godparents weren’t really that important.’
And then they died and upturned your life in exile, but Dev couldn’t possibly know about that; Peg had been careful not to show him the letter.
‘Thanks.’
Kiss to acknowledge the appeal of pretend-hurt Devansh Sabharwal.
Kiss to avoid further questions.
‘The main requirements are enough money to stuff a card, the ability to remember the kid’s name, and, as far as I’m aware, being a Catholic.’
‘Two out of three ain’t bad? Ashima says they’re being flexible about it. I guess it’s silly. It’s not like I’m going to start believing that dead dudes can make miracles.’
Tiny pause to tense at where the conversation was headed and search for any way to stop it.
‘Did you see the news? Pope John Paul II is on his way to becoming a saint.’
A gulp of wine to wash down a lie.
‘No.’
‘Yeah! Mad isn’t it, only two years since he’s dead and already they’ve found some evidence of a miracle so he’s halfway to being …’
She had the word in her head, despite everything.
‘Beatified.’
‘Right! I guess some guy in France claims that praying to the Pope cured his Parkinson’s so now the Pope just needs one more miracle and he’s Mr Beatified. Record time: it can take decades.’
‘I guess men are working out their minds on Wikipedia across the world.’
‘Ha! Yeah, I guess I got a bit distracted this afternoon … you know who else has a Wikipedia page?’
Pause to banish all conversation about the past.
‘Pope John Paul III!’
Wine to wash away lies.
‘I hadn’t seen.’
‘More than just a stub too, lots of links to YouTube and some interviews and …’
Move to the counter to banish all possibility of conversation about John Paul Doyle.
Pause to drain pasta and bitterness.
‘So you’re going to become a godfather?’
‘I know, it’s silly … I definitely can’t provide spiritual guidance …’
Bite of lip to suppress knowledge of upcoming joke.
‘Or any guidance, ha! And I don’t want to be in the middle of one of Ashima’s and Gabriel’s fights. It’s just, Sara is a great kid, you know? And it’s nice to have that kind of official connection to a kid, especially if we’re not …’
Pause to imagine children in subjunctive tenses.
Kiss to acknowledge vulnerability.
‘You’d be a brilliant godparent.’
Tiny pause to say farewell to children in subjunctive tenses.
‘Well, it’s not like I have to do it: you don’t even remember yours.’
Wine to wash down a lie.
‘No.’
What was there to say about Aunty Mary? Fairy godmothers were for children, you couldn’t ask them to stick around.
‘I’m still her uncle.’
Irish women disappeared from time to time and that was how it went.
‘I’ll still be part of her life.’
That was the path of the Doyle women (Aunty Mary; her mother; Rosie; Peg): the only way to survive exile was to forget.
‘Peg?’
Wine to wash away the past.
‘You okay?’
Kiss to wash away lies.
‘Yeah.’
2
Box of Memorial Cards (2007)
Would the Pope be getting one too? Surely, he would, with the millions who’d want to be remembering him, and who could keep track of everybody who’d passed without the handy rectangles that memorialized people? Not Granny Doyle. The balance had tilted, so that she knew more who were dead than alive; she’d be lost without her little box of laminated lives. She sat in her porch and flicked through her box of memorial cards and wondered if the Vatican had ever made a memorial card for Pope John Paul II: he was two years gone, after all, they’d plenty of time. There might even be a special memorial card now that he was bound to be beatified: some poor crater cured of Parkinson’s, already. She might have to start a new box; maybe she’d set up a special one for celebrities. Daft thoughts, she didn’t know any celebrities and, in any case, there wouldn’t be a special memorial card for the Pope – she had just checked, she hadn’t any for poor John Paul I – and Granny Doyle would have to wait for somebody else to die before she’d start a new box.
‘Daft,’ Granny Doyle said, though the radio on the chair opposite her didn’t respond. Some new yoke that John Paul had got her: Granny Doyle could swear that the news had got worse because of it. No mention of the Pope’s miracle, never any good news, only some eejit jingling on about the upcoming election (as if she’d ever betray Fianna Fáil) and the nurses on strike (never in her day) and people killing each other from Mogadishu to Kabul while ads jittered on about things she didn’t want: it was enough to send her to bed.
‘It’s a terrible world we live in,’ Granny Doyle said, although the folding chairs were silent. Poor Mrs Nugent had settled into her box of memorial cards a long time ago and her daughters hadn’t picked well at all; Mrs Nugent would have died a second death at the sight of the blotches and wrinkles in the photo. Mrs Fay hadn’t been the same since Mr Fay passed a year ago, though she at least had done well enough to pick a picture where he still had a healthy batch of hair. Mrs McGinty was still going (she’d live to a hundred; indignation would power her that far) but they weren’t talking to each other after the Pope John Paul III business. A shame, because the car outside Irene Hunter’s had been parked there all night and the Polish crowd renting Mr Kehoe’s house had received three packages in the space of an hour and all of that would have been enough to sustain the conversation for the morning.
‘Daft,’ Granny Doyle said, but the only occupants of her folding chairs were bits of plastic. Some new phone that John Paul had got her, with a camera on it, as if she wanted to be documenting her wrinkles. The new radio. And the Furby he’d got her, years ago, when she wanted company in the house but didn’t want some yappy dog or cat conning her out of cream. A daft thing it was, gibberish spouting out of its beak most days, but she had let
