A Gift to You

by Patricia Scanlan

  ‘Great. That’s that organized. I’d say Mum and Dad will be happy enough not to have to travel from Cork, especially if the weather’s bad. We can have them to stay at Easter and have an excuse for another cake. It’s so helpful of you to make organizing your birthday so simple.’ Liz is clearly relieved that I’ve taken the hassle-free birthday route.

  ‘Barbara won’t be too happy that I’m not having a big bash.’ I lick the last bit of cream off my fingers. Barbara is my sister-in-law. She’s married to Steve’s brother, Tom. She’s a selfish, lazy cow, to put it mildly.

  ‘And how are the Scroungers?’ Liz queries, as she pays the bill and shrugs into her coat.

  I giggle. Liz shoots from the hip and always has. She’s constantly telling me that I let Barbara walk all over me and that I should draw my boundaries. I know she’s right. I’m just not good at that sort of thing. But it’s getting beyond a joke at this stage. Scroungers are not far wrong when describing my in-laws. You know the type . . . the ones that arrive with one arm as long as the other, eat and drink you out of house and home and, half the time, buzz off without even doing the washing-up. My in-laws, Barbara, Tom, and brats Roger, Barry and Vanessa could give master classes in freeloading.

  When Steve and I bought our small holiday cottage in Brittas Bay six years ago, we certainly didn’t envisage an invasion for two weeks every summer of the in-laws from hell. But that’s what’s happened. Barbara, Tom and Co. have come to see it as their cottage too.

  They started arriving for weekends, unannounced, the first year. In the beginning it was fun. We all had young children. It was nice for the cousins to play together but it started becoming a habit. And Steve and I were doing all the shopping, cooking and housework.

  Then Barbara started bringing the kids down for a couple of days during the summer holidays, and that was when I should have stepped in and nipped it in the bud. But I’m no good at being assertive. It’s a huge personality flaw and I hate myself for my wimpishness.

  Of course, I plan all the things I’m going to say, like:

  ‘Barbara, I don’t mind you coming the odd weekend with the kids but my holidays are the only decent time I have with the girls and I want to be able to concentrate on them.’

  Or, ‘Barbara, we really don’t have the space, especially as the children are getting older.’ This is not just an excuse. We only have two bedrooms in the cottage and when the Keegans arrive, my pair end up on camp beds in the sitting room.

  I keep saying I’m going to do something about it, but all I end up doing is moaning to Liz. I know she’s sick of me. She’d have no problem putting the skids under Barbara.

  Steve is ambivalent about it. He feels we’re lucky to have a holiday home and should share our good fortune. I wouldn’t mind so much if she pulled her weight, but honestly, Barbara is so lazy that I end up doing everything while she chills out on the deck reading and drinking wine and I just feel so resentful because it’s my holiday too. Her kids are allowed to run riot and the poor twins invariably end up getting into trouble when it’s Vanessa and the boys I should be shouting at.

  It’s all right for Steve, to be so magnanimous. It’s not his holiday that’s ruined. We split our hols so that the girls can have the maximum time at the beach. Barbara invariably arrives for my two weeks. I feel my husband should back me up and speak to his brother about it, but he doesn’t want to cause bad feeling.

  ‘What about my bad feelings?’ I ask resentfully, every summer as I prepare to go back to work after another ruined holiday. It’s the one issue that causes conflict between us and I’m weary of it.

  This year, definitely, I’m putting and end to it, I decide, as I emerge from the café into a howling gale that whips my hair from around my face and assaults my cheeks with its icy, stinging fingers. We don’t linger. Liz has to pick up my twins and her youngest boy from school and I’ve to get back to work. I’m so lucky to have her. If it weren’t for Liz I’d have had second thoughts about staying at work once the girls were too old for the crèche. She’s like a second mother to them. Barbara would never offer to help out if you were in a fix. She’s one of life’s great Me, Me, Me people and that’s probably why I feel so resentful.

  The Keegans go on a foreign holiday every year. Barbara and her girlfriends jet off to Boston or New York for pre-Christmas shopping weekends. She’s never once asked me to join them. She always had some excuse on the rare occasions when I asked her to mind the twins when they were younger. I stopped asking but it took me a long time to realize that Steve and I were being used.

  I know it’s childish and silly but part of me is glad that I’m not having a big party just so that I don’t have to invite them. What is it about the Keegans? They press all my buttons and bring out the worst in me.

  Fortunately, I’m so busy when I get back to work, I forget all about my in-laws and they are far from my mind until I get a call from Barbara a few days before my birthday.

  ‘Hi, Amy,’ she trills. My heart sinks to my boots. The only time Barbara rings is when she wants to moan or has something to boast about.

  ‘So!’ she demands. ‘What are you doing for the big 4-0? Is Steve bringing you away? Tom took me to Prague for mine.’

  We’re sick of hearing about the trip to Prague. ‘No, it’s going to be very low-key,’ I say offhandedly. If she gets wind of the weekend in Wicklow I wouldn’t put it past her to muscle in, so I say nothing.

  ‘Oh, come on, no party, or even a meal out?’ Barbara is incredulous.

  ‘Just a cake with the kids. It’s all I want, honestly. You know me, I hate fuss.’

  ‘But it’s your fortieth,’ she protests. ‘Steve should push the boat out.’

  ‘I didn’t say he wasn’t, Barbara!’ I can’t keep the edge of exasperation out of my voice. ‘Look I’m up to my eyes here today. I’ll catch you again,’ I fib.

  ‘Oh . . . oh! OK, I’ll pop a card in the post for you, then.’ She’s clearly disappointed.

  ‘Lovely,’ I say, insincerely. ‘Bye, thanks for ringing.’

  Phew! I think, as I hang up. Then I start to worry. What if she hears of my night out with the girls in Wicklow? I resolve to warn them not to mention it to her if they see her in the summer. Bad humour wraps itself around me like a dark murky cloud. So what if I’m having a girls’ night. It’s none of her business. Why can’t I just deal with it and say it to her straight out? Why am I such a wuss? Or am I just a thoroughly horrible person?

  I try to forget about it, but it niggles and I bring up the subject with Liz that evening. ‘Am I being a wagon. Should I invite her?’ I grumble.

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Liz is emphatic. ‘We are not spending our precious night listening to her wittering on about her new conservatory or her trip to New York and all the rest of it. Forget it.’

  ‘Fine,’ I capitulate happily, glad of my sister’s authoritative stance. I don’t feel such a heel after all.

  My birthday dawns, dark and windy. I’m smothered with hugs and kisses from the girls, and Steve’s gift of a sapphire and diamond pendant brings gasps of appreciation from his three women.

  ‘I thought it would match your eyes,’ he says, a tad bashfully. ‘You can change it if you don’t like it.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous, Steve, I love it.’ I’m thrilled with his thoughtful gift and kiss him soundly, much to the girl’s delight.

  ‘Oohhh . . . kissy kissy!’ squeals Daisy. Steve laughs but I can tell he’s pleased that I love it.

  ‘We helped Dad pick it,’ Molly assures me, slipping an arm around my neck.

  ‘I couldn’t have got a nicer present, I tell her, basking in the joy of being so loved and cherished.

  ‘Auntie Liz has a surprise for you, so you have to be dressed by eight o’ clock,’ Daisy informs me gleefully. I know Liz has something up her sleeve. She’s told me to be ready to leave early.

  This is great, I think happily as I stand under the bracing spray of the shower while my darlings make pancakes f
or breakfast. Forty’s not so bad after all.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask an hour later as Liz heads for Wicklow via the East Link.

  ‘You’ll see,’ Liz replies smugly.

  ‘You never took our exit,’ I exclaim half an hour later, as Liz continues to speed along the N11.

  ‘Just a while longer,’ she soothes and I laugh. Whatever my sister is up to, it’s going to be fun. When we whizz onto the Arklow Bypass and she revs up to one hundred and twenty, comprehension dawns.

  ‘Are we going to Amber Springs?’

  ‘You bet we are. Happy birthday, little sis. I hope you’re all prepared for a day of blissful pampering. I sure am. Jennie’s meeting us there.’

  A day at a luxurious health spa with the girls. What more could I want? Forty is getting better by the second.

  It is the most perfect day. I’m massaged, manicured, pedicured and pampered to within an inch of my life and then as the sun begins to turn the Wicklow Hills pink and gold, chauffeured to dinner at a candle-lit restaurant and forced to drink gallons of champagne. Later, snuggled in warm dressing gowns in front of a blazing fire, listening to the roar of the sea, we watch a DVD of the second Sex and the City film, which I haven’t seen, and guffaw at Samantha’s menopausal rant in the souk. It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.

  It’s lovely to see the girls tumbling out of the car and galloping across the dunes the next day. A brisk walk in the bracing, salty air, the waves pounding against the shore, diminishes our hangovers. We adults laugh and joke as the kids investigate the treasure troves to be found among the rocks. I feel really happy and contented and look forward to our barbecue later on.

  ‘Oh, no! It’s that gang!’ Daisy scowls, as recognition dawns when we see figures approaching along the beach.

  I don’t believe it. It was too good to last. Barbara is waving gaily and I hear Liz curse under her breath. A knot twists my gut, not today, not them. Can’t I have one day free of their unwelcome, intrusive presence? They’re like ivy, smothering me, their grip getting tighter and tighter each year.

  ‘Hey, you guys, better late than never,’ Tom declares expansively.

  I look at Steve. He not best pleased; I can see by the way the muscle gives a little jerk in his jaw and his eyes narrow.

  ‘Steve told me you’d all gone to Amber Springs when I rang to wish you Happy Birthday. You had your mobile turned off. You never let on,’ Barbara accuses with false gaiety, eyes beady flints behind the smile as she falls into place beside Jennie, Liz and myself.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I manage weakly. I want to smack her.

  ‘It was a birthday surprise for Amy, Barbara. My treat,’ Liz informs her curtly.

  ‘Oh! I could have joined you last night then,’ she persists.

  This is too much; since when do I have to start telling Madam Barbara my every move.

  ‘We were having a girls’ night,’ I hear myself say. ‘I guess we didn’t get to New York, like you and your friends. But Wicklow suits us fine. I just wanted to be with my two best friends really.’

  She inhales sharply and Liz flashes me an approving glance. ‘Oohh, I see,’ she says snootily. ‘Um . . . right. Well, Steve mentioned he was coming down for the weekend. We thought we’d come and give you your present.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Barbara. It’s a bit of a trek up and down in the one day just to give me a present. It could have waited.’ I’m feeling reckless now. She’s not getting away with it this time.

  ‘Oh!’ She says again. She stares at me, not sure how to react. ‘We brought the sleeping bags; we can doss on the floor,’ she ventures.

  I don’t care any more. I’ve had enough. I’m forty and it’s time to draw a line in the sand. Literally. I draw a breath. I can sense Liz and Jennie waiting for my response. Bill is collecting periwinkles with the kids while Tom and Steve skim stones along the waves. Gulls circle and squeal. My lovely day is not going to be ruined.

  Do it, do it, a voice urges.

  I swallow, hard. And then I think, to hell with her. She’s not my friend and never had been. She’s just someone I have to put up with.

  ‘Actually, Barbara.’ I come to a stop and eyeball her. ‘I’ve been meaning to say this for a while. The cottage really is too small for all of us and I don’t like putting the girls out of their beds. It’s not fair. And while we’re on the subject, if you don’t mind, this year and from now on, I’d like to spend my holidays alone with the girls. Our time is precious and that two weeks I have off in the summer is the only decent chunk of time I get to spend with them. There are nice, reasonably priced hotels and B&Bs in the area. I’m sure you can find somewhere cheap ’n’ cheerful to stay. And to be honest, I’d prefer if you would give me advance notice if you are coming down, to see if it suits. It would makes life easier for me in case we’ve made plans and so on.’ I’m on a roll. It’s actually exhilarating.

  Barbara lowers her gaze first. Two ruby spots stain her cheeks. ‘I see,’ she says tightly, thin-lipped. ‘Fair enough.’ She can’t hide her shock.

  ‘Great, that’s sorted. Let’s go and put the kettle on,’ I suggest brightly. I’m elated. I’ve done it. I’ve said my piece. I can’t believe it. ‘Let’s head back to the cottage, I’m sure you’d like a cuppa before you head back home,’ I say lightly but pointedly.

  ‘Very kind,’ Barbara says sarcastically, nostrils flaring but I’m beyond caring and I raise my face to the sun’s pale yellow light and feel the merest hint of heat that reminds me that winter is over, the days are getting longer and we have much to look forward to.

  ‘Well done, Amy,’ Liz murmurs as we pour steaming tea into mugs ten minutes later. ‘You should have done that years ago.’

  ‘I know.’ I sigh. ‘I wish I had, but better late than never.’

  Barbara is chatting to Jennie on the deck; her brittle tones carry in on the breeze. ‘She’s raging, look at the face on her, it would stop a clock.’ Liz chuckles as my sister-in-law flashes a daggers look in our direction.

  I start laughing too. ‘I don’t care. She’s a snooty little wagon and she’s used me for the last time.’

  ‘Loved the dig about New York. There was no answer to that. Forty suits you, keep it up.’ My sister grins.

  ‘When the Keegans get up to go, let them go,’ I whisper to Steve in the kitchen a while later. ‘I’ve had a word with Barbara. It’s been a long time coming.’

  ‘Fine,’ he agrees. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is. My present to myself I smile at him. He hugs me.

  They leave half an hour later. Barbara can’t bring herself to give me her usual air kiss as her kids protest loudly. ‘But we want to stay! You said we were staying.’

  ‘Sorry, not this time,’ Steve says firmly, seeing them to the door.

  A weight lifts off my shoulders. I’m free. Roll on summer.

  The Best Birthday Ever

  How do you know when a friendship is over . . . kaputt . . . past its sell-by date?

  I’m sitting in a coffee shop, waiting to meet my oldest ‘friend’ to tell her that her daughter will not be invited to my daughter’s forthcoming birthday party and that, in fact, she will no longer be part of my daughter’s circle of friends.

  I take a sip of creamy latte. My stomach feels slightly fluttery as apprehension grips me. Yet I know this moment has been coming for a long time. It was something I should have done many months ago but I’d stubbornly held onto the notion that Victoria Cassidy and I had a long, enduring friendship. Who was I kidding? And what did it say about me and my ostrich-like behaviour that I still thought like that?

  We were a strange pair, Victoria and I. Even as kids, the contrast between us was striking. We both lived on the same street, Victoria three doors down from me. She bird-like, gangly, driven to succeed, me short, plumpish, easy-going. Chalk and cheese. As a child I didn’t realize that Victoria felt superior to me. That came later as I grew up and gained a modicum of self-knowledge and sel
f-awareness.

  I certainly didn’t feel superior to Victoria then, but I felt sorry for her. There is a difference. Victoria’s parents were divorced. Her father left Victoria’s mam and moved in with a toned, tanned estate agent he’d met at the gym, when Victoria was seven, just a little younger than our daughters are now. It must have been horrific, I think, still able to feel sorry for Victoria for all the pain, grief and anxiety she’d endured as a child.

  I can remember her little, pinched, worried face as she knuckled down to her studies, even then, so that she could get a good job and become very rich so her mam wouldn’t have to worry about bills. She was never going to get married, she told me.

  Victoria was very possessive of our friendship and hated it if I played with the other kids. I was outgoing and friendly and railed against her sulks and tantrums and ‘Do you like so-and-so better than me?’ interrogations. Now, of course, I can see how completely insecure she was, and how the fear of rejection informed all of her behaviour, right into adult life.

  ‘You have to be kind to Victoria,’ my mam would insist when I’d moan that I was sick of her and didn’t want to play with her any more. ‘See how lucky you are. Our family has fun; we have Dad to take care of us and have good times with.’

  ‘Yeah, but she says things about us. She says we’re silly ’cos we believe in Santa and go to pantos and that’s only for kids.’

  ‘She’s only jealous, Claire, take no notice,’ my mother said kindly ignoring my fierce, bubbling resentment and making me feel mean for moaning.

  How old patterns repeat themselves. I’d been saying the same sort of thing to my eight-year-old daughter, Joanna, about Victoria’s daughter, Kristen.

  Joanna and Kristen had been ‘friends’ since they were born with only six weeks between them. And it was like watching a re-run of my relationship with Victoria: Kristen pushy, driven, combative, competitive; Joanna open, laid back, cheerful, and very soft-hearted.