Happy Day by Colm O'Shea

Today is my birthday. I’m sitting at home, alone. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in London. I should be in London with her. I had everything planned.

A production of Samuel Beckett’s Happy Days, advertised months ago, and running for a couple of weeks extending across this weekend. As soon as I could, I bought a couple of tickets for the matinee this afternoon. It was an automatic thing, to buy two tickets, but that became the plan.

Tonight, I’m sitting at home, alone, coincidentally watching another production of Happy Days online. It just so happens it was advertised for tonight, and I have nothing else to do. Here, Winnie is played as a southern belle, or at least a woman from the southern states. I can see how the genteel manners work like this. But it is not the production I wanted to see.

As soon as I bought the tickets, I started to make plans, or at least started to think about what else we could do. I don’t know the theatre, but I think it may be by the river. My first idea is whether we could travel there by boat. The regular services extend up and down the Thames, so it is possible, and an afternoon trip up the river would add to the day. Next, I’ll have to book a place for us to stay, but I’m already thinking about this as I pay for the tickets, I have an idea. A place we stayed in before, an apartment we rented. Later she lived in the same complex for a year, two years nearly, in a different part open for longer leases. This would just be for a night, a couple of nights at most. It would be perfect. Close enough to the river for us to catch a boat to the theatre, or to travel somewhere more central as we wish. I know she loved her apartment there; and I know she was sorry to say goodbye to it. I know she’d like a chance to stay there again, even if it were for a short while.

The trip would be a return to London for both of us. The matinee would give us plenty of time to travel around, to see anything we want to see. I even have dinner sorted. Our favourite tapas restaurant, I’d book a table for that evening. The play would run no longer than a couple of hours, less than that, but I’d allow for any delays, or time taken to leave the theatre, so we’d have enough time to get to the restaurant. We could travel by boat again, time and travel allowing, or by taxi or via the Tube. We’d arrive with time to spare, that would be the main thing.

It would all work out so well. We’d have plenty of time, plenty of time so we wouldn’t be rushed, plenty of time so we could relax. Plenty of time so we could just enjoy being somewhere again. That’s the main part.

It all starts to fall into place as I buy the tickets. The weekend starts to come into focus. I’m honestly giddy, eager to tell her.

We travelled through London by boat before. It was a sunny spring day, we travelled upriver, from Tate Modern to Tate Britain. I remember sitting across from her. I remember her taking my hand. I remember her smile. I remember walking from Tate Britain back to her apartment, holding hands again as we did on the boat. I remember later the heat and sweat of our bodies, holding hands again as we lay on the bed, my heart racing, the taste of her still on my lips and all I can do is laugh.

I remember these things and I picture it all happening again. I have everything planned.

But I remember the last time I see her. I remember last Autumn seeing her in the hospital. I remember the thin hospital gown she wears, and the slippers I brought her, with a blood stain on one she blames on a nurse. I remember how drained and tired she looks. I remember her hair tied back, no energy to try to do anything else. I remember the ugly great canula in her little arm, and the marks from the pads and electrodes on her body. I remember her shrinking away in front of me.

I remember she died. I remember she died so quickly, the tumours enveloping her. I remember she was here and then she was gone. I remember she was already dead when I bought the tickets. I remember she was already gone when I thought about the boat and the apartment and our favourite tapas restaurant. I remember planning the trip, yet knowing she would not be there. I remember knowing she was already dead, but still selecting two when I bought the tickets, because I always would.

She’s gone, but I still plan the day around her. She’s gone, but I think about me telling her what I’ve planned and the smile on her face. She’s gone, and I know she’s gone. I know she’s gone, but I still see her holding my hand as we travel upriver to the theatre. She’s gone and I still think about how much she’ll enjoy the day.

The production has been rescheduled. I haven’t decided whether I’ll go or not. If I go, I won’t rent the apartment. If I go, I won’t reserve a table in the restaurant. If I go, I’ll just sit in the dark and watch, an empty seat, her seat, beside me. But if I go, I might regret it after five minutes and leave feeling sick. I don’t know.

I keep shaking my head, I still have to keep reminding myself.

………………..

Colm O’Shea’s short fiction has appeared in gorse, The Stinging Fly, 3AM Magazine, Hotel, Fallow Media, Juxta Press, and Solas Nua (View Source), and broadcast on RTE Radio. He was one of the inaugural winners of the Irish Writers’ Centre Novel Fair competition in 2012 and The Aleph Writing Prize 2019.

Twitter: @colm_oshea