The People Next Door

by Roisin Meaney

  And, of course, her friends were all in Belford, and Clara. And her parents, not getting any younger.

  But Greg would be in Dublin, and that would make all the difference, wouldn’t it?

  She caught his eye across the room and mimed ‘Time to go’. She looked for Clara and steeled herself to say goodbye to Peggy.

  The man in the museum was gone. Dan had taken him away. Dan lived in Clara’s head now, and there was no room for anyone else.

  Dan had saved Clara. He’d come along and rescued her. She wanted to tell everyone she met how wonderful she felt. How wonderful it was to be in love, and to be loved. For the first time in her life, her naked body didn’t make her feel dirty or ashamed. After making love with Dan, after he’d gently entered her, she’d felt pure and cleansed. When she curled up against him afterwards, when she touched his damp skin, when she felt his deep, satisfied breathing, she was filled with gratitude.

  He had saved her.

  NUMBER EIGHT

  Dan’s father placed his knife and fork side by side on his empty plate. ‘That was grand, many thanks.’

  His wife agreed. ‘Really delicious.’

  Kieran smiled. ‘I’m glad you liked it.’

  Dan got up and began to collect plates. ‘And I made the trifle, so make sure you say something nice about it too.’

  Dan’s mother laughed. ‘I still can’t believe you’re learning to cook – never thought I’d see the day.’

  ‘Me neither. But once Kieran moved in, I hadn’t any choice.’ He brought the plates to the sink. ‘I couldn’t be shown up in my own house.’

  How much had changed since last Christmas, when he and Ali had driven the forty miles to his parents’ house and eaten his mother’s turkey, followed by a Tesco plum pudding. They’d worn crêpe paper hats and pulled crackers, and his father, after two Irish coffees, had sung ‘Phil the Fluter’s Ball’ and Dan and Ali had gone for a walk with the ancient family collie while his parents dozed in front of the fire.

  Oh, and his uncle had been there too. Brendan had always gone to his sister’s house for Christmas.

  He’d presented everyone with a lottery scratchcard before dinner, and Dan’s mother had won four euro. He’d had them all in stitches doing an Irish jig as Dan’s father was singing. He’d joined Dan and Ali on their after-dinner walk.

  Dan remembered the three of them talking about Ali’s recent promotion to full partner at work, and Brendan’s plans to build a conservatory at the side of his house.

  The house he shared with Ali now, and with Dan’s son Colm.

  A fortnight ago, Kieran had asked him what he was doing for Christmas Day.

  ‘I’m going to my parents’ house in Seaville. How about you?’

  Kieran had shrugged. ‘I’ll probably lie low – don’t normally do much for Christmas.’ He glanced at Dan. ‘OK if I stay here while you’re away?’

  And Dan had imagined Kieran sitting alone in the house, eating a perfectly cooked dinner for one, and he’d said, ‘Tell you what, why don’t I invite my folks here instead, give my mother the day off? I can’t remember a year she didn’t cook Christmas dinner.’ And that was what happened.

  His parents arrived at three with their overnight bags, a new briefcase for Dan, a tie for Kieran and a bottle of whiskey. They sat in front of the sitting room fire and drank mulled wine and admired the photos of Colm that Dan had taken in the hospital that morning.

  Their new grandson was doing very well, out of the incubator and no longer attached to tubes, already up to six pounds thirteen ounces, and due to go home in another few days.

  At five o’clock they moved to the kitchen – warmer than the rarely used dining room – and ate turkey with apricot stuffing and roast parsnips and Brussels sprouts and two kinds of potatoes, and Kieran’s butter sauce that went with everything.

  As he dropped the plates into the sink, Dan’s mobile phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and read ‘happy xmas, wish you were here – GND xx’.

  GND: girl next door. He tore some flesh from the turkey carcass and put it on one of the plates. ‘Back in a sec. Need to feed the cat.’

  Avoiding Kieran’s glance – Dan hadn’t fed Picasso in months – he opened the back door. In the garden he breathed deeply, relishing the sharp early evening air. He texted ‘back gate’ and emptied the turkey scraps into Picasso’s bowl and left the empty plate on the window sill. He walked to the apple trees and waited in the darkness. In less than a minute the neighbouring back door opened and Clara ran down the path and into his arms.

  ‘How’s it going?’ He spoke into her hair. She felt warm and beautifully familiar. Her breath smelled of wine.

  ‘Fine. Boring, but fine.’ She pulled his head down and studded his face with kisses. ‘You?’

  ‘Same.’ His hands slid over the curve of her buttocks and he pressed her into him. ‘Where’s a hammock when you need one?’

  She laughed and tipped back her head. ‘Look, the sky’s full of stars.’

  Dan ignored the stars and put his lips to the side of her throat, to the hollow place where she loved being kissed.

  ‘Mmm, that’s nice.’ She pulled his shirt out of his jeans.

  He laughed. ‘Steady on now.’

  ‘Shut up – I’m freezing.’ Her hands burrowed under his shirt and pressed into his bare back, pulling him closer. He raised his head and found her mouth.

  After a minute, she eased out of his embrace. ‘Better go in. See you tomorrow.’ She pressed a finger to his lips – ‘Happy Christmas’ – and turned away. He stood listening to the crunch of her steps on the gravel, tucking his shirt back into his jeans.

  On the patio, Picasso raised his head as Dan approached, then went back to his bowl. Dan took the plate from the window sill and tilted his head. The night was cold and clear, the sky dotted with millions of stars. His breath fogged out in front of him.

  He closed his eyes and immediately saw Colm’s face, already as familiar to him as his own. He’d been asleep when Dan had visited that morning, mouth slightly open, cheeks gently flushed. Dan had sat beside the tiny cot and watched his son breathing.

  Ali had arrived at some stage. She smiled at the fat white rabbit sitting at the bottom of the cot. ‘Did you bring that?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Wonder how long it’ll stay white.’

  ‘Don’t care.’ Dan stroked Colm’s cheek with the back of a finger. ‘I’ll buy another when it gets dirty.’

  Ali laughed. ‘And he won’t be a bit spoiled.’

  It was good, how they were together now. Almost like old friends who’d fought and made up afterwards. It helped that Brendan rarely appeared at the hospital. Dan didn’t know whether that was down to Ali or if it came from Brendan himself, giving Colm’s parents time to get to know their child without anyone else butting in.

  He wondered if Brendan ever worried about Ali meeting her husband regularly at the hospital. They were still man and wife, still tied together by Church and state.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ Ali said when he was walking away from her in the hospital car park. ‘Give my love to Picasso.’

  She was taking Colm home in a few days. They’d arranged that Dan would come and see him three times a week. Later, when Colm was weaned and able to be apart from his mother, they would try sharing him – one week with Dan, one week with Ali.

  They’d review the situation if it wasn’t working, or when it was time for him to go to school, whichever came first. They’d deal with the other inevitable hiccups as they came along.

  Amazing how easily they’d sorted it out in the end. Wonderful how they’d been able to sit down together in the coffee shop in Charleton and talk things through, neither getting angry, both willing to compromise. Ali had drawn up a draft agreement, Dan had taken it along to David Burton, who’d made a few minor adjustments, and that had been that.

  So simple, after all his worry and anger and resentment.

  He held up his watch to the
light from the kitchen window. Twenty past seven. The evening stretched ahead with his parents and Kieran, the four of them sitting in front of the television, because that was what you did on Christmas Day. Kieran might play the violin later, they’d love that.

  Tomorrow night he was meeting Clara. He was picking her up in town and they were driving out to the pub in the country. Still sneaking around, still keeping their secret from everyone.

  It was more than eight months since Ali had left him. Maybe it was time for them to come out into the open. He wondered how Yvonne would take it. He wondered what Ali would think.

  On second thought, maybe they should wait a bit longer. He opened the door and went back into the house.

  NUMBER NINE

  ‘Hi there.’

  Kathryn opened her eyes and saw Justin’s sister. ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘I know you don’t feel hungry, but I’ve brought up a small bit because you must eat.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Kathryn began to pull herself upright. Ann put the tray on the bedside locker and hurried to help her.

  All so solicitous, all taking care of her. Ann, Justin, Suzannah. Kathryn’s eyes pricked with the tears that were never far away. ‘What’s happening? I really should come downstairs.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t. You should be taking advantage of having us around and do absolutely nothing. Anyway, there’s very little happening. Justin’s fallen asleep in front of the fire, Suze is out walking. Mother’s watching Sunset Boulevard for the umpteenth time.’

  Ann had flown in again from Spain, two days after Grainne’s fall. She’d brought a box of DVDs with her, mostly old Hollywood black-and-whites, all Grainne’s favourites, which she’d found on the internet.

  They’d moved the television from Justin and Kathryn’s room into Grainne’s, bought a new DVD player and put on Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, Rebecca, Rear Window, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner and the rest, and Grainne had lain in bed and watched them all, and cried silently, and smiled occasionally.

  Her fall hadn’t done her too much damage, apart from a twisted ankle, which Dr Lynch had bandaged, and a bruised coccyx.

  ‘She’s lucky she didn’t break anything,’ the doctor told Justin. ‘The fact is, apart from the tumour, your mother’s a tough lady.’

  Ironic that Grainne had come out of the episode relatively unscathed.

  ‘Now.’ Ann laid the tray across Kathryn’s lap. ‘Could you pick at it?’

  Kathryn looked at the thin slivers of turkey breast, the three Brussels sprouts, the pair of roast potatoes, and her stomach lurched. ‘Thanks. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Good,’ Ann turned towards the door, ‘because you’ll get no peppermint tea until that’s gone. Enjoy.’

  She was wonderful, up and down the stairs all day, tending the two patients. Suze was helping too, bringing Kathryn books from the library, scented candles for her room, bags of tangerines – one of the few foods Kathryn was remotely interested in.

  When Suze had arrived three days ago, Ann had moved out of Miller’s Avenue and joined her partner in a nearby B and B. So far, Suze had managed, on her frequent visits to number nine, not to come face to face with Grainne – quite easily, since Grainne hardly ever left her room now. She had no idea that Suze was in Ireland, let alone Belford. Let alone, every so often, in the very next room.

  Kathryn poked at the turkey with her fork. She had to keep her strength up. That was what they were telling her. And she was trying her best to eat and to force down the cod liver oil and milk mixture Dr Lynch had recommended she have every day.

  ‘You were very lucky,’ he told her after that terrible night. ‘You almost lost it. Another few minutes

  Kathryn shuddered to think what might have happened. If Justin hadn’t come back when he did, if he hadn’t heard her calling from Grainne’s room. If Yvonne hadn’t been at home when he’d hammered on her door, if nobody had been there to stay with Grainne while he rushed Kathryn to hospital …

  She remembered every detail of that awful journey, the knifing pain that kept her doubled over, terrified and crying, gripping the edge of the dashboard as Justin broke lights and swerved around corners. She remembered the angry horns of other drivers, the orderlies racing from the Accident and Emergency department, bumping a trolley over the tarmac between them.

  But they had been lucky, terribly lucky. The baby was still growing, still holding on. Still healthy.

  ‘I’m giving you a cert for the rest of the pregnancy,’ Dr Lynch told Kathryn. ‘We’re going to play it very safe from now on. No more work. Stay on your back as much as you can. Get plenty of sleep. Remember what I told you: eat for one, sleep for two.’

  Kathryn had promised. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’ For the next five months, she was determined to overcome the nausea, to put up with the crying bouts, to cope with the constant pressure on her bladder. What did any of that matter with such a prize at the end?

  If it killed her, she’d keep this baby alive.

  She speared a piece of turkey, brought it to her mouth and chewed grimly.

  Six days later: New Year’s Eve

  NUMBER EIGHT

  ‘Here.’ Ali peeled the tiny vest over Colm’s head and handed it to Dan. ‘Throw it in the basket under the sink.’

  Dan watched as she laid the baby across her lap, undid his nappy, slid it out from under him and parcelled it deftly together again. ‘That goes in the bin.’

  So sure of what she was doing, only three days after Colm had come home from hospital. She caught Dan’s eye and smiled. ‘You catch on quick – the first bath I gave him, I was petrified.’

  Naked, Colm seemed terrifyingly vulnerable, flailing his still so tiny arms, kicking his skinny legs as Ali handed him to Dan. ‘Hold him under the arms.’

  Dan wrapped his hands around Colm’s wriggling torso – the tips of his giant fingers just about met – and lowered him slowly into the plastic bath of warm water. Immediately Colm gurgled, and slapped the water with his palms.

  ‘He loves it.’ Ali dipped a small blue sponge in the water and squeezed it over the baby’s shoulders. ‘He’ll be an Olympic swimmer.’

  ‘Or a sailor.’ Dan picked up the little yellow duck that floated beside Colm. ‘Quack quack. Or a fisherman.’ He thought. ‘No, not a fisherman. Too dangerous.’

  Ali squeezed the sponge and ran it over Colm’s head, and the strands of dark hair stood on end.

  Dan smiled. ‘Or a punk rocker.’ So impossibly tiny. So unbelievably precious.

  Brendan had opened the front door, and had made himself scarce as soon as Ali appeared. The two men were on speaking terms, just about. Dan supposed Brendan usually helped with Colm’s bathtime. He still rebelled against the idea of another man having more time with Colm than he himself had, but he could appreciate the advantage of Ali having someone to help out.

  And, if he was honest, did it matter that it was Brendan? Wouldn’t Dan have resented anyone Ali had chosen over him? The fact that Brendan was his uncle didn’t make it any easier – but maybe it didn’t make it that much harder either.

  He smiled. How mellow he was becoming, now that he was a father. What power his tiny child had over him already.

  Ali was watching him. ‘You look like the cat that got the cream.’

  Dan ran a finger along his son’s slippery arm. ‘I did – and then she ran off with my uncle.’ As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. He looked up at her. ‘Just kidding.’

  Her eyes sparkled with tears.

  Dan put a wet hand on her arm. ‘Sorry, Al – I didn’t mean anything. That was a stupid thing to say.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ She blinked quickly, and a tear slipped down her cheek. ‘I think I’m still a bit hormonal, don’t mind me.’ She indicated the towel, hanging on the radiator behind Dan. ‘Will you spread that on your lap?’

  The moment was gone, and he’d done it all by himself. Dan wrapped the warm towel around Colm, patted him gingerly and tried to think of s
omething harmless to say. ‘When do you go back to work?’

  ‘I’ve another six weeks, and after that I can take parental leave if I want. We’ll see how it goes. You need to use talc to make sure he’s fully dry. Shake it here, and here, and then rub it in.’

  Dan watched, thinking again how capable she was. He couldn’t imagine being able to do this on his own. He tried to picture Clara with a wriggly wet baby on her lap. She probably didn’t plan on having children for years.

  ‘So, are you going out tonight, ringing in the new year?’ Ali pulled a clean vest over Colm’s damp head.

  Dan shrugged. ‘I might meet a few pals, yeah.’ He and Clara were driving to a little country hotel, having dinner and staying the night.

  Just over ten weeks, since it had all begun. Who would have imagined it? What would Ali say now, if he told her? She’d probably laugh at the thought of Dan and the girl next door. Let’s face it, most people would probably laugh at the thought of Dan O’Farrell, no oil painting, one day away from thirty-three, recently separated, even more recently a first-time father, being involved with a luscious twenty-three-year-old.

  ‘Well, enjoy it. I’m hoping to be dead to the world at midnight, if this fellow behaves himself.’ Ali lifted Colm, dressed now in a pale green Babygro covered with jumping yellow rabbits. ‘Say goodnight to your dad, you monkey.’

  Dan kissed the soft cheek, ran his hand over the curve of Colm’s skull. ‘Can I tuck him in?’

  Ali didn’t meet his eye. ‘Well, he needs a feed. It’ll take a while.’ And naturally, Dan was no longer entitled to the sight of his wife’s naked breasts. That privilege now belonged to Brendan.

  ‘Right.’ Dan spread the damp towel over the radiator, tipped the soapy water into the big bath. ‘I’ll go so.’

  ‘Dan.’ He turned, and Ali gave him a quick smile. ‘Some other night you can come later, when he’s ready for bed.’