Promises, Promises

by Patricia Scanlan

  I’m saying no! she kept telling herself. I do not want to mind Julie Ann for two weeks. She kept repeating this to herself like a mantra. Yet, when Emma had come straight out and asked her, she’d cravenly said yes. Much to Ben’s annoyance.

  Miriam glanced in the direction of the bungalow. It needed a good lick of paint. She wanted it painted before Rebecca’s birthday party next week. It looked shabby and unkept compared to Emma and Vincent’s mansion. The house was getting on her nerves and it was long overdue some decoration.

  Earlier this summer, Emma had decorators in to paper and paint their entire house to give it a new look. Miriam wanted a whole new look too, she thought crankily. But she had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting it.

  ‘Is tea ready yet? I’m starving.’ Daniel swerved down the slope of the lawn on his scooter. It seemed to Miriam that she’d only just washed up after the lunch.

  ‘No it’s not ready,’ she snapped. ‘And did you tidy your football gear out of the hall?’

  ‘I’m going to do it now,’ Daniel said nonchalantly. He was just like his father for putting things off, Miriam thought. Sometimes she felt Ellen was mad to want to tie herself to a man for the rest of her life. She had it good in some ways. Sheila cooked for her. Mick provided for her. Stephanie was a good child. At least Ellen didn’t have three of them constantly demanding food and attention.

  She looked at Daniel, scooting back up the hill, and her irritation faded. At least they weren’t faddy eaters, she thought wryly. She’d make egg and onion sandwiches and suggest a picnic out on the lawn. That would go down a treat with the kids, they loved eating outside.

  The late afternoon sun shone through a heat haze. They were having an Indian summer. The sound of a tractor droned in the distance as it harvested corn. The smell of freshly cut hay and grass mingled with the scents of roses and stock. The birds filled the air with their song. Bees droned lazily by, replete with nectar. An afternoon for lazing. Maybe she’d bring out her rug and lie in the sun for a while after she’d made the tea. She had a million and one things to do. Cover new school-books in crisp brown paper, darn socks, iron shirts, bake bread, make a tart for Sheila’s Bring and Buy Sale. Miriam thought enviously of Emma, enjoying a holiday in the South of France. What she wouldn’t give to change places with her.

  Emma wiped the perspiration from her forehead with her wristband and prepared to serve for what she hoped would be the final game, in a strenuous tennis match. She and Vincent were playing a game of mixed doubles with Gillian and Frank. Emma was bent on beating them. It was a closely fought match. Each side determined to win. Honour was at stake. The rivalry which had always underlain their friendship bubbled close to the surface. Emma positioned herself behind the baseline, bounced the ball twice, and threw it in the air. She walloped it viciously towards Gillian. She was a better player than Gillian, Emma thought with satisfaction as her friend tried to return the shot and landed it into the net.

  ‘Shit,’ Gillian groaned.

  ‘Fifteen love,’ called Lorna Mitchell who was acting as umpire.

  ‘That language wouldn’t be allowed in Wimbledon,’ sniggered Declan, her husband, who was sprawled on the sidelines lowering Pimm’s with gusto.

  Emma flashed a looked of triumph at Vincent and he grinned back at her. ‘Good shot,’ he murmured. Emma positioned herself to serve again. Frank was a tougher opponent than Gillian and a fast and furious volley ensued. This time it was Emma who lost the point, hitting the ball long.

  ‘Fifteen all,’ drawled Lorna who didn’t care who won. Gillian and Emma had both got up her nose with their fierce competitiveness as they pranced and preened in their whites. Every time they played a game of tennis they each appeared on court in a different outfit. Lorna’d only bought the one white skirt and top and she was feeling somewhat inadequate. Today Emma was wearing a white tennis skirt with delicate scalloped pink edging, that matched the pink fringing the cuffs and neckline of her white shirt. It was, Lorna noted with envy, a Lacoste.

  Emma was furious with herself. The first serve she’d played to Gillian had bounced off the top of the net. She aced her second serve right down the line. Gillian hardly saw it coming.

  ‘Thirty fifteen.’ Lorna wished they’d hurry up and get it over with.

  ‘Concentrate, Gillian,’ Frank gritted.

  Gillian glared at him. ‘Shut up,’ she muttered, furious. It was bad enough losing without him showing her up.

  ‘Keep your eye on the ball,’ Frank hissed.

  ‘Frank, piss off!’ Gillian had had enough.

  Emma noted her opponents’ altercation with satisfaction. Nothing like getting the opposition rattled. Vincent would never put Emma under pressure when they played tennis. Frank was an asshole, Emma thought scornfully. Gillian had lost her concentration completely. Emma played her famous double-handed backhand to Gillian and almost felt sorry for the other girl as she returned the shot high over their heads and it landed a good two feet out.

  ‘Forty fifteen,’ Lorna said crisply.

  Frank glared at his wife.

  Vincent smiled at his.

  Declan drained the last of the Pimm’s and went off to replenish the jug, and have a shot of whiskey at the same time. Pimm’s was all very well for cooling one down, but it didn’t have the kick of a good slug of whiskey.

  Lorna watched him go from her elevated position in the umpire’s chair and bit her lip. Declan was well smashed, as he had been every day of their holidays. It was only half five, they were going out to dinner later and there’d be a lot more drinking before the evening was out. She felt like crying. Trust him to make a show of her. Vincent and Frank never let Emma and Gillian down the way Declan let her down.

  Emma served again and watched as Gillian shot a weak return to Vincent who aimed it skilfully along the tramlines. Frank played a superb backhand and made the point.

  ‘Forty thirty,’ Lorna called glumly.

  Emma stood poised and in control as she prepared to serve to Frank. She wanted to win this point against her friend’s husband, so that he couldn’t say she’d played all her shots to the weaker partner.

  She took a deep breath, stared at Frank who crouched like a great hulking bear. She threw the ball high, watched it like a hawk and then, with all her might, hit it as hard and as accurately as she could. Long years of practice and skill paid off. If there was one thing she was good at, it was tennis, Emma reflected with colossal satisfaction as she watched her ace, as neat and sharp as any Billie Jean King ever served.

  ‘Game, set and match.’ Lorna’s relief was palpable as she vacated the chair and none too politely grabbed the full jug of Pimm’s from Declan who was weaving his way back to the group.

  ‘Drink, Emma, Gillian?’

  ‘Love one,’ declared Emma, flinging herself onto a lounger. It had been a tough match but she could relax in the knowledge that their honour was secure. She sipped the ice-cold drink gratefully. The heat of the sun had died away and a sea breeze lifted damp strands of hair from her forehead. Emma lay back against the cushions and felt herself relax. Between the luscious bougainvillaea, mimosa and jacaranda shrubs, heavy with scarlet, purple and yellow blossoms, she admired the brilliant sapphire of the Mediterranean. In the hills below, nestled between pine and cypress trees, she could see the orange-tiled roofs of whitewashed villas. The winding road curved like a sleek ribbon down towards Cannes. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, and the rhythmic click, click of the sprinklers which kept the lawns verdant lulled her to drowsiness. Emma wished this holiday could go on for ever.

  When Lorna and Declan had told her and Vincent that a travel agent friend of theirs was offering them a villa in the south of France, off season, at a very good rate – were they interested in sharing? Emma jumped at the idea.

  ‘Just one proviso,’ Lorna said firmly. ‘No kids.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Emma agreed happily.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Vincent demurred. ‘Two weeks is a long time t
o ask anyone to look after Julie Ann.’

  ‘Miriam will do it, she won’t mind. Come on, Vincent, it’ll be like a second honeymoon,’ she’d wheedled.

  It had taken a lot of wheedling to get him to agree. They had, after all, been to Switzerland en famille for three weeks. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t had a foreign holiday. She’d had to really rub it in about how Julie Ann loved being with her cousins and about how good the company was for her. Reluctantly, he’d agreed. Vincent didn’t like taking advantage of Miriam. And he knew Emma was inclined to take her sister-in-law’s good nature for granted. In the end, he’d been persuaded and, once he’d actually got to the villa, he’d relaxed and forgotten all about home. They’d enjoyed themselves immensely.

  Emma sighed as the breeze rippled along her arms and legs. A delicious lethargy enveloped her as the gentle rays of the late evening sun tanned her golden. Her colour had come up a treat. Honey gold. Gillian, who had red hair and freckles and only succeeded in turning lobster, was pea-green with envy.

  Emma opened one eye and saw Vincent and Frank chatting by the pool. Declan was snoring loudly on the grass. Lorna, looking unhappy, was varnishing her nails. Gillian had gone to change for a swim. Emma yawned and closed her eye again. This was her favourite time of the day. The time for recharging her batteries before the excesses of the night.

  The two weeks had sped by in the blink of an eye, she mused regretfully. It was depressing even to think about it. She was looking forward to seeing Julie Ann, of course, but, if she was offered another two weeks in this paradise, she’d have no hesitation in accepting. It was complete and utter bliss. Lorna had been right to insist on not bringing the children. Having a child dragging out of you all day was so exhausting. Gillian had phoned home, sometimes twice a day, to check on her two. Emma thought she was mad. She had great faith in Miriam and knew Julie Ann was in safe hands. It was Rebecca’s birthday next week, she’d buy her niece something nice in Monaco to show her appreciation. Miriam wouldn’t thank her if she phoned home every day. Emma had only phoned twice. What was the point in going on holiday if you spent most of it phoning home? Moments later, Emma was snoring softly, deliriously worn out after her Herculean efforts on the tennis court.

  Julie Ann felt very lonely as she sat by herself swinging on Rebecca’s bockety old swing. Her two cousins weren’t speaking to her and were playing in Rebecca’s bedroom. Auntie Miriam was cross with her. She wished she was at home in her own house with her mummy and daddy. She missed them enormously. It was always the same. They went away and left her at Auntie Miriam’s while they had fun without her.

  A tear trickled down Julie Ann’s cheek. Her mummy and daddy were always telling her she was the best, the prettiest, the cleverest girl in the whole wide world. If that was so, why couldn’t she go on holiday with them? She’d really really wanted to go. She would have missed school. She’d have been able to show off in front of the whole class when she came home. Julie Ann loved showing off. She loved when the other girls in her class admired her. She had more friends in the whole school than anyone else. Everyone wanted to come to her birthday party. She always had a clown and a magician at her party. And loads of food. Not like Stephanie’s silly old party. All you got there was banana sandwiches and jelly and ice cream and some toffee sweets. She didn’t even want to go to Stephanie Munroe’s stupid little party. So there!

  She glowered in the direction of the bungalow. She could hear giggles coming from the bedroom. Stephanie’s mummy had no money and her mummy and daddy were very rich. Auntie Ellen couldn’t afford to buy brilliant birthday presents like the ones she got. This year she was getting a Sindy doll and a pair of roller skates for her birthday. Stephanie would probably only get a boring old teaset.

  Julie Ann pushed herself forwards on the swing. It always made her feel much better to think of how rich she was. She was the richest girl in the school. She stuck her tongue out as far as it could go as she caught sight of Rebecca and Stephanie looking out of the window at her. See if she cared about them. Her mummy was the best mummy in the world. Not like strict old Auntie Miriam, and cross old Auntie Ellen, who had no house of her own and was very poor.

  Ellen was gasping for a cigarette, but the shop was busy and she was behind with her accounts. She’d had to help out at the counter because Eamonn, the assistant, had gone home sick and her father had gone to the cattle market to sell some of his prize heifers.

  She chewed the top of her pen, trying to remember whether Mrs Fleming had bought five shillings’ worth of meat or seven shillings’ worth. The thought of recounting the cash to make sure gave her a headache.

  The sun shone in on top of her making her feel hot and bothered. She wanted to lay her head on her arms and snooze. It didn’t help that she had the remnants of a fierce hangover.

  Ellen felt a surge of irritation as another customer arrived and handed her a ten-shilling note. Coming up to the weekend was always busy, but today seemed exceptionally so. She handed the woman back her change and knocked a pile of coins onto the floor. ‘God Almighty!’ she muttered in annoyance as she bent down to retrieve them. A sharp pain darted through her head. ‘Oooh,’ she groaned. ‘Never again!’ She was going on the dry. She was never drinking again.

  What on earth had possessed her to go into Dublin on a pub crawl with Carol Allen? Because you’re a fool, she thought in self-disgust. Carol Allen was an old school friend who’d married and gone to England with her husband, several years ago. She’d come home alone, to visit her elderly mother. When she’d suggested going for a drink, Ellen immediately agreed.

  They could have gone to the Glenree Arms, or even Kirwan’s pub, but Ellen casually suggested that they go into Dublin. Carol had no objections. All she wanted was a chat and a night out. She didn’t mind where.

  Ellen had taken great care with her appearance that night. She’d got her hair done at her lunch break, she wore a gold cheesecloth top with a fringed black Indian skirt and she’d spent ages applying kohl pencil around her eyes. She’d dusted Dusky Sienna rouge over her tanned cheekbones and tried out her new Tangerine Tease lipstick.

  ‘You’re dolled up to the nines.’ Sheila sniffed. ‘I hope you won’t be in too late in case Stephanie is looking for you.’

  Ellen bit back her irritation. Her mother always had to make a comment. Sheila was an expert at making Ellen feel under a compliment.

  ‘We’re just going to the pictures,’ Ellen fibbed. Going to the pictures sounded much more innocuous than going for a drink. ‘Carol hasn’t been in Dublin for years.’ It was crazy being made to feel like a fifteen-year-old when she was practically middle-aged. Sometimes Ellen felt like screaming her head off with rage and frustration.

  ‘Huh.’ Sheila gave one of her unimpressed snorts. ‘She came to visit her mother. You’d think she’d spend a bit of time with her instead of gadding about.’ With you was left unsaid, but the implication was unmistakable. There were times when Ellen hated her mother and this was one of them. She knew, if she let fly, Sheila would launch into a tirade about being left to look after Stephanie, and say that Ellen was a neglectful mother, that she and Mick weren’t a babysitting service. Ellen struggled to keep her temper under control. It wasn’t worth losing it because, in the end, she was always the loser. She was an unmarried mother, dependent on her parents for a roof over her head and a steady job. She often longed to tell Sheila to stuff it. But she had Stephanie to think of and that would always keep her Sheila’s hostage.

  ‘I won’t be too late,’ she said tightly and went upstairs to kiss Stephanie goodnight. Her daughter was sitting in bed, her long dark hair framing her face like a silky curtain as she bent her head over her colouring book in intense concentration.

  ‘Look Mammy!’ She proudly held up the book to show the picture of Cinderella. ‘See, I didn’t go outside the lines once.’

  ‘You’re brilliant,’ Ellen encouraged, smiling down into the innocent, trusting bright blue eyes raised to hers. A pain like a
needle in her heart, sharp, intense, unexpected, made Ellen catch her breath. Stephanie’s eyes were so like Chris’s. Even after all these years, she could still picture them so vividly.

  She could go for months and never think about him, and then he would come into her mind, or she’d hear some snippet of news about him from Miriam that Emma had let drop, and she’d be as bad as ever, thinking about him, longing for him, wanting to know everything about him.

  She hadn’t heard from him in all those years, although she was sure that Pamela must have told him that he was the father of a little girl. He had two children of his own now. Did he ever even think about the child he’d abandoned? Ellen wondered bitterly. She kissed Stephanie and hugged her tightly.

  ‘You look nice, Mammy,’ Stephanie declared. Ellen caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her make-up was fine, if a bit overdone around the eyes, but there was no disguising her thick waist in spite of the loose cheesecloth top she wore. It was utterly depressing. What was the point in dressing up like the Queen of Sheba when she felt like an elephant? Suddenly, going to Dublin with Carol didn’t seem such a great idea. Because, deep down, Ellen knew that the only reason she’d suggested going to Dublin was so that she could visit all Chris’s old haunts in the hope of seeing him.

  When she’d made the suggestion, she’d been in one of her Chris madnesses, as she called those little episodes when she started thinking about him. They happened now and again in spite of her best intentions. Then all her fantasies revolved around him seeing her looking glamorous and gorgeous. He’d fall head over heels in love with her again, leave Suzy and he, Ellen and Stephanie would live happily ever after.

  This fantasy never changed. Sometimes, the place of their heart-stopping encounter differed. The outfit she wore at their reunion, the silky sexy nightdress and negligee she wore for their first night of passion after so long, changed according to her mood or the current fashion but the essence of the dream never varied or wavered.