‘Don’t they?’ Clodagh looked puzzled. ‘Is there a law?’
‘There should be,’ said Michael, a faraway look taking over his face. ‘There could be. In fact, I might do a focus grouping on the subject. I think if we made people – men – drink milk then it would be good for everyone. Good for farmers, good for bones, good for the Irish economy. It could be seen as a patriotic thing to do.’
‘So you’re going to make it a law?’ said Clodagh. ‘The new milk quotas?’
‘Ha! That’s a good one. Well, I just said it might be worth investigating. At the moment, men are bombarded with beer adverts. Drink this beer or that alcoholic beverage but no one says the same about milk. And why is that? Hmmm?’
We shook our heads. ‘Not alcoholic?’ I suggested.
‘Unless you add vodka,’ said Clodagh. ‘Then it’s a drink drink.’
‘No, milk is a man’s drink, only I seem be aware of that fact.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Clodagh. ‘People have been drinking milk for millennia.’
‘But not straight out of the carton,’ said Michael. ‘After a gym session. Or in a pub. And why not?’
‘There’s a conspiracy against cows?’
‘No. Men!’ Michael was triumphant. ‘You hadn’t thought about that had you? We are told to drink beer and wine and caffeine and all those things that are bad for you. But no one develops a campaign to encourage men to drink milk. Which is good for you. Which might keep you alive. So hence my new campaign. Once I’ve passed SIPL, I’ll pass milk.’
Clodagh laughed. ‘Sounds like you need a doctor.’ She stood up to leave.
‘There’s something on your face, Michael,’ I said. ‘On your top lip. A milk moustache.’
‘Aha!’ he wiped it away with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll just have to bring that into the legislation. Milk moustaches are now cool. Hipsters have their beards. Real men have milk moustaches.’ He laughed. ‘That’s my slogan. I can see it now. And dairy farmers are going to love me. I’m thinking a cabinet position by the next political term.’
He was incorrigible and unstoppable, undaunted by potential failure and possible ridicule, he was a proper politician and as I’ve said before, you had to admire them.
‘Got a slogan for you,’ he said. ‘What about Milk Makes Men Men?’
At the door, we hugged goodbye. ‘You with Mike the Milkman and me with Maximus Pratt. I don’t know which of us has done better.’
‘If we didn’t laugh…’
‘We’d cry. And laugh. At the same time.’ She hugged me again, tighter this time. ‘And thanks for allowing me to let off steam.’
*
Over the previous week, I had declined all Nora’s calls to me and, studiously ignoring her when I drove into school, even though, out of the corner of my eye, I could see her getting up to come towards the car or trying to wave. But by the Friday afternoon, I had felt wretched about the whole thing. And she didn’t look happy either, her face turning from eager enthusiasm at the sight of my car at the beginning of the week to resigned deflation by the end.
Eventually, after another sleepless night, I had to do something. Michael, I assumed, wherever he was, would have been sleeping soundly, his app registering his uninterrupted hours of deep sleep. It was ironic he could sleep so well, and always had done, even though he made decisions every day with directly affected people’s lives, yet I couldn’t sleep because I was worried about the sale of a few trees.
Just after 6 a.m., I got out of bed, pulled on my tracksuit bottoms. And I began to drive towards where I knew Nora would be. The Forty Foot.
It was going to be a beautiful day and as I rounded the corner at Sandycove, the sea was shimmering across the bay. A group of seagulls were stretching their wings on the wall by the beach, easing themselves into the morning and for one moment, I felt like undressing and slipping into the cool water, feeling it on my skin, the ripples of the waves against my face, the salt on my lips. But then, I remembered. The thought of the water, the darkness below, the seaweedy depths, the rocks, the unknown. I pulled my jacket around me, glad to be on dry land.
‘Beautiful morning,’ said a man, coming the other way, towel rolled under his arm, dressing gown on over his trunks. I stood at the edge of the rocks. Out there, somewhere, in the Irish Sea was my mother. I scanned the water. Nothing. But suddenly there she was, a tiny dot among the waves. Head sticking out of the water, as she swam around in a lazy, languorous, undulating breaststroke, her freckly arms propelling her gently through the water as she was lifted and bobbed over the gentle waves. And then she flipped over onto her back and floated there, looking up at the sky, seeming entirely at peace and utterly free.
And then, flipping back over, she began swimming back to shore, her slow stroke pulling her closer and closer to me. Slowly but surely, she began to appear. Not just a red-haired dot but a person, with a nose and a mouth.
Just before the seabed became too shallow and the rocks too close, she flipped over again, soaking her head and her face, allowing the water to penetrate her scalp, to wash over her face. A daily baptism. And with the grace of a seal, she found her footing and pulled herself up the steps.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘Oh, you know, just doing my Christmas shopping.’
She grinned. ‘And I thought you were looking for me. To say sorry for not taking my calls. For ignoring me. Rosie told me to give you time. So I am.’ She waved to another swimmer. ‘Morning, Mary… yes, beautiful…’ She walked over to her towel, which was in a heap with her clothes and bag, and picked it up.
‘You should be saying sorry to me!’ God, she was infuriating. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘For me to say sorry? But why? What for?’ She began rubbing herself.
‘The protest… listen…’
‘Tabitha, I’ve explained everything. It’s not personal. It’s just something we have to do. We are compelled to do it. I don’t know why we have to fall out about it. You know I don’t believe in falling out with anyone…’
‘But it feels personal, like you are targeting me. And it’s embarrassing.’
‘But that doesn’t matter, does it? That kind of thing, worrying about what people think of you, doesn’t matter. Not in the grand scheme of things.’ She stood there, naked from the waist up while she found her bra and shirt.
‘Well, what is the grand scheme of things?’ It was so simple for Nora. Life was in black and white, us and them, capitalists and socialists, swimmers and non-swimmers. Rarely did other people’s points of view entered her consciousness, which made her navigation of the world easier for her but far more complicated for those around her.
‘The trees. The wildlife. The principle.’
‘Principle?’
‘Yes, if none of us had principles, then we’d be in a very sorry state.’
‘Mum, just stop it will you? Stop the protest…’
‘Will you stop the development?’ She waved to someone else. ‘Morning, Gordon… yes, so beautiful. We are lucky, are we not?’ She turned back to me, expectantly. ‘The school should retain control over that land. Our greatest resources are being used as collateral in an exchange for money. This is the kind of struggle that we indigenous people need to make a stand about. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. You are my daughter after all.’
‘Indigenous?’ I laughed. ‘You’re not a Native American.’
‘Maybe not, but as a proud Irish woman I know how precious land can be taken from us. Trees and oxygen and wildlife and nature can’t be measured and sold like a piece of silk. I think Dalkey deserves better than that. Have you not thought about other ways of using the land?’