by Claire Allan
“I love you, Mum,” she said, hugging her mother tightly. “But I have to deal with this my way and you might not understand it, and I might not even understand, but I have to do it all the same.”
Mary nodded, hugged her daughter back and gave a small smile.
“The children will be up soon,” she said. “I was thinking of making scrambled eggs if you fancy some.”
“That would be nice, Mum. And then, this afternoon I thought we could call up to Letterkenny. I want to buy a new camera.”
33
Eimear walked into the living room, dressed to all intents and purposes as if it was a balmy summer’s evening and not the start of November.
“I’m just off out, Mum,” she said, lifting her bag and turning on her heels.
“Hang on just one minute,” Ruth said, her heart already sinking at the thought of the row that was sure to follow.
“Mum, I’m going to be late.”
The whining in Eimear’s voice made Ruth cringe.
“Late for what? It’s a Sunday night and you have school in the morning. Not to mention it’s freezing out there and you’ve no coat.”
And besides I need to tell you what a bollocks Ben is, Ruth added silently. She knew, just as mammies always knew, that now was not the time to trample all over love’s young dream. She would have a battle enough dealing with tonight. After a weekend being spoiled by Daddy Dearest, Eimear was in full-on spoiled diva mode.
“So if I put a jacket on, can I go?” Eimear asked, rolling her eyes to heaven.
For a second, just the briefest of moments, Ruth was tempted to let her go on out without one and live with the consequences of getting the inevitable dose after. Except Ruth knew that Eimear wouldn’t keep her illness to herself. She would do the full wilting-flower routine on the sofa while her mother ran rings around her – dosing her with paracetamol, Lucozade and ice pops for her sore throat.
“Put your coat on and be back by ten. You have school tomorrow.”
“But everyone else will be out till eleven!”
She tried not to say it. She felt it bubble up and she tried to push it back down, knowing that once the words were past her lips she would have officially become the boring old fart of a mum she dreaded being. And yet, it was almost as if the words had a power of their own. Many had said them before and many would say them again. Perhaps it was simply her destiny as one who had pushed a child from her fandango.
“If the rest of the world put their hand in the fire, would you do it too?”
“Mum,” Eimear said with an even more exaggerated roll of the eyes.
“Don’t ‘mum’ me. I said be back by ten, so be back by ten.”
“But, Mum!”
“But nothing. Do as you are told.”
Eimear stormed out without taking her jacket from the hatstand and Ruth swore at the front door.
“Mammy, that’s a bad word,” Matthew said, looking up from his Lego.
“I know,” Ruth said dejectedly and walked into the kitchen to switch on the kettle, kicking the table leg as she walked past and yelping in pain.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuckity, fuck,” she said under her breath, before sitting down. “And double fuck!”
She had known it wouldn’t have taken long for the calm to lift once the children were back, but she thought she could have at least lasted till morning without letting rip a string of expletives. There was no doubt she was losing her ability to think about things calmly and rationally.
If she didn’t keep her cool there was no way at all she would be able to talk to Eimear about anything. Long gone were the days when they used to be best friends – a real “me and my shadow” of mother and daughter, baking together, laughing together, walking everywhere hand in hand. Taking a deep breath, she poured her tea and sipped from it while staring out the window. It had started to rain and she was all too aware of the jacket still hanging at the bottom of the stairs.
Lifting it and putting on her own coat, she called to Matthew and Thomas that she wouldn’t be long and set out into the evening.
It was biting cold. She wondered if Eimear just did not feel the chill. Maybe she had been the same at seventeen – she couldn’t really remember – but now she loved the feel of her coat around her and the softness of her trusty gloves. Then again, she knew she was getting older. At thirty-seven she felt more like sixty-seven. She baulked at the thought that women at her age were just getting married now, just having babies, still going out clubbing and wearing short shorts and low-cut tops. She couldn’t imagine doing that. Then again, she couldn’t remember ever wearing short shorts. Such things were not allowed.
Even compared with Detta, and her funky out-there hippy style she felt fat and frumpy. Detta was like Ruth without the worry lines and cellulite.
Ruth knew where the young people usually met – at the old shelter near the beach car park – and headed straight there. She knew she would have to cover up her actions in some way. Eimear would rather die than her mother hand her a coat in front of her friends, so decided to offer her a further peace offering of some cash for chips for her and her friends. She fished about in Eimear’s jacket for her wallet and slipped a ten-euro note in it. It wasn’t really something she could afford but she was tired of the constant fighting between them now and wanted to start making amends.
Maybe, she thought, it would go some way to healing the rift between them so they could actually talk about things – like they used to. She could hear the laughing before she got there. Sensing she would look like an old fogy to their young eyes, she pulled her tummy in and stood tall. She could do the funky, young and trendy mamma thing if needed. She could be down with the kids. God knows she was even semi-competent at texting these days although she never quite got it why people seemed to hate vowels so much.
Painting a smile on her face, she walked towards the chattering voices and called out to her daughter who was sitting on a bench, her arms wrapped around Ben Quinn’s waist – laughing and joking and throwing her hair back in a distinctly flirtatious manner.
At first she felt sick at the sight – and she resolved that she really had to talk to Eimear about Ben and just exactly what he had been up to with Ciara and how badly he had treated her. But she knew she had to pick her moment. There was no point at the moment in trying to explain it to her. Eimear wasn’t in the frame of mind for listening and Ruth certainly was not in the frame of mind for yet another battle. No, she would tell her when things were calmer. For now, even though it galled her, she would have to grin and bear it and let her daughter wrap her arms around the most fertile boy in the village.
“Eimear!” she called. She had wanted it to sound light-hearted. She had wanted to sound like a cool mum, but she could not deny there was a hint of fishwife to her tone.
It seemed as if fifteen pairs of teenage eyes turned to stare at her all at the one time – and each and every one of them looked mildly disgusted that their craic had been disturbed by a grown-up.
Eimear, however, was clearly the most disgusted. She quickly unwrapped herself from Ben and stormed over to her mother. There was a glower in her eyes that reminded Ruth so much of James she had to take a deep breath and remind herself that it was she who had the control in this situation, even if it didn’t feel like it.
“Mu-um,” Eimear hissed. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought your wallet. You forgot it,” she said, gesturing to Eimear to follow her away from the crowd. “I brought your coat too,” she whispered. “It’s freezing, Eimear. I thought you would need it.”
“Oh Mum, you are so embarrassing,” Eimear hissed, grabbing the jacket, and turning on her heel she walked towards her laughing friends.
Standing at the edge of the beach, like a cold snotter, Ruth knew she had no options. No matter how she wanted to shout at her daughter to get her skinny little too-big-for-her-boots ass back over to her right there and then, she knew she had to just walk away. She had been naï
ve – downright stupid even – to think landing up near the beach was going to make things better.
If anything, she had just made it all worse. Biting back tears she turned and walked away and yet she wasn’t ready to go home. She didn’t want Matthew and Thomas seeing her in a state. They would only either get annoyed with her for being so soft on Eimear or annoyed with Eimear for being a bitch and either way there would be a row she just didn’t feel up to at that moment.
So she walked on and decided to drop in on the one person she knew was having an even shittier time than she was.
* * *
As she walked through the iron gates she couldn’t help but feel a little like Maria in The Sound of Music when she first visits the Von Trapps. Of course she had been here before but then she was there to check on Niamh and totally in control. She had been going to offer a listening ear with no other motive than to try and help her friend. Ringing the doorbell she stood back and waited for Niamh to answer. She contemplated the fact that she was probably an awful bitch for wanting to make herself feel better by losing herself in Niamh’s problems but then she did genuinely care for the girl.
The pair of them had so much in common, when she thought about it. They were a similar age and had both been treated horrendously by the men they loved. Although, looking at the manicured lawn and gorgeous stonework façade of the Quigley house, Ruth thought that Niamh had definitely got the best deal out of the two of them.
The door opened and Ruth was shocked to see Niamh stand before her – a dishevelled mess compared to her usual carefully groomed self. She was dressed in faded jeans, with a pair of Crocs on her feet. Ruth would never have thought Niamh would have been a Croc-wearing kind of a gal. She couldn’t see her ever wearing anything that wasn’t Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahnik or some other deliciously decadent designer brand. Niamh wiped her hands on her already stained T-shirt and ushered Ruth in. As she turned to lead her towards the kitchen, Ruth was sure she saw at least ten hairs out of place. No, no, this was not like Niamh at all.
She followed her into the kitchen where Niamh was already opening a bottle of wine.
“You look like you need it,” her friend said, turning round and setting a glass in front of her. “And it’s a good one. From Seán’s wine cellar. He would turn in his grave if he knew we were drinking it – he was so precious about the bloody stuff. I’m happy with Jacob’s Creek.”
“You look different,” Ruth said, eyebrow raised. There was an energy to Niamh she hadn’t seen before and she wasn’t quite sure if it was a good one or not.
“I’ve been cleaning all day. Sorting things out. Getting rid of some of the old shite from my life.”
Ruth was pretty sure if she raised her eyebrow any further it would float clean over her head and dance about like some fuzzy halo.
At that the phone rang and Niamh excused herself to answer it. Ruth took a slug of wine, allowing the ice-cold, crisp liquid to slide down her throat. She realised her heart had stopped thumping with the mixture of anger and embarrassment that had caused her to stomp into the middle of Niamh’s kitchen at gone nine at night.
Jesus, Niamh must think she was totally cracked. Ruth pushed her hair back from her face and looked around her.
The Bible says it is a sin to covet your neighbour’s ass, Ruth thought, wondering what he would think of her coveting a kitchen island instead. This was a room that looked as if it had come straight out of an Interior Design magazine. With its smooth lines, and granite worktops – complete with the Belfast sink Ruth had always dreamed of – it made her realise this truly was how the other half lived. For the love of God, the fridge even had a wee button you could press to get ice dispensed without even having to open the door. Ruth relied on a bargain set of ice-cube trays from Mrs Quinn’s, and of course she was the only person who ever remembered to fill them.
Ruth could only dream of such things. She threw back another slug of wine and pulled her coat off, noticing that her top looked misshapen and faded under the glorious spotlights of the designer kitchen.
Niamh walked back in, lifting her glass and clinking it against Ruth’s.
“That was my mother on the phone – she wants to know if I’m okay,” she said, sitting down and reaching for the box of Green and Black’s chocolates on the island. Stuffing a sweet into her mouth, she said: “Why won’t she believe that I’m perfectly fine? I feel as if a cloud has lifted – as if I’m seeing things properly for the first time in a long time.”
“You are acting a little bit, well, unlike yourself?” Ruth offered.
“No, you know, I think I’m acting exactly like myself – the real myself.”
Ruth looked behind her friend and saw a big pile of bin bags stacked up in the utility room.
“Is that the stuff you’re getting rid of?” she asked, nodding her head in the direction of the bin-bag mountain.
“All his stuff. Well, to be honest, most of his stuff.”
Ruth could see why Niamh’s mother was concerned. Sure she’d had a shock, but to clear everything out without fully coming to terms with his death? Ruth couldn’t help but feel her friend would live to regret it.
“Oh don’t tell me you’re concerned about me as well?” Niamh said with a hint of annoyance in her voice.
“It does seem a little sudden,” Ruth offered, trying not to aggravate the situation further.
“He’s dead almost four months. Am I to keep looking at this stuff? He has no need for it now, and neither do I.” Niamh’s eyes blazed. She seemed utterly determined that what she was doing was exactly the right thing.
Ruth was unsure whether to say anything more. She had enough of bearing the brunt of other people’s aggression today, so she just sipped her wine.
“Look,” Niamh offered, after a short pause, “I know that this looks a bit strange but, Ruth, I know what I’m doing. And I haven’t known what I’m doing for a very, very long time. This is my way of getting control – you know. Just sorting through his stuff, sorting out this house, doing what I can to feel less helpless than I have done.”
“Well then,” Ruth said, breathing out, “fair play to you.”
“Thanks. Now what can I do for you? Because trust me no one comes out here at night-time without a good reason. Come to think of it, no one tends to come out here at all. Except for the wake, they all crowded in for the wake. Secretly I think they wanted a good nosy.”
“Can’t say as I blame them,” Ruth said. “You have a lovely house.”
“It’s a great showhouse,” Niamh sniffed, “but it’s never really felt like home, if you know what I mean. That’s why this is so important to me. I want to make it the way I want. But anyway, it’s not about me now – how are you, Ruth?”
This was her chance, Ruth thought, to come clean and spill out her secrets. She could just tell Niamh and have it out in the open. Surely Niamh would be okay with it all – with the fact that her husband was an abusive twat and his daughter seemed to following in his footsteps.
She could easily tell Niamh that she had just been humiliated in front of a group of teenagers on the shorefront and that while everyone else in the Loonies seemed to be getting their lives together, hers seemed to be falling apart.
“Ach I was just out on a walk and decided to call in,” she said, knowing in her heart that she was bottling it but afraid of what might happen if she finally started letting out all the hurt. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Are you sure that’s it?”
“Absolutely,” Ruth lied, drinking back more wine. “Now tell me this, when you say you want to make the house the way you want it – you’re keeping the kitchen island? Aren’t you?”
Niamh laughed. “It is nice, isn’t it? Would you believe Seán flew to Italy for the granite? I told him there was plenty in Ireland, but oh no, Italian granite had to be the thing.”
“You know, I could believe that of him all right,” Ruth said.
34
Liam was lo
st in his thoughts. He was sitting, feet on his desk, tapping a pencil against his notepad. He was supposed to be doing the rota for the following two weeks, but he found himself staring out the window at the battering rain instead.
Poppy had skipped into school that morning and the morning before – filled with excitement about her trip to Derry, eager to tell her friends how Ruth and Detta had dressed up and they had the best craic ever. Liam was almost sick of listening to her going on about it, but the smile on her face each time she recalled the dazzling colour of a fireworks display or the way her Dorothy dress had swished when she twirled around made him bite his tongue.
Besides he had a warm fuzzy feeling about it all himself. Much as he had tried, and he had tried, he could not get Detta out of his mind. And part of him felt guilty because when he was thinking about Detta he was not thinking about Laura and just one week ago he would have given his left arm to have her back in his life.
Now though, well, now he wasn’t so sure. If she walked into his office now, got down on her knees and begged him to take her back he would actually have to think about it, and that empowered him. (Although he quite liked the thought of her on her knees in front of him.)
Christ, he thought, taking his feet off the desk and running his hands through his dark hair, here he was thinking about empowerment. Detta with all her new-age mumbo-jumbo, not to mention her gorgeous curly hair, was really getting under his skin.
