Sinead ‘oohs’ a lot when she is eating something she enjoys and, given this is one of her favourite meals of mine, at times I wonder if she can hear me at all through her own appreciative noises.
‘So, what would really make him feel better,’ says Sinead, chomping through her meal, ‘is if he knew his mum had someone, not from her medical team and from outside of the family home, who made her feel a bit more human as she goes through her treatment, something more holistic perhaps?’
‘That’s it,’ I say, twisting the pasta onto my fork. ‘How about some reflexology or aromatherapy? In fact, anything that involves relaxation and a bit of human touch?’
‘Sounds good.’
‘I remember when my gran was having her treatment, she looked forward to a light massage with some essential oils just to make her feel human again,’ I say, twirling my fork in the air. ‘It’s worth a shot, yeah. OK, I’ll see who I know from back home who does this and suggest it to David. I’m sure I have some contacts, and hopefully it will give him some peace of mind.’
And so I embark on a mission to compile a list of alternative therapists which I send to him, and after his mum receives her first session of reflexology with an old school friend of mine called Bernie a few days later, he calls me for the first time since we spoke in person that day of the ten-year memorial.
‘Your suggestion has worked a treat, Kate,’ he says, as I sit on a bench in Phoenix Park, watching ducks glide along on the lake. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you to say so, but Mum loved it. Really loved it.’
It’s a beautiful, colourful early autumn morning, and I close my eyes and absorb his voice in my ear. His accent sounds like home, like a warm snuggly hug or a blanket of reassurance and familiarity.
‘No, of course I don’t mind,’ I tell him. ‘It’s nice to hear from you and I’m so glad to hear this about your mum.’
‘Yeah, she has really brightened up since the first session, and says she feels so much more relaxed and in touch with her own body, like it belongs to her a little more again.’
‘That’s amazing,’ I reply, sensing his smile from afar. ‘I’m so happy for your peace of mind, and hers.’
I’m killing time until I start my afternoon shift at work, sitting here in my blue nurse’s uniform while David talks to me from somewhere across the Irish Sea in England.
‘Look, I won’t hold you back,’ he says quickly, ‘but honestly, thank you. Your friend Bernie was a real hoot and cheered my mum up no end, so—’
‘It’s no problem and if there’s anything else I can do—’
We talk over each other like nervous teenagers.
‘It was really nice to meet you again.’
Then there’s a pause. A long pause.
‘You too, David,’ I tell him. ‘I felt some sort of closure by bumping into you, perhaps like we’d fulfilled our promise at last, in some small way, by finding each other.’
Another pause follows, then I hear him take a deep breath before he speaks again.
‘I’d like to know you better, Kate. I’d like to at least try to be friends, even from afar.’
I can’t help but smile at his suggestion. I close my eyes tight. I grip the pale blue cotton tunic I wear and wish that our backgrounds were much simpler.
‘I’d like us to be friends too, David,’ I whisper. ‘I’d like to get to know you better too.’
We develop an unplanned pattern of almost daily snippets of email conversations, which slowly turn into more
spontaneous phone calls in which a natural pattern of conversation flows. At first, this mostly focuses on reflection of the horror we both witnessed together and what we’ve been up to since. Then the chats progress to covering a mixture of mundane day-to-day achievements, gossip and worries, to discovering little facts about each other that make our friendship grow very quickly, if only from afar.
Sometimes David’s messages or calls have me laughing out loud, sometimes his reflections and memories make me want to cry for what we and so many others suffered.
‘I had such a horrendous nightmare about the bomb last night,’ he told me one day. ‘I was looking for you everywhere, but I couldn’t find you. It was like I was in a maze full of smoke and there were people screaming your name telling me where to go but I still couldn’t get to you.’
In turn, when I am having a tough time, I put it into words to him and he always manages to make me feel better.
‘Why don’t you treat yourself to something just for you today?’ he’ll suggest. ‘Or go for a walk in your favourite place like you always remind me to.’
I once arrived home from work after a particularly tough day to find a bouquet of flowers waiting for me on the doorstep and a note from him saying, ‘You’ve got this.’ It was enough to make me sit down right there and then and thank God for good friends like him.
As the days and weeks go by, his conversations soothe me; he calms me and he makes me feel as though I’m on top of the world. Sometimes, just sometimes, we almost cross the line into a territory neither of us really wants to explore. My heart lifts when I see his number calling and I find myself constantly checking my phone in anticipation. ‘You looked amazing when I saw you last,’ he says to me one night when I come home from work to his late phone call, moments that I find myself looking forward to everyday. ‘You haven’t changed much, Kate. I would have known you a mile off.’
