Laura closed her eyes, ignoring the tears that were pouring down her face. Found her voice again. ‘Your wife?’
‘She died just over a year ago – brain haemorrhage. He may know, if he kept an eye on the death notices.’
Laura opened her eyes again, noticed that Frank’s hands were trembling slightly – had they been, all along? She tried out a few sentences in her head. Donal wasn’t an only child. His parents didn’t move to Australia. His sister died when she was twelve. He crashed a stolen car while he was drunk and killed a woman and her baby. He was left impotent after the accident.
And after that, more thoughts came. He knew. All the time, he knew, and he never told me. He left me to hope and pray, and despair, and he never told me. He came to the doctor, and to the gynaecologist, and he sat beside me and he held my hand. And pretended he didn’t know.
After a while she wiped her face with her sleeve, lifted her eyes from Frank’s hands. They sat across from each other, waiting, not talking any more. And eventually, when the tea left in the pot was completely cold, the door opened and Donal walked in. And they both turned and looked at him.
Dear Frank,
I felt it necessary to contact you in view of the recent revelations regarding the identity of your son, which my daughter Laura rightly thought I should hear. While I am, of course, happy for your sake that you have become reacquainted, and while I hope that you can put the events that caused the original separation behind you both – Laura has not supplied these details, nor do I wish to hear them – I feel that to continue our friendship under the circumstances would be inappropriate. I trust you can see my point of view; indeed, you may fully agree with it.
As we shall no doubt come face to face in the future, given the connection that now exists between us, I would appreciate your cooperation in keeping our previous meetings from the rest of the family, as it is not something I wish to have discussed.
Yours sincerely,
Cecily O’Neill
PS I shall not be attending future meetings of the book club.
after
Ruth pulled her key out of the door. ‘Hello?’
Her mother’s head poked out from the kitchen. ‘In here, love – he’s been as good as gold.’
Ruth smiled – her mother always said that, even if Gerard had yelled his head off from the minute she left. She followed her mother into the kitchen, headed straight over to the baby carrier on the table. Her son looked up at her, sucking intently on his blue soother, arms flapping as he recognised her. He has his father’s eyes, she thought, as she bent her head to nuzzle against his chest. Gorgeous green eyes, just like Andrew.
‘What kind of a day had you?’
‘Grand – the usual.’ Ruth wriggled a finger into her son’s tiny fist, felt his strong grip. ‘Two body waves, two highlights, a few cuts. Mrs O’Carroll was in; her nephew won five thousand Euro with a scratch card last week, imagine.’ She tickled Gerard under his chin, and he gurgled and grabbed her hand.
‘You’re joking; I didn’t think anyone won those. I hope he treated her to the hairdo.’
Ruth laughed. ‘If he did, she didn’t mention it.’ She disentangled her hand and lifted Gerard’s bag from the chair, marvelling again that babies needed so much luggage when they went anywhere. Then she turned back to her mother. ‘What about you – what did you two get up to?’
‘We made a cake, didn’t we, lovie?’ Her mother smiled down at her grandson and he gurgled at her, soother slipping sideways. ‘He was a very good helper. And here –’ she lifted a tinfoil-wrapped package from the table ‘– before big Gerard eats it all.’
‘Poor Dad – all his cakes come in halves now.’ Ruth took the bundle and tucked it into her bag. ‘Thanks, Mam.’ She slung the bag over her shoulder, lifted the baby carrier with the other arm. ‘Well, we’d better get going, give this little man his dinner.’ She put her free hand on her mother’s shoulder, kissed her cheek lightly. ‘Thanks again, Mam. See you Thursday.’
‘Mind yourself, love.’
Driving back to the apartment – she still couldn’t think of it as home, although her tiny garden was just beginning to bloom; that would help – Ruth thought beans on toast. That would do her fine: such a relief not to have to worry about cooking for someone else any more. Gerard was easy – just open a jar of Heinz. She wondered idly what Cecily was cooking for Andrew tonight. Something wonderful, as usual. With wine and silverware and cut crystal. She shuddered, remembering her terror when she’d done the washing-up in her mother-in-law’s house; such a long time ago, it seemed now. Thank God she’d never broken anything.
In the seat beside her, Gerard crowed happily. Ruth glanced across at him. ‘Yes, darling. I’m happy too.’ And miraculously, she was. She never thought she would be again, when everything had come suddenly, terrifyingly crumbling down around her last May. When Andrew had walked in from work one day – hardly a week after she’d told him she was pregnant – and announced that he’d been having an affair.
With Breffni.
Even now, almost a year later, Ruth felt slightly sick whenever she allowed herself to think about that horrendous day. Standing there, face rigid with horror, listening to her husband taking her dreams and squeezing the life out of them – she’d felt her world shattering, had had to reach out and grab on to a chair, to touch something solid and hang on to it.
And Breffni. Of course it had been Breffni, with her shiny hair and her perfect face and her lip gloss that stayed in place all evening. Breffni, who’d lent them bedclothes and towels, and who’d given Ruth an eye pencil, to help her make the best of herself. Knowing that if Ruth was worked on from top to toe by the greatest make-up artist in the world, she’d never hold a candle to Breffni.
It was a miracle she hadn’t lost Gerard. How had he survived it all? That horrible scene, Andrew’s look of disbelief, his hands going up to protect himself as his wife, his docile, eager-to-please wife had screamed and scratched and thumped, wanting him to hurt too. And after that was over, after she’d shouted herself hoarse, after she’d demanded that he leave, not caring where he went, or what anyone would think – what did any of that matter now? What did it matter if he was telling the truth when he said the affair was over? – the great outpouring of her grief that began, the tears that just wouldn’t stop, as she lay alone in their double bed.
And in the morning, when she’d found the strength to drag herself out of the bed, exhausted, she’d pulled her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and started putting clothes into it. She’d been sitting on the train when she realised that she hadn’t called Helen to tell her she wouldn’t be in to work; halfway to Dublin before she remembered it was Wednesday, her day off.
And then the months when Dad and Mam had taken over. Settling her back into her old room, answering the phone so they could tell Andrew that she was out. Getting a cushion for her back, an antacid for her heartburn. Tissues for her tears. And finally, one day, she’d stood up and answered the phone herself when it rang.
‘Ruth, God . . . I’m so sorry –’
She hardly recognised his voice; it was like listening to someone you knew you’d heard somewhere before, but couldn’t for the life of you remember where. For the first time ever, Ruth interrupted, ready with the words she’d been practising for days.
‘Save your apologies; I’m not interested. In a few days you’ll get a letter giving details of my new bank account, and the name and address of my solicitor.’ Her palm was pressed against the bulk of her stomach; she was bigger than him now, in every way. ‘You will sell the house and pay half of whatever is left into my account. When the baby is born, my solicitor will contact you to work out access. I have nothing more to say to you.’
He was speaking as she hung up; cutting him off, silencing him, was deeply satisfying – and the flood of tears that followed soon after seemed, for the first time, to be more healing than sorrowing.
Over the next few days, she wondered where thi
s new strength was coming from. Was it the thought of the child inside her, was he giving her the courage to stand up for them both? Or was it the image of Breffni and Andrew together, was that finally turning her grief to rage, making her powerful with it? Determining that They would never again make life miserable for Ruth Tobin? Not Ruth O’Neill any more – she was changing it back to Tobin. And her baby was going to be Tobin too: another small triumph.
Not that she was over it – far from it. Her parents would lie sleepless for many nights to come, listening sadly in the next room to the sobs that were still too harsh to be hidden. But the healing process had started; she was going to survive. She and her baby would survive.
And as the months went on, Ruth began to wonder what she’d ever seen in Andrew. Was it just his good looks – could she really have been that shallow? Because now she realised that that’s all there was to him – just a pretty face. God, she’d been so naïve. So taken in by a handsome man’s attention that she’d never looked beyond it. So grateful that he’d wanted to marry her, so sure that no one would ever want her in that way. What a pathetic creature she’d been, the old Ruth Tobin.
Gerard had been born two days late, on the twenty-ninth of December. And looking at his screwed-up pink face, stroking his impossibly tiny fingers, touching his spike of thick black hair – no wonder she’d had such bad heartburn – Ruth had felt something so much stronger than she’d ever felt for Andrew. She’d cradled her child in her arms, oblivious to her sweat- and tear-stained face, deaf to her mother’s excitement, hardly seeing the flash of her sister’s camera, and thought wonderingly so this is love.
Two months after Gerard was born, Ruth dropped in to see Sheila in the old salon – Mam had told her that Ruth was back – and asked if there was any part-time work going, and Sheila had taken her on immediately, three days a week. Mam minded Gerard while Ruth was at work, and Maura and Claire, Ruth’s old flatmates, called around often to the apartment, and Ruth’s younger sister Irene doted on her little nephew, begged to take him out on walks.
Occasionally Ruth found herself wondering what had happened between Donal and Frank. At least she’d done her bit to help them find each other again, even if an anonymous letter was the best way she could come up with. She hoped things had worked out all right – Laura had always been good to her. But Ruth never asked Andrew about her; never asked about any of his family when they met. It was better to cut all those ties now.
She stopped at a red light, looked over at Gerard again. Everything was fine; they were happy now. And she’d always have Gerard – he’d always be hers.
‘Only me.’
‘In here.’ Breffni stretched her arms over her head, yawned hugely, struggled to her feet. Cian came in as she was combing through her hair with her fingers. There seemed to be so much more of it when she was pregnant; something about it not falling out as much. Maybe she should think about getting it cut, although Cian loved it.
‘How’re you feeling?’ He dropped a kiss on her forehead.
She made a face. ‘Like an elephant who’s been bingeing for about seven months.’
He grinned. ‘Poor you. Not long to go now.’
‘Thank God. The sooner he’s out, the better.’ They’d asked and been told that it was a boy.
‘Right, I’m off for Poll. D’you need anything when I’m out?’ There was a little Spar near Mary’s house.
Breffni shook her head. ‘No, we’re OK till tomorrow.’ Cian had been doing the weekly shop on his way home from work for the past month or so, since Breffni had become too exhausted to consider it.
As she heard the front door slam behind him – why could he never close a door quietly? – Breffni thrust her feet into her slippers and padded slowly towards the kitchen, wincing slightly as she felt an enthusiastic kick. Steady, buster.
She turned the oven up a little, started to lay the table for their dinner. No wine – Cian had assured her that he wasn’t pushed whether they had some or not, and she couldn’t face even one glass these days.
He was so thoughtful really. Even after everything, still so attentive to her, so considerate. Listening, not interrupting, as she’d told him about Andrew – almost as if he’d been expecting it. And after, not a word of reproach. Asking her what she wanted to do. What she wanted to do.
She’d looked at him, the tears drying on her face. ‘Well, I . . . I assumed that you’d want me to leave.’ Suddenly realising that that was the last thing she wanted. Hardly believing when he replied that he’d really prefer if she stayed – if she wanted to stay with him. If it really was over between Andrew and herself. And she’d wept again as she’d promised that it was.
And then, Cian answering every phone call until Andrew tried again, and the low conversation in the hall that seemed to go on for a long time, but that probably hadn’t. He’d never told her what had been said, and she’d never asked, and Andrew hadn’t phoned again.
And after a few months had gone by, and she was still struggling with her guilt, and still discovering what she’d so nearly thrown away, she’d nervously suggested that they have another baby.
Of course she’d lost Laura. That was the worst of all. She’d been afraid to ring her for the longest time, and then one day she’d plucked up her courage and called her mobile, and Laura had listened without comment to Breffni’s stuttered apologies, and declined politely when Breffni had suggested that they meet, saying sorry, that she was extremely busy with work. And when Breffni had taken a deep breath and asked how the fertility treatment was going, Laura had paused before answering, ‘I really don’t think that’s any of your business’, and hanging up.
And Breffni had thought how like Cecily she sounded.
She was still grieving for Laura when her mother told her about Andrew’s move back to his mother’s house.
‘Of course I didn’t hear it from Cecily – that woman would hardly give you the time of day. But his car is there all the time, and there’s no sign of the wife. So sad; that marriage lasted no time. I’m sure Cecily is pleased to have Andrew back though – they were always very close. Didn’t you two have a thing for a while when you were teenagers?’
Breffni heard the front door again, and Polly’s quick patter towards the kitchen. ‘Mum?’
‘Hi there.’ She stooped carefully towards her daughter and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. ‘How’s Granny Mary?’
Polly pulled off her summer jacket and handed it to Cian, who hung it on the back of the door. ‘Fine. We made scones, an’ I had two.’
And Cian sat at the table and propped his chin in his hand and watched the light of his life as she chattered with Breffni, and didn’t think beyond the fact that she was still with him now.
‘More coffee, darling?’ Cecily stood with the cafetière poised.
Andrew shook his head briefly. ‘No thanks.’ She knows I never have more than one cup, and every night she still asks if I want another. He rustled his newspaper, hoping she’d take the hint and go back to her book.
‘Don’t forget, Laura’s at eight, if you want to change.’
Right, so she doesn’t consider what I’m wearing suitable. Hear you loud and clear, Mother. ‘Mm-hmm.’ He thought again about seeing Breffni on the street last month. As beautiful as ever, blooming with pregnancy. Holding Polly by the hand, looking in the window of a toy shop. Pointing to something in the window, turning to Polly with a smile.
He wondered if she was having a boy or a girl.
‘You’re going to see Gerard next week, aren’t you?’
He sighed loudly, lowered the paper just enough to look over it at her. ‘Yes, as usual.’ She knew he went once a month, for God’s sake.
Cecily lowered the cafetière carefully onto its stand, picked up her book, settled herself back down into her armchair again. ‘I was wondering if I might go with you this time.’ She smiled brightly at him.
Lord, that was all he needed. As if his visits weren’t hard enough. He folded the paper
slowly. ‘I’m not sure that that would be a good idea, Mother – not right now. Ruth is still . . .’ What? Ruth was still what? Still the sweet little creature he’d married? Not a bit of it. ‘Look, leave it another while; I’ll talk to Ruth. She might let me bring him down here for a night when he’s a bit older. At the moment she’s still . . . a bit mixed up about everything.’
He saw the quick disappointment, the way she managed to replace it just as rapidly with the same bright smile. She’d just have to wait, that was all; the last thing he needed was Cecily witnessing his treatment at the hands of Ruth. So cold, so aloof when they met, not even a cup of tea offered, or a drink, in that cramped little flat. No pleasant conversation, no how are you, how’s life in Limerick.
Which was a bit much, when you thought about it. He’d offered to stand by her and Gerard, after all. Do the decent thing – wasn’t that what it was called? – that awful night when he’d been so honest with her and come clean about everything.
And it wasn’t as if Ruth knew about the unpleasant phone conversation with Cian the night before, threatening all sorts if Andrew ever tried to make contact with Breffni again. As far as Ruth was concerned, her husband was confessing his crime and attempting to make amends, end of story.
But Lord, that awful scene, flinging him out of the house, going running back to her parents the very next day, leaving Andrew looking like the big bad wolf. And then insisting that he sell the house – not that they hadn’t made a fair profit; house prices were still climbing steadily in Limerick. But by the time he’d paid off the mortgage, given Ruth her half, and sorted out child support – a surprisingly large amount, it seemed to him – there wasn’t a whole lot left over. Certainly not enough for him to consider buying someplace else, not just yet.
So he was back with Mother, for the time being. And of course it was fine – she’d always looked after him so well. And in time, he’d start looking at places in town – a small apartment maybe, on the river. But there was no hurry. For the moment he was fine where he was; almost as if he’d never left sometimes. Funny that Mother had never really questioned his abrupt return to the house; had accepted his tale of Ruth suddenly deciding that she couldn’t settle in Limerick, that she wasn’t happy with him.
Putting Out the Stars Page 27
