‘Oh Helen,’ I sigh. ‘I hope your daydreams helped.’
‘They did. For a while. Until she found my weakness. I couldn’t give her a granddaughter. She told me often enough she had a son of her own, what did she want three grandsons for.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ I whisper, taking a large mouthful of coffee, grateful for its warmth as I hear my mother’s voice in my head telling me how lucky she was to have a boy and a girl. One of each, she’d say, hugging us. Her perfect family. ‘I hope your boys never heard her.’
‘No, of course not,’ she says. ‘She was as sweet as pie around them. She had them all fooled. Worst of all, she had Larry brainwashed. He spent years craving a daughter. Not for himself. Or even for me. For his bloody mother. Can you believe that? If the bitch wasn’t dead now I think he’d still be pestering me to try for a girl. Imagine.’ Helen taps her chest with her fingertips. ‘Could you imagine me pregnant at forty-six? No bloody thank you. Last thing I need is a child in my life now.’
I sip my coffee, but my eyes peer over the top of my cup, watching her.
When I first met Helen I honestly thought she was a bored housewife content to spend her days gossiping with the locals and her evenings drinking Chardonnay that she hadn’t bothered to chill. But I’m slowly realising that Helen is like an onion: you have to peel her back one layer at a time and what you find brings tears to your eyes. But I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing just yet.
‘Oh Susan, I’m sorry. Jesus, that was very insensitive of me, mentioning a child like that. I’ll shut up. I’ll shut up now.’
‘No. Don’t.’ I put my cup down. ‘I asked you to talk. So don’t feel you need to censor what you say. Please?’
Helen’s eyes widen and I can tell I confuse her.
‘It’s just, it’s good to hear someone not holding back what they say,’ I explain. ‘Everyone else in the village is tiptoeing around me, afraid to open their mouths in case they say something that upsets me. I actually think the neighbours are secretly glad when I don’t answer the front door. They only knock because they feel obliged. As if that’s what good neighbours should do. But I barely know them. They don’t want to talk to me as much as I don’t want to talk to them.’
‘S’pose people just don’t know what to say,’ Helen says. ‘But they mean well, Susan. They really do. People around here are nice. Nosy. Very nosy. But nice.’
‘I get that. I do understand. But don’t become one of those people. Please, Helen? I need someone to talk to or I’ll crack up.’
‘Okay,’ she smiles, staring into her coffee. ‘Would you mind if I made another cup? I was so busy nattering, I’ve let this one get cold.’
‘Sure,’ I nod.
‘Will you have another?’ Helen asks, standing up.
I shake my head, distracted by the sound of the handle on the front door turning.
Helen makes her way towards the kitchen area just before the door swings open. Paul stands in the doorway. He’s saturated again. His usually floppy hair is flat against his head and strands stick to his face. His lips are slightly blue around the edges; it’s noticeable even from a distance.
‘Hi,’ I say as he closes the door behind him with unnecessary force.
I know he heard me but he doesn’t reply as he slips off his wet runners. He’s gone through three pairs this week. The last two are still drying out on the kitchen windowsill.
He doesn’t bother to look up at me. He leans one hip against the door as he pulls his sock off the opposite foot.
I turn my head, forcing myself to look outside for the first time today. The sun is shining brightly and there’s nothing more than a couple of white clouds as thin as candyfloss dotted sporadically overhead.
‘Was it raining?’ I ask, knowing it wasn’t.
He pulls off his other sock and stuffs them into his runners. ‘I’m going upstairs to change,’ he grunts.
‘How did you get wet?’ I say, the legs of my chair scratching against the floor tiles as I push it back abruptly to march towards him.
Paul ignores me. The bottom step of the stairs creaks as he steps on it. He grabs the banister and I gasp as I notice the dried blood smeared across his knuckles.
‘What happened?’ I ask, racing towards him. ‘Did you fall?’
‘Susan, I’m going upstairs to change my clothes,’ he says with his back to me. ‘Give me some fucking space, will you?’
‘I give you nothing but space, Paul,’ I say softly. ‘You’re never here.’
‘You’re right.’ Paul turns. ‘But Amelia isn’t here either, is she?’
‘Please, talk to me,’ I beg. ‘Where do you go?’
‘Well, right now I’m going for a shower. Is that allowed?’ His eyes narrow and sparkle like glazed almonds. ‘Do you want to call the cops and tell them that, since they’re so interested in my every move?’
‘Paul, I didn’t know they were going to ask those questions yesterday,’ I say. ‘They caught me as much by surprise as you.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Susan, I’m wet and cold. I’m going for a shower. Please just leave me alone.’
I watch him climb the stairs two steps at a time. He doesn’t look back at me. I press my lips firmly together and count backwards from five in my head, blushing when I turn round and see Helen making her way to the table.
‘I’m sorry you had to hear that,’ I say, dragging my hands around my face, mortified.
‘Hear what?’ Helen shrugs. ‘I was boiling the kettle. I didn’t hear a thing. Is everything okay, Susan? You look very pale all of a sudden.’
‘I’m fine,’ I lie, brushing off her concern. ‘I see you’re really getting to know your way around my kitchen.’
Her reply comes in the shape of a smirk and wide eyes. It’s really rather irritating and unhelpful right now. Helen also didn’t make coffee, which is equally annoying. Instead, a couple of wine glasses dangle upside down between her fingers and she’s holding a bottle of Chardonnay by the neck in her other hand. I have no idea where the wine has suddenly come from. Helen plonks the bottle and the glasses on the table. I want to get coasters before the glass scratches the table, but I shove my hands into my pockets and try to keep under control. I wonder if Helen hurried back to her house for the wine. Maybe she really didn’t hear Paul and me talking.
‘You’re shaking,’ Helen says, pouring the first glass and offering it to me.
I take it and slug a huge mouthful. It’s chilled and tastes crisp but not too sharp; it definitely hasn’t come from my fridge.
‘Thirsty,’ Helen says, pouring a second glass for herself. ‘Was that Paul’s voice I heard?’
‘I thought you didn’t hear anything?’ I lower my glass.
‘Well, I mean, I didn’t hear what you were saying, Susan.’ Helen smiles and I know she’s lying. ‘I don’t like to eavesdrop, but I did hear voices. Is Paul home?’
I swirl the wine around my glass and look at her. Helen can’t be in two places at once. If she noticed Paul was home, she didn’t have time to pop out to grab a bottle of wine. She confuses me. All my training and I can’t read her. Ironically, the more she tells me about herself, the less I feel I know her. It’s weird. I sip the wine and try to appear relaxed. I was going to tell Helen about Paul’s scratched knuckles. I was going to confide in her that I found a broken tile in the shower and I think Paul punched it after Langton and Connelly asked too many questions. I was going to confide that I’m worried about his frustration and temper. But I’ve trusted the wrong people in the past. I hold my tongue.
‘This is nice,’ I say, pulling my eyes away from Helen to look at the yellowy-green liquid in my glass.
‘Glad you like it,’ she says. ‘Larry dropped it in a few moments ago, and I thought, to hell with the coffee, Susan needs booze.’
‘Larry was here?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ Helen nods. ‘About ten minutes ago.’
‘I didn’t see him.’ I cough and clear
my throat.
‘Ah, he was in his wellies, he didn’t want to come in and drag muck all over your beautiful house.’
‘Still, he could have come in. I haven’t seen him . . . since that day. I suppose he doesn’t know what to say.’ I exhale, frustrated. ‘He probably thinks I’m a bad mother. Everyone around here does.’
Helen sits down. ‘Larry doesn’t think that, Susan. No one does. You’re just punishing yourself with those kinds of thoughts.’
‘He’s been avoiding me since the barbecue.’
‘He’s just socially awkward, that’s all,’ Helen explains. ‘He doesn’t mean anything by it.’
‘He seemed fine at the barbecue.’
‘Ah, that’s because he was talking to Paul.’ Helen smiles, but there’s an uneasy twitch at the corners of her lips that I can’t miss. ‘Men! Yapping about sport and training and all that kind of thing. Larry is a man’s man. He’s not great around women. Ironic, since he’s been pining for the daughter he never had.’ Helen makes a face. ‘Like I said, we can blame his mother for that. He was afraid to open his mouth for years, she had him so under her thumb. The only females Larry is comfortable talking to these days are the heifers on the farm. I swear, he’s better with those bloody cows when they’re calving than he was with me when I was in labour with his sons.’
I laugh for the first time in days. I stop as soon as I catch myself, but it was glorious for the split second it lasted. In that second, I was free. In that moment, I wasn’t the mother of a missing child. Reality hits hard.
‘It was nice of Larry to bring the wine over. Tell him I said thank you, won’t you?’ I say.
‘Yes, it was nice of him, wasn’t it?’ Helen smiles. ‘But to be honest, I think he’s just trying to get rid of me for the rest of the evening. There’s a match on the telly tonight, you know. Galway are playing Kerry. Whoever wins takes us on in the final. Everyone is talking about it. The whole of Cork will be watching the game tonight. The village will be buzzing with excitement. I’ve no doubt Larry will end up in the pub. They have a big screen there. Will Paul go down for a pint?’
‘Erm,’ I wince, realising that Helen isn’t planning to go home any time soon. I really need to talk to Paul. I need to ask him what happened to his hand. And most of all, I just need some time alone with my husband. ‘Paul’s not really into Gaelic sport,’ I say eventually.
‘Oh Jesus.’ Helen’s eyes widen. ‘Don’t let people around these parts hear you say that.’
‘Really?’
‘God yeah,’ Helen sniggers. ‘Folks are hurling mad round these parts.’
‘Right.’ I smack my lips together and pull them apart again, making a popping sound; it’s louder than I mean it to be. ‘Well, you’re welcome to stay, unless you want to catch the game too . . .’ I haven’t finished my insincere sentence before Helen is filling a second glass of wine.
‘There’s another bottle in the kitchen, Susan, don’t look so worried.’ Helen scrunches her nose. ‘I’m not going to drink it all. After all, I think you need this more than I do.’
I’m not so sure I do.
‘You know, I lost a baby too,’ Helen blurts, slugging on her second glass. ‘It was a while ago now. But it still hurts.’
My jaw gapes. ‘I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’
‘It’s not the same as you losing Amelia, I know.’ Helen drains her glass, but I snatch the bottle before she pours another.
I top up my glass and set the bottle down on the table. My hand has barely let go when Helen reaches for it and pours the remainder into her glass.
‘It was a late miscarriage,’ Helen continues. ‘Eighteen weeks. Larry was out on the farm, like always, and I was in the house with the boys. His mother was there but I would have preferred to be alone. It started as light bleeding, really. But by the time we fetched Larry and got to the hospital there was no heartbeat.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘We’d had the scan just a few weeks earlier,’ Helen says, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. ‘They didn’t say if it was a boy or a girl. But I had my fingers crossed. Larry took the news harder than I did. He hit the drink.’
I eye the empty bottle of wine and the near empty glass in Helen’s hand.
‘And you didn’t drink back then?’ I say.
‘No. Not then,’ Helen snorts, and I wonder if she’s admitting she drinks too much now. ‘Larry pestered me for a long time to try again, but my heart wasn’t in it.’
‘Was this recently?’ I ask.
‘Seven, almost eight years ago. But Larry can’t seem to get past it. It killed our marriage, if I’m honest. We stopped being intimate when he kept making it about trying for a baby.’
I guzzle a large mouthful of wine. Helen could be talking about Paul and me. Paul is constantly nagging me to try for another baby. He doesn’t want Amelia to be an only child.
‘I’m sorry, Helen, that sounds hard,’ I say.
‘It is,’ she says, standing up and walking away without excusing herself, and I know she’s going to fetch the other bottle of wine.
The floorboards overhead creak and I realise Paul is out of the shower. Considering the mood he was in when he came home, I’d rather he didn’t find our noisy neighbour drunk in our house when he comes downstairs.
‘I never wanted kids,’ I say, as Helen wobbles back towards me with a second bottle cradled in the crook of her arm like a newborn baby.
‘Really?’ she says, unscrewing the cap.
‘Nope, never.’ I tilt my head, turning my ear to the ceiling as I listen to Paul walk around our bedroom. ‘It was Paul who really wanted to start a family. I don’t have a good relationship with my mother. She lives in the South of France and only comes home once in a blue moon.’ I surprise myself at how easily the truth slips off my tongue. ‘I didn’t want history to repeat itself.’
‘I understand,’ Helen says. ‘I worried our kids would get Larry’s mother’s genes and turn out to be little arseholes. Thankfully they didn’t. They don’t look like the old witch either,’ she laughs.
I laugh too. Grateful that Amelia is nothing like my mother . . . or me.
‘It is a pity you and your mother don’t get along,’ Helen sighs.
‘It’s complicated,’ I say.
‘Isn’t life always?’
‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘It is.’
‘Did she take those photographs? The pretty ones you have hanging in your hall?’ Helen asks, pointing behind her in the wrong direction, but I know what she means. ‘Is your mother a photographer? Or was she, before she retired to France?’
‘Hmm?’ I say, only giving her half my attention. I’m busy concentrating on the noise of the creaky wood that maps out my husband’s every move above me.
‘Your mother, Susan. Is she a photographer? I don’t mean to be nosy, but I noticed the photographs in Amelia’s room earlier and they’re a similar style to the ones hanging in the hall. They’re all really very good.’
I don’t mean to be nosy, I think. Christ, I should get Helen a T-shirt with that printed across the front. It’s her catchphrase.
‘No. My mother’s not a photographer,’ I say.
The floorboards overhead stop creaking. Paul has stopped moving. I wonder if he’s listening to me, just as I’m listening to him. The walls and floorboards of this old cottage are paper-thin. Sound travels like grains of sand through a sieve.
‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ I ask suddenly.
‘But the wine.’ Helen’s eyes widen. ‘I’ve only just opened this bottle.’
‘Let’s bring it with us.’ I scoop the wine bottle off the table and screw the lid back on. I don’t bother to pick up the glasses. ‘I could use some fresh air and a chance to stretch my legs.’
‘What will Paul say?’ Helen asks, unsure. ‘He only just got home.’
‘Who cares?’ I shrug. ‘He’s never home when I want to talk. Let’s see how he likes a taste of his
own medicine.’
Chapter Ten
THEN
I’d been staring out my bedroom window for over an hour when I notice Jenny arrive outside my flat unexpectedly. She’s dressed head to toe in black and looks even thinner and tinier than usual. She doesn’t know I’m watching her when she checks her reflection in the side mirror of a parked car and tucks some stray hair behind her ear. She spins round on to the footpath and rings my doorbell. She presses it incessantly until I reluctantly make my way from my bedroom to answer.
‘Jesus, you have no patience,’ I say, rolling my eyes dramatically as I open the door. ‘Good thing I live in the bottom flat. What would you do if you had to wait for me to make my way down from the top floor?’
‘Ta-da!’ Jenny throws her arms out and twirls slowly around. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, hello to you too,’ I say.
‘Yeah. Yeah. Hello.’ Jenny spins, completing a full circle to face me again. ‘Now tell me, what do you think? Do you like it?’
‘What do I think of what?’ I step back to take in a better view of the black cloak covering my best friend from head to toe.
‘My costume, silly.’ She reaches behind her head and pulls up an oversized hood.
‘Oh Christ, you’re not dressing up, are you?’ I shake my head.
‘Hell yes! It’s Halloween.’ Jenny bounces. ‘I’m the Grim Reaper. Fitting, eh?’
I pull a face. ‘You’re seriously going to dress as the Grim Reaper for the bereavement group’s Halloween meeting?’ I ask.
‘Yup. Fuck it. You have to laugh, Susan, don’t you?’ Jenny says.
I shake my head again. ‘No. No you don’t.’
I’ve spent a lot of time getting to know Jenny over the past year. I would say I know her well. Her tongue-in-cheek sense of humour and no bullshit approach takes some warming to, but I’m used to her quirky ways now. She still scares the crap out of newbies at their first meeting, but her oddball personality is about the only thing saving the group from becoming a snore fest. Jenny would probably say she knows me well too, and she does, in so much as I allow anyone to really know me.
Under Lying Page 9