Two Fridays in April

by Roisin Meaney

  They’ve eaten Thai lamb curry and wild rice, and followed it with fruit salad and George’s special brown-bread ice-cream. Daphne has taken possession of earrings, half a dozen crystal wine glasses, two books, homemade truffles, bath oil and a pair of red gloves in soft, soft leather.

  Josh’s head droops towards his largely uneaten finger of cake. Una gets to her feet. ‘I’ll put him to bed.’

  She gathers him, unprotesting, into her arms. ‘Bob,’ he says drowsily against her shoulder, and Una glances towards the little pup, out for the count in the new pet bed beneath the radiator.

  ‘You’ll see him tomorrow,’ she whispers, ‘he’s fast asleep now’ – and Josh’s eyelids slide down as she carries him out of the room.

  ‘Go with her if you want,’ Louise tells Theo, and he makes his grateful exit.

  The seven remaining guests sit on. Coffee cups are refilled, more cake cut and doled out. Conversation breaks into splinters around the table.

  ‘Daphne looks happy,’ her mother remarks.

  ‘She does,’ her father replies. A few seconds pass as they both observe their daughter, still in conversation with Louise. In their various pots the white candles flicker lazily, making shadows dance in corners.

  ‘And you?’ Jack asks then, turning to his ex-wife. ‘Are you happy?’

  Isobel looks at him in astonishment.

  He waits. Time passes. She tilts her head, thinking.

  ‘I am,’ she says finally. ‘Quite happy,’ she adds. ‘Probably more,’ she says, with a small laugh, ‘than I deserve to be.’ Another small silence, but an easy one, falls between them. ‘How about you, Jack?’

  He smiles down into his coffee. ‘I’m doing all right,’ he replies eventually. ‘I’m glad we’ve got to this. The two of us, I mean. I’m glad we can get along like this now.’

  ‘Yes … me too.’

  She threw away her life with him. She’s older and wiser now. It could have gone another way, it might have ended differently if she’d given them more of a chance. If she’d focused more on what she had, rather than what she didn’t have.

  ‘We might have a cup of tea sometime,’ he says. ‘Or lunch, maybe. Just us, I mean. For old times’ sake.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  Just us. He doesn’t mean anything by it. They’re parents together, they’ll always have that connection. He’s being friendly, keeping the door open between them. And for her part she enjoys his company; she likes being around him. That’s all there is to it.

  All the same, she’ll wear her blue trouser suit. She always feels good in that.

  ‘My point,’ Louise says, ‘is that dogs and people’s beds don’t mix. All that shedding hair, not a bit hygienic.’

  ‘Your sister is very harsh,’ George tells Tom. ‘Did you have no pets growing up?’

  ‘We had a cat,’ Tom tells him. He turns to Louise. ‘Remember Sissy?’

  ‘God – Sissy. He killed anything that moved.’

  ‘Sissy was a he? A killer he-cat called Sissy?’

  ‘Short for Sisyphus,’ Tom says. ‘That cat was lethal – remember the baby hedgehogs, Lou?’

  ‘God, I’d forgotten them – and all the poor birds. Nothing was safe. And he terrorised that small dog up the road – poor thing would run a mile when he saw Sissy coming.’

  George grins. ‘Maybe we should get a Sissy,’ he says to Louise. ‘Spice up the neighbourhood.’

  She looks at him sternly. ‘No Sissy, just Bob.’

  They turn in unison towards the sleeping little bundle that is Josh’s new pup.

  ‘Bob,’ Tom says thoughtfully – and all three laugh.

  The burst of laughter is infectious. Seated on Tom’s left at the head of the table, Mo does her best to produce a smile, but she can feel the lopsided thing that results. After seventy-six years of more or less faithful service, her body – or rather, half of it – has decided to call time.

  Lie still, Martha said when it happened, when Mo’s speech started all of a sudden to thicken and slur, when a terrifying sludgy numbness began to ooze its way down her left side, and an accompanying dizziness folded her to the floor just as she was getting to her feet to go out for her cigarette.

  Lie still, Martha said, turning to throw a shout over her shoulder – Ambulance! Quick! – to whoever was there. Lie still, she repeated, holding on to Mo’s hand, her suddenly useless left hand. Don’t talk, she ordered, when Mo tried to say she wanted to get up. Nothing coming out but gobbledegook, nothing that you could call a word issuing from a mouth that didn’t feel like her mouth any more. Just lie still, the ambulance is coming.

  Someone pushing something under Mo’s head. Someone loosening her shoes, unbuttoning the top of her blouse. A blanket that smelt of mouldy leaves being tucked around her. Martha kneeling on the floor, kneading Mo’s hand like it was dough. You’ll be OK, she kept repeating. Help is coming, don’t you worry.

  Gretta appearing to gape down at Mo, her face full of fright, asking what was wrong, Martha snarling something at her that made Gretta go away. The whole left side of Mo gone now, as if someone had sliced her in two and taken half of her away. A drumming in her head, Martha shouting for tissues, dabbing at Mo’s chin. You’ll be fine, Mo. Help is coming, they won’t be long now.

  The scream of the siren as the ambulance sped her to hospital. A racing trolley, white ceilings speeding by, lights shining too brightly, loud voices, faces bending towards her, questions she couldn’t answer. Tests, X-rays, don’t move, Mo, don’t try to talk, Mo, just lie still, Mo, can you feel this, Mo? People she didn’t know, strangers in blue overalls, in white coats, all calling her Mo. White sheets, too many pillows, drink this, Mo, dribble, dribble onto the white sheet. Don’t cry, Mo, you’re all right now.

  Daphne, sometime later, looking fearful like Gretta. You’ve had a stroke, Mo. Sitting beside the bed, holding her hand in the way Martha had. The counsellor – Tom – standing by her chair, him and Daphne together now.

  Mo had parted company with him, her last session at the end of October almost a year to the day since her first.

  I think you don’t need me any more, he said, and she realised he was right. He shook her hand and said she could always come back if she felt he could help her again, and off she went, thinking they’d probably seen the last of one another. Even when Leo died, just a few weeks later, she hadn’t gone back: there was no anger this time, just a pure and simple sadness that she knew she could find a way through by herself.

  But when they held a little party the evening before the craft shop had its official opening, there the counsellor was among the assembled press and invited guests, talking to Daphne as if they knew one another well.

  Tom Wallace, Daphne said, and he shook hands with Mo and said hello like they’d never laid eyes on one another, and she didn’t let on either. Turned out he and Daphne had met months earlier, when he was selling a house – this very house, as it happened – and it would appear that things had developed between them.

  At first Mo had felt angry. Finn was being replaced, his marriage to Daphne cast aside like a used-up battery. But then logic prevailed: much as Mo would wish it otherwise, Finn’s marriage had ended the day he died. And Daphne was young, and she deserved the second chance that Finn had been granted.

  You’ll come to us, Daphne said, sitting by the hospital bed. As soon as you’re ready, you’ll come to Una and me. We’ll look after you until you’re able to go back to your own house. And Mo could feel a hot trickle running down her good cheek – such a cry baby she’d become – and she opened her mouth to say thank you, but of course nothing intelligible came out.

  The days and weeks that followed were full of therapy. Physiotherapy and occupational therapy and speech and language therapy, men and women manipulating her useless left side, encouraging her to make sounds, Mo, do exercises, Mo, urging her not to give up, to try again, Mo, I know it hurts, Mo, but try one more time. Try, Mo. Just for me, Mo.

  Daph
ne came every day, sometimes with Tom, sometimes without. Una and Isobel and George came too, and Martha and a few others from the charity shop. They brought grapes and magazines and flowers and chocolates. They sat by her bedside and told her how well she was looking, how well she was doing. You’ll be home in no time, they said, smiles stretching their mouths as they looked anywhere but at her twisted-sideways face.

  Six weeks tomorrow it happened. Six weeks of torturously slow progress, six weeks of trying to teach her muscles and her vocal cords all the things they’d known before. It’ll take time, they tell her. You’ll get there, they tell her. You’re doing great, they tell her.

  Liars – but she’s coping, like she’s always done. Her brain is still intact, praise the Lord. She still sees what’s going on, she can still make herself understood. It could be worse, as she well knows.

  They’re letting you come to my birthday dinner, Daphne said, a few days ago. The dinner Mo had been planning to host, Una coming to help her with the cooking, all arranged.

  Tom and I will collect you and drop you back, Daphne said. It’ll be like a trial run, see how you get on, see how you manage. Mo is out on loan tonight, her hospital bed waiting for her return.

  The wheelchair came with her, folded up in the boot of Tom’s car. Not yet able to get around without it, her left leg still learning how to hold her up again, despite the daily pulling and massaging, the painful bending and stretching.

  Her talk hasn’t come back, there’s been no progress at all there. When she opens her mouth, some language that nobody can understand still issues from it. Keep trying, the speech therapist urges – but to tell the truth, Mo has no great desire to speak again. Living in silence, she has discovered, is so wonderfully liberating. No more foolish small talk, no more arguing, no more putting her foot in it and upsetting someone.

  And if she wants to have a chat, there’s always Leo. She’s found him again, now that she’s locked away like he was. And when she talks to him she can feel him listening. She can see his face turned towards her, his eyes really taking her in, his mind restored. He’s the Leo she fell in love with, and it’s such a comfort to have him back.

  He understands her perfectly. He’s the only one who does now.

  It took a while to convince Daphne, but she came round. It’s changed a lot since your day, mind; you’d hardly recognise it, but it’s doing well. You wouldn’t believe the things people will buy – toasters with flowers painted on them, spotty egg-cups, clocks with the numbers all jumbled up. And the prices – you’d feed a family of four for a week on what they’re charging for a picnic basket. A picnic basket!

  Daphne’s mother is working there. You never met her, bit uppity, but good behind the counter, I have to say. Two broken marriages. Good looking I suppose, but can’t keep a man. Hard to live with, I’d say. Too pernickety.

  Una works in the shop on Saturdays. She loves it. Always hunting down new stock, she spends nearly all her time on the Internet – I’d say she’s doing no study for that Leaving Cert. She says all she wants to do is work full-time in the shop when she leaves school, and how could we object to that, you and me? She’s carrying on what you started, she’s keeping it alive.

  She’s taking driving lessons, if you don’t mind. Apparently Jack is teaching her. Not that I approve of her getting a car at eighteen – far too young – but she’s delighted with it, and at least Jack can be trusted to make sure she learns right. It’s a Morris Minor – remember the grey one we had, years ago when Finn was small?

  She has a boyfriend now, imagine. He’s been around for a while but I haven’t met him yet. Someone from her school, I believe. Nice lad, Daphne says. Quiet.

  Daphne has someone too. He’s a good man, like you. He helped me after Finn, he listened to me when I needed someone. He’ll treat her well.

  There’s so much to talk about. She never runs out of things to tell him.

  She’s tired now, her bad eye drooping. She listens to the conversations drifting around her as she reaches with her good hand for the last piece of cake on her plate. She transfers it carefully to her mouth, chews it slowly on her good side the way she’s been taught. She wonders when they’ll bring her back, let her go to bed.

  She catches a look that passes between the guard – Louise – and George. Daft about each other they are, like herself and Leo in the good days. She’s glad for George, he deserved someone nice. She’s glad he got Louise, who hadn’t forgotten Mo after all.

  I knew who you were the minute I saw you, she told Mo last year, when George let it be known that he was part of a couple, and brought her around to Mo’s to show her off. It’s not something you forget, she said, when George was gone to the loo and she and Mo were alone. You don’t forget bringing someone that kind of news. I said nothing when we met again, I didn’t want to go upsetting you.

  She’ll be kind to George, she’ll look after him. As for Una’s young man, hard to have an opinion on him when he hardly opened his mouth all evening. But Una certainly seems keen, and Daphne hasn’t objected. Watch that space is all they can do there.

  And Daphne and Tom will surely walk up the aisle in time … and Mo wouldn’t rule out a rerun of Jack and Isobel, if the sheep’s eyes Isobel is making at him tonight is anything to go by. Poor man might well fall for her a second time, and good luck to him. Worse things have happened.

  ‘Mo.’

  She looks up. Tom lays a hand on her arm.

  ‘You tired? You want to go?’

  He knows, he always knows. She nods.

  ‘I’ll get your coat.’

  While she waits she looks around the table, taking them all in. She scans the faces, sees the friendship and love, hope and forgiveness that they show. She must remember, so she can tell Leo tomorrow.

  She must remember everything.

  Daphne, lowering her coffee cup, thinks how much Finn would have enjoyed this. He always loved dinner parties, people gathered around a table sharing food and conversation.

  She glances at Mo, who looks tired. She sees Tom lean towards her, watches their brief exchange. He gets to his feet, meeting Daphne’s eye: she nods in response to the question he hasn’t needed to ask.

  As she waits she regards her parents, seated across the table from her, side by side. Nice to see them at ease finally in one another’s company, after their fraught history. Isobel looks well, as she always does. Tailored shirt in an apricot shade, hair freshly cut and gleaming, figure still trim at sixty. Watch her, tipping her head to one side with a half-smile on her face, considering something Daphne’s father has said to her. You could almost be forgiven for thinking they were flirting.

  ‘Daphne.’

  She looks up. Tom has Mo’s green coat draped across his arm.

  ‘Stay,’ he says, ‘I can bring her back, you wait for Isobel or Jack’ – but she gets to her feet: it’s time to go home.

  As she gathers her things Una and Theo reappear, ready to leave too. There’s a general pushing back of chairs then, a jangling of car keys. Coats and jackets are found and donned, Mo’s wheelchair retrieved from the hall. They move in a still-chatting mass towards the front door, where a flurry of thanks and goodbyes ensues.

  Mo is installed in the front seat of Tom’s car, Daphne sits behind. Just before they take off, Daphne meets Tom’s eye for an instant in the rear-view mirror.

  He winks. She smiles. So dear to her he has become.

  She sits back and recalls the first time they met outside this very house, when he was late and she was caught in the rain, cold and cross and grieving.

  She remembers the drop of her heart when she realised that the Beetle was gone, and the useless trip in Tom’s car – this car – to the cemetery. She remembers the kindness of his sister Louise, making tea for her when she broke down at the police station. She recalls the forgotten fancy chocolate birthday cake, and its bright pink substitute. Into the bin, out of the bin.

  She remembers Una’s disappearance, the fright s
he got when Ciara told her she hadn’t seen her at school. The wash of relief when she walked into the bicycle shop and saw her safe, making her realise that it wasn’t just Finn she’d grown to love.

  Such a day that was, a little over a year ago. Such a mix of good and bad, for each of them. Such a different year they’ve all had since then; a year of new beginnings, and laying the past to rest. Not that there aren’t still challenges to face, obstacles to overcome – but the bulk of their sadness is behind them, she’s sure of it. And Mo, with her indomitable spirit, will fight her current battle, and will win.

  They’re all looking ahead now. They all have everything to hope for now.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to all who contributed in any way, big or small, to the making of this book. In particular I want to give a mention to my very attentive and encouraging editor Alison Walsh and all the usual (and lovely) suspects at Hachette Books Ireland; my agent Sallyanne Sweeney of Mulcahy Associates who was there giving support at every turn; my copy editor Hazel Orme and my proofreading brother Aonghus Meaney, who both performed their usual miracles; the wonderful Tyrone Guthrie Centre in County Monaghan, which took me in for a week of final tweaking; my computer-savvy brother Ciarán Ó Maonaigh, my accountant friend Agnes Keane, marketing guru and pal Sharon Noonan, Helena Carey in Kerry and Mike O’Connor in Clare, who all helped me with my research – and most of all, a big thank you to you, kind reader. Without you, I’d be a bit redundant!

  Roisin xx

  www.roisinmeaney.com

  Twitter: @roisinmeaney

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/roisin.meaney

  COMING SOON

  FROM ROISIN MEANEY

  It’s a week before Christmas, and all is calm on the small island of Roone. The summer tourists are little more than a distant memory, the place has been reclaimed by the locals, and everyone is looking forward to a peaceful festive season.

  But things rarely go according to plan on Ireland’s quirkiest island. As storm clouds gather on the horizon, a stranger packs a bag on the other side of the world, and before the old year is out, Roone will have been thrown into turmoil, and facing its biggest challenge yet …