It’s warm in the bed, Irene realises with a glow of contentment. Even on the chilliest nights, the bed never feels cold with Jack beside her. And most nights that’s where he is, snuggled up next to her. If she wakes in the night, the sound of his breathing soon lulls her back to sleep, safe and warm in the arms of the man she loves.
The light filtering through Irene’s eyelids tells her it’s morning. Soon she will have to get up and face the day. But not yet. Today is her birthday and she wants a few more minutes under the covers. With Jack.
Keeping her eyes closed, Irene smiles as Jack’s arm slides around her waist and caresses her belly. He kisses her neck, his lips lingering on the sensitive spot he knows will raise goose bumps on her skin. Savouring his touch, Irene turns, her mouth seeking Jack’s as she lifts a hand to stroke his cheek. It’s rough with the morning stubble he’ll remove later, whistling to himself as he swirls the razor in the wash basin, splashing tiny droplets onto the tiles. She opens her eyes, wanting to see the desire on Jack’s face as he moves his hand lower and begins to stroke her the way he knows she likes.
But of course there’s no Jack in the narrow, hard bed. Irene is alone, as she has been for so many lonely years. Alone in this soulless room with its tiny bathroom only she ever uses, where only her toothbrush and toothpaste grace the narrow glass shelf. Never again will a razor or shaving cream clutter the pristine white sink. Never again will she wipe soapy drips from the tiles after Jack’s shave, rinse away the tiny hairs or hear the tinkle as he empties his bladder into the toilet. How she hated that sound. How many times did she complain, grumbling at him to close the door to the ensuite? What wouldn’t she give to hear it once more?
Lying in her bed, Irene surveys the room. The walls are covered with pictures. Photographs of her family – most long gone. Those remaining might get call at Christmas or a birthday but haven’t visited in years. Postcards too. Pictures of places she visited with Jack or, in the years before Jack, with her parents.
It’ll be nice, they said when she moved in, having the pictures around. It’ll remind you of the people you love, the places you’ve been. Irene supposes that’s true in its way, though surely not the way they intended. The photos do remind Irene of the past, of good times and bad, none of which will ever come back, and of the people, never to be seen again.
There’s Jordan, killed in that stupid training accident fifty – or was it sixty – years ago. The sight of her son’s face should fill her with joy, grinning at her from the paddle-pop frame he made in primary-school. But the only feeling it prompts is pain. The pain of seeing his broken body at the hospital, the pain in his face as he fought for life. Jack’s pain as their beloved boy took his last breath. Her own pain at his loss.
Next to Jordan, their daughter Emma with her husband Mikhail and their children. A formal photograph to mark some occasion or other that Irene didn’t attend. It’s so cold at that time of the year, Mum, Emma said. It’s such a long journey and you know you hate long flights. I’ll send you a photo. As if Irene wouldn’t have spent a week in a plane and suffered Arctic temperatures to spend even one day with her daughter and grandchildren.
It’s her own fault, Irene knows that. She encouraged her daughter to be strong and independent, to explore the world beyond the small town where she was born, and that’s exactly what Emma did. But instead of getting it all out of her system before returning home to settle down, Emma met a man with an unpronounceable name in some foreign country where they eat unfamiliar food. Her grandchildren have grown up strangers, speaking a foreign language, seen occasionally during school holidays or on a computer screen, uttering formal expressions of gratitude for gifts their grandmother buys but never sees.
And there’s Jack. Eyes crinkling with amusement, feet planted in the sand of some long-forgotten beach on a rare holiday at the coast. It rained every day, Irene recalls, the sun only made an appearance on the last morning. They had wriggled into bathers, grabbed towels and hurried to the beach for the long-awaited swim, only to find the tide so far out that their plane would have been halfway home before ever they reached the water.
Before the days of mobile phones and instant selfies, Jack had caught a passer-by walking his dog and asked him to snap a picture of them both. Months later when the roll of film was developed, the single photo showed Jack, handsome and confident, laughing into the camera. The photographer caught Irene pulling a face as she swatted an unseen fly from her nose. She cut the photo in half and framed Jack on his own.
With a sigh. Irene struggles to a sitting position. She needs to use the toilet, but knows from experience it will be less painful to lower her weight gradually onto the soles of her feet, to let the bones settle into position before standing and shuffling into the bathroom.
Irene supposes she’s having what the little Asian nurse – what’s her name? Aurora? Yes, that’s right. Aurora. What Aurora calls one of her good days. She snorts. Good days indeed. For the staff, a good day is when Irene knows who and where she is; a day when she recognises Aurora and the doctor and the other residents. Though how that can be a good day is a mystery. What can possibly be good about knowing you’re an old woman in a nursing home, surrounded by strangers who care for you only because they are paid to, that your friends all died years ago, that those of your family still living are on the other side of the world and rarely remember your existence.
As far as Irene is concerned, good days are when she believes herself back in the early days of her marriage, spending rain-soaked mornings tucked up in bed. With Jack. Days when she forgets her daughter is half a world away, her son long gone, her husband buried in the family plot. There will be no family plot for Irene. Her instructions are organ donation and scientific research, thank you very much. If there’s anything that still works they are welcome to it.
A tap on the door announces the arrival of one of the staff members, a new woman whose name Irene has forgotten. Never mind. She can sneak a look at her name badge, or ask Ted. Ted will know. Or has Ted moved on? The way people come and go all the time, it’s hard to keep track.
Through the open doorway Irene can hear music. Not that rubbish from the sixties everyone likes so much but a familiar tune, one she recognises. Irene, Goodnight Irene. Irene, Goodnight. She can hear Jack’s voice as clearly as if he was standing next to her. Whenever he was away for work, he called her before he went to bed and, before hanging up, he would always sing the words to her.
Good night, Irene. Goodnight Irene.
I’ll see you in my dreams, she would sing in reply.
Tears well in Irene’s eyes. Her dreams are the only place she will ever see Jack now. After all these years she still misses him. It’s as if his death left a great void where her heart should be.
“You ready, love?” the woman asks. “Everyone’s waiting for you. After all, it’s not every day you turn ninety, is it?” She hands Irene her cane. “Before you know it you’ll be a hundred and getting your letter from the Queen.”
Irene forces her features into the semblance of a smile, grasps the handle of her cane and makes her way along the hallway. The door to the lounge opens, revealing a sea of faces. Irene gasps in surprise as two young people step forward. One takes her hand. The other kisses her cheek.
“Happy Birthday, Grandma,” they say in their odd, foreign accents.
The light filtering through Irene’s eyelids tells her it’s morning. Soon she will have to get up and face the day. But not yet. Today is her birthday and she wants a few more minutes under the covers. With Jack.
Keeping her eyes closed, Irene smiles as Jack’s arm slides around her waist and caresses her belly. He kisses her neck, his lips lingering on the sensitive spot he knows will raise goose bumps on her skin. Savouring his touch, Irene turns, her mouth seeking Jack’s as she lifts a hand to stroke his cheek. It’s rough with the morning stubble he’ll remove later, whistling to himself as he swirls the razor in the wash basin, splashing tiny droplets onto the tiles. She opens her eyes, wanting to see the desire on Jack’s face as he moves his hand lower and begins to stroke her the way he knows she likes.
But of course there’s no Jack in the narrow, hard bed. Irene is alone, as she has been for so many lonely years. Alone in this soulless room with its tiny bathroom only she ever uses, where only her toothbrush and toothpaste grace the narrow glass shelf. Never again will a razor or shaving cream clutter the pristine white sink. Never again will she wipe soapy drips from the tiles after Jack’s shave, rinse away the tiny hairs or hear the tinkle as he empties his bladder into the toilet. How she hated that sound. How many times did she complain, grumbling at him to close the door to the ensuite? What wouldn’t she give to hear it once more?
Lying in her bed, Irene surveys the room. The walls are covered with pictures. Photographs of her family – most long gone. Those remaining might get call at Christmas or a birthday but haven’t visited in years. Postcards too. Pictures of places she visited with Jack or, in the years before Jack, with her parents.
It’ll be nice, they said when she moved in, having the pictures around. It’ll remind you of the people you love, the places you’ve been. Irene supposes that’s true in its way, though surely not the way they intended. The photos do remind Irene of the past, of good times and bad, none of which will ever come back, and of the people, never to be seen again.
There’s Jordan, killed in that stupid training accident fifty – or was it sixty – years ago. The sight of her son’s face should fill her with joy, grinning at her from the paddle-pop frame he made in primary-school. But the only feeling it prompts is pain. The pain of seeing his broken body at the hospital, the pain in his face as he fought for life. Jack’s pain as their beloved boy took his last breath. Her own pain at his loss.
Next to Jordan, their daughter Emma with her husband Mikhail and their children. A formal photograph to mark some occasion or other that Irene didn’t attend. It’s so cold at that time of the year, Mum, Emma said. It’s such a long journey and you know you hate long flights. I’ll send you a photo. As if Irene wouldn’t have spent a week in a plane and suffered Arctic temperatures to spend even one day with her daughter and grandchildren.
It’s her own fault, Irene knows that. She encouraged her daughter to be strong and independent, to explore the world beyond the small town where she was born, and that’s exactly what Emma did. But instead of getting it all out of her system before returning home to settle down, Emma met a man with an unpronounceable name in some foreign country where they eat unfamiliar food. Her grandchildren have grown up strangers, speaking a foreign language, seen occasionally during school holidays or on a computer screen, uttering formal expressions of gratitude for gifts their grandmother buys but never sees.
And there’s Jack. Eyes crinkling with amusement, feet planted in the sand of some long-forgotten beach on a rare holiday at the coast. It rained every day, Irene recalls, the sun only made an appearance on the last morning. They had wriggled into bathers, grabbed towels and hurried to the beach for the long-awaited swim, only to find the tide so far out that their plane would have been halfway home before ever they reached the water.
Before the days of mobile phones and instant selfies, Jack had caught a passer-by walking his dog and asked him to snap a picture of them both. Months later when the roll of film was developed, the single photo showed Jack, handsome and confident, laughing into the camera. The photographer caught Irene pulling a face as she swatted an unseen fly from her nose. She cut the photo in half and framed Jack on his own.
With a sigh. Irene struggles to a sitting position. She needs to use the toilet, but knows from experience it will be less painful to lower her weight gradually onto the soles of her feet, to let the bones settle into position before standing and shuffling into the bathroom.
Irene supposes she’s having what the little Asian nurse – what’s her name? Aurora? Yes, that’s right. Aurora. What Aurora calls one of her good days. She snorts. Good days indeed. For the staff, a good day is when Irene knows who and where she is; a day when she recognises Aurora and the doctor and the other residents. Though how that can be a good day is a mystery. What can possibly be good about knowing you’re an old woman in a nursing home, surrounded by strangers who care for you only because they are paid to, that your friends all died years ago, that those of your family still living are on the other side of the world and rarely remember your existence.
As far as Irene is concerned, good days are when she believes herself back in the early days of her marriage, spending rain-soaked mornings tucked up in bed. With Jack. Days when she forgets her daughter is half a world away, her son long gone, her husband buried in the family plot. There will be no family plot for Irene. Her instructions are organ donation and scientific research, thank you very much. If there’s anything that still works they are welcome to it.
A tap on the door announces the arrival of one of the staff members, a new woman whose name Irene has forgotten. Never mind. She can sneak a look at her name badge, or ask Ted. Ted will know. Or has Ted moved on? The way people come and go all the time, it’s hard to keep track.
Through the open doorway Irene can hear music. Not that rubbish from the sixties everyone likes so much but a familiar tune, one she recognises. Irene, Goodnight Irene. Irene, Goodnight. She can hear Jack’s voice as clearly as if he was standing next to her. Whenever he was away for work, he called her before he went to bed and, before hanging up, he would always sing the words to her.
Good night, Irene. Goodnight Irene.
I’ll see you in my dreams, she would sing in reply.
Tears well in Irene’s eyes. Her dreams are the only place she will ever see Jack now. After all these years she still misses him. It’s as if his death left a great void where her heart should be.
“You ready, love?” the woman asks. “Everyone’s waiting for you. After all, it’s not every day you turn ninety, is it?” She hands Irene her cane. “Before you know it you’ll be a hundred and getting your letter from the Queen.”
Irene forces her features into the semblance of a smile, grasps the handle of her cane and makes her way along the hallway. The door to the lounge opens, revealing a sea of faces. Irene gasps in surprise as two young people step forward. One takes her hand. The other kisses her cheek.
“Happy Birthday, Grandma,” they say in their odd, foreign accents.