Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  ‘Gina Hayes has made me think how I should cook better stuff for Dave and the children,’ I say. ‘But they like baked beans and spaghetti bolognese and curries and pretty much anything that can be served with pasta or rice. I don’t think any of that is really bad for them. And you know Dave – he’d go ballistic if I put tofu on his plate.’

  I flick through the cookbook again.

  ‘Shiitake and snow peas with quinoa,’ Mum reads over my shoulder. ‘Is that how you say it? Key-noah?’

  ‘I think it’s actually keen-wah,’ I say. ‘But I’m not sure.’

  She takes the cookbook away from me and turns a few more pages. ‘Smoked salmon and red onion omelette,’ she says, stopping at a full-page picture that looks nothing like any of the omelettes I’ve ever made. ‘You fire ahead if you think Dave will be happy with an omelette after a day on site.’

  I laugh. Then I put my arms around her and we hug until Mica comes running in and asks for something to eat.

  Chapter 12

  We go back to Beechgrove Park after an enjoyable lunch where I felt like I was me again, laughing at Dave’s jokes and doing our usual good-cop bad-cop routine when the children started acting up. I’m always the bad cop, but I don’t mind really. Someone has to be.

  I’ve left the Mercedes at Mum’s and driven the Toyota home, behind Dave, who’s in the van. When he unlocks the front door, Tom and Mica burst into the house and race up the stairs to their rooms. I cross the threshold a little more slowly. I don’t know if anyone has seen us arrive, but I’m pretty sure the bush telegraph will be in full swing soon enough. Which is fine, really. I’ve stopped the pendulum and I’m putting it all behind me. People can say what they like. It doesn’t bother me.

  The house smells overwhelmingly of Airwick Ocean Breeze, and I’m guessing Dave has done extra spritzing over the last twenty-four hours. The living room is tidy and so is the kitchen, which sort of surprises me because my husband often uses the kitchen as an extension of his van and I’m forever moving washers, taps and bits of piping out of the way. But the table is free of both plumbing implements and leftover food, and I turn to him and smile.

  ‘Everything looks good,’ I say.

  ‘I did a whizz around with a duster and brush. I even wore my pinny.’ He grins at me.

  ‘Must get you to do it more often,’ I tease. ‘Especially in the pinny.’

  He glances at the kitchen clock. It’s almost two thirty.

  ‘I said I’d pick Jimmy up before three,’ he tells me apologetically. ‘But I don’t want to leave you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll be here when you get back.’

  He kisses me then in a way I haven’t let him since Rodeo Night. He pulls me close and I can feel the strength of his body and the hardness of him against me. I hold him tight and wish that the children weren’t in the house right now. He whispers exactly the same thing into my ear and we break apart, both a little breathless from the unexpected lustfulness of our encounter.

  ‘Keep the bed warm for me,’ he says.

  I nod.

  His bag is in the hall along with his tools. He yells up the stairs and the children hustle down to say goodbye. He hugs them and me and then he gets into the van. He toots the horn as he reverses past the Toyota and out of the driveway.

  Tom and Mica run upstairs again. I take my time about going back inside. Let the neighbours see me. Let them know I’m home again.

  I put the kettle on, but when I go to get my favourite mug out of the cupboard, I realise that most of the crockery is missing. I open the dishwasher and grimace. It’s full to overflowing but it hasn’t gone through a wash cycle yet. Dave and I argue about the dishwasher all the time. He never stacks it properly but shoves crockery in any old way. And he’s a reluctant emptier of it too. If he needs something, he’ll take whatever it is from the basket and leave everything else. Once he’d plumbed it in, his interest in it sank to zero.

  I put a tab in the container and turn it on. Then I take a different mug from the cupboard and make myself a coffee. I look around the kitchen in a slightly more appraising way than when I first walked in, but I have to be fair to Dave and say that there are no other unwelcome surprises.

  While I drink my coffee, I open the kitchen door to let air in, and then open the living room windows for the same reason. After that, I go upstairs, bringing my case with me.

  The duvet is pulled up over my favourite plain white sheet – not the one with sprigged flowers that was on the bed when I found him with Julie Halpin. There’s no scent of her left in the room. All I can smell is the muskiness of Dave and the faint traces of the aftershave he likes to use.

  Mica comes running into the room and asks if she can call around to Emma.

  ‘You’ve only just come home,’ I say. ‘Are you sure you want to go out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK then. But be back by six.’

  She consults the yellow and blue Flik Flak watch on her wrist and nods.

  ‘What about your brother?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s reading.’

  I go into Tom’s room. He’s curled up on his bed, engrossed in one of his many books about dragons.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask, and he nods, only barely aware of my presence.

  I’m happy to leave him there, so I go back to the bedroom. I strip the bed and replace the sheet. Dave has washed the sprigged flower one and left it untidily folded in the airing cupboard. I take it out and bring it downstairs. Then I go outside and shove it into the bin.

  As I close the lid, the front door of the house to the right opens and Daina Gadrim steps out. Daina has been my neighbour for the past six years, ever since she came to Ireland from Lithuania. She’s married, in her twenties, and works at a call centre in Blanchardstown. Her English is crisp, clear and almost perfect.

  ‘Hello, Roxy.’ She beams at me. ‘It’s good to see you again. How is your mother?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ I reply. ‘Still getting over it.’

  ‘But of course,’ says Daina. ‘It will take time.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everything is OK for you?’ she asks.

  ‘More or less,’ I say.

  ‘If there’s anything you need, you ask me, yes?’

  ‘Of course. Thanks.’

  Daina isn’t a gossip. Nor is she someone who asks lots of questions. I’m grateful to have a neighbour like her. And then, as I’m standing there, I see Julie Halpin walking up the road. I feel a wave of nausea wash over me. I’ve thought and thought about what I’ll say to her on the day I inevitably meet her, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so soon, and I can’t remember any of my witty, cutting lines in the wave of panic that overwhelms me. I want to turn and go inside before she reaches our house, but I can’t move. So I stay where I am and open the lid of the bin. As Julie walks by, I’m staring into it as though mesmerised by the contents.

  When I’m sure she’s inside her home, I drop the lid and go back into mine. My heart is pounding and my head is throbbing. I’m angry with myself for not confronting her, but I still can’t remember a single one-liner other than, ‘Stay away from my husband, bitch.’ But I discarded that one on the basis it would’ve made me seem pathetic. Perhaps I should have called her over and asked if she’d noticed Dave’s bizarre habit of clearing his throat the second before he comes. Though that would be sharing, wouldn’t it, and I don’t want to share with Julie. Even though I already have.

  I spend the rest of the day cleaning because it helps me to work off the tension that built up inside me from the moment I saw her, and because Dave’s efforts, though welcome, are superficial. More importantly, I think that cleaning the house will make me feel as though it’s mine again. Ever since I walked in the door, I’ve had the feeling that something has changed, and it’s not only the fact that Dave has put some things back in the wrong places. It’s more like a feeling that I’m in the wrong place, even though my home has always been my refuge. I know I’m being si
lly, so I keep cleaning and polishing until I’m utterly exhausted. All the same, when I go to bed that night, I don’t fall asleep for a long, long time. And when I do, I dream about Julie Halpin on top again.

  The following morning we FaceTime Dave, who brings us on a virtual tour of Jimmy Corcoran’s holiday house. It’s much bigger than I expected, and I tease him that he’s living in the lap of luxury. He then brings the phone outside to show us the sea view, and I wonder if Jimmy would rent us the house later in the summer for a family holiday. I don’t say this to Dave yet, though, but file it away for future reference.

  Afterwards, I sit down and consult my grid so that I can coordinate the jobs I have with childcare for Mica and Tom. I can’t help a slight feeling of guilt as I do this. I’ve never been the sort of mother who farms her offspring out to other people before. I’ve only ever used the Beechgrove Park mums’ WhatsApp group in an emergency. In fact, I was the one who was usually able to help the other mums out because I was at home. Anyhow, I’m not using the WhatsApp group this time either. Mum has offered to look after Mica and Tom this week, coming to my house instead of me dropping them at hers, because I don’t want them to feel that me and Dave getting back together is some kind of a con job.

  I drop over to her later in the day, getting the bus because I have to collect the Merc. She brings me into the conservatory, which is now overrun with crocheted octopussies.

  ‘Have you been up all night making them?’ I demand. ‘There weren’t this many yesterday. It’s like Marine World in here.’

  She laughs. ‘They’re not all mine,’ she tells me. ‘June dropped off ones she’s collected from other crocheters earlier. I’m bringing them to the hospital later this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m sort of relieved to hear that,’ I say. ‘I was beginning to picture you as some mad old dear who can’t stop knitting. Or crocheting,’ I amend.

  ‘It’s very therapeutic,’ she says. ‘I’m listening to audiobooks while I work. It’s a great way to catch up on the latest releases while doing something useful.’

  ‘You look well on it,’ I remark. ‘In fact I’m thinking me and the kids were holding you back. You’re looking amazing today.’

  She’s wearing a pretty pink top over flattering jeans, and I’m sure she’s had her hair coloured again. She’s also returned to wearing her Charlotte Tilbury make-up.

  She looks a little embarrassed and then thanks me for the compliment.

  ‘How are you getting on otherwise?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Not too lonely or anything?’ I pick up the iPad that’s on the seat beside her and she makes a sudden grab for it. I look at her in astonishment.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I was listening to my book on it. I’ve never lived on my own before,’ she adds, answering my original question. ‘So that’s a bit weird. I suppose I’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Maybe we should have stayed this week—’ I begin, but she shuts me up.

  ‘You need to look after your own life, Roxy,’ she says. ‘Let me worry about mine.’

  ‘We’re sorted,’ I assure her. ‘I just want to be sure you are too.’

  ‘I’m sad, of course I am. And I know it will take time for me not to look up and expect to see your father in the room. But I’ll be OK.’

  She’s a strong woman. Stronger than me, that’s for sure.

  She clears her throat. ‘Speaking of your dad . . . there’s something I wanted to mention to you. I probably should have done at the time.’

  I look at her quizzically.

  ‘It’s actually about that photo you saw.’

  For a moment I think she’s talking about the one of the young boy in my car, and I wonder how she knows about it because I never said anything, but as she continues, I realise she actually means the one of Dad’s first girlfriend. Estelle.

  ‘There was a little more to her and your dad than I first told you,’ says Mum. ‘And not that it’s important now or anything, but I . . . I didn’t mention it because I was a bit thrown when I saw the photo. But I felt I should share it with you.’ She hesitates and I stay silent, waiting for her to continue. ‘Estelle got in touch with Christy again,’ she says. ‘She’d had a baby.’

  I can guess what’s coming even though I don’t want to accept it.

  ‘She said the baby was your dad’s. But . . .’

  There’s a but? Dad had a relationship with this woman and she had a baby afterwards. I don’t think there can be a but.

  ‘Christy always insisted it was impossible,’ Mum says. ‘He told me the dates didn’t add up. Estelle said the baby was premature.’

  ‘When did she confront him with this news?’ I ask. ‘Did you know about it when you were going out with him?’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘She didn’t turn up until after we were married. After Aidan was born, in fact.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’

  The wave of sympathy I feel sweeps away the realisation that Aidan and I could have a half-brother or -sister out there who we’ve never met.

  ‘I was still in the hospital. So I didn’t know anything about it.’

  Poor Mum. She’d just had her first baby, and now this Estelle person was saying that Dad had another child. She must have been devastated.

  ‘Why did she wait till the baby was born before telling him? Was it a boy or a girl? What did she want him to do?’ My questions come tumbling out.

  ‘The baby was a boy,’ replies Mum. ‘She’d run away from home with him and she needed some help.’

  ‘I suppose her parents weren’t too happy with her ending up pregnant,’ I say. ‘Given what you already told me about them, I’m surprised her father didn’t come after Dad with a shotgun to march him up the aisle.’

  ‘He would’ve come after your dad with a shotgun all right if he’d known Estelle had run away to him,’ says Mum. ‘But not for the reasons you think. By the time she had her baby, she was married to somebody else.’

  And now I’m back to feeling like I’m a resident on Coronation Street.

  ‘Apparently she’d been going out with someone in her home town for a while before she and your dad met at the campsite,’ explains Mum. ‘They weren’t engaged, but there was a general understanding . . .’

  ‘For crying out loud!’ I exclaim. ‘I know it was over forty years ago, but it wasn’t the Middle Ages. Surely if she’d changed her mind, that was her choice. I can’t believe there were “understandings” even back then.’

  ‘Oh, but there were,’ says Mum. ‘Maybe not so much in the city, but in small towns, yes. Being a farmer’s daughter sort of explains it too.’

  ‘Estelle was to be married off to someone because he had a few acres?’ I’m struggling to believe this.

  ‘More or less,’ says Mum.

  ‘And it doesn’t matter that she was pregnant by someone else?’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Mum says. ‘Everyone assumed it was her fiancé’s.’

  ‘In that case why did she run away and come after Dad?’ I ask. ‘Surely if she was pregnant and married, that was the end of it. Not ideal, but satisfactory. Why didn’t she keep quiet?’

  ‘Because, like her father, the man she married was violent. And he suspected the baby wasn’t his. Estelle was afraid he might hurt the child and so she left. Back then, your dad was working in a builders’ suppliers. Estelle knew that he had a trade. She eventually tracked him down.’

  I always thought that my parents had lived uneventful lives. To be honest, I never much thought about what had happened before I was born. To me, they were always just Mum and Dad. Always there. Always in love with each other. I forgot they were also Christy and Selina. Now I’m trying to imagine Dad’s reaction when a woman from his past turned up with a baby she claimed was his. I’m also thinking that this woman was pretty resourceful to find him in an era before mobile phones and social media.

  ‘Was she expecting Dad to . . . to leave you and move in with her or something?’ I ask. ‘D
id she think he still loved her? Did she say she still loved him?’

  ‘Well, as she was insisting he was the father of her baby, she was definitely looking for something from him,’ says Mum. ‘Obviously when she discovered he was married with a newborn himself, that changed things.’

  ‘Obviously,’ I murmur.

  Dad and Estelle are no longer a romantic story. If anything, they’re a tragic one. She was in a terrible situation and Dad couldn’t do anything to help.

  ‘Actually, he did,’ says Mum when I say this.

  ‘How?’

  ‘He gave her money. Money he didn’t really have to give. It was the deposit for our house.’

  ‘No!’ I’m shocked. ‘Did you agree to this?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ says Mum. ‘Not for a long time. When we were looking at houses, your dad kept putting things off and I thought that he regretted marrying me and having Aidan. I was really upset about it. It wasn’t until I eventually went back to my own mum that he confessed.’

  I stare at her. This is nothing like the narrative we were given as children, in which Mum met Dad and they fell in love and lived happily ever after. The only part of the story that was different from a fairy tale was that they’d met in very unromantic circumstances. He’d come to fix the loos in the place where she worked. They always joked that their eyes had met over a ballcock. There was never anything about old girlfriends and babies and handing over money that shouldn’t have been handed over at all.

  Mum must have been devastated.

  ‘On the one hand, I was fuming,’ she says. ‘He was utterly adamant the baby wasn’t his. They’d used protection, and despite what she was claiming about it being premature, he insisted she’d got it wrong. In which case, he didn’t have an obligation to her and he’d given her money that was as much mine as his. But if the baby was his, despite what he was saying . . . if that was what he thought . . . well, he did have some responsibility. But not at the cost of our home.’

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘He wanted none of it to have happened,’ says Mum. ‘He kept saying it wasn’t his life, it wasn’t his plan.’