One Hundred Names Page 7

  Number 42 was a terraced house in Beaumont, with nothing in particular to distinguish it from the line of identical pebble-dash houses on that row, opposite it, or around the maze that made up the estate. In an effort to inject colour into the estate some homeowners had painted their houses, though they clearly hadn’t pulled together. There were clashing lemons and oranges, snot greens beside mint greens, pretty pinks beside unpainted murky pebble dash. The house number was displayed as a novelty happy-faced sticker on the wheelie bins out by the front gate, the driveway was littered with abandoned toys and bikes, but there was no car inside the gates or outside on the path. It was 5.30 p.m., people were returning from work and the evening was already closing in. Next door an old woman was sitting at her front door on a kitchen chair catching the last of the evening sun. She was wearing a knee-length skirt, thick tights on her bumpy bandaged legs, and tartan slippers on her feet. She watched Kitty closely and nodded at her when she caught her eye.

  Kitty rang the doorbell to Bridget Murphy’s house and stepped down from the doorstep.

  ‘They’re having their dinner,’ the old woman said. On Kitty’s displaced interest in her, she continued, ‘Chicken curry. They always have it on Thursdays. I can smell it in my house every week.’ She ruffled up her nose.

  Kitty laughed. ‘You’re not a fan of chicken curry?’

  ‘Not of hers, I’m not,’ she said, looking away from the house as if the very sight of it offended her. ‘They won’t hear you out here, they’re a noisy lot.’

  Kitty could hear that from where she stood. It sounded like there was an army of squealing kids dropping knives and clanging glasses. She didn’t want to be rude by ringing again, particularly as she was disturbing a family dinner and she had the old woman as her audience.

  ‘I’d ring again if I were you,’ the neighbour said.

  Happy to receive permission, Kitty pressed the doorbell again.

  ‘Who are you looking for anyway? Him or her? Because he’s not in, doesn’t get home until seven most days. A banker.’ She rolled up her nose again.

  ‘I’m here to see Bridget.’

  The old woman frowned. ‘Bridget Murphy?’

  Kitty checked her notepad again even though she had memorised practically the entire list, but she did that now, checked everything twenty times and then still wasn’t sure.

  ‘Bridget doesn’t live there any more,’ the old woman said just as the front door opened and a flushed-looking mother of the army stared at a confused Kitty.

  ‘Oh. Hello,’ Kitty said.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I hope so. I’m looking for Bridget Murphy but I’ve just learned that she might not live here any longer.’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ the old woman said. ‘I told you that. I already told her that, Mary.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ the mother said, ignoring the old lady.

  ‘See?’

  ‘Do you know how I could contact Bridget?’

  ‘I don’t know Bridget at all. We bought the house last year but perhaps Agnes here could help.’

  Kitty apologised for disturbing her dinner, the door closed and they heard Mary’s ironic shout for silence rattle through the building.

  She turned to Agnes. Kitty guessed Agnes knew the business of most people on the street. A journalist’s dream. She contemplated climbing over the knee-high wall that separated them but decided Agnes might consider it rude so she walked down the path, out the gate, in at Agnes’s gate and up the path again.

  Agnes looked at her oddly. ‘You could have just climbed over the wall.’

  ‘Do you know where Bridget lives?’

  ‘We lived next door to each other for forty years. She’s a great woman. A bunch of selfish good-for-nothings her children turned out to be. To hear them talk you’d think they think they’re royalty. Far from how they were reared, I’ll tell you that. She had a fall is all,’ she said angrily. ‘She tripped. Who doesn’t take a tumble now and then? But oh no, it was off to the nursing home for poor Birdie just so that lot could sell that house and spend the money on another skiing holiday.’ She grumbled to herself, her mouth moving up and down angrily, her false teeth sloshing around inside.

  ‘Do you know which nursing home she’s in?’

  ‘St Margaret’s in Oldtown,’ she said, sounding angry at the whole of Oldtown.

  ‘Have you visited her?’

  ‘Me? No. The furthest I can get is the shop at the end of the road and then I have to figure out how to get back,’ she laughed, a wheezy sound that resulted in a cough.

  ‘Do you think she’d see me?’

  Agnes looked at her then. ‘I know your face.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kitty said, not proudly this time.

  ‘You did the show about the tea.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Kitty brightened up.

  ‘I drink Barry’s,’ she said. ‘So did my mother. And her mother.’

  Kitty nodded solemnly. ‘A good choice, I believe.’

  Agnes’s eyes narrowed as she made a decision. ‘Tell her Agnes said you were all right. And that I was asking after her. We go way back, me and her.’ She looked off into the distance again, reflective. ‘You can tell her I’m still here.’

  When Kitty was leaving, the door next to Agnes’s opened again and four kids came firing out as if from a cannon, their mother quickly following to shout her orders. Agnes called out, ‘And tell her they cut her rose bush down. Butchered it, they did.’

  Mary threw Agnes a look of absolute loathing and Kitty smiled and lifted her hand in a farewell. En route to her next destination, Kitty looked at the two names she had visited that day. Sarah McGowan and Bridget Murphy.

  Story theory: people who have had to move home against their will?

  That was definitely a theme she could relate to. Her and Colin Maguire.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Due to a very limited bus service to Oldtown, Kitty had no choice but to get a taxi and with a driver hailing from the opposite side of the county, a fact he pointed out many times, they had to stop three times for directions as they drove down a series of country lanes that seemed to get ever narrower. In the heart of the countryside they finally reached St Margaret’s, a 1970s bungalow that had been extended on all sides to meet its new requirements as a nursing home. The south-facing conservatory to the right was set as a dining room, an extension to the left and then further to the back filled with couches and armchairs. The gardens were extensively landscaped, with benches placed all around and colourful hanging baskets hung from the sides of the house. If she ever saw her again, Kitty would be sure to tell Agnes that her friend Bridget was in a good place. It was 7 p.m., only thirty minutes of visiting time remaining, and having not had the greatest luck so far with hunting down her subjects, Kitty was really hoping Bridget would agree to see her.

  She asked at the desk for Bridget Murphy and waited while a stern-faced nurse, her hair in a severe bun, checked the visitors’ book. Kitty squirmed as she watched her, trying to figure out how to tell her she wasn’t expected and figure out her best way of manipulating the situation. To her right was the common room, busy with visitors, and on-going chess games. A middle-aged woman with dreadlocks was in the centre of the floor forcing three old men, one using a walking frame, another wearing hearing aids in both ears, to play Simon Says.

  ‘No, Wally!’ she screeched with laughter. ‘I didn’t say “Simon Says”!’

  The old man with the hearing aids looked confused.

  ‘You have to sit down now, you’re out of the game. You’re out of the game!’ she shouted even louder.

  She abandoned the two remaining men standing with their hands on their heads and came to the common room door. ‘Molly,’ she called, looking Kitty up and down as though surveying the competition, ‘where is Birdie?’

  ‘She’s having a lie-down,’ a young nurse with blue hair and blue nail varnish responded in a bored tone, without looking up from a chart.

  ‘Sho
uld I go to her room?’ dreadlocked woman asked. ‘I’ve brought my angel cards I was telling her about.’

  Molly looked at Kitty and lifted an eyebrow as if to say, ‘No wonder she’s lying down.’

  Dreadlocked woman looked slighted at that, like a little girl who’d lost her playmate.

  Molly sighed. ‘Let me go check on her and I’ll see if she wants to come to the common room.’

  While waiting, dreadlocked woman turned round and spoke loudly to an old man near her. ‘Seth, would you like to hear a poem I wrote this week?’ Seth looked a little weary as she sat down anyway before he’d answered and began reciting her poem like a six-year-old at elocution lessons.

  Kitty watched Molly wander down the hall, pause outside a bathroom, lean against the door where she studied her nails. Kitty smiled to herself. After the count of ten seconds Molly returned and called to the dreadlocked woman, ‘She’s having a nap.’

  ‘Seth needs new batteries,’ the nurse dealing with Kitty said to Molly when she returned to the desk.

  Molly glanced up at dreadlocked woman reciting her poem. ‘Why don’t we leave him battery free for a few minutes?’ Kitty liked Molly’s style.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name is again?’ the plump stern-faced nurse finally looked up from the book.

  ‘Kath—’ she stalled, realising she couldn’t bring herself to say her usual professional name. ‘Kitty Logan,’ she finally said.

  ‘And you’ve made an appointment to visit Bridget?’

  ‘Actually, no, I haven’t. I just thought I’d call by,’ she said as sweetly as she could. Though how anybody could just drop by this place was anybody’s guess. A missile couldn’t be programmed to target this place.

  ‘We only allow visits by appointment,’ the nurse said firmly, snapping the visitors’ book closed without a smile, and Kitty knew immediately this one would be tricky.

  ‘But I’m here now, and I’ve come all this way. Could you tell her that I’m here and ask if she’d like to see me? You can tell her that Agnes said I’m all right,’ she smiled.

  ‘That’s against our policy, I’m afraid. You’ll have to come back if Brenda wishes—’

  ‘Bridget. I’m here to see Bridget Murphy,’ Kitty said, her temper rising. She had had no luck with making contact with anyone on the list so far, time was running out, so was her patience, and she had no intention of leaving the building without seeing Bridget or at least without smacking somebody in the face, she didn’t care who, but preferably the battle-axe in front of her.

  ‘Well, now …’ the nurse put her hands on her rotund hips and looked as if she was about to give Kitty a good spanking.

  ‘Bernadette,’ the blue-haired nurse interrupted, ‘I’ll deal with this. Why don’t you go see to Seth, he much prefers you.’

  Bernadette looked at her, annoyed she’d interrupted her telling-off, then backed down, gave Kitty a final snarl and went to Seth’s aid.

  ‘Follow me,’ Molly said, and she turned and headed into the extension to the back.

  Great, she was doing the walk of shame; they didn’t even have the nerve to throw her out the front door. When they stepped out into the lush landscaped gardens Molly finally spoke.

  ‘Don’t mind her, she was an army sergeant in her last life and a frustrated one in this. Birdie hates visiting hour. That hippie inside annoys everyone but always seems to focus on Birdie. I’d punch her lights out if I could. She’s nothing better to be doing with her time, she’s either hugging trees or annoying old people, and if she annoys the trees as much as she hugs the old people, she’s not appreciated all that much. Over here.’ She led Kitty under an archway to a bench. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s great that people come and visit,’ she assured her so as not to insult her. ‘Sometimes they do get a bit lonely here and, you know, sane people would be a good start.’

  They heard the piano and then the dreadlocked woman starting up ‘This Little Light of Mine’.

  ‘Doesn’t Bridget have visitors in the evening?’

  ‘Her family can only visit on weekends. We’re not exactly easy to get to, as I’m sure you discovered. But don’t worry, that doesn’t bother Birdie in the slightest, in fact I think she likes it. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring her to you.’

  She wandered off in the direction of some tiny adjoining bungalows. Kitty got her notebook and recorder ready, wondering what the story could be.

  Bridget appeared. She was a graceful woman who moved slowly, aided by a cane, but appeared more like a ballet instructor than an old person. Her grey hair was pinned back neatly, not a strand out of place, she had a gentle smile on her pink lipsticked lips and a curious expression in her eyes as she studied Kitty and tried to figure out if she should know her visitor. She was well dressed, sophisticated and looked like she’d made an effort despite the fact she’d had no intention of meeting anybody that day.

  Kitty stood to greet her.

  ‘I’ll be back with your tea, Birdie. Kitty?’

  Kitty nodded yes please, and turned to Bridget. ‘I’m so glad to finally meet you, Bridget,’ Kitty said, surprised to discover she genuinely meant it. She had finally made contact with someone from Constance’s list. She felt connected to her friend, ready to embark on the journey Constance had set out for herself but didn’t have time to finish.

  Bridget seemed relieved. ‘Call me Birdie, please. Ah, so we haven’t met,’ she stated, rather than asked. There was a light Cork lilt in her accent.

  ‘No, we haven’t.’

  ‘I pride myself on my good memory but there are times when it lets me down,’ she smiled.

  ‘Well, not this time. We haven’t met. But we do have somebody in common who you have met, or at least been in contact with, which is why I’m here. Her name is Constance Dubois.’ Kitty realised she was perched on the edge of the bench, her anticipation high. She waited for Birdie’s eyes to light up but it didn’t happen and again a cloud lowered over Kitty’s enthusiasm. To jolt her memory she took out a copy of Etcetera from her bag. ‘I work for this magazine, Constance Dubois was the editor. She had an idea for a story, a story which you were part of.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Birdie took her glasses up and looked up from the magazine. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person. I’m sorry you came all this way. I haven’t heard of your friend …’

  ‘Constance.’

  ‘Yes, Constance. I’m afraid I haven’t received any communications from her at all.’ She looked at the magazine as if trying to recall a memory. ‘And this magazine, I haven’t seen this before either. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘You weren’t in contact with Constance Dubois at all?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, dear.’

  ‘You didn’t receive a letter from her or an email or a message of any kind?’ Kitty’s desperation was oozing from her pores and so was her frustration; she was just short of asking Birdie if she had any history of Alzheimer’s in the family.

  ‘No, dear, I’m sorry. I would remember that. I’ve been here for six months, so unless she contacted the battle-axe at reception who insisted she have an appointment, I certainly didn’t receive any contact from her.’ Birdie studied the magazine again. ‘I would have remembered something as exciting as a magazine editor contacting me.’

  Molly came with the tea and winked at Birdie as she handed it over. There was a smell that was very unlike tea to Kitty.

  ‘She’s my one accomplice in here, the rest are as rigid as anything,’ Birdie smiled, sipping on her brandy.

  Kitty was disappointed to learn her tea was in fact tea; she could do with something stronger. ‘Constance would have been in touch with you over six months ago, a year or more ago, in fact, when you were living in Beaumont.’ On her surprised reaction to the knowledge of her previous home, Kitty explained, ‘I called to your house earlier today. Agnes told me you were here.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s the link with Agnes,’ she smiled. ‘Agnes Dowling. The nosiest old bat I’ve ever
known, and the most loyal woman I’ve ever met too. How is she?’

  ‘She misses you. She doesn’t seem to be too happy with the new neighbours.’

  Birdie chuckled. ‘Agnes and I made a good team. We lived beside each other for forty years. We helped each other out a lot over the years.’

  ‘She wants to visit you but she’s not too mobile at the moment.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Birdie said softly.

  It struck Kitty how, on coming to live in a home, it seemed almost as if each habitant had to say goodbye to life outside the walls. They would receive visitors and have day trips, perhaps weekends or holidays, but the life that they once knew, the people who once surrounded them, were no longer a part of them. She thought of Sarah McGowan, qualified accountant, now farming watermelons on the other side of the world.

  Story theory – saying goodbye to old lives, hello to new lives. Castaways?

  Birdie looked at Kitty’s note nervously. Kitty was used to that: people were often afraid of speaking to journalists, afraid of saying something wrong.

  ‘My editor, and friend, Constance, passed away a few weeks ago,’ Kitty started to explain. ‘She was going to do a story, one which she left in my hands but which she never had the opportunity to fully explain to me. Your name was on the list of people she wanted to write about.’

  ‘My name?’ Birdie seemed surprised. ‘But why would I be of interest to her?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Kitty urged. ‘Is there something that happened in your life that you think she would have been particularly interested in? Something she would have been aware of? Something you talked about publicly that she could have seen or heard from somebody else? Or perhaps your paths crossed along the way somewhere. She was fifty-four years old, French accent, tough as nails.’ Kitty smiled to herself.

  ‘My goodness, where would I even start?’ Birdie began. ‘I have never done anything particularly special in my life that I can think of. I never saved a life, won any awards …’ she trailed off. ‘I can’t see why I would be of interest to her.’

  ‘Would you be willing to let me write the story about you?’ Kitty asked. ‘Would you allow me to ask you questions and perhaps find the thing that Constance thought was so special?’