Read Online The First Time I Said Goodbye by Claire Allan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Claire Allan
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door, winking in my direction and lighting up a cigarette.
“Aw-right, pet?” he nodded and I forced a smile onto my face although something was constricting deep inside me.
“I’m sorry too,” Craig said.
“I do love you,” I muttered. “And I do wish you were here.”
“Annabel . . .” Craig said, before he paused, and I steadied myself, wondering what he would say next. “I wish . . . I wish I was there too.”
We hung up, the conversation ended, and I turned to where my cousin/uncle/family-friend was puffing on his cigarette. I looked at it enviously. I had quit when my dad took ill – a futile act of solidarity even though his cancer wasn’t in his lungs and he had never smoked in his life.
“Can I bum one?” I asked.
“No bother,” he responded, proffering his packet to me.
I took it and he lit it for me, and I breathed in the warm smoke, letting it fill my lungs. I held it there, relishing the sensation of it in my chest before breathing out.
“Fancy a drink?” I asked the man before me. “It’s on me.”
“Never say no to a drink,” he said smiling. “I’m Paddy – pleased to meet you!”
“Well, Paddy, I can categorically say I’m pleased to meet you too – so on to the bar!”
Chapter 8
I know you will be angry and hurt. I know that and that hurts me too. If things were different. I wish things were different.
* * *
Moments of the night before flashed before my eyes – my poor, stingy, slightly swollen and definitely bloodshot eyes. I peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth and tried to will my eyes to open, but the very noise of trying seemed unbearably loud. I was aware I was lying face down, almost suffocating in the pillow with its fancy Egyptian-cotton cases. My head felt as if it was swollen to three times its normal size but a quick feel reassured me that it was still very much ordinary size. I quickly – well, actually quite slowly – ascertained that I was still almost fully clothed. A shoe appeared to be missing. My left one. Something in my head registered some memory of a Christy Brown, My Left Foot , joke.
That memory was followed by a flash of me performing my party piece – a rather tuneless rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ standing aloft on a chair. My mother’s face flashed into my mind – sitting on her chair, her face a picture of pride. She was hugging Dolores and clapping for me and I, like some child coming top of the spelling bee, was grinning wildly back.
I rolled over on the bed, my head seeming to take forever to follow the rest of my body and, feeling that the room was still spinning, I decided to make the long roll back to where I had been.
Other memories came back, one at a time, as I slipped in and out of sleep. I believe Paddy – he who I had bummed a cigarette off – had bought me tequila. After my conversation with Craig, and despite the fact I never drank hard liquor, I downed a shot, or maybe three – I lost count somewhere between that cigarette, which made me feel light-headed, and ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’.
I had danced. Sweet God, I had danced. That was one of those other things I hadn’t done in a while – apart from a quick shuffle around the dance floor at weddings with Craig. I even attempted some sort of jig. I know I saw my mother do the same – and I’m pretty sure it was with more decorum than me. Decorum – it was a word I didn’t think I would ever be able to use in connection with myself again.
A knock on my bedroom door was followed by a cheerful hello from Sam who walked in, looking fresh as a daisy, and sat down beside me.
“A good night?” he asked with a smirk.
“I don’t really remember,” I grimaced as he handed me a glass of water and two paracetamol.
“I have other treats for you too,” he said, taking a few boxes from his pockets. “Here, take a Berocca – it’s a vitamin – it will bring you round a bit. And some Milk Thistle, perfect for
“Aw-right, pet?” he nodded and I forced a smile onto my face although something was constricting deep inside me.
“I’m sorry too,” Craig said.
“I do love you,” I muttered. “And I do wish you were here.”
“Annabel . . .” Craig said, before he paused, and I steadied myself, wondering what he would say next. “I wish . . . I wish I was there too.”
We hung up, the conversation ended, and I turned to where my cousin/uncle/family-friend was puffing on his cigarette. I looked at it enviously. I had quit when my dad took ill – a futile act of solidarity even though his cancer wasn’t in his lungs and he had never smoked in his life.
“Can I bum one?” I asked.
“No bother,” he responded, proffering his packet to me.
I took it and he lit it for me, and I breathed in the warm smoke, letting it fill my lungs. I held it there, relishing the sensation of it in my chest before breathing out.
“Fancy a drink?” I asked the man before me. “It’s on me.”
“Never say no to a drink,” he said smiling. “I’m Paddy – pleased to meet you!”
“Well, Paddy, I can categorically say I’m pleased to meet you too – so on to the bar!”
Chapter 8
I know you will be angry and hurt. I know that and that hurts me too. If things were different. I wish things were different.
* * *
Moments of the night before flashed before my eyes – my poor, stingy, slightly swollen and definitely bloodshot eyes. I peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth and tried to will my eyes to open, but the very noise of trying seemed unbearably loud. I was aware I was lying face down, almost suffocating in the pillow with its fancy Egyptian-cotton cases. My head felt as if it was swollen to three times its normal size but a quick feel reassured me that it was still very much ordinary size. I quickly – well, actually quite slowly – ascertained that I was still almost fully clothed. A shoe appeared to be missing. My left one. Something in my head registered some memory of a Christy Brown, My Left Foot , joke.
That memory was followed by a flash of me performing my party piece – a rather tuneless rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ standing aloft on a chair. My mother’s face flashed into my mind – sitting on her chair, her face a picture of pride. She was hugging Dolores and clapping for me and I, like some child coming top of the spelling bee, was grinning wildly back.
I rolled over on the bed, my head seeming to take forever to follow the rest of my body and, feeling that the room was still spinning, I decided to make the long roll back to where I had been.
Other memories came back, one at a time, as I slipped in and out of sleep. I believe Paddy – he who I had bummed a cigarette off – had bought me tequila. After my conversation with Craig, and despite the fact I never drank hard liquor, I downed a shot, or maybe three – I lost count somewhere between that cigarette, which made me feel light-headed, and ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’.
I had danced. Sweet God, I had danced. That was one of those other things I hadn’t done in a while – apart from a quick shuffle around the dance floor at weddings with Craig. I even attempted some sort of jig. I know I saw my mother do the same – and I’m pretty sure it was with more decorum than me. Decorum – it was a word I didn’t think I would ever be able to use in connection with myself again.
A knock on my bedroom door was followed by a cheerful hello from Sam who walked in, looking fresh as a daisy, and sat down beside me.
“A good night?” he asked with a smirk.
“I don’t really remember,” I grimaced as he handed me a glass of water and two paracetamol.
“I have other treats for you too,” he said, taking a few boxes from his pockets. “Here, take a Berocca – it’s a vitamin – it will bring you round a bit. And some Milk Thistle, perfect for
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