She’d be on her way to the Forty Foot right now for her daily dip. The early morning sun predicted a hot summer’s day. The sky was Aegean blue, there was a warmth already to the developing day. The rare, perfect Irish summer weather.
What was she always saying, that I should join her? And I thought I never would again. But suddenly I wanted to. Now, it seemed like the very rightest thing to do. Quickly, I gathered some things together. My suitcase was at the end of the bed packed for Venice. Red and I were flying off for two nights that afternoon, and Nora was going to be looking after Rosie. She’d promised me she was going to be all right. And later in the summer, Rosie and I were going to Paris. Just the two of us. I couldn’t wait.
But as I tiptoed past Rosie’s room, her door suddenly opened. She was standing there in her pyjamas, yawning. She eyed by bag with my swimming things in. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘The Forty Foot. For a swim.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, I thought it would be nice.’ I tried to sound as though it was the most normal thing in the world. But I was scared. What if it was too cold? What if I had forgotten how to swim? But really, deep down, I was worried, afraid for myself. Would it bring back memories I’d rather forget or should I just feel the fear and swim anyway? ‘Would you like to come?’
She suddenly smiled. ‘Why not? I’ll just grab my things.’
We drove to the Forty Foot, through the quiet and silent streets, only a few hard-working early birds on their way to the Dart or retired folk coming back from the newsagents, papers under their arms. We saw Nellie Noonan and I tooted my horn and waved to her out of the open window. She peered at us and then waved back. ‘Beautiful day!’ we heard her shout.
‘Did you hear about Clodagh?’ I said. ‘She’s been offered a new presenting gig. It’s called Clodagh! with an exclamation mark. It’s a serious political interview programme.’
‘Even though it’s got an exclamation mark in the title?’
‘Viewers love them, apparently. According to Clodagh. The person not the programme with an exclamation mark. Nicky, her agent, got her a massive wodge for it. Apparently, some people value brains and experience.’
We parked beside the beach at Sandycove, just close to the Forty Foot. There were other daily dippers at the swimming hole.
‘And I forgot to tell you about Bridget,’ said Rosie as we began walking. ‘It’s not going well. She froze last night when she was interviewing the Minister for finance and didn’t know what to say. It was in all the papers this morning. She’s sacked her mother as her agent. And she says she wants to leave broadcasting and become a dog groomer.’
We had reached the Forty Foot and found a space in one of the changing areas. Rosie stood, looking out to sea, her hands shading her eyes.
‘Can you see her?’ I said as I struggled into my swimsuit.
‘That’s her.’ Rosie pointed to the red dot far out and began to get undressed. ‘There she is. Do you see her, all the way out there?’
‘Actually, you go in. I’ll stay and watch. I’m not feeling too well.’ I had decided that I was going to sit this one out. I’d confront my phobia of the sea another day.
‘Mum,’ said Rosie, firmly. ‘We’re both going in. It’ll do us good. My counsellor said I should do more exercise, be outdoors more often. So here I am. I haven’t swum in the Forty Foot for years and I’m not going in without you…’
Rosie was my inspiration, I realised. Without her, I was nothing. She’d been through so much and if she could face her life head on, so could I. We held hands as we walked down the steps roughly carved out of rock and into the icy water. ‘Jesus!’ I yelped.
‘Don’t be a baby,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m going in.’ She plunged in, diving down into the water, so I could see her shape under the surface, like a mermaid, her long hair streaming out behind her. ‘Come on,’ she said, when she re-emerged, ‘just dive in.’
And I did, not as gracefully as Rosie, but I swam down until I could touch the bottom and submerged by the water, seaweed and rocks clipping my toes. For a moment, I opened my eyes and all I could sense was peace and gentleness and that I was safe. To my spirit guides, Rosaleen and the baby I had lost, I said, thank you. Thank you for everything. And I pushed my way back to the surface.
‘That’s better.’ Rosie was treading water. ‘Now let’s swim to Granny.’ She was so brave, my daughter. So strong. You could learn just as much from your child – if not more – that they learn from you.
And I had forgotten what swimming in the sea was like, even on a still day like this, the water felt powerful, the bump-bump of the undulations stronger and the peaceful feeling was still with me, as though it alone was keeping me afloat. On we went until I could see that Nora had spotted us. She was floating on her back but squinting at the two of us.
‘Granny!’ shouted Rosie. ‘It’s us!’
She narrowed her eyes even further, trying to see us and then she realised who it was. And a huge smile broke over her face, her arm stretched up in a wave.
‘What took you so long?’ she said when we were closer. ‘I’ve been waiting ages.’
‘Your invitation never arrived,’ said Rosie, paddling up to her. ‘Must have got lost in the post.’ The two of them had the same grin, I noticed. I’d never realised that before, how much Rosie looked like Mum. And like Rosaleen. And like me.
‘Finally, you made it,’ Nora said to me when I reached them. The three of us doggy-paddled around in the water. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’
And there was something about Nora or maybe it was always there and I had never seen it, or maybe I had chosen not to see it, but she looked, dare I say it pleased to see me.
‘I’ve been watching Howth Head,’ she said, pointing to the headland on the other side of Dublin bay, and I was wondering if they still had the goats.’
‘The goats?’ Rosie doggy-paddled herself around so she was looking out to see past the little fishing trawler that was chugging in the distant, past the ferry that was bringing people either home or away.
‘Goats, that’s right. They have goats on Howth Head and your great-grandmother brought me to see them once when I was a little girl. And there they were. A herd of them. Nibbled my cardigan they did. Did you ever see them, Tabitha?’
‘No… but Rosaleen once brought me to see a horse race,’ I told them. ‘On Barley Cove strand, in West Cork. They used to do it every year apparently. She went there when she was a girl and so she brought me. Did you go, Mum?’
She nodded. ‘Oh yes, she loved West Cork, it never lost her, that love for it. The place was in her bones, in her heart. When she was exiled – that’s what she called it,’ she explained to Rosie, ‘she would seek out all the West Corky things she could, like goats, or she’d buy eggs that were sent up from Bantry every morning or she would read the stories of Flannery Vickery. He set all his novels in West Cork. Made her feel less homesick.’
Rosie flipped over to float on her back and then Nora did and then I followed, the three of us floating, looking up at the cloudless blue sky.
And then I felt Nora’s hand grab mine and we held on and it didn’t feel awkward or weird. It felt nice. And then I found Rosie’s hand in the water and the three of us joined, like a chain of paper dolls, three generations of Thomas women. A trio of pirate queens. Rosaleen would have been happy to see us like this, I thought, and if she was up there, she would be looking down at us, pleased and proud. We might just be all right, I thought. Everything might just be all right.