Jumping in Puddles

by Claire Allan

  “Nothing that a great builder and some new gorgeous worktops can’t cure,” she smiled.

  “Yes, I heard about your DIY on Friday night,” Liam said.

  “Grand. I was hoping you would so you don’t have a fit when I decide to double the amount of work I want you to do on the house.”

  “Double it, or triple it. I don’t mind.”

  The door creaked open and they heard a raucous giggle erupt.

  Ruth entered, followed by Ciara and then by Lorraine pushing baby Ella who was soundly asleep in her pram.

  “We thought the more, the merrier,” Ruth smiled.

  “I even bought extra biscuits,” Lorraine offered.

  “And Ella’s been fed, watered and changed and isn’t likely to wake up,” Ciara added.

  “Come in, take a seat and have a cuppa. All are welcome,” Detta smiled. “Good thing I always have a spare supply of pens and notepads.”

  As she handed them out, she knew that tonight’s session would be different to any other she had. Her group members already looked completely different to the people who had walked through these doors two months ago. And she knew herself she had undergone the most tremendous of changes.

  While she looked at Ruth. Liam, Niamh and Ciara she didn’t see people searching for their identity and hiding their secrets any more. She saw people who were getting on with things and finding confidence in themselves that they never even knew existed before.

  She knew this because that evening – when she had looked in the mirror before she came out – she had seen a transformed woman staring back at her. One day she would admit to them how they had saved her, just as much as she had saved them.

  51

  “When was the last time you enjoyed being in the rain?” she asked, stretching her arms wide and tipping her face towards the sky, allowing the cold rain to batter off her face.

  Unsure what to think – and wondering if she had finally flipped her lid, Liam answered. “I much prefer the warmth of a fire, a nice rug and some wine. Let’s go.”

  “Don’t be such a killjoy, Liam. Feel it, it’s amazing – when was the last time you allowed it just to wash over you before running for cover?”

  “Not sure I ever have,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders, pulling his jacket closer around him and wiping the rain from his face.

  “’Course you have!” Detta replied with a smile. “I bet when you were a wee thing you were always begging to be out in the rain. I bet you liked nothing more than getting your wellies on and jumping in puddles and not giving a ha’penny damn about whether you were soaked through to your skin.”

  Liam thought of all the times Agnes rolled her eyes to heaven and ordered him into his pyjamas as he walked into the house like a drowned rat and he smiled. Of course, he always got a good dose of castor oil for his troubles too.

  “We forget it,” she shouted as she walked down the beach spinning in the pouring rain. “We forget to enjoy the small things. We forget to run in the rain, and jump in puddles and laugh until we almost puke.”

  “I don’t know if we forget it or we just grow up,” Liam said, slipping his arm around her waist and walking on. He was starting to enjoy the rain now – walking here with Detta along the beach as the sunlight faded into the cold winter evening. The Christmas lights were glistening in the shop windows and he couldn’t wait for the big day.

  They were all – every last Loony, their kids and even Agnes too – going up to Niamh’s house to celebrate her new kitchen and her new life and each of them was bringing something towards the dinner. Niamh had offered to cook but her cooking skills were mostly confined to ringing a caterer and ordering whatever they recommended. She had taken some persuading to allow her friends to contribute to the big dinner, but eventually she had caved in – especially when Lorraine had offered to bring her speciality cheesecake. Most of all though Liam was looking forward to spending it with Detta who had slotted into his life as if she was always meant to be there.

  “Growing up is largely overrated,” Detta said, her face clouding over. It wasn’t the first time he had noticed this sadness in her eyes but he had been afraid to push her – in case he was in some way the source of that sadness.

  “Are you okay?” he probed, gently, looking into her eyes.

  “This time of year, it brings it back,” she said.

  “I’ll never push you to tell me, Detta, but I’m here when you want to talk.”

  “I know,” she said. “And I should tell you, but I’m not sure how you might react.”

  “Nothing you could tell me could shock me. Unless, you know, you tell me you once were a man, because that would kind of freak me out. But I don’t think that’s the case.” He smiled softly and she laughed.

  “I had a son,” she blurted. “Patrick,” she whispered his name as if it were a prayer.

  “He was with me for thirteen years. And then he died, three years ago now. It was cancer and it was quick.” She paused, allowing the words to start to sink in. “I spent a lot of time after that in Dublin, trying to find some hint of him. You know, I went to all the places we used to go – did all the things we used to do, hoping, just hoping to feel his presence, but it was like he was gone entirely. I couldn’t find any trace of him – no matter how hard or how long I looked.”

  “I’m sorry,” Liam said, shocked to his core by this revelation. He knew there was something more to Detta, he just never knew it could be something as serious as this.

  “Don’t be. We had thirteen wonderful, wonderful years filled with such love and happiness. He wasn’t with me as long as I would have liked him to have been – I’d have never let him go if I could have got away with it – but he was amazing. You’d have loved him.”

  “If he was anything like you . . .”

  “Oh, he was the total opposite – a wise head on young shoulders, always laughing at me and telling me to grow up. Sometimes I think he was the grown-up and I was the child.”

  “Sounds like he was a good boy.”

  “The best.”

  They walked on a little bit, hand in hand – the grip just that little bit tighter now – lost in their thoughts. Liam wanted to scoop her up into his arms and protect her forever. How could she have gone through so much pain and never let them know? When she was piecing together their lives, how could they not have known her own was in pieces?

  “The thing is,” Detta started, “after a while I realised I wasn’t going to find him in Dublin, or anywhere really, and I wanted to come home. And I wanted to grow up a bit and make a difference. The group was my way of making a difference and finding him in whatever way I could.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “Yes and no. I found peace. I found friendship and I found you. And I realised that I loved walking in the rain and jumping in puddles and acting the eejit and kissing lovely builders and making Hallowe’en costumes and making posters with big markers and glitter pens. He would have wanted this.”

  “I’m glad,” Liam said.

  “So am I,” Detta said. “Glad and content, and ready for my happy ending.”

  52

  The dining room was a strange combination of opulence and what could only be described as shabby chic. The clean lines of the dining table, which sat ten, were impressive but what was more lovely, more welcoming was the garlands of handmade paper chains hanging across the room. The children, under Detta‘s carefully skilled guidance, had worked themselves into a sticking and cutting frenzy three days before making decorations for the big Christmas party. Even Thomas and Eimear, who Ruth had assumed would turn their noses up at such things, got into the spirit of it. Ruth had watched proudly as Thomas had helped his little brother link the chains together before lifting Poppy up to BluTac them to the ceiling. She had breathed out then, as she sat on one of the designer chairs sipping mulled wine. Thomas had become so withdrawn after things reached crisis point with James that she was worried he would self-destruct. He had locked hims
elf in his room for a week or two, but then he had emerged – a little more confident and a lot more talkative. It was as if James, and his run-in with the law, had given Thomas some sort of faith in his ability to cope. It helped too, of course, that Ruth had showered him with praise.

  She had been so utterly proud of him when he insisted on coming to court with her for James’s case. He had held her hand, his head high, throughout the proceedings and when they were done, and James had his warning and his fine, it was Thomas – along with Dr Donnelly, who had persuaded her not to rest on her laurels and to go the whole hog and use the court system for maintenance.

  Thanks to that, and thanks to Dr Donnelly increasing her hours just that little bit, she wasn’t so terrified of Christmas any more. That said, knowing that there was no fear of getting hit, or James getting drunk and ruining things, had meant that money or no money this was going to be a pretty impressive Christmas anyway.

  “They’ve done a good job,” Ruth said proudly as she carried a stack of plates in to set the table.

  “They really did. Although you can tell which ones the twins did,” Niamh said with a smile, nodding her head in the direction of a garland which was straggling towards the ground.

  “Sure they’re only babies. And it’s cute.”

  “It sure is,” Niamh said with a smile. “I think that it’s going to be a good Christmas. It’s important to me they have a good Christmas.”

  Ruth put her plates down and hugged Niamh. She had changed so much these last few weeks – she was more confident, more assured and looked less and less like she might break if someone looked at her the wrong way. But Ruth knew that she was still grieving and, well, a hug never hurt anyone.

  Niamh rubbed a tear from her eye with the cuff of her cardigan. “I’ll not be crying,” she smiled. “Well, not at least until the kids are in bed and we’re all a bit squiffy on the wine!”

  “That’s a girl,” Ruth said gently. “Now lead me back to your gorgeous new kitchen so I can gaze once more with lust and longing at your new kitchen island.”

  The pair linked arms and walked back to where a rabble of voices greeted them above the hiss and fizz of the Christmas dinner bubbling on the stove while a host of over-excited children ran out through the back door to play on the newly constructed climbing frame and swing set.

  Among them on the slide was Ciara – with Ella on her knee – a look of absolute joy and innocence on both their faces as they hurtled towards the bottom. She had also transformed these last few weeks. After visiting the college to discuss night classes she had decided to go the whole hog and take an Access course. Mrs Quinn was kindly allowing her time off during the week so that she could combine work with study. Lorraine had nearly died with shock the day before when the village battleaxe had wandered up her garden path laden with a bag of toys and clothes for the baby.

  “I think she deserves something from our side of the family,” she had said, gingerly handing over the Santa sack.

  Bridges were being built and Lorraine was just delirious to see her daughter not only blossom as a mother but also as a seventeen-year-old child – still able to race to the top of a slide set.

  “She’s having fun,” Detta said with a smile and Lorraine nodded.

  “She is indeed and, cunningly, at the same time avoiding doing any cooking or cleaning. She’s a genius that one.”

  “You’ve got to admire anyone who can avoid cooking and cleaning,” Detta said.

  “Amen to that,” Liam answered. He was perched on a stool at the kitchen island sipping a glass of red wine and making a half hearted attempt to stir a pot of soup.

  Detta threw her head back and laughed. “I know, you poor pet. You’re killed there, stirring your soup.” She walked over, put her arm around him and kissed his cheek.

  The rest of the group hadn’t seemed to mind their blossoming relationship at all. In fact they all seemed deliriously happy about it. It hadn’t affected their meetings which were now less about writing letters to themselves and more about having a bit of craic. Detta had even gone and ceremoniously burned those first letters they had written and locked away in a safety deposit box. Their lives were getting better already – they didn’t need letters any more to help them.

  Laura hadn’t been overly impressed with Liam’s new romance, but she had accepted it. She said she wouldn’t stand in the way of his happiness and he had thought that was big of her. She was still with James, but they didn’t look so happy any more and Liam wondered if it would only be a matter of time before they split up. In a way, it would serve her right, he thought. And then he had let go of that touch of bitterness because he had more than he could ever have wanted right beside him.

  He had persuaded Detta to tell the group about her son at their last meeting. There had been tears aplenty and he had felt a bit awkward – aware of his lack of the female knack for saying and doing the right thing when faced with a woman crying her eyes out. But it had been him who walked her home that night and curled up beside her on her bed while her tears subsided and she found her smile again.

  Agnes hadn’t even commented at the ungodly hour at which he had returned home. He never thought the day would come when his mother would seem happy to be pimping him out.

  He looked at his mother, sat like a queen bee on the soft sofa close to the French doors supping on a glass of sherry while reading to Poppy and his heart swelled. The Christmas season was definitely making him an old softie. He’d have to make a point of drinking some extra-strength lager or belching loudly later on just to assure himself he was still a man’s man.

  “Right, I think we can move through now,” Niamh shouted above the chatter and they started to file into the dining room – the children’s eyes wide at the seven-foot Christmas tree in the hall decorated to perfection with hosts of crystal angels and glass baubles. The dining table looked glorious, as did the extra table drafted in to cope with the number of guests. Niamh loved the buzz of it all. If Seán had been here they would have been sitting like some stately old couple in relative silence in this massive room eating their dinner, just the two of them and the children.

  Now the very rafters of their home rang with laughter and before the day was over, things would be louder still. Her parents, along with Robyn, were calling round for supper and staying over. She planned to keep the twins up until they fell into a sweetie-induced coma-like sleep and then she would let them sleep in her bed where she would stare out of the Velux windows at the stars above.

  She didn’t think she believed Seán really was a star in heaven now. But she liked to talk to him still. She didn’t shout any more. If she was honest she knew what she was getting into when she met him. He wasn’t the kind to ever settle with anything – no matter how much that anything was everything he ever wanted. She didn’t forgive him as such, but she understood. And occasionally now, she allowed herself to miss him again. Just a little. Because she had to accept that without him she wouldn’t be where she was now – and now was okay. Now was good.

  Sitting down, once she was sure everyone had a drink, she breathed out as Liam stood to carve the turkey.

  “Before we start,” Ruth said, standing up and raising her glass, “I just wanted to toast you all. To friends, old and new! And misfits everywhere.”

  THE END

  In Conversation with

  Claire Allan

  1) Have you always been creative/written or is it a new discovery?

  I’ve always loved writing and making up stories. I was always, and still am, a big daydreamer. Most of the time I’m lost in another world, imagining what people would do or how they would react in a plethora of situations.

  At school at Thornhill College in Derry, I loved writing and was a member of the Writers’ Workshop. We were very lucky to have a guest teacher for a time in the form of fellow Poolbeg author Anne Dunlop, who I’m now friends with. I still have a signed copy of her book The Pineapple Tart in which she wrote that I should be more co
nfident about my writing!

  When I started work as a journalist I found I didn’t have the time any more to write creatively and the process of writing news is so very different to novel writing. I don’t think I’d get away with stringing out news stories to 110,000 words or using the feck word all that much!

  But the desire was always there eating away at me and when I was turning 30 I decided it was a ‘now or never’ crossroads. I had recently lost a dear friend who had always encouraged me to write and I decided to write Rainy Days and Tuesdays in her honour. The book is dedicated to her.

  Now I’m addicted and love the creative process – even at the times when it feels like very hard work.

  2) Tell us about your writing process; where do you write? When? Are you a planner or “ride-the-wave” writer?

  Most often I write in the evenings, on my sofa – laptop on my knee on a cushion. I dream of a fabulous study, complete with inbuilt library overlooking a lake or other coastline in which I could while away hours writing at a proper desk. However my house is very much a family home and almost every room is overrun with toys and baby equipment.

  Evenings, once my two children are in bed, are sacred to me. It is a brilliant form of relaxation to open the file of my latest book and get writing.

  As regards how I write – I’m somewhere in between a planner and a ‘ride the wave’ author. With all my books I know where I want to start and where I want to end, but I let the characters lead me on their own journey there.