Promises, Promises

by Patricia Scanlan

  ‘True,’ she admitted with no hint of modesty.

  ‘Mind you I know Stephanie has her moments and as she gets older she’ll be more lively and boisterous.’ Ellen’s heart raced. It was now or never. ‘I’ve been thinking . . . Umm . . . well I’ve saved a few thousand pounds over the years and I was just wondering if you and Dad would give me a site so I could build a small bungalow for the two of us. It would give you a bit of peace and it would mean Stephanie could bring her friends home when she was older. And I wouldn’t have to be worrying about them making too much noise or breaking ornaments or anything.’ Her mouth was dry.

  Sheila stared at her. ‘You want a site?’

  ‘It would be good to be a little more independent.’

  ‘I think you’ve a point there, Ellen,’ Mick said quietly. ‘It would be good for Stephanie to have a home of her own and for you too.’

  ‘She has a perfectly good home here, and so have you, Miss. We didn’t throw you out in your hour of need. I’m not going to have the neighbours saying we’re throwing you out now.’

  ‘They wouldn’t say that, Mam,’ Ellen said desperately as she saw her precious chance of a new life slipping away.

  ‘Wouldn’t they indeed? I wouldn’t put anything past Slyboots Daly.’

  ‘You gave Vincent and Ben sites,’ Ellen pleaded.

  ‘Vincent and Ben didn’t make a disgrace of the family. They got married. When you’ve got a ring on your finger, you’ll get a site too.’

  ‘Stop that, Sheila,’ Mick said sharply.

  ‘It’s my land. I brought it into the family when I married. I have some say, Mick.’

  ‘Sometimes you say too much.’ Mick got out of his chair and stomped up to bed in disgust.

  ‘Now do you see what you’ve done! Why aren’t you ever satisfied?’ Sheila demanded. ‘You should be thankful we’ve stuck by you and given you and Stephanie a decent home. But no, you have to go and cause trouble between your father and myself. You’re a trial to me, Ellen Munroe.’

  ‘Not half as much a trial as you are to me,’ Ellen said bitterly.

  Sheila watched her leave the room and felt like slapping her. She’d never had a minute’s peace with her only daughter. Why couldn’t she be content with her lot? What did she expect? To be rewarded for fornicating? The cheek of her asking for a site. Sheila knew her remarks about owning the land had hurt Mick. She’d never ever said anything like that before in all the years of their marriage. But it had just slipped out. Sheila was so annoyed her needles slipped and a whole row of stitches began to unravel.

  That was it. She’d blown it, Ellen thought heavily. She should have known better than to expect any help from Sheila. If only the land had been Mick’s. He’d been sympathetic to her idea. All her hope and anticipation evaporated and depression left her feeling almost smothered. She stood beside her bedroom window looking out over the lights of Glenree and felt like throwing herself out the window. Was she trapped to live this life of stifling monotony for the rest of her existence?

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Aachoooo.’ Emma gave an almighty sneeze. Pain shot through her head and her face. She felt so ill she wanted to die. It was the Monday after the party and she’d been feeling dreadful the whole weekend.

  ‘I’ve phoned for the doctor, love. He’ll be here after surgery.’ Vincent handed his wife a tissue.

  ‘I don’t really know him,’ Emma moaned.

  ‘He’s a good doctor. We can’t expect your old lad to come trotting over from Foxrock.’ Vincent patted the bedclothes around her. ‘And Miriam will be here with you.’

  ‘It’s so annoying that Mrs Byrne has gone to have her veins done. Just when I really need her.’ Mrs Byrne was Emma’s daily. She also occasionally took care of Julie Ann if Emma was stuck . . . which was quite often . . . Emma had no sympathy for Mrs Byrne and her damn veins.

  Just as well she had Miriam to fall back on. She’d been a bit worried that Miriam would be cool with her after Julie Ann’s tantrum at the party, but Vincent said she was fine.

  Emma broke out in a sweat when she thought of that dreadful afternoon. Julie Ann had made a holy show of her and she had bawled and screeched for a solid hour after they got home until Vincent had arrived back and pacified her. If this was what she was like at almost six years of age, heaven only knew what she was going to be like when she was a rebellious teenager. Emma’s heart sank at the thought.

  The doorbell chimed. ‘That’ll be Miriam.’ Vincent leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ll get home early from work.’

  ‘Don’t catch my germs,’ she sniffled.

  ‘You can give me your germs any time.’ Vincent caressed her flushed cheek.

  Emma managed a weak smile. ‘Vincent, you’re as mad as a hatter.’

  ‘Naw. I’m just mad about you. I’m sorry I can’t stay, pet. There’s an auction I have to be at. I’ll phone as soon as I can.’

  Emma squeezed his hand. ‘See you later,’ she croaked.

  The doorbell rang again and Vincent hurried downstairs to answer it.

  Miriam stood at her in-laws’ front door and felt hugely irritated. When Vincent had phoned to ask her if she’d come over and be with Emma when Doctor Elliot arrived her heart sank to her boots. She had a pile of washing to do. The house needed a good hoover after the party. Sheila had asked her to make a batch of scones for the cake sale in aid of the new Credit Union Building Fund, and the last place she wanted to be was twiddling her thumbs for the morning in Emma’s spick-and-span mansion.

  ‘I’d stay at home myself only that there’s an auction. I have to bid for a client,’ Vincent explained. ‘I’ll have dropped Julie Ann to school. Although I was wondering if she could go to you afterwards and I’ll pick her up. I’ll leave work as early as I can.’ Why couldn’t he ask Sheila? Miriam wondered crossly. Why was it always her? Did everyone in the Munroe family think she had absolutely nothing to do except run around after them? As well as having three children of her own to look after, she took care of Stephanie after school, until Ellen came home from work. Emma regularly asked her to mind Julie Ann for an hour or two, which invariably turned into three- or four-hour stints. Miriam could count on her fingers the number of times Emma had minded her kids.

  Then . . . to add insult to injury . . . no sooner had Vincent hung up than the phone rang again. It was Della who announced that she was coming to Dublin on the noon train. She wanted to stay the night. That meant that Miriam was going to have to put fresh sheets on Daniel’s bed. It made Miriam’s blood boil to think of how her sister-in-jaw had practically evicted her from the family home and yet she had no qualms about phoning Miriam expecting to be put up for the night. Some people were as cool as cucumbers. She jabbed her finger on the doorbell again. Vincent opened the door moments later.

  ‘Miriam, thanks a million for coming,’ he said warmly. ‘I hope we’re not putting you out.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she fibbed politely. ‘How’s poor Emma?’

  ‘In bits, the poor dote.’ Vincent grabbed his car keys from the hall table. ‘I have to run. If the doctor gives her a prescription would you get it in the chemist’s?’

  ‘Sure.’ Miriam nodded. There was her morning gone. By the time the doctor came and she went into Glenree for the prescription it would be nearly lunchtime. Poor dote my foot, she thought irritably as she closed the door behind Vincent. Everyone else had to manage when they got sick. But when Emma got a cold they all had to drop everything and rush to her side. It was a wonder Vincent hadn’t called an ambulance, Miriam thought with uncharacteristic nastiness as she walked silently up the deep-pile carpeted stairs to give succour to the invalid.

  ‘Hello, Miriam. Thanks for coming over,’ Emma mewed pathetically from the huge four-poster bed that dominated the bedroom.

  ‘Not at all. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea or a hot drink?’ Her good nature reasserted itself when she saw her swollen-eyed, red-nosed, puffy-faced sister-in-law co-cooned in a
mountain of white fluffy pillows.

  ‘Could I have a glass of orange juice? And would you get me a fresh nightie?’ Emma sneezed lustily.

  ‘Of course. Would you like me to straighten up the bed before the doctor comes?’

  ‘That would be nice, thanks a million, Miriam. You’re very kind.’ Emma’s tone was heartfelt and Miriam, big-hearted as ever despite her previous bad humour, told her briskly not to talk nonsense.

  While Emma was washing and changing in her ensuite bathroom, Miriam made up the bed. It was a beautiful bedroom, she reflected as she plumped up the broderie anglaise pillows. Emma had such style. She’d had the room redone in shades of lemon and pale blue. Pristine white doors, ceiling, skirting boards and dado rails complemented the snowy whiteness of the broderie anglaise bedlinen. A luxurious carpet in shades of lemon and blue stretched from wall to wall. The immense floor-to-ceiling window allowed the light to wash every corner of the room. The vista was spectacular.

  Emma and Vincent’s house was built on an incline and they had a view down the valley into Glenree and beyond. The trees, which were just beginning to turn gold, spread out beneath them in an immense patchwork of greens, burnished golds, russets and bronze. Miriam could see the chimney-tops of Mick and Sheila’s farm and the jaunty red gable of their big red barn amidst dappled foliage. She could also catch a glimpse of her own white and blue bungalow.

  The spire of St Joseph’s pierced the blue sky and the tiled, slated and thatched rooftops of Main Street glinted in the early morning sun. Miriam had seen the view once after a heavy fall of snow and it looked like a scene on a Christmas card. Emma’s garden was immaculate. There was order and symmetry to the plants and shrubs. A gardener tended to it once a week. Personally Miriam preferred the riotous glory of her own unruly garden. Still, Emma and Vincent’s enormous garden was a showpiece and the envy of many of their friends who only had postage-stamp-sized gardens in the city.

  ‘Miriam, I feel very shivery, could you get me a hot-water bottle?’ Emma emerged from the bathroom in a frilly pink shortie nightdress. No wonder she was shivery. She’d be too in a flimsy creation like that, Miriam thought as she went downstairs and filled the kettle.

  It was another hour before Doctor Elliot arrived. Miriam showed him in to Emma’s bedroom, relieved that once she got the prescription she could be off home to start her housework.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Munroe,’ Doctor Elliot said kindly as he took out his stethoscope.

  ‘Hello, Doctor Elliot. I feel really desperate,’ Emma groaned.

  ‘Well let’s see what we can do for you. Take a deep breath and hold it for me,’ he said briskly. He gave Emma a thorough examination and Miriam noticed him frowning as he took her blood pressure.

  ‘You’ve a bad dose of flu, my dear, and your blood pressure is high. Have you had blood pressure trouble before?’

  ‘I had toxaemia when I had Julie Ann,’ Emma said weakly.

  ‘And since?’

  ‘It goes up and down.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Doctor Elliot took a syringe out of his bag and a small phial.

  ‘Not an injection.’ Emma cringed.

  ‘You won’t feel a thing,’ Doctor Elliot assured her as he filled the syringe from the phial and aimed the needle like a dart.

  ‘Turn over for me like a good girl,’ he instructed.

  ‘Ouch,’ Emma muttered indignantly as he injected her in the buttock.

  He laid the used syringe on the bedside locker and noticed a packet beside the little marble alarm clock that Emma used.

  ‘What’s this?’ he queried sternly.

  Emma looked at it, heavy-eyed. ‘It’s my contraceptive pill.’

  ‘Good Lord, woman! What doctor prescribed that for you?’

  ‘I get it in London,’ Emma said defensively. It was none of Doctor Elliot’s business whether she was on the pill or not. He hadn’t nearly died in childbirth. If he had religious scruples, he could bloody well keep them to himself.

  ‘If you have problems with your blood pressure this is the last thing you should be on. Mrs Munroe, your blood pressure is very high. I’m going to call again tomorrow to check it. You are coming off this immediately. Do you want to have a thrombosis?’

  ‘But I don’t want any more children,’ she wailed.

  ‘There are other ways, less injurious to your health. We’ll talk about them tomorrow. Now, I’ll write a prescription for you. Take the tablets three times a day after food and I’ll see you tomorrow.’ The doctor packed his bag, wrote his prescription and took his leave of Emma.

  Once he’d left the room, escorted by Miriam, she burst into tears. It was bad enough feeling like death but to have to come off the pill and to have to start worrying about ovulation and safe times and all that kind of stuff was just unbearable. Emma cried her eyes out and not even Miriam’s kind reassuring words when she came back upstairs could comfort her.

  Ellen sat in her little cubicle trying to add up a column of figures. Usually it was no problem to her but today she just couldn’t concentrate. She was too depressed. The spark of hope that had kept her going was quenched. She felt lethargic and despondent. It had been one last chance to change her life and take back some control. It had failed. She had two options. She could stay at home and be under Sheila’s thumb or she could leave Glenree and get a job and rent a flat in Dublin.

  If she was on her own that was precisely what she would do. But she had Stephanie to consider. It wouldn’t be fair to take her daughter away from her secure and stable life and bring her to Dublin where a stranger would have to take care of her while Ellen was working. It looked as though she was well and truly trapped.

  ‘Ellen . . . Ellen,’ her father interrupted her reverie. He had closed up for the day and there was just the two of them in the shop.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ she said heavily.

  Mick cleared his throat. ‘Look, Ellen, I’m sorry about the site. I’m sure you had your heart set on it. And, if you like, when your mother has cooled down, I’ll talk to her about it.’

  ‘Ah forget it, Dad. It’s not worth the hassle. And besides, even if she did agree, I’d never hear the end of it. Mam’s never going to forgive me for getting pregnant. God might but she won’t. That’s something I have to live with.’

  ‘That’s just the way she is, pet. Your mother’s a good woman, she worries about you and Stephanie.’

  ‘Oh Dad, I just find it so hard. I made a mistake, do I have to pay for it for the rest of my life?’ Two big tears rolled down Ellen’s cheeks.

  ‘Ssshh, alanna, don’t upset yourself.’ Mick patted her shoulder awkwardly. ‘We’ll work something out. Leave those figures and go over and collect Stephanie from Miriam’s and after tea how about if I start giving you a few driving lessons?’

  Ellen wiped her eyes. ‘I’d love that. I’d give anything to be able to drive.’

  ‘Haven’t you been pestering me for long enough?’ Mick chuckled. ‘We’ll bring Stephanie for a spin to the back of the airport, she’ll enjoy watching the planes. So off with you now. I’ll finish up here.’

  Ellen leaned across and planted a kiss on her father’s ruddy weather-beaten cheek. ‘I’d be lost without you,’ she said a little shyly. She didn’t often have personal conversations like this with her father.

  ‘Go on with you, I’ll see you at home shortly and don’t worry. We’ll come up with something,’ Mick said gruffly. But Ellen knew he was pleased. He was her rock, she reflected as she closed the door behind her and stepped out onto Main Street. He was quiet and stalwart. You’d never know he was there until you were facing a crisis and then, in his own quiet way, he’d take charge. It was a great comfort and she only hoped he knew how much she appreciated him. They were a good team in the shop too, Ellen smiled. He depended on her a lot so in her own way she could repay his kindness.

  She couldn’t believe he was going to teach her to drive. Mick was of the old school. He felt uneasy with women behind the wheel of a car. The way Emma scorch
ed around in her Mini horrified him. He’d resisted Ellen’s pleas to be taught how to drive for years.

  He must be feeling really sorry for her to offer to teach her, she thought wryly as she crossed the green which was covered in a fine layer of fallen leaves that whispered along on the breeze. Denise McMahon, an old school pal, was mowing her lawn. She called out a cheery greeting as Ellen walked past.

  ‘How’s it going, Ellen?’

  ‘Hi, Denise,’ Ellen responded with false gaiety.

  ‘On your way home from work?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I didn’t realize it was that late. I though I’d get the garden done. There’s rain forecast. I better get my skates on and get in and get Jimmy’s dinner. I always like to have his dinner ready for him when he gets home.’ Denise wiped her perspiring brow and grinned at Ellen. Her two little girls played hopscotch on the path. They were pretty, like their mother.

  ‘“Feed a man properly and he won’t stray,” as Sister Patrick used to say,’ Denise joked.

  ‘I wonder how she knew that?’ Ellen grinned. ‘See ya, Denise.’

  ‘See ya, Ellen. Come in and have a cup of coffee some day and bring Stephanie over to play with the girls.’

  ‘I will. Thanks,’ Ellen replied warmly. She and Denise had been close enough once. They’d had great fun growing up. They’d drifted, the way friends often did, when Denise had married Jimmy MacMahon, a quiet, reserved accountant who never had two words to put together. He was a dry old stick. They really were chalk and cheese, Ellen mused. Denise was so vivacious and he was so dull. She could have had the pick of the county. Men had swarmed around her like bees around honey. Whatever magic spell boring Jimmy McMahon weaved had worked, because Denise had waltzed radiantly down the aisle six months after their first date. Maybe he was great in bed! Ellen found it hard to think of Jimmy McMahon in the throes of wild passion murmuring sweet nothings in Denise’s ear. The thought made her giggle.

  She seemed happy enough, Ellen thought a little enviously. How nice it would be to have Stephanie playing in her own garden and a husband coming home to his dinner every night. Denise’s contented domesticity contrasted starkly with her own restless existence.