Jumping in Puddles

by Claire Allan

  “Aw, feck it,” she whispered, wiping away a stray tear and sitting down close to where the children were making sand castles and laughing as they kicked them down.

  * * *

  The person who invented power-walking is a masochist, Ruth thought as she pounded along the beach trying to blow the cobwebs from her head. And the person who invented power-walking on a beach is a masochist with a death wish.

  She knew that Eimear would be asleep for a while yet, so she decided to give the plasterwork in her house a break and vent her frustration on the beach instead. She had felt buoyed by her lightning-speed walk to the community centre the previous Tuesday night, so she figured the walk along the beach would be a breeze. She was wrong. As her feet sank into the soft sand, her calf muscles burned and her face blazed with the exertion. She was so unfit it scared her. She actually started to worry she would pass out there and then on the sand and risk a mercy dash by Greenpeace to save her.

  “Come on, keep going,” she urged herself, stepping out. She knew that all she had to do was break through the pain barrier – but as it stood the pain barrier was in real danger of breaking through her.

  It had, she realised, been months since she’d even attempted any sort of fitness regime. Rathinch was not known for its gyms or leisure facilities. The most the inhabitants usually got was a stroll along the beach during the summer months and even then it wasn’t a brisk walk – more a dander among the dunes, dodging tourists and hastily made sand castles.

  For Ruth the dander often ended in the chippy (except on Tuesdays and Thursdays). There was something about the smell of the salt in the air that made her crave a fish supper like never before – liberally dosed with salt and vinegar. Thinking of it now, her tummy rumbled. The effects of last night’s wine had left her ravenous. Thanking her lucky stars that it was too early for the chip shop to be open, she powered on, determined to get to the end of the beach without the need for the cardiac ambulance. She was just turning to walk on the more ankle-friendly terrain of the village Main Street when she saw Niamh and her twins playing in the sand in the distance.

  Grateful for a chance to stop her walk and catch her breath for a few seconds, she called over to her new friend shouting a cheery hello. She hadn’t, of course, been close enough to realise that Niamh was crying when she shouted over to her. If she had known, she was ashamed to say, she would probably have walked on and hoped to get away unnoticed.

  “Are you okay?” she asked Niamh, realising almost as soon as the words had passed her mouth that her question was stupid. Of course Niamh wasn’t all right. People who are all right do not sit on the beach in the buck-freezing cold crying into their designer pashminas.

  Niamh looked up, blinking against the light, and hastily wiping the tears from her eyes. “Oh, I’m fine, Ruth, honest,” she said, her voice wobbling.

  Ruth stood for a moment – not quite sure what to do. She’d had a grand total of two conversations with this woman – save the times she had arrived at the surgery with the children. She could not force her into sharing a confidence and, anyway, there might not be a confidence to share. The woman had lost her husband. Although Ruth would gladly dance a jig at the news of James Byrne’s demise, she knew that Niamh and Seán had been madly in love and that his death had been a cruel blow.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” she offered half-heartedly and started to walk off, just in time to hear Niamh break into a fresh flurry of tears and the twins, who up until now had been building sandcastles, oblivious to their mammy’s distress, start to wail too.

  “Mammy, what’s wrong? Don’t cry, Mammy,” Connor pleaded and Ruth found herself turning back and kneeling down on the sand beside the children.

  “Mammy is fine,” she soothed. “She just has some sand in her eyes and now I’ll help her get it out, so you two go on and play. That’s a cracker-looking sandcastle you just built – do you think you could knock it down for me?”

  The twins looked at Ruth and then at Niamh, who managed a half smile and nodded in the direction of the sandcastle, “On you go, Dizzy and Muck, knock it down now for Mammy and then build the best one ever!”

  They took off down the sand and Niamh mouthed a grateful “thank you”.

  “Look, tell me to feck off. You wouldn’t be the first and you won’t be the last, but if you need a listening ear I’m told I’m very good.”

  Niamh nodded and started to spill out her secret as Ruth sat open-mouthed in complete disbelief.

  Of course Ruth was used to hearing all the gossip in the doctor’s. She knew what was wrong with whom, and why and what cream they had to try to make it all better. There was little that shocked her. She could listen to talk of thrush and piles and chronic constipation without so much as raising an eyebrow, but this left her speechless. And if it was a shock for her, she could only imagine how much of a shock it was to Niamh. Feck. This was huge. Massive. And she knew she had to handle it just right.

  She did a lot of nodding and hand-rubbing – skills she had also perfected at the doctor’s and then she offered to join Niamh and the twins for tea and a bun at the cafe. She couldn’t imagine what Niamh was going through. At least, with James, she had known he was a bollocks long before he had walked out. His leaving was just confirmation to the world at large of what she’d known at home for a long time. There was no way she would have put Seán Quigley in the same league. She might never have spoken to him but she had often seen the couple walking along the beach, the twins running on ahead of them while they walked along hand in hand like something out of the lifestyle pages of a Sunday newspaper.

  She was sure she had the look of a rabbit stuck in the headlights as Niamh walked towards her with a tray laden with juice for the children, sticky buns and some steaming hot coffees.

  “Thank God it’s not too busy. I must look a right state,” Niamh said through red-rimmed eyes.

  “You look fine, sweetheart,” Ruth replied, her hand reaching instinctively to her own lined face. She knew her eyes were red-rimmed too from lack of sleep and worry. Glancing at her watch she realised that Eimear would probably wake soon and if she wasn’t home to play the role of the strict disciplinarian, her daughter would probably head out to get up to God knows what mischief.

  “I’m not keeping you back, am I?” Niamh asked, cutting through Ruth’s thoughts.

  “Oh no, not at all. It’s just my eldest is giving me some trouble at the moment and I’m worried she’ll be up to all sorts if I’m not back soon.”

  “God, you must think I’m a selfish fecker,” Niamh said, “ranting on about my problems. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Unless you have any hints and tips for keeping a sixteen-year-old in check, preferably without the use of a straitjacket, I doubt it.” Ruth ran her fingers through her hair. “It’s probably just a phase – she’s been through a lot lately with James leaving and all . . .”

  “I know, poor thing. It must be tough for all of you. Look, I’m much calmer now – on you go and I’ll see you on Tuesday night at the centre.”

  Ruth downed her coffee, and wrapped her scarf around her neck. “I’m sorry to run off like this,” she said apologetically.

  “No, you’ve been a godsend. Thanks for listening and if I can return the favour any time, well, you know where I am.”

  * * *

  Walking back up the hill towards her house, Ruth wondered how it was that shit things happened to good people. She thought of Niamh and her kind heart and wondered why life was so rubbish sometimes, and then she thought of herself. She was a good person. There were times when James would have had her believe she was far from good, at anything, but she knew she had never willingly hurt anyone or anything in her life. So why, she wondered, was she now dealing with the Bride of Chucky in her house?

  Sighing, she put her key in the door and braced herself for another round with Eimear.

  Matthew was sitting on the sofa in his Spiderman pyjamas munching toast. For a second Ruth’s hea
rt soared. Perhaps Eimear had woken up a mature grown-up and had made toast for her baby brother, but when Thomas walked in shortly after with a fresh plate of toast her heart sank again.

  “Is Eimear awake yet?”

  “No,” Thomas answered gruffly.

  “I tried to wake her, Mammy, but she shouted at me to piss off,” Matthew added solemnly, delighted that he had been able to use a swear word by proxy. “But Thomas made me toast and gave me some juice.”

  Matthew nodded in the direction of his plastic mug on the floor and turned his attention back to the TV where some mutant somethings or other were knocking fifty shades of shit out of each other. Thomas, Ruth noticed, was trying not to look interested and failing. She smiled. He might be her big son at fourteen but there were times when he was still a little boy at heart. She didn’t dare say that to him though – he’d be mortified and would in all likelihood sulk for a month afterwards and she had enough stroppy teenagers in her house already.

  Ruth walked to the kitchen and pulled out the ironing board. She might as well use this time, when the children were occupied, to get the kids’ clothes organised for the weekend.

  James, of course, hadn’t deigned to tell her where they were going so she had to make sure she had things ready for every eventuality. She wished she could look forward to it. Ordinarily four days alone in the house would seem like heaven – with books to read, wine to drink, films to watch and no noise at all to contend with, but instead she was worried how things would go. James wouldn’t tolerate Thomas’s shyness and he most certainly wouldn’t tolerate Eimear’s moods and no doubt he would come home accusing her of mollycoddling Matthew.

  Feeling another headache starting, Ruth poured a glass of water and reached into the cupboard for some paracetamol. As she turned around she saw Eimear, a picture of misery, standing in the doorway.

  “Can I have two of those please?” she asked sheepishly and Ruth poured another glass of water.

  “Can we not fight today, Mum? I don’t feel well.”

  Ruth nodded and took hold of her daughter’s hand. “Okay, sweetheart. I don’t want to fight but we have to sort this out because neither of us can go on like this.”

  Eimear nodded and sat down, her face a whiter shade of pale.

  * * *

  But Eimear sneaked out again that night and did not come home until gone twelve. Ruth spent another evening walking the floors, calling mobile numbers and trying to find her daughter.

  That had topped off what had been a pretty shit night anyway. Matthew had put his foot down that there was no way he was going away with James for the Hallowe’en break and had lost the head when Ruth had told him that not only would he be going but he would be going a whole day earlier than previously planned.

  “But I want to stay with you, Mammy,” he had pleaded, eyes wide.

  Ruth had wanted to assure him that she wanted him to stay with her too, but she wasn’t sure if that constituted taking sides. She didn’t want the children thinking bad of their daddy – or more to the point she didn’t want James blaming her for their bad attitude.

  She had cried once Matthew had been settled and then decided to ask Eimear to nip out and get a DVD. The two of them could curl up on the sofa and watch some soppy chick flick as a way to build some bridges after the previous night’s furore.

  “Eimear,” she called softly from outside her daughter’s bedroom door.

  There was no answer.

  She knocked and called again. “Eimear, darling. I know you are raging at me, but c’mon. Let’s watch a wee film together. If you want we can get some chocolates in or a frozen pizza?”

  No answer again.

  Ruth was feeling fragile enough as it was and she really didn’t have the strength to cope with one of Eimear’s huffs, so she rattled the handle to the room and walked in.

  Of course her daughter wasn’t there. The room was a pit and Ruth could see, at least, that she had not run away. Every item of clothes she owned was scattered on the furniture and floor. There was make-up scattered on her dressing table, cups and plates Ruth had long thought broken sitting on the floor.

  Ruth felt her heart sink and her hackles rise. Where had she gone so wrong with Eimear? They used to be like two peas in a pod and now they were at war with each.

  “Give me strength,” she had muttered before walking downstairs and starting her efforts to track Eimear down.

  When her daughter had stumbled in, there was no question whatsoever in Ruth’s mind that this time she had been drinking – and quite a lot by the look and smell of her.

  “What the hell has been going on?” Ruth shouted, her resolve to play this in “good cop” style dissolving entirely.

  Eimear struggled to make eye contact, her face pale. She started to sway and flopped down on the sofa. “I’m fine, Mum.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Ruth shouted back, just as a familiar sour smell assaulted her nostrils.

  “Have you been sick? Is that sick on your dress? Jesus, Eimear, what have you been up to? Have you no respect for yourself?”

  “Ha!” Eimear snapped. “I don’t think you can talk to me about respect, Mum!”

  “Oh yes, I can, and I’ll tell you now, young lady, if I have to sit on your knee for the next week until your dad comes and picks you up for the weekend then I will. Because you won’t be leaving this house and you certainly won’t be drinking anything else and you should only count your bloody selfish little arse lucky that I don’t tell your dad what you’ve been up to because then, believe me, you would know what was sticking to you!”

  Eimear looked at her mother, her mouth gaping open and shut as if she was trying to find some smart teenage putdown but instead she just burst into tears.

  “Why don’t you just tell him, Mum? If you hate me so much? Just tell him!” and then she ran up the stairs and despite an hour of pleading and crying at her bedroom door, Ruth couldn’t talk any sense to her.

  18

  “Daddy, can we go up to Derry for Hallowe’en?” Poppy asked over breakfast on Monday morning. “Jamie and Oran from my class are going up and they say there’s going to be fireworks and music and everything.”

  Poppy’s enthusiasm for life was infectious and Liam found himself smiling and nodding. “Of course we can, sweetheart. We’ll go up straight after school if you want.”

  “Yes!” Poppy said in an American accent, punching the air, and Liam laughed. “But, Daddy, we’ll have to get a costume and everything.”

  Liam sighed. Laura normally organised the costumes. A talented seamstress, she was a dab hand at whipping up a princess dress or a fairy costume in a matter of minutes. Liam didn’t have a notion – his entire knowledge of Hallowe’en costumes was when his mother would hand him an old curtain as a child and tell him it was Dracula’s cape. He had a fair idea such half-hearted attempts wouldn’t go down well with Poppy, who had dressed as a Barbie Princess the year before, complete with dainty heeled shoes and a glittery home-made tiara.

  Oblivious to the panic that was rising in her father’s gut, Poppy blethered on. “This year I want to be Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, or Gabriella from High School Musical, but I think I want the ruby slippers. Jessica had ruby slippers last year and they had proper clicky-clacky heels like Mammy wears and everything.”

  At the mention of her mammy, Poppy’s face paled just a little and she looked down at her breakfast before pushing it away.

  Liam stared at her from across the breakfast bar – such a grown-up head on young shoulders – and felt a surge of anger towards his ex.

  “Daddy, do you think Mammy will make my costume this year? I bet she’ll be too busy. Do you think we could go to Tesco and buy one? I think we can get one for cheap and I don’t have to be Dorothy. I can just be a witch. I don’t mind.”

  Liam sighed. “You’ll be Dorothy. I’ll get you the best damn Dorothy costume in Donegal. You mark my words.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy, I don’t mind,” Poppy said, jum
ping off the stool and starting to put on her school coat.

  “Listen, girlie. I’m not going to let you down.” He stopped himself just before adding “like your mother did”. He had vowed not to badmouth Laura no matter how much he wanted to. Poppy had been through enough without getting stuck in the middle of an unholy row between her two parents.

  In her typical style his daughter changed the subject, stopping him from dwelling on his relationship meltdown. Now that she had been assured that Hallowe’en wasn’t going to be a washout, she had much more important things to talk about – like clothes and shoes. Not much of it made sense to Liam but he just smiled and nodded while she chatted the whole way to school. He wondered how he would cope in a couple of years when the chat moved on to seriously girly subjects like boys and, God forbid, periods. Christ, the thought of having to buy sanitary towels in the local shop brought him out in a cold sweat. Please God Laura would be back by then and it wouldn’t be a problem.

  When he had dropped her off, with a sly kiss on the cheek because big cuddles were no longer cool for a five-year-old girl, he called into the Country Kitchen Cafe for a cooked breakfast. Nothing beat a couple of sausages, rashers and some fried bread to start the day. He looked down at his waistband, however – he had vowed to eat better, thinking that losing a few pounds could possibly win Laura back. She used to scoff when he went into the Country Kitchen for breakfast.

  “Sure I’ve got a pot of porridge on the stove. That’s much better for you,” she would say and in turn he would smile and say that nothing was better for him than feeling he had a belly fully of runny eggs and bacon.