The People Next Door

by Roisin Meaney

  And then, about a week after they broke up, she disappeared.

  He met Yvonne a few times. He decided that Clara mustn’t have told her about them because Yvonne didn’t look like she wanted to kill him. She cooed over Colm in his buggy and said she was glad things had worked out for Dan and Ali.

  She looked younger, and happy. Funny how things had turned out for Yvonne. Who’d have guessed it?

  He never asked her about Clara. He didn’t feel he had the right.

  YVONNE

  She lay on a blanket in the back garden with Magoo, and she thought about love.

  ‘You kept me waiting forty-two years,’ she told him.

  ‘You kept me waiting fifty-three,’ he answered, and that shut her up.

  The age difference bothered neither of them. Yvonne told him he looked younger than he was anyway. ‘That’s without the hat, of course. You look about eighty with it on.’

  Their first half-serious argument had been over the hat. Kieran claimed it was part of his personality. ‘I’ve had it for years – I can’t just toss it aside.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to toss it aside, I’m asking you to burn it. Or I’ll burn it for you, if you can’t bring yourself to do it.’

  In the end, they’d compromised. Kieran wore the hat anywhere Yvonne wasn’t, and she had to be happy with that.

  Not that it mattered in the least. Not when she was blissfully, ridiculously happy all the time anyway.

  Kieran taught her how to bake focaccia. He kept beating her at Scrabble. He painted her bathroom blue, and he broke the cold tap while he was at it.

  She weaned him off blue cheese – ‘It’s like kissing your grandfather’s sock’ – and she made him listen to Johnny Cash and she ironed his shirts when he wasn’t looking.

  He told her about his alcoholism. ‘My last drink was fifteen years ago.’

  She told him about Brian, about all of that. She touched his face when they made love, and sometimes she cried, because it was too much.

  He kissed the soles of her feet and the insides of her elbows and the bottom of her spine. He played Mozart on the violin for her, and Dvorák. He melted bitter chocolate and dipped mandarin orange segments into it and fed them, dripping, to her.

  He told her about Geraldine. ‘I was thirty-eight, she was a bit over forty.’

  ‘A bit? Didn’t you know exactly?’ Sitting on his lap, playing with his shirt buttons. Doing them up wrong. ‘Was she nearer forty-one or forty-nine?’

  He looked sternly at her. ‘A lady’s age is her own business. Do you want me to tell you about her or not?’

  Yvonne slid an arm around his waist and settled herself against his chest, as if she had every right to be there. ‘I’m sorry. Carry on.’

  He stroked her hair. ‘She was a waitress.’

  ‘How cosy – a waitress and a cook.’

  ‘Be quiet.’ He paused and then said, in a slightly different tone, ‘She had a son, Adam, about fifteen. He had lots of spots and a ring in his tongue. He’d get up and leave the room if I walked in.’

  Yvonne said nothing. His shirt smelled of cigars.

  ‘But in spite of her son I asked her to marry me, and eventually she agreed.’

  ‘Eventually?’ Yvonne sat up and looked into his face. ‘How many times did you have to ask this silly woman before she said yes?’

  He pulled her head back onto his chest. ‘Three. One night after the other.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then I went to the church on the appointed day, and I waited for her to show up.’

  His pause filled in the missing sentence.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. Eventually my best man sent everyone home and took me to a pub.’

  Yvonne thought. ‘You said your last drink was fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Yes. I’d actually stopped drinking a good while before that, but I figured this was a good enough reason to take it up again. The following day, I swore I’d never touch another drop.’

  And you never did.’

  ‘No.’

  They were quiet for a while. Then Yvonne said, closing her eyes, listening to his heart thumping gently at her ear, ‘You’d only have to ask me once.’

  She heard the smile in his voice. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘I might be a bit late to the church, though.’

  ‘That’s fine. Just so long as I know.’

  Another silence, and then he said, ‘Adam died.’

  ‘What?’ Yvonne lifted her head again. ‘The son?’

  Kieran nodded. ‘He drowned last year. Not too long before I moved to Belford.’

  ‘Oh.’ She leaned against him again and waited, feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

  ‘I met him the night he died.’

  ‘Did you?’ She stayed where she was, heard the catch in his breath.

  ‘I was coming home from the cinema

  He stopped. She waited.

  ‘I was passing a pub, and he came out.’

  Another silence. She picked up his hand and held it between her own.

  ‘He was drunk. I hadn’t seen him in a while, but I knew him straightaway. He knew me too. He followed me, shouted at me to stop, that he wanted to talk to me.’

  She squeezed his hand.

  ‘I kept going. I didn’t want to talk to him, I had nothing to say to him.’

  He was quiet for so long that she thought he’d finished. Then he said flatly, ‘He fell into the river. I did nothing to help him.’

  She realised she’d been holding her breath.

  ‘Two other men came along and tried to save him. I walked away and left them to it.’

  She lifted her head. ‘You told me you can’t swim.’

  ‘I know, but— ’

  ‘So you couldn’t have saved him. You’d probably have drowned too. What good would that have done anyone?’

  He nodded, but she knew the nod was for her, not for him.

  ‘I went back to see Geraldine, just before Christmas. I told her what I just told you. She hit me. She wanted to kill me.’

  Yvonne searched for the words, and found nothing.

  ‘I made it worse, I caused her more torment.’

  She said, ‘Kieran, you weren’t to blame. It wasn’t your fault.’ He held her gaze. She saw the pain in his eyes. ‘You can’t change the past. We’ve all done things we’d like to forget.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘You’re a good man.’

  They were meant to be together. She’d never been so sure of anything in her life, from the first minute she’d looked at him. And she’d never, ever thought love at first sight could possibly exist – how could you love someone you didn’t know? If that wasn’t a contradiction in terms, she didn’t know what was. And yet …

  That first minute. Straightening her coat, feeling foolish. ‘God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened there.’

  ‘No problem. Are you OK now?’ Letting go of her wrist.

  ‘Fine.’ He was familiar. His hair was white, his eyebrows jet black. His eyes were dark. She’d seen him somewhere. ‘You’re not staying at Dan’s, are you?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He put out a hand, and they touched for the second time. ‘Kieran Delaney.’

  She’d smelled mints. ‘Yvonne, from next door. I’ve heard you play the violin.’ His hand was warm, it enfolded hers.

  Just those few words, such harmless words, and she’d known. As he’d crammed his awful hat on his head, as he’d stood back to let her out in front of him, as Greg had half turned to see where she was, she’d known.

  She’d sneaked a few looks at the graveside. He stood beside Dan, hands in the pockets of his brown coat. Once he’d glanced in her direction and their eyes collided. Something swerved inside her and she’d looked away quickly, to the coffin waiting by the open grave.

  She remembered sitting in the car at the bottom of the garden months before, after that awful dinner with that awful man from the internet, John or Joe or whatever his na
me was, and hearing the music and just sitting there, listening to it.

  And it had been him, standing at the bottom of Dan’s garden, not twenty yards from where she was parked. It had been him.

  ‘Maybe we could have coffee sometime,’ she had said to him later, uncharacteristically brazen.

  They were in Kathryn and Justin’s house. The rest of the small crowd who’d come back from the graveyard – Dan, Greg, Kathryn’s parents, Justin’s father, Ann and Suzannah – were in the front room, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Clara had gone straight home from the church with a headache.

  Yvonne had slipped out to the kitchen to refill the cafetière, and on the way back, she’d met Kieran coming down the stairs.

  She’d said, without thinking, without knowing what was coming, ‘Maybe we could have coffee sometime.’

  ‘Yes.’ And a very sweet smile had spread across his face. ‘I’d like that. How about Thursday?’

  But then Clara, in floods of tears the following day. Tumbling into the sitting room, practically collapsing into a startled Yvonne’s arms. Sobbing, choking on her tears.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Feeling the heave of her daughter’s sobs against her. ‘Are you hurt? What’s wrong, love?’

  Clara, face buried in Yvonne’s shoulder, shaking her head, unable, for a few minutes, to say a word, finally whispering that someone had just broken up with her. Giving in to tears again, soaking the collar of Yvonne’s cardigan.

  And holding her, stroking her back, reaching for the tissues on the table beside them, whispering the meaningless words that everyone used when someone needed comforting, Yvonne could only hope that Clara was better off without him.

  And some time later, when Yvonne thought she’d gone to sleep, Clara reached for Yvonne’s hand and began to speak softly, so softly that Yvonne had to tilt her head towards her, even in the silent sitting room, even with Clara’s face just inches from her own.

  ‘Mum.’ Fresh tears spilling from Clara’s reddened eyes; Yvonne pulling another tissue from the box.

  ‘Mum, I need to tell you something.’

  ‘What is it?’ Stroking her back, making circles on it with her palm, like she’d done when Clara was a tiny baby. Please let her not be pregnant.

  Clara, turning her face away from Yvonne’s shoulder to look into the dying fire. ‘Remember when I went on a school tour in fourth class?’

  So unexpected. Yvonne had no memory of Clara’s fourth class tour. She prickled suddenly with anxiety.

  ‘There was a – there was a man.’ Wiping away new tears. Not meeting Yvonne’s eyes. ‘He – I – he … interfered with me.’

  Yvonne stiffened, tightening her hold on Clara. Fourth class, Clara was ten. Stay calm. ‘What did he do?’

  And as Clara spoke, as it all came out, Yvonne had listened, horrified. Appalled to discover that her child had lived with this terrible secret for a dozen years. Horribly ashamed that she, Clara’s mother, had never guessed, had put down the change in her daughter’s behaviour to puberty. Some mother she’d been.

  When Clara finally stopped talking, they were both silent. A lump of coal shifted; a shower of sparks rose briefly.

  Yvonne couldn’t ask. She had to ask. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Clara wiped her eyes with the sodden tissue. ‘I couldn’t. I was afraid. I thought you’d be cross.’

  ‘How could you think that? I’m your mother. How could you—’ She couldn’t finish it. She squeezed Clara’s hand, forced herself to speak calmly. ‘Of course I wouldn’t have been cross. You’re—’ She felt her own eyes filling, and blinked. ‘If anything ever happened to you … it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  Clara gave a tiny, tear-stained smile and pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to Yvonne. ‘I know.’

  And eventually, when they’d said all that there was to say, they’d gone into the kitchen and eaten chocolate spread on toast, and Clara had spent the night in her mother’s bed, for the first time in years.

  Yvonne had lain awake, listening to Clara’s steady breathing, and marvelled that it had taken a broken heart for her daughter to confide in her at last.

  She thought about the man who’d violated Clara. She imagined him sitting in an electric chair, and her pulling the switch and watching him die.

  No, she’d burn him at the stake – that would take longer.

  And then there was Greg.

  She’d hated telling Greg about Kieran. She’d felt treacherous. It sounded so lame. ‘I don’t know what happened. I can’t explain it.’

  ‘Do you love him?’ Greg’s voice was steady. He looked straight at her.

  ‘Yes.’ So certain, never as certain of anything, apart from her love for Clara.

  Ridiculous. Not three weeks since she and Kieran had spoken for the first time. The day after their fourth meeting – date? – when Kieran had reached across the café table, taken her hand and said, ‘What’s going on here?’ And she’d answered, ‘I have no idea,’ and both of them had smiled.

  ‘Better that it happened now,’ Greg said. ‘Thank you for being honest.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I wish there was something—’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Really. As long as you’re happy.’ Which, of course, made her feel even worse.

  Greg, of all people. One of her staunchest allies. One of her oldest friends.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he’d said. But he hadn’t, no word at all in the last five and a half months, and that saddened her.

  She was sad, too, that Jim had stopped coming to dinner. Of course he’d told her it was too tiring for him now, that he wasn’t up to driving through Belford any more. He gave no sign that Greg or Peggy had had anything to do with it. She missed him.

  Clara had moved out of Miller’s Avenue a week after her breakup. She packed two suitcases and three black refuse bags, and Yvonne drove her across town to the little apartment that Siofra had found for them.

  ‘Will you be alright?’ Yvonne felt miserable – just when it had seemed she was getting her daughter back.

  Clara hugged her. ‘Of course I will – eventually.’

  ‘You can always come back if it doesn’t work out.’ The apartment was poky – Clara’s room was about half the size of her one at home.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Clara held Yvonne’s hands. ‘Thank you. I never tell you thank you.’

  Yvonne smiled. You don’t need to – just doing my job.’

  And last week, almost six months after moving out, Clara had come home for her usual Saturday afternoon visit, and had given Yvonne the news she’d been hoping for. ‘He’s someone I knew before, but we’ve only just started going out.’ She wore a sky blue lacy smock over a yellow top and faded jeans. ‘It’s early days,’ she said. ‘Nothing might come of it.’

  Yvonne put biscuits on a plate. ‘But he’s nice.’ And not complicated.

  ‘He is.’

  She’d lost some weight since she’d moved out, her face was thinner, and in unguarded moments she still looked lonely. But she ate three shortbread biscuits and smiled at Yvonne and said, ‘No need to ask how you are.’

  Kieran had moved out of Dan’s house when Dan had told him Ali was coming back. He’d taken a six-month lease on a studio flat four blocks from Miller’s Avenue. He told Yvonne it took him seven minutes to walk to her house and fifteen to walk back to his flat.

  They spent at least three nights together every week, mostly in Yvonne’s house. On Sundays, they stayed in bed till late afternoon, reading the paper and watching television. Then they came downstairs in pyjamas and cooked dinner and brought it back to bed.

  ‘You’ve turned me into a floozy.’ It wasn’t a complaint. She had no complaints, these days.

  She stretched out under the sun, pointing her toes, inhaling the grassy scent of her garden. On the blanket beside her, Magoo yawned widely.

  ‘This is the life,’ Yvonne told him. ‘This is how it should always be.’

>   He wagged his tail and inched closer to her on his belly. He missed Clara, looked hopeful anytime the kitchen door opened, welcomed her enthusiastically every Saturday.

  Kieran had tackled number seven’s herbs. He’d replanted the mint in its own separate space, added marjoram and sage and surrounded everything with a low picket fence. He’d pruned the gooseberry bushes at the bottom of the garden and planted a climbing rose next to the shed.

  One afternoon Dan had come out to his back garden and seen Kieran over the hedge in Yvonne’s. From the kitchen, she’d watched them talking.

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  He eyed her over his glass of water. ‘He says you’re a lucky woman.’ He ducked, barely missing her slap, spilling water. ‘He said, “How did you manage it?”’

  She was a lucky woman. She was in love, truly in love, for the first time in her life. After forty-two years – forty-three since April – it had been worth the wait.

  She heard sounds from the house and smiled at Magoo.

  ‘Here he comes,’ she said.

  KATHRYN

  She added eight tiny white T-shirts to the suitcase and six pairs of leggings in dolly-mixture pinks, yellows and greens, then ten pairs of socks. So far, Emily’s luggage was taking up slightly more space in the case than Kathryn’s. No more travelling light when you had a baby to pack for.

  Emily had arrived two weeks early, in the middle of a sunny May morning. Kathryn had felt vaguely uncomfortable going to bed the night before, had wondered if the twinges she was getting were anything to worry about. Four hours later she’d woken in considerable pain, and nine hours after that, when she was on the point of collapse, Emily had been born.

  Healthy, intact, all seven pounds of her. Yelling to be fed in the first five minutes, mouth pulling greedily at Kathryn’s nipple as soon as she’d been offered it. Roaring anytime they changed her nappy, waking every two hours demanding attention, grabbing every ounce of energy they possessed, day and night.

  Dark blue eyes, delicately pointed nose, permanently open mouth. White blonde hair that curled at the back of her neck. Tiny fists that thumped Kathryn’s chest as she sucked noisily, gulping down the milk. Belching loudly – Justin was very proud of her belches – a few minutes later.