneath a cloth cap that is tied around her head. Her eyes are expressive, but her demeanour is very no-nonsense, like a private school head girl or one of those high achievers who wears her success like a crown. She picks up a clipboard from the end of the trolley bed.