Page 3 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

‘But I…’ I try to find the words to tell her just how completely batshit crazy she is, but of course she interrupts me.

‘“But I” nothing,’ she says. ‘Help me get down and then we can talk about you taking the name of our Lord your God in vain in front of your elderly mother.’

3

GUESS WHO’S DEAD?

With my mother retrieved from the attic, thankfully without any broken bones, we are sitting at her kitchen table drinking tea. My heart rate is almost back to normal after the whole thinking-my-mother-was dead-but-instead-finding-her-dangling-out-of-the-attic incident. I’m still completely baffled by her actions though.

‘Why on earth would you think it was a good idea to try and climb up into the attic?’ I ask while my mother examines each of the turnovers I brought with me to decide which one has the most icing and jam.

‘It’s my house and my attic. Who else is there here to go up into it but me?’ She sniffs, turning the pastries over and tapping their bottoms as if she’s Mrs Berry herself.

‘I could’ve gone up. Or Ruairi. Or if you waited a few weeks the boys will be back for Christmas and they could’ve done it for you,’ I say, my heart twanging a little at the mention of my boys who have been away from home for a full ten weeks now. While the upside of having twins is that you get the two for one bonus of only having to endure labour once, the downside has been that both my chicks flew the nest at the same time. The house is much too quiet without them.

‘Nonsense,’ my mother says, cutting through my thoughts. ‘You’ve enough to be doing with your work and that dog. And Ruairi is even busier. Did he tell you he’s turning people away now? Can’t meet the demand. He’s going to hire some new staff in the new year.’

I nod. Of course he is. Ruairi, once a wee shite is now a big shite, but a successful one. A solicitor with his own practice, specialising in claims, he’s developed quite the reputation for getting big pay-outs for his clients. He’s never been busier. Or richer.

‘Right so, the boys. They’d have loved to help,’ I say as my mother proffers the most icing deficient of the turnovers in my direction.

‘Ah, when the boys come home, they’ll be looking to rest from all their schoolwork and all. The last thing they’ll want to be doing is helping their old granny out,’ she says, before taking a bite from her pastry.

‘It’s the least they could do and don’t let them fool you that it’s all study and long sessions over the books,’ I say. I don’t mention their Instagram feeds which have showcased what can only be described as drunken shenanigans on a regular basis. An Unexpected Wave of Sadness washes over me as I wonder if I will ever, ever experience drunken shenanigans again. I mean, they’d probably kill me if I even tried them these days, but God I miss the recklessness of youth.

My mother shakes her head, dispelling any hint of criticism of ‘her boys’. If my mother was able to let Ruairi away with murder when he was young, it would be fair to say she’d happily let Saul and Adam get away with a full-on killing spree. The sun shines directly from their arses – a belief I share when I’m in a good mood.

‘That doesn’t answer the question either,’ I said. ‘What was so important you had to risk life and limb to get hold of?’

‘Sure, I told you upstairs. I can’t be dying and leaving things in a state. I’m just trying to get my affairs in order.’

I feel the bite of pastry I’d just taken turn to ash in my mouth so I take a drink of my tea to try and wash it down, hoping it doesn’t stick in my throat and end me prematurely. The absolute shame that would come from dying by turnover would be mortifying, especially given my need to lose a few stone.

‘Getting your affairs in order?’ I ask. ‘Mum, do you have something to tell me?’

I know that I don’t really want to know the answer. I am scared of it, but not knowing doesn’t make it go away.

‘I’m seventy-six, Rebecca. I’m not immediately planning to die but I can’t escape the fact that it’s out there. And let’s be honest, I’m not likely to become more agile and able for climbing into attics as time goes on so I figured if I got it all done now it would be sorted and it would save you and Ruairi a lot of heartache when I do die.’ She speaks in such a measured and matter-of-fact way you’d think she was discussing what bin to put out or what she was going to make for dinner, not planning for the aftermath of her own death.

‘There’s a will, of course. Your father made sure of that, but there’s more than that to be dealt with. I don’t want you two to have to go hoking through all my paperwork and belongings once I’m gone. If I declutter now, it will be as easy as giving me a good send off, selling the house and collecting your inheritance. As little fuss as possible. That’s what I want.’

I stare at her, mouth agape, horrified by her calmness towards her own demise as if it wouldn’t be utterly catastrophic for all concerned.

‘Obviously, if I need nursing care or to go into a home before then…’

‘You’ll not be going into a home,’ I interrupt. ‘If you need care, you’ll come live with me. Or I’ll come here. We’ll work it out. But you will not be going into a home.’ Tears sting at my eyes at the very thought of Roisin Burnside in some grey and depressing nursing home, staring with vacant eyes out of a net-curtain-clad window into a soulless car park or something equally grim.

‘No offence to you my love,’ my mother says, ‘but should the time come that I do need care, I don’t want to burden you or your brother with that.’

‘You’d hardly be a burden!’ I protest.

‘You say that now, Rebecca, but I’m still in my right mind and fully continent. Well, mostly continent,’ she says with a small smile. ‘I am seventy-six after all. You may well feel differently in the future when I need someone to wipe my bum or remind me not to strip in public or something equally embarrassing.’ She’s of course trying to make light of it, but I can see the worry the behind her eyes. Roisin Burnside is nothing if not a proud woman determined to keep a hold of her dignity no matter the circumstances. She cared for her own parents towards the ends of their lives and while I never saw her complain, I know it took a toll on her that remains to this day.

‘Mum…’ I say, ready to reassure her that I absolutely have no issue with any bum wiping or gentle reminding, but she raises her hand to silence me. I know better than to continue. When my mother is done with a conversation, it is categorically and emphatically over.

‘Which reminds me,’ she says. ‘I haven’t told you who died yet.’

Ah, the Derry Death Notices edition of Guess Who? I’d forgotten that treat was waiting for me. ‘As long as it’s not you,’ I mutter under my breath, aware I’m skating dangerously close to the forbidden topic of conversation.

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