Precious Few

When the bus arrives, she boards, as do the rest of them standing there at the no. 11 stop every morning at 7.30 am.  But the rest of them don’t get a kiss before they get on the vehicle.  She does. A little peck.  But a meaningful one.

Grace works in corporate and public affairs, Tom as a benchmarking consultant.

Good jobs.  They’re paid well.  So the house is lush and decorative and located in a woody estate in Milltown; the trees gently pat the cardigan roof like a beloved tabby.  Nationwide, other newlyweds are dreaming of this tabby.

Before the peck, he says to her, ‘And what about your lunch?’

‘Sheehans?’

‘Okay.’

‘Thank you, darling.’

‘Text me on the bus.’                    

 

Safety first.  Every single day.

 

On the bus:

‘I’m on the bus.  Everything’s okay.’

‘Be careful.’

‘It seems safe.  There are only a few people around me.  They appear to be going to work like me.  Nobody shifty.  Not yet.’

‘LOL.  Stay vigilant, sweetie.’

 

And at the office:

‘How are you, sweetie?’

‘I’m good.  But Larkin is here.’

‘Is he bothering you?’

‘No, he’s staying well away, on the phone, doing work or something.  I will tell you if he says anything to me.’

‘Let me know.’

 

 

Grace has it in for Larkin.  It started when he came in one Wednesday with a black smudge on his forehead.  Ah, he’s a God-nut, she thought.  Probably voted No in the abortion referendum.  He’s had that church smell about him ever since.  It reeks.  He has to be conservative.   And his eyes, furthermore: always undressing her.  Clearly.

At 10.15, Larkin approaches, sheepishly.  He knows it might go wrong.  He still has the report she submitted ringing in his head, oh those words ringing loud: Harassment! Fearful! Indecent!  Reactionary?  He remembers well the day he approached her in the canteen.  It was too presumptuous of him to ask for a date.  He should have known better.  Should have asked about her situation first.  Should have looked at the hand first.  A fool.  Now he hides and the light of the screen hurts his eyes.

But even with the report and all the meetings and all the whispers and all the dirty looks, they still have to work together, and now he has to make contact.

‘Hello, Grace, can I Ask you...’

‘No.  Get away.’

‘I just want to ask you...’

‘There is a restraining order between us.  I can have you put in prison for this.’

‘It’s not a restraining order.  We were asked to stay distant but to remain civil.  I’m being civil.’

‘Get away from me.’

‘But this is work.’

She stands up.  ‘Help me!’   ‘Help me!’

 

‘He just came over to me.  I’m so angry, Tom.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He got really aggressive.  I was terrified.’

‘No! Are you okay?’

‘It’s okay.  I’m fine.  The office rallied, made him go away.’

‘Take care, sweetie.

Tom sets his phone down on the kitchen counter and listens to the coffee fizzle in the pot.  He loves these quiet moments in the morning before setting off to work.  The coffee tastes better knowing his sweetie is safe.  But now he must make do with a mediocre coffee.  As it pains him to know she is in danger now.  Help me!  He can hear her cries from far away.  Help me!  But he can’t do anything about it.  He must go to work now.  She must get through this by herself.  Granted, she must.  They cannot always be together.  Not with him working later than her...and having to cover a great distance each day.  That’s why he took the car.  And she had to take that awful awful bus.  Later tonight, when they are both at home, he will have to discuss this with her.  They will have to aim for resilience.  Yes.  They will. 

Sudden death is not that common, that is why it is often referred to as sudden, and Tom’s cardiac arrest while he drank his coffee would be studied and studied for years afterwards.

 

 

Grace returns to the office one month later.  Susan gives her a big hug.  So does Kevin.  And Lorraine.  And Anne.  And Colin. 

Her desk is a dour place to come back to but cushioned by the vase of lilies and the lovely note from Lorraine.  She looks over at Lorraine and thanks her with a nod.  Then she notices the mass card.  It’s been slipped under her keyboard, and it’s hiding there, creeping, like a terrorist.  She takes it out. Horrible Jesus on the cover.  Inside, it says:

So sorry for your loss.

James.

She marches straight over to James Larkin’s desk, the mass card raised high above her head, wagging.  He’s slumped in the cubicle as usual.  She throws the card down in front of him and he jumps back in his seat.

Are you taking the piss? She yells.

It takes him some time to respond. 

Then slowly, he says, ‘Yes.’