Rules of the Road. Ciara Geraghty

it’s a roof terrace really,’ Iris admits, reddening. ‘But there’s a touch of The Secret Garden about it. You’ll see.’

      Iris seems so certain that I’ll get us there. Today. On time.

      Stoke Newington is an hour’s drive from Watford, according to the book. Which also tells me that it is 7.4 kilometres from the Hippodrome in Leicester Square where Jason Donovan is playing tonight. Or 4.6 miles, since it’s England and this is the measurement used here. I allow myself a small moment of optimism when some signal returns to my phone. I manage to find the apartment using an app on my phone, which I’ve never used before, since I’ve never driven anywhere I didn’t know the way to before. The woman’s automated voice sounds bored with an edge of impatience. Now, I’m worrying about roaming charges and the congestion tax, but Iris tells me roaming charges have been discontinued, while, with a couple of casual swipes on the screen of her freshly-charged phone, she pays the tax.

      She makes everything seem so simple.

      What is not simple is the London traffic, lines of it stretching through gridlocked junctions, along what seems like the same street, over and over again. But then I see the street signs, the names of which bring home to me how far away from home we are.

      Turn left. Turn right. Turn right. Turn right again. Turn left. Take the second exit here. Straight through the junction there. It feels as though this is how I will spend the rest of my life, following the endless directions issued by an automated voice. It feels as if we will never arrive, so when we do, I am awash with equal measures of drenching shock and exquisite relief.

      I look around. I am stopped outside an efficient-looking custom-built apartment block that does not suggest gardens, secret or otherwise. It does, however, have an underground car park to which Iris has the code.

      The apartment itself, on the top floor of the block, appears spacious, and this impression is enhanced by the furniture, which is spare. And the echo of our footsteps bounces against the bare walls. There are narrow, steep steps up to the roof, which will be difficult to negotiate on crutches. However, Iris will negotiate them because she was right. There is a secret garden. Although garden might be a little suggestive. The area is small, and what there is of it has more in common with the secret garden at the beginning of that book than the one that flourishes beneath the horticultural attentions of Mary Lennox and her friends. The flowerpots and baskets are overstocked with the remains of last year’s annuals, and vigorous weeds line the gaps between the patio slabs. But while the minuscule water feature is fighting a losing battle with rust, the sound of the water falling over round, smooth stones is pleasant enough, and the deckchair beside it provides a bright splash of red against the vivid green of the ivy that has wrapped itself around the wrought-iron railings that enclose the space and ensure that nobody stumbles off the edge.

      Instead of the shy little robin redbreast that shadowed Mary Lennox around the garden, there is a pair of ragged crows, perched on a satellite dish and inspecting me with cold black eyes. I step towards them and flail my arms. They don’t move.

      At least the railings seem sturdy enough. The ground is a long way down.

      Inside, the walls are painted a watery shade of cream and the grey floor tiles are cold underfoot. The kitchen, usually my favourite part of any house, is a line of gleaming appliances and spotless cupboards and marble countertops. The cooker looks as though it’s never been switched on.

      Clinical. That’s the word for this kitchen. A wave of loneliness comes over me then, pure and potent. I nearly buckle under the weight of it.

      I check my phone for the source of the earlier beep. A missed call from Brendan. I will of course phone him back. Just not now. I’ll do it later. Or tomorrow, when my head might be clearer. I need to clear my head. Get some fresh air. I need to get out of this kitchen. Out of this apartment that seems spacious but is not.

      And, I remember, I need knickers. And socks. And a change of clothes. And pyjamas and a toothbrush. And a hairbrush.

      Oh, and some sterling.

      Which, for some reason, reminds me that I need a plug adaptor.

      For France.

      If we ever get to France.

      Which we probably won’t. Because surely Iris will come to her senses before then?

      I settle Dad in front of the telly, look for some sports or wildlife programme, or maybe a western. I happen upon Ronnie O’Sullivan playing snooker against Mark Selby in the Crucible. Dad immediately straightens in the armchair, folds his arms across his chest. ‘Quarter-ball on the green,’ he says, nodding towards the screen.

      He manages to retain vocabulary for certain things. Snooker is one of those things. A testament perhaps to his collection of trophies and medals that once lined the shelves of my parents’ ‘good’ room, and now fill an enormous cardboard box in a dark corner of my attic.

      Ronnie drapes himself along the edge of the table, the cue sliding through the V between his thumb and finger, towards the white ball. He pots the green. ‘That’s how it’s done, Ronnie, my boy,’ Dad tells him.

      ‘I’ll be back in a minute, Dad,’ I say, moving towards the door.

      ‘Sure thing, love,’ he says, without lifting his eyes from the screen.

      Iris is in one of the twin beds in the smaller of the two bedrooms. In her Women’s Mini-Marathon T-shirt which she ran for the Alzheimer’s Society last year.

      It was only twelve months ago that Iris ran ten kilometres and it didn’t cost her a thought.

      Now she’s in bed in the middle of the afternoon.

      ‘What are you doing?’ I say.

      ‘I’m having a rest.’

      ‘You never have rests.’ I realise my tone could be described as accusatory. It’s like she’s standing on a soapbox, proclaiming the fact of her MS to anyone who will listen. It’s like she’s rubbing it in my face.

      ‘I often have rests,’ Iris says. ‘It’s just that I have them in my own house so you don’t see me.’

      ‘Well, you never say that you’re having rests in your own house.’

      ‘I know you’re angry with me,’ Iris says. ‘I get it.’

      ‘Why would I be angry with you?’

      ‘Because of this.’ Iris gestures around the bare room. ‘This … situation.’

      ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I just came up to let you know that I’m going shopping. I wondered if you need anything?’

      Iris shakes her head. ‘No. Thanks. Where are you going shopping? I didn’t see a Marks and Spencer around here.’ She grins. We both know how dependent I am on Marks & Spencer. But I can’t help it. It’s just such a … comfortable shopping experience. I know where everything is, and it’s not too expensive, and the quality is reliable, and yes, the clothes mightn’t make you stand out in a crowd, but that’s not what I’m aiming for, when I dress myself every morning.

      ‘You can leave your dad here,’ Iris says. ‘I’ll keep an ear out for him.’

      ‘Ah no, you won’t be able to get any sleep.’

      ‘I’m not sleeping. I’m just resting.’

      ‘Okay then, if you’re sure. I won’t be long. I’ll get some food.’

      ‘No, don’t. I’m taking you and Mr Keogh out for dinner tonight. I thought we’d go to a tapas restaurant.’

      ‘That sounds great.’ It’s not exactly a Sign. And I’m sure Iris doesn’t remember, but the first time I tasted tapas was with her.

      Iris lifts her head, props it on her hand. ‘Do you remember those tapas we had? On Suffolk Street.’

      I sit on the edge of her bed. ‘I do.’