The Better Woman

by Ber Carroll

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Someone from college?’

  ‘Tim,’ she improvised.

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Probably no more than you and Vanessa,’ she heard herself say and regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Mentioning Vanessa would entice a full confrontation. The last thing she needed.

  ‘How do you know about Vanessa?’ he asked, his smooth brow furrowing in a frown.

  She shrugged again. ‘Your mother.’

  His mouth tightened until it was nothing more than an angry line. ‘She’d no right to imply that Vanessa is my girlfriend. She knows well enough that she’s one of Cécile’s students – a friend.’

  His denial rocked everything that Sarah had believed for the last year, and undermined all the decisions she had made as a consequence.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘Nothing serious,’ was his less-than-satisfactory response.

  ‘Is that a yes?’ she pressed, needing to know.

  ‘I suppose.’

  So it wasn’t Vanessa, it was someone else. A change of name, but the facts were still the same: John was with another girl, there was no hope of reconciliation. Sarah realised that she was relieved. It would be terrifying to love him again.

  Feeling more in control, she turned the conversation to Paris and his studies.

  ‘Have you done any performances yet?’

  ‘I’ve played at the Conservatoire de Paris twice,’ he replied. ‘The last time Cécile invited a critic without telling me. It was quite a risk – my career could be squashed by a bad review.’

  ‘What did he say about you?’

  John grinned. ‘Don’t know if I caught the guy on a good day or what, but everything he wrote was positive.’

  ‘I’m sure you deserved it.’

  Sarah was proud of him. Putting the last few years aside, when their friendship had transformed into something else, this was the boy she used to play with in the park and sit with at the back of the school bus. It was amazing to think of him performing in a city known worldwide for its role in the evolution of music, and for its brutal critics.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said, her emotions on a slippery slope. She gave him a brisk hug.

  ‘Sarah . . .’

  She didn’t meet his eyes, afraid of what would happen if she did.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I –’ he faltered.

  She realised that in John’s mind they were breaking up now. He lived in a fairyland where you could date other girls and still keep the one back home.

  ‘It’s been over since you left last year,’ she told him in a hard voice. ‘This is just a formality, John.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Take care of yourself, okay?’

  It took everything she had to walk away from him, to cross the road and go inside the shop, leaving him standing there staring after her.

  ‘How about Brendan Fahey?’ she asked Peggy, picking up the conversation where they had left off earlier: the new shop assistant.

  Peggy looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose he’s reliable . . .’

  ‘And he’ll be glad of the work,’ Sarah added. ‘I’ll ring him tomorrow and ask –’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a loud engine pulling up outside: the delivery truck. Sarah was instantly busied with checking the delivery and, later on, stacking the new stock onto the shelves.

  Later on that night, while they watched Coronation Street, Peggy proved that she wasn’t so easily distracted.

  ‘He’s looking well, isn’t he?’ she commented.

  ‘Who?’ asked Sarah, her eyes frozen on the screen.

  ‘John, of course.’

  Sarah didn’t answer.

  ‘Is the romance back on between ye?’

  ‘There was never any romance,’ Sarah said quickly.

  ‘God love us!’ There was a smile in Peggy’s voice. ‘You must think I’m an awful fool altogether.’

  ‘Look, Nan, I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Peggy agreed in a reasonable tone. ‘But I’ve just got one thing to say . . .’

  Sarah gave a reluctant sigh. ‘Go on, so.’

  ‘This last year has been a hard one for you – I’ve seen how . . .’ Peggy paused, searching for the right word. ‘I’ve seen how down you were.’ Sarah was inordinately relieved that her grandmother hadn’t used the word depressed. ‘And now, just when you seem to have bounced back, he’s turned up. I don’t want to see you getting low again. Your mother . . .’

  Sarah finally took her eyes off the television. ‘My mother what?’

  Peggy heard the defensiveness in her granddaughter’s voice and changed tack. ‘John will be away for a number of years yet. Even when he’s finished in Paris, who’s to say he’ll ever come back to live in Carrickmore. You must ask yourself if you have the mettle for a long-distance relationship.’

  Sarah got to her feet and made a show of puffing the armchair’s cushions into shape. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Nan. John has a French girlfriend . . . and I’m seeing someone else too.’

  As she told yet another lie about Tim, Sarah resolved that she would at least go on one date with him when the term started up.

  Peggy, visibly relieved, reached out for her granddaughter’s hand.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. I want you to be like other girls of your age: having fun, staying out late. I was happy that you didn’t come straight home the day you finished your exams. I was happy that you stayed out with your friends.’

  ‘I thought you were angry with me.’ This was the first time Peggy had made mention of that day.

  ‘Why would you think that? Young people must do what young people must do. I remember when I was nineteen like it was yesterday. Times were hard, but we knew how to have fun. We tested the boundaries like any other generation . . .’

  There it was: the perfect opening. Sarah wavered; if she was ever going to tell her grandmother about the baby, it was now. She longed to get it off her chest, to cry in Peggy’s arms, to be forgiven. But she couldn’t – she knew it would shatter her grandmother.

  ‘I didn’t realise that you worry about me so much,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Only in some ways, love. You’re a great girl, really.’

  The Coronation Street music sounded from the TV. The show was over, as was the moment for confessions.

  Chapter 7

  Over the next year Sarah did everything to prove to herself, and her grandmother, that she knew how to have fun. She never turned down an invitation for a drink or a party, and the driver of the last bus came to know her by name. On the nights she missed the bus, which were frequent, she would stay at Emma’s mother’s house. Arms linked, she and Emma would stagger up Patrick’s Hill and fall in the door of the terrace. It didn’t matter how much noise they made, it would take nothing short of an earthquake to rouse Emma’s mother from her valium-induced sleep.

  Tim started the term with a steady girlfriend and Sarah lost the opportunity to go on a date with him. There were plenty of other boys, though, with their nondescript faces and sloppy kisses. She tried not to compare them to John but it was hard, especially when it was so hopelessly obvious that they couldn’t compete either physically or intellectually.

  ‘Are you determined to kiss every boy in UCC?’ Emma asked one night.

  Sarah giggled. ‘I’m just trying to find one who makes the world spin.’

  ‘You don’t need a boy for that,’ Emma quipped. ‘Just go and get yourself another drink!’

  Sarah laughed. On the inside, though, she wondered why the boys left her so cold. Had the passion she’d shared with John been for real? Would there ever be anyone who would come close to him?

  The student parties began to get more adventurous as the year went on. On one occasion, when Tim’s dad was away for the weekend, twenty or so of the class went to stay at the family farm. After some drun
ken nocturnal games in the hay barn, the rooster called the start of the next day. Fiona had the bright idea of joining the rooster on the roof of the chicken pen, which promptly collapsed under her weight. She landed on her bottom, the alarmed chickens flapping and squawking around her. The stories from that particular weekend were relayed over and over, and never failed to bring tears of laughter.

  On another weekend, the university social club hired a train to Tralee. Students lurched from carriage to carriage, drinking, cheering and singing. But when the train arrived at Tralee Station, nobody wanted to get off; they were having far too much fun. The organisers and railway staff conferred and decided to allow the party to continue at the platform. A few hours later, the train departed at its scheduled time and the party, still going strong, trundled back to Cork.

  Easter involved a rented house in remote Connemara and a few bottles of poteen; everything else was a blur.

  Parties aside, Sarah was very focused on her studies and her career, but she was still not entirely sure what area of business she wanted to work in when she graduated. She decided to attend the milkrounds to hear what the prospective employers had to offer.

  ‘The milkrounds are for students in their final year,’ Emma pointed out. ‘There’s no need for us to sit through hours of boring presentations. We can relax for another couple of years.’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘I’m interested, that’s all.’

  ‘And I’m interested too,’ said Tim, who had overheard their conversation. ‘I’ll go with you if you like, Sarah.’

  So Sarah and Tim went to the milkrounds together. They listened to the speakers, watched the videos and pored over the information packs. They agreed that all the employers seemed to promise fulfilling and successful careers. But one stood out above the others.

  ‘I think I want to work in banking,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Me too,’ Tim concurred. ‘All that money flowing in and out. Irresistible!’

  It wasn’t just their future careers, Sarah and Tim concurred on lots of things. Sometimes she caught herself regretting that she hadn’t gone out with him when he’d asked her. But it was too late now. Louise, his girlfriend, looked like she was going to be a permanent fixture.

  The end-of-year exams were staggered over two weeks of beautiful weather. The papers held a few surprises but Sarah was well prepared. The weather broke on the last day, hail pelting down, soaking them en route to the Western Star.

  ‘To think we were out in the beer garden this time last year,’ Tim commented, shaking white pebbles of hail from his dark hair.

  ‘To sunshine and the U S of A,’ toasted Emma when they had completed the arduous task of ordering drinks from the overcrowded bar.

  Sarah clinked her glass and tried to quell her envy. Emma, Fiona, Tim, and Louise were all off to New York for the summer. Tim and Louise had green cards; the others were hoping to work illegally. Sarah would have loved to go. But how could she let Peggy down? Who would cover for Mr Fahey when he took his hard-earned summer holidays? Who would catch up on all the book work that slipped Peggy’s notice these days?

  Not for the first time, Sarah was niggled with resentment that she was so tied to her grandmother and the shop.

  I can’t even take a summer off! How will I ever be able to get away to build my own career?

  The answer obviously had to do with continuing to increase the profits of the shop so that one day they’d be able to afford a general manager to run the place while Sarah followed her career.

  I’ve got two years till I graduate. Two years to build the profits. Two years to sell the idea of a manager to Nan.

  Sarah searched for a challenge to make up for missing out on New York, but with the petrol pumps running well and the extended opening hours long established, she could see no obvious area of improvement for the shop.

  Peggy was very apologetic about the state of the paperwork. ‘I’m sorry it’s in such a mess. My eyes become addled from all the numbers and I get headaches. Getting old is a very frustrating business!’

  Some evenings Nuala would call around and Sarah would temporarily leave the outstanding invoices and overdue tax returns to go for a ride in her friend’s new car. If the day was sunny they’d drive as far as Crosshaven and wince their way across the pebbled beach to the cold sea. If it was dull or raining, as it was more often than not, they’d go to the city. Sarah loved to walk through the wide-aisled supermarkets and study their merchandise. Nuala knew she was looking for ideas and wasn’t shy to put suggestions forward.

  ‘How about selling essential clothing like socks and underwear?’ she proposed one rainy evening as they strolled through Dunnes Stores.

  ‘I’m not sure they’d sell in any great quantities in Carrick-more,’ Sarah replied. ‘No, I need something that’s on the up-and-up . . .’

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Delaney’s pub is right across the road, remember?’

  ‘How could I forget!’

  They came to the last aisle.

  ‘Where to next?’ asked Nuala.

  ‘Why don’t we go to the Southside?’ Sarah suggested. ‘Where the posh people shop.’

  Nuala, not a very experienced driver, grimaced at the thought of crossing the city. ‘I’m not sure how to get there, but I’ll give it a try. We can only get lost, right?’

  Nuala had proved to be a staunch friend over the years and regularly put herself out on Sarah’s account. The only thing she refused to do was socialise with Sarah’s college crowd.

  ‘I’m the only one in this entire pub who’s not doing a degree,’ she’d pointed out the first and only night she’d met them. ‘I feel like a fish out of water. I know they’re all very nice, but I’m just not comfortable here.’

  As a result, Sarah usually saw Nuala on her own and they steered clear of grungy college bars. They talked about everything. Everything but the abortion. Even though it was never spoken of, the abortion had accelerated their friendship from the adolescent to the mature and bound them together in the way that only shared secrets can.

  After a few wrong turns and a lot of swearing, Nuala parked her little Fiat on the main street of Douglas village. It was worth all the effort as Sarah found the idea she’d been looking for.

  Peggy, as expected, was resistant at first.

  ‘Videos? Who in Carrickmore would want to buy videos?’

  ‘Not buy,’ Sarah corrected. ‘Hire.’

  ‘Buy, hire, what’s the difference? Don’t you need a contraption to play them?’

  ‘Yes, you do need a video player. I’d say practically every house in the area has one already.’

  ‘Go way outta that!’

  So Sarah asked the customers.

  ‘Do you have a video player?’

  ‘Would you be interested in hiring videos from us?’

  The answer, on both accounts, was a resounding yes.

  Peggy could hardly believe it.

  ‘If everyone has one of those contraptions, then why don’t we?’ she asked indignantly. Then she folded her arms. ‘Well, I’m not selling, or hiring out, something I don’t understand. So you’d better buy one so I can see for myself if it’s worth all the fuss.’

  Despite being too frail to do anything but serve at the shop counter, Peggy was still an astute businesswoman. It made perfect sense to buy a video player!

  Two weeks later Sarah’s new business venture got the big thumbs-up. Peggy considered the video player the best invention since sliced pan: being able to choose exactly what you wanted to watch and then pause, fast forward or rewind as suited, not to talk about recording off the TV.

  Sarah found a supplier for the video tapes and reorganised the shelving in the shop to accommodate them. She designed a poster and paid a printer to run off fifty glossy copies. Most of the posters went to Kilnock, but she also put a few in other villages further afield.

  Unlike the petrol pumps, the video business was slow to take off. The tapes often got damaged or weren’t returned on ti
me. Sarah soon realised that she had to strictly enforce late fees if she was to make any profit at all.

  Peggy, not too bothered with the meagre profits, became a home-based film critic. She watched each and every tape, putting a green sticker on the ones she liked. It took Sarah a while to cotton on that some of the new blockbusters weren’t getting Peggy’s Recommended sticker.

  ‘What’s wrong with Dirty Dancing?’

  ‘It’s not the right moral message to be giving young people,’ was her grandmother’s reply.

  ‘Nan, this isn’t a church youth club! It’s a business,’ Sarah said, exasperated. ‘Where are the stickers?’

  ‘They’re my stickers,’ Peggy stated, all high and mighty. ‘It’s my recommendation, not yours.’

  ‘Well, I’ll get my own then,’ Sarah threatened. ‘Red, I think, meaning Red hot love scenes. Recommended by me.’

  Peggy stuck to her guns. Sarah carried out her threat. It didn’t take the customers long to figure out the difference between the green and red recommendation stickers.

  One cold wet October night, at the start of Sarah’s third year of university, she locked up the shop and sat behind the counter to begin balancing the cash. She didn’t take much notice when it was fifty pounds out and proceeded to go through the numbers again. Twenty minutes later she finished all the adding and cross checking, the fifty pounds still unaccounted for.

  Did Nan give someone too much change? she wondered, but found it hard to believe.

  While Peggy openly admitted to becoming muddled with detailed paperwork, she was as sharp as ever when dealing with hard cash.

  Or maybe Brendan made a mistake?

  Mr Fahey, whom she now called Brendan, did make the odd mistake, but Sarah found it hard to imagine a scenario where an amount as significant as fifty pounds could be overlooked.

  Mulling it over, she stretched elastic bands around the wads of cash, bagged the coins and prepared the deposit slip for the following day’s lodgement. She carried the cash and deposit book through to the house, and locked them away in the strong box hidden beneath the kitchen sink.

  ‘We’re out fifty pounds, Nan,’ she said as she walked into the front room.