Promises, Promises

by Patricia Scanlan

  And it had all happened at their party, Vincent thought wryly. He’d had a bad feeling at the party, probably because of that obnoxious bastard, Wallace. It had been a dreadful way to start the New Year, nearly six weeks ago. And now this. The phone rang and he went to answer it.

  It was his mother-in-law, Pamela. She was distraught. Her elderly mother, who’d been in excellent health, had suffered a fatal heart attack. She wanted Emma to collect an old aunt and bring her to the hospital to say her farewells.

  Vincent’s heart sank to his boots. Emma was never the best in a crisis. She was going to be no help at all now because of the way things were. He knew it was an awful thing to think, but there’d been no love lost between Emma and her grandmother – who’d felt that Emma was a spoilt baggage – so at least she wouldn’t be paralysed with grief at the funeral. He’d take a few days off work because Emma wouldn’t be able to handle things on her own. Heavy-hearted, he went upstairs to break the upsetting news to his wife.

  ‘Oh Vincent, why did she have to die today of all days? I feel lousy. I don’t want to have to bring Aunt Edna into St Vincent’s. You know the way she whines,’ Emma moaned.

  ‘Emma! Your grandmother’s dead. I’m sure she didn’t want to die,’ Vincent said sternly.

  ‘Yes, well she was a crotchety old interfering busybody. She didn’t think you were good enough for me, so don’t expect me to be a hypocrite and pretend I’m sorry she’s dead. Because I’m not.’ Emma sulked.

  ‘Now stop it. Your mother needs you. I’ll take a couple of days off work. I’ll ring Miriam and ask her will she mind Julie Ann after school so that we can do whatever your mother needs us to do. Come on, get dressed.’

  ‘You’re very good to me, Vincent.’ Emma touched his face.

  He leaned over and kissed her. ‘We’ll get through this. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I know,’ she sighed. But I hate being pregnant and I don’t want this baby were her unspoken thoughts as she held Vincent’s hand tightly.

  Would Ellen come to his grandmother’s funeral, Chris wondered as he sat in his office unable too concentrate on the pile of letters awaiting his signature.

  Hardly. His grandmother was nothing to Ellen. Vincent and Emma would, of course, be there. And Mr and Mrs Munroe. Possibly Miriam and Ben too in a show of sympathy for Emma. But Ellen and Emma didn’t get on. No! It was wishful thinking on his part.

  It was almost six weeks since he’d seen her on New Year’s Day and not an hour went past when he didn’t think of her. It was as if the barriers he’d erected over the past six years, when he’d resolutely put her out of his head, had come tumbling down, and now all those suppressed thoughts came pouring back in a damburst of obsession.

  Had she put him out of her head? Did she ever think of him? Now his fantasies were all of her. Did she ever fantasize about him? Or were her thoughts and desires all for that tall bearded man who’d made her smile? Chris was consumed with vicious jealousy when he thought of him.

  It was as if he’d lost control of his life. Why now? After all these years? Was it because the thought of living the life he’d been leading – a life that had become increasingly stale – stretched over the decades to come in a flat depressing vista that filled him with dread?

  He cared for Suzy, but he didn’t love her. He told her he loved her. It tripped off his tongue lightly. It always had. He’d always told the women he’d been with that he loved them. They seemed to need that affirmation of his feelings for them. Deep down Chris knew that the only woman he’d ever really bonded with and loved was Ellen. And he’d been so terrified of it, so afraid of committing himself to her, he’d run away from her. Ellen had known the real him, he could never hide his feelings from her like he could from Suzy. Suzy only knew the facade. And he was trapped with her and his children. He was almost forty, life was downhill from now on.

  Chris got up and walked over to the window. It was a beautiful spring day. The vivid blue sky was softened with wisps of fluffy white clouds drifting past on the breeze. A rowan tree across the road was beginning to bud and a window box in a cafe window was bursting with yellow and purple crocuses. The sight only increased his restless panic. He felt smothered, oppressed. Even his work, which had always challenged him, was a grind.

  He flicked through the pages of his leather phone pad, came to the Ms and found the entry marked E. That was all he’d written in the space. Just E and two numbers. Home and the shop. He dialled her work number, his heart pounding.

  ‘Hello, Munroes.’ Her voice had that same faintly husky timbre that he remembered. She sounded light-hearted. ‘Hello?’ she repeated.

  Chris opened his mouth but he couldn’t speak. What would he say to her? Dry-mouthed, he hung up.

  ‘Idiot!’ he cursed himself as he picked up his pen and began signing his letters.

  ‘He’s so moody, Alexandra. I know he’s thinking about her. He tells me he isn’t. But I don’t believe him.’

  Alexandra Johnston raised her eyes to heaven as she listened to Suzy whingeing on the other end of the phone. That was all she did these days, moan and whinge about Chris. She was heartily sick of it. Didn’t Suzy realize how bloody lucky she was with a husband and a fine house, two adorable little kids and an affluent lifestyle? She knew she was being bitchy, but there were times when she was deeply envious of her best friend. Suzy had the looks, the personality, the style and a life that Alexandra now secretly longed for. Everything dropped into Suzy’s lap, effortlessly. It always had. A bit of hardship now and again wouldn’t do her a bit of harm, she thought crossly as Suzy launched into a tirade about Chris.

  What did she expect for heaven’s sake? Chris Wallace was a womanizer and always had been. If Suzy had thought for one minute that he was going to change his ways she was a fool! That he’d lasted this long was a miracle. It came as no surprise to Alexandra that he had a love child. Men were bastards and she’d put enough of them through her hands to speak from experience.

  The last man she’d been involved with, Will Fennelly, had walked out on her because she’d told him she couldn’t make up her mind between him and another lover. He’d walked instead of staying and fighting for her. He’d failed the test. She hadn’t cared about the other guy. She’d just wanted Will to put his foot down with her and act like a real man. But he’d wimped out on her and now she was on her own again and she hated it. She’d had enough of being single and free. That had been fine in her twenties and she’d played around with the best of them but now, in her mid-thirties, time was no longer on her side. Having your independence was nice, and it suited her, and men admired her for it, but that fine line between being independent and being left on the shelf was edging much too close for comfort. She felt like telling Suzy to bugger off.

  ‘Look, I have to go, Suzy,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’ She hung up and began composing a saccharine letter to a celebrity she wanted to come to a charity fund-raising dinner she was organizing for one of the firm’s clients. She had to work for a living. Suzy didn’t.

  Suzy put the phone down and burst into tears. Everyone was deserting her. Chris might as well be on another planet these days and Alexandra didn’t want to hear her tale of woe. It was very mean of her best friend. Suzy had supported her in her trials and tribulations with men. She’d always shown her sympathy when Alexandra needed it. Especially over her recent break-up with Will. It wasn’t too much to expect the same consideration from her, now that she was going through a very difficult trauma. That’s what friends were for. But then Alexandra had always been selfish like that. Her traumas were far more important than Suzy’s.

  Suzy walked into the kitchen and began clearing the lunch dishes. Resentment and bitterness against Chris and Alexandra filled her and, in a moment of uncontrollable anger, she lifted a cup and fired it against the kitchen wall and watched it smash into smithereens onto the floor.

  Sheila dialled the shop’s number. She was mentally selecting and discarding out
fits to be worn to the removal of Emma’s grandmother’s remains. Pamela and her moneyed family would no doubt be dressed to the nines. They wouldn’t find Sheila Munroe lacking. Vincent had phoned earlier with news of the bereavement. He said Emma was too upset to come to the phone.

  Ellen answered. ‘Is Mick there?’ Sheila asked.

  ‘No, he’s gone to the bank.’

  ‘Tsk. Well tell him that Emma’s grandmother died suddenly this morning. I’d say the removal service will be on tomorrow evening. And the funeral the next day. We’ll have to go.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ellen said.

  ‘I presume Ben and Miriam will want to go. Are you going to put in an appearance?’ Sheila asked snootily. Ellen was so busy organizing the flat these days, she was hardly at home.

  ‘I don’t think Emma would care whether I was there or not,’ Ellen said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Well you could go for Vincent’s sake. He’ll need the support of his family. And I want the Connollys to see that we can be counted upon for that,’ Sheila declared. ‘After all the girl is your sister-in-law whether you like it or not.’

  ‘I’ll see,’ Ellen said irritably. ‘I’ll tell Dad to give you a call when he gets back. I have to go. There’s a queue.’

  Sheila replaced the receiver, and then dialled the hairdresser’s. She’d have to get her hair set. She wanted to look her best. Fortunately Joanne, of Joanne’s, London, Paris and Rome, was not rushed off her feet and assured Sheila that she could fit her in if she came by in half an hour. Sheila was delighted. The set would have settled nicely by the following evening.

  She went upstairs to go through her wardrobe. She had a good black suit, kept for such occasions, and a little black hat with a veil. That would do for the funeral Mass. But what to wear for the removal had yet to be decided. It was a pity her pure new Irish Wool coat was red. It was very smart. She’d got it for Christmas. But red was not at all suitable for such an occasion. She took out a navy anorak and discarded it. Not half dressy enough. A bottle-green three-quarter-length coat. She could wear her navy skirt and navy court shoes . . . Perhaps.

  Trust Ellen to make a song and dance about going. Typical, she thought crossly as she rooted for the navy skirt.

  Sheila thought of something. Her jaw dropped in dismay. Maybe Ellen shouldn’t go. That Wallace brat would probably be there. Maybe Ellen was right to keep away. After all, the delicacy of her position had to be kept in mind. Pamela and the judge mightn’t want her there.

  Sheila cringed. She should have kept her mouth shut. Now she was in a right pickle. She’d been looking forward to the funeral. A morning out and a chance to show the Connollys that she was as good as they were. Now, if Ellen decided to go, it would be most embarrassing. Sheila frowned. It was very vexing to say the least. She put her clothes back in the wardrobe and walked slowly downstairs. If she suddenly turned around and said Ellen wasn’t to go, Ellen would get on her high horse and there’d be a row and she’d probably go to annoy her. This matter had to be treated with subtlety. She’d ring Miriam and have a chat with her. Miriam could talk to Ellen and point out the awkwardness of the situation. Sheila sighed deeply as she dialled the number. Just when things seemed to have got on an even keel again and she and Mick were the way they used to be, this had to happen.

  Miriam listened in silence as her mother-in-law explained her dilemma. Her heart sank when she heard Sheila say sweetly, ‘So I was wondering, dear, if you might have a quiet word with Ellen and point out that it isn’t really appropriate for her to go the funeral. We don’t want any unpleasantness. And we don’t want the Connollys . . . you know . . . looking at Ellen and making her feel uncomfortable. I’ll leave it to you to do your best. Ellen listens to you more than she listens to me. That’s why I’m asking this favour. I have to go now, dear. I need to get my hair done and they said they’d squeeze me in without an appointment. Bye, bye.’

  Miriam heard the click at the other end of the phone as Sheila hung up. She replaced her own receiver resentfully. It wasn’t fair of Sheila to involve her in this. It could lead to bad feeling between her and Ellen. What was she going to say to her? Miriam fretted. That Sheila didn’t want her to go to the funeral because she was ashamed of her? Because no matter what her mother-in-law said, no matter how she tried to cover it up with pretended concern about how the Connollys would view Ellen’s attendance at the funeral, it was shame, not concern, that motivated Sheila. Her mother-in-law would always hold Stephanie’s illegitimacy against Ellen. The passing of the years wouldn’t change that.

  She should have just said she preferred not to get involved, Miriam thought, disgusted with herself that, once more, she’d allowed Sheila to persuade her to do something she didn’t want to do.

  Ellen could hear the dull insistent thud of the hammer upstairs as Doug nailed up the plasterboard on the new dining-room partition. It was music to her ears. She was thrilled with herself. The two bedrooms and the new bathroom in the attic conversion were done and the end was in sight. Soon she’d be living in her own home. Her new bedroom was light and airy, with a skylight and a little dormer window. Doug had suggested panelling the sloping ceiling in pine and it was very warm and clean.

  Stephanie’s room was just like hers except, true to his word, he’d got his carpenter to build shelf units that blocked off one small corner into a play area. Stephanie was beside herself with excitement.

  Ellen glanced at her watch. It was almost time for lunch. She was starving. She’d made a steak casserole for lunch, the night before, and Miss Boyle in the coffee shop next door was heating it up for her. Ellen had got into the habit of having her lunch with Doug and Harry, his partner. She usually cooked stews or casseroles or hotpots and the men tucked into her cooking with gusto. It was nice to feel she was repaying Doug in some small way. He was exceptionally kind and had worked morning, noon and night to get this far in the work.

  Her father arrived a few minutes later and Ellen told him the news about Emma’s grandmother.

  ‘I suppose I’ll be trussed up in my good suit for this,’ he sighed. ‘I wouldn’t mind but St Pat’s are playing Bohemians tomorrow evening and I wanted to go on to the match.’ Mick was a St Pat’s supporter and they were having a run of good luck, the championship was within their grasp. ‘Isn’t that just my luck?’

  ‘Don’t go to the removal. Just go to the funeral,’ Ellen suggested.

  ‘Do you want me to be shot? Could you imagine the face of your mother if I told her I was going to a match and she could go to Dublin on her own? Because she’ll be at both services, come hell or high water. Do you think she’ll have the Connollys talking about her? My plans are ruined and that’s all that’s to it. I better go home for my lunch and see what she has to say about it.’

  ‘She wants me to go,’ Ellen said ruefully. ‘To give Vincent family support. I suppose I’d better put in an appearance or I’ll be the worst in the world.’

  ‘Well you know what your mother is like, God bless her. Appearances count for everything . . . especially where the Connollys are concerned. I’ll get Stella O’Neill to put in a few hours on Wednesday evening and Thursday morning to cover for us.’

  ‘OK.’ Ellen patted her father fondly on the back and then locked the shop door and went next door to the coffee shop to get her casserole.

  Doug was washing his hands when she walked into her new kitchen.

  ‘Howya, Ellen,’ he greeted her in his usual cheery manner. ‘That smells good, I’m famished. Harry,’ he yelled up into the attic. ‘Chow time.’

  Harry didn’t need a second summons. He clattered down the winding wooden stairs. ‘Let me at it, Ellen. This is the best job we’ve done in years. No-one feeds us like you do.’

  ‘Oh I’m just keeping you sweet so you’ll do a good job, Harry,’ Ellen joked as she began serving up.

  ‘Yeah, well I’ve put on half a stone since I started eating your cooking. My wife is giving out to me because my clothes are getting too tight.’ Harry
tucked in with gusto.

  Doug looked at Ellen and winked. ‘Maybe we’d better stop feeding him, we don’t want him falling through the floorboards.’

  ‘Give over!’ Harry snorted as he forked a piece of steak into his mouth. Ellen gave him another helping of casserole.

  ‘Good girl.’ He beamed. The men ate with relish and later, as they drank a cup of coffee, Harry turned to Doug. ‘Did you tell Ellen the plumber’s coming tomorrow evening to finish up the central heating?’

  ‘Oh great,’ Ellen exclaimed.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be here?’ Doug asked. ‘You can do the ceremonial switching on but bring your swimsuit just in case we have to swim out of here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it.’ She smiled at Doug. Behind the quiet facade he had a great sense of humour and his calm easy-going way was always reassuring, especially when the flat looked as though a bomb had hit it. A thought struck her.

  ‘I’ll be later than usual. Emma’s grandmother died. I’ll have to go to the removal and it’s on the other side of the city.’

  ‘We won’t switch on without you’, Doug assured her. ‘By the way, remember I told you I’d ask my mate to keep an eye out for a car for you? Well he’s got a nice little Triumph Dolomite coming in today. I’ll take you over to Swords this evening if you like to have a look at it.’

  ‘Oh Doug!’ Ellen was elated. ‘What colour is it?’

  Doug laughed. ‘That’s typical of a woman. A man would ask how old it is? What’s the mileage? But a woman always asks what colour is it.’

  ‘Well what colour is it?’

  ‘It’s a surprise. But I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘Ah Doug, please.’

  He raised a finger at her, ‘Now! Now! patience is a virtue.’

  ‘Doug Roche, you’re a swine.’

  ‘Thank you. Flattery will get you nowhere.’