A Gift to You

by Patricia Scanlan

  Kathy gave a sigh of relief as the Audi’s rear lights disappeared into the night. Tonight had been a disaster. Alison had sniped at Garry constantly. At times he’d ignored her completely. This had been like a red rag to a bull. As her rage and antipathy, fuelled by several large G&Ts, overflowed, she’d turned to her friends and said angrily, ‘I’m married to the biggest bastard you could meet.’

  ‘Either take your go now, Alison, or forfeit it. You’ve been holding up the game for the last five minutes,’ Garry said coldly. His eyes were like flints behind his glasses as he glowered at her.

  ‘Get lost. I’ll go when I’m ready. Just because you think you’re Mister Intelligence. Well, you’re not. You’re just a cheat. I mean, who else would try and get away with putting Monaco down and say it was a font? It’s not in the dictionary. It shouldn’t be allowed. And you shouldn’t get a triple word score.’

  ‘Well, if you weren’t so thick, you’d know that it was a font. I’ll show it to you on the computer when we get home.’

  ‘Oh, stick your bloody computer. You should have married one, you spend so much time on that one in the office,’ Alison snapped. She slapped down her letters.

  ‘Is that the best you can do? Rat! Pathetic!’ Garry’s brown eyes flashed with scorn.

  ‘Well, I’m married to one, aren’t I?’ Alison riposted coldly. ‘Don’t forget it’s a double word score.’

  ‘The first one you’ve managed so far,’ Garry jeered, as he wrote down the score.

  They’d all been playing their usual Saturday-night game of Scrabble, a tradition that went back to the carefree giddy days of their early twenties. They’d all been newly-weds then with not a lot of money to spend. The future had looked rosy. Now, fourteen years later Garry and Alison weren’t getting on too well, much to Mike and Kathy’s dismay.

  Over the last few months, things had got so bad that the weekly game of Scrabble that they’d always looked forward to, after a few drinks and a Chinese takeaway, was becoming a bit of an ordeal.

  ‘I’ve never seen them as bad as they were tonight,’ Kathy reflected, as she collected the dirty glasses and emptied the cold, congealed remains of the meal into the bin.

  ‘Why they ever married each other, I’ll never know. They’re like chalk and cheese. They always were. I mean, Alison is always gadding about and Garry hates going anywhere.’ Mike picked the bones of a cold spare rib.

  ‘Put that in the bin, you glutton.’ Kathy grimaced. ‘They say opposites attract. Maybe it worked at the start but it’s not working now.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Alison made the big mistake of thinking that she was going to change Garry. He’ll never change. He’s not even making the effort now. I don’t think he wants to come over to us on Saturday night any more. All he wants to do is go to his football matches. Or bury himself in his work. He lives in that office.’

  ‘Would you say that Garry’s got another woman?’ Kathy asked her husband. ‘He can’t be spending all those nights at work.’

  ‘Garry! Garry McHugh! Don’t be daft, woman,’ Mike scoffed as he licked his fingers. ‘He’d run a mile if a woman came near him. Imagine Garry sitting down and having a conversation with a woman. It’s hard enough for him to have a conversation with us. And he’s known us for years.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ Kathy poured Fairy Liquid into a basin of hot water. ‘He’s great fun, though, when he’s in form. He’s got a real dry sense of humour. I feel sorry for him sometimes. Alison is always nagging him.’

  ‘Garry likes being nagged. He likes being told what to do. He never makes decisions. Alison makes them all. Did you hear her telling him he was to get his hair cut next week? And telling him that she’d told Brenda Johnston that he’d tile her bathroom. Without even asking him! What is he, a man or a mouse?’ Mike picked up the towel and started to dry the dishes. ‘It’s like he’s the child and she’s the mother. It’s always been like that with them. That would drive me nuts. If I came home and found out that you’d told Brenda Johnston that I’d tile her crappy bathroom, you know what your answer would be.’ He grinned.

  ‘Well, Alison always was a bossy boots. And I wouldn’t inflict Poison Dwarf Johnston on you. I’d know better.’ Kathy giggled. Brenda Johnston was Alison McHugh’s best friend. Kathy didn’t like her. She thought she was sly. She was always flirting with other women’s husbands. Brenda who was unmarried and in her early forties, had recently bought a house that needed a lot of renovation. Brenda was an expert at the Poor-Little-Me-I’m-A-Helpless-Female act. Every man she knew was being roped in to help decorate. Garry was doing the lion’s share.

  ‘Poison Dwarf! . . . Miaow! Brenda’s not in the good books. What’s she done now?’

  ‘She had the nerve to say that I didn’t know what stress was. She said that I had you to provide for me. She said that I could come and go as I pleased because I’m a housewife. She thinks that I have very little to do.’

  ‘Well I do provide for you. You can come and go as you please,’ Mike said innocently.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Kathy flicked frothy suds at her husband. He flicked back and drenched her.

  ‘Stop it,’ she squealed.

  ‘Shush, you’ll wake the kids,’ Mike warned.

  ‘Well, if the baby wakes up you won’t be getting any nooky tonight because it’s your turn to get up to her. And I intend to sleep my brains out . . . in the spare room if necessary,’ Kathy said smugly.

  ‘Well, see about that.’ Mike dropped the towel, grabbed his wife and gave her a long smoochy kiss.

  ‘Let’s leave the rest of the washing-up and the two of us can sleep in the spare room.’ He nuzzled her ear.

  Kathy giggled. Even after ten years of marriage and three children, Mike still turned her on and she loved him passionately. Hand in hand, they crept upstairs into the spare bedroom and thoroughly enjoyed themselves for the next hour.

  Later, nestled in the curve of Mike’s arm, Kathy said sleepily, ‘Would you say that Garry and Brenda are having a fling?’

  ‘Who in their right mind would want to have an affair with Bug-eyes Johnston? Are you mad? She wouldn’t shut up long enough to let someone kiss her. She loves the sound of her own voice too much. She’s such a bloody know-all. Who’d want to listen to that one yakin’ in that squeaky voice of hers and watch her flicking that lank greasy brown hair of hers over her shoulders the way she does?’ Mike snorted.

  ‘Well, Garry didn’t say he wouldn’t tile her bathroom for her. He’s always doing bits and pieces for her. Maybe he likes her.’

  ‘She’s bossy enough for him, anyway. She’s even more of a dictator than Alison.’

  ‘Ah, Alison’s not that bad,’ Kathy defended her friend. ‘If she didn’t nag Garry he’d never do anything except watch soccer and play with his computers.’

  ‘If I lived in their house that’s all I’d want to do. It’s like a pigsty. Alison is not good at housekeeping. You don’t know how lucky you are. I never watch soccer. I don’t have a computer,’ Mike murmured into her hair.

  ‘And I don’t have a job, like Alison. I’m always here to cook your dinner. I have your shirts ironed every morning. You don’t know how lucky you are, buster!’

  ‘I know how lucky I am,’ Mike whispered. His arms tightened around her.

  ‘Poor Garry and Alison, it’s horrible, isn’t it? Kathy said sadly.

  ‘I couldn’t stick a marriage like that. All that bitterness and anger and resentment. It’s almost as if they hate each other now. Maybe they’d be better off divorced.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that, Mike!’ Kathy exclaimed.

  ‘Well, it’s true. What kind of a life have they got now? No life. The trouble with Alison and Garry, and I don’t say this lightly, they’re very dear to me, we’ve been friends a long time, but the two of them in their own way are very selfish people. There’s very little give and take there. Garry should never have got married. He should never have had a child either. He’s not prepared to make
the effort. Poor Ciara’s a nuisance to him. He thinks once he provides financially for her, that’s his responsibility over. He’s not prepared to give any more. It’s like our friendship. If we didn’t have them over and keep in touch he wouldn’t bother. It’s too much effort. He’s a strange chap.’

  ‘I wonder, does our friendship mean anything to him? Or is it just habit with him?’ Kathy mused.

  ‘You never know with Garry. You never know what’s really in his mind. Garry’s very . . . how would I describe it . . .? Sort of calculating, I suppose. He always was. Says nothing much, but takes it all in.’

  ‘He’s very good-natured, though. He’d never see you stuck. Maybe it’s just a bad patch. Maybe they’ll work things out.’

  ‘I hope so, because if they don’t, I don’t really want to go away for a long weekend with them. I don’t want to have to sit listening to that for three days.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Kathy agreed glumly. ‘But I always looked forward to that weekend away without the kids. It wouldn’t be the same going on our own. Remember the time we went to West Cork and we found out that the hotel was an-out-and-out kip and Garry told the mad one behind the desk that he was from Bord Failte and there was no way he and his party were going to spend one minute there, let alone a night and she’d better hand over his deposit fast. And he waved his Union card under her nose and she believed him and gave him back the money. God, we legged it out of there so fast.’

  ‘Remember the time we were camping and Alison set the tent on fire?’

  ‘Yeah, and remember the time we went on the Shannon cruiser and Garry caught a pike and chased you along the quay wall at Dromod with it and you tripped over a rope.’

  ‘I nearly broke my neck.’ Kathy grinned in the dark at the memory. ‘We did have fun, though, didn’t we?’

  ‘Ah, maybe they’ll get over it. Maybe a weekend away would do them all the good in the world,’ Mike, ever the optimist, declared.

  ‘Maybe,’ Kathy agreed but she wondered if they’d all ever have such good times again. The way things were going, it didn’t look like it. Alison had told her in the kitchen that she’d got off with a fella she’d met at a dance and she’d enjoyed a mighty good snog with him too for good measure. If she met someone, she was off, and Garry could like it or lump it.

  That didn’t sound like someone who was prepared to try and make a go of things. Poor little Ciara. Kathy’s motherly heart went out to her goddaughter. She felt very angry as she lay in the dark listening to Mike’s volcanic snores beside her. Couldn’t either of them see what they were doing to the child? Couldn’t they see how insecure she was? Always fighting in front of her. Ciara had told Hannah, Kathy’s eldest, that Garry had told Ciara that her mother was an imbecile. Imagine saying that to a child? Mike was right, they were bloody selfish and neither of them was taking any responsibility for what they were doing to their daughter. Kathy didn’t like the crowd Ciara hung out with. Imagine letting a twelve-year-old go to a mixed slumber party? Hannah had been asked and was in a monumental huff with her parents at the moment because she wasn’t allowed to go. She could stay in her huffs, because no way was she going to any mixed slumber parties. It was very awkward, though; Ciara was allowed to do so much. She was on Facebook and Twitter, she was allowed to watch films Kathy considered totally unsuitable for her age and she wore way too much make-up. In Hannah’s eyes, Mike and Kathy were very strict and it was starting to cause terrible hassle.

  Her eldest daughter did have the Olly Murs concert to look forward to, Kathy reminded herself. Bringing up kids was no joke. Where did you draw the line between being over-protective and letting them grow up safely? At least she and Mike were trying. Garry and Alison didn’t seem to have any such concerns. But then Ciara was very ‘responsible’ for her age, according to Alison, when Kathy had asked her how in the name of God had she agreed to let her go to this goddamned slumber party. Of course, it suited Alison to think that. It let her off the hook when hard decisions had to be made. ‘Responsible’ was not the way Kathy would describe Garry and Alison right now, she thought crossly as she gave Mike a dig in the ribs to stop him snoring before drifting off to sleep herself.

  I think I’ll have a lazy day today, Imelda McHugh decided, as she snuggled under the duvet and pulled it up over her ears. The bed was lovely and warm and she could hear hailstones clattering against the window. Imelda smiled. What bliss! She could stay in bed all day if she wanted to. At seventy years of age, she was a liberated woman! ‘Thank you, God, for making me a widow.’ It was a heartfelt prayer. Since her husband Ben had died two years ago, her life had changed completely. She’d discovered a whole new lease of life. She didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn any more to cook a breakfast for a cantankerous, mean-spirited old man that she hated. And she hated Ben McHugh to whom she’d been married for forty years. He’d made her life a misery with his moods and his meanness and his vicious temper. Ben had been a most thoroughly selfish man. He’d courted her for three years, married her and she like a fool had believed that life would be happy ever after. The relief of having a ring on her finger, saving her from spinsterhood, and the excitement of having a home of her own, helped her overlook her disenchantment with her husband. Once the honeymoon was over and they’d started living in the small terraced house they’d bought in Fairview, her dreams of happy ever after had quickly turned to ashes. Ben wasn’t the slightest bit interested in doing anything other than going to work, reading his sports news, watching TV and going to his football matches. He expected his breakfast on the table at 7.30 a.m. Sharp. His dinner had to be on the table when he came home from work in the evening. They had sex every Friday night and that was over almost before it started. After a few grunts and groans and rough fumblings, Ben would roll over and fall asleep.

  That had been the pattern throughout their marriage. They’d had one child, Garry. A quiet, introverted, lonely boy who’d left home as soon as he’d done his Leaving Cert. He’d gone to live in a flat in Drumcondra when he’d got a job in the Civil Service. He’d married a girl from Phibsboro, Alison, and they had one child. Imelda didn’t see much of them. They’d rarely come to visit when Ben was alive: Christmas, Easter that was it. And Imelda couldn’t blame them. Who’d want to come and try and make conversation with the old grump sitting by the fire?

  Well, Ben was dead and she was glad of it. She was in the ICA Ladies’ Club now. She went bowling, and flower arranging and they were always going on little trips to places of interest. She was having the time of her life and she was going to make the most of it as long as she could. But today it was miserable, the weather had changed and she was staying in bed. Imelda sipped the coffee she’d brought back to bed and nibbled on her toast and marmalade and settled herself against the pillows to read the latest copy of Hello! that had some lovely pictures of the Queen and Kate and the Royal Family.

  ‘You’re a stupid cow, that’s what you are!’

  ‘And you’re a scummy bastard. I wish you’d get the hell out of here and never come back.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe I will, ya bigmouth bitch . . .’

  Ciara McHugh pressed her thumbs into her ears. They were at it again, shouting and roaring and ranting and raving. She hated them. Why couldn’t they be like other parents? Why did they have to be fighting all the time?

  Why couldn’t her mother leave her dad alone? She was always nagging him. Nag, nag, nag. He’d just ignore her and that would make Alison worse and then she’d say something that would get him going and then they’d be yelling and shouting at each other and her dad’s face would go dark with fury and Ciara was afraid he’d hit her mother. It frightened her. Sometimes when they fought she’d run up to her bedroom and lie on her bed and her heart would be pounding so loudly she’d think it was going to burst out of her chest.

  Ciara heard the door slam so hard that it seemed to shake the whole house. She heard the engine of the car rev. That would be her dad. He’d drive off and not come home for hou
rs after a row. There was a dull silence in the house. Soon her mother would come upstairs to Ciara’s room and start giving out about Garry. She’d tell Ciara that Garry was selfish and cruel and that he’d never given her any support in their marriage, not like their best friend, Mike, gave to Kathy. Alison thought Mike was a great husband and father. ‘See how Mike helps around the house, and cooks dinners at the weekend instead of sitting with his nose stuck into a football match on TV.’

  ‘See how Mike helps his kids with their homework.’

  ‘See how Mike takes them out at weekends and gives them . . . quality . . . time.’

  Alison always paused before she said ‘quality’ time and made it sound like something holy and reverent. She was always reading books about relationships and quality time and communication.

  ‘Mike . . . communicates . . . with his kids. Your father can’t communicate, Ciara. I’ve spent years, years, trying to get him to talk to me, to share the way Mike and Alison share and it’s like banging my head against a stone wall. I tell you, Ciara, if I can make a go of it with someone else, I bloody well will. I’m not wasting any more time on that thick, squinty-eyed shit. Life’s not a rehearsal, Ciara. We only get one go on the merry-go-round. Always remember that. And if you’ve any sense . . . never get married. You don’t want to end up like me, stuck with a selfish, cruel callous bastard.’ She’d usually burst into tears at that point.

  When her mother said she was going to go off with someone else it always frightened Ciara. She didn’t want Alison to go off with someone else. What would happen if her parents split up? Where would her daddy go? She didn’t think her dad was that bad. He didn’t drink. That was good. Liz Kelly’s father was always drunk. Once, he even puked up his dinner in front of a gang of them who were staying over for a slumber party. Poor Liz was so mortified she just burst into tears.