He bought the pyjamas because he had a premonition. That's what he called it. A premonition. We were in the sales in Shaw's when, out of the blue, he said I'll be back in a minute and disappeared into the men's department. When he came back, he showed me this baby-blue pyjamas with a navy collar and a crest on the breast pocket and said I bought it because I had a premonition.

I had to laugh because, in forty years of married life, only once did he ever wear a stitch to bed. Only the once. And that was the night Fluffy and the tomcat were bawling on the window. They woke us up about three o'clock in the morning and we couldn't get back to sleep. They were like babies. He got up and rapped the window a few times, but sure they only laughed at him. I never heard the likes of it. Eventually he jumped out, threw on his shirt and trousers, and tore out the door, roaring and shouting like an eejit. He was so cold when he came back that he got in the way he was. That was the only night he ever wore a stitch. Even in the middle of winter, when I'd be wrapped up like the Michelin Man he wouldn't wear a stitch. He said it wasn't healthy, that your skin couldn't breathe properly. Then he'd start on about dermis and epidermis, sensory fibres, lymphatic vessels. I was worse to open my mouth. It just got him going. He was an expert on everything.

In the beginning I used to say will you not be talking nonsense, but I was wasting my breath. There was no stopping him. Dermis, epidermis, sensory fibres, lymphatic vessels. Anyway, other things about him annoyed me more. Like the way he hated music. Not just the modern stuff or opera. All his life, he hated any sort of music. Even birds. He used to say will you send out the cat, how can I relax with all that squawking in the garden? It's not natural. How could you love a man that didn't like music? But I did. Day in, day out for forty years. I couldn't even hum in the house. When I heard him at the front door, I had to turn off the wireless or the CD player Michael got me for Christmas. But he could be funny too. Like the time he told me about your man in the ESB that got the prescription for the pessaries. Did they work? the doctor asked. No good at all, doctor, I might as well be sticking them up me arse.

The other night, I put on a CD and sat there with my eyes closed, singing along with the words. I never felt so happy. It was like I was miles away from everything. I love you because you understand, dear, every single thing I try to do. Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone. I could feel him slouched there in the other chair, squinting at the newspaper. Then I turned the music up so loud the yoke was hopping off the table. I could hardly bear it myself, but there wasn't a blink out of him. I don't know why I did it. I just did. I felt a bit sorry after, when I thought about his eyes just staring at the paper, but sure what harm was in it?

When Michael was a baby and he started crying, he used to qo into him in his pelt. I told him it wasn't right, and he launched into this lecture about how we're all beautiful in the eyes of God; that it was only our own bad thoughts that made us wear clothes at all. He could be so high and mighty sometimes.

Look at me. Crying again. It's the same every single day. One minute I'm laughing at something he or someone else said years ago: the next, tears are rolling down my face. Then I think of something else and I'm alright again. Like the night he got up to Michael and when he didn't bring him back to our bed. I went in to see what he was at. There he was, naked as the day he was born, rocking the end of the cot and counting 2366, 2367, 2368....

When I asked him what he meant, he said it again. I bought it because I had a premonition. I said maybe you're going to take up Judo and he wasn't a bit amused. I kept at him till he said he had this terrible feeling that he was going to die in his sleep. He was standing there, waiting for me to pay for the eiderdown, when he saw this picture of himself lying dead in the bed with me trying to wake him up. What would you do then, he said, and not a stitch in the house for when the doctor, the priest or a neighbour came in? And that's why he bought the pyjamas. Because he had a premonition. I said will you go on out of that, you were never a day sick in your life.

Imagine not wanting to look at your own husband. I used to love him. I really did. Sometimes when we'd be watching the news or eating the dinner, I'd stare at him till he asked me what I was gawking at. I could've looked at him forever. Some days now, I don't even feel sorry for him. I know it's terrible but I don't. When be tries to touch me, I go as stiff as a board. The other night he said he might as well be holding a corpse, but I can't help it. I want to be nice to him, but I just can't. Even when he starts to cry, it would be the easiest thing in the world to put my arms around him, but I can't. Father Horan keeps telling me that in his heart he's still the same, but I don't believe him. He's not the same. I do all I can for him and I know he's as fond of me as ever, but he's not the man I married. He's not the man that wept with happiness every night on our honeymoon. He's not the man that cried himself to sleep the night I wouldn't talk to him for calling me a bitch.

He was stone mad about Michelle. One evening, I smelt fags off her and threatened to tell Michael. His lordship, of course, stood up for her and made all sorts of excuses. Wasn't she after coming from the pictures and the place full of smoke? Someone must've been smoking beside her in Supermacs. When I reminded him that smoking was banned, he just laughed it off. For an intelligent man, he could be as thick as a brick sometimes. She could have announced that she was expecting twins and he'd find some good in it. But maybe it was hard to blame him. She was like the daughter he always wanted. He loved Michael, of course. but I knew he was heartbroken when I couldn't have another. His face dropped when they told us. She was mad about him too. Grandad this, Grandad that. I was lucky to get a look-in at all. Still, she gave me a CD every Christmas and a card she painted herself. He kept his on the locker till I said, for God's sake, it's the middle of July. To Grandad, with all my love, Michelle. XXXXX.

A premonition. That's exactly what he called it. I knew what it meant but one night, just for pig iron, I said I'd look it up. Previous warning, notice or information. Anticipation of an event without conscious reason.

I was only too happy to oblige when they asked us. He, of course, was delighted. You'd think the president herself was coming. Off he trots down to Cushin's and arrives back with piles of comics, enough sweets to feed an orphanage. And a pair of slippers in the shape of bunny rabbits. I reminded him that she was nearly fifteen, but sure I might as well be talking to the wall. I nearly died when I found him up on the stepladder, plastering the room with posters of them boy bands. He even wanted to take out the holy water font, but I drew the line at that. I know it's dry for years but still.

Patricia had her spoilt rotten, but I suppose I was as bad myself with Michael. Anyway I don't think it does them one bit of harm. Look at all the cruelty in the world. Those poor Presbyterians on the news the other night. I've no time for the Jews at all. Wouldn't you think they would have learned something themselves? After all they went through in the concentration camps. What's this Michael said? They think they have a copyright on suffering, that's it. And here they are now, every bit as bad as the Germans. Not enough love. That's the simple reason. It all starts in the home. If every single one of them, Germans, Jews and Presbyterians, had been spoiled with love, there'd be no trouble in the world today.

Michael needed the break. He was looking woeful pale for ages. But I can't understand what they wanted with Venice. If it's water they wanted, God knows there's enough of that here.

I often wonder what's going through his mind. But I'd feel stupid tapping my head like he was a lunatic or, worse still, writing it down. That's what they said in the hospital. But I'd feel stupid. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING OF? A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS? I'd love to see him smile again, even if it's not a real smile. I was going to tell him about your man from Coote Street in the hotel in Dublin. Would you like a serviette, sir? No thanks, Miss, I'm as full as a tick. But I'd be all day writing it down.

The minute she came in that night, I knew she was at the fags again. I could smell the Silvermints off her. He, the eejit, wanted to know if she had a cold, would she like a Disprin or a hot water bottle in the bed. She wasn't a bit happy when I said it was Good Friday tomorrow and we'd all be going to kiss the cross. As she closed the bedroom door, I'm sure she said kiss my arse. I lie awake at night and those words keep drumming in my ear. Kiss my arse. Kiss my arse.

He wasn't in great form today. I couldn't get him to stir from the fire, and, when ten o'clock came, he didn't even want to go for his walk. I know it's hard, but he has to face the world sometime. He can't go on living like an owl.

I wasn't too worried about his hands, but I hated the way the doctors looked from one to the other when I said maybe he could grow a beard. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't love him. Everyone says he's the image of himself, but they're all liars. Sometimes when he's asleep, I rub my finger along his cheek and it's like touching glass. I ask God to make me like him again, but it's no use.

I worry about him sitting so near the fire, but I'm afraid to say anything in case there's a row. I know it's stupid but I can't stop thinking about the night I left the plastic bucket on the hob.

Little do we know what's waiting around the corner. All over the world, this very minute, there's millions drinking their last cup of tea, kissing their children goodnight for the last time. We did the same thing every night for forty rears. He checked all the doors and windows and I went back again to make sure the cooker was off and the guard in front of the fire. Then we said the rosary. It was a Thursday so it was his turn to give it out.

When we were getting in, I said are you ever going to wear that pyjamas? It's on that radiator since the day you bought it. Goodnight, he said, just to shut me up. I gave him his goodnight kiss and turned over. I was dreaming of Michael gliding along in one of those cornettos when he shook me awake. He jumped out and put on the pyjamas and, before I could say a word, I smelt the smoke. I tried to follow him down the hall, but I must have passed out because the next thing I knew I was in the hospital and all I could say was Oh God, what am I going to say to Michael?

©2009 woodlawn fiction