Mr. Flood's Last Resort(84)

A chorus of dim saints are drifting across the car park led by St. Dymphna, who, with her dark eyes flashing and crown glinting, waves me on board the waiting coach.

Wendy counts us on. I climb up the steps with the relief of an airlifted soldier. I encourage Fun Julie into the seat by the window and keep my head down until we are under way.

As we pull out of the car park, I see the black BMW parked by the exit. Gabriel Flood, in dark glasses, leans on his car door shouting into his phone.

I take the bottle Fun Julie is offering me.

*

UNDER DIFFERENT circumstances the coach ride would be one of my life’s highlights. By the time we are out of the car park the entire coach, including the driver, know about my broken-down car and dying aunt, and now we are on a mission.

The Nifty Fifties will see me all the way to the residential home. They will get me there before my aunt dies and fuck the complimentary scones at Corfe Castle. To settle my nerves I have a few more slugs from Fun Julie’s bottle.

Someone hands around paper cups of warm Lambrusco and three rows behind a ne’er-do-well sparks up a Café Crème, incurring the wrath of Wendy, who pads down the aisle on the verge of tears with her long hair flapping.

By the time we hit roadworks in Ringwood we have sung most of the soundtrack to Dirty Dancing and the girls have decided to set up a vigil outside the home. After the event they’ll bring me on to Weymouth and their seafront hotel with the all-day happy hour. They will teach me to merengue and kit me out with a pair of gold dancing shoes.

By the time we reach the village of Langton Cheney the girls are in a nostalgic mood. It’s inevitable they should turn to their losses: lost virginities, lost chances, lost time, lost parents, lost terriers, lost friends, and lost lovers.

Doreen Gouge would clean up.

The back row begins to sing a spontaneous édith Piaf tribute; the rest of the coach goes with Elvis at his most reflective. But as the coach crawls up the drive towards Holly Lodge Residential Care Home the group are united with a rousing performance of the chorus of “An American Trilogy.”

It somehow seems fitting.

Fun Julie hands me the vodka bottle with a wink of a metallic eyelid. “Something tells me you’re going to need this a lot more than me, kiddo,” she says.

For a moment I feel homesick for Renata.

I shake hands with Wendy and the coach driver before stepping down onto the driveway and watching the coach depart. The saints are drawing in across the ornamental flowerbeds. They collect outside the entrance, nodding to one another, hands clasped, like wedding guests lining up for a photograph.

The Dorking Nifty Fifties Latin Formation team collectively salute me. It’s a dignified send-off, only slightly marred by one member of the troupe lifting up her blouse. An elderly gardener looks on in amusement, leaning on his rake.

I watch until the coach is out of sight and then walk towards the long redbrick building that’s going to provide me with a whole load of answers.

*

AS I stand in the entrance hall I am mindful of being under the influence. I concentrate on acting normally and ignore the disapproving glances of the receptionist and the amused gaze of the Blessed Virgin Mary, whose statue graces an alcove above me. In the opposite alcove the man himself is hanging out on a cross, fine limbs, jutting ribs, eyes closed, head heavy.

This would be a Catholic care home, then. I glance around me to find that my saints have melted into the shadows. No doubt lured away by the raft of expert petitioners in this place.

“Are there nuns around here?” I whisper, feeling a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in me. For I love nuns. I wonder if they would take me in and let me live with them. If I behave properly and stop drinking and swearing and sleeping with hot men who lie about their identities.

The receptionist, a joyless woman with thin eyebrows, frowns. “We don’t have nuns but there’s a priest who visits. Did you want to see him too?”

“I don’t. I’ve come to see the manager.”

The receptionist fixes me with a look. “I’ve told Mrs. Chapman you are waiting and that you would prefer not to divulge what you want to see her about.”

“Grand so, I’ll just wait here, with you and Jesus and herself.”

I sit down on one of the visitors’ chairs and try to think of one good reason why the manager should talk to me about Maggie Dunne. I blow into my hands and inhale, nearly knocking myself out with the fumes. A quick rummage in my handbag yields a cough sweet; the paper is half-off and it’s a little gritty. No doubt of a similar vintage to those I shared with Cathal. I sit looking at it with an immense sadness, until the sight of the sweet in my hand grows blurry.

This is how Mrs. Chapman, Duty Manager of Holly Lodge, finds me.

“Maud Drennan, is it? You’re here about your aunt?”

I stare at her: all my fictions are coming true.

*

I FOLLOW Mrs. Chapman into her office. She waves me to a chair next to a desk. The office is high ceilinged and painted a bilious green. There is a wall calendar with a picture of the Pope against a backdrop of bishops.

Everything is neat and orderly, including Mrs. Chapman herself in her navy suit and low-heeled pumps.

She smiles at me. “I apologize. At first I gave your mother short shrift. You see, we don’t give out personal information to just anyone.”

“Certainly not.”