The People Next Door

by Roisin Meaney

  ‘Look, Dan, I haven’t come to fight—’

  The Brendans stepped towards him. He clenched his fists. ‘I said fuck off.’

  ‘It’s Ali.’ Brendan spoke loudly, over him. ‘She’s gone into labour.’

  Dan looked at them, trying to work out which Brendan was talking. ‘She’s gone where?’

  ‘She’s asking for you.’ Brendan put a hand on his arm. ‘She sent me to get you. The baby is coming.’

  Dan shook his arm away. ‘Take your fucking hands off me.’

  Brendan dropped it and said, slowly and patiently, ‘Look, Ali is in the hospital, Dan – your son is going to be born, and she wants you to be there.’

  ‘My son?’ Dan glared at him. ‘My son? No way – she’s not due for ages.’

  ‘Well, it’s happening now, and she’s asking for you. Make up your mind. Are you going to come with me or not?’

  The baby. It was much too early. Ali wanted him. Dan shook his head, trying to unscramble it.

  Brendan rattled his car keys. ‘Come on – I can’t hang around here. Let’s go.’

  Dan looked at his uncle with loathing. ‘I’m going nowhere with you. I can drive myself.’

  ‘Dan, don’t be an idiot.’ Brendan’s voice was harsh. ‘You’ve obviously had a fair bit to drink. There’s no way you can drive, you’ll kill yourself.’ He turned towards the gate. ‘Look, are you coming with me or not? I’m leaving now.’

  Dan blinked hard. The Brendans floated together briefly, then wandered away from each other again. He struggled to think. ‘Hang on.’

  His key was still in the door. He turned it and went inside. Clara was standing in the dark hall. She spoke quietly. ‘I heard – you have to go with him. Go on, I’ll let myself out when you’re gone.’

  Dan hugged her quickly. ‘Sorry – I’ll see you soon.’ He shoved his keys into his pocket and walked as steadily as he could down the path to the passenger side of the car that his uncle had already started.

  He slid into the seat and slammed the door. He was drunk. His son was being born.

  ‘Fasten your seatbelt.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  His son was being born. He hoped blearily that he’d be sober by then.

  Kieran lay in bed, listening to the voices below. He couldn’t make out the conversation, but it didn’t sound particularly friendly. He wondered if he should go down and intervene, but while he was still debating, he heard a car start up and drive off. Then, straight afterwards, he heard Dan’s front door closing quietly and quick, light footsteps going down the path, out of the gate and into number seven next door.

  So he’d been right about the pretty blonde girl and Dan.

  He turned over and willed sleep to come, but as usual it ignored him. He wondered if he’d ever get a decent eight hours again. Even six would be wonderful. He wouldn’t say no to five.

  He knew what had to be done, but the thought of it filled him with dread. He closed his eyes.

  One Day Later: 25 November

  NUMBER SEVEN

  Yvonne dropped her bag on the reception desk and rubbed her hands briskly. It had got wintry so quickly, without any real warning. At the weekend she’d been working in the garden, digging out the last of the marigolds that insisted on resurrecting themselves every spring. It had been cool then, certainly, but nothing like this. Today there was a real chill in the air. Today you could definitely smell winter on the way.

  Of course, it was nearly the end of November, and since the clocks had gone back a few weeks ago, there was no length in the days any more.

  Yvonne pulled the appointments book towards her wearily. She hated the darkness of winter, dreaded the months ahead, full of sleet and ice and biting winds, frozen fingers, raw throats and flu. Give her sunshine and blue skies any day, breakfast out on the patio and long, comfortable evenings watching the sun go down.

  But winters would be different from now on. By next winter, she’d be a married woman again, living with her husband in Dublin.

  Her husband Greg – when would it stop sounding so strange?

  They’d gone shopping for a ring, even though Yvonne had insisted she didn’t need one. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something slightly ridiculous about people their ages picking out an engagement ring.

  But Greg had been adamant. ‘You may have done it before, but this is my first time and I intend to do it right.’

  In the end, they’d compromised with a white gold band inlaid with a scattering of tiny diamonds, that Greg reluctantly agreed could double as Yvonne’s wedding ring.

  ‘I’m beginning to think you’re having second thoughts.’ They were sitting in the jeweller’s, waiting for the ring to be polished and boxed.

  Yvonne laughed. ‘No, I’m just making sure you have enough money left to let me be a kept woman.’

  She remembered the ring Brian had given her, a few days after she’d told him she was pregnant, and before they’d found the courage to tell anyone else. They’d been in a park, sitting on a green bench. Without a word, Brian had pulled it out of his pocket and put it into her hand.

  She’d looked down at it. ‘What’s this?’ Realising, as she asked, what it was. ‘Oh.’

  It wasn’t what she would have chosen – too ornate, with its tiny raised diamond surrounded with swirls of gold. It must have cost him an arm and a leg.

  She looked back at him, at his heartbreaking, hopeful face. ‘It’s … ’ She got stuck and started again. ‘Is this – are you—’

  ‘Will you marry me?’ He tucked his hands under his arms. ‘Please say yes.’

  Yvonne thought about her parents, her mother who lived in terror of what the neighbours would say, her father who doted on his only daughter, who talked football with Brian whenever he came to tea. And she thought about how Brian loved her and wondered if she’d ever meet anyone who loved her as much. She thought about their baby, growing up with a father it only saw now and again.

  And she’d said yes and slipped on the ring, which was too loose, and watched Brian’s face light up.

  She’d worn the ring, with the matching plain gold band he’d given her on their wedding day, until Clara was ten or eleven. Then one morning, without really thinking about it, she didn’t put them on, just left them sitting side by side in the little blue china dish that she dropped them into every evening.

  For a while she missed them, felt the absence of their weight on her finger, and then she got used to not wearing them. The night before Clara’s twenty-first birthday, she took them out of their china dish, wrapped them in a tissue, slid them into a matchbox and tucked it into a drawer she rarely opened, full of old clothes pegs and mismatched napkin rings and elastic bands that had once held bunches of rhubarb, that she hated to throw out.

  She turned the white gold band slowly, watching the minuscule diamonds flashing as they met the light. Greg was coming to Belford almost every weekend now, and apart from a few short visits to his relatives, he spent most of Saturday and Sunday with Yvonne.

  But he never stayed the night at number seven. Yvonne felt it wouldn’t be right, with Clara under the same roof. ‘I know she’s an adult now and probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid,’ she’d told Greg, ‘but I’d feel – I don’t know – as if I should be setting a good example or something. Does that make any sense at all?’

  ‘Of course it does. It’s perfectly understandable.’

  They’d already slept together. About two weeks after she’d accepted his proposal, Yvonne had taken a couple of days off work and gone up to Dublin to see a play. They’d stayed the night in his rented apartment.

  Greg had been awkward in bed – Yvonne was definitely the more experienced – but she was happy for things to sort themselves out. In time, she was sure, he would relax with her. Great sex wasn’t everything in a marriage anyway – certainly not when you were marrying someone who was already an old friend.

  They’d decided on a small family ceremony in Belford’s oldest c
hurch, where the elderly parish priest had known Greg since his seminary days. Clara was going to be bridesmaid and Greg’s brother-in-law had agreed to be best man. Yvonne’s parents were travelling up from Cork for the occasion, Peggy and Jim would be there, Greg’s sister and her family, and hopefully Kathryn and Justin – the baby was due about a month before the wedding.

  Clara had made Yvonne swear she wouldn’t have to wear anything frilly or shiny. Yvonne had reassured her. ‘You can pick your own outfit – and maybe mine too, you’re much better at it.’

  Clara was acting differently these days. She’d started humming, for one thing – she’d never been a hummer. She’d sit gazing into the distance, a twitch of a smile on her face, her book forgotten in her lap, humming softly.

  Or she’d arrive home from work with a new CD for Yvonne, or a new lipstick – CDs and lipsticks, when she hardly remembered Yvonne’s birthday. Last Saturday she’d cleaned the bathroom, had powered through it before Yvonne was up, leaving every tile gleaming. Very strange.

  And every few evenings after dinner, she’d drift out, smelling of flowers, eyes shining. ‘Don’t wait up,’ she’d tell Yvonne, and that would be that. Yvonne knew better than to ask where she was going, let alone who she was dressing up for. She’d meet him when Clara was ready for her to meet him.

  The clinic door opened, scattering Yvonne’s thoughts. An elderly woman was walking towards her, wearing a dark coat and carrying a heavy shopping bag in each hand. She wasn’t someone Yvonne had met before.

  ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  The woman glanced quickly around the lobby. ‘Hello, yes. I was wondering if Dolores was around, please? I’m sorry to disturb her – I know she’s not supposed to have callers.’

  She was nervous. She blinked rapidly as she spoke, her words tumbling over each other. Her greying hair could have done with a wash.

  ‘No problem. I’ll phone upstairs and see if she’s back from lunch.’ Yvonne pointed to the chairs. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ She lifted the phone. ‘Who will I say is looking for her?’

  ‘Her mother.’ The woman rested her bags on the floor, her face pinched with worry. ‘I know I’m not supposed to disturb her here, but I couldn’t get in home, with all this shopping – it’s just that I lost my keys, you see, and I didn’t know what else to do.’

  Dolores had never mentioned her mother, as far as Yvonne could remember. Her mother-in-law, yes, Yvonne had heard about Martin’s mother plenty of times, how good she was with the children, how much they loved her, but not a word about Dolores’s own mother. How peculiar.

  Yvonne held out her hand. ‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Yvonne.’

  The woman gave a tiny smile. ‘Oh, yes, Dolores has mentioned you. I’m Nuala.’ Her hand was very cold.

  Yvonne pressed the extension for Dolores’s desk phone. ‘I know she was going into town for lunch, and I only just got back myself.’ She listened to the rhythmic burrs of the phone – one, two, three – and replaced the receiver.

  ‘No, she’s not back, but if you take a seat, she won’t be long. Here, let me help.’ The bags were as heavy as they looked. Yvonne dropped them beside the nearest chair.

  Nuala sat, pressing her hands together in her lap. ‘Thank you, dear.’

  ‘Do you live nearby?’ She couldn’t have gone far with those bags.

  Nuala looked at her in surprise. ‘No, dear, we live in Charleton. I thought Dolores would have mentioned that.’

  ‘Oh – you know, maybe she did. I’ve a head like a sieve.’ She’d said ‘we’. Was there another family member, also unmentioned by Dolores?

  Maybe they didn’t get on. That would explain Nuala’s nervousness, reluctant to have to get help from the daughter she never spoke to, maybe.

  Yvonne searched for a safer topic of conversation. ‘You must be very proud of the children.’ Too late, she realised that if Dolores wasn’t on good terms with her mother then, more than likely, her three children wouldn’t be either.

  But Nuala smiled. ‘Yes, they’ve both done well…Dolores really enjoys this job, and her brother Edward is an engineer, you know. She probably told you about him.’

  Yvonne stared at her. This conversation was becoming decidedly confusing. ‘Actually, I meant your grandchildren.’

  Nuala’s forehead creased. ‘My … oh, but Edward has only the one. She’s just three now – Sarah.’ She smiled again. ‘She’s lovely, though. Dolores is mad about her.’

  Yvonne stared. ‘But Dolores’s children, Chloë and Fionn and …’ She struggled to remember the oldest boy’s name. Hugh? No, not Hugh.

  Nuala was looking equally bewildered. ‘Dolores doesn’t have any children.’ She paused and then said, ‘Dolores Mulcahy, I’m talking about?’

  ‘Yes …’ What on earth was going on? How could Dolores’s mother not know about her daughter’s children? (Hugo – the name of Dolores’s oldest boy leapt into Yvonne’s head.) Was it possible she didn’t know her grandchildren even existed?

  Suddenly Yvonne wondered if Nuala suffered from some form of senility. She didn’t sound as if she was losing her reason, but what she was saying made no sense.

  ‘I think there must be some misunderstanding,’ she said carefully. ‘The Dolores I know is married to Martin and they have three children. They live about ten miles from here, on the way to Charleton.’

  Nuala’s head was shaking slowly from side to side. ‘I just don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I know this is where Dolores works. She told me it’s the Miller’s Avenue health clinic. She’s been here for two and a half years now.’

  Yvonne nodded. That part, at least, was right. ‘Yes, she started here a few months before I did.’

  ‘But she lives with me in Charleton. And Dolores isn’t married, she’s never—’

  Just then the door to the clinic opened and Dolores Mulcahy walked in. She carried a bag from one of the town’s shoe shops.

  ‘God, the traffic on the—’

  Then she spotted the woman sitting on a chair opposite Yvonne’s desk, and saw the expressions on both their faces, and the sentence died in her mouth.

  NUMBER EIGHT

  The coffee tasted faintly of disinfectant. On some level, Dan thought that was probably reassuring. He balanced the cardboard cup on the arm of his chair and pressed the heels of his hands to the sides of his head.

  There was a tiny but very energetic man with a sledgehammer inside his skull. Whump, whump. He could barely keep his eyes open, and every time he blinked it was as though a wire brush was scraping against his eyeballs. His back ached, his throat was raw and his hands hurt where his wife had gripped him. He probably smelled like a brewery that hadn’t been scrubbed out in a long time. Now his breath stank too, of disinfectant-flavoured coffee.

  It was the best day of his life. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face. Waves of euphoria kept crashing over him. He thought there was a fairly good chance that he would die of pure happiness.

  His son had been born at three minutes to five on the morning of 25 November, less than two hours ago. He had blue eyes and white eyelashes, a small round head and no hair, and he weighed four pounds twelve ounces. He had ten fingers and ten toes and twenty minuscule nails, and perfect, amazing ears, and he waved his tiny fists and creased his forehead adorably and bawled. For the size of him, his lungs were truly impressive.

  They’d let Dan hold him for a second and Dan had cried big foolish hungover happy tears, and fallen utterly in love.

  Ali was eating triangles of thick toast. ‘Big softie.’ Her hair was matted with sweat and her face was misshapen with exhaustion and streaked with her own tears, and she’d left the marks of her nails deep in Dan’s palms while their son was being born. But she was happy too.

  After the baby had been taken away, Dan sat by Ali’s bed until she’d fallen asleep, and then he wiped his face and went to find coffee.

  Brendan was sitting in an armchair outside the labour ward. He stood quickly
as Dan approached. ‘Well?’

  He had to know. Dan couldn’t not tell him. ‘She’s asleep. Everything’s OK. The baby’s fine. He’ll be in an incubator for a while.’

  Brendan put out a hand. ‘Congratulations.’

  Dan waited for the feelings of hate and anger to rush into his head, and nothing happened. Here was the man who’d stolen his wife, who’d betrayed his trust, and all Dan could feel was happy. He reached for Brendan’s hand and shook it. ‘Thanks.’

  His baby. His son. Always Dan’s son, no matter what happened in the future. There was nothing anyone could do, no piece of paper, no court order, that could change the fact that, from today, Dan O’Farrell was a father, that he had a son.

  He lifted the paper cup and downed the last of the terrible coffee, smiling happily into the cardboard cup.

  NUMBER NINE

  ‘Back in a few minutes.’ Justin pulled the front door closed behind him as Kathryn climbed the stairs slowly, looking forward to the nap before dinner that had become a daily event in the past couple of weeks. She’d never been one for naps before, never felt the need to recharge during the day. Now she made straight for the bed when she got in from work and slept soundly for an hour or so, until Justin woke her for dinner.

  At her last check-up, Dr Lynch had advised plenty of rest. ‘Everything looks fine, but I’d rather err on the side of caution, so take it easy whenever you can now. Put your feet up and let that husband of yours pamper you. How’s his cooking?’

  Kathryn had smiled. ‘Improving.’

  ‘And what about work? How are you finding that?’

  ‘Fine. It’s more mental than physical, and so far my brain’s holding up. I’m a bit tired at the end of the day, but nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘Good.’ He wrote in Kathryn’s folder. All the same, you might consider part-time in a while, if that’s an option. In the meantime, just keep going the way you are. Lie down any chance you get, and everything should be OK.’

  Sometimes sleep didn’t come right away when she lay down. Sometimes she stayed awake, and dreamed.