The Better Woman

by Ber Carroll

  Peggy was snoozing, her chin resting on her chest. The plastic case of The Secret of my Success was on her lap. Michael J Fox, cocky and ambitious, grinned from the TV screen.

  ‘Nan?’ Sarah shook Peggy’s shoulder. ‘You can’t be sleeping on the job –’

  In a heart-stopping moment Sarah realised that her grandmother’s body was frigid to her touch.

  ‘Nan, Nan,’ she cried and lifted Peggy’s chin to see her face. Her eyes were open.

  She’s okay.

  Then it sank in that the staring eyes had no life in them.

  *

  ‘Sorry for your loss.’

  ‘We’ll all miss her.’

  ‘She lived a good life, God rest her soul.’

  ‘A great loss to Carrickmore.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Sarah acknowledged each quiet condolence with a slight nod of her head. Some of the mourners were too emotional to say anything and just squeezed her hand. This rocked her composure even more.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sarah.’

  Sarah’s face crumbled when she saw Nuala. She choked on a sob. Had she let it out, she wouldn’t have been able to stop.

  Don’t lose it, she told herself. Cry later. At home.

  She’d been repeating that mantra, Cry later, for the last three days and, somehow, she’d held on. Until she was alone. Then she’d cry and cry and cry.

  ‘Sorry, Sarah.’

  It was Tim. Followed by Emma, Fiona, and other faces from her class, some of whom she hardly knew. Cries of despair lodged in her throat, a nanosecond from coming out.

  Hold on. Hold on.

  The funeral moved from the church to the cemetery, the casket borne on the shoulders of old friends. Sarah walked behind. Nuala linked one arm, Tim the other. They stayed by her side as the casket was lowered into the ground.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .

  It was over. Everyone blessed themselves and headed across the road to Delaney’s.

  ‘Are you coming?’ asked Nuala.

  ‘In a while.’

  ‘We’ll see you there, okay?’

  Sarah was left alone, all but for Mr O’Hara who was waiting, shovel in hand, to fill the grave. She gazed down at the coffin, covered with a few clods of earth and a single red rose. The finality of it shattered her resolve not to cry.

  Mr O’Hara moved forward uncertainly when he saw the gush of tears. ‘Are you okay, Sarah?’

  She nodded and stumbled away.

  In Delaney’s, the mourners would be marking the end of Peggy Ryan’s life in the traditional way: raising their glasses and sharing fond memories and anecdotes. They would be waiting for Sarah to join them. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face them. The tears she had to cry wouldn’t stop now that they’d started. They were more enduring than any tradition.

  Chapter 8

  Sarah pounded around the track, her breath fogging the icy air. Her lungs hurt. The pain was welcome. She wanted to feel something and if physical pain was the only thing on offer, then she’d take it. Gladly.

  The sleepless nights were back. The crying. The self-hatred. The helplessness. The hopelessness. Fear of the future. Of not ever being good enough. Of being alone.

  When she wasn’t crying, Sarah would self-analyse. She looked at herself dispassionately. She saw a girl who had been defined by those close to her. Her happiness had emanated from Peggy and John, not from within. So it wasn’t any wonder that without them she was nothing.

  She had to force herself out of bed every morning. Had to force herself to eat. To run. To believe that if she kept going, kept doing everyday things, she would eventually pull out of the darkness. The running did give her a sense of pleasure, much diminished than usual, but she clung to it nevertheless. She ran as often as she could, pounding round and round the track at the Mardyke, as though her life depended on it.

  Head down, eyes on the red clay underfoot, Sarah hardly noticed the other runner join the track. Her legs eventually lost their strength and she veered to the grassy centre. There, she bent over, hands cupping her knees, and took deep breaths of bitter cold. The runner swished by.

  She straightened, balanced herself on one leg and bent the other back.

  Hold. Hold. Next leg.

  Then, one foot slightly in front of the other, she pushed forward and felt the muscles in her calf loosen in response to the pressure.

  The runner was coming round again: male, wearing a navy tracksuit and a peaked cap that hid his face. He was going fast, too fast for the ten thousand metres.

  Maybe he’s in training for the five thousand.

  Sarah unzipped her gear bag and took out a towel. She buried her sweaty face in the soft cotton before draping it across her shoulders. Then she unscrewed her water bottle and gulped back half its contents. With her bag slung over her back and water bottle in hand, she made for home. As she crossed the track, the runner, about two hundred metres away, raised his hand in salute. She lifted her hand in response and continued on towards the exit.

  In general, Sarah tried to run the shop as Peggy would have liked. Rule number one: the customer is always right. Rule number two: keep the shop, and consequently your reputation, spick and span. Rule number three: only buy stock you are two hundred per cent sure you can sell.

  It took six weeks before she veered from Peggy’s modus operandi and ordered a small sample of tasteful Christmas decorations on a strict sale-or-return basis.

  ‘There’s nothing as dead as Christmas when it’s over,’ Peggy had declared more times than Sarah could count. ‘There you’d be, up to your eyeballs in tinsel, hanging from the rafters it’d be, and you with no chance to sell it till the following year.’

  Contrary to Peggy’s dire warnings of the past, Sarah’s Christmas balls and tinsel sold out within days.

  There you are, Nan, thirty pounds profit. What have you got to say to that?

  Sarah ordered some more decorations from the supplier but, knowing there was some truth in Peggy’s view, she was careful not to overdo it.

  A few days later Mrs Burke, Peggy’s old friend, dropped in.

  ‘You poor love, you,’ she tutted as she set down a bowl wrapped in foil on the counter. ‘You must be missing her terrible. Sure, I’m lost without her myself . . . I can only imagine how you feel. She used to love my plum pudding, God rest her soul. I brought some for you.’

  Sarah thanked her.

  The old woman lingered on for a chat, as she often did when she dropped by. A widow in her eighties, with her children overseas, Peggy had been a big part of her life.

  ‘The days are long,’ she sighed. ‘It’s hard to keep myself occupied. I’m twiddling my fingers now that all my Christmas baking is done.’

  ‘Why don’t you make a few cakes for us here?’ asked Sarah, thinking that they’d fly off the shelves if they went anything like the decorations.

  The old lady became flustered at the thought. ‘Sure, nobody would pay money for my old cakes.’

  ‘Ah now, Mrs Burke,’ Sarah smiled cajolingly, ‘doesn’t everybody know you’re the best baker in Carrickmore?’

  Mrs Burke’s cakes were an enormous success and the shop had record takings in the last few days before Christmas. Sarah and Brendan were run off their feet, the shop almost sold out of perishables by the time they locked up on Christmas Eve.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t join us for dinner tomorrow?’ asked Brendan yet again.

  ‘I promised Nuala I’d spend the day with her,’ Sarah replied, as if she’d not told him a dozen times before, ‘but thanks anyway.’

  Truth be known, part of her wanted to spend Christmas Day on her own. If she didn’t care enough to get dressed or cried herself stupid, then who would be any the wiser? However, another part of her, the part that desperately didn’t want to end up like her mother, welcomed the opportunity to be in the midst of Nuala’s big family. Surely, she wouldn’t feel depressed with so many people around her?

  Nuala climbed int
o the single bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

  ‘Padraig fancies you,’ she announced out of nowhere.

  Sarah didn’t comment as she brushed her hair. It was longer than usual; she’d been too preoccupied to get it cut.

  She set down the hairbrush on the dresser and, her back modestly turned towards her friend, she slipped on her flannelette pyjamas.

  ‘Can you move over a bit?’ she asked as she squeezed into the bed they were sharing for the night.

  Nuala shimmied a little to the left.

  ‘Did you hear what I said about Padraig?’ she asked. ‘Yeah.’

  Sarah reached towards the lamp. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Sarah flicked the switch and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark.

  ‘Well, do you like him or not?’ Nuala asked, exasperation in her voice.

  ‘He’s your brother!’

  ‘I know that, you eejit,’ Nuala exclaimed in frustration. ‘But sure isn’t every fella out there somebody’s brother? I’m asking you if you fancy him – yes or no?’

  Sarah gave the question due consideration. Nice enough looking and working as a trainee solicitor, Padraig was by all accounts a good catch. She tried to imagine what it would be like to kiss him. The thought left her cold.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Nuala paused. ‘Tell me the truth, Sarah. Have you fancied anyone at all since John?’

  Sarah was filled with hopeless yearning. She saw John’s face in her head. His eyes stared through her. To her heart. She relived the feel of his skin, the heat of his body, the meeting of minds, the closeness. If she had known how hard it would be to replicate those feelings, she would have fought harder for him, she would have told him about their baby.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘No,’ she said, coming out of her reverie. ‘The answer is no.’ Then, in an attempt to end the day on a positive note, she added, ‘Goodnight, Nuala. And thanks again for inviting me for dinner today. I had a lovely time.’

  She was sincere in her gratitude. The hubbub of Nuala’s family had raised her spirits no end. She didn’t know why there were tears creeping stealthily down her face now. Glad that Nuala couldn’t see she was crying, she turned on her side and tried to go to sleep.

  He was there again. The runner. Wearing shorts rather than the usual tracksuit, his peaked cap shielding his face, his elbows moving in perfect rhythm to his long stride. Sarah crossed the track and set her bag down on the damp grass. She unzipped her jacket, gathered her hair in a ponytail and began her stretches.

  She ran out slowly, a little out of shape after the short break she’d taken over Christmas. Steadily she built up speed. Out on the track everything was simple. One leg in front of the other. Breathe in, breathe out. Heat soon tingling her skin. This was therapy. She shouldn’t have stopped, no matter how briefly. She needed it.

  Round and round they went, countless laps, she a hundred or so metres behind him. She used him as a moving target and kept going well beyond the half-hour she’d originally planned. Just when she thought she’d have to give up first, he slowed and she caught up with him.

  ‘Training for anything in particular?’ he asked when she drew up alongside.

  ‘No,’ she puffed, glancing his way and meeting heavy-lidded brown eyes beneath the peak of his cap. ‘I run to de-stress.’

  ‘You should compete,’ he advised. ‘You’ve got good stamina.’ She shrugged. Competing meant structured training, impossible with her commitments at the shop. She flipped the question back to him.

  ‘Do you compete?’

  ‘Five K.’

  She smiled. ‘Thought so.’

  She blushed as she realised that she’d admitted to thinking about him.

  A lap flew by.

  ‘Are you a student?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah – engineering.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Civil. How about you?’

  ‘B Comm. Third year.’

  They ran another few laps. They seemed to go quicker with him at her side.

  ‘That’s it for me,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, bye so.’

  She pulled ahead.

  He shouted, ‘Do you have a name?’

  She looked over her shoulder. ‘Sarah.’

  ‘I’m Kieran. See you next time, Sarah.’

  Peggy’s death left a gaping hole in the staffing and running of the shop. Sarah did her best to cover it: relieving Brendan at four every evening and working through to closing time at nine; placing the orders and organising returns; keeping up with the debtors and creditors, as well as all the usual paperwork. Not surprisingly, her studies began to suffer. One assignment was late, another scraped a bare pass. Something needed to be done.

  Sarah’s action was twofold: she advertised for a full-time shop assistant, and she decided to buy a car. Neither was without its problems.

  The profits from the shop weren’t yet high enough to pay for a manager, but they could accommodate an assistant. Sarah was looking for someone hardworking, honest and with a good customer manner. Finding the right person proved a lot harder than she expected.

  ‘I think you’re being too fussy,’ Nuala declared when Sarah complained that most of the job applicants were mopey teenagers.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Sarah replied tersely. ‘I’m trusting this person with everything I have – the cash in the till, the stock on the shelves, not to mention my reputation. The wrong person could jeopardise everything.’

  ‘How did you ever trust Brendan enough to hire him?’

  ‘That’s different – I’ve known him all my life.’

  Similarly, Sarah was accused of being too fussy about the car. Tim was helping her on that front.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Sarah,’ he swore after an unsuccessful visit to view a Peugot for private sale. ‘If perfection means that much to you, then you should get a new car rather than a second-hand one.’

  He has a point, thought Sarah, her eyes glancing down to the newspaper on her lap. She’d highlighted a number of advertisements but she suspected that the cars would be the wrong colour, or have dings on the body, or high mileage.

  Can I afford something new?

  Finally, a mature woman from Kilnock applied for the position at the shop. Mary Malone had a warm face and an obliging manner. She possessed the down-to-earth practicality of a mother who had raised four children to become self-sufficient adults. Sarah knew straight away that she was the right person for the job.

  Mary started and within days she proved to be everything Sarah had hoped for: resourceful, not afraid to make decisions, and trustworthy. She quickly became confident with the run of things and Sarah was able to reduce her work hours.

  On the transport side of things, Sarah finally acknowledged that nothing but a new car would meet her high standards. Peggy had bequeathed a lump sum that was just enough to buy a zippy red Fiesta. Sarah stuck L plates on the front and rear and persuaded Tim to give her driving lessons.

  Having the car saved almost two hours a day, time she’d previously wasted waiting around for buses. She put the extra hours into running and studying, the things that made her feel good. Achievement, she discovered, was the answer to depression: beating a personal best, getting top marks in an assignment, hearing words of praise from a satisfied customer. Every accomplishment, small or big, chipped away at the depression’s hold.

  Sarah built on her achievements until she was sleeping soundly at night. Winter became spring. As the days brightened, so did her outlook. Her confidence returned, as did the small joys that were part of everyday life. She still missed her grandmother every minute of every hour, but she knew she was going to be okay on her own. She was no longer scared of the future; she was looking forward to it.

  Jodi

  Chapter 9

  Sydney, 1980

  The beach was a twenty-minute walk from the house. Jodi spent a lot of time there. She swam far into the sea. She swam wher
e twelve year olds shouldn’t dare swim. Out where the water was deep and cleansing. Sometimes it took all her strength to swim back to shore. Sometimes she wasn’t sure she could make it. Sometimes she didn’t really care.

  Today the waves had a sinister tug. The battle was brutal: Jodi Tyler against the sea. It was exhilarating. Hard work, but she was holding her own. Not like at home, where she was drowning.

  Head down, she ploughed against the current. She turned her face to take a breath and caught sight of the lifeguards pulling the rescue boat trailer down towards the water.

  Someone must be in trouble, she thought, taking a quick glance around to see who it was.

  There was no one else around.

  They’re coming to get me.

  ‘I was okay,’ she protested as they pulled her aboard.

  There were two of them: a woman with sandy hair and a sun-freckled face, and a guy, younger, with pin-up good looks.

  ‘The hell you were,’ the guy replied and the toned muscles on his upper arms bulged as he began to motor the boat back towards the shore.

  Jodi stared sullenly at the horizon.

  ‘Where are your parents?’ the woman asked.

  Jodi glanced at her briefly. ‘At home.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twelve.’ She raised her chin defiantly. ‘Old enough.’

  The boat nudged the sand and Jodi hopped out. Her face burned when she realised that she was the talk of the beach.

  ‘She looks to be okay.’

  ‘Is she with anyone?’

  A young child ran up to ask what it was like to ride in the rubber duckie.

  Jodi ignored him, and hurried to where she’d left her beach bag. She shook the sand from her towel and rubbed herself dry.

  ‘Hi,’ she heard the female lifeguard say from behind.

  She turned around. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jodi.’

  ‘My name’s Sue.’

  ‘I’m going now,’ Jodi warned and hoisted her bag from the sand.

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘Everyone’s staring at me.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I’m getting out of here,’ Jodi repeated and took a step away.