Nothing On Earth by Conor O'Callaghan Page B

on’ had become, until she could hear it in her own voice there at the table.
    â€˜Ah, go on,’ Paul’s mother said. Martina couldn’t remember Paul’s mother’s name. She couldn’t ask, after all those years of being effectively family. ‘And this was only recently?’
    That was what they talked about. Harry’s passing on. Sheila sniffled a little, but otherwise looked chuffed to be able to recount the details once more. Paul’s father had his mouth open, speechless, all the way through. Paul’s mother had one leaf of lettuce suspended mid-air on a fork. Martina and Paul were the only ones on wine. She kept trying to catch his eye, to get a refill as quietly as possible, but Paul was too caught up in the story, even though he had heard it several times. Harry ‘melted’. That was the word Sheila kept using. Fit as a fiddle one day, at the doctor’s the next, buried four weeks later. He just melted.
    â€˜Paul?’ Martina wiggled her empty lime-coloured picnic cup in his direction. ‘When you’re ready.’
    It was easy for Sheila, holding court like that. Everyone could listen to what she was saying without embarrassment. Harry was almost seventy-nine when he died. They had been together for over fifty years. There was a funeral that half the town came out for. Harry had had a proper send-off – one that made Sheila’s stories possible.
    â€˜You never know, do you?’ Sheila had her hanky out. She was dabbing the corner of each dry eye. ‘Five weeks between the tests and the funeral.’ Even Paul, who never seemed to notice anything he didn’t have to, had stopped eating. ‘He was my best friend, and he just melted.’
    Martina asked if anyone fancied coffee and drilled water from a bottle into the kettle. She had the leather seat to herself after that. The telly was on in the front room. For ages it looked like nobody was going to say a thing. Sheila was too absorbed in her own performance. Paul was staring at his parents, who had the look of people who had realized it was down to them, but neither could conjure a phrase to get there. They weren’t grieving in any way that was visible, and they were maybe a bit embarrassed by that. They were anxious, they kept saying, to get most of the homeward route completed before dark. It wouldn’t be dark until after ten, yet they were talking as if it was November. Helen wasn’t their daughter. They didn’t really care that much, but had just enough gumption to make it appear that they did, if only for their granddaughter’s sake.
    It was Sheila who asked, ‘What’s the latest?’
    â€˜Very little,’ Paul said. ‘All we have is one possible sighting, walking on the ring road. Barefoot no less.’
    Even then, his parents said nothing. They gazed gravely at the table, as if calculating how long they could reasonably leave it before heading.
    â€˜I’ve posted lots of notices online.’ Martina was determined not to let them off the hook. ‘Chatrooms, and stuff like that.’
    â€˜Of course.’ Sheila clearly hadn’t a clue what she was on about. ‘And how will you manage?’
    â€˜I’ve taken redundancy. Paul will keep working, for the time being.’
    â€˜You’re very good.’
    Did Sheila mean Martina was accepting responsibility that wasn’t really hers to accept? Martina had been dwelling on what the officers had asked her, wondering if there were rumours. She wanted to make it clear that she and Paul weren’t together, an item. Once again, she hesitated until it felt too late, and then she immediately regretted that she hadn’t said anything.
    Maybe it was the sunbathing that was the oddest reaction of the lot, odder than occasionally calling the girl Helen. The way they took to sunbathing. The way they were, indeed, passionate about sunbathing. They bought new bikinis,