hand pointed in the general direction of the sound of
Shona’s car waning down the hill.
She was tired and hungry. Who the hell gets hungry at
3.40am? As she thought about the chocolate biscuit cake
sitting on the counter at home, the hollow in her stomach
deepened. “What about my place?” The words surprised
her, coming out before she could stop them. It’s not like she
hadn’t thought about him moving in before but no matter
how much fun Seánie, her son, thought her uncle was, she
wasn’t sure she was ready for him on her couch every night.
But there it was, the invitation sitting between them in
f lashing neon lights. “The downstairs room is en suite.”
God, she really couldn’t help herself, could she?
“I’m not a lover of the north end of the Island.” Of course
this is how it would go, her not actually wanting him but
having to beg the codger anyway. Cute as a fox, this man.
“The coverage is pure atrocious down there.”
Diarmuid was the only septuagenarian on Herd Island,
or possibly the whole of Ireland for that matter, addicted
to Instagram.
“But I’ve a booster. How else do you think my ten year old
survives? He’d drive the ferry to the mainland himself if he
couldn’t play Fortnite.”
“He tells me it’s good, alright. I suppose if I was
down there I could give it a go. It might be nice for him
to have a companion. Must be awful hard, him being an
only child and all.”
Oh but he was good.
“Yeah, single mothers are so useless.”
“Well, if you insist. I suppose I could pack a few things
now.” He rose as spritely as a 15 year old, heading for the
stairs. “Will there be turkey for the dinner later? And
a bit of your chocolate biscuit cake for the dessert, that’d
be just the thing, now.”
“We’re onto dinner already, are we, and we haven’t even
had the breakfast?”
She kept close behind, his speedier-than-expected ascent
making her wonder had there been a fall at all.
“It pays to always be thinking ahead.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling at the talent of the man,
“you seem to be good at that.”T
he ca ll ca me ea rly. “ It ’s your Uncle Dia r muid,”
Shona, the weekend nurse on the Island, said.
At least, Fiona thought as she started her car,
he had the decency to fall when the one with
a bit of civility was on duty. She marvelled at
her uncle’s timing as she rounded the blind
corner at Lynch’s faster than she might’ve were it not 3.40 in
the morning. January 1st – he knew it was one of her few
days off from skippering the ferry. His third fall, but the
wor r y of h im made it feel like ten. He’d broken not h ing yet ,
butitwasonly a matter of time.
He sat in his pyjamas in the kitchen, his foot resting on
the stool, looking sheepish but still f lashing that smile.
“What were you doing up anyway?” she said.
“And a happy new year to you, too.” That was one thing
about Diarmuid, his legs might wobble but his brain sure
didn’t. “Can a man not go to the toilet any more?”
“Not if means coming down those stairs in the dark to get
to it, no. What am I going to do with you?”
“Leave me alone, that’s what.”
“For the last time, it’s not me who wants you to go
to the nursing home on the mainland, it’s them.” HerILLUSTRATION: HANNAH WARRENAcclaimed short story writer Anne Griffin lives in the heart of the
Irish midlands. She has a degree in history and worked as a
bookseller and for a variety of charities. Her debut novel, When
All Is Said (Sceptre), is the heartbreaking story of an 84-year-old
farmer ‘who has trusted few but loved deeply’.FALL AND RISE
AshortstorybyANNE GRIFFINBEDTIME STORY