Still You

by Claire Allan

  Their drawings and paintings were pinned on the walls.

  Áine would listen out for the sound of Emma practising her scales on the piano in the dining room, sometimes coming in to sit beside her niece and join her in a duet.

  Jonathan remained quieter. Áine couldn’t hide her worry for him. She figured it must be tough for him in a house full of women – so far away from what he had always known as home. But he never said anything. If Áine asked him if he was okay he would reply that he was “Fine, thank you for asking” and set about playing with his toys or reading his books once again.

  It had been two months since Jack had last visited – he had been true to his word for the first few months, visiting as often as he could and never going more than a month between seeing his children. But he had written this time – things were busy. The business needed him. He would do his best to get back to them as soon as he could and he loved his children more than anything.

  With every letter that arrived Áine and Rosaleen felt a bittersweet mixture of hope and fear. At any time he could say he was ready to have his children back – and take them away, leaving the house too big and too quiet in their absence. But when he said he needed more time they were also not immune to the flash of disappointment across the children’s faces – especially Jonathan’s.

  “Do you think he doesn’t like it here?” Rosaleen asked one night, after the children were long settled.

  “I think he does,” Áine said. “But he’s only a wee boy and wee boys want their daddy. It’s hardly a surprise. It’s easier for him when Jack comes to visit – it has been too long. Eight weeks is an eternity to a child.”

  “But when Jack comes there is always an upset when he goes again … maybe it’s better they don’t see him so much?”

  Áine could see, or at least understand, where her mother was coming from – the children were always unsettled and fretful when their father left. But still they needed to see him. They had lost their mother – she would not let their father slip away from them too.

  She vowed to write to him the very next day and tell him that he needed to be there for the children, that although they might appear to be doing well they still needed to see him. She felt a strange need to see him herself, if she was honest. Although whenever that thought crossed her mind she tried her very best to push it to one side. She had to stay focused on the children. They needed her to stay in the here and now and she needed to stay that way herself. No good could come of any feelings towards Jack that weren’t entirely related to him being the father of her niece and nephew and the widower of her sister.

  It didn’t matter that he was now someone she could confide in more and more – pouring out tales of her life to him in her letters, from the difficult children in the classroom, to long passages detailing simply how she had watched his own children sleep and how they no longer woke up crying in the night as frequently as they once had. She told him of the garden, the kitchen, of the books she was reading, the stories she was writing. And he wrote back, stories of Charlotte at first as he struggled to find his way in the world without her. There was a comfort in their shared grief – and as the weeks progressed the comfort they found in each other turned into a strong friendship – one that made Áine look forward to the clatter of the letterbox in the hope there was a letter from him. He would tell her of Italy, of his business. They would discuss world affairs – the changing political landscapes, the change in social norms. He took her seriously and she learned from his approach to the world.

  Deep inside, when she allowed herself to think about it, things were changing – and she wasn’t sure she was able to stop her feelings from growing.

  Present Day

  I woke to hear the shower running. Lying back, I lifted my phone to see that it was gone nine. I glanced quickly across the room to the dressing-table mirror, delighted to see that my make-up – so expertly applied the night before – was still behaving itself, relatively speaking. I should, by rights, have woken up looking like a train wreck, but I didn’t. My face was flushed, my hair messy, but if I wasn’t very much mistaken there was a new glow to my face – a delicious post-sex glow.

  I wrapped a dressing gown around me, hoping to avoid any awkwardness when Jonathan emerged from the bathroom although I didn’t think I had ever felt so comfortable in my own skin. I tried to ignore the reality of us being in a hotel room and that check-out was looming – and the real world was waiting – a world in which Jonathan assured me he wanted to continue to build a relationship with me, if I was ready to.

  He had asked me about my marriage, about what had happened, and I’d told him how I’d had to come to terms, pretty quickly, with it ending, and with the realisation that it had perhaps been over for a while.

  He spoke briefly of his own marriage break-up – how he had fallen into a marriage because it felt like the right thing to do at the time. Another box ticked, he said. But it wasn’t right. It was functional. They were more friends than lovers, until the pull of another lover became too much for his wife and she left in pursuit of her happy-ever-after.

  “I always think you know true love,” he had said. “It’s the kind of love that still exists, still gives you that glow, even when you have known each other through every kind of good and bad time going. I always think there is just something more. Something that pulls you to that person. Something in the pit of your gut that just knows, that never questions, that never has to try and understand. And I think it can come when you least expect it.”

  He smiled when he came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, hair wet. “Morning,” he said, with a hint of shyness I found endearing. “I hope you don’t mind – I ordered some breakfast for nine thirty.”

  “Thank you,” I said, realising I was ravenous.

  He started to dress and I had to force myself to look away.

  As I sat down to eat, I couldn’t help but smile myself. I knew this was more than just sex. I knew it was something more. I knew it with every part of me.

  When he sat opposite me I smiled at him.

  “That was a lovely evening,” he said.

  “It was.”

  “I would like to do it again sometime. Not necessarily a hotel room – fun as that was,” he said with a cheeky smile. “But perhaps take you on a proper date. Dinner, the movies, the theatre – whatever you want.”

  “I’d like that, any of it,” I said.

  “Will you get cross with me if I call over to Áine’s a little earlier some afternoons?”

  “I’ll get cross if you don’t – but watch Áine doesn’t get neglected,” I laughed.

  “I know, categorically, that now you are caring for her she won’t be neglected,” he said. “How long do you think it will be before she works out something has happened between us?”

  “Oh God,” I gasped. “Do you think she will know?”

  Jonathan laughed – a gorgeous, deep laugh I was only just getting to know. “Georgina, you have been caring for my aunt for what, seven weeks now? I know she has dementia – but in some ways her mind is sharp as a pin and she will know. I could never keep anything from her – and she has been talking you up, you know. When you’re not there. Telling me all about you.”

  I blushed. Áine was a crafty beggar! I’d have to have words with her.

  “Oh God – really?” I asked, laughing.

  “She fancies herself as a modern-day fairy godmother,” he said. “She always has tried to make sure everyone else is happy. To her own detriment at times – but that’s her personality – she would never change.”

  “And we wouldn’t want her to,” I said.

  It wasn’t lost on either of us that we couldn’t, unfortunately, stop her changing.

  I wasn’t home ten minutes before Sinéad was banging on my door, her face bearing a bright smile which hid the hangover that she later told me was kicking her rear-end from one end of the street to another.

  “Details,” she said. “Qu
ickly. Because I know your girls are back this afternoon and I know you won’t want this conversation in front of them.”

  “I’m not sure there is much to tell,” I said, smiling demurely.

  “Oh my, the smirk on that face of yours! I would say there is plenty to tell. You disappeared pretty early. Where on earth did you go? And why on earth were you not in all morning? And, come to mention it, why do you still seem to be wearing quite heavy make-up – very similar to what you wore last night?”

  “We didn’t go anywhere,” I said, feeling a little wanton, but in a good way. “We stayed right there, in the hotel, all night.”

  “You did?” Sinéad was almost wetting herself with excitement at the very notion.

  “We sure did.”

  “Well, flip me, lady! I have to say, you have some style. Was it great? Are you great? Are you okay?”

  “It was lovely, and I’m good. Really good. Yes, it was a little strange – or different at least – but in a good way. Is it wrong that it doesn’t feel wrong?”

  “How would it be wrong?” Sinéad asked, her face a little more serious.

  “If you had told me six months ago that Matthew would be gone, that I would have spent the night with someone else – that I would have feelings for someone –”

  “You have feelings?” she asked. “You who insisted you didn’t have feelings? You who insisted he was a pain in the arse? You have feelings?”

  “I judged a book by its battered cover,” I said. “The inside pages are nicer.”

  She sighed. “Look, my lovely friend, is it wrong that it all feels right? No, of course not. Life has a habit of taking mad turns every now and again. People come in and out of your life for reasons we don’t really have to understand. Just go with your gut.”

  I looked at her. “Jesus, Sinéad, that’s very philosophical of you and not at all your usual cynical self.”

  “Hangovers make me philosophical,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “And hungry – both for bacon sandwiches and for more gossip than ‘it was lovely’. Lovely is not details. Lovely does not go any way far enough in telling me whether Derry’s most eligible divorcee is worthy of the title both in and out of the bedroom.”

  “I don’t kiss and tell,” I said, taking the frying pan out of the cupboard and starting to heat it.

  “It’s not the kissing I’m so interested in,” Sinéad said. “It’s the other stuff. All the other ‘lovely’ stuff.”

  I didn’t see Jonathan again that weekend, but I did hear from him. He sent me text messages and once the girls were fast asleep he called me and we talked. When I went to bed myself, I felt giddy as a schoolgirl and looked forward so much to the following day when I knew I would see him at Áine’s.

  Indeed, when I arrived at Áine’s the following day I spent a good ten minutes in the car making sure my make-up, minimal this time, obviously, was perfect and my hair was neat. I sprayed a little extra perfume – taking whatever measures I could to make the godawful Brightly Care uniform less of a focus. I had brought some bedding plants for Áine’s garden, which I had picked up at the garden centre that morning. The day was bright – as May dawned – and I knew it would be the perfect day for working the garden together.

  “Áine!” I called from the front door, smiling and wondering just how long it would take her to figure out ‘something’ had happened. Jonathan was sure she would know straight away – with just one look.

  “I’m here!” she called from the kitchen and I followed her voice through to the hub of her home.

  She was busying herself putting the kettle on the stove but, all around her, the cupboards were open, their contents emptied onto the table and workspaces.

  “Good morning, Áine,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m just making tea,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “Just a cup of tea. Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “I would love a cup of tea,” I said softly. “Were you cleaning out your presses, Áine?”

  She looked at the table, at the cupboards and looked confused. “I’m just making tea. Do you take milk? I can never remember who takes milk.”

  “Why don’t you let me do it?” I said.

  “Don’t be so silly,” she said, her voice stern. “I’m perfectly able to make a cup of tea.”

  “Do you want me to tidy the presses then?” I asked.

  “Do you think I can nothing for myself?” she said, looking around the worktops. “All this fussing. Like I’m some silly little girl. I am perfectly capable of doing things myself.”

  She located the tea caddy and dropped two tea bags into the pot.

  “I know you are, Áine – sure aren’t you the most capable woman I know? But it is my job to help you.”

  She looked at me again – taking me in from head to foot and back again. Perhaps she would see something then. Perhaps this was where her sixth sense for gossip would kick in.

  “Who said I needed help?” Áine asked.

  “Jonathan,” I replied, sensing that nothing about this was going how I thought it would.

  She laughed, loudly, and for a moment I thought she had been winding me up the whole time. But then she looked at me again. “Jonathan is only a boy. Was it my mother? Did my mother think I needed help?”

  “Áine,” I said, “I’m Georgina. You remember me, don’t you? And I help you here. Jonathan is a grown man now.”

  She looked at me, confused again. “Did you bring Emma with you? Where’s Emma?”

  “Emma is in England, remember? She lives there now with her family.”

  “I’m her family,” Áine said, her voice raised a little more.

  “Of course you are, but she is a grown woman now too.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t believe you,” she said, as the kettle hissed and whistled on the hob. “I don’t know who you are.”

  “Áine,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, “I’m Georgina. I’m your friend. I’ll pour us a cup of tea and we can talk. And, look, I’ve brought you some plants for your garden.”

  She looked at the plants I had brought in and walked to the table to examine them.

  As I poured the tea, she planned where she would plant her flowers and the moments of confusion passed.

  Later, when she was snoozing in front of the television I would tidy everything back into her cupboards and text Jonathan to tell him what had happened and ask if he could come a little earlier that day. It wasn’t the flirtatious text I had planned on sending, but it was a reminder of what had brought us together and what, if we were to be together, we would have to face in the future.

  Jonathan arrived just after four thirty and greeted me with a warm smile, despite his concerns. Áine had woken and seemed to be back to herself. She smiled when she saw him. “Ah Jonathan, you’re here early today?”

  “I am. I wanted to see if you were okay?”

  She blushed. “I am. I think I might have been a bit confused earlier,” she said, twisting the material of her skirt in her fingers.

  She looked at me – and I wasn’t sure if she was looking for confirmation that she had been confused or for me to tell her everything had been absolutely fine and she had nothing to worry about.

  “You were a little confused, Áine,” I said. “You know we have to expect these things.”

  “Maybe we’ll take you to the doctor and see if you need a review of your medication,” Jonathan said. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m scared,” she told him, her voice low and quiet.

  “I know,” he told her. “I will be here for you. I promise.”

  “You won’t let me get lost?” she whispered and I saw his head bow.

  “I won’t. I promise. But we’re a long way from that. A long way. We’ll get to the doctor’s. We’ll get more help.”

  “You won’t let me down, Jonathan?” she said, looking frightened.

  “Could you let us talk?” Jonathan asked and I nodded, and turned, leaving them to it,
going to the kitchen. I looked out at the garden and wished with all my heart I could turn the clock back to when Áine felt safe, when Jonathan and Emma were under her roof, her mother was alive and her garden was thriving.

  Chapter 27

  1965

  “Don’t you get those clothes dirty! Emma! Jonathan! Do you hear me? I don’t want your father thinking we are living in a pigpen here. Those are your good clothes, washed and pressed, and you want to look your very best for your daddy, don’t you?”

  Rosaleen was calling from the back step as the children ran about the garden and threatened to build a den in the bottom hedges. Ordinarily neither Rosaleen nor Áine would have minded. On several occasions Áine had joined in, brushing away the dirt and leaves to find them a special hidey-hole where they could sit and tell stories.

  But not today – today Áine feared her mother would have a stroke if the children got so much as a smudge of dirt on their clothes. She may have maintained to the last that Jack Hegarty was no friend of hers but that didn’t lessen her need to impress him or show that they had been more than capable of caring for his children. Rosaleen had directed Áine to have the house cleaned to within an inch of its life and to have a decent home-cooked dinner ready for his arrival. When Áine had told her that a stew would do the trick and he could be grateful for it, Rosaleen had almost bitten her head off.

  “No, we have to show him they are better off here than there! Haven’t you noticed that they seem more settled now?”

  Áine had thought of how both of them had ended up in her bed again the previous night and how they had been like two jumping beans all morning. ‘Settled’ was not necessarily the word she would use to describe them.

  Then again she knew they were on edge, as the whole house was, because of Jack’s imminent arrival.

  “Do you think I’ve grown much?” Emma had asked that morning, stretching up on her tiptoes and reaching to the sky. “Do you think Daddy won’t even know I’m his best big girl?”