Rules of the Road. Ciara Geraghty

shuffles forward, and Iris prods her bag with her stick, follows it. She is nearly at the head now.

      ‘Iris,’ I call after her, ‘come on.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Terry,’ she says again, looking at me. ‘I’m taking this boat.’ Her voice is filled with the kind of clarity nobody argues with. I’ve seen her in action. At various committee meetings at the Alzheimer’s Society. That’s another thing she hates. Committees. She prefers deciding on a course of action and making it happen. That’s usually how it pans out.

      I stand there, my hands dangling uselessly from the ends of my rigid, straight arms.

      ‘I am not going to allow you to do this,’ I say then.

      ‘Next,’ the man at the ticket office calls.

      Iris bends to pick up her overnight bag. I see the tremor running like an electrical current down the length of her arm. I know better than to help. Anyway, why would I help? I’m here to hinder, not to help.

      I’m not really a hinderer, as such.

      Iris says I’m a facilitator, but really, I just go along with things. Try not to attract attention.

      Iris hooks her bag onto the handle of the crutch, strides towards the man at the hatch. Even with her sticks, she strides.

      I stumble after her.

      ‘I’m collecting a ticket,’ she says. ‘Iris Armstrong. To Holyhead.’

      The man pecks at his keyboard with short, fat fingers. ‘One way?’ he asks.

      Iris nods.

       3

       DON’T MOVE FROM ONE TRAFFIC LANE TO ANOTHER WITHOUT GOOD REASON.

      I run outside. My father is still in the car. The car is not on fire. I fling open the door. He looks at me with his now familiar face; the one that is somehow vacant, like an abandoned house. Or a space where a house used to stand.

      ‘Dad, I …’ My voice is high and tight with fear. Crying seems inevitable. My brother called me a crybaby when we were kids.

      ‘Your mother should be back by now,’ he says. ‘She’s been gone a long time.’

      I clear my throat. ‘She’ll be back soon,’ I say. I don’t have time for crying. I have to think.

      THINK.

      I could call the guards. Couldn’t I? I have Iris’s letter. That’s proof, isn’t it? But is it illegal? Iris’s plan? She’d never forgive me. But maybe she would, in the end. Maybe she’d be grateful I forced her hand?

      I look at my watch. The boat leaves in an hour and a half.

      THINK.

      I ring home. I don’t know why. Nobody is there. But the ring tone, the sound of it ringing in my own home in Sutton, in the hallway that smells of the floor polish I used this morning, the phone ringing in its own familiar way, is a comfort to me.

      In the early years, I did nothing but worry about the house. The lure that it represented to would-be burglars. The strain of the mortgage on Brendan’s salary. And on Brendan himself. I worried that he would end up like his father, who died a week before he retired from the building sites.

      ‘We can buy a smaller house,’ I said. ‘In Bayside maybe. They’re not as expensive there.’

      But Brendan had already put the deposit down. It meant a lot to him, our address. He said I wouldn’t understand because I hadn’t grown up in a three-bed council house in Edenmore.

      He told me not to worry.

      I worried anyway.

      The phone stops ringing. Then a click, and Brendan’s monotone. ‘We’re not in. Leave a message.’

      ‘You could sound a bit more …’ I said when he recorded the message.

      ‘A bit more what?’

      ‘Well … interested, I suppose.’

      I don’t remember what he said to that. Nothing, I expect.

      I hang up. Dad smiles at me and says, ‘Did I ever tell you about the time Frank Sin—’

      ‘Dad?’

      ‘Yes, love?’

      ‘What would you say if I told you we were going on a little trip?’ This is crazy. I can’t go. I have too much to do here. Too many responsibilities. Besides, I’ve got no change of clothes. Or even a toothbrush.

      ‘But what about your mother?’ Dad asks. ‘She has to come with us.’

      I scan the front of the terminal building. Maybe Iris will come out? She seemed stunned when I left. She was probably expecting me to do something. What should I do?

      THINK.

      I can’t just get on a boat. What about Dad? And the girls? They’re both under pressure at the moment; Kate with her play debuting in Galway next week, and Anna, in the last year of her politics and philosophy course. Studying for her finals.

      Brendan told me not to ring him at work unless it’s an emergency.

      ‘GoldStar Insurance, Brendan Shepherd’s office, Laura speaking, how may I help you?’

      ‘Oh, hello … I …’

      ‘Is that you, Mrs Shepherd?’

      ‘Well, yes, yes it is, I—’

      ‘I’m afraid Brendan is in a meeting and he—’

      ‘I’m … sorry, I don’t want to disturb him, but I need to … could you …’

      ‘Certainly, one moment please.’

      ‘Greensleeves’. It sounds soothing after the brisk efficiency of Laura Muldoon. She’s worked there for years. Brendan says he couldn’t manage without her. His right-hand woman he calls her.

      A second round of ‘Greensleeves’, and still no sign of Iris. Part of me knows for a fact that she is on the boat. That’s what she said she was going to do, so it seems likely that that’s what she’s done. Still, I look for her at the main door of the building. Just in case.

      ‘Terry?’ Brendan sounds worried. ‘What is it? Is everything okay?’

      ‘Well, no, but, I—’ What to say, exactly?

      ‘Are the girls all right?’

      ‘Yes, yes, they’re fine, it’s just—’

      ‘I’m in the middle of an important meeting. The Canadians arrived this morning. Remember?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ How could I have forgotten about the Canadians? Brendan has talked of little else but this takeover for months now. There’s talk of rationalisation. He’s worried about his staff. Losing their jobs.

      ‘Can you print out last week’s bordereaux on the financial services portfolios?’ Brendan asks.

      ‘Pardon?’ I say.

      ‘Sorry, I was talking to Laura there. Listen Terry, I’m going to have to—’

      ‘Wait.’

      ‘What is it?’ His impatience is almost tangible. I clear my throat.

      ‘Brendan. I need to talk to you. It’s about Iris.’

      ‘Iris?’ He wasn’t expecting that. I can’t blame him. Iris is not someone who usually warrants an emergency phone call.

      ‘Yes, Iris,’ I say, so there