And then he looked up and saw me. And I couldn’t smile or wave or even pull myself together for long enough to try and look pirate queenly or headmistressy. I felt a wretchedness spread through my body. He was a complication too far. He would have to go. I stood up and began to walk towards them, it was the only way back to the school.
‘Good morning, Mr Power,’ I said, stopping beside them. ‘Good morning girls.’
‘Good morning, Ms Thomas,’ they chorused, with far less enthusiasm that they had mustered a moment ago when singing ‘Let It Go’. They bustled around him, like a protective mob.
‘Still in fine voice, I’m glad to hear, Mr Power. You’re not teaching the girls songs from the 1980s?’
He grinned at me, blushing slightly. ‘Ah, yes… I’ve really got to stop. Or go for singing lessons. And Let It Go is song we all know. I don’t think Johnny Logan would go down well.’ He smiled at me. ‘Anyway, we thought we’d get out of the classroom and come down to the Copse…’
‘While we still can,’ said Molly.
‘It’s such a beautiful day,’ he said, ‘that I thought that we’d go and practise our story-telling outdoors. They were full of questions about the Copse and we thought it might be a nice idea to pay it a visit before… you know…’ He looked at me, searchingly. ‘If that’s all right?’ he added solicitously.
‘All the girls are working on their memoirs,’ he went on, ‘the story of their lives and they have to then perform it to the class.’
‘That sounds very interesting girls,’ I smiled at them all, wishing I had the easy charm of Red who would never make a child cry.
‘Find a place to sit down, girls,’ he said, as they avoided the nettles and stretched out under trees, doing handstands, making daisy chains, plaiting grasses. He turned back to me just as a leaf blew into his hair and I watched it flutter there until he brushed it away.
‘I’d better get back and let you go on with your lesson.’ I thought that if I stayed for much longer, I wouldn’t ever want to leave, and would sit down with the girls and gaze at Red as rapturously as they looked up at him.
‘How’s your daughter?’ he said. ‘How’s Rosie?’
‘Better,’ I said. ‘Much better. She seems really good at the moment.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ he said.
I walked back to school, wishing I could have stayed and made daisy chains with them and sung songs and hung out with Red. And the Copse. How could I sell it? Would it be really worth it?
Before
‘I wish I was there with you.’ Red’s voice was faraway, the line crackly. Our old red phone had a dodgy plastic receiver that used to fall off and had been sellotaped back on. It made even local calls sound faraway and crackly. ‘Can’t be helped,’ I said. ‘We’ll be fine.’
‘How’s Nora?’
‘Slightly manic. She’s cleaning the house from top to bottom… even polished the brass on the front door.’
He laughed, gently. ‘Everyone copes in different ways.’
‘She says Rosaleen wouldn’t like everyone coming if the brass wasn’t shiny. She’s even taken down all the net curtains and washed them, putting them back up while they were still damp. The house smells of washing powder.’
‘And, how are you?’
‘Fine…’ I put my hand on my stomach. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. My flight was booked for a following week. My suitcase was already half-packed, had been for months. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you in a few days. Not long now.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘Scrambled all right for you?’
Michael frowned, as he whipped through the Irish Times, eyes darting up and down rows. He’d arrived home from Brussels or Belfast, I wasn’t quite sure, at 7 a.m. and was experimenting with weekend casual. Not just the suit and no tie, this was a new departure. A chino. A V-neck sweater. A polo shirt. The slip-on trainer. I suspected the influence of Lucy the Marvel.
‘Fried, thank you, Mammy,’ he said, still expertly scanning the paper to see what might have been have said about him. Good or bad, he didn’t mind. That was the thing about politicians; hides so thick, they would survive a nuclear holocaust. A low day would be when he hadn’t been mentioned at all.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ I felt like a B&B lady. ‘Tinned prunes? Rice Crispies? A supermarket scone passed off as homemade?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. So, tea?’
‘Milk, actually, Mammy. A fine, big glass of milk.’
‘Coming up.’ I poured it out. ‘Would you like a straw? Some Nesquik. I could put it in a sippy cup?’
He looked up again. ‘Sorry Mammy, did you say something?’
‘Here’s your milk.’ I put his glass down beside him.
‘Delicious.’ He took a big gulp. ‘I feel healthier already,’ he said, eyes returned to the paper as I cracked an egg into the frying pan and stood for a moment watching it sizzle.
‘Your friend Clodagh’s in here,’ he said. ‘At the back. In the going-out pages…’
‘The social column?’ I looked over his shoulder at the paper and there indeed was Clodagh, standing with Max wearing a black tuxedo and not smiling. ‘He looks his usual friendly self,’ I said.
‘What’s that?’ Michael didn’t take his eyes off the paper.
‘It’s just that for some reason Clodagh is going out with a man who doesn’t seem to like people. Or smiling.’ I slid the egg from the pan onto his plate.
‘Mmmhmmm.’ Michael buttered more toast, and stared at Max for a moment.
‘He needs milk,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Clodagh’s fella. He looks pasty. Pale. As though he’s spent his life in a dark room. He needs a glass of milk. Put colour in his cheeks. Look at me.’
‘What?’
‘No, look at me. Actually look at me. See my cheeks. What colour are they?’
I peered at his face. I hadn’t been so close to him in years or paid so much attention. ‘You do look healthy,’ I admitted. ‘Definitely not pasty. A high colour, one might say.’ Heightened by the white of the teeth, I thought.
‘See!’ he was triumphant. ‘Now, I think that milk is what is wrong with Rosie. It’s her vegetarianism. If she would just eat normally, then maybe she wouldn’t be short of breath and feeling all light-headed.’
‘You are prescribing a glass of milk.’
‘That’s right.’ His eyes moved to another page.
‘I wish I’d known this,’ I said. ‘I’m sure other people need to know the miraculous benefits of milk.’
‘Well, now you do.’ It was hard to believe now what a breath of fresh air Michael seemed when I met him. Exotic, really. A twenty-five-year-old suit-wearing, briefcase-swinging, young conservative. Couldn’t have been more different to Red, which is exactly what I thought I needed. Even his need to keep his socks on when we slept together seemed endearing. Cold feet, I thought. Podophobia, perhaps. Athlete’s foot? Strange but surmountable. Who, after all, didn’t have strange habits, weird predilections?
‘Do you think we should encourage her to take a year out after the exams? Not go straight to college. Take a breather?’
‘A breather? I know, why don’t we let her just lie around all day and watch daytime television? Maybe encourage her to take up smoking. Or rolling her own cigarettes and wearing tie-dye clothing? Perhaps develop a Jack Daniels habit? Hmmm?’
‘Michael…’
‘She doesn’t need a year off. Okay, so it’s a tough year but this is how you prove yourself to yourself. You get through things. It’s something you wouldn’t understand,’ he said. ‘You’re not thinking straight. What with the protest and everything. Lucy has brought me up to speed. I can’t say I’m not shocked that your mother is involved. Exactly the kind of thing she would do. Rabble-rousing. She’d protest about the closing of a door.’ He paused. ‘So, what stage are you at?’
‘Just thinking about it. Trying to come to a decision. I can’t think of another way we
can raise money. The school is falling apart. But it’s impossible to make clear-headed decisions when you have a group of well-meaning and extremely pleasant protestors outside.’
‘Welcome to my world,’ he said grimly.
‘And one of them is your mother I don’t want to give in just because they are there. I can’t seem to decide. I don’t feel that anyone is on my side… not even Mary…’ Or Red, I thought. ‘I feel quite alone…’ I never unburdened myself to Michael. I had become used to just living in my own head and it felt good to let it out but when I looked up, Michael was concentrating hard on his phone.
‘I downloaded this app,’ he said. ‘It’s to see how well I sleep. I had eight and a half hours last night… isn’t that good? Going to go for nine tonight. Good solid REM.’
‘That sounds like a great ambition,’ I said. ‘Good luck with it.’ He hadn’t listened to a word I’d said.
‘It’s all about letting the body relax. You know I spend all day rushing about, everyone wanting a piece of me and then it’s so hard to switch off… hot milk is the answer…’
‘I am so delighted for you…’
‘Jesus!’ He looked up suddenly. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Nine a.m.’
‘Jayze, Terry’s going to be here in a minute.’
Within moments we heard the sound of the horn of the ministerial car and Michael rushed out of the door, calling goodbye to Rosie upstairs. From the living room window, I saw Terry in the front of the car, facing front and, in the back, was Lucy the Marvel. They never stopping politicking.
Chapter Fourteen
‘This year, weather girl. Next year president of the world.’ Clodagh slapped down some magazines. ‘She’s taking over the planet. She’s on the cover of four of these.’
‘She gets away with leather trousers,’ I said. For the cover of the Irish Woman, Bridget was in an Aran jumper, her hands around a hot chocolate. Strapline: ‘Getting Cosy with TV’s latest superstar’.
‘TV’s latest monster more like,’ said Clodagh. ‘Listen to this. “Always take off your make-up. I never go to bed without making sure I’m cleansed and toned,” said the red-haired beauty. “I drink three litres of water a day and it’s muesli for breakfast. No Full Irishes for me!” the weather-girl laughed.”’ Clodagh sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘She sounds so bloody nice, doesn’t she? Little do they know… She told me I was getting old. But in a nice way. Well-meaning.’ Clodagh pulled a face.
‘But you’re not. You’re forty-two.’
‘Yes, in a rational, normal world, I am the proverbial spring chicken. But I was chatting to Jackie, the make-up artist, and we were talking about Botox, does it work, where the best place to go is.’ She held up her hand. ‘Before you say anything, I’m not doing it. We were just talking. Starving myself is one thing, being injected with an unknown substance is a step too far in the pursuit of youthful loveliness. Anyway, we didn’t realise that Bridget, who I thought was on her phone, Snapchatting or whatever. Tindering probably. She’s single and on the look-out, apparently. So Jackie is pretty militant about Botox, she says your choice is to have it or never go outside, stay in permanently darkened rooms.’
‘You forgot ageing gracefully.’
‘There’s that. Or there’s ageing disgracefully. Anyway, so we are chatting away and guess who pipes up? Got it in one. So Bridget says, “The problem is, Clodagh, you got old. It happens to everyone. You’ve had your moment in the sun.” And then Jackie says it’s the sun that’s the problem and everything got a bit confused, but when I asked Bridget if she had meant to be so rude, she said she wasn’t being and that she was so sorry if she hurt my feelings, but had I ever thought about buying a cat because they are great company when you are old.’
‘She’s just got a weird sense of humour.’
‘Jackie and I were just looking at each other, shaking our heads, and all I could think about was that I had been thinking about getting a cat. I never liked them, but suddenly they seem like the perfect addition to my life. I mean, I used to like to buy new things. But now all I’m fantasising about is having a little cat to welcome me home at night. But obviously I didn’t tell her that.’ She sighed. ‘And Max has given her an extra minute. Lucinda is furious.’
‘Surely there’s not enough actual weather?’ Ireland was decidedly unexciting in its meteorological conditions. The whole country would become hysterical with excitement if it snowed for more than half an hour or if the sun came out and it was properly hot in the summer so that people left work early to clear the supermarket shelves of charcoal and sausages. Mainly, things were pretty boring weather-wise.
‘She’s so popular with the viewers, apparently, that they want less news and more weather. Well, more Bridget, really. She told me today, while I was still reeling from the getting old and cat comment and self-soothing with an apricot yogurt. Said she wondered why Max hadn’t told me and thought I would have known. And then she said she hoped I wouldn’t be too upset by it and she has admired me since she was tiny. When she was leaping around the living room learning her Irish dancing steps, I’d be on in the corner. I am the reason she got into broadcasting.’ Clodagh let out a snort. ‘Broadcasting! Ha! I wouldn’t be surprised if she starts Irish dancing tomorrow. Riverdances onto the set, playing the tin whistle. And I’ve just got to roll with it.’
‘What does Max say?’
‘He won’t talk about it with me. He says that his conversations with the talent…’
‘The talent?’
‘Those of us on air… he says they’re private. Between him and their agents. In Bridget’s case, her terrifying mother.’
‘But Max must be on your side… surely he must be aware of how precarious you feel…’
‘He is all about figures and ratings and approval panels and focus groups. He doesn’t do emotions or feelings. He’s all about the job. Which is why, supposedly, he’s such a brilliant manager. And so terrible at showing empathy.’
I shook my head. ‘What are you doing with all these lunatics, Clodagh? Why don’t you give it all up, do a nice knitting course, get into basket weaving?’ I didn’t understand why she put up with this crazy world and with Max. But then, she didn’t understand why I put up with Michael.
‘You’ll meet the lunatics at my party,’ she said. ‘Now…’ she paused. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but Red’s coming. I met him the other day and mentioned it. How are you too getting along?’
‘Fine. It’s weird but it’s almost as though it would be so easy to slip back into something. Every time we talk, we find ourselves talking so normally, as though nothing ever happened, but then we both pull back as soon as we remember.’
Clodagh contemplated me for a moment.
‘You still love him,’ she said.
‘Leave it Clodagh,’ I said. ‘Please. It’s complicated, I won’t deny that but…’ She was right, though. I still loved him and there was nothing I could do.
‘Mid-life crisis,’ Clodagh deduced. ‘Not to worry, I’m having one too.’
‘Are women allowed to have them? I thought they were strictly the preserve of men.’
‘What are we allowed to have then?’ she said,
‘Funny turns, hot flushes, menopausal meltdowns, mental breakdowns…’
‘Well, whatever I’m having, it feels like I need to do something different.’ She looked at me. ‘We could get a flat together, like the old days. You move out. Rosie will be in college soon and we could hang out in our pyjamas, eat toast… just like we used to. Come on, what’s stopping you? Think about it,’ she persisted, ‘you would never have to see Celia ever again.’
‘Now I’m tempted. A life without my mother-in-law is something I would seriously contemplate.’ I laughed. ‘But really, there’s nothing wrong. Michael and I rub along…’
‘Rub along?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘When was the last time you rubbed along?’
‘Listen, there is nothing unusual about us. It’s just your commo
n or garden lacklustre marriage, nothing for you to worry about.’ But I was thinking about Red when I spoke. What would he say if he knew things between me and Michael were cool to the point of freezing? Would he pleased that my marriage hadn’t quite worked out for me or would he be sorry that I threw him and us away for lack-lustre?
‘And that’s good enough for you?’
‘It hasn’t been that bad,’ I insisted. ‘Michael’s a good person.’
‘With good teeth,’ said Clodagh. ‘You forgot the teeth.’
‘Blinding,’ I agreed.
‘His teeth alone would get you home on a dark night in a power cut,’ she said.
‘But what about you Clodagh? What’s it been… six months? When is Maximus moving in? Or are you having cold feet?’ I hoped she was. What if she married him out of sheer loneliness, shackled to him for the rest of his life. ‘Are you hoping to be Mrs Max Pratt? Clodagh Pratt?’
‘It doesn’t go well, does it?’ she grinned. ‘But no. Not yet. Maybe never. Sometimes you need to be in a relationship to remember all the good things about being single.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like never compromising, not having to share your bed. Never explaining.’ She sighed. ‘I Miss that. And it means that I can eat yogurts for dinner and watch Game of Thrones and wear my old Waterboys’ T-shirt and no one can judge.’
‘And is there any one you would give your Waterboys’ T-shirt up for?’
‘Apart from Mike Scott himself,’ she said, ‘no. Anyway, I don’t think Max has ever knowingly eaten a yogurt, or seen Game of Thrones or worn a T-shirt. He’s on the uptight spectrum. Rarely smiles. The only thing that makes him happy is work.’
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