Putting Out the Stars

by Roisin Meaney

  And her courage failed her. ‘Er, we haven’t really talked about it.’ She wished to God she had the guts to tell Breffni to mind her own business. Why couldn’t she stand up to her – why had she never been able to stand up to people like Breffni? She pulled a ladle out of a pottery jar and plunged it into the crumble, then turned to get the bowls.

  ‘Here, I’ll take in the cream for you.’ Obviously Breffni was bored with Ruth now, wanted to get back to the men.

  Just then the kitchen door opened and Laura’s head appeared. ‘I had to escape; they started talking soccer.’ She came in, glass in hand, and spotted the dessert on the table. ‘Apple crumble; lovely.’

  And Ruth knew she’d take a tiny bit, and poke it around in the bowl for a while, and leave it entirely uneaten.

  ‘Hi. Sorry nobody’s here to take your call. Leave a message for Laura or Donal, and they’ll get right back to you.’

  ‘Laur, it’s me. Hope the head is OK – mine is splitting, as usual. We hadn’t a chance to chat last night – haven’t had a proper gossip for ages. You must be working your fingers to the bone. Anyway, call me. Polly says hi.’

  ‘Message for Laura: this is Dan Holloway at Thompson Publishers. I need to speak to you urgently – we really can’t extend your deadline any further; our printers are putting a lot of pressure on us. Please call me immediately you get this message. Thank you.’

  ‘Laura and Donal, this is Maria Sloan. I’d like to meet with you again, if you feel ready to talk. Laura, I hope you’re coming to terms with the situation – please bear in mind that there are lots of options available to you. Do call my receptionist to arrange an appointment.’

  Laura sat on the stairs, leaning against the banisters. Every time the phone rang, she turned her head in its direction, waiting for it to stop, listening to the different voices as they left their messages. The belt of her old blue dressing gown trailed down on either side. Her head felt vaguely itchy. After a while she turned and went back upstairs, slippers flip-flopping. Back to the drawer, because that was all she had now.

  Ruth glanced at the photo on the mantelpiece, then peered more closely. The boy looked about twelve, the girl a bit younger. They must be some relations of Frank’s – maybe even himself as a boy, with a younger sister? No, the photo didn’t look old enough for that. She turned to the one beside it; now that was definitely a younger Frank, and the woman at his side was surely his late wife. Of course – the children must be his own, the daughter who died and the son . . . she studied him closely again. Yes, the resemblance was there, definitely.

  ‘That’s Don and Catherine.’

  Ruth started; she hadn’t heard him coming back in. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to be nosy . . .’

  ‘Not at all – they’re there to be looked at. God knows, I look at them enough.’ He held out the gardening book he was carrying. ‘Here, take this home and have a browse through it; you might get some ideas for that side bed.’

  They were still planning the garden; filling in the shrubbery, deciding what flowers to plant in the new beds, what to choose for the containers that Ruth was going to get for the little stone-paved patio. At least they’d made a start on the end wall – clematis and honeysuckle, and some everlasting sweet pea. Ruth took the book and looked at the riot of colour on the cover. Soon Andrew and herself would have something like that to look out at, to sit in and be soothed by on warm summer evenings. To watch the children climbing the tree, Andrew laughing at Ruth’s nervousness when one of the children went too high.

  She pulled herself back to the present. ‘Thanks a million, Frank – I’ll bring it to the meeting on Thursday.’ Since she’d started working, she wasn’t at home any more when Frank called around to work in the garden, unless he caught her before she went out to do the big weekly shop on her day off. And Frank had never even met Andrew, not once. He never came around at the weekends when Andrew was there, said he preferred to leave them alone then.

  He’d met Laura though. She’d dropped by on Ruth’s last day off, delivering a dish that Ruth had asked to borrow for the lasagne, and Frank had happened to be there, having his usual tea in the kitchen.

  Ruth had introduced them. ‘Frank’s new to Limerick too; he came down from Sligo a few months ago. He’s in the book club.’

  Laura nodded. ‘You’ll know my mother so – Cecily O’Neill.’

  ‘Indeed I do.’ Frank’s smile was warm. ‘A lovely lady.’ He turned to Ruth, missing Laura’s raised eyebrows. ‘So your husband is Laura’s brother.’

  Ruth nodded. ‘Yes. We’re a bit like spaghetti, really – all tangled up together.’ She looked at Laura. ‘And isn’t Donal from Sligo too?’

  Laura nodded. ‘But he’s been in Limerick for over twenty years; ever since his parents emigrated to Australia.’ She looked out the window. ‘This is going to be lovely; is that clematis at the bottom?’

  They’d chatted briefly before Laura left, pleading work. Ruth had begun to worry about her sister-in-law; what on earth was up? She wondered if it could be the job that was causing the lines of worry on Laura’s face, the weight loss. She hoped it was nothing more serious, nothing wrong between Laura and Donal. Maybe she’d talk to Andrew about it later.

  As she walked home from Frank’s, Ruth thought ahead to the night out she and Andrew had planned – a visit to an Indian restaurant in belated celebration of Ruth’s new job. Belated because Andrew had been working overtime lately – some big project that she didn’t even try to understand. No matter – they were finally going; and she was looking forward to having Andrew all to herself for the evening.

  Since she’d started working, they’d hardly had a night on their own. When Andrew wasn’t working late, it was Cecily coming over for dinner every Tuesday, or the book club, or the awful dinner with the others last week . . . it would be nice to be just the two of them tonight. And afterwards, maybe they’d make love – they hadn’t done that in a while either. Andrew hadn’t initiated it, and Ruth couldn’t imagine making the first move. But maybe tonight, after a nice meal and a few glasses of wine, she’d find the courage, if it looked like nothing was happening . . .

  She’d wear her black suit – Andrew liked her in that. And the lacy burgundy-coloured underwear her sisters had got her for Christmas; she’d been saving that for a special occasion.

  Yes, definitely tonight. She turned into Farranshone with a light step.

  Donal hardly felt the impact; nothing hurt as he sailed through the air, almost enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. Then the wet road slammed up to meet him, and a lot of things hurt. Everything around him seemed to be floating gently. He tried to get his feet under him to stand up, and when that didn’t work, he planted his hands on the ground and pushed. Bad idea. A sharp pain shot up from his right elbow, and that arm immediately buckled, ramming him down on the ground again. He groaned softly.

  ‘God, are you all right?’

  He looked up from his prone position into the frightened face of a middle-aged woman. ‘I’m so sorry, I – I never saw you, you seemed to appear out of nowhere – are you hurt?’ She was the first person he’d ever seen actually to wring her hands. He wondered if she could be his mother; now, what had she looked like again? His mind didn’t seem to be working – everything felt scrambled when he tried to think. Like scrambled eggs. He giggled, then winced when his ribs hurt.

  ‘Don’t move, stay there, I’ve called an ambulance.’ Another voice, from behind Donal. He attempted to turn his head to see who was there, and then thought better of it. Someone pushed something soft under his head, causing his neck to twinge sharply; someone else covered him with something warm that smelt of perfume. He was dimly aware of voices, car doors slamming, someone speaking agitatedly. He closed his eyes and settled down; might as well let them get on with it. Just a little snooze and he’d be fine.

  ‘Wake up . . . can you hear me?’

  Something was hitting his cheek. He opened his eyes; he seemed to be in the back o
f a van; somewhere too near a siren was blaring – why didn’t someone switch it off? A man in a bright orange jacket stopped slapping Donal’s face and leant over him. Donal smelt mint. ‘Can you hear me? What’s your name, son?’

  Son – was this man his father? ‘Donal.’ At least he could talk, even if he suddenly didn’t seem to be able to do much else.

  The man’s anxious expression cleared slightly. ‘You were knocked down, Donal. Apparently you ran a red light on your bike. You’re lucky the driver wasn’t speeding.’ He paused. ‘You had a few drinks this evening, Donal, I’d say.’

  Donal attempted a smile; he must smell like a brewery. ‘A few.’

  ‘Are you having any trouble breathing?’

  Donal took an exploratory breath; his ribs protested faintly. ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Good; now try not to move about; we’re headed for St John’s, so it won’t be long.’

  Donal wondered what St John’s was: a hotel maybe. That would be nice, a nice soft bed with clean sheets to go back to sleep in. Room service – some chicken for Dad and himself. ‘Thanks.’ He closed his eyes again, and immediately the man started tapping his cheek again and said, ‘Don’t go to sleep. Wake up, Donal. Open your eyes, son.’

  It wasn’t until much later, long after the meal and the wine, lying contentedly in Andrew’s arms and listening to his steady breathing, that Ruth thought of Frank’s son again. Don, wasn’t it?

  She wondered idly how old he would be now. Did he ever think of his parents? With a shock, she realised that he probably didn’t even know that his mother was dead. She supposed he knew about Catherine’s death – he didn’t look that much older than her in the photo, and if she was only twelve when she died, he’d have been in his mid-teens at the most – surely whatever had caused him to lose contact with the family had happened later than that.

  So sad . . . she wished again that she could do something to help Frank – but what? If his son had wanted to find him, he could have, even after Frank had left Sligo; presumably some people up there would have a forwarding address, or there’d be some relatives he could contact, surely. It must be easy to find someone in a place as small as Ireland. Then again, the son might not even be living in Ireland any more – or he could be dead, like his mother and sister. She still wondered who Frank reminded her of; when she looked at him, it was as if something was nagging at the back of her mind, waiting for her to realise . . . she must remember to ask Laura if she thought Frank looked like anyone they knew, now that she’d met him too.

  Andrew stirred, and Ruth waited until he’d settled again before putting her hand back on his stomach. Tonight had been lovely . . . just like she’d wanted it to be. They’d both drunk a little too much with the meal, getting nicely mellow, laughing at silly things. In the taxi, Andrew had put an arm around her shoulder, lips against her forehead, and Ruth had turned her face up to his, stroking his thigh gently. At home they’d gone straight upstairs, and he had lifted her top over her head and she had unzipped her skirt, feeling a bit brazen in her new underwear, letting his hands move over her body as she began to unbutton his shirt.

  And even when he fell asleep immediately afterwards, Ruth wasn’t put out. Nothing could ruin this night for her. She sighed deeply and stroked his stomach gently. He loved her, of course he did. He wasn’t regretting their marriage – it was just settling into the new house, getting used to life as husband and wife. Anyone would find that hard to do.

  Everything was going to work out fine; she knew it was.

  ‘Hi. Sorry nobody’s here to take your call. Leave a message for Laura or Donal, and they’ll get right back to you.’

  ‘Laura, it’s Andrew. Listen, I’ve just got a call from St John’s – they tried to get hold of you. Donal’s been in an accident; he was knocked off his bike. I haven’t any –’

  He heard the phone being picked up. ‘Oh God, is he OK?’

  ‘They didn’t tell me anything – I’ll come and get you now and we’ll go to the hospital together.’

  ‘No, that’ll take too long. I’ll drive myself.’

  ‘Laura, hang on – that’s not a good idea. Laura?’ But she was gone.

  ‘Hello?’ Cian’s voice was slurred with sleep. Was it the middle of the night? Laura had no idea.

  ‘Cian, it’s Laura – I need to talk to Breffni.’

  Mercifully, he didn’t ask anything. ‘Hang on.’ She heard muffled thumps – steps on stairs – and an agonisingly slow few seconds (minutes? hours?) later, the phone was picked up.

  ‘Laura? What’s –’

  ‘Donal’s been knocked down, he’s in St John’s. I’m just going there; can you come?’ It spilt out in one rapid breath.

  ‘Oh God, I’m on my way. See you there.’

  ‘The thing that probably saved him from much worse injuries – and you needn’t quote me on this – was the fact that he had a fair amount of alcohol in his system.’ The doctor looked from Andrew to Laura. ‘He didn’t tense his body when he hit the ground, so apart from the broken arm, and a fractured collarbone, he got off pretty lightly really – a couple of bruised ribs and a few cuts here and there.’

  ‘And he’s been checked for any . . . internal injuries.’ Andrew had an arm firmly around Laura’s shoulders – she was quite sure she’d have collapsed in a heap on the grey carpet tiles without it. Thank God he’d got to the hospital just after her. She clung on tightly to his jacket, willing the doctor to shut up and take her to Donal.

  ‘No internal injuries; we’ve done all the tests, and he seems fine. Obviously we’ll keep him under observation for the rest of the night, and we’ll review his situation in the morning.’

  ‘You know he’s allergic to penicillin?’ She found her voice from somewhere, but didn’t recognise it when it came out.

  The doctor nodded. ‘Don’t worry – we saw the bracelet.’

  And suddenly she couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Please, I want to see him.’ Her whole body felt as if it were shaking.

  ‘Of course.’ The doctor walked ahead of them down the corridor. ‘He’s on a trolley, I’m afraid – the beds we have are all in use – but he’s been sedated, so he’s getting some sleep. Don’t be alarmed at the cuts; they’re all pretty superficial.’

  And there he was, lying on his back, hooked up to some kind of beeping machine, bruised and bandaged. And asleep. The broken arm, plaster-casted from wrist to elbow, lay on top of the sheet that covered him. All his knuckles were grazed. He looked pale, and sad. His stubble stood out starkly against his white face. Laura put out a shaking hand and stroked the cheek that hadn’t a gash.

  She blinked hard, took a deep breath and turned to Andrew. ‘I’ll stay with him. You go home.’

  ‘No, I’ll stay.’ They were whispering.

  Laura shook her head wearily. ‘Breffni is coming; I’ll be OK.’

  Andrew’s arm was still cradling her shoulders. ‘Well, I’ll stay until she comes; she might be delayed. I’ll wait for her outside – give a shout if you need me.’ And without waiting for a response from her, he walked off down the corridor.

  The doctor left her, promising to send someone with a cup of tea, and Laura was alone with Donal, finally able to let out the tears that had been threatening since she’d heard Andrew’s voice on the answering machine. She leant over him and let them come, and they spilled onto the sheet and onto his sad, battered face.

  ‘Sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . .’ The tears flowed out and she wiped them from his face with her fingers. ‘It’s all my fault, I’m sorry . . .’

  His eyes fluttered open, and his face creased awkwardly into a faint smile. ‘Hey.’ His voice was hoarse.

  She made no attempt to stop crying; she didn’t think she could stop if her life depended on it. ‘I’m sorry . . .’ She gulped the words out through her sobs. ‘I’ve been such a bitch; this is all my fault . . .’ The tears plopped onto his good hand as he lifted it to touch her face.

  ‘Hey – I’m the one wh
o should be crying. Look at the state of me.’ His words were slurred.

  She knew he was trying to make her smile, but it only brought more tears. ‘You could have died . . . you could be dead now.’ She put a hand to her mouth, letting the tears run over it.

  ‘Shh – you’ll wake the nurses; they’re trying to sleep. I’m fine, just a bit battered. Serves me right for getting legless.’

  Still her tears poured out. ‘You wouldn’t have got legless if I hadn’t driven you to it . . . I’ve been a right bitch to you.’ She wiped her wet face and sniffed noisily, rummaging in her pocket for a tissue.

  ‘Use your sleeve – or the sheet.’ Donal reached for the hand nearest to him, gave a weak grin. ‘See? Made you come back to me.’

  She laughed, half-hysterical with relief and shock. ‘Stop joking about it.’ She held on to his hand tightly. ‘You did make me come back though.’ She’d come so close to losing the best thing in her life; served her right for being so wrapped up in herself, so sorry for herself. Allowing her obsession to take over, blinding her to the precious thing she already had. Pushing him away whenever he tried to get near. Saying the most horrible, bitchy things; ignoring him, even. She’d shut him out, blamed him for her unhappiness, when it wasn’t his fault – there was nothing he could do about it. It was his unhappiness too, wasn’t it?

  He groaned quietly, and she clutched his hand. ‘Are you OK?’

  He closed his eyes. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of an Alka-Seltzer? My hangover’s started.’

  And somehow, that made her cry all over again.

  ‘He’s fine; no serious injuries, thank God.’ Breffni pulled the red strip from around the packet of digestives and shook a few onto the plate in front of her. She was still in her dressing gown, up late after the broken night.

  ‘Thank God is right. I don’t know how anyone cycles around that city – I’d be terrified. I wouldn’t even chance Nenagh.’