by Claire Allan
Ciara’s face was blazing because now, after almost two years of keeping this to herself – afraid of her life her mother would be further disappointed in her – she could see what she should have seen all along. Her mother’s loyalty would have always been to her over the village stud. That started a whole fresh flood of tears.
Lorraine agreed, reluctantly, to leave things as they were for the moment and the pair cried together for what seemed like hours.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I should have told you everything. I wish I had.”
“No point in wishing,” Lorraine said. “No point at all. What’s done is done and now we have to move on from here, together.”
20
Niamh felt guilty. She looked at her watch and wondered if, just as she was sitting there on the porch drinking her third glass of wine, Ruth, Ciara, Liam and Detta would be bonding in the community centre. But no, they would be finished by now.
She felt particularly guilty when she thought of Ruth, who had been so very kind to her on Sunday when she had been sitting on the beach gurning like a mad thing. Jesus, she was so embarrassed to think of how she must have looked – all those tears, snotters and slobbery sobs. It was not her finest moment – not by a long shot. She wondered whether Ruth had sat in the centre tonight, cup of tea in hand, chocolate biscuit mid-dunk, regaling everyone with the scandal of how Seán and Niamh’s marriage was a complete sham and sure wasn’t he shagging the arse off her best friend?
In spite of herself, Niamh felt a smile creep across her face. She could just imagine Liam’s chin hitting the ground at the coarse use of language and Detta trying to get them to write a fecking letter about it all.
Dear Seán,
Sorry you were such a fecking twat, but then again you died a horrific death so I guess karma got you in the end.
Love, or not,
Niamh and the Loony Lone Parents of Rathinch
Loony Lone Parents, she liked that. If she ever had the balls to go back and face them, knowing that her tears all these months had been a big, dirty lie, she would have to suggest that name. Currently they were only known as “That group yer wan Detta runs” and that wasn’t very catchy by anyone’s standards.
Niamh sipped from her glass and realised she must be in the numb stage again of the grieving process. She’d thought that was behind her. The two days after Seán careered his car into a ravine on the Derry to Rathinch road she had sat in a semi-comatose state. Yes, she had cried when the Gardaí had called to her house and she had wailed when she identified his body but, after that, until the funeral she had been dead inside. She wondered was it possible she had died instead because she felt nothing, but when her feelings came roaring back as she walked behind her husband’s coffin into the church she realised just how much she liked the numb stage. The numb stage didn’t hurt. It was kind of blissful. And she could even laugh during it.
It was nice to be back there again. She drained her glass and stood up to walk to the kitchen to polish off the bottle. She knew, from the way she staggered down the hall, that she should stop drinking, or maybe eat something but again she liked the feeling of being just that little bit removed from the reality of her life.
She would regret it the next day, when the twins came running in to her bed, full of toddler enthusiasm and demands for imaginative play, but she didn’t really care. She had kept in control of her faculties while her mother and Robyn had been over. She knew neither woman was happy to leave her to go back to Derry, knowing that she was due a meltdown imminently, but they had their own lives to live.
“I don’t even know what my fucking life is,” Niamh muttered aloud, spilling her wine on the granite counter while pouring it into the glass. She was just reaching for some kitchen roll when her doorbell rang.
“Aw fuck,” she said, pulling her hair back from her face and walking to the front door. No one calling at this time of night, to this house in the arse-end of nowhere, could be bringing good news.
Opening the door tentatively, she saw Ruth standing – a concerned look on her face – on the front step.
“Can I come in?” Ruth asked and Niamh forced a smile.
“’Course you can. Come in. I’m in the kitchen – or I was in the kitchen. I’m in the hall now obviously, but I was in the kitchen before,” she rambled.
“I heard what you said, but knew what you meant,” Ruth said, closing the door behind her and walking down the hall to the gleaming kitchen.
“Want a drink?” Niamh asked, reaching in the fridge for another bottle and lifting John Rocha glass from the cupboard.
“You know, I’d love a coffee,” Ruth said softly.
Niamh suddenly felt embarrassed. “I’m not usually such a lush. It’s just I needed to let off some steam and this seemed as good a way as any and I don’t actually drink all that often. I didn’t drink for a full year after the twins were born.”
“I love a good drink,” Ruth soothed. “I could have filled my own bottle bank after James left, but I’m driving tonight.”
“Oh, okay. Well, coffee and maybe I should join you?” Niamh felt herself look to Ruth for some hint of approval. Suddenly she needed someone to make that decision for her. Ruth smiled and, relieved, Niamh switched on the coffee machine and set two cups out.
“A glass of water wouldn’t go amiss either,” Niamh said and poured herself a tall glass from the tap.
Sitting down, while the coffee machine bubbled and hissed, she smiled at Ruth again, unsure of where to take the conversation. After all, the last time they had met she had spilled her darkest of secrets.
“We missed you tonight,” Ruth said, breaking the silence.
“Oh God,” Niamh thought, cringing. After four glasses of wine she had allowed herself to forget she had chickened out of the meeting. “I couldn’t get a babysitter,” she muttered. “Usually my mum comes down, but she couldn’t tonight, you know.”
“So it wouldn’t be anything to do with what you told me the other day then?” Ruth asked, eyebrows raised.
“No, my mum couldn’t come down, honest,” she fibbed.
Ruth nodded and Niamh breathed an internal sigh of relief. Hopefully Ruth would take her at her word and not question her further. She went to pour the coffee and open a packet of custard creams.
“Well, you missed some craic,” said Ruth. “We’re all going to have a bus run up to Derry on Friday for the fireworks and that includes you. Now we won’t take no for an answer because Detta is getting the mini-bus and Liam and Ciara are bringing their girls. I’ll be on my lonesome so I’ll be able to help you with the twins and then it’s all back to mine for some party games.”
Shit, Niamh thought, stuffing a full custard cream in her mouth to buy her time to try and think of some excuse as to why she couldn’t possibly go to Derry.
“Gosh, it’ll be late, won’t it? I don’t think the twins would be up for it.”
She looked at Ruth. Damn, that raised eyebrow was there again.
“So that wouldn’t be anything to do with what we talked about the other day? You wouldn’t be trying to avoid us? Because, you know, darling, that none of us would judge you in any way.”
Niamh choked. They wouldn’t need to fecking judge her, would they? She hadn’t done anything wrong except love a two-timing arse-wit. But they would judge Seán? And even if he was an arse-wit, she realised with a thud that she still felt an ounce of loyalty to his memory.
“I’m not ready to tell people,” she stuttered. “But I don’t want to . . . don’t think I want to . . . lie about us and pretend it was all perfect.” Staring at the glass of wine on the counter, Niamh felt her hand creep towards it. She needed a drink – really, really needed a drink if she was going to talk about this again with someone.
“None of us have had the perfect relationship in case you didn’t realise,” Ruth said kindly.
Niamh had to fight the urge to shout loudly “But you were different! You weren’t
me and Seán. We were the perfect couple. We were the Brangelina of Derry!” But of course she didn’t. She sat, staring into her wineglass, the smell of the strong coffee making her feel slightly queasy.
“All I’m saying is that you are among friends,” Ruth continued. “And none of us are old gossipmongers like Mrs Quinn in the shop. Trust me, if I was a gossip I could tell you a thing or two about Dr Donnelly’s patients – but I’m not. And none of this is our business anyway. We are all lone parents, Niamh, and we just want to have a little fun with the children.”
Niamh could tell she wasn’t going to get out of this. It dawned on her, as she poured both her wine and her coffee into her pristine Belfast sink and poured a glass of water, that Ruth was not the kind of woman who would take no for an answer. At least this trip would get her mother and Robyn off her back. How could they complain or worry that she was going to top herself when she was heading out on jaunts to Derry with the rest of the Rathinch Loony Lone Parents?
“Yes, I would be delighted to join you and the Loonies on the trip,” she said.
“Loonies?” Ruth asked with a half smile.
“Well, no offence or anything,” Niamh smiled, “but we are the village misfits, aren’t we? It’s a bit like Stepford here, don’t you think? All the little boxes of houses, the picket fences, the quaint shops? I feel like I’m stepping into some kind of time warp when I come here. That’s why I liked it at first, I guess. It seemed less scary than a big city but now I feel like we should all be walking about in sackcloth and ashes and shouting ‘unclean!’ I mean – unmarried parents – how dare we?”
Ruth laughed – a deep throaty laugh. “You do make me laugh, Niamh. I know what you mean but you know people here are just very set in their ways, but feck the lot of them. Anyone who doesn’t understand doesn’t matter – that’s what I say anyway.”
* * *
When Ruth had gone home and Niamh had drunk the best part of two litres of water to fend off any hangover the following morning, she climbed the stairs and undressed. She kissed the twins goodnight, stopping to rest her hand on their chests to feel their gentle rise and fall. She whispered “God Bless” in their ears even though she wasn’t sure she believed in God any more and then climbed beneath the crisp white sheets of her bed. As she snuggled down under the duvet she drifted off and he came to her again – like he had done many times since he died.
She was always aware it was a dream. That made it easier, she realised, to know that it was all in her head. He was sitting, like he always did, at the edge of the bed looking at her.
“You are an arse-wit,” she said and he shrugged, combing his hair back from his face with his hands.
“Explain yourself, Seán,” she said, “because I’m really very cross with you.”
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
“Yes, two-timing arse-wits always say that,” she raged.
He rolled his eyes. “Think what you want, Niamh.”
“Well, you are here to prove me wrong, are you? You’re a fecking dream – well, a nightmare really. So just go away, Seán, and don’t come back because you are no good to me like this. Just go away.”
He shrugged and Niamh woke, face damp with sweat, heart thumping. She sat up in the dark of the room and felt guilt wash over her. How could she have told him to go away and not come back? She wanted him back, even in dreams, just to explain himself and make it all better.
“Oh God, I really, really am going mad. I need to get out of this village and fast,” she muttered and lay back down, waiting for her heartbeat to settle and hoping that her subconscious wouldn’t take her at her word.
21
Ruth didn’t like packing. If she was to list her ten Least Favourite Household Chores, packing would be number 3 – just below ironing (which was generally involved in the packing process at some level) and cleaning the toilet. Packing for three children who were being extremely unco-operative and uncommunicative to boot was even worse again.
“I want anything you need laundered down here now,” she shouted up the stairs to two closed bedroom doors and a cacophony of music blasting from Thomas and Eimear’s CD players.
“And your swimming suits too,” she called. “Dad said the hotel has a swimming pool, so unless you want to sit on the side like saddos you better get those together.”
The doors remained shut and Ruth wasn’t sure but she could almost swear the music got louder. She secretly thanked God that she had elderly neighbours with well-known hearing problems on both sides or they would have her reported to the Council for noise pollution.
She sat down at the pine kitchen table and wished she had some wine in the house. Although, thinking of the greenish tinge Niamh’s face had taken on the night before, maybe she would be safer just sticking to her tea and biscuits. She had already piled as many of the children’s jeans, tops, pants, socks and favourite accessories into two battered weekend cases and yet she knew that they would complain that she had forgotten their most favourite items ever and she would be in their bad books. Or should that be even more in their bad books. Although Eimear hadn’t gone on the lash since her weekend grounding, she hadn’t fallen over herself to talk to her mother. Thomas remained his usual silent self and Matthew had been more clingy than usual.
“Do we have to go, Mammy? Really have to go?” he had asked just that morning.
“Darling, you’ll have fun. Daddy says the hotel is really nice and Laura is a nice lady,” Ruth said, painting on a smile.
“She’s not as nice as you, Mammy. You are more fun than Daddy too.”
“Well, of course I am,” she smiled, “but you will have fun and you have your brother and sister with you.”
“But I’ll miss you,” he said solemnly, his big blue eyes boring a hole directly into her heart. She wanted to tell him never mind, he could stay, but James would go mad and not only would he make her life miserable for it, he would take it out on the children over the coming weeks. As hard as it was for her to let her children go with James, it was easier than not letting them go and dealing with another of James’s Huff Specials.
She was well used to him and his childish ways. She often used to tell people she might as well have four children at home. When Eimear was going through the terrible twos it felt as if James was going through the terrible twenty-twos. But Ruth had known he worked hard – morning, noon and night at the bank doing bankly things of which she had no notion, so she excused him. After all, while he was adding and subtracting and other money things, she was walking along the beach with their children and playing games of hide and seek in the park at the shorefront.
He often told her she should be grateful for the life he had given her. Only now, dealing with the Cold War with her three children, she understood the complete irony of the situation.
Still the tension was doing wonders for her figure. She had pounded along the beach every day that week – even when it was raining. She felt particularly proud of that. Usually a dose of rain had her hurtling for home. Her hair was frizzy enough at the best of times. She didn’t want to tempt Mother Nature to give her an Irishwoman’s Afro by spending too much time in high humidity. Instinctively, she put her hands to her hair and straightened it down.
She felt nervous about tomorrow. It was never going to be easy to wave her children off with James even though she knew he loved them. He had always loved them. He might not always have shown it, or known how to show it, but he had never hurt them.
Not like he had hurt her.
She took a deep breath and switched the kettle on for the tenth time that day and then she opened the cupboard to see if there were any biscuits left worth munching. Although, being that it was Wednesday and the kids had been on half term she knew she would be lucky to find a mouldy digestive.
Probably for the best, she thought. She didn’t want to undo the work of her week of walking. She was tired of feeling like a frump – thirty-seven and feeling about sixty.
She would look at Eimear and see her confidence and her natural beauty and feel like an old hag. She wished she could wear the same skinny jeans and smock tops her daughter wore without looking as if she was carrying a surprise late baby. Instead she wore the cheapest jeans Dunnes Stores had to offer, generally not cut in the most flattering of styles, with whatever sweatshirt came to hand. For work she had a simple uniform of black trousers – of which she had two pairs – and a blue blouse, short-sleeved for summer and long-sleeved for winter. Occasionally, if it was biting cold, she would accessorise her work look with a black cardigan. She was hardly the height of fashion.
But her weight and her wardrobe were the least of her worries now. She had to deal with getting the children out the door without showing herself up or dealing with a complete emotional breakdown from them.
They would have fun. She knew that, but she also knew why they were reticent. She would much rather they were with her, going on the mini-bus to Derry for the night, but she daren’t argue with James. His temper was the only thing more legendary than his tightness with money. Only, nobody else really knew about the temper except for her. It was her dirty little secret.
Pouring milk into her mug, she leant against the worktops and touched the side of her cheek gently as if feeling a bruise that was long healed. If Niamh knew what secret Ruth was hiding she wouldn’t feel half as bad about Seán being a cheat, Ruth was willing to bet.
Setting up her ironing board to work through the rest of the children’s clothes, Ruth switched on the TV to distract herself from the thoughts that were buzzing round in her head.