Something in Common

by Meaney, Roisin

  The only people who passed Malone’s gate were ones who had to, like the postman and the meter reader – and if there was an election coming up, a canvasser or two might ring his bell, but that was it. From what she could see, her neighbour was as friendless as herself.

  And she was fairly sure he hadn’t gone away. In all the years they’d lived beside one another he’d never travelled further than the supermarket. Probably afraid someone would break in and steal his ratty old furniture, or find his fortune under the mattress.

  She should probably call to make sure he was still alive. Wasn’t that what neighbours were expected to do, even if she didn’t give a damn whether he’d kicked the bucket or not? And she’d look a right idiot if he simply hadn’t noticed the dandelion, unlikely as that seemed.

  She could imagine Sarah heading up his path with a homemade apple pie and a face full of neighbourly concern. Pity he didn’t live next door to her. Shame Helen couldn’t put him in a box and ship him off to Kildare.

  Maybe he was starting to go gaga. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been out with his little trowel at the first sign of the dandelion. If that was the case, he’d probably tell her to mind her own business and slam the door in her face before going in to leave the cooker on all night, or wander around the neighbourhood in the nip.

  She’d leave well enough alone for the time being: if there was no sign of him over the next few days, maybe someone else would investigate. Hardly his other next-door neighbours – for as long as Helen had lived on the road, the house had been rented to various combinations of young women who, she was sure, hardly knew his name. But the meter reader might turn up and raise the alarm if he couldn’t get in, or the postman might spot letters still lying in the hall.

  She walked downstairs. He wasn’t Helen’s responsibility, and she had enough to do without worrying about him. She’d wait to see if any more dandelions appeared, or smoke started to pour out of a window. She could try cranking up the music for a few days, see if he reacted.

  In the kitchen, Alice flicked the pages of a magazine. A huddle of crockery sat in the sink from breakfast: perish the thought that she’d wash them up. Johnny Logan sang ‘Hold Me Now’ on the radio, practising for his second Eurovision in a week’s time. The man was addicted.

  Helen lifted out the plates and ran water into the sink.

  ‘I’m bored,’ Alice said, without looking up.

  ‘I’m not listening,’ Helen replied, reaching for the washing-up liquid.

  ‘Can I phone Karen?’

  ‘You can not.’

  Alice sighed loudly. Helen turned up Johnny Logan, and sang along.

  Sarah

  Sarah

  Hope this finds you as wonderfully happy as in your last several letters. Life here continues to be the barrel of laughs that it always was. I’m still man-less, not a sign of a fling since Toyboy decided to give his marriage another go. Imagine it’s nearly two years since he and I were making the earth move. Wonder if he’s still enjoying wedded bliss, or if she kicked him out again.

  You’ll be sorry to hear that my cranky neighbour has gone missing – no sign of him for about two weeks, and there’s a dandelion in his garden. In case you don’t get the significance of this, I should remind you how fanatical he is about that lawn – if he could roll it up and bring it in at night he would. I suppose I should check and see if he’s still in the land of the living, but the thought gives me hives. I’ll wait another while, hope someone else gets there first. (Don’t judge me: I’m kind in other ways. Well, I’m not, but if you knew him you’d understand.)

  On a cheerier note, I got a call last week from the manager of a chemist in our local shopping centre. Alice was caught with a couple of unpaid-for lipsticks in her pocket. I squeezed out a few tears and played the poor widow card, and she was let off with a warning never to darken their door for the rest of her life.

  She’s grounded for two weeks, not allowed to step outside the house after school, and no phone calls either. I can’t decide who’s being punished more, her or me. She swears she never did it before: I told her I’m more concerned that she never does it again. But she will, watch this space.

  I don’t think I mentioned that I found cigarettes in her coat pocket last month. What could I say, except that I didn’t start until I was older than her? I didn’t add that I was just a year older at seventeen (sorry, shocked you again). I’ll just have to hope she doesn’t move on to anything more sinister than ciggies.

  Wonder what I did to deserve this kid. I thought puberty was bad – remember the meltdown when I wouldn’t let her get her ears pierced at thirteen, and the time she put that bleach in her hair and it went bright yellow, and that whole business with the history teacher, to mention just a few highlights?

  The only chink of light is her art. She’s definitely got talent – and that’s not maternal blindness, believe me – and she’s mentioned art college a few times, but I’ve told her without a few more subject passes she hasn’t a hope of getting in. Inter Cert in three weeks and she’s finally doing a bit of study, but I’m not holding my breath. The scary thing is, she reminds me a bit – a lot – of me when I was that age, except that I was nicer. (I think.)

  You wouldn’t like to swap, would you? No, didn’t think so – and I’m not sure I’d want to go back to the start anyway. Be happy with your little bundle of joy while you can – as far as I recall, Alice was fairly manageable up to about two and a half. That gives you another six months of baby-honeymoon.

  Sarah laid down the letter, smiling. She smiled a lot these days. Everything made her smile. Even the thought of Alice slipping a couple of lipsticks into her pocket didn’t unduly upset her. Silly girl: but there were worse things she could be doing, and she was still only sixteen, she’d surely grow out of it. Maybe Sarah should write to her again; maybe she just needed someone to show an interest in her.

  She stretched her arms over her head, relishing the unaccustomed peace, the precious solitary cup of tea. The others would be back soon and she’d have to think about what to cook for lunch – something without cheese, which she seemed to have gone off lately – but for another few minutes she was happy to sit and marvel at the way everything had turned around for them over the past few years.

  Who would have thought that one small child could change their lives so very much? The house hadn’t been clean, not properly clean, for well over a year. The sitting room had become a jumble of toys, jigsaws, books, playpen, miniature jackets, hats and shoes, teething rings, doll’s pram, buggy, tricycle – you had to pick your way through them to get to the sofa. The carpet, what you could see of it, was stained in several places, the tiles around the fireplace constantly smeared with small fingerprints.

  Most of the kitchen worktops had been commandeered by bundles of dribblers, stacks of nappies and jars of powders, creams and lotions devoted to the business of warding off nappy rash, eczema, flaky scalp and a myriad other baby-related conditions. In the freezer, miniature tubs of homemade ice-cream and stewed fruit nestled among the salmon cutlets, minced beef and chicken fillets.

  Upstairs was no better. The bath was piled with cloth books, rubber ducks, star-shaped sponges, plastic boats and a little yellow watering can. In Sarah and Neil’s room the bed had been joined by a cot, a changing mat, a rocking chair and yet more toys.

  After much deliberation, Sarah had decided to keep her job but reduce her hours – now she worked mornings only, finishing straight after she’d plated up lunch, and getting home by half past two. Shorter hours, smaller pay packet – and less time with the residents, which was the hardest part.

  But home life was wonderful, better than it had ever been. And today was Saturday, and for once Neil didn’t have to work, and it wasn’t raining. This afternoon they were going to Christine and Brian’s house for Tom’s seventh birthday, and later she and Neil would watch the Eurovision, Johnny Logan the Irish entry for the second time. Not that he’d win again – nobody could win th
e Eurovision twice – but she couldn’t care less if Ireland came last.

  She heard the front door being opened and she rose immediately and went out to the hall, where her husband was manoeuvring a buggy across the threshold. ‘You’re back,’ she said, bending to kiss the wonderfully soft, beautifully warm and rosy cheek of her little daughter.

  ***

  Dear Alice

  Remember me? I’m your mum’s penfriend, the one who sent you Alice in Wonderland a few years ago. You wrote me a very nice letter in return. In fact, I still have it. I just thought I’d drop you another line, see how you were doing.

  I can’t believe you’re sixteen already. I don’t remember very much about being sixteen, it’s so long ago! But one thing I do remember is watching a singer called Butch Moore singing for Ireland in our very first Eurovision, around the time I was fifteen or sixteen – gosh, that makes me sound really ancient, doesn’t it? Were you watching the Eurovision last week? Imagine Johnny Logan won it again, I was sure he wouldn’t.

  I don’t know if your mum ever talks about me, but if she does you’ll know that my husband and I adopted a little baby girl two years ago, and I can honestly say that my life has been utterly changed by her. Even though I’m not her natural mother I don’t think I could possibly feel any more love for her if I was. Before I even considered adopting, your mum said something in a letter that I’ll never forget. She said if I adopted a baby, it wouldn’t take more than five minutes for me to fall in love with it – I’m guessing it was the length of time it took her to fall for you – and she was right!

  I’m sending a photo of her, so you can see how adorable she is. We called her Martha after my mother, who died nine years ago. My sister is really jealous – she has three boys, and would love a daughter! Your mum is so lucky to have you. She often mentions you in her letters.

  Well, I’d better stop – sorry for going on about Martha so much, I can’t help it!

  All the very best,

  love Sarah xx

  PS You don’t have to write back, honestly!

  Helen

  ‘So how’s school? You’re getting on all right?’

  Alice lifted a shoulder. ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘You won’t feel it now till the Inter Cert – three weeks, is it?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Two? You’ll be glad when it’s over, I’d say.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘What’s your favourite subject?’

  ‘Art.’

  Her grandfather’s smile dimmed somewhat. ‘Art. I see.’

  Helen sat in her parents’ kitchen, happy to let her father struggle through a conversation with his only grandchild while she sipped coffee and thought about Malone.

  The dandelions plentiful now, almost a month since she’d spotted the first. Still no sound from next door, no reaction to Meatloaf at full volume for two hours yesterday afternoon. His cat mewing outside Helen’s back door last evening until she’d thrown the dustpan at it. Something was up, and she might be the only person who’d realised it.

  ‘Some more?’

  Her mother stood beside her, holding the coffee pot. Still elegant at seventy-six, still capable of keeping the four-bedroom Dalkey home running smoothly for herself and the retired judge.

  ‘No thanks,’ Helen said. Every time she and Alice visited, a coffee refill was offered and declined.

  Was he dead? Was he lying in a heap with a broken neck at the bottom of the stairs, or slumped across the kitchen table with a fishbone in his throat? She should have investigated before now, even if he was a gnarly old goat. If he’d died before the first dandelion had shown up, he’d be mouldy by now.

  Nearly a month, Jesus, and she’d done bugger all about it.

  ‘Helen.’

  She looked up.

  ‘I asked,’ her father said, ‘if you’d read any good books lately.’

  Books, the last resort of the desperate conversationalist. Maybe she should tell him about his granddaughter’s recent brush with criminality: that would kick-start a lively exchange.

  ‘Only a few I had to review, nothing worth mentioning,’ she said, pushing back her chair. ‘Well, we’d better get going, Alice has revising to do. Thanks for the coffee.’

  They stood side by side at the front door as Helen drove off, waving at the little Fiat until it was out of sight. As relieved, no doubt, to be rid of them as Helen and Alice were to be making their escape. The tyranny of family ties, condemning them to maintain some form of contact as long as they all should live.

  Helen turned onto the main road. ‘Do you want to be dropped in town? Are you meeting Karen?’

  The grounding period had ended the day before: peace of sorts had been restored to the household.

  ‘She’s gone to Kilkenny to stay with her dad.’

  ‘So you’re coming home, then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Helen approached a roundabout and signalled right. ‘Have you seen Mr Malone lately?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘No reason. He doesn’t seem to be around.’

  Silence. Helen entered the roundabout, wondering again what had prompted Sarah to send a second letter to Alice.

  It had arrived the day before. Helen, seeing the familiar writing, the purple ink, had almost opened it before she’d realised it wasn’t addressed to her. Not another package, just an envelope this time. Nothing in it but a page or two, by the feel of it. She’d held it up to the light and hadn’t been made any wiser. She’d have to wait until Alice got home.

  But Alice had taken it without comment and brought it upstairs, and no mention of it had been made for the rest of the evening. Helen vowed not to ask: Alice was sixteen, and entitled to her privacy. Still, she wondered what Sarah had had to say. She turned onto the road that ran along by the canal.

  ‘Have you any photos of me?’ Alice asked suddenly.

  It was unexpected. ‘Photos? You mean your school ones?’

  ‘No, when I was a baby. Did you take any?’

  A scatter of raindrops hit the windscreen. Helen flicked a switch and the wipers scraped against the glass. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘We took lots of photos – well, your father took them mostly, he was much better than me. He took piles of them.’

  The camera had never been far from Cormac’s hands, those first few hectic months. Alice asleep, nestled against Helen’s chest. Alice yawning, her whole face getting involved. Alice crying, Alice feeding, Alice lying on her back, looking solemnly at the line of plastic animals that dangled on a line of elastic above her.

  And later, Alice sitting on the kitchen floor, propped up by cushions. Alice crawling, Alice pulling herself up to standing, Alice dragging a doll around the garden by the hair, Alice in a high chair, clapping podgy hands at a cake with two lighted candles that sat on the tray in front of her.

  There must be dozens, more than a hundred maybe. Helen had forgotten all about them, hadn’t looked at them in years. Hadn’t laid eyes on the camera in years either, hadn’t a clue where it was. She wondered why Alice was asking about photos out of the blue.

  ‘Can I see them?’

  ‘Of course you can. They’re in my room. I’ll bring them down when we get home.’

  After Cormac’s death the photos had stopped. No, they’d stopped before that, when he became too weak to hold the camera, and by then the last thing on Helen’s mind had been taking photographs. In fact, she was pretty sure she hadn’t taken a single photo of Alice since then – which was probably, now that she thought about it, a bit shameful. One more reminder of her pathetic parenting skills.

  There were half a dozen albums, covered with fake white leather and pushed to the back of the wardrobe shelf, behind a tumble of tights and scarves, and a scatter of discarded paperbacks. Helen brought them downstairs and laid them on the kitchen table.

  ‘Here you go.’

  She lit a cigarette and leant against the windowsill, studying her daughter’s profile. Alice turned the page
s slowly, head bent, looking intently at the snaps. Her pale hair was cut high on her forehead – she’d butchered her long fringe without warning one day – and short as a small boy’s at the back. As she examined the photos, she scratched absently at a scab on her left wrist.

  Her nails were bitten, a Fitzpatrick family trait. Alice had a small dark freckle, or a mole, at the point where the side of her neck met her right shoulder. Shoved up on her arm, almost to the elbow, was the thin, gold-plated bangle Cormac’s mother had sent her for her last birthday.

  ‘I remember that doll,’ she said, ‘but I forget what I called her.’

  ‘Juju.’ The name came to Helen without thinking. ‘She was Julie, but you couldn’t manage it. You wouldn’t go to bed without her. We left her on Sandycove Beach once. You screamed the place down till we drove all the way back. She was sitting on the sea wall: someone had wrapped her in a plastic bag.’

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  Juju had been a present for her first birthday from Rick, the lead guitarist in the band, and his wife Jenni. After Cormac’s death they’d drifted away, like everyone else. Better things to do than keep in contact with the piano player’s widow and little girl. Bookings to fulfil, parties to go to.

  Alice turned another page. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My face is covered in ice-cream, or yogurt, or something.’

  Helen smiled. ‘You were a baby. That’s what they do.’

  Look at them, having a normal conversation. Nobody scowling, nobody giving out. When had that ever happened? Helen felt the top of the sill against the back of her thighs as she watched her daughter turning the pages slowly. She remembered Cormac coming home from town with each wallet of photos, spreading them out on the table. The look on his face as he’d gazed at them.

  ‘He’s not in any of them,’ Alice said suddenly, on the last album. ‘My dad.’

  The brushing-up against Helen’s thoughts was disconcerting. ‘That’s because he took most of them,’ she said. ‘But he’s in some, isn’t he?’