Kathleen Noonan

Photo by K8 on Unsplash.

This is an extract from a new draft of my unpublished debut novel The Blessed English Martyrs. In this chapter, from the beginning of the book, we meet Kathleen Noonan, whose story is the heart of the novel.

The young priest, who’s not as fresh-faced as he once was, I told him about them. Father Murphy’s long dead now, but I still think of this fellow as the young one. He reminded me of my Christian duty. We should be tolerant, Kathleen, he said. Think about their circumstances, Kathleen, what brought them to where they are. Where they are, Father, I reminded him, is outside my shop. Every day since All Saints, Father, even Sundays. I went over there the second one of advent – I remember because one of the schoolchildren had cried when the candles wouldn’t light – to pick up a pattern I’d promised Brenda for her daughter, and there they were, drinking, smoking, spitting and swearing. You’d have thought it was a day like any other, the way they were behaving. Or not, since they were absolutely not behaving.

Don’t I think about my Christian duty every day of the week? I don’t get a day of rest, with the eyes of the parish and the rest of Kirkhill upon me. A person like me, keeping to herself, it’s impossible to escape the judgement of others; but I’m supposed to think about the circumstances that brought these men to the bench outside my little wool shop. There’s six of them now which is a lot to think about. There’s Pony, who has his hair like rope hanging down his back; next is Terry Tattoo, with strangler’s hands drawn around his neck; Curly’s the bald one; Jock I call Jock because of the tartan cap; and then Beardy, which I’ll admit doesn’t trouble the imagination. Last of all, the little one, I call him Peter, because he reminds me of my baby brother, God rest his soul. It’s the fragility, I’d say. He looks like a breath of wind could be the death of him. He’s like a mouse, though, this one, unlike my little scamp. Nothing scared him, not even the sickness that took him.

I walked around them that Sunday in Advent. You can’t go into battle every day. Jock lifted his cap, like he does, and I had to acknowledge his greeting with a nod. You’d think I’d split the atom, the cheer they gave me. I had a chuckle about that while I looked for Brenda’s pattern. Not that it lasted. There’s nothing to laugh about in the bottles and cans they leave lying around. The bin outside the kebab shop is always full, I’ll grant them that, but they could pile their rubbish next to it. They could be neat. I said a prayer that night, sitting at my kitchen table, underneath the Sacred Heart that Father Murphy tacked to my wall. Remember you’re loved, Kathleen, he said. I remember that at least, him saying I was loved. Don’t be afraid to tell Him your fears, seek His guidance. It’s something I do, and it’s no different than talking to myself, for all the good it’s ever done; but that’s faith, I suppose, and hope, for those that have it. I joined my hands, watched my knuckles whiten and looked up to the Lord on the wall. Dear Jesus, I said, I know they have nowhere to go, but could you not find them somewhere else? Must I be punished forever? Have I not scrubbed that church floor for decades? Do I not lay out the hymn books, look after the children’s graves, and then there’s Knit and Natter. What more should I do? Send them a sign, and let me have some peace from their foul mouths and all that mess.

What to think about signs? We shouldn’t be suspicious, but show me a Catholic who isn’t, and I’ll point out a liar. We believe what we believe, old ways or new. You’ll see an omen if you’re looking for one, and often when you’re not. I found the ball of wool under the bench in front when I was kneeling to say my penance. It was a stand-in priest who had insisted on an open confession, as though I hadn’t the right to choose. It’s a modern world now, he said, we should be able to look each other in the face, be open, and welcoming. It’s not about – and here was that word again – judgement. We should be kind, understanding, compassionate. Whatever world he was living in, the dog-collar must have afforded him protection. The rest of us, we were on our knees praying for forgiveness and more besides. I felt a twinge in my knee and opened my eyes, when I swear that ball of wool rolled out of nowhere. Plain navy blue it was, although it will have had a fancy name dreamed up by a man who had never held a needle. There’s always been plenty of knitters with causes galore at church, and I didn’t think anything of it until I found it when I was sorting through the lost property six months later. I don’t know why, but it made me think of Mr and Mrs Stockdale and how their haberdashery had been my sanctuary. Two days later I got the letter from Charlie O’Toole, informing me he’s retiring to Sligo, a little cottage on the coast, and when I went to put his notice in my handbag, there’s the ball of wool next to my purse. I keep it at the shop now, under the till where I have a box of odds and sods.

Eleven o’clock or thereabouts is when they come. Where they’re at before then is anybody’s guess, but I suspect it involves bus stations, car parks, doorways. Then it’ll be whichever shop will sell them their beer, and that’s them for the day. I wouldn’t swap places, but it’s been no picnic for me. They seem happy enough for men who spend their days drinking and playing the fool. I’d wish them good luck if only they’d move on, or clear up. They put the customers off, so I’ve a right to complain. Look at what happened the other week with that woman and her bicycle. It’s not like you wouldn’t notice her – she’s crocheted her handlebars in the colours of the rainbow – and she’s one of those berets some of the girls make on Tuesday nights; but we have to live and let live, and no one deserves the attention of a gang of jokers well in the drink. They moved aside to let her through, but I could see the nerves in her eyes. She relaxed in the shop, fussing about with the yellows and oranges, holding them up to the light and putting them back in the wrong order. She got on her knees and went through the sale basket, but the colours were too dark for her. She had her back to the window, which was why she didn’t see Curly heading for her handlebars like a magpie that’s spied a milk bottle top glinting in the sun. I wouldn’t say he was intent on anything worse than horseplay, but it wasn’t his horse, was it? Out of the blue she asks, without facing me, mind you, why I don’t hold the club in the shop. There’s room, she said, and you’d be able to promote your products. What’s that, love? Your products, she said, you have such wonderful products, especially those retro patterns. More people should know about your shop, Mrs Noonan.

If I knew her name, I couldn’t remember it, so I went with young lady. You’ve been to Knit and Natter a few times now, young lady. It’s Miss Noonan, I said. Oh God, she said, and her cheeks turned the first colour of her rainbow handlebars. I’m sorry, I just assumed. Assumed what, I might have asked, if I hadn’t spotted Curly being led away from her bike by Peter. Disaster averted, I thought, for now. We’ll keep it where it is, I told her, closer to the Lord and same time and place each week. Isn’t that what a church hall is for? I suppose so, she said, but not everyone’s a believer and they’re missing out if they don’t know about it. The club, I mean. I only know about it because I bumped into your priest – he’s not my priest, I told her, he’d say he’s everyone’s – well anyway I ran into him when I was jogging by the church, and he gave me a glass of water and the newsletter with the timetable on the back. She can talk, this one. I feared I was about to be on the receiving end of her life story, but was saved by the bell when the telephone rang. Wool Shop, Miss Kathleen Noonan speaking, I said, but they rang off. It had broken the spell for Retro Pattern, and she brought a Pumpkin Spice and Cinnamon to the counter. See you on Tuesday, she said on her way out. She buckled the yarn into a pannier and wheeled her bike away, eyes on the pavement like a sadness had overcome her. I saw her flinch when Curly stepped backwards. It wasn’t on purpose, but it was enough to get my goat.

 *

We’re aware of the problem, the man said when I got through to the right department, but resources are stretched. It’s the council that put in the new bench, I told him, a circular one that’s an invitation to undesirables. It’s street furniture, he said, for the use of everyone. Does that include drinkers up to no good, I asked him. Are they up to no good? Is this a case of anti-social behaviour? Are they being threatening? They don’t have to be threatening for my customers to feel threatened. And do they? Would this be a police matter? With all due respect, I said through my teeth, I’m of the opinion this is a council matter, to be dealt with on behalf of council tax and business rate payers, of which I am both. Ah, he says, business rates are for services like emptying your bins, keeping the streets clean. I nearly bit through my lip. The street isn’t clean, and neither is the bench, I told him. The bins are a magnet for gulls and crows, and there are bottles and cans all over. Like I said, he went on, we don’t have the funds like we used to. Perhaps you could gather their rubbish in a bag and put it with your own; and we have a scheme for businesses to adopt benches and the like. We could fix a sign to it, a plaque, with your name. The community would know you were doing your bit. I can email you details, he said. I don’t do email, I told him. The internet is not a place for the likes of me. I have a letterbox for communication. Feel free to write, if that’s not beyond the council’s capability. I made sure to win the race to put the phone down.

I took the yard brush from the cupboard at the side of the door and caught them off guard, except for Jock. He was rolling a cigarette on his lap and happened to look my way when the doorbell tinkled. Mind yer backs, boys, he said as he licked his papers, Knitting Nora’s armed and dangerous. I focussed on the pavement and brushed leaves and dust towards his feet. Shoo, you lot, shoo. Scaring my customers and leaving your mess all over the road. Aw, not you an’ all, Missus, said Jock. We’re only shooting the breeze. Oh I know all about that, I said, I’ve heard the language you favour. And why don’t you tidy up? Who do you think does it? Terry Tattoo was next. He pointed at the bin. It’s full, he said. What are we supposed to do? Take it home, I said, and that’s when they all started laughing. I don’t know what’s so funny about taking care of your own mess, I said. What would your mothers think? The laughing stopped. There was a lot of looking at shoes, and I noticed the big toe sticking out of Jock’s right boot. The sock was crusty with mud. Think on, I said, you’re your own responsibility and no one else’s. And it’s Miss.

Perhaps I was too hard on them. They sat around the bench after that, and if they spoke, I didn’t hear them. Good for my customers, but still. I don’t know why, but I felt a kind of relief when Peter knocked on the door – who knocks on a shop door? – and stepped inside. I’d not been able to get a good look at him before, and when he took his cap off, I couldn’t believe the length of his hair and how it was wavy. How had I missed it? He is a she.

Sorry about the mess, she said. We, they, don’t always think things through. She was so quiet, her voice so soft, that I had to lean forward to hear. Do you have something to put the rubbish in? I don’t mind tidying up. I was in shock, it was all I could do to get a black bag from under the counter. A hundred questions came to me all at once, but all I could say was to be careful with the glass. She was out of the door before I could think of anything else. I watched her dart about the men, reaching under the bench for the bottles and cans, another woman making things right while the men do nothing. It didn’t take long, and they walked off together when she was done. That was when I noticed how they surrounded her, like a guard of sorts. She wasn’t so much one of them as something – someone – they wanted to protect.

 *

She comes in every day, at the appointed hour, by which I mean when they’re about to leave. Emma, no surname as yet. When she introduced herself, she went to shake my hand, but pulled it away. I’d been looking at the dirt and grime under her fingernails, mouth agog no doubt. It’s not easy keeping clean, she said. There’s no public places, by which I took she meant toilets. She put her hands together and rubbed her wrists. What’s that, I asked of the deep blue drawing where a watch strap might fasten. A bluebird, she said, we got one each. A bluebird? We don’t have bluebirds. They’re American, she said, hiding her wrists in her armpits. And who is we, I asked. Which one of those men had you mark your skin like that? Men do not get that close, she said, unless I say so. Good, I replied, good for you Emma. It was a friend, she said of her tattoo, well a kind of friend stroke sister. She was talking to herself all of a sudden, and staring at the bluebird. I don’t understand people putting marks on their skin, I said. Why would you do that? It’s art, she said, staring at me, and it’s about taking control. There’s a lot worse than tattoos. I can’t think what, I said, but I’ll tell you what’s beautiful: fresh, clean skin. Come here and I’ll show you the bathroom. There’s hot water if you let it run, and soap. She was in there for twenty minutes.

I bought a pair of thick rubber gloves and a new roll of bags. I thought about leaving it by the door, but I kept it under the counter to make her have to come inside. How are you doing, I’d ask her. Have you eaten? I’ve never had much of an appetite, she told me one day. That much is obvious, I replied. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil. The thing is, if I offered her a biscuit or a sandwich left over from lunch, she’d wolf it down and then apologise for doing so. You’d be amazed how many days she had missed breakfast. I never saw any of them eating much, but I couldn’t keep tabs on them all. She’d have a mug of tea if I offered. She’d perch on the steps I use to reach the high shelves, facing the door and window. Keeping watch, I’d say, as one who knows. I couldn’t work out how, but she had drifted into their company, and it was clear she felt safe with them. I got to know their names when she dragged me out to say hello one quiet afternoon. Pony was George, Terry Tattoo was Stevie, Curly was Lloyd, Jock was Finbar and Beardy was Hughie, the oldest, who, according to Emma, never spoke about his past. Maybe he had things to forget, I told her.

We had a tussle over her coat, which wasn’t much more than a jacket, and not good enough for the winter. You need something thicker, I told her, when you’re outside all the hours God sends. I’m not, she said, not all hours; but again, she gave nothing away. Finbar and Lloyd carried sleeping bags with their backpacks, but the others had nothing like that, and I assumed they had hidey holes somewhere. I can make do, Emma said, when I brought up the coat again. It doesn’t have to be a dear one, I said, I’ve an eye for a bargain. I’m fine, Miss Noonan, she said. Let me wash it at least, I said, but she shook her head. What’ll I wear in the meantime, she asked. Leave it with me, I said, and when she put out her bottom lip, I said the problem, not the coat. What problem? The problem, Emma, of a young woman being out on the streets in unsuitable clothing. Don’t you want to feel warm and dry?

I made a special trip into town the following Sunday after mass. There’s a shop that sells camping and walking equipment where there’s always a sale in the window. An assistant collared me the moment I stepped inside. How can I help you today? Is it something for one of your grandchildren? Would I not be buying for myself, I asked him. He stepped away as though I’d slapped him, but as I waited for him to come up with another stupid question, I saw how young he was. Perhaps this was a weekend job, and he’d be back at school on Monday. Don’t mind me, I told him, this isn’t my usual type of shop. I’m looking for a winter coat for someone about her size. I pointed to another assistant who was examining a display of hats. Bring her over and she can try some on for me. Like a model, he said. If you like, I replied, if that will speed things up.

I chose black because I’d not seen her in any other colour, and the dirt wouldn’t show. It was thick, like a continental quilt, but light in a way I hadn’t expected. Even with the sale discount, I didn’t want to dwell on the price. There were plenty of pockets, which seemed important at the time. I’d noticed how all of them around the bench would forever fish bits and bobs from pockets, as though their worlds were contained therein. Sure enough, when I persuaded her to try it on, she checked out the inside pockets, running the zips up and down as though checking they’d hold. It’s a good one, I told her, it’ll keep you and your things dry, if need be. I can’t take it, she said. You’re wearing it now, I told her. Are you going to insult me by rejecting my gift? And before you say it, I’ll be the judge of what’s too much. Okay then, she said, wiping her eyes, but only because the last thing I’d ever want to do is insult you. I recognise a tease when I hear it, I told her, but I’ll let it pass if you keep that coat on. I’ll put the old one through the wash and you can keep it for spare. I’ll hang it here in the back if you want. If you say so, but let me get my things out first. Transfer of belongings complete, she went back out to her friends. She didn’t strut like a peacock, but I swear her back and shoulders were straighter. There was a spring in her step. She was smiling in that way she has, her lips turned up at the end, but not quite letting go. Her mood must have been infectious, because there was plenty of laughter around the bench that afternoon. She cleared up as usual, leaving the new coat with me while she went about her work. I’ll admit I felt lighter than usual when I got home, and I forgot the lesson that life taught me a long time ago: be on your guard the moment that hope and happiness poke their noses around a corner.

The next day was a busy day for me, with a visit from the Mothers’ Union. I cleared a table and laid out some sandwiches and the cups and saucers. After that I took the broom outside to sweep in front of the window, and that was when I noticed there were only five of them around the bench. Emma, and the new coat, were missing. Lloyd offered to help with the brushing, but I sent him back to his friends with a mission to keep the bench tidy. Where’s Emma, I shouted after him. He turned round and put his palms out. No idea, she’ll be somewhere or nowhere, but she’ll be back. Okay so, I said, I hope she’s taking care of that coat. No doubt about that, she wouldn’t mess around with something so precious. He saluted and winked, and added, seriously.

It was a tiring afternoon, clearing up after the visit. I took the leftovers out to the men, and they descended like gannets, except for George who complained about a dicky stomach, or words to that effect. Beg your pardon Miss Noonan, it’s me guts, not your butties. Occupational hazard, he added. I didn’t feel the need to inquire. What about Emma, I said, any news? Lloyd stopped chewing and swallowed. Not answered her phone, he said. Tried a few times. She has a phone? Of course, we all do. She doesn’t always have credit, but she can answer if she wants. What do you mean, if she wants? Hughie flicked crumbs out of his beard and got to his feet. She sometimes goes quiet, Miss Noonan. She’s like me: she gets moods and won’t want to talk. We all have days like that. Lloyd agreed. She’ll be fine. She’ll be back tomorrow, you’ll see.

Two days passed and no sign of her. Then the weekend and again, she wasn’t there on Monday. Lloyd took on the job of clearing up, but he wouldn’t talk about Emma. They didn’t know where she stayed, is what he said, so they couldn’t look for her. She had turned up one day, and either she’d turn back up or they’d never see her again. Does that happen, I asked. Of course it does, he said. Look at the state of us. But she’s so young, I said. Age doesn’t come into it, Miss Noonan, not for people like us. I stared at him when he said that. His face was creased and blotchy. His eyes were steely blue, but milky. His teeth were rotten where they weren’t missing; and there were wide holes for rings in his lobes. You mustn’t get attached. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or himself. You mustn’t give up, I said.

Mammy and Daddy gave up when God took Peter. On each other, on me, and on everything in between. They went through the motions of living. Mrs Stockdale called it abandonment. How many times must they abandon you, Kathleen? What happened to their hearts? They were broken – mine was too – and they could or would not piece them back together to save me. If they had had more time, they might have loved me again; but I’ll never know. Daddy drank and Mammy shrank, that’s how I think of it. She shrivelled into something small and bitter. A dirty little whore, she called me, her one remaining child. And that’s what I was: a child broken by adults with no one to repair or save me. I had no choice but to find the strength not to give up, and that’s how you get through the day: you move forward, you do whatever needs doing – you can always find something – and that’s how you don’t give up on yourself.

A week passed and no sign of her. I stayed on the bus into town, travelled around the parish, anywhere, taking a seat by a window and watching. I got off at different stops and walked. I checked alleyways, dead ends, behind shops and in filthy car parks. The priest told me about shelters, some of which were public and others he said he’d check and let me know. Nothing. She was either hiding, or she was gone; but where would she go? She was a drifter, Emma, her frown a map of confusion about where to go and what to do next. The new coat, though. She wouldn’t have run off when I’d bought her that. The men were no help. They roamed, I guessed; they went places where I wouldn’t set foot. I asked them every morning, as soon as one of them arrived, but none of them had seen her. They stopped laughing. The play fights ended, and they quarrelled about I don’t know what. Hughie would stand between whoever was arguing and put his arms around them, keeping the peace when necessary. Lloyd called in for a bag each day, his cheeriness kaput. I prayed for the men and for Emma.

Life goes on. You have no choice. On the Tuesday night two weeks after anyone had seen Emma, I was at the church hall for Knit and Natter. The cub leaders had swept the floor for once, and stacked the chairs and tables in a corner for me to drag out and set up in groups of two, four, and six. I filled the Baby Burco, plugged it in and switched it on. I laid out the cups and saucers, opened the biscuits and spread them on plates. Doesn’t matter what kind you buy: they’re always popular and there’s never any left over. The women arrived in dribs and drabs, sucking vapes and cigarettes, talking into their phones, or looking at the sky. The same ones say hello every week, some nod, and a few scurry by, timid as mice. I let them go inside and settle, waited for them to rearrange the tables and chairs to suit their preferences, and took out my notebook to take the orders. There’s a big group who wear the coloured hats like the one Retro Pattern favours, and sure enough she was amongst them, rattling off ideas and suggestions. We could leave stuff on railings, I heard her saying, scarves and hats for the homeless. How about dropping off blankets at shelters and in the parks or wherever they sleep? There was another newcomer sitting at the end of one table, biting her nails and watching, not knitting. One of the Christies I thought. Her mother’s at mass every week, but not the daughters. The father’s in the graveyard if memory serves. She looked terrified when I asked her what she wanted to drink, even more so when Cathy O’Malley told her to give me a hand with the teas. I’m fine Cathy, I can manage. Let young Miss Christie get her bearings. It is Christie? She got to her feet and nodded. Charlotte, she said, I don’t mind helping. Sit back down love, said Cathy, if Kathleen says she’s okay, she knows best. She stood her ground though, and was at my side as I began to pour the drinks. She saved my hips a few aches by delivering the teas.

Sandra Gibney, one of Cathy O’Malley’s gang – they call themselves the English Martyrs Yarn Bombers – set me on the path to find Emma. She’s a bag of nerves, Sandra, one of those scurrying mice. We’ve not seen Mrs Henshaw for a while, Miss Noonan. How is she doing? She tugged off her hat and scratched her hair, which is as thick as it was all those years ago when her mother struggled to tame it under her first holy communion veil. Her dress was spotless, too. She’d been so shy then, not letting go of her mother’s hand until she reached the altar where she had no choice but to step forward on her own. How is she, Miss Noonan? How is Mrs Henshaw? I held on to the back of her chair while a twinge made its way down my leg. Not so good, Sandra. What is it, do you know? She won’t say, I told her. Oh, sorry, I thought you two were friends. Isn’t it hot in here? Shall I let some air in? She went off in search of a window pole. She used to come every week, Cathy explained of Brenda. Not with us, she said to Charlotte. She’s one who sits, knits, and looks over her glasses. I leant forward with a plate of biscuits. She has plenty to say to those who’ll listen, I told Charlotte, and as much to those who won’t. They’re like a pair of boxers, said Cathy. I chose not to disagree about what was and is my business. They’d put Brenda on my mind though, and I couldn’t wait until Sunday to check in on her.

There’s no bus between Orlando Terrace and Albert Road. It would have been a ten-minute toddle if we’d been close friends at school, but Brenda grew up near the high street and I never saw the inside of her family house. Her husband was one of the older boys who played at the end of our street, and most of us were outside at the same time. You could say we all knocked round together. We skipped and threw balls against walls, sang songs and explored the bomb sites. Brenda and I were in the same class, in the grip of the nuns, so we’d have that in common. I don’t remember when I first saw her with Chris, but once they were an item, that was that. They moved in with her mother when they were married. When Sally came along, they got the house from the council, which they ended up buying. It’s a nice enough road, with trees and neat front gardens. I have plenty of time to look it up and down while waiting for Brenda to shuffle along the hall and open the door. The latch has been stiff for years, but she won’t be told about getting someone in to fix it. I feel the pain in her hands every time she fiddles with it, and by the time the door is open – it’s the same every time – I’m tense. That Thursday was no different, except that it was Thursday. Do my eyes deceive me, Kathleen, or have I finally lost my mind? It’s not Sunday, is it, she asked, as though she didn’t know fine well what day it was. Can a person not call mid-week, I said, to check on you? Check on me, or poke her nose about? You choose, I said, and while you’re making up your mind, your neighbours will be wondering how long you’re going to leave your visitor standing on your step. No one’s bothered any more, Kathleen, she said, over her shoulder as I followed her snail’s pace into her kitchen. She stopped, turned to look at me, and had the cheek to say present company excepted.

She stuck out her elbows so I couldn’t get around her to the kettle, and she pointed to a chair at the table. I’ve not long eaten, before you say anything about the dishes. And no, Kathleen, you can’t do them for me. I’m managing fine. Aren’t we all, I thought, wondering what it might be like to do more than manage. She has everything to hand: the crockery is on the worktop, since she can no longer use the step to get to the cupboards. You’ll have a mug, she announced, as though it was the first time. I’d die of shame if I had to sit while she went back and forth with cup, saucer, spoon, sugar bowl, and tea pot. She brewed up and allowed me to carry my mug back to the table. We sat for a while and blew the steam from our drinks, eyeing each other up. Sometimes, it’s a battle to see who breaks the silence. I wasn’t in the mood that night. The girls at Knit and Natter are asking after you. Which ones? A few of them. Cathy O’Malley, Sandra Gibney, some of the others who sit in the middle. Sandra’s alright, in small doses, said Brenda. I nodded. Her heart’s in the right place. Are they still putting stuff on post boxes? And bollards, I said. They’re on about scarves on railings and blankets in parks, that kind of thing. It’s come to that, Brenda said. It has. You would not believe how young some of those home…the telephone rang before I could finish what I was saying. It had stopped by the time Brenda reached it in the hall. She took it off the cradle and went into the front room. I went to the sink, ran the hot water, and started on the dishes.

Five or ten minutes went by; enough time for me finish the washing up and get to work with the tea towel. I could hear Brenda’s voice through the wall, and when I couldn’t, I went back to the chair. She clumped in and pointed her stick at the sink. The fairies must have been, she said, because I remember telling you I can manage. Pride comes before a fall, Brenda, and neither of us want to fall, do we? We don’t, she said, but as for pride, what if it’s all we’ve got? You’ve got Sally, I reminded her. Was that her? She nodded. She’s coming over at the weekend. Drink your tea.

We talked about the priest and his never-ending tour of the parish. She told me she’d made him take a pair of her husband’s shoes. Better than seeing him in pumps, I agreed. They call them trainers, she corrected me, but I know what you mean. She asked about the men around the bench, and I told her that one of them was a young woman, no more than a girl. Good gracious, said Brenda, can we go any lower? They look out for her, I said, like brothers or fathers I suppose. Fathers, Brenda spluttered, they’re bloody useless. Chris was good, wasn’t he? She went quiet for a few seconds. Chris was different, he adored Sally. What happened with the parents of this young girl? Why aren’t they looking out for her? She won’t say. She doesn’t give anything away. Believe me, I’ve tried; and now…And now what, Kathleen? What have you done now? She put her mug down with a bang, and I noticed for the first time what the red dragon on the side of the mug. I’ve done nothing, Brenda. Llandudno, when did you go there? Years ago, she said, a day trip with Chris and Sally. We got the coach and came back with mugs and toffee. I was there once, in that part of the world. Wales, Brenda asked? I don’t remember you being anywhere else apart from that time you went missing from school. A sick aunty, wasn’t it? Something like that. Now, are we going around the houses all night or are you going to tell me how you really are?

Brenda reached for my mug and dragged it across the table. You’ll have another, she told me. Come on, you dry, and I’ll stack while the water boils. You can tell the girls at Knit and Natter and anyone else who asks that I’m still standing, when I’m not sitting. You can tell them that I’m accepting visitors who are prepared to talk about anything but how I’m feeling. I’m as well as can be expected, is the official statement. She gripped the countertop as she made her announcement. If she collapses, I thought, there’s no way I can catch her, but I’ll have to try and we’ll both end up on the floor. Where’s the dignity in that? Where’s the dignity in what, Brenda asked. The two of us on our backsides on the kitchen floor, I said, like beetles on their backs. She laughed at this. Kathleen, what the hell are you on about? You don’t look good, I said, I was worried you might fall. You sound like Sally, she said. I’ve no intention of falling and if we’re talking like that you don’t look as though you’ll be climbing any mountains in the near future. We’re not talking about me. I’m not the one who is ill. Who said I was ill? You are ill, if only you’d admit it, even to me. Why won’t you? She looked up at the ceiling where a spider had made a web that neither of us would be able to reach. Kathleen, she said, you of all people should understand that I might want to keep my business private. I don’t know why you’d say me of all people, Brenda. She brought her gaze from the ceiling to meet mine, and raised her eyebrows. How long have we known each other? I can’t remember a time when we didn’t, I said. That’s a lot of memories, Kathleen, but ask yourself this: when have we ever shared our secrets? If you’re here to help and not nose, there is something you can do for me. Let me fetch my purse.

I tried the chemist around the corner from my shop, but they didn’t stock it. The young man behind the counter had never heard of it, and asked one of his colleagues. No one had asked for it for years, she said. It used to be popular at Christmas, but it’s bit old hat now. Thank you for that, I said, reminding them of my presence, I’ll pass it on. No offence meant, the woman shouted after me. I had no luck in the one next to the Fitzgerald Centre, where I came across Bobby Riley loading tools into his car. You’re a bit out of your way, Miss Noonan, is everything okay? I am, Mr Riley, I’m on an errand for a friend. Fair play to you, he said, finding time for others at your age. How is your son, I asked. He opened the car door. Can I give you a lift? As far as I could see, the car was as filthy inside as out, stuffed with tools and sacks, paper cups and newspapers. A shed on wheels. Thank you for the offer, Mr Riley, I’ll make my own way. Okey dokey, well I’ll see you soon no doubt. I’m at the church on Monday. He meant the churchyard, but I let it pass. I had resigned myself to being late back to the shop by then, and caught a bus up to Kirkhill Road where the big chemist had been taken over by one of the chains that wasn’t Boots. They had it, praise the Lord: Sally’s favourite bubble bath, in a shiny green box. Essence of horse chestnut and citrus, with a promise to leave you refreshed, revitalised and raring to go. Brenda had said, with all the generosity of someone not traipsing around on their lunch hour, to get a nice box of chocolates with the change. Sally had a sweet tooth, according to Brenda. She’d got that from her mother, judging from Brenda’s biscuit tin. A promise is a promise, whether your shop has been closed for an hour and a half and counting, and I turned towards the far end of the row of shops where Taylor’s the newsagents had chocolates on the shelves behind the till.

There’s a cash machine in the wall before you get to Taylor’s window, where a man sits on the pavement with an empty coffee cup. He has one of those dogs that are popular, that look like a slab of meat with four legs. It’s friendly enough, but I don’t want anything sniffing my ankles and I try to walk past as quick as my legs allow. That’s how I missed her. What I saw was a small figure in black, head covered by a hood, facing the ground, with a cup in front of two flimsy black plimsolls. I hurried past, half wondering where the dog was, but I hadn’t paid attention. I bought a box of Thornton’s Classics in Taylor’s and was trying to fit them into my bag without crushing the edges when those plimsolls came to me. I rushed out, chocolates in my hand, and she was there, hugging her knees, a bluebird flying free of her cuff. Emma, I shouted, it’s you. She looked up and her hood dropped away from her head. Her lips were dry and cracked, her hair tied back and greasy, her cheeks grimy and streaked. What are you doing, sitting in the street? Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you. I thought you were…she straightened up at this, and stretched out her legs. Are those for me, she asked. If it was a joke, I wasn’t in the mood. If you’re hungry, I’ll get you something to eat, I said, and stand up. I can’t bend down to talk to you.

She pushed herself up against the wall. There must be fifty years between us, but I’d have beaten her in an arm wrestle. I’ve not been good, she said. Things have happened. What things? What’s happened that you couldn’t ask for help? I shoved the chocolates into my bag and put my hand to her arm. Where’s your coat? I lost it. Lost it? How do you lose a coat? Someone took it, she said, oh Kathleen. Her legs gave way for a moment, and she kicked over the cup. A few coins fell out. She got down on her knees to save them rolling away. You’ve been begging, I said, because it had only just occurred to me. How did it come to this? You could have come to me. She looked at me from the pavement. Could I? Could I actually come to you? You don’t even know me. The fact remains, I said, holding out an arm and praying I had the strength to help her up, that I can help. I will help. I braced myself to pull her from the ground and closed my eyes when her weight shot a sharp pain down my back. She let go of my hand and when I opened my eyes, she was running away. She turned left past Taylor’s and that was her gone again.