by Melissa Hill
“Look, pet, it’s late and I’d better head back,” Joe said eventually. He stood up and then reached across and patted Laura lightly on the hand. “I’ll tell your mother you’ll give her a ring tomorrow, maybe?”
“I’ll ring her first thing.” Knowing what she knew now, Laura was anxious to make it up with her mother but she needed to mull things over a bit first. “Thanks, Dad, thanks for everything.”
Giving him a quick hug at the doorway, Laura closed the door behind her father, and went back into the kitchen. She’d tell Neil all about it, but first she needed a coffee.
Despite everything, she felt a little better now that she understood her mother’s reasons for being so hard on her all these years. She had thought it was because she wasn’t good enough, but that wasn’t it – she had been too good and that had terrified her mother.
Her mother’s lack of trust, lack of belief still hurt, but in spite of everything, maybe it was understandable. And as her father had said, Maureen had been raised in a different age – an age where people raised their families, went to work on a weekday and Mass on a Sunday, and were perfectly happy about it. Her mother couldn’t comprehend ambition and dreams and crazy things like that, because she had seen it all go wrong for Joe. And maybe, Laura realised, maybe she too had inherited some of her mother’s sense of acute inferiority – something the Catholic Church had drummed into most women of her generation, and something that this one was doing its best to discard.
She smiled inwardly. Catholic guilt she could deal with. But for the moment, she resolved to talk to her mother, firstly to apologise for the argument, and then have it out with her about the business. OK, so it might take a while, but maybe over time, and with Joe’s help, she might be won over. And Laura was going to make her parents really proud of her.
Both of them.
She smiled warmly and shook her head as she waited for the kettle to boil. Her father – a writer. These days, life never failed to surprise her.
80
Nicola looked up. “Hi,” she said softly, her heart quickening.
“Hi.” Ken stood in her office doorway, stony-faced and tired-looking.
“Did you enjoy your few days off?”
He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Yes, thanks.”
“Well, did you go away somewhere or …”
Ken ignored the question. “Nicola, I just wondered if there were any problems here while I was away?” he asked curtly. “Anything you couldn’t deal with?”
“No, nothing.” He sounded so cold, so distant, she thought. Why was he doing this?
She sat forward, her body taut with anxiety. “Ken, come in and close the door, please. We need to –”
“No,” he interjected, his tone brisk and offhand and still he wouldn’t meet her eyes “I don’t think we have anything to say to one another. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over.”
“What?” She barely heard her own voice. “But, why? Why won’t you listen, give me a chance to – ”
“Nicola, I know I gave you back your key but I wondered if I might have permission to get some things from your house? My golf-clubs are still there – I should have taken them before but I wasn’t thinking.”
Her permission? Who did he think he was talking to – the Queen? “Well, of course you can – do you want to call round later and maybe – ”
“I need to go now, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.” Wounded by his curt and dismissive manner, Nicola reached into her handbag and tossed the keys at him.
“Thanks.”
“But can we not …” She trailed off in mid-sentence, realising he had already left the room.
Nicola moved to the window and, looking down at the carpark below, she saw Ken approach his car, his expression rather amused as he got in and drove off. What the hell …? What was so funny? Was he enjoying taunting her like this? All of sudden, Nicola felt a burst of annoyance. Who the hell did he think he was, speaking to her like that and going off in a strop, letting no one know where he might be going? Here she was, these past few days, worrying and fretting over him, wondering how he might be feeling and what he might be thinking. ‘Permission to get my things’ indeed. Well, it was about time he did call and collect his things – those awkward bloody golf-clubs and squash-racquets and gym-gear that had been cluttering up her house. And he could take his blasted Lord of the Rings DVD box-set with him too, and his books and his computer games and …
Nicola slumped miserably on her desk. Was that it? Was it really over? She couldn’t imagine being without Ken – he was such a huge part of her life now, he was her life now. What would she do without him?
Nicola didn’t get much of a chance to wonder as just then her extension buzzed and Sally put through a call from one of the gym-equipment suppliers. She groaned inwardly as the rep on the other end tried to explain why seven of the ten treadmills they currently supplied to the centre would need to be taken away for servicing.
“But can’t you do it here?” Nicola asked impatiently, but her heart wasn’t in it. At this stage, they could take the swimming-pool out of the place for all she cared.
She got back to work but her mind wasn’t focused and she had covered very little ground before Ken reappeared in her office, and without even looking at Nicola, casually dropped the keys on her desk, before turning to leave. This indifferent gesture, along with his blatant, unashamed rudeness was just about enough for her.
“Hold on there, just one second, you,” she said, in a tone that brooked no messing about.
“What?” Ken answered innocently but, most annoyingly, she could see him trying not to smile. He was enjoying this.
“What? What?” she mimicked, doubly annoyed. “Ken Harris, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but if you think you can treat me like a piece of dog – dog – meat, then you’ve got another think coming. How dare you carry on like this – sulking and grouching like a spoilt child and making it plain to all and sundry that you’re annoyed with me. How dare you take off for days on your own – refusing to listen or speak to me when you know damn well that I’ve done nothing wrong. Not to mention embarrass me here at work by not telling me you’re going.”
“You’ve really done nothing wrong, then?” Ken said, in a tone that Nicola could only describe as brazen.
“Yes! I mean – no.” She shook her head. “I mean, I haven’t done anything wrong and yet you’re treating me like I’m responsible for a breakout of chicken-pox or something. You won’t listen to me, you won’t even look at me – who the hell do you think you are?”
“Fine, I believe you,” Ken said and shrugged indolently, a gesture that really set her off.
She could feel her heartbeat quickening, her pulse racing, her irritation rising as, saying nothing more, he headed for the door again.
“Don’t turn your back on me,” she shouted at him, desperately trying to resist throwing something at the annoying, infuriating, exasperating – idiot. “Hey, I’m talking to you … what? What the hell is he doing here?” Nicola watched in astonishment as Barney sauntered casually through her office door, his tail wagging enthusiastically as he sniffed the floor beneath him.
“Well, would you look at that?” Ken said nonchalantly, his eyes wide and innocent-looking. “He must have sneaked into the back of the car while I was at your house, and came back here with me.”
“Sneaked into the back of the car? For goodness sake, Ken, he’s a fully-grown Labrador – how could you not have noticed him?” What was the matter with him? Of all the stupid …
“I don’t know, I suppose I wasn’t thinking. Anyway, he’ll be fine with you now, won’t he?”
Nicola harrumphed, now really frustrated. “This is a leisure centre, Ken Harris – you can’t have dogs in …” Barney ambled to Nicola’s side and she reached down to pat him on the head. “Sorry, Barn, as much as I’d love it, you can’t stay here.” She glared at Ken. “And silly Ken here will have to drive you home … now
what have you found for burying this time … oh.”
Nicola’s heart leapt as Barney dropped whatever he had been carrying in his mouth out onto her lap. She stared in disbelief at the small, navy, velvet … was it?
She looked up and saw Ken watching her, his expression now no longer sullen. Instead it was … expectant.
“Well done, boy” he said, and then to Nicola, “We’ve been practising that trick for a while.”
“Ken?” she said breathlessly, almost afraid to ask. “Is this … is this what I think it is?”
“Well, why don’t you open it and see?” he asked, coming closer.
Barney flopped down on the floor and put his head on his paws, his dark eyes rising upwards with curiosity as his mistress opened the – admittedly sticky – velvet box to find an unusual and stunningly beautiful, ornate diamond ring.
Nicola’s hand flew to her mouth and, for a long moment, she was unable to think – let alone say anything. Was this really…?
“Well?” Ken urged gently, his eyes full of emotion. “Will you?”
Nicola looked from the ring to Barney, to Ken and then back again to the ring. At this the Labrador groaned loudly, apparently frustrated by her lack of response.
“I don’t know what to …” She looked at him, still unsure that this was actually happening. “But I thought you wanted to break up with me – you were so angry with me …”
“I was being an idiot. Immediately after I saw Dan at your house I was annoyed and angry with you. Then afterwards when you denied you’d seen him, I thought –”
“Oh, Ken.” She knew she was stupid to deny it on the phone then, but he had put her on the spot and she hadn’t been thinking straight. But afterwards, he wouldn’t let her explain.
“So, what changed your mind?” Nicola asked him.
“Well, I went off and sulked for a while, deciding that I wasn’t going to speak to you until I was good and ready. To be honest, I was also a little bit afraid that you had gone back to Hunt. Then I met Helen in town at the weekend and she told me what had happened, how you were just getting him to come clean with his poor new girlfriend.”
“But I could have told you that, if you had let me.”
“I know, and I was being an idiot. I’m sorry, Nicola, I should have given you the chance to explain, but as I said, I was also terrified that you’d tell me you were going back to Hunt. I was willing to delay that possibility for as long as I could.”
“But then why … today?”
Ken shrugged easily, his eyes twinkling “Well, after days of not speaking, and then stupidly giving you your key back, I had no other way of getting Barney here.” He shrugged. “And I figured we might as well get our first decent argument over and done with,” he said mischievously. “You’re really great to watch when you’re angry. Your face kinda gets screwed up and your eyes are –”
“Ken Harris. You don’t mean to tell me that you came in here today and set out to make me mad on purpose.”
He shrugged again. “As I said, I couldn’t think of any other way to get your house key off you. But bringing Barney here to the office wasn’t in the original plan. I had planned to ask you before now … actually, I had planned to ask you that night.”
Nicola sat back, shocked. Now she really understood why he was so angry, why he had reacted so badly to seeing Dan at the house. But arranging all this and Barney too … Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Look, you haven’t answered yet, and you seem a little confused, so just in case you haven’t yet got the picture, I suppose I’d better make myself clear.” Ken crouched down beside her and took both of her hands in his. “Nicola, I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”
Nicola looked at Ken, looked at his kind, uncomplicated face, his expressive, honest brown eyes and didn’t have to think too hard about the answer.
“Yes. Yes, Ken … of course I’d love to marry you.” Nicola threw her arms around him and kissed him.
Barney watched them both for a moment, then, realising they would be busy for some time, gave a loud groan and rolled over.
81
It was a glorious afternoon, the air was cold and crisp, and there was barely a cloud in the sky.
Helen wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck, and savoured the sharp breeze on her cheeks and the sun in her face. Talking these long walks with Kerry had become a habit of hers lately and, not for the first time, she wondered why she hadn’t done this before. Just ahead of her, she heard Kerry call happily after the newest member of the family – a white and tan, floppy-eared beagle called Fuzzy.
Kerry was a different child these days, Helen thought, watching her daughter racing along in the grass. While she had made no major inroads with her speech problems in general, Helen could see it in her eyes that she was becoming that little bit more confident, especially around her mother. Kerry hardly stuttered at all in front of Helen now, sensing her support, and the fact that she wouldn’t be annoyed if Kerry didn’t speak properly.
The taunts at school hadn’t stopped, but the physical side of the bullying had – Mrs Cleary had taken steps to give the culprits little excuse as possible for jeering, by moving them to another class and away from Kerry. In the meantime, Kerry had made a friend, a tiny little thing called Fiona, who – according to the teachers – had also been given a hard time in class because of the fact that she was adopted, and sometimes had to wear glasses. If it weren’t so serious, Helen would have laughed. Who would have thought that the daughter of self-assured, confident Helen Jackson would end up as one of the class nerds?
But apparently, Fiona was anything but nerdy – rather a tough little cookie who had one day stood up to one of her tormentors, a bulky brat called Dean. Some of Fiona’s daring had begun to rub off on Kerry, Mrs Cleary having told her that only the other day Kerry had an answer for a brat that made fun of her by imitating her stutter.
“If you call that a s-s-stutter,” she said, “I think I’ll h-h-have to give you l-l-l-lessons.”
But the change in her daughter, Helen believed, was mainly due to the change in their mother/daughter relationship. These days, Helen not only spoke to her daughter, she actually listened to her. Helen had to admit that Kerry was quite good fun, and she had lately begun to see her more as a person, rather than a burden. She was bright, quick-witted and easily amused.
She raced after Kerry and the ever-hyper Fuzzy. He wasn’t quite a pup, but he was easily as silly and playful as any young dog Helen had ever come across. There he was barking and racing after birds that he hadn’t a hope in hell of catching, Kerry trying her best to keep up with him.
“Look, Mummy, F-F-F–” Kerry struggled, and Helen wondered again if she had made a mistake calling the dog something that was difficult for her to pronounce, but her speech therapist had advised that this could be most beneficial. That way, Kerry couldn’t avoid difficult consonants. So when one day Helen brought the young dog home from the local animal shelter, and had declared he already had a name, Kerry had no choice but to work on her f’s and z’s.
“Fuzzy w-w-wants to play football!” she cried, pointing happily to where the dog was now hijacking the ball from a game of soccer already in full swing.
“Fuzzy, come here,” Helen ordered, mortified. The game wasn’t exactly a kick-around – both teams were in full gear and there were plenty of spectators.
The dog continued wrestling the ball from the corner-forward, acting as though Helen wasn’t even there.
“I’m so, so sorry.” Helen was all apologies to the other players as, lead in hand, she ran out onto the pitch.
“Fuzzy, come here,” she repeated in a tone that this time had the desired effect on her daughter’s errant pet. Fuzzy dropped the ball and – with what Helen could have sworn was one last mournful look towards goal – allowed her to lead him away to the sidelines. Kerry stood there, hand over her mouth, tittering.
“Bad dog, Fuzzy,” Kerry said with
no conviction whatsoever, while at the same time reaching down and tickling him under the ears.
A spectator standing immediately beside them looked on in amusement.
“That dog might play for Ireland, yet,” he joked, and Kerry giggled.
Helen, embarrassed and more than a little out of breath from running, stood quietly for a moment and watched the play continue. The game, judging by the age of the players, was an Under-15’s match of some kind – possibly a Sunday league game.
One player in particular though caught her eye. He seemed to be playing just above midfield in a sort of floating role – and when necessary, tracked back to defend – but in the few minutes Helen had seen him play, she knew he was something special. At that moment he won the ball in his own penalty area, and raced up along the wing, fast as lightning. The spectators rippled with excitement as, easily stepping past three defenders, he moved towards goal. Because he was so far wide, Helen was sure he was about to cross the ball to his forward-moving teammate – but no – this kid checked his man, did a little shimmy and within seconds of striking it, the ball was in the back of the net. The crowd roared with applause, Helen included. It was one of the most skilful and spectacular goals she had ever seen.
Kerry too, clapped her hands excitedly. “He’s good, Mommy,” she shouted over the crowd.”
“Spoken like a woman who knows her football.” Kerry looked up at the man standing beside them and smiled shyly, amused – and more than a little pleased – to be referred to as ‘a woman’.
Helen smiled at this and soon she and Kerry found themselves chatting easily to the bystander, who eventually introduced himself as Cormac. He was tall and wiry and, as Nicola would say, ‘certainly no oil painting’. But he had striking green eyes, eyes that sparkled when he laughed and somehow instinctively made you warm to him. That was how Helen felt anyway, but Kerry must have felt the same way as, normally shy, she was now chatting merrily to him with little sign of her stutter.
