City Lives

by Patricia Scanlan

  He drained his cup and stood up. ‘Nice having coffee with you, but please excuse me. I want to keep an eye out for my client, he hasn’t played at this club before. See you, Nicola. Enjoy your round.’

  ‘Bye, Terry. Enjoy yours.’ Nicola smiled at him but her tone was dry and he had the strangest sense that she was laughing at him. He made his way to the front door and stood outside, glad to breathe in the crisp autumnal air after the cloying scent of her perfume.

  Women! They weren’t worth it, he thought irritably. Just who did she think she was? All that bullshitting about being secure. And letting him know that she looked down her nose at Maggie’s sort of book. Sure wasn’t one book the same as another? He scowled. Maybe men-only golf clubs were a good idea, at least the members wouldn’t have to listen to that sort of pretentious crap from the likes of Nicola Cassidy. She wasn’t that fantastic, now that he thought of it. She had thin lips.

  Terry was as mad as hell, and he wasn’t sure why. But the interlude with Nicola had left him agitated. It was as if she had been in control of the whole thing, not him. Anyway he wouldn’t waste his time flirting with her again. She wasn’t his type after all, he decided as he composed his face into a smile of welcome to greet John Dolan, who had just driven up in a brand-new Jag.

  Nicola Cassidy watched Terry make his way out of the coffee dock and smirked to herself. What did he think she was? Some sort of a blonde bimbo? She knew an attempted pick-up when she saw one. He’d been sniffing around her for weeks. Did he think that she was just going to fall into his arms because he’d bought her a cup of coffee? Because he was a successful broker who entertained his clients to a round of golf? Was she supposed to be impressed? She’d dealt with too many Terry Ryans on her hard slog up the ladder to be impressed with his type. What was it with these guys that they couldn’t handle a successful woman? And his childish innuendoes weren’t worthy of a schoolboy. I bet you could handle anything. His best was probably pathetic.

  I bet I could beat him at golf too, she thought dismissively as she sat back in her seat and ordered another cup of coffee.

  Three hours later Terry and John Dolan sat in the bar having a drink before they headed off for lunch. Terry had let the older man win the game. He needed his business.

  ‘See the blonde bird coming towards the clubhouse?’ He pointed Nicola out as she strode across the links. ‘She has a thing for me. We had coffee this morning and if I pushed it I could get places. What do you think?’

  ‘Great ass,’ his companion said appreciatively. ‘Are you going to go for it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Terry shrugged. But as he watched Nicola undulating into the clubhouse he knew one thing was for sure. He was pissed off at home. He was pissed off with Maggie, and from now on it was open season with women. He only had one life. He was going to live it and have some fun living it. He’d have his affairs, only this time he’d make damn sure not to get caught.

  Twelve

  ‘I thought you’d be down much earlier than this, Maggie,’ Nelsie said crossly as Maggie stepped out of the car.

  ‘Mam, I told you I’d be a bit late because of the swimming,’ Maggie explained patiently as she opened the car door for the children. ‘How’s Dad?’

  ‘Ach, he’s whinging and moaning in there. You think it was my fault he had gout. Honest to God, Maggie, but he’s a terrible patient. Did you bring the sponges for me? I’ll take them with me for our tea break.’

  ‘I have them here.’ Maggie handed her the Superquinn bakery bag.

  Nelsie took them from her with satisfaction. Never a word of thanks or a ‘I hope I didn’t put you to any trouble’, Maggie thought resentfully.

  ‘Hello, Mimi. Hello Michael. And how’s my little angel?’ Nelsie turned her attention to her grandchildren.

  ‘Hi, Gran, can we collect the eggs?’

  ‘Gran can we have brown bread and sugar?’

  ‘Gran can I make lavender perfume like I did the last time?’

  Nelsie laughed at the barrage of questions.

  ‘Michael, say can I have brown bread and sugar, please. Shona, can I collect eggs, please. Mimi, can I make lavender perfume, please.’ Maggie reproved.

  ‘Please, Gran,’ they chorused impatiently.

  ‘Of course you can. Come on now, because I have to be getting along. Come in and say hello to Grandad. He’s looking forward to seeing you.’ Nelsie led the way into the farmhouse.

  She was looking well, Maggie reflected as she followed her mother. Small and wiry, Nelsie McNamara was blessed with abundant energy. In her late sixties, she often left Maggie feeling totally inadequate as she buzzed around attending to the farm, taking part in all the parish activities and always with several projects on the go, such as quilting, crochet or a piece of embroidery, perfectly stitched. She played cards two nights a week and Maggie often thought in amusement that her mother had a better social life than she had. Today she was wearing her best dress. A lovely wine and green Paisley print with a V-neck to show off her treasured amethyst pendant, a gift from her husband on their wedding day. She wore a wine-coloured cardigan to keep out the autumnal chill. She looked extremely smart and Maggie, despite her earlier irritation, felt a surge of pride for her mother.

  ‘You look great, Mam!’ she said as Nelsie ushered the children into the house in front of her.

  ‘Well thank you, Maggie. I try and look my best for these occasions and thank God I’m in the full of my health,’ Nelsie responded cheerfully. ‘You look a little peaky yourself.’

  ‘Ah, I’m a bit tired. I’m trying to get a book finished and it’s hard going.’

  ‘Would you not give it up until the children are a bit older,’ her mother urged as they walked into the kitchen.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Maggie murmured noncommittally. Her father was sitting beside the fire in his armchair, one foot resting on a small pouffe.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’ She leaned down and kissed her father’s cheek. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Hello, Maggs, I’m browned off to be honest with you. This old dose has me rightly stuck.’ Behind him, Nelsie threw her eyes up to heaven as she took the sponges out of the supermarket bags and placed them in two cake tins to bring with her.

  ‘Hi, Grandad,’ Shona threw herself into his arms. ‘Will we look for eggs?’

  ‘I can’t unfortunately, pet, Mammy will have to go looking with you today.’

  ‘Aw Grandad, that’s not the same.’ Shona made a face.

  ‘Thanks!’ Maggie said dryly.

  ‘Ah, Mammy . . . it’s just that Grandad does great adventures,’ Shona explained earnestly. ‘I like going with you too.’

  ‘I know,’ Maggie soothed, understanding Shona’s disappointment. Her father doted on his grandchildren and went out of his way to entertain them when they came to visit. Harrison Ford’s search for the Holy Grail paled into insignificance compared to Grandad McNamara’s and his trusted assistants’ search for the speckled and brown eggs of the seven hens.

  ‘Get the egg basket in the scullery and start looking in the hen shed and I’ll be out soon,’ Maggie instructed as she took off her jacket. The children needed no second urging.

  ‘Maggie, I’ve cooked a big pot of beef and kidney stew, just heat it up. There’s a rice pudding ready to go in the oven and there’s home-made blackberry and apple tart. If your father had been able to put weight on his foot he’d have been grand, but he can’t and that’s why I had to call on you. But I have it all ready for you, so you won’t have to do too much.’ Nelsie stood at the mirror in the hall, gave her hair a final brush, and retouched her lipstick.

  ‘I’d have got it all ready, Mam. You didn’t have to go to such trouble,’ Maggie protested. She felt a bit of a heel for making such a fuss about coming down.

  ‘No trouble. I did it while I was waiting for you to arrive. It was better than twiddling my thumbs all morning,’ Nelsie responded tartly.

  ‘I did have to bring the children swimming,’ Maggie pointed out defensiv
ely.

  ‘I’m sure missing it once in a blue moon wouldn’t be a tragedy.’ Nelsie sniffed. ‘Anyway, you’re here now and I’m off. I’ll be home around seven, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Seven’s fine,’ Maggie said irritably but her acerbity was wasted on her mother, who was putting on her good tweed coat and jaunty green beret.

  ‘There’s a quiche in the fridge for tea,’ she called out and then she was gone, her small sprightly figure hurrying across the gravel to the car with her two cake tins swinging in a string bag.

  ‘You’ve no business being late on fête day,’ Harry McNamara said drolly from his chair beside the fire, ‘swimming or no.’

  Maggie laughed. ‘Mother’s something else.’

  ‘Mind, you haven’t been down in a while, you’d think you lived at the other end of the country instead of an hour’s drive away,’ her father remonstrated. ‘Stick the kettle on there and make us a cup of tea, like a good girl.’ He settled himself more comfortably in his chair and picked up the paper.

  Silently Maggie went to the sink and filled the kettle. What did her parents think, that she lolled around every morning painting her nails? She had three children of school age, a husband who did not pull his weight and a career that would be rapidly going down the tubes now that her editor was leaving.

  No-one understood the pressure she was under. Was her mother right? Should she leave aside her writing career until her children were older? What had started out as a joy and a release was rapidly becoming a burden. The pressure of a deadline was intense. But she knew better than anyone how important it was to build up her name as a writer. Her first two novels had sold well, maybe her third, Betrayal, would be her breakthrough. If she could just have some money at her back to become more independent of Terry it would be worth the slog. It was good having her own money. Her royalty cheques were on the rise. She was due one any day now. That would lift her spirits, she comforted herself as she waited for the kettle to boil.

  She glanced around the homely farmhouse kitchen with its great pine dresser full of crockery, nestled in the alcove beside the fire. The big square pine table and chairs had been there in the centre of the room since she’d been a child. The fireplace, with its gleaming brass fender, had two small red-cushioned seats at either side of the chimney-breast. Her parents’ armchairs stood at either side of the fire, old and worn but more comfortable than the grandest suite. The perfect place to curl up for a snooze.

  On Sundays Nelsie lit the fire in the front parlour, but, apart from Sundays, life was mostly lived in the snug, warm, aroma-filled kitchen that had hardly changed from her childhood.

  She’d like a kitchen like this in her dream cottage, Maggie decided as she cut two thick slices of tea brack and smeared them with butter. She might as well join her father in a cup of tea before going out on the hunt for eggs. After lunch, while her father had a snooze, she’d take the kids for a long walk on Brittas and inhale some good healthy sea air. When she’d finished her tea she buttoned up her jacket and went out to the children.

  ‘Mammy we found three eggs,’ Shona shrieked excitedly as the hens squawked, running here and there across the farmyard. Maggie smiled and relaxed. Searching for eggs always brought back happy memories of her childhood. She was here now with her children, her computer was at home, it was their time.

  ‘Great, let’s see if we can find any more. Look over there in the old nest by the gate,’ Maggie urged and laughed as the three children broke into a gallop.

  They got a good haul by the time they’d finished their search. Two speckled eggs, three brown eggs and one white one.

  ‘Do you think Gran will give us some to take home?’ Michael asked as he carried the egg basket carefully into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sure she will.’

  ‘I’m having the white one ’cos I found it,’ Shona announced.

  ‘That’s not fair. The names should go into a hat,’ Mimi shot back immediately.

  ‘I think we should give it to Grandad because he’s sick,’ Michael said firmly.

  ‘A very good idea. And a very thoughtful one, Michael,’ Maggie concurred, relieved that an argument had been averted. ‘Now go upstairs to the bathroom and wash your hands, all of you, and come down for your lunch. After that how about a walk on the beach?’

  ‘Cool.’ Michael’s eyes lit up.

  ‘I’ve to collect shells for nature study,’ Mimi said self-importantly.

  ‘Me too,’ Shona echoed as she scampered upstairs.

  ‘Don’t always be copying me,’ Mimi said crossly. ‘You don’t do nature study.’

  ‘Yes we do! We have a nature table and teacher told us to collect shells and leaves, Mimi Ryan.’

  Maggie left them arguing and threw her eyes up to heaven. If they were like this now, what were they going to be like when they were teenagers?

  They devoured their lunch. Maggie, too, enjoyed every morsel. The taste of succulent organic meat, vegetables, and roosters freshly dug out of the ground, and then to round it off a creamy rice pudding topped with blackberry jam, was indescribable. Maggie silently saluted her mother’s prowess as a cook. Nelsie had never served frozen food or processed meals in her life.

  An hour later, as her father snoozed contentedly in front of the fire, waking now and again to listen to the racing on the wireless, Maggie and her children walked along the beach, revelling in the fresh air and watching the waves, wild and thunderous, tossing spray among the rocks. They searched happily for crabs and periwinkles and pearly shells for the nature table.

  It was so peaceful, Maggie reflected. The wind blew her thick auburn hair back from her face as she stood looking at the green and gold fields in the distance, and the long green rippling swathe of marram grass that grew along miles of fine white sand dunes as far as the eye could see. The sea, blue-green, capped with frothy foam, surged and ebbed in rhythmic flow, the sound and sight immensely soothing to her hassled spirit.

  Maybe Nelsie was right. After this book she might take a break for a year and take some time out for herself and her children. The royalty cheque that she was expecting should be fairly substantial, going on the sales figures she’d been given. One thing was for sure, she couldn’t keep going at this pace for much longer. She was flying on fumes at this stage. And Terry would have to start pulling his weight. Maggie’s lips tightened. He’d been getting away with murder for far too long.

  Terry pulled the tab on a can of Harp, took a slug, ate a handful of peanuts and switched on Sky Sports. The house was satisfyingly peaceful. He stretched out on the sofa and prepared to spend a long lazy afternoon. He’d had lunch in the clubhouse with John Dolan and they’d concluded a very successful deal. He deserved some R&R.

  The shrill burr of the phone intruded.

  ‘Piss off,’ he swore grumpily. He’d switched off the answering machine. That had been a mistake, he decided, as he lumbered up off the sofa. It was going back on after he’d taken this call.

  ‘Yep?’ he barked testily, half expecting it to be Maggie.

  ‘Terry?’ An accented voice came down the line.

  ‘Sulaiman! Sulaiman, my old buddy!’ Terry instantly recognized his old friend from his Saudi days. Sulaiman Al Shariff was a Pakistani kidney specialist. His wife Alma was a radiologist from Cork. They’d worked in the same hospital as Maggie when they’d been in Saudi and had kept in touch. Alma was a sexy bird, Terry thought admiringly, remembering the curvy, sensual blonde who liked to tease and flirt.

  ‘Terry, how are you? We haven’t heard from you in a while. How about that trip to Dubai that you’re always promising to take? You know we could meet up and have some fun while you and Maggie have a holiday.’

  ‘One of these days, Sulaiman. One of these days. How about you? You didn’t come home this summer. What’s happening?’

  ‘Aw, nothing much.’ Sulaiman gave his little laugh. ‘Now that Alma’s parents are dead she doesn’t like to go back to Cork. It’s too sad for her. A
nd of course she was an only child so there is no close family.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Terry agreed. ‘How are the kids?’

  ‘Fine, fine. And yours?’

  ‘Thriving. Big and bold.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Sulaiman cleared his throat. ‘Ramadan falls during Christmas this year and we were thinking of going to the States for a month. I’ll be attending a medical conference there. I’m due some leave, also. As you know, I’ve a brother in Washington, we were hoping to have a holiday with him. The thing is, it’s a very long journey for the kids and we wondered if we could fly via London and Dublin and have a stopover with you for a day or two? It would be lovely to see you. We’d be travelling about twelve days or there abouts before Christmas. I haven’t the exact date yet.’

  ‘Day or two, my hat,’ Terry said expansively, ‘spend a week with us. Maggie would be delighted to see you.’

  ‘A week? Are you sure? We’d get a lot of drinking in, old buddy. We could make home-made brew.’ Sulaiman chuckled.

  ‘No drinks for you. It’s Ramadan.’ Terry grinned.

  ‘And we all know how devout I am.’ Sulaiman guffawed. ‘Look, I’ll finalize the details at this end and get back to you. If you’re sure. Do you want to check with Maggie?’

  ‘No need. Not at all. It will be fine, Sulaiman, we’ll be delighted to have you. Maggie’ll be thrilled. The more the merrier at Christmas time. We’ll paint the town red.’

  ‘Will we what?’ Sulaiman agreed happily. ‘I’ll get back to you soon.’

  ‘Great stuff, great stuff.’ Terry rubbed his hands. ‘Talk to you soon.’

  A visit from Sulaiman and Alma would be fun. Maggie would really enjoy their company. Terry beamed as he hung up and switched on the answering machine. It would be just like old times.