The Better Woman

by Ber Carroll

‘Why did they have to take her body back to Donegal? Why didn’t they let her be buried here in Carrickmore with Dad?’

  ‘Well, all of her family was in Donegal . . .’

  ‘But I was here. Didn’t I count?’

  ‘Of course you did. Maybe I should have pushed harder, but I wasn’t feeling too strong myself . . . Tommy and Kathleen dead two years . . . you needing my care . . .’

  Peggy, her face a sheet of sadness, took a stitch. The wool slipped off her needle and her expression changed to one of annoyance.

  ‘Why didn’t they want to take me back to Donegal?’ Sarah persisted.

  Peggy, having recovered the dropped stitch, looked up. ‘That was never discussed.’

  The conversation ended there but it left another layer of blackness in its wake. In short, Sarah hadn’t been good enough for her mother’s family in Donegal. Just as she hadn’t been good enough to make her mother want to eat, to live. Just as she hadn’t been good enough for John’s mother or, when it came down to it, for John himself.

  The occasional letter came from France. John told her he was very privileged to be tutored by someone of Cécile’s calibre.

  She’s quite the character with her florid clothes and flappy upper arms. She calls me her ‘petit penguin’ – apparently I keep my arms too close to my body when I’m playing. She criticises every little mistake in her booming voice; it was daunting at the start but I’m used to it now – in fact, I’m in awe when she plays back my pieces to show me where I’ve gone wrong. If I could be half as good as her . . . She says I have the potential to be one of the best in the world, I just have to practise, practise, practise. So no holidays at Christmas or Easter for me; just practise. Why don’t you come and visit me instead? I can speak fluent French now and I should be able to nip away from the piano for long enough to show you the city the locals love.

  The underlying tone of his letters was friendship, not love. Sarah kept them in her bottom drawer but didn’t pen a response, and certainly didn’t intend to visit him. As far as she was concerned, it was better that they never spoke again. How could she face him? How could she hide the bleakness that was now her life? How could she hide that she still loved him, despite Vanessa, the baby, and everything else?

  Sarah turned over the exam paper and her eyes skimmed the questions. They seemed manageable; she wasn’t going to be punished for cramming a year’s study into a few weeks. She carefully reread the first question and began to write her answer in the booklet provided.

  Three hours later, the supervisor rang the hand bell.

  ‘Pens down. Please stay seated until I give you permission to go.’

  Sarah and the other students waited in the stuffy hall for a few extra minutes while their papers were collected.

  ‘What did you think?’ asked Tim Brennan as they walked outside.

  Tim was in her class. He was intelligent and, unlike most of the other boys, quietly self-assured. Sarah had vaguely noticed that he was rather attractive. On first look, there was nothing too remarkable about his near-black hair and pale skin. It was his eyes, dark and brooding, that made you look again.

  ‘It wasn’t too bad,’ she replied.

  ‘I thought it was tough.’

  Sarah looked at the faces of the students around her and realised that most of them, like Tim, weren’t very happy.

  ‘I really didn’t think it was too bad,’ she repeated sheepishly. ‘But then statistics, or any kind of maths, are my strength.’

  In truth, the exam had given Sarah a sense of achievement, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

  When she got home that evening, she went for a run. Her legs were stiff and jerky on the tarmacadam road. She climbed a gate. The grass was softer, kinder to her legs. Adrenalin kicked in. She’d almost forgotten how good it felt: a natural high.

  Economics was the next paper. Sarah was more focused. Some of the darkness had cleared from her head. She was smiling when time was called. Tim noticed.

  ‘You actually like exams, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s like an adrenalin rush,’ she admitted. ‘Not knowing what the questions will be, trying to decide which ones to answer, cramming it into the time allowed. I bet you think I’m weird.’

  He laughed, which she assumed meant that, yes, he did think she was weird.

  On the day of the last exam he asked her if she was coming for a drink with the rest of their class.

  Sarah hesitated. She’d promised Peggy that she’d be home by four-thirty.

  ‘I have to –’

  He jumped in before she could finish. ‘Come on, Sarah. You’ve kept to yourself all year. Why don’t you come to the pub and get to know the people you’ll be graduating with three years from now?’

  Suddenly she saw herself through the eyes of her classmates: moody, remote, unfriendly.

  ‘Okay,’ she agreed and put her satchel over her shoulder. ‘Lead the way.’

  The Western Star, the favoured pub of UCC students, was packed to capacity. Tim, after buying two beers at the bar, pushed a path through to the beer garden and joined a group with several familiar faces. Sarah knew some of their names, but not all. Self-conscious, she drank down her beer quickly.

  ‘Surprised to see you here,’ one of the girls remarked.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘There’s a first time for everything . . .’

  ‘We were just talking about our plans for the summer,’ said another, more friendly girl. ‘Are you going anywhere?’

  ‘No. I have to help my grandmother with her shop – she’s getting on and she relies on me for all the heavy work.’

  ‘Is that why you don’t hang around at the college much?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Any remaining animosity fizzled away under the hazy May sunshine. Sarah went to the bar next and, at huge expense, bought a full round of drinks.

  ‘Making up for lost time,’ she explained when she returned.

  Tim eyed the wine she’d bought for herself.

  ‘Not a beer girl?’

  ‘I’m good for one or two. Then I switch to wine.’

  ‘I’ll have to remember that for the future,’ he said, giving her a long, meaningful stare.

  Sarah, with a faint blush, started to talk to the girls once more. The friendly one, Emma, told her that she was going to spend the summer au pairing in the south of France. Sarah swallowed a large mouthful of wine. France. John. Would it ever stop hurting?

  The afternoon stretched into evening.

  I should call Nan to let her know where I am.

  But every time she looked over at the public phone booth, there was someone using it. Finally, it was free. She slid twenty pence into the slot and waited for Peggy to answer.

  ‘Hello.’

  Sarah could hardly hear her grandmother’s voice over the cacophony of music and loud voices around her.

  ‘Hi, Nan. Sorry, I should have rung sooner. I went for a drink after the exam was over – it’s been hard to drag myself away. I hope you weren’t worried.’

  Peggy responded but Sarah couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nan,’ she repeated. ‘Look, I’ll be on the last bus.’

  Again, Peggy’s voice was an indecipherable murmur. Sarah hung up, hoping that her grandmother wasn’t too angry with her.

  She turned away from the booth and came face to face with Tim.

  ‘Not calling a boyfriend, were you?’ he asked with a worried frown.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Before we get really drunk, and you think I don’t mean this, I want to tell you that I really like you, Sarah Ryan. Will you go out with me sometime?’

  Sarah returned his gaze. His eyes were magnetic. She felt as though she could get lost in them.

  ‘I’m complicated, Tim. Best not to get involved with me.’

  ‘What does complicated mean?’ he asked in his forthright way.

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  She did like Tim. The
re was something romantic about his pale skin and those dark, deep eyes. But he’d run a mile if he knew the truth about her.

  Emma gave Sarah a knowing wink when they returned to the group.

  She leaned forward to whisper, ‘You and Tim seem to be hitting it off, at last.’

  ‘What do you mean “at last”?’

  ‘Well, he liked you from day one. But he thought, we all thought, that you had a boyfriend.’

  ‘I did have a boyfriend,’ Sarah admitted, her voice choking despite her best efforts.

  ‘Sorry,’ Emma looked dismayed, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘It’s okay. It’s all over. Has been for ages.’

  Much later on, after promising Emma that she’d write to her in France and exchanging phone numbers with another girl, Fiona, Sarah said goodbye.

  ‘I have to make a run for my bus,’ she explained.

  The street outside was thronged with students, some going home, others heading off to the many end-of-term parties that were being held in the digs close to the college.

  ‘Sarah, hold on.’

  Tim had followed her out.

  ‘Can I walk with you?’

  ‘Okay,’ she shrugged. ‘But we have to be quick.’

  They set out at a brisk pace towards the heart of the city. Sarah’s senses were heightened and everything around her seemed more vivid, more immediate. The night air was deliciously warm, the sky a blanket of stars, the headlights of passing cars dazzlingly bright. She was drunk. But only a little. Just enough to be able to pretend for a moment that the last nine months of her life hadn’t happened.

  She kept a close eye on her watch.

  ‘I think I’m going to miss it . . .’

  ‘You can always get a taxi,’ Tim replied, already a little out of breath.

  ‘Not to Carrickmore – it would cost a fortune. We’re going to have to run . . .’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  She giggled. ‘No.’

  He caught her hand. ‘Right . . . marks, set, go!’

  Laughing, they raced the rest of the way, dodging pedestrians and lampposts. When they arrived at the bus station, the Carrickmore bus was already in its bay, the engine running.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you so,’ said Sarah, feeling awkward all of a sudden.

  ‘Bye, Sarah.’

  Tim lowered his head, his breath ragged. His kiss was gentle, hopeful. The bus’s engine began to rev and Sarah pulled back.

  ‘You won’t change your mind about going out with me?’ asked Tim.

  ‘No.’

  She got on the bus and sat on the side where she could see him. He waved as the bus pulled out of the station and she smiled the first genuine smile in a long time. At eighteen, it was perfectly normal to kiss a fellow student after a rake of alcohol. And that was all she wanted: to be normal again.

  Chapter 6

  Sarah worked full-time at the shop over the summer holidays. In the first few days it became blatantly obvious how much Peggy had been struggling on her own. All too often the heavy bundles of newspapers were carried in by a kind customer from where they were left on the footpath. And if something was needed from the top shelf, the customers would climb the stepladder themselves.

  Peggy sighed as she shuffled to and from the milk fridge. ‘It takes a while to get these old bones up and going.’

  ‘Why don’t you take the mornings off?’ Sarah suggested. ‘I can do them – it’ll be a nice change from working evenings.’

  Peggy agreed readily enough. They both knew that she wouldn’t be able to resume the morning shift when the summer ended, but they could deal with that problem when they came to it.

  Sarah, with a year of business education behind her, looked at the daily operation of the shop with fresh eyes and soon compiled a list of potential improvements: the fitting of modern space-saving shelving; an extension to the weekend opening hours; and, an idea that had been forming for some time, the installation of petrol pumps at the side of the premises.

  She enjoyed pulling all the numbers together. She asked the customers for their opinions. Would they come in if the shop was opened for a full day on Sunday? Would they buy petrol if it was available? She created best-case and worst-case scenarios and, after a few weeks of careful research, presented her findings to Peggy.

  ‘The petrol pumps have a dual benefit, Nan,’ she explained. ‘Not only would they bring in profit in their own right, but they would also attract passing trade.’

  Peggy’s eyes widened when she saw the numbers.

  ‘And you say that’s the worst-case scenario?’ she queried.

  Sarah nodded. ‘You see, there’s no petrol available in Kilnock, so I’ve made a conservative estimate that some of the residents will come here to fill up their tanks – and spend money in the shop while they’re about it!’

  Peggy knew a good investment when she saw one. ‘The bank will take some convincing – we’ve never been more in the red. And I’m too old to be haggling with those big oil companies. If we’re going to do this, then you need to manage it, Sarah – from start to end.’

  Sarah agreed, secretly proud that she had managed to sell such a significant investment proposal to her canny grandmother, and very excited that success of the project was down to her alone.

  After much to-ing and fro-ing with the bank and the planning office, the installation of the petrol pumps got underway. A monstrous digger excavated the side yard, and gleaming steel pipes were laid before the area was levelled and concreted. A canopy, costing twice as much as Sarah had budgeted, was constructed to shelter both the pumps and the customers from the elements. Glass doors were installed on the side of the shop, creating a new entrance.

  ‘I hope it will all pay off in the end,’ Peggy commented as she signed cheque after cheque.

  Sarah, feeling nervous about the escalating costs, hoped so too.

  The development ate up the entire summer and it was September before the pumps were ready for business.

  ‘Are you sure your prices aren’t more expensive than the city?’ asked Mr Glavin, the very first customer.

  ‘That’s our guarantee.’

  Sarah had understood right from the outset that the venture wouldn’t work unless their prices were competitive. Nuala was a vital cog in the price-setting process. She worked in retail, across the street from one of the biggest petrol stations in the city, and phoned every day with the prices.

  Sarah put up advertisements in Kilnock’s supermarket, post office and school. With the cost blow-out on the construction, the neighbouring village’s trade would play a vital role in the success of the venture.

  The first week’s takings were promising, the second week’s even better. By the third week, Sarah’s best-case scenario had been surpassed. She felt elated. As if her existence was finally worthwhile.

  As September drew to a close, Sarah focused her energy on convincing Peggy to take on an extra pair of hands.

  ‘I’m going back to university next week. You need help lifting things, especially in the mornings, when it’s so busy.’

  ‘But the cost –’ Peggy started to object.

  ‘We can afford it,’ Sarah cut in. ‘Thanks to the petrol pumps, we’re not just getting by, we’re making profit.’

  ‘But who –’

  The new doors slid open and Peggy stopped midsentence. Sarah glanced over to see who had come in. Black spots danced before her eyes.

  ‘John Delaney,’ Peggy beamed. ‘Well, would you look at you – aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.’

  Sarah felt herself tremble.

  Oh, my God. Why didn’t his mother mention that he was coming home? What can I say to him?

  Peggy had hobbled around the counter and was hugging John like a long-lost son. Sarah caught his eye. Then looked away. The trembling got worse, she was shaking all over.

  ‘And how are you getting on?’ she heard Peggy ask. ‘You must be a concert pianist by now.’

  ‘No
t exactly,’ John replied with a smile. ‘Cécile is so talented that sometimes I feel as though I’ll never reach her standard. But when she’s not yelling at me, she says I’m doing okay.’

  ‘Ah, go way outta that.’ Peggy slapped him playfully. ‘There’s no place in Carrickmore for such modesty.’

  They laughed, and a silence followed as they both turned Sarah’s way.

  ‘Are you busy?’ John asked her.

  ‘No,’ Peggy replied on her granddaughter’s behalf. ‘It’s only nagging me, she is. Take her away and give me some peace for an hour or so.’

  Peggy and John laughed again. Sarah thought she would cry if she tried to join in. She moved away from the protection of the counter. Conscious of her cut-off shorts and uninspiring T-shirt, she wished she’d known he was back. It might have helped if she was looking her best.

  The park seemed the obvious place to go. Mr O’Hara had been round with his mower that morning and the scent of freshly cut grass brought back poignant memories of the summer night when she and John had first kissed. If only she could turn back the clock. If only they had left it at kissing. How much sadness they would have saved.

  She glanced at him as he walked by her side across the neat grass. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his beige shorts, his head bent in thought. His white polo shirt enhanced the golden tan on his arms and highlights streaked his fair hair. She almost reached out to link his arm, like old times. The realisation that she had no right to touch him was like a douse of cold water.

  He’s not mine – hasn’t been for a full year now.

  They reached the oak tree and he leaned his back against the gnarled trunk.

  ‘So,’ he said, looking down at her. ‘Why haven’t you replied to my letters?’

  The old John would not have been so direct. This John was much more sure of himself. His face was longer and leaner. His eyes, staring at her, had a worldliness about them. His mouth looked ready to slip into fluent French at a moment’s notice.

  She shrugged. ‘Been busy. Study, the shop . . . you know how it is.’

  His navy eyes narrowed. ‘Have you met someone else? Is that it?’

  She grabbed at the idea, like a drowning swimmer to a floating branch.