Something in Common

by Meaney, Roisin

  Helen tried to make sense of what she was hearing. Two babies. There had been two babies, and the wrong one had survived – that was what she was being told, wasn’t it? They’d wanted the boy and they’d got the girl.

  As if she was reading her mind, her mother shook her head. ‘It wasn’t that we weren’t grateful to have you – you mustn’t think that. It was just … difficult to bear the other loss … and the thought that our chance was gone to have any more.’

  Helen had had a brother who hadn’t lived. Her mother had lost a baby and her womb all at once. No more children, Helen had been their lot. And her father had wanted a boy.

  ‘I know we were never … demonstrative,’ her mother said, eyes rimmed with red, nose pink-tipped. ‘We were … distant. I know that. It wasn’t deliberate, it was just … we were … you were … a reminder.’

  And there it was. Every time her parents had looked at her they’d seen the ghost of her dead twin. There it was, the explanation she’d needed all her life.

  And curiously, despite the terrible unfairness of her having been denied their affection, there was a measure of satisfaction in knowing why. There was even, she realised, some sympathy for their plight.

  ‘Helen, I’m sorry,’ her mother said brokenly. ‘I know it wasn’t easy for you. I wouldn’t blame you if you were angry.’

  She wasn’t angry. She could have been: she had every right. But they hadn’t done it deliberately, she recognised the truth of that. They weren’t to blame. Nobody was to blame. She felt no anger.

  ‘Why did you never tell me this?’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. It wasn’t … the done thing.’

  No, not the done thing in the forties, or even the fifties or the sixties. It wasn’t until the nineties, not until she was an old woman, that she’d found a way to talk to her forty-nine-year-old daughter.

  It didn’t fix things between them; it was too late for happy-ever-afters in that respect. They’d still been snobs who’d turned their noses up at Helen’s choice of husband. But an explanation had been offered. Knowledge had been shared, and that was something.

  She got to her feet for a second time. She looked down at her mother.

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said. ‘Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out. I’ll let you know when the flights are booked.’

  Her mother nodded. ‘Thank you … for inviting me.’

  She looked small, her face pinched and reddened, her foundation blotchy beneath her eyes. The woman who’d given birth to Helen, who’d made sure, despite her torn feelings, that she was fed and warm and healthy. Who’d pulled a fine-tooth comb through her hair.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Helen pulled her car keys from her bag and left the room.

  A twin brother, she thought, striding down the path, pulling open the wrought-iron gate. Imagine if he’d lived. Imagine how completely different her life might have been.

  She walked through the gate, swinging it closed behind her. She turned left and collided with a man walking past. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, stepping sideways out of his path and moving towards her car.

  ‘Might have known,’ he said.

  She stopped, looked back. ‘Bloody hell.’

  He looked much the same as the last time they’d met, nine or ten months ago now. She remembered their shaky walk along the hospital corridor, the hyacinths that had been delivered after she’d got home.

  ‘Thank you for the flowers,’ she said, ‘when I was sick. They were a surprise.’

  The blue bowl they’d come in sat now on the kitchen worktop, filled with a clutter of biros, Sellotape, unmarked postage stamps teased from envelopes, rubber bands, paper clips. ‘Keep the bulbs,’ Frank had told her, ‘they’ll come again,’ but she hadn’t had the patience.

  ‘Keeping well?’ Breen asked. A heavy navy coat, a grey scarf wound around his neck. A couple of books tucked under his arm. ‘No more hospital visits?’

  ‘No, I’m fine … You? How are things?’

  He moved his head in a gesture that could have meant anything.

  ‘You live around here?’ She’d never seen him in this neighbourhood.

  ‘Not really, just walking.’

  She nodded, turned her car key in her hand. ‘Well …’

  ‘You have time for a coffee?’

  The invitation was totally unexpected. Her and Breen having coffee. Her and Breen doing anything together that wasn’t work-related.

  He fixed her with a look she remembered. ‘O’Dowd,’ he said, ‘it was a cup of coffee I was offering, not a marriage proposal. Don’t worry about it.’ He turned to go.

  ‘I’d prefer a brandy,’ she said, ‘if it’s all the same.’

  Where was the harm? Let him buy her a drink, after all the pieces she’d written for him over the years. She could manage half an hour in his company – and after the conversation she’d just had, she could use a stiff drink.

  She opened the car. ‘Hop in, there’s a place around the corner. I’m going that way.’

  As long as he was paying, they’d check out the new boutique hotel on the sea front, opened recently enough for Helen never to have been inside. About two minutes’ drive away, which was better than the ten minutes it would have taken them to walk there.

  As he sat in beside her, Helen smelt his aftershave, or cologne, or whatever it was. A marine tang about it, not unpleasant. The wife, she supposed, every Christmas.

  ‘So,’ she said, pulling away, ‘you miss the newspaper?’

  ‘I do. I enjoyed it.’

  She glanced at him, but his expression told her nothing.

  ‘You were good,’ she told him, ‘much as I hate to admit it. And so was I – so am I – much as you never admitted it.’

  He smiled then, but made no response. She wondered why he’d asked her to join him; maybe he was already regretting it.

  The silence lasted until she parked outside the hotel. ‘This OK?’

  ‘Fine. You’ve been here before?’

  ‘No, it’s not been open long … My mother had lunch with a friend. You?’

  He shook his head. She wondered if he ever met a friend for lunch. She knew so little about him. They walked towards the entrance, her heels clacking over the paving stones. What was she doing, having brandy in the middle of the afternoon with Breen, of all people? He held open the door and she walked through, taking in the thick dark green carpets, the cream walls, the pleasant warmth after the outdoor chill.

  In the bar she saw a scatter of armchairs and couches in various configurations of burgundy and cream, and heard jazz playing softly through discreet speakers. A fireplace opposite the counter held a little heap of coals that glowed red.

  There were just three other occupants. Two foreign-looking men in suits sat side by side on a couch that was set into the wide bay window, both tapping at laptops, teapot and assembled crockery on the low table before them. At the far end of the room a younger man read a newspaper.

  ‘Have a seat.’ Breen turned towards the counter and Helen chose a pair of armchairs close to the fireplace, slipping out of her coat before sinking down, deciding to enjoy the decadence of brandy and jazz by a fire in the middle of a chilly October afternoon. Not Frank’s scene at all; perfectly willing as he was to spend money on her, this padded luxury would make him uncomfortable.

  Breen returned with two balloon glasses. ‘Cheers,’ he said, handing her one. No mixer: he’d taken her, rightly, for someone who drank it neat.

  ‘Sláinte.’

  She sipped the brandy, welcoming the golden warmth of it, watching as he set his books on the floor between them before taking off his scarf and coat and laying them over the arm of his chair. He wore a charcoal grey suit with a white shirt beneath. She couldn’t picture him in anything other than a suit. He wore them well.

  He sat, cradling the bowl of his glass. When he made no effort to speak, she cast about for a topic, and found it. ‘I’m off to Scotland for Chr
istmas,’ she told him. ‘Family gathering.’

  He tipped his hands, swirling the brandy. ‘You have people over there?’

  ‘Alice, my daughter. She lives in Cardiff now. We’re meeting up in Scotland.’

  ‘Alice, yes.’

  Silence. She tried again. ‘That was my mother’s house,’ she said, ‘where I met you.’

  ‘You grew up there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your father?’

  She wondered if he’d recognise the name if she told him. ‘Died last year.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  More silence. Helen leant back and looked at the fire, out of inspiration.

  ‘Nice here,’ he said. ‘The hotel, I mean.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  She drank again, feeling the alcohol burning its way down. He still hadn’t touched his, just held the glass in his cupped hands. At this rate she’d be finished before he started.

  ‘O’Dowd,’ he said then, ‘can I tell you something?’

  For the second time since she’d met him she was thrown. It didn’t sound like he was going to share his plans for Christmas. ‘What kind of something?’

  He gave a short puff of laughter, gone as quickly as it had come. ‘My wife—’ He stopped, and raised the glass finally to his lips.

  Helen stiffened. His wife? Was Breen about to get personal? Was that what they were doing here? Was she about to get the ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ line? She’d had more than enough revelations for one day. She waited in dread for him to continue, the brandy he’d bought her forcing her to stay and listen.

  He lowered his glass – half-empty suddenly. ‘My wife is bi-polar,’ he said, fixing Helen with a stare so intense she had no choice but to meet it. ‘She was diagnosed nearly thirty years ago, at the age of thirty-three.’

  His voice was so low and calm he might as well have been giving her the weather forecast. ‘Unfortunately, she’s never accepted the diagnosis, and tries periodically to do without her medication: not a good idea. She’s also an alcoholic who won’t admit it, which, as you can imagine, doesn’t improve the situation.’

  He stopped, still watching her face. Helen looked back at him, aghast. Why was he telling her all this? Did he imagine one brandy gave him the right to throw his problems into her lap? What did he expect, that she’d pat his shoulder and say, ‘There there’?

  ‘Tell me to fuck off,’ he said then, in the same toneless voice. ‘You look like you want to.’

  Helen let out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. ‘Why are you telling me this? I mean, why are you telling me?’

  He turned his head, looked towards the fire. ‘Maybe you were handy, and I felt like sharing. Maybe because I knew you wouldn’t feed me crap, like “Things will get better.”’

  And to her dismay, Helen realised that she felt some sympathy for him. If his story were true – and why would she doubt it? – he’d remained with a wife who, by the sound of it, needed round-the-clock care. He’d lived for years in a situation that a lot of people would have walked away from. Whatever else you could say about him, he hadn’t walked away.

  Thirty years ago she’d been diagnosed, presumably after they were married. He’d lived with it for thirty years.

  That was why he’d given up his job, it must be. He’d loved being an editor – any fool could have seen how perfectly the job had fitted him. He’d been good at it, he’d been quick and sharp and fair, and whatever about their clashes, Helen had respected him for it.

  She remembered suddenly asking him, the time they’d met in hospital, how he was enjoying retirement. ‘It’s Hell,’ he’d said, or words to that effect. She remembered the thin woman walking beside him in the street. Bi-polar, and an alcoholic who refused to acknowledge it.

  Little wonder he was cranky.

  And desperate, if she was the only one he could find to talk to. As she hunted for something to say – what the hell could she say? – he drained his glass and got to his feet.

  ‘You’ll run a mile next time you spot me,’ he said, folding his coat over his arm. ‘Sorry about that – you just happened to be in the wrong place, nothing personal. I’ll leave you in peace now. Have a good Christmas, O’Dowd. Tell Alice I said hello.’

  ‘Do you want a lift somewhere?’ she asked – but he shook his head and lifted a hand and strode from the room, depositing his glass on the counter as he passed, nodding farewell to the barman.

  Helen sat on, cradling what was left of her brandy, imagining the Christmas they would have. No mention of children, probably just the two of them sitting across the table from one another. Trying to make conversation, or maybe not bothering.

  What could Helen have done? What help could she possibly be to him? He wasn’t looking for help: he was like her, determined to solve his own problems. He’d needed an ear and she’d been there, that was all. But of all the people he might have chosen to confide in, it had to have been her. And of all days, with her mother’s earlier news still sitting uneasily in her head.

  She looked around the quiet, warm room. Tempting to stay there for a few hours, downing the brandies and getting quietly sozzled; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had too much to drink. She could phone Frank from Reception: he’d come and pour her into his van and bring her home. He wouldn’t approve, sensible Frank, but he’d know better than to say it.

  Breen could do with having a few too many drinks, forgetting his troubles for a night. He looked like he hadn’t a clue how to be happy.

  She finished her drink and got to her feet – no fun in getting drunk alone. As she put on her coat, she saw Breen’s books on the floor. She stooped and picked them up: Gore Vidal and Kingsley Amis, which didn’t surprise her in the least. She opened the Vidal and saw that it belonged to a library a couple of miles away, and was due back in a few days. Must have been on his way to return them when he’d met her, taking the scenic route to the library maybe, spinning out time until he had to go home.

  She could drop them back; she could do that at least. She left a note for him at the reception desk, in case he came looking for them.

  Outside a breeze was whipping up, the daylight almost completely gone. She scanned the dusky street in both directions but there was no sign of him. She got into her car and turned the heater on full blast, the taste of his brandy still in her mouth, and headed for home.

  Sarah

  ‘You could come here for dinner,’ she said. ‘You and Nuala, I mean.’

  She saw the surprise bloom in his face. ‘Are you sure about that? I know my mother would love it.’

  ‘We missed her last year.’

  She didn’t say anything about missing him. She didn’t tell him how miserable she’d been, how she’d sobbed her way through the cooking of Christmas lunch for the handful of nursing-home residents who hadn’t had anyone to take them in, how she’d cycled home afterwards, still in tears, to cook another turkey for her father and the children. They’d been invited to Christine’s for dinner but Sarah had refused, unable to face putting on an act all evening.

  She made no mention of the effort it had taken to seem happy in front of the children as she’d opened her presents and pulled crackers, the terrible absence of Neil shouting out at her, how she’d tried not to think about him being with Noreen instead of with his family, but how it had been all she could think of.

  She wondered if he remembered that she hadn’t gone to the phone when he’d rung later that evening to wish the children a happy Christmas. She’d been terrified that his voice would cause more tears after the river she’d cried earlier.

  ‘I’ve offered to do lunch at the nursing home again,’ she told him, ‘but I’ll be home by three at the latest. You could come around half past. You could be there when the children are opening their presents.’

  ‘We’d love that,’ Neil said. ‘Thank you, Sarah.’

  She walked away from the car, conscious of his eyes on her. Nothing had changed:
he was still taking the children on Saturday afternoons, and every other weekend they stayed the night with him and Nuala, and he phoned them just after dinner each weekday evening. Sarah wasn’t offering any more; he wasn’t asking for it. They spoke for a few minutes when he returned the children, that was all.

  But where was the harm in inviting him and his mother to Christmas dinner? He was still the father of two children: he had a right and an obligation to be involved in their lives. And Nuala, who was innocent of any wrongdoing, certainly deserved to see her grandchildren on Christmas Day.

  ‘You’re mad,’ Christine said. ‘You let him back in and he’ll turn around and do the same in three or four years’ time.’

  ‘I’m not letting him back in, I’m just having him to dinner. His mother is Martha and Stephen’s granny. She deserves to be there, and I couldn’t very well ask her without asking him.’

  ‘Dad won’t like it. He mightn’t even go.’

  ‘Well then,’ Sarah replied lightly, ‘he can go to you.’

  Christine’s sigh travelled down the phone line. ‘Look, I’m sorry – it’s just that I’m afraid you’ll get hurt again.’

  ‘I know, you keep telling me that … By the way, I’ve got a date for the driving test, Thursday week. Third time lucky, hopefully.’

  And the subject of Neil and Christmas dinner was dropped, and not raised again during the conversation.

  Her father, not surprisingly, was circumspect when he heard. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ he asked. ‘Are you certain you want to do this?’

  ‘I’m certain. The children would love it, and I know Nuala would want to come.’

  He made no response.

  ‘You’re OK with it, aren’t you?’

  The only time her family had been in the same room with Neil since his departure had been at the children’s birthday parties, during which they’d studiously avoided any contact with him for the hour or so that he’d stayed. But this would be different, with her father and Neil thrown together for several hours, sitting around the same dinner table, opening presents with the children, making conversation before dinner.