Two For Joy

by Patricia Scanlan

  She’d go and have a check-up next week, she decided, drowsily, the double dose of Ponston she’d taken beginning to take effect. Maybe, if she was lucky, this was the last period she’d have for nine months. Maybe this time next month she’d be pregnant and Oliver would spend more time at home with her. Feeling a little more cheerful, Noreen slipped into a drowsy stupor.

  She woke around four, muzzy-headed and hungry. The house was lovely and warm so she slipped into her dressing-gown, went down to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee. She buttered a chunk of Vienna roll and smeared it with blackberry jam. It tasted scrumptious. She hadn’t realized just how hungry she was. She polished off the rest of the loaf and felt quite stuffed. She didn’t fancy having dinner, but Oliver would be hungry when he came home and she always liked to have a substantial meal for him in the evenings after a hard day’s work.

  She had a pork steak in the fridge; she’d stuff it, and make some apple sauce to accompany it. While it was cooking she’d have a nice bath and freshen herself up. She’d open a bottle of wine and have a glass with Oliver when he was having his dinner. It would be nice to mark their first anniversary in some little way, just to try to bring back some memories of the happy wedding day they had celebrated a year ago.

  Oliver was such a paradox: buying her beautiful pearls and obviously putting thought into the gift and then arranging to meet a fellow builder the evening of their anniversary. Romantic, yet not romantic. He was himself, she thought fondly as she crumbled some breadcrumbs to make the stuffing.

  Noreen had had her bath and was just checking the pork steak when the phone rang. The smell wafting around the kitchen was delicious, and she thought she might have a small plateful of dinner with Oliver to keep him company. The table was set with her best china and crystal, long tapering lilac candles lending a romantic air. She hoped he wouldn’t be too late. Maybe this was Oliver to tell her he was on his way.

  It wasn’t her husband. Her lips tightened when she heard the unwelcome voice down the line. Exactly who she didn’t need to speak to, today of all days. When Noreen heard the clipped tones at the other end of the phone her cheeks reddened with fury. She said a curt thank-you, hung up, switched off the cooker and the downstairs lights and marched straight upstairs to bed. Oliver could go and get lost as far as she was concerned.

  8

  Oliver took a swig of hot tea and finished the remainder of his bacon butty. It was badly needed. He’d been on site for the last five hours, but he had to go and see his accountant and he needed to shower and change. His muscles ached but it was a satisfying ache. He’d put in a good morning’s work and he knew the other men were always on their toes when he was around. No slacking. Although to be fair he had a good team of workers, with only the odd one inclined to swing the lead. He headed to the showers in the Portakabin. He could have gone home, he supposed. He shook his head, remembering how she’d taken the nose off him earlier. What was the big deal about anniversaries? Women set such store by these things. He’d bought her the pearls and the card. What did she need to go out to dinner for? He hated eating out in posh restaurants. He much preferred pub grub or a meal at home. Posh restaurants made him feel uncomfortable. Suave and sophisticated he would never be, no matter how much Noreen wanted him to be.

  He gave a deep sigh as he flung his hard hat on to a chair and shrugged out of his waterproofs. He knew he was a disappointment to his wife. She’d wanted to have dinner parties to entertain the ‘high society’ of Kilronan. To please her he’d agreed the first Christmas of their marriage to have a dinner for his accountant, Eddie Mangan and his wife. Noreen had also invited Doctor Kennedy and his wife and Gerard Morgan, Oliver’s solicitor, and his wife, Jane.

  Noreen had thoroughly enjoyed herself and had spent a week preparing for the party. She’d cooked a very tasty meal, Oliver couldn’t fault it, but there’d been enough glasses on the table to fill a pub and the amount of cutlery had been daunting. He knew the basics of starting from the outside in, but it all made him feel uncomfortable, especially when the talk had turned to wine, which went way over his head as he didn’t know a Chardonnay from a Chablis, or a Sauvignon from a Merlot. He’d kept quiet and concentrated on filling up his guests’ wineglasses, hoping they’d get pissed and bugger off.

  Noreen had been on a high for ages after, especially when their hospitality had been reciprocated and they had been invited to a plethora of parties in return. It had been his worst nightmare. He didn’t mind talking to any of them in a professional capacity when he had to but making polite conversation was not him. Besides, Noreen did enough talking for the both of them, but she’d been annoyed with him, especially after Doctor Kennedy’s party where she’d told him crossly that he was a party pooper and could make a lot more of an effort instead of sitting like a sphinx in the corner nursing his pint.

  ‘I’m not a blinking social butterfly, Noreen, and you knew that when you married me,’ he retorted, stung by her remarks.

  ‘Look, I know it’s not your scene, but if you made more of an effort you might enjoy it more,’ she urged. ‘You need to get out and about a bit more. There’s more to life than work.’

  ‘Ah, quit nagging, woman,’ he’d snapped. She hadn’t talked to him for a week. It had been their first big row.

  Oliver stepped under the powerful shower spray and soaped himself briskly. What had Noreen expected? That once they were married he’d suddenly turn into a completely different person? There was an awful restlessness in her lately. She was hell-bent on getting pregnant and he was beginning to dread the middle of her cycle when it didn’t matter whether he was in the mood, or whether he was totally knackered. She wanted sex no matter what. He liked sex as much as the next man, but having to perform on demand was beginning to get to him.

  Then the disappointment when her period came. The tears, the depression. Noreen was so intense about things. He was sure that if she just relaxed about it all, it would happen. Of course when he said that to her he got the nose bitten off him again. It was all right for him. He was a man. He didn’t have to worry, he could father a child into his seventies. He didn’t have to worry about his fertility clock. He wasn’t in his mid-thirties, which was old to be starting a family. The tirade had gone on and on. From then on he kept his mouth shut and just waited for the episodes to pass. The sooner his wife got pregnant, the better. A child would keep her occupied and she wouldn’t have time to be nagging him.

  He stepped out of the shower and towelled himself dry. From what he had known of Noreen before their marriage, he would never have guessed that she would get so agitated about something. She had always seemed so calm and in control, traits he admired. He found it difficult to deal with all this emotional stuff, especially when he felt that he was failing her in some way. It made him feel guilty. He wasn’t great at giving succour and comfort, he thought glumly. Maybe he should try harder to be more sympathetic. Women set such store by sympathy. He’d been a bit abrupt about taking her out to dinner to celebrate their anniversary. He’d book a table at the Lake View for tomorrow night. That might cheer her up, Oliver decided as he dressed swiftly in clean jeans and a good shirt to go and see his accountant.

  The meeting went well. The company was performing extremely satisfactorily – of course the countrywide building boom helped – and profits were up. Oliver felt good. He might not be a professional, like Mangan, Kennedy and Morgan were, but he’d bet his bank account was the equal of theirs if not better.

  He strode out to his car light-heartedly. Surely his good news would cheer Noreen up. He glanced at his watch; he still had an hour to go before meeting Jimmy Kavanagh about buying his blocks. He’d visit his mother. She wanted him to fix a bulb in her halogen light. She’d been on to him every day for the last week; at least he could get that out of the way.

  He was hardly in the door before Cora got going. ‘Oliver, I’ve been thinking. I’d like a conservatory. I could sit out in it and do my bit of sewing and crochet when t
he evenings get brighter after Christmas. Bridie Sheehan got one, it’s an awful Mickey Mouse of an effort. You’d do mine much better,’ his mother assured him.

  ‘Hold on now, Ma. When did you decide this?’ Oliver demanded. This was all news to him. He’d recently refurbished the kitchen and bathroom for her and she’d mentioned nothing about getting a conservatory.

  ‘I just decided I’d like one. It would be good for my sciatica to sit in the heat. Now when can you start it?’ Cora demanded.

  ‘Ma, I’m up to my eyes at the minute—’

  ‘Ach, it wouldn’t take you more than a day to build one of those yokes for me. There’s not much in them, Oliver,’ she interrupted.

  ‘Ma, I’ll do it but it will be after Christmas.’ Oliver tried to hide his exasperation as he unscrewed a fuse in the fusebox.

  ‘Huh! If that wife of yours wanted a conservatory, there’d be no problem,’ Cora sniffed. ‘But then I’m only your poor old mother.’

  ‘We have a conservatory, Ma, if you remember,’ Oliver said tightly as he opened the back door to get the ladder out of the shed.

  His good humour was evaporating rapidly. It had started to rain again and his hands were slippy as he began to unscrew the nuts to the halogen light. He pulled a packet out of his jacket pocket and slid the narrow tube bulb on to his palm. He took out the faulty one, replaced it with the new one and climbed down the ladder to screw in the fuse. No light came on and he cursed under his breath. Those blinking bulbs were a temperamental nuisance. It took him three trips up and down the ladder before the light was finally working.

  ‘That’s sorted,’ he told his mother as he wiped his hands.

  ‘You’ll have a bite of dinner with me, won’t you? I’ve put a nice striploin of steak on the pan for you and I’ll do a feed of fried onions with it.’ Cora bustled around the kitchen, delighted to have her beloved son to look after.

  ‘Mam, I can’t. I’ve to meet a fella about a load of blocks.’

  ‘He can wait. It won’t take long; sit down there now and tell me all your news.’

  Oliver stifled a groan. If he left, his mother would be in a mega snit, and besides, he’d been so busy lately it always seemed as though he was rushing in and out and brushing off her entreaties for him to stay. She was elderly, she lived on her own. Half an hour wouldn’t kill him. He took his mobile out of his pocket and rooted in the pocket of his jeans until he found the slip of paper with Jimmy Kavanagh’s number.

  ‘Hey, Jimmy, Oliver Flynn here. I’m running a bit late, can you give me an extra half hour’s leeway?’

  ‘No problem, Oliver. See you later,’ Jimmy agreed affably.

  ‘Thanks.’ Oliver put the phone on the dresser and stretched. He was tired.

  ‘Sit down in the armchair by the fire, son. I’ll have a bit of dinner for you in a jiffy,’ his mother said happily.

  The homely crackle of the flames, the smell of frying steak and the heat of the room relaxed Oliver and his eyelids drooped. Soon steady rhythmic snores rumbled from his chest. Cora hummed happily in the kitchen as she sautéed onions and mushrooms. Half an hour later, stuffed to the gills, Oliver bade his mother goodbye. He hoped Noreen hadn’t cooked a big feed for him. He couldn’t eat another bite. You’d think Cora had been cooking for an army.

  Jimmy Kavanagh already had a pint in front of him when Oliver got to Nolan’s Pub. He nodded at the barman and motioned Oliver to sit down. ‘How’s it goin’, Oliver? I hear you’re doing well, lucky bastard. The tax man is after me, may they all rot in hell. Don’t get caught like I did, boyo, and watch yer back – there’s always some bollox out there ready to snitch on you.’

  ‘You’re right there, Jimmy,’ Oliver agreed. As far as he was concerned he paid his taxes and kept on the level, that way he didn’t have to look over his shoulder and he could sleep easy in his bed. It was clear that the other man was digging in for a good whingeing session, but Oliver wasn’t in the humour for a load of self-pitying moaning, especially when it was obvious that Jimmy was the architect of his own downfall. Besides, he wanted to get home to Noreen, he didn’t want her to feel he was ignoring their first anniversary. He hoped that she hadn’t cooked anything too exotic. He was stuffed after the feed at his mother’s.

  The barman brought the pint to the table.

  ‘Cheers, Jimmy.’ Oliver took a swig, put his glass on the table and said briskly, ‘Right then, let’s see how we can be of some assistance to each other.’

  * * *

  Cora cleared the dinner dishes off the table and looked at Oliver’s empty plate with pleasure. He’d eaten every scrap she’d put in front of him. That was extremely satisfying. She knew what kind of food her boy liked. None of those fancy la sag neys and the like that Madam Noreen was fond of cooking. It had been like old times, him having a snooze in front of the fire while she cooked the dinner, and then the chat between them while he relished every mouthful of her good no-nonsense cooking that he’d been reared on.

  She sighed. It always cut her to the quick when he stood up to leave. It was terrible lonely living on her own, and she still hadn’t got used to it. It was hard to believe that it was a year to the day since he’d got married. She hadn’t wished him a happy anniversary. The wedding and marriage was something they didn’t discuss.

  She should have gone to his wedding, she supposed. She felt a bit guilty about it now, not because of Noreen, she still couldn’t stand the girl. But she’d hurt Oliver, she knew that. Her sister had let her know that in no uncertain terms when she’d come home from the reception. Not that Oliver had ever remarked on it. Behind his gruff, reserved manner, he had a kind, soft heart.

  Cora dried the plates, went to put them on the dresser and frowned when she saw Oliver’s mobile phone. He was always putting his phone down and forgetting about it. Of course he was meeting that man about the blocks, so there was no point in ringing him at home.

  A glint came into her eye. She put on her glasses and dialled. Noreen didn’t sound radiantly happy, she noted with satisfaction.

  ‘Hello, Noreen, Mrs Flynn here,’ she said in the posh voice she assumed when talking to the younger woman. (She wouldn’t dream of allowing Noreen to call her by her first name.) ‘I’m afraid Oliver’s gone off to his meeting and left his phone here, if you’d be so kind as to tell him. And he’ll hardly be wanting any dinner, so don’t go to trouble, he had a fine feed of steak, onions, mushrooms and spuds, here with me, so don’t go to any bother.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Noreen said tightly. Cora smiled. She’d annoyed her daughter-in-law.

  She gave a gay little laugh. ‘Ah well, you know what they say about a mammy’s home cooking. Sure it will save you popping something into the microwave … Give him the message, won’t you. ’Bye-’bye, dear.’ She hung up with immense satisfaction. She had let Oliver’s wife know that she still knew all about his business, that was why she’d mentioned the meeting, and she’d also got in the little dig about fast-food meals out of the microwave. Yes, very satisfactory all round, and she’d see Oliver again when he came to collect his phone. She’d make a nice brown loaf for him. He was very partial to her brown bread.

  Invigorated, Cora took out her baking bowl. Today had turned out to be an unexpectedly good day.

  * * *

  Oliver yawned as he put the key in his front door. It had been a long day, but he’d negotiated a good deal with Jimmy Kavanagh and it wasn’t too late. If Noreen wanted to go out for a drink he’d take her out for one.

  The house was very quiet. There was no light on in the kitchen or the lounge. ‘Noreen?’ There was no answer. The light was on upstairs. ‘Noreen, I’m home.’

  Was she asleep? he wondered as he took the stairs two at a time. The bedroom door was ajar, and lamplight spilled out on to the landing. Oliver poked his head around the door. His wife was curled up in bed, reading.

  ‘You’re in bed early. Did you not hear me calling you?’ he asked.

  ‘I heard you,’ she answered s
hortly.

  Oliver’s jaw dropped at the curtness of her tone.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me, Oliver Flynn!’ Noreen sat bolt upright and glared at him. ‘I went to the trouble of cooking you a nice dinner for our wedding anniversary and you didn’t even have the decency to let me know that you were eating at your mother’s. That’s what’s wrong with me if you want to know.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was eating at my mother’s. I went to fix her halogen light and she went and cooked a dinner for me and I didn’t like to say no,’ Oliver explained, trying to hide his exasperation. How the hell did Noreen know he’d eaten at his Ma’s? He’d been all prepared to eat whatever his wife put in front of him when he came home even if he got rampant indigestion after it.

  ‘Oh, but you don’t mind saying no to what I’ve cooked for you,’ Noreen exploded.

  ‘I was going to eat it, Noreen,’ Oliver said hotly. ‘I appreciate that you went to trouble.’

  ‘Huh! Don’t bother. Throw it in the bin,’ Noreen snapped, lying down again and turning her back on him.

  ‘How did you know I was at my mother’s anyway?’ Oliver demanded. ‘I never said I was going. It was a spur of the moment decision.’

  ‘You left your mobile phone there, and she was delighted to be able to ring me up and tell me what a great feed you’d had and that I needn’t bother sticking something in the microwave for you,’ Noreen raged, keeping her back to him, obviously highly put out.

  Oliver raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Would you not be taking any notice of her,’ he said brusquely. They were like children, the pair of them, always scoring off each other.

  His wife studiously ignored him.

  Oh, let her sulk! he thought irritably as he marched out the door scowling.

  He went downstairs, took a can of beer from the fridge and went into the lounge and switched on the TV. The fire had died down so he threw a log on the embers and watched as a flame slowly took hold and began to crackle up the chimney. He could murder his mother sometimes. She went out of her way to antagonize and annoy Noreen. To be fair to his wife, she put up with a lot from Cora, without retaliating. But today, she’d got to her. Probably because Noreen was annoyed that he hadn’t taken her out to dinner.