by Cathy Kelly
Grace’s efforts to find out more about what was going on in the Morrison family life had come to naught – so far. She’d been hoping that an old pal of hers who knew Ruby’s grandmother could give her the inside scoop, but she was spending the winter with her family in Canada, putting paid to that line of enquiry. Undaunted, Grace intended to keep trying until she got to the bottom of it. Ruby was at that dangerous age when pain at home could have a devastating effect.
She hated to think of that sweet, intelligent child in pain. It was so frustrating, knowing that Ruby was suffering and yet she couldn’t fix it. Any intervention had to be handled carefully, subtly, or it could do more harm than good. What was the point of being old enough to have worked out what life was all about if you couldn’t act on what you knew?
Then again, how could you sort out someone else’s life when you were still trying to figure out how to live your own?
She wished her mother were still alive. Vivi, funny, bright and with an inquisitive mind to the very end, could always be relied upon to help with life’s conundrums.
‘It’s your age, lovey,’ she’d said when Grace had been flung head first into the menopause, with hot flushes to beat the band, mood swings the like of which she’d never known, and a terrifying mental woolliness which meant she had no longer been able to do three things at once.
‘You’ll come out the other side,’ Vivi had assured her. ‘Look at me. Who’d think to look at me now that I was a raving lunatic for five years? Your poor father was driven to build himself a shed in the garden so he could have somewhere to hide! I swear I lost everything on a daily basis, from the keys to the car to my purse. You have to travel through it, lovey, and you’ll be stronger and braver when it’s over.’ She’d rattled her collection of colourful bangles collected on trips all over South America as proof. She’d been to South America with a girlfriend only a couple of years before, on a special trip for people who were single but had no plans to find another mate.
Vivi had been right, as usual. One day Grace realised that her body had stopped surging with heat like a straightening iron and that her mind had returned to its pre-menopausal clarity.
Walking with her shopping bags to the Delectable Deli, where they sold the fattest garlicky olives and cheeses that made her mouth water, Grace added the loss of her parents to this current and bewildering sense of uncertainty. Mum and Dad had died far too early, she felt wistfully. If only they’d been around to see the birth of their first great-grandchild. Wouldn’t that have been wonderful?
Was it Michael getting married that was making her feel so bereft? No, that made no sense. Grace was overjoyed to see her son’s life falling into glorious place: a woman who adored him and a baby on the way. There was nothing to be sad about there. And she was beyond excited at the prospect of being a grandmother.
So why this strange dark cloud constantly hovering over her? Could it be anxiety about Fiona? No, not that. Grace wanted her daughter to find love and happiness, but she accepted that there was nothing she could do to smooth her path for her, no matter how much she’d love to. Fiona had to find her own way; besides, she seemed truly happy with her life. Her job was keeping her extra busy, judging by how often she had to stay late at the office, but the ability to work hard was a vital part of a person’s resources, Grace thought. Both her children understood this: she and Stephen had never been rich, so as soon as they were legally able, Michael and Fiona had taken summer jobs to pay for any little luxuries they wanted.
As she entered the Delectable Deli, and the heady aroma of garlic and the tang of freshly made pesto hit her, a realisation crept slowly into her head – the olives she’d come to buy were for Stephen. Nobody else.
He’d always adored them, occasionally making martinis on Friday evenings when Fiona and Michael were upstairs doing their homework and he and Grace were down in the kitchen telling each other about their day as they cooked together companionably.
Stephen had always had a fondness for the cocktail: a throwback to his vision of the old days of advertising, when sharp-suited men came up with world-beating ideas and celebrated them with a martini.
‘Far from martinis we were reared,’ he’d say every time he mixed them a drink, and they’d both laugh.
Stephen’s maternal grandmother had been a tough countrywoman with a dislike of anything modern or fancy. Getting too big for your boots or forgetting your humble roots were huge, soul-blackening sins in her mind, on a par with failure to attend early Mass on a Sunday.
‘When the money’s gone, you’ll be back on the land, helping with the milking and wearing them fancy clothes to make the silage,’ Grace would add, which was another of his grandmother’s lines.
They’d laugh and agree that Granny Mulhern was probably right and there was a very fine line between having the money to buy the makings of a martini and not having enough to buy dinner for the children.
Grace stood in the deli and breathed deeply: she was buying olives for her ex-husband with all the happiness as if they were still married. What was wrong with her?
‘Hello, Mrs Rhattigan,’ called Luka, who ran the Delectable Deli with his wife Bernadette. They’d both been pupils at Bridgeport National School under Grace’s tutelage, and despite her constant urging, neither of them seemed able to abandon ‘Mrs Rhattigan’ and address her as Grace. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
‘Olives, Luka,’ said Grace, distracted. ‘I was looking for those fat garlic ones.’ The ones my ex-husband loves. The ones I have realised I am buying purely for him.
‘Of course – big tub, small tub? Have you tried the chilli ones? It’s a very subtle kick. Care to taste one?’
With his frank, smiling face, Luka could sell ice to any number of Inuit peoples, and Grace found herself tasting a chilli olive.
‘See? They’re lovely, aren’t they?’ said Luka, eager for his new product to be a success.
To knock herself out of her ridiculous longing for the past, Grace texted Stephen as she wandered round the deli with two types of olives in her basket. As usual, he hadn’t mentioned whether he was bringing Julia or not.
Is Julia coming? she typed quickly, then added a little smiley face to take the edge off it, because the text did sound a bit sharp. Still, that was what she needed: the bluntness of knowing that her marriage was long since over and legally finished and that her husband had found love with a beautiful and accomplished younger woman. There was no point Grace indulging in fantasies about what might have been and what should have been and whether she had made the right decision all those years ago.
She stuck her phone deliberately at the bottom of her handbag where it would be impossible to reach and went on shopping. It was only when she got back to the car that she allowed herself to look at the screen.
No she can’t come. Really sorry, meant to tell you.
Stephen had added a smiley face too. These emoticons were very handy, Grace thought with a grin. The perfect way to add tone to messages that had a tendency to sound remarkably toneless otherwise.
Grace hadn’t specifically invited Julia, but Stephen knew that in the spirit of the Good Divorce à la Grace Rhattigan, all partners were to be treated with respect, so her inclusion was a given. She felt a frisson of irritation that it had been years since she’d had a partner to bring along to family gatherings. She could probably invite Principal Derek McGurk if she was desperate, but that would open a whole other can of worms, and she wasn’t that desperate yet.
Or was she? Wasn’t it desperation to be cheerfully buying the things her ex-husband loved to eat?
She was heading along the road out of town when she spotted a parking space outside Renee’s Salon, where she got her hair done.
There was never a space outside Renee’s, never. Yet here was one today.
Taking this as a sign, Grace parked, ran in and grabbed the girl on reception.
‘I know it’s madness,’ she said, ‘seeing as it’s Saturday and you’re proba
bly full all day, but you don’t happen to have a wash and blow-dry slot any—’
‘Grace!’ yelled Renee happily, emerging from the rear of the salon.
‘Sorry, I know it’s a crazy idea, but I was just wondering if you had a spare slot,’ began Grace.
Renee smiled. When her son was being bullied, Renee had been at her wits’ end until Principal Rhattigan stepped in and sorted it out. Kevin was at college now, steady and happy. Renee would never forget that.
‘For you, there’s always a slot,’ she said.
Birdie didn’t mind what she wore to Grace’s. Grace never made her feel inadequate, unlike most of the women they socialised with – mainly the wives of Howard’s business colleagues, who all appeared to live big lives with ladies’ golf events, girls’ weeks abroad in somebody’s villa, appearances in the local papers at fashion shows and grand days out for Ladies’ Day at the races, where they all wore towering hats and heels that got pegged in the racecourse grass.
‘Birdie, you must join us some day,’ Evelyn, one of the nicer ladies, had said many times. ‘You’d love it. I bet you have a wardrobe of fancy clothes and nice hats.’
‘You’re so kind, Evelyn,’ Birdie would reply. ‘But I honestly haven’t got a hat to my name and I’m not at home at places like that. I’m an old fuddy-duddy.’
She saw the looks exchanged between the others, knew they probably regarded her as one step up from a bag lady. With her money, they’d have a different life entirely, but Birdie knew from long experience what suited her and what didn’t. She knew how to dress for comfort but didn’t have a clue about fashion. Trends came and went so quickly, and she hated anything that made her feel self-conscious and unnatural. When it came to shopping, she was happiest with her lovely catalogues. So much better than having to take things into a changing room and try them on while an assistant fussed over you. Katy said that ordering things on the computer was the best way to go, but you couldn’t read a computer in bed and there was so much choice it was bewildering. No, she would stick to her catalogues.
She wished she had Grace’s sense of style. Grace wore lovely clothes, but she was hardly a slave to fashion; she was an energetic woman with an important job who had more to do than worry over whether her sweater was high fashion or not.
Over the years, they’d slowly become friends. Typically, Grace had been the one to raise the knotty subject of what would happen to their friendship if Katy and Michael ever split up. Her solution was that they should resolve to remain friends no matter what, and simply agree never to talk about what had gone wrong between their children.
‘It would be easy for one of us to take offence over this being said or that,’ said Grace wisely, ‘and like children in the playground, they’d be over it long before we would. No, if it all ends, we shall behave like intelligent mothers who would kill for our cubs but know that life must go on, right?’
‘Right,’ agreed Birdie, in awe of Grace’s wisdom and her ability to say out loud the sort of things she would fret about but never have the courage to discuss.
Grace would be a wonderful mother-in-law to Katy – already was, in reality.
Going to her house was always a treat, but tonight would be extra special. Birdie had been so busy making her special lemon torte for the dinner party because she knew everyone liked it that she barely had time to brush her long silvery hair and take off her floury smock T-shirt and replace it with a floral blouse and a cardigan with matching lavender tones.
Thumper, who’d been walked earlier in the day by the river but who was watching his mistress’s preparations like a dog en route to the gallows, sat in his bed and sulked.
‘You are never left on your own,’ remonstrated Birdie, giving him a big hug and a rawhide bone to chew. ‘It’s just for one evening, remember. No eating cushions, now.’
Thumper gave her a doleful look as if to say he’d be far too miserable to even think of cushion consumption.
Birdie hugged him again.
‘I’m going to have a nice night out, darling,’ she told him gently. ‘We’ll have extra hugs when I’m home.’
After all, Thumper was the only one who gave her extra hugs these days.
Seventeen
Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred within. PROVERBS 15:17
Birdie was the first to arrive, slightly out of breath and bearing her huge and delicious-looking lemon tart. ‘I know it’s Michael’s favourite,’ she said at the door as she handed it to Grace.
‘You’re so kind,’ Grace said, touched as ever by Birdie’s kindness. ‘I’d gone to town on everything else but I’d run out of time when it came to dessert, so it was going to be bought chocolate cake or else fruit and crème fraiche. But this! You are an absolute star.’
Birdie looked delighted and Grace thought again what a wonderful person she was, and yet so nervous and anxious. It seemed a miracle that Birdie and Howard – strong, forceful Howard with his dominant personality – had ever got together, let alone produced a daughter like Katy, who combined the best of both parents: gentle and kind yet super-confident.
‘Goodness, Grace,’ said Birdie, ‘you’re so busy with all you do, running the school, I don’t know how you fit anything else in. Honestly, it was the least I could do. I should have offered in advance and I’m really sorry I didn’t.’
Grace waved away her apologies. ‘Come on in, Birdie, and sit down. Get settled, you are the first to arrive. We can have a nice chat before the others come.’
Birdie loved Grace’s house and walked around the cosy living room admiring cushion covers and pictures, photographs on the wall.
‘It’s all so elegant and yet warm,’ she said. ‘I never seem to manage that with the Vineyard. I don’t know why. It’s just too big and grand.’
‘You’ve a beautiful house,’ Grace said.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to imply it’s not,’ Birdie added, flustered. ‘Of course it must have sounded wrong because of the money and I’d never want anyone to think I was complaining, because we’re so lucky to have money when some people don’t. It’s just that so many of the things are … Howard chose them and … It’s just so pretty here.’ Her voice faded away, as if she was ashamed to have said anything against her husband.
This time Grace felt more than a pang for Birdie. She might have all the money in the world, but something wasn’t right in that beautiful big house, and it had never taken long in Howard’s company for Grace to identify the source of the problem.
Stephen arrived next with an enormous bouquet of beautiful white flowers interspersed with greenery – roses, just-opening lilies, magnolia blossoms. He held them up to his face at the door so at first all that Grace could see was her ex-husband’s body and a huge bunch of flowers.
‘Oh, a Triffid has come to dinner,’ she said, trying to joke in order to hide how jolted she was. It had been a very long time since Stephen had brought her flowers.
‘I know you like white flowers,’ he said casually, ‘and you’re being so good to have this wonderful dinner for everyone, I felt it was the least I could do. I brought wine too. Here, you take these while I go and get it from the car.’
He handed her the flowers and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Grace felt a quiver of something, a long-buried feeling rising to the surface, despite her best efforts. She hoped he hadn’t noticed. What was wrong with her?
But he was already gone, apparently not noticing anything in his hurry to retrieve two supermarket carriers of wine and beer and sparkling water.
‘Now,’ he said, returning with his load, ‘we’ve got a bit of everything: sparkling non-alcoholic drinks for anyone who’s driving or is pregnant; some white; that Beaujolais you used to like …’
‘Fantastic,’ Grace said, still entirely thrown. She’d got used to Stephen being polite and friendly, but not quite this enthusiastic. He was just being nice to her, that was all, but even so, his grace and confidence was such a contrast to sweet, anxio
us Birdie, who was sitting inside at this moment, worried she’d said the wrong thing by criticising Howard, albeit in the mildest of ways.
‘Birdie’s inside,’ whispered Grace as Stephen followed her into the hall. ‘She’s a bit nervy tonight so I’ve settled her down with a big glass of wine which she didn’t entirely want, but I thought – and I know it’s the wrong thing to do – I thought I’d give her a little relaxation in a bottle. We’ll order a taxi to take her home. I know she’s not a drinker, so one glass should be quite enough. Go in and be nice to her, the poor darling. I don’t think anyone really is, apart from Katy and Michael.’
‘How I dislike that husband of hers,’ said Stephen with disdain. ‘He doesn’t deserve either of them, Birdie or Katy – it’s the one flaw in this whole marriage, having him as part of the family. I tell you, I love to think of Birdie minding the baby, but Howard?’ He shuddered. ‘What a horrible prospect. If it’s a boy, I can just see him at football matches bellowing from the sidelines if the child does something wrong, or roaring “That’s my boy!” as if he deserves the credit when the kid does anything right. Those sort of people just make me sick.’
‘OK,’ said Grace firmly, steering him towards the room where Birdie was. ‘Now you’ve got that out of your system, put the wine away and be nice.’
She busied herself in the kitchen arranging the flowers, burying her nose in them. They were gorgeous, just the kind she would never treat herself to. It was nice to be spoiled sometimes. She fiddled with the oven, checked everything was OK, and poured herself a drink. Like Birdie, Grace wasn’t much of a drinker, but she’d always been fond of a tiny schooner of sherry. She brought it into the living room, where Stephen was making Birdie laugh. He was wonderful at that, Grace thought fondly. He was a good man, a kind man. She knew exactly why he didn’t like Howard: because he could see that Howard was the sort of man who’d be rude to waiters and his wife, and charming to complete strangers if he thought they were necessary to his advancement. Stephen would never be so shallow, and he would never dream of trampling over other people’s feelings.