Page 11 of A Miracle on Hope Street
‘I actually do deal with some very serious problems,’ I tell Nora, determined not to let her undermine my job and position. ‘I’ve shelled out advice on everything from coping with miscarriage, to addictions, to relationship breakdowns and not to mention—’
‘Okay, I know, I know, I’m sorry,’ says Nora, clutching her forehead again. ‘But it’s only words on paper at the end of the day, isn’t it? If only a few words were enough to change the world in real life, eh? I think you should really be focusing on yourself just now, Ruth. You don’t need to fix everyone else right now. Take action. You need to focus on fixingyou.’
I fidget with my napkin as Nora’s words swirl around my head. Iamtrying to deal with my life and all the changes that the past twelve months have brought my way, but do I need to befixed? I don’t understand . . . Okay, so I don’t have any big responsibility now that my father is gone and maybe I’ve been down in the dumps but I’m grieving, right? I only have to worry about holding down my job, making sure there is enough food in the fridge for me to eat and that the beautiful four-storey stone Georgian townhouse I’ve inherited is just about kept warm considering the time of year. I’ve a few people I can call on when I need to fill a gap in my overflowing diary of social events, so why I am so miserable then? Maybe Nora’s right. Maybe with all that I have I shouldn’t still feel so down and empty inside?
‘I don’t mean to be rude, Ruth, but you don’t evenlookthe same any more,’ Nora whispers.
I look down at my jumper. It’s black, like most of my clothes these days are. It’s also stained, like most of my clothes these days are. It’s also far too big and baggy and does virtually nothing for my frame, like most of my clothes these days. As much as I hate Nora’s brutal honesty, I can see she has a point. I look like shit and I feel even worse – and it’s nothing to do with last night. This is what I’ve been looking like for the past year and people are obviously talking about it behind my back.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ I say to her. ‘Sorry if I’m not as glamorous as you expected.’
Michael, the waiter, brings us the food and I don’t want to insult Gloria’s cooking despite my sudden loss of appetite, so I push it around the plate as Nora changes the subject and we engage in small talk about office politics and print sales versus online clicks. Nora pretends to listen, but I know that she can’t wait to get away now that her headache is lifting with the help of a good breakfast and being away from under Margo’s nose.
‘Hot waiter,’ says Nora, tucking in with her fork.
‘I didn’t notice.’
She makes a noise like a snort, as if she isn’t surprised, and wolfs through the rest of her breakfast as fast as she can, giving me the impression that her work here is definitely done.
‘I’d better get back,’ she says eventually, downing the remainder of her fizzy drink that she pre-ordered when she first arrived, it seems. ‘I’ll get this. In fact, it’s on the office as it was meant to be kind of a staff meeting, so I’ll stick it on expenses. Look after yourself, Ruth, yeah? See you Tuesday for Gavin’s birthday drinks?’
Gavin’s birthday? Tuesday? I’m about to say I can’t because it’s my father’s bingo night but then I remember he’s not here any more. He hasn’t been here for a full year. I really do need to get my own shit together and seek some fulfilment in life instead of rattling around killing time and pretending that it’s enough to feed my hungry soul.
I’m a caring person. I care for people. I’ve looked after my dad for as long as I can remember and now I don’t have to any more and it feels really . . . it feels like I’ve a huge void and I have no idea how to fill it.
‘Yeah, sure,’ I mumble. ‘Gavin’s birthday. How could I forget? See you then and thanks for the very honest chat, Nora. Tell everyone in the office I said hi.’
I know, and she knows, that there is no way I will make Gavin’s birthday party. I haven’t shown my face socially in months and months and last night was further proof that I’m just not ready yet.
And at that, Nora is gone and I watch, moments later, as she crosses the road outside, her skinny legs dancing across puddles and her nimble, fingerless gloved hand apologising to traffic that has to stop in her honour.
Nora may have spoken the truth about my appearance and how I really need to ‘fix’ myself, but she has no idea of how much pain I am in right now inside. I don’t think anyone does. Not the people I work with, not the people who write to me. How can I help them when I can’t even help myself? I fear I might be letting a lot of people down right now, as I just can’t seem to muster up the confidence to reply to their pleas for help at such a poignant time of year for so many.
Paul Connolly
Paul Connolly hadn’t taken drugs for ten days.
That mightn’t seem like a very long time to the outside world, but in the hostel he lived in, it was a good record because drugs of all sorts were only ever a heartbeat away when you needed them and the ringleader, Screw, was always hovering in the corridors morning, noon and night, making sure everyone was well topped up when they needed to be.
Paul needed drugs, but he wanted to be off them even more than he needed them, so this time, this Christmas, he was going to celebrate being drug-free and in the New Year he was going to get out of this shit-hole and start again in a new part of town where the sewer rats like Screw, who tempted him by dangling their life-crippling carrot before him, would be just a distant memory.
Paul had made a to-do list of things he wanted to do before he turned twenty-one in March of next year. He’d pass his driving test at long last, he’d get a really good job and he’d save up for a car of his own, he’d treat himself to a whole new look from the inside out and he’d swap energy drinks that got him through the day for a proper diet of fruit and vegetables and he’d join the gym and get a new haircut that suited him better. In fact, he’d actuallygrowhis hair just like he’d always wanted to because it reflected more on the new Paul, leaving the old Paul far behind.
How he wished he could press fast-forward and make it all happen more quickly.
‘One thing at a time, Paul,’ Julie had told him and he was really trying to heed her advice.
Julie was his therapist, a drug counsellor who had become his lifeline and who’d helped him make his lists and plan his future. Paul really liked Julie and he was sure she liked him too because she always talked to him for much longer than she’d scheduled him in for. She wasn’t like the others before who talked to him like he was just another one of the sewer rats, a hopeless case who didn’t mean anything he said. Julie believed in him. Paul loved that someone at long last believed in him.
But now, Julie was gone. She had moved to another city and Paul was struggling to make it through each day. He was struggling so badly that he even sat down one night and sent an email to that agony aunt from the newspaper who seemed to be able to help so many people who turned to her. Ruth Ryans, yes, that’s the one. She reminded him a bit of his big sister, Margaret, who was always so full of wise words and who everyone loved to talk to. But Margaret didn’t speak to Paul any more. Nobody from Paul’s family spoke to him any more. They were tired of trying, tired of giving him chances, tired of picking up his frail, white body off the ground when he’d collapse after a weekend bingeing.
Paul was tired too. He was so tired of hearing his mother cry for him, he was tired of watching her light candles and pray for him to get clean and to just come home and be the way he used to be. He was so tired of letting his darling mother down.
Paul’s mum always said he could have been anything he wanted to be in life. He was picked for the national soccer team when he was just sixteen and was tipped for the top. He was good-looking and super-skilled and the world was his oyster – but that all changed when he met Keith.
Keith was jealous of Paul, but still wanted to be his friend. He showed Paul what it was like to be in the spotlight and all the things that playing professional football was going to attract his way. Keith showed Paul what a good night out really was when you added a few lines of cocaine into the mix, and soon those nights became full weekends and then those full weekends became every day.
Paul didn’t play soccer any more. He didn’t do much any more, only focused on staying away from Screw, trying his best to save his money and make lists just like Julie showed him, to help him get out of here. Julie told him to write down all the positives in his life and to read them and add to them every day.
