“Don’t forget to park the car in my secret spot”

HOME, bed, 11.40pm.

I am not flying to London until early tomorrow morning but already, I’m transitioning. My husband and daughter are joining me later in the week, so I have no one to transition with right now, only someone to transition at:

“Remember to put the de-humidifier next to the linen cupboard,” I say.

“Will do,” my husband says.

“A month is a long time to leave a house empty,” I say, “especially one like this.”

“It’ll be fine,” he says, which puts me to wondering about the origins of this manly response.

“This house isn’t like other houses,” I say. “It’s old. It needs…”

“It’ll be fine…” he says.

“My sister’s right,” I say, “a fifth child is what I have.”

“A what?” he says, coming over all Spartacus-pulling-on-his-armour-and-raising-his sword.

“This house,” I say, “it’s like a fifth child…”

“Oh,” says Spartacus, dropping his sword, “I thought for a second you meant I was your fifth child.”

Silence falls.

“Not for a second,” I say.

My husband kisses me goodnight with the words, “shit, did you hear that funny noise? It sounded like a slate falling off the roof.”

“Nunnight,” he says, and falls asleep.

“What slate?” I inquire.

“It’ll be fine,” he says, “I’ll have a look tomorrow. I’ll look at the roof timbers while I’m at it. I think they’re a bit dicey.”

“What do you mean by ‘dicey’?”

“Don’t forget to park the car in my secret spot tomorrow at the airport,” he says, “you can’t leave it for three weeks in the Short Stay. It’ll cost a fortune.”

“Where do other people park their cars in this sort of situation?” I ask.

He says he doesn’t know about other people but his friend A uses his secret spot too. “The last time I flew to London, I parked it there,” he says. “After I got back, I picked the car up and I found a note from A on my windscreen, saying ‘you took my spot, you dog’.”

I call A to mind. A is another “it’ll be fine” sort of man.

“I’ll leave it in the Long Stay,” I say.

“Don’t be daft,” he says, “it’s a brilliant spot.”

“Go easy in the Nissan tomorrow,” he says, “I’ve noticed it’s lurching a bit. The floodwater hasn’t done it any favours.”

“What if it breaks down?” I say.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, “nunnight.”

I think about how unpleasant this part of transitioning is. I try to look forward to less terrifyingly complicated parts. Like take-off and landing.

“Maybe we should put the de-humidifier in the car overnight?” I say.

“Nah,” my husband says, “it’ll be fine.”

12am — 4am.

“It’ll be fine” clangs off the inside of my head like the clapper in a bell.

6.30am.

My husband and I are downstairs, saying our goodbyes.

“So you know where to park it?” he says. “It’s really not that far.”

7am. There is no sign of lurching in the Nissan but any joy I might derive from this is tempered by a terrible smell of fart, which comes from a shallow pool of old floodwater slopping about in the front passenger-seat foot-well.

7.15am. Engine starts lurching at Innishannon. I’d pray if I thought it would do any good.

7.16am. Praying hard.

7.30am. Locate husband’s secret parking spot and lurch into it. Engine stalls. I look out of the car windows; it’s as if an evil witch has thrown a wet, black cloak over the world. Then I look at my feet in their heels, and march off on them.

7.40am. Unpack suitcase on the side of the road in the rain: need flats, for airport keeps appearing and disappearing as speck on horizon.

7.59am. Arrive at airport. Scuttle into the Ladies room and look in mirror. A wildebeest with complexion of dipsomaniac corpse stares back at me.

The more I’ve thought about this as I’ve gotten older, reader, the clearer it’s become that “it’ll be fine”; “they’ll be fine”; “you’ll be fine” and “we’ll be fine” all come from a very virile, yet simple place: the total, blank and foolish intolerance of the possibility of disaster.