A Time for Friends

by Patricia Scanlan

  Hilary had a much easier life than she had, with her big house and garden, and her two bright children. Margaret thought she was the bee’s knees and was always going on about Hilary and Niall’s great careers. And she never shut up about Sophie and Millie. It drove Sue up the wall. Her mother didn’t mean it, she hoped, but it was almost as though subconsciously Margaret thought Sue was a lesser woman for not having children.

  All this fuss about kids was so irritating. Sue had always been upfront about taking the responsible decision not to have children that she didn’t want. And still society pilloried her, she thought crossly, remembering all the times relatives and neighbours, and indeed her parents, had asked when she was going to have a child. And wasn’t she leaving it a little late?

  ‘I don’t want sprogs,’ she would say bluntly and see the faintly incredulous expressions on their faces.

  ‘Ah you’ll feel differently when you hold your own in your arms,’ or similar was thrown back at her. Eventually she’d told people that Cormac, her husband, had had the snip and it just wasn’t going to happen.

  It had been a relief when Niall had married Hilary and they’d had children. It had taken a lot of pressure off her. Sue liked the freedom being childless gave her. She could do her yoga, and Pilates, and hill walking, and keep the figure she worked so hard to maintain. She didn’t have one spare ounce of flat on her body, she thought proudly. Not bad for a woman in her early fifties. Her only vice was smoking, but smoking helped keep her weight down. She could mix with the movers and shakers and the political elite her boss socialized with, and be completely confident that she looked her absolute best. But it was hard work. Niall needn’t think he was going to start dumping their mother on her. Let him take the morning off if his precious Hilary couldn’t. After all she was only pretending to be a career woman with her itty-bitty lighting carry-on. Sue was one.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jonathan hummed to himself as he cruised along the M50 in his brand-new Beemer. He was dying to take his mother for a spin in it. She’d be chuffed, he thought proudly. He was fairly chuffed himself. He smiled, loving the smooth way the car purred along in the fast lane. Had he ever thought when he started out working for himself that he would be able to afford a brand-new car? And a BMW at that.

  The last ten years of slogging and studying and double jobbing had paid off and he couldn’t be more pleased. For the first time in his life, he was in a very confident and comforting place. He was successful in his chosen career, he was happy in his own skin and finally after years of meeting Mr Wrong he was convinced he had found Mr Right. The new Millennium couldn’t have started off any better. Maybe after all the brickbats life had thrown at him it was now his time to fly high.

  It hadn’t been easy, and that was what made this new phase of his life all the richer. He had enrolled in as many extracurricular interior design courses as he could manage and studied hard. His experience with his homophobic boss, at the beginning of the nineties, had been the catalyst for all the changes in his career. That very difficult time had been a blessing in disguise really, he reflected, gearing down to queue to pay his toll.

  Jonathan sat, engine idling, while the driver two cars ahead fumbled for coins, remembering how Hannah often said that life’s challenges were always a doorway to a ‘growth experience’ and that it was the way the challenge was met that was just as important to the soul as the challenge itself. Well he had certainly met Gerard Hook’s challenge head on, dealt with him and moved on. It was that particular episode that had been his motivation to go for every single work interview he could, to get out of Hook’s department.

  Taking a career break had certainly been a leap of faith. But something else that Hannah had said to him during one of his counselling sessions had resonated deeply with him. She had told him that when someone knew that something was very right for them and they stepped away from the security of all they knew that was when doors opened for them. And open for him they certainly had, Jonathan acknowledged, remembering that nerve-wracking first month when he had taken his career break and there had been no monthly salary to pay his mortgage. But that very week he’d been paid handsomely for the refurbishment of a large three-storey house in Ranelagh – owned by his ex-landlord – that was divided into five one-bedroom flats. He had redesigned the five living quarters in different styles and colours, depending on where they were in the house and what their aspect was. Then he had got a professional photographer to shoot the end products and he couldn’t have been more pleased with the results. His subsequent new glossy portfolio looked most professional and prospective new clients were impressed. James, the landlord, also owned two adjoining B&B’s near Liberty Hall in the city centre, which he wanted to upgrade into a boutique hotel. He had offered the interior design job to Jonathan and Jonathan had given the lighting contract to Hilary.

  It was their first collaboration and it sealed their friendship. They bounced ideas off each other, learned from each other, and had a lot of fun in the process. Slowly and steadily Jonathan’s list of clients grew, as word of mouth continued to put business his way. The economy was booming, development was rampant and Hilary and he were perfectly placed to take advantage of the boom. He couldn’t have wished for more in his career. All he’d needed to make life perfect was a companion to share it with.

  This time he was not going to rush into anything, Jonathan promised himself, knowing his tendency to fall headlong into a relationship, give his heart and soul and more, and be brought crashing to earth when it all ended in tears. ‘You should strive to have more equality in your relationships, Jonathan,’ Hannah would advise him patiently when he would come for counselling, and to pour his heart out to her after yet another heartbreak. ‘Stop giving everything. Allow yourself to be the recipient too, so that it’s not all one-sided. Expect more. You are worthy, Jonathan, so worthy of all that you desire.’ How often had she said it to him?

  And that was the key, he admitted. Even all these years after his childhood abuse he felt, deep down, that he wasn’t deserving of goodness and until he let go of that mindset he would never be open to the right relationship. Jonathan knew Hannah was right. But he fell into the trap of being the giver every time because he was so desperate to find Mr Right. He wanted a relationship like Kenny and Russell had. He wanted the same sort of loving, nurturing, restorative bond Hilary and Niall, and many of his friends, shared. He wanted not to be lonely any more.

  He was really trying hard not to make the same mistakes this time, with Leon. He had even declined an invite to go and see The Talented Mr Ripley this Sunday with him, even though he would have loved to go on a date to the cinema. Jonathan had a crush on Jude Law and Leon had confided that he really fancied Matt Damon, so it was a film both of them would have enjoyed. The old Jonathan would have agreed to go on the night out immediately; the new, more aware Jonathan was being more restrained.

  ‘Perhaps during the week,’ he’d suggested casually when Leon had issued the invite. ‘I’ve plans for Sunday.’ He’d hoped against hope that Leon would agree, and he’d been secretly delighted and relieved when his new crush had said easily, ‘Sure, whenever suits you. Just let me know.’ Now that was progress, Jonathan assured himself, very pleased that he was finally following Hannah’s advice and taking things slowly.

  It would be great too to be able to tell his mother that there was someone new on the scene. One of Nancy’s fervent prayers was that someone kind and loving would come into his life and make him happy. Nancy was a wonderful mother, Jonathan thought gratefully. He was looking forward to spending the weekend with her and to seeing his sisters and his niece and nephews.

  It was hard to believe that Nancy was almost eighty. She was still sprightly and looked years younger than her age. She cooked and baked and did her own shopping, in spite of her children’s protestations. ‘Thank the good Lord I can look after myself for now and when I can’t and I need looking after you can look after me,’ Nancy assured them s
piritedly. But age had slowed her down and she couldn’t see well enough to sew any more, so she had turned to knitting blankets and hats, scarves and gloves and socks for children in orphanages around the world. She was in a knitting club, was a member of a bridge club, she had choir practice every Friday evening, and Jonathan often teased her that she had a better social life than he had.

  It gave him great satisfaction to see his mother so relaxed and contented in her retirement after all the years of hard work and sacrifice. They were so lucky that Nancy was healthy and robust for her age and rarely had to go for the medical appointments that often accompanied ageing. Jonathan only had to take time off work once, to bring her to an optician, and only then because she was getting drops in her eyes that would have blurred her vision.

  Every so often she would take the bus to Dublin and he would meet it at Busáras and watch her step jauntily onto the concourse with her neat travel case, looking smart and lively, and his heart would lift at the sight. Nancy would spend a weekend with him and enjoy a trip to the theatre or a music recital or art exhibition before getting the bus home after lunch on Sunday. Rachel or Maria would meet her in Rosslara and have her tea ready. Life had turned out well for all of the Harpur family, Jonathan reflected gratefully, swinging onto the slip road to exit the M50 and head for home.

  An hour later he drove off the motorway and went south. He could see the church spire of St Anthony’s in the distance and he took another left turn that would bring him to the winding roads of home. It was almost 5.30 but still bright, although dusk was beginning to encroach. Nightfall wouldn’t come for another hour or so. He’d made good time. Jonathan loved arriving home before dark. It made the weekend seem longer. The lengthening days since Christmas lifted the spirit with the promise of spring and summer to come. The rain had eased the further west he’d driven, the setting sun flashing orange-yellow between the bare-branched trees and hedgerows. Already the winter barley was covering the rich loamy soil of the fields with a faint film of green. He touched a switch and the electric window slid down smoothly and he inhaled the fresh country air. The birds were chirruping and singing before settling down for the night and in the distance he could hear the drone of a tractor as it ploughed ruler-straight furrows in the winter-rested earth.

  His mobile phone rang and the Bluetooth kicked in. ‘Hello, Jonathan Harpur,’ he answered, sliding the window up again, and hoping it wasn’t a client. Some of them could be very demanding, expecting him to be at their beck and call 24/7.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ came the greeting from an unexpected caller. Jonathan’s heart soared.

  ‘Hi, Leon.’ He couldn’t disguise his pleasure at hearing his new friend’s voice.

  ‘So where are you? Driving somewhere, clearly.’

  ‘Correct! As we speak, I’m about half a mile from my mam’s.’

  ‘Oh! You’ve gone home for the weekend?’

  ‘Excellent deduction, Sherlock,’ teased Jonathan and they both laughed. ‘So what are you up to?’

  ‘I’ve just finished up putting in bespoke wardrobes in a new extension and if I say so myself they look pretty damn good.’

  ‘It’s great when you’re happy with the way something turns out, isn’t it?’ Jonathan enthused.

  ‘Yep, although you’re lucky, you work for yourself. I’m very tied to the building contractor I work for. We’re starting a new build next week in Rathfarnham, miles from where I live, so that’s going to be a bummer of a commute.’

  ‘You should aim to work for yourself,’ Jonathan encouraged.

  ‘I’d love that! Who knows, we might work together sometime. Hey, if you’d like, I can show you the wardrobes so you can see the quality of my work. We don’t hand the house back to the owners until the week after next when the painters are finished,’ Leon suggested.

  ‘That would be great, I’d love to see them! I’ll check my diary and see how I’m fixed.’ Jonathan remembered to sound laid-back even though he was over the moon at the idea of meeting up with Leon.

  ‘So will you be back Sunday then?’ Leon asked casually.

  ‘No, Monday morning. I always like to spend a decent chunk of time with Mam when I come home and it takes the pressure off my sisters and gives them a free weekend because even though she’s very feisty and independent, they keep a great eye on her, so it’s good for them to have time for themselves,’ Jonathan explained.

  ‘And here was me thinking you had a big date with someone on Sunday,’ Leon confessed.

  ‘I do, I’ve a big date with the ladies of the knitting club. I’m hosting a Spanish tapas supper night for them. Anyway, I’ve arrived now so I’ll let you go, and I’ll give you a shout early next week, OK?’

  ‘Great, enjoy your weekend.’ Leon sounded disappointed that their conversation was ending.

  ‘You too. Byeee.’ Jonathan hung up as he pulled up outside his old home. His heart was singing. Leon had phoned him, and had presumed Jonathan had a date, so it must have bothered him that he’d declined the Sunday night invite to the cinema. He had to be interested. He wouldn’t have phoned otherwise. And he was making all the running, even inviting him to check out his work. And Jonathan had played it cool and hung up first. He was particularly proud of his I’ll let you go. That sounded ever so casual. ‘Way to go, JH, way to go. You’re learning at last!’ he murmured, turning off the ignition and taking his Nokia out of the hands-free cradle. Letting someone else make the running was so empowering. Hannah was right. He should have listened to her long ago.

  Nancy must have been on the lookout for him because she appeared at the door, beaming. Jonathan’s heart rose at the sight of her as he opened the small iron gate that he had painted Mediterranean blue for her the previous autumn. Maybe at last her prayers were to be answered and he had finally met someone he could spend the rest of his life with. ‘Hello, Mother mine.’ He dropped his overnight bag and wrapped his arms around her, loving the familiar scent of Avon cream and Max Factor powder that was part and parcel of her.

  ‘Hello, son, welcome home.’ Nancy greeted him as she always did, returning his hug. ‘I have the kettle boiled and the fire’s lighting so come in now and sit down and relax yourself,’ she urged. ‘You must be tired after the drive.’

  ‘No let me make the tea. You go and sit down and relax yourself,’ Jonathan instructed. ‘I have the lemon chicken all ready to go in the oven and it will only take fifty minutes.’

  ‘I would have cooked a dinner for you, you know that.’ Nancy shut the door behind him.

  ‘I saw this recipe and I wanted to try it out, and besides you deserve to have a dinner cooked for you after all the years of cooking for us. It’s time for you to sit back and take it easy.’ Jonathan took the tin-foil-covered dish out of a carrier bag, and set it on the kitchen counter, before turning on the oven and filling the kettle.

  ‘Go away out of that now,’ Nancy said firmly. ‘Sure what am I doing only enjoying myself. You’re the one who’s working hard. Inside to the fire and do what you’re told.’

  ‘Yes, Mammy!’ Jonathan pretended meekness and Nancy laughed, ushering him into the sitting room while she made them a cuppa.

  Jonathan looked well. Even, dare she say it, happy! Nancy mused, pouring a good strong brew of tea into his favourite mug. Perhaps she was foolish to be worrying about him. Tossing and turning at night every time she heard one of those reports on the news about a new child-abuse scandal. There were so many of them now. Nearly every second day, reports of horrendous abuses covered up by the Church. She felt so disappointed, so betrayed . . . so angry with the Pope and the cardinals and the bishops. The hierarchy! Enabling these crimes against children. Enabling the rape of children. It was more than shocking. It was pure evil. And the Pope, that very same Pope she and most of the country had fallen in love with nearly twenty-one years ago, the one who had said, ‘Young people of Ireland, I love you!’ had done nothing . . . nothing except have these evil men moved from one parish to another, allowing th
em to carry on with their vile abuse. Nancy could not get her head round it. And it was terrible that all the good priests who gave so much to their parishioners, and who were true men of God, had to suffer because of those rotten apples.

  Nancy’s brows knitted in a frown as she stirred in a heaped spoonful of sugar and added milk to Jonathan’s tea. Of course it wasn’t only clergy that abused children, there were many wicked paedeo . . . paedo . . . she couldn’t pronounce the word, but abusers of children was what they were, and the more she heard, and the more she read about this shocking crime, the more she worried something might have happened to her own precious son. It was something she could not get out of her head lately.

  Nancy sighed and cut a slice of biscuit cake for Jonathan. He seemed happy today but she had seen him, over the years, down and depressed, in a dark mood that he would try and hide from her. Sometimes he went on antidepressants, she knew, because he had told her a few years back when he had been glum and gloomy and she had nagged him to tell her what was up with him. ‘A touch of depression,’ he’d said. ‘I must go back to my doctor and get some antidepressants.’

  ‘Why are you depressed?’ she’d asked. ‘Is there something wrong in your life? Are you not happy? Is there anything I or your sisters can do to help?’

  ‘No, Mam, nothing at all. It’s just me. Some people are prone to it and I’m one of those people.’

  She’d asked the girls had he ever said anything to them about the reasons behind those dark moods and they had said no. Mind he’d improved a lot since he’d started working for himself. Maybe he hadn’t been happy at work, she’d surmised, and gradually she had let go of her worries as she saw how contented he was in his new career. But lately, with all these disturbing headlines, she had started to worry that something had happened to him, something she didn’t know about, something he had hidden from her and carried alone, and that she couldn’t bear.