Putting Out the Stars

by Roisin Meaney

  She risked another look in the mirror – marginally better, face not quite so blotchy, although now her half-dry hair stuck up at wild angles, making her look like a demented cavewoman. She picked up her wooden comb and began to coax it through, grateful that Polly and Cian weren’t due home for at least another hour.

  Thank God Mary had already collected Polly when Laura rang, just under two hours ago. She couldn’t imagine how she would have coped if they’d still been here. How could she have explained the tears that had poured out of her since then, the sobs that had threatened to rip her in two, leaving her gasping for breath, making her chest hurt with their intensity?

  Since Cecily’s visit two days before, Breffni had been clinging desperately to the hope that it had all been a pack of lies – that Ruth wasn’t pregnant, that Andrew hadn’t betrayed Breffni to his mother, making it seem like he’d been lured into some sordid affair against his better judgement. He couldn’t have done that – what they had was far too special, whatever weird influence Cecily might have over him. And if he was a little weak, and a little in thrall to his mother – well, that was hardly a crime. He wouldn’t be human without some weakness. He’d been so much younger too, last time around – it would have been easy for someone as scheming as Cecily to persuade him to give up Breffni. No, the more she thought about it, the more convinced Breffni became that this was all some horrible gamble on Cecily’s part. Having discovered that Andrew was having an affair, she’d been desperate to break them up, keep Andrew married to wimpy Ruth, who’d never come between Cecily and her darling son. So she’d concocted this myth, Ruth getting pregnant, Andrew seeing the light, throwing himself on his mother’s mercy, promising to mend his ways.

  And when Breffni discovered – as she would, of course, in time – that Ruth wasn’t pregnant after all, the damage would hopefully have been done. The seeds of suspicion would have been sown. For all Breffni knew, Cecily could have spun a similar yarn to Andrew – told him she’d seen Breffni out with another man, or something. Anything, to drive a wedge between them, to stop them from seeing each other. She wouldn’t put anything past that woman.

  And Breffni’s mind whirled on and on in anxious circles, one minute convinced that Andrew would never betray her, that everything was going to be all right – the next terrified that she’d discover that it was all true. That Ruth was pregnant, and that Cecily had all the ammunition she needed to keep Andrew away from Breffni forever.

  The only way she’d find out, of course, was to go to the hotel as usual for their next meeting – so what if Cecily found out? It really didn’t matter now – and see if he was there. If he was, then she had nothing to worry about. He’d have told Ruth, and she’d go home and tell Cian, just as they had planned. And some day she might even tell him about Cecily’s visit, and maybe they’d be able to laugh at it.

  Maybe.

  And just two hours ago, after Breffni had waved goodbye to Mary and Polly, as she was preparing to shower herself before leaving to meet her lover, she’d picked up the phone and Laura had told her that Ruth was pregnant.

  And it was all over.

  Laura heard the faint rattle of the letter box and checked her watch as she went out to the hall. Twenty past two; it got later every day. She gathered up the three envelopes and went back into the kitchen to finish her lunch. Lovely to be able to take the odd day off again; wonderful that she’d got the latest batch of illustrations finished finally. Fantastic that they’d got such a good reception from the publishers.

  Great that she could forget about all that now, and focus on getting ready for what lay ahead. That’s if her period ever arrived; as of this morning, she was eight days late. Wouldn’t you know, the one time she wanted it to come. No doubt Breffni was right – all her thinking about it was probably holding it up. But how could she not think about it, and what it was going to set in motion, once it eventually arrived?

  Her stomach flipped, as it always did when she thought about taking the first step towards having a child of their own. Maybe, if they were terribly lucky, the only step she’d have to take before becoming pregnant. Who was to say it wouldn’t work the first time? She and Donal could do with a bit of luck, after two years of disappointment.

  But even if it didn’t, she could go on trying, again and again. And eventually it would happen; it had to. She wasn’t thirty yet – they had plenty of time for it to work. She thought of herself and Donal shopping for an actual baby, picking out tiny clothes and toys for real; not pretending like she’d done before. Last week she’d emptied the upstairs drawer and the boxes under her table at work and brought everything to the charity shop. They were for a different baby – one who’d been created out of misery and desperation, by a woman Laura hardly recognised now.

  She longed for it all to begin – for all this waiting and hoping to be over at last. But it was a different kind of longing now – a kind of butterflies-in-the-tummy Christmas Eve excitement, knowing that what you were wishing for was just around the corner. And she couldn’t remember when she and Donal had been this happy; it was almost as if taking the decision to get the treatment had somehow signalled an end to their misery, had taken a weight off their shoulders and allowed them to move on.

  And any day now . . . she smiled as she looked down at the envelopes. A phone bill, a mailing from the University Concert Hall, and – she turned the last one over. Plain white, typed address, both their names. She ripped it open and pulled out the single, folded page. Just one sentence, also typed:

  Don’s father is living in Limerick now.

  Underneath, a phone number. Laura stared at the page for a few seconds, completely at a loss. What did it mean? Why was there no name, no signature – and who was Don? Her first thought was that it had been sent to them by mistake. She looked at the envelope again – Donal O’Connor and Laura O’Neill. Donal, not Don. Laura had never heard anyone call him Don. She turned the page over; the other side was blank. She read it again, trying to make sense of it: ‘Don’s father is living in Limerick now.’ But Donal’s father was in Australia, wasn’t he? Could he have moved back, after all these years? And no mention of his wife, Donal’s mother. This was all very strange.

  Well, only one way to solve the mystery. She stood up, holding the letter and went to the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  Breffni listened to the silence in the hall, then Cian again: ‘Hello?’ Another silence, then she heard him hanging up.

  ‘Must have been a wrong number. I hate when they just hang up like that; they could have the manners to say something.’ He sat back down on the couch and picked up his paper. She bent her head, pretending to be engrossed in her book. A few minutes later, the phone rang again. She jumped up.

  ‘I’ll go this time.’

  Her hand shook as she reached out for the phone. ‘Hello?’ She prayed her voice would sound normal to Cian.

  ‘Breffni, what’s wrong? Why –’

  ‘Sorry, wrong number.’ She hung up quickly and took a deep breath before removing it from the hook. Then she wiped her palms on her jeans and opened the kitchen door.

  ‘Same again. I’ve taken it off the hook for a while. I’m just going up for a bath.’ She barely managed to keep the tears from falling until she’d closed the bathroom door softly.

  And in Frank’s house, the phone began to ring and he stood up to answer it. As he spoke, and listened, and shook his head briefly, his placid expression changed to mild bewilderment, before his whole body stiffened with shock, and he put one unsteady hand to his mouth. After a few minutes, no more, he nodded once, picked up a pen from the table, scribbled on the notebook beside it. Then he replaced the receiver gently and stood leaning heavily against the wall, hands over his face, shoulders slumped.

  ‘Only me.’

  Breffni dropped the tea towel onto the worktop and turned to face the kitchen door. ‘In here.’

  Cian appeared, went over to kiss her. ‘Hi, babe.’ He dropped his brief
case and looked around the kitchen. ‘Where’s Poll?’

  ‘Mary took her; she’ll bring her back later.’ Breffni’s heart was thumping; she picked up the tea towel again and wiped her damp palms. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘I’ll get it. You?’ Cian opened the fridge and took out a beer can, waving it in Breffni’s direction.

  She shook her head, indicated the worktop. ‘I have wine.’ Her second big glass; she needed a buzz for this. She picked up the glass and took a big swallow.

  ‘You OK?’ He walked over and put a hand on her shoulder.

  She nodded, then shook her head. ‘Sit down, will you? There’s something I need to tell you.’

  He felt his heart sink to the floor as his daughter’s face flashed into his head.

  Frank looked at the house, checked his piece of paper. This one. He opened the gate and walked up the drive, conscious of the noise his footsteps were making. They sounded so firm, as if the person taking them knew exactly where he was going.

  No indication that he was more nervous than he ever remembered being in his life.

  He reached the door, pressed the bell quickly, before he had a chance to change his mind and walk away from God knew what was waiting for him inside.

  When the door opened, his first thought was but I know her. Reddish brown hair, attractive – they’d already met somewhere, quite recently. But Don hadn’t been there. And she looked too young, surely, to be married to Frank’s son, whose forty-fourth birthday Frank had remembered last year, like he remembered every birthday since Don had stormed out. Had this all been a terrible mistake then?

  But his date of birth had matched. And the mole behind his right knee, and the fact that he was left-handed, and allergic to penicillin. Which all left precious little room for mistakes.

  ‘Frank?’ Her hand came towards him and he took it automatically. Her voice was low and pleasant. ‘But I know you; we met at Ruth’s.’ So she’d already spoken to Donal’s father, and never known. Had imagined him to be a feeble old man in his eighties, when this man standing in front of her could hardly be more than mid-sixties.

  It came back to Frank abruptly, the meeting in the kitchen. ‘And you’re Cecily’s daughter.’ And Ruth was married to Laura’s brother, so she must know Don too. Why did the word ‘spaghetti’ pop into his head? He shook her hand, and couldn’t think what to say next. What on earth did you say to a daughter-in-law you hadn’t known existed an hour ago?

  They stood facing each other for a few moments, and then she stepped aside, pulled the door open wider. ‘Sorry – please come in.’ He realised that she was as apprehensive as he was – just as much in dread of what this new, unnerving development might bring. As Frank stepped into the hall, Laura added quickly, ‘He’s not here, he’s at work. He won’t be back for another hour, at least.’

  In the kitchen she offered him coffee, and he asked if it would be very ill-mannered of him to look for tea instead, and she said of course not, sorry, she should have given him the choice. They were both carefully, nervously polite.

  As she filled the kettle, she spoke with her back to him. ‘So you never lived in Australia.’ There was something heartbreaking in the flatness of her voice, as if she was trying hard not to care that her husband had lied to her. As if she wasn’t terrified at what Frank might be about to reveal to her.

  Frank shook his head, wanting to spare her any pain this conversation might cause – would surely cause – but what could he do? She’d waited long enough for the truth. ‘No. We lived in Sligo all our lives.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head too – of course not. She’d known, as soon as she spoke to Frank on the phone, as soon as she’d been sure that he was Donal’s – Don’s – father, that Australia had been a lie. She made herself open presses, take out cups, saucers, sugar bowl, reach into the fridge for milk.

  And when everything was assembled, when the tea was made, when she had run out of reasons not to sit at the table, she sat. Took the spoon from her saucer and held it tightly.

  Outside it began to rain heavily, in one of those sudden downpours – more like a tipping up and emptying out of the clouds than a normal shower. Laura turned quickly towards the window, still so nervous that Frank wanted more than anything to say something to reassure her. But there was nothing he could say.

  Finally, she looked back at him, gave a brittle smile. Picked up the teapot and poured tea into both their cups. Frank thought of Cecily – his son’s mother-in-law, he realised with a fresh shock – drinking tea so daintily at the book-club meetings. Dabbing her lips after every sip. She knew Don too. All these people knew him, lived with him every day.

  ‘Well.’ Laura had no idea what to say next. What did you ask, how could you possibly find a question that didn’t sound ridiculous? Tell me about my husband. Explain why he kept you hidden for years. Make sense of this for me; give me a plausible reason for his lie – and for the lies I don’t know about yet.

  Because, of course, there were more. Oh God, she didn’t want to hear more. But she had to hear more.

  ‘I’m assuming you don’t know the reason for our . . . separation.’ Frank’s voice was gentle. When Laura didn’t respond, just picked up her spoon again, he interlaced his fingers, looked thoughtfully at them.

  ‘When Don was fifteen, his sister died.’ He heard Laura’s sharp intake of breath, looked up at her white face. ‘You didn’t know about Catherine.’ It wasn’t a question.

  Laura shook her head quickly. ‘He told me he was an only child. He said that you and his mother were older when you met . . .’ Her voice was barely audible. Outside, the rain still fell heavily. Neither of them touched the tea, added milk, or sugar.

  ‘I was twenty-four when Don was born. My wife was twenty-six.’ Frank hated what his son was forcing him to do. Hated the empty look in Laura’s white face. Forced himself to continue; all he could do to help her now was to tell her everything.

  ‘Catherine was born three years later. When she was twelve, she contracted leukaemia, was dead within six months.’ Always, whenever he said the words out loud, they caused an anguish so sharp, still, after all these years. He paused, swallowed. Added milk to his tea, took a sip.

  Laura sat there, stunned. Afraid to take her eyes off Frank, afraid to open her mouth . . . and what would she say anyway? Beg him to stop, when she knew she had to hear whatever there was? Donal had a sister . . . he’d lied to her about his dead sister.

  Frank was speaking again; she listened dumbly. ‘After that, Don went off the rails a bit . . . started hanging around with a different crowd . . . Angela and I weren’t too aware of what was happening, to be honest. We were still in shock, I suppose . . .’ Frank stopped, took another sip of his tea. Laura watched his hands on the cup; they had the same shaped hands, Donal and his father. Outside, they both heard a distant peal of thunder. Both ignored it.

  ‘They’d been very close, the children. Don took Catherine’s death very hard . . . and we weren’t able to help him. We let him down.’ Laura watched his hands, lying one on top of the other on the table now, afraid to look up at his face.

  Frank’s voice was steady; he raised it slightly to be heard above the rain, lashing now against the window. ‘We had warnings, I suppose. A call from the school, wondering why he hadn’t been in for almost a week. A neighbour letting us know that he’d seen Don with a few lads in the park, drinking. We had rows, plenty of rows . . . but we didn’t do anything really, to help him.’ He shook his head, picked up his cup again. ‘We saw it coming, and did nothing to stop it.’

  As he drank, Laura waited. Here it comes, the reason for all the lies. She looked towards the window, needing something real, something ordinary. The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun; in the late-afternoon light the garden looked freshly washed, everything clean again. A bird flew across the garden, landed briefly on an arm of the clothesline. She wanted to be out there among the sodden shrubs, walking on the drenched grass, anywhere but here.

>   Frank put a hand out and covered Laura’s. She felt the warmth of it, bit her lip, kept looking determinedly out the window.

  ‘One day, Don left the house with a bottle of vodka. He stole a car in town, after he’d finished the bottle, and crashed it into another car. The driver of the other car was eight months pregnant; they were both killed.’ His hand squeezed Laura’s gently.

  Her head turned slowly from side to side, still watching the garden. No, he was wrong there; that didn’t make any sense at all. They couldn’t both have been killed – Donal was still alive. Then Laura realised what Frank meant, and her hand flew out from under his and up to cover her mouth. The baby – the tiny, almost-born baby. A drawer full of liquorice-allsorts-coloured clothes slid into her head. A tear rolled down her cheek, bumped into her hand, still pressed against her mouth. Donal had killed a baby.

  And still Frank’s mouth was opening and closing – what more could he say, what other horrors lay waiting for her to discover?

  ‘Don escaped relatively uninjured, a few broken bones, lots of cuts and bruises. But he fractured his pelvis, and there were some internal injuries there . . . we were told that it might have repercussions later, when he wanted a family.’

  And as he said that, something slotted into place. A last piece being added to the jigsaw, the whole picture clear now. Yes, that explains that. Her throat was so dry . . . Laura reached for the milk jug, poured some into her cup, then lifted it and took a gulp, coughed as it went down too fast. A few more tears spurted out.

  Frank waited until she was listening again. Nearly there, he wanted to say. This is nearly over. ‘He was put into a correctional home for two years, until he was eighteen. We visited him, but he wouldn’t talk to us. When he was let out, he left Sligo, and I haven’t seen him since.’