“ And it’s easy for me?” Surtsey hated how she sounded, small and bitter

S urtsey touched her mum’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head, the short hair rough against her lips. “Hey, Mum,” she said.

Louise had shaved her head a while back when chemo was an option, then never went bald. One of cancer’s wee jokes. But she kept it short anyway, it was easier.

When you needed a nurse to cut your food and clean you up, not having to keep your hair shiny was one less thing to worry about.

Louise turned and smiled, held out a hand. Surtsey took it and sat down. Her mum’s skin felt like nylon, artificial somehow.

She smelt bitter, acrid. Could you smell of cancer? Weren’t there dogs that detected early signs of it in humans?

“How are you?” Surtsey said.

“I’m dying.”

“Nice day for it.”

This was a running joke. Louise threw out the line, Surtsey batted it straight back, although it was getting less funny every day, and Surtsey wished they hadn’t started it.

Louise’s breath was laboured, a wheeze deep in her chest. She had a handkerchief in her other hand, brought it up and dabbed at her mouth, dribbled into it. Surtsey looked away for a moment.

“Anything happening in the world?” Louise said.

Diminished

Surtsey examined her. Forty-five years old and reduced to clock watching, waiting to die.

She was so physically diminished it was as if she might shrink to death.

Surtsey tried to picture the vibrant presence of her mother in her childhood, but the truth was this image in front of her was replacing that one.

“Not really,” she said.

Louise coughed, dabbed at her lips. “Up to much last night?”

Of course, Surtsey had skipped the after-work visit to sneak around with Tom. The last time Surtsey saw her mum, Tom was alive.

That seemed impossible.

It already felt like he’d always been dead, lying out there waiting to be found.

Surtsey took her hand from Louise’s and rubbed at her own jaw.

“Out with Brendan.”

Louise tried to smile. “How are things between you two?”

“OK.”

“Wow, sounds like true love.”

“It’s good, things are good.”

Louise coughed but was too slow in getting the handkerchief to her mouth, green spit down her T-shirt.

She dabbed at it until Surtsey pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped, feeling the knobbly breastbone beneath.

Louise tried to push Surtsey’s hand away. “I don’t need help.”

“Yes, you do, that’s why you’re in here.”

“I don’t need help from you, is what I meant.” “I’m your daughter.”

“Exactly.”

Surtsey folded the damp tissue away and stuffed it in her pocket. Louise was gazing out the window, the shoulder of the Inch to her left, Inchkeith behind.

Surtsey tried to imagine what the view was like 30 years ago before the Inch was born.

The island had always been in her life, a permanent presence, but nothing was permanent, just think of the Cockenzie chimneys, now gone. Or Louise. Or Tom.

“How’s your sister?” Louise said.

Surtsey took a breath. “You would know how she was if she ever bothered to visit.”

“Don’t, Sur.” Louise shook her head. “She’s busy.” “Don’t make excuses for her.”

“It’s hard for her.”

Shuddering

“And it’s easy for me?” Surtsey hated how she sounded, small and bitter.

Louise turned to meet Surtsey’s gaze. “You’re strong.”

“I don’t feel strong.”

Louise coughed some more, held the hankie to her mouth, her body shuddering as if she might shake apart.

Surtsey put a hand on her mum’s back, didn’t move it, just left it there, connected.

“Are you OK, Louise?”

A familiar voice behind them.

Surtsey turned to see Donna in her pastel scrubs. Tall and broad, strong cheekbones and nose, dark brown hair tied in a loose ponytail.

One of the million coincidences that happened in a small place like Portobello, someone from the year below you at school winds up nursing your dying mother.

“Fine,” Louise said, still spluttering.

“Hey, Donna,” Surtsey said.

Donna smiled. “Hi.”

Surtsey hadn’t really been friends with Donna at school, she was only vaguely aware of her presence in the year below, saw her in corridors, playgrounds or the lunchtime queue at the sandwich place, then later nestled in a different corner of the Dalriada with her own friends.

But since Louise came to St Columba’s they’d got to know each other better, brought together in the worst circumstances.

“Maybe I need to lie down,” Louise said.

“Let me get your wheelchair,” Surtsey said. “Donna can do it,” Louise said, “it’s her job.” Surtsey watched as Donna positioned the chair, wrapped her arms around Louise and lifted her in. She turned Louise from the view and began pushing her away.

“I’ll see you tonight, Mum,” Surtsey said. Louise tried to smile, her head drooping with the effort. “Love you, Sur.”

“Love you.”

As they passed Surtsey she lifted an eyebrow to Donna, who shook her head.

Surtsey always tried to get a word with Donna about her mum when she visited, something more than the official record of her deterioration.

Donna pushed Louise past then turned back to Surtsey. She tapped her watch and held up five fingers. Surtsey nodded.

Perspective

They grabbed lattes from the green Citroen van at the bottom of Bellfield Street then sat on the wall outside the old swimming baths.

Surtsey nodded at Donna’s cup. “Should you be having that after the graveyard shift?”

“I’ll be fine,” Donna said, taking a sip. “I like working nights, actually. It doesn’t suit everyone, but it gives me time to think.”

Donna was taller than Surtsey and a bit curvier. She was pretty in a homely way, and seemed wiser than other folk their age.

Maybe it was perspective from working with the terminally ill.

Sitting here in the morning sunlight, their legs dangling over the sand, Surtsey felt like she was a big sister, someone to look out for her at a time when Surtsey had to look after everyone else.

More on Monday.