Jumping in Puddles

by Claire Allan

  Robyn nodded.

  “Serves him right though for being a stupid bastard and crashing his fecking car then, doesn’t it?” Niamh added with a half smile and Robyn laughed.

  “I suppose it does.”

  “It’s not very exciting though, is it? I mean you would think we could find something interesting like a surprise eternity ring he had bought me and never given me, or a winning lottery ticket.”

  “Nope, only letters, tax information and Post-it notes. God, Seán liked his Post-its, didn’t he?”

  Niamh smiled, remembering their home office as it was, covered in dozens of little yellow pieces of paper which all fluttered in the draft whenever she opened the door. When she would bring Seán his evening cup of coffee, he would get annoyed when two or more of them fluttered to the ground. Niamh had always teased him, telling him he should really get a better filing system, but he couldn’t be swayed.

  “Sometimes,” she said with a half smile, “I swear he loved those Post-its more than me.”

  She lifted Seán’s diary, a thick black leather-bound affair and flicked through the pages. Seeing his scrawl, the pages divided with yet more little yellow pieces of paper, Niamh felt for a second as if he was with her. He was sitting behind her, his hands massaging her shoulders as he always had done and she closed her eyes and breathed in the echo of him. Robyn was sorting through more paperwork, oblivious to her friend’s thoughts.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Seán said, kissing her neck.

  She leaned back into him, feeling the warmth of his breath on her shoulder – smelling his aftershave.

  “I’ve missed you,” she muttered.

  “I know,” he replied. “But I’m here, you know. I’m always here.”

  Blinking herself back to reality, she traced his handwritten words, the very proof that he had lived. She wished he really was there, behind her, his arms wrapped around her. Turning the pages she reached May 19 – their wedding anniversary. He had written in their booking for Harry’s, and below was the number for the florist he always used. Niamh smiled at his predictable nature. He never deviated from the plan. It wasn’t in his nature.

  She flicked forward to July 17, her birthday. Again there was a booking for Harry’s written in and a reminder to call the florist. Below it Caitlin’s number was written and Niamh realised that her ex-best friend, who of course had still been her best friend at that time, must have had some hand in choosing the charm bracelet he had bought for her. Instinctively her hand reached down to the sterling silver links around her wrist, the solid heart and small handbag. He had promised to add to the charms with every birthday, Christmas and anniversary that passed.

  She flicked on. August 23. The day he died. A few appointments were scrawled in, phone numbers, figures, reminders of what to do the next day. He couldn’t have known he wouldn’t be there after that.

  Turning the pages on, she saw another Post-it and a familiar handwriting – one she knew as well as her own – stating in big letters that she couldn’t wait for that weekend.

  That weekend.

  The weekend Seán was supposed to be in Dublin on business.

  Supposed to be.

  Niamh felt the bile rise in her stomach and, while Robyn ran to help, she found herself heaving her guts up over the pristine white toilet in their pristine en suite in their pristine house.

  14

  This was bliss, Ciara thought as she handed over her change to the surly-faced bus driver and climbed on board, headed for her meeting with Abby in Letterkenny. For once she didn’t have to try and haul a buggy with her or sling an oversized changing bag over her shoulder. Instead she had the smallest of small bags – one which only had enough room for her mobile phone, purse and a very non-baby-friendly lip-gloss.

  Lorraine had been in a good mood that morning and had offered to look after Ella not only while Ciara went into town, but also while she got herself ready.

  As she straightened her hair, pop music blasting from her stereo, Ciara almost didn’t know herself. She was able to wear her long, dark hair how she used to love it – straightened and round her face as opposed to pulled back in a scrunchy to save her from getting it pulled from her head. She had even pulled on a nice top and her best jeans, and left her boring old flat, buggy-friendly shoes on the floor in favour of her nicest heeled boots.

  Looking in the mirror, she knew her tummy still sagged that little bit but, ignoring that, she felt she looked good. No one would necessarily know she was a seventeen-year-old mum of one. She looked and felt for that day like every other seventeen-year-old heading out shopping on a Saturday afternoon. The only difference was that she would be bringing nappies and vests home for her baby, but no one in Letterkenny need know that. The shop assistants could just think she was doing a favour for her mother or something.

  No, today was going to be Ciara’s day and as she sat back on the bus and slipped the earphones from her ipod into her ears, she breathed out, determined to enjoy herself. She could barely remember the last time she had gone into town sans daughter. It probably wasn’t all that long after she did that fecking pregnancy test in the shopping-centre loos.

  Abby’s face had been a picture when Ciara broke the news. In fairness it was fairly obvious to anyone that something was very, very wrong as soon as Ciara stepped out of the loos. Instead of heading into yet more shops to try on yet more impossibly tight tops she had insisted they go for a sit-down and a drink. She was aware she was sweating profusely and she felt sick. She didn’t know if that was the shock or the morning sickness, or just the thought of breaking the news to her mother. She felt as if she might just faint.

  “Are you okay?” Abby had asked as Ciara sipped gingerly from a glass of water, shunning her usual Diet Coke.

  “Oh fuck, Abby. I’m fucked. I mean really fucked. F.U.C.K.E.D. Fucked.”

  “Fucked?”

  “Fucked.”

  Abby looked worried and sat back in her chair, regarding her friend for a moment before sitting forward again. “When you say fucked, what exactly do you mean?”

  “I mean that in every sense of the word, my life is now fucked. Oh Abby, what am I going to do?”

  Abby just looked baffled and it took a while for it to dawn on Ciara that she hadn’t told her friend she was pregnant. The only words running through her head for the last ten minutes had been “I’m pregnant”, but thinking them and saying them out loud were two very different things and for some reason her mouth could not articulate what her brain was thinking.

  “Oh Abby. Jesus. I’m dead. Mum is going to kill me. Ben is going to kill me. I might as well just kill me.”

  “You’re scaring me now,” Abby said, face growing serious. “What is it, Ciara? We can get through it.”

  “Pregnant,” Ciara blurted. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Fuck!”

  “Exactly.”

  Ciara smiled as she recalled that experience – not because it was particularly pleasant but because she at least knew for a fact there would be no repeat of such drama this time around. This was going to be pure teenage fun, without so much swearing, nausea and tears.

  The journey flew by and Ciara could barely hide the grin from her face as she stepped off the bus and walked to the place she had planned to meet up with Abby. It did feel a little odd not to have a buggy in front of her but she just held on tighter to her impossibly small bag and gave her head a shake now and then to show off her glossy hair.

  Abby was uncharacteristically on time and let out a squeal of delight on seeing her friend. Despite feeling a little past the squealing with delight stage – a sixteen-hour labour dampening her desire to squeal ever again – Ciara grinned and ran to give her friend a hug.

  “It’s great to see you. I can’t wait to hit the shops.”

  “How come you didn’t bring Ella?” Abby asked, looking behind her friend just on the very bizarre off-chance she had secreted her child somewhere on her person.

  “Mum agreed to mind
her. Or should I say, Mum offered to mind her. I nearly died of shock, but I wasn’t arguing. I was just too happy to get out of there for a bit.”

  “I’d have loved to have seen her,” Abby said with a sigh, hooking her arm in her friend’s. “But I know you need time out.”

  “Call in and see us any time after school,” Ciara said. “It’s not like I’ve any mad social life to be going on with.”

  “Not even the Mad Mammies group you go to?”

  Ciara looked at her friend and smiled. “We’re not mad. We’re just all left on the shelf. And we’re not all mammies. There is a daddy there too.”

  “Is he hot?”

  Ciara choked. “It’s Liam, Mr Dougherty, from the builder’s yard. He’s old enough to be my da.”

  “He would be a very hunky da. My mum thinks he’s gorgeous and I bet he has money. He could keep you in fancy bags and shoes for the rest of your life!”

  “Could you imagine the scandal in Rathinch?” Ciara laughed. “You know, it would almost be worth it to see the look on Mrs Quinn’s face when we sent her the wedding invite.”

  “But what is it like? Seriously? Is it all huggy-feely? Mrs O’Neill’s a bit far out, isn’t she? I can’t decide whether I think she is really cool or mad in the head.”

  “She’s probably a bit of both,” Ciara replied, matter of factly. “But she seems nice enough – a bit funky even – and it’s good to have people to talk to who know what it’s like.”

  Immediately she noticed the wounded look on her friend’s face. It drove her mad. Abby was a great friend but sometimes she just didn’t get it that she would never really understand what it was like to be a seventeen-year-old single mother. The lucky cow was still at school, having a blast and planning to go off to college soon. Ciara could barely even plan an afternoon out at Letterkenny without it turning into a full-scale military operation.

  “Abby, don’t be like that. Trust me, I’d rather be out with you lot but at least I know with the Mad Mammies, and Daddy, I can talk about nappies and baby poo without shocking them.”

  “Well, if it gets me off the talk of the exploding nappies, then that’s just fine by me,” Abby said and peace was once again restored.

  The pair giggled as they walked from clothes shop to shoe shop. Ciara didn’t even care that she didn’t have money in her purse to buy all the things she wanted, she was just enjoying the company. Looking around at all the other little cliques of friends out shopping together she felt very much part of the in-crowd and when Abby suggested they rest their feet in McDonald’s she slipped into her seat, delighted for once not to be having to hunt out somewhere to heat a bottle or warm up some disgusting baby goop. Not that Rathinch had much in the line of chic cafes or fast-food spots. There were a few tourist-friendly seafood restaurants which would baulk at the sight of her pulling her screaming baby in through the door in her buggy, and there was the Country Kitchen, which did a great line in scones and gossip. Apart from that there was the chippy which was closed every Tuesday and Thursday and it only served fat chips, not the tasty little fries she loved so much.

  Abby carried down a tray laden with food and Ciara set about tearing open salt sachets and dousing her fries in tomato sauce.

  “I almost forgot to tell you,” Abby said, taking a slug from her Coke. “You should hear the latest scandal about Ben Quinn.”

  “My Ben Quinn?”

  “Yes, shit, sorry, Ciara. Here I am gossiping away about your Ben Quinn. I’m a complete tit. Sorry.”

  “Abby, just tell me what the scandal is with Ben,” Ciara said impatiently, pushing her longed-for fries away from her.

  “Well, it’s not with him, not really. It’s more who’s after him now. You’ll die when I tell you.”

  “You’ll die if you don’t tell me,” Ciara said gruffly.

  “Eimear Byrne. She’s been making the maddest play for him. You wouldn’t believe it. Everyone is talking about her and how she has no shame.”

  “Just like me then,” Ciara said, face blushing.

  “No, you weren’t as bad as that. You thought he loved you.”

  “I bet Eimear thinks he loves her too. God, her mum will go nuts if she finds out.” Ciara was thinking of her new friend Ruth.

  “Why would she? She doesn’t know what he did. No one does. She’ll probably be all delighted. Sure doesn’t everyone think the sun shines out of his ass?”

  “Oh crap,” Ciara said, knowing full well that she might just have to talk to Ruth herself and take some of the shine off Ben Quinn’s halo.

  15

  Niamh and Seán had driven to Rathinch on a sunny day. The sky had been clear apart from a streak of fluffy white cloud and the dappled roads to the quaint village gave Niamh a warm and cosy feeling. It was as if Bord Fáilte had taken the scene right off a postcard and recreated it just for the thick Northerners looking for somewhere to spend their money.

  When they arrived and walked down the main street, past all the little coloured houses, Niamh could not help but break into a chorus of “The Coloured House Song” from Balamory.

  “I didn’t think places like this actually existed any more,” she said to Seán. “It’s all so quaint and lovely. I swear to Christ I expect to see John Wayne chasing Maureen O’Hara up the street any second shouting for his ‘tae’.”

  Seán laughed, a deep throaty laugh and as he turned to look at her the sunlight glinted off the frame of his glasses and all she could see in the shadow was his wide, bright smile and she felt happy.

  “It is a bit twee, isn’t it? Like Darby O’Gill’s going to run down the road any second. Makes a big difference from rush hour on the Strand Road back in Derry.”

  “As long as Darby doesn’t bring those blasted leprechauns with him. They scare the shit out of me.” Niamh shivered and Seán pulled her close.

  “Nothing can touch us here, Niamh. This is our dream. Can you imagine how amazing it’s going to be? No rush-hour traffic – not for you anyway. Pity me – I’ll still be booting up that road every day.”

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Niamh asked, wrapping her arms around his waist and looking him straight in the eyes as they stood in front of the twee coloured houses in the glorious sunshine.

  “Of course I don’t. I have wanted this all my life. House in the country. Two amazing children. Sexy wife. No one could want more!”

  Of course he had wanted more. The house in the country wasn’t enough. It had to be the best damn house in the country. With a sweeping driveway, sandstone walls and balcony opening off the master bedroom, it was the envy of the village. Seán had wanted it to be like that, and if Niamh was honest she had too. She loved it. She felt all Lady of the Manorish and posh when they moved in. As she had clacked up and down the marble floors in the hall each morning she had thought of just how much they had and just how very perfect it all was.

  * * *

  Niamh had thought the hardest thing she would ever do was bury her husband. In the days after the Gardaí had knocked on the door – bringing the parish priest with them even though Niamh hadn’t set foot in a chapel since the twins’ christening – she thought nothing would ever be as difficult as those first days without her beloved Seán.

  No words, she thought, could ever hurt her as much as “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Quigley, you had better take a seat.”

  Her heart, she had sworn, would never shatter as much as it did as she broke the news to two confused three-year-olds that Daddy had gone to heaven and wasn’t coming back.

  She assumed her body could not physically ever ache as much as it did the day the sobs wracked her as she saw her beloved husband’s coffin lowered into a cold grave in Rathinch.

  “Never assume anything,” she remembered her daddy saying. “It makes an ass of u and me!” Then he would laugh, so proud of his joke.

  Niamh lay on the bed – staring out of the French doors which led to that shagging balcony. The sun had started to fall and though there was still a trace of l
ight across the sky, it felt as dark as midnight.

  After she had thrown up she had stumbled in there and lain herself down. Robyn had followed, her face a picture of concern, and Niamh had handed her the Post-it that she had been clinging on to for dear life.

  As realisation dawned across her friend’s face, Niamh felt a tear slide down her cheek. She felt her stomach churn, again and again – her mind struggling to take in what she had seen. As her brain told her it couldn’t mean what she thought it did – that Seán had been having some sort of affair with her best friend – her heart broke with the realisation that it couldn’t mean anything else.

  She curled up into a ball, hugging her knees to her and fighting the urge to give up there and then. Her life had been a lie, she realised. Everything about her and Seán and their perfect life had been a pretence. Everything from the top-of-the-range cars in the driveway to the swimming pool in the garden. Who the fuck needed an outdoor swimming pool in Donegal anyway, she raged. It was all one big, fat, ugly lie.

  For all she knew he hadn’t been working late the night he died. He might have been shagging Caitlin.

  The thought that hers weren’t the last lips he kissed crushed her and she knew that if he was here, right now, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from slapping him across that face and beating the life out of him.