It is choir night and my mother has told me, categorically and emphatically, that I am not to miss my practice. Even in her incapacitated state, Roisin Burnside is quite the formidable woman and it seems that her brush with death has awakened a fiercely dark humour in her.
‘If you don’t go, so help me, I will die on you and haunt you forever,’ she said, the improvement in her speech quite remarkable.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ I told her.
‘Try me,’ she said.
‘Mother, so help me God, if you die on me now I will tell everyone you died on the toilet!’
‘Well, if it’s good enough for Elvis!’
She had a point. ‘Okay then. I will have them do your make-up like you’re a cheap hooker and send you to God like a Jezebel!’
She snort-laughed at that and for a moment I feared shewould laugh herself into another stroke, but she didn’t. Thankfully.
So now, I am walking back into the damp-smelling church hall ready to sing and boogie like the last week of my life hasn’t been the most traumatic of my existence.
Karl is wearing a pink shirt tonight, and a black tie with piano keys on it. He greets me and Laura and Niamh warmly, telling us he is delighted to have us back in the fold.
‘I was very sorry to hear about your mother,’ he says solemnly. ‘That must’ve been a terrible fright for you.’
‘It was,’ I tell him, and I mean it. ‘So I am definitely ready to let off some steam and have some fun tonight.’
He claps his hands together with the force of someone clashing cymbals and lets out an excited squeal. I sense Niamh stiffen beside me and I know she is about two seconds away from saying something inappropriate or laughing so much she pees. It has happened before. ‘You don’t give birth four times without sacrificing a little continence,’ she likes to say. I just nod and smile. I’ve only given birth once, and it was a caesarean – but these days, it’s not unheard of for a sneeze to become my worst enemy.
‘I think we’re all ready to have a little fun,’ Laura says, deftly stepping into the conversation to keep Niamh quiet. ‘I certainly am.’
‘Well, you have come to the right place,’ Karl says, thankfully with no cymbal clashing, and he gives her a warm smile and a quick hug. ‘It’s nice to have you here,’ he says as he pulls her close.
Once he breaks away he quickly moves on to the next group of Just Sing!-ers and his enthusiastic chatter continues.
‘Oooh, look at you, teacher’s pet,’ Niamh says to Laura. ‘Do you think Karl has a crush on you? Are MILFs his thing?’
‘Maybe he’s heard you’re newly single,’ I tell Laura with a smile. ‘Or maybe you give off cougar vibes?’
‘Or maybe I bumped into him earlier in Tesco and trauma-dumped all over him.’ She cringes. ‘I don’t think Karl is a huge fan of MILFs, cougars or single women. And I never thought I’d be the trauma-dumping kind, but it seems that I was wrong. Still, feeling is healing or so they say, so crying over the cucumbers is very much allowed.’
‘Is that a euphemism?’ Niamh asks, just as we are joined by Deirdre who immediately pulls Laura into a hug, while reaching for my hand to give it a squeeze.
‘Jeez – you leave your Derry ones for a week and all hell breaks loose! What are we going to do with the pair of you?’
‘We’re grand,’ Laura replies. ‘Or at least I am. Or I will be. It’s okay. It’s all good.’
‘And I’m good too,’ I say. ‘We meet the care team tomorrow to discuss Mum’s recuperation, but she is doing really well, all things considered.’
‘That is great news,’ Deirdre says. ‘All’s well that ends well, and all that.’ She turns her attention back to Laura. ‘Are we still on for Saturday?’
‘Oh yes, please,’ Laura says. ‘My house at four? It will be me, you three, Robyn, Jodie and my new friend from uni too. Abby. She’s a lovely girl. Only eighteen but very clued in. Exactly the kind of person Robyn might connect with. Becca, didn’t you say Grace was coming too?’
I nod. Yes, indeed, Grace Adams – an unofficial member of the Fabulous Forties Club and the editor who took a chance and gave me my voice – will be there. All good women. All with stories to tell.
I admire Laura. So very much. Here she is, her marriage just ended, arranging an afternoon of women together supportingwomen to help her daughter realise her place in the world. Kitty would be so incredibly proud.
‘Great stuff. Clara will be there too,’ Niamh says. ‘If that’s okay? Jodie is still feeding her.’ Niamh glances to Deirdre, the one member of our little group who does not have children – and sadly not for the want of trying.
Deirdre nods. ‘Oh my God, of course it’s okay. I’ll get a wee squish of a baby. I’ll love it. But thank you for asking.’
‘And no one else minds?’ Niamh double checks.
