Martina, confined to her bed for most of the day now since the fall that had broken her hip and arm in January, threw her a scornful look. ‘A cookery book for children? I never heard such nonsense. Children don’t want to be stuck in a kitchen with an apron on, they want to play outside with their friends, especially boys. No, I can’t see anyone being interested in that at all.’
‘Oh dear,’ Sarah said, digging her nails into her palms to keep the smile off her face. ‘Maybe I should forget all about it so.’
Thankfully, Martina’s opinion wasn’t shared among Sarah’s family. Christine was all for it. ‘Paddy would love it – he always wants to help me when I’m cooking.’ Paddy was eight, and secretly Sarah’s favourite nephew. Quieter than his two older brothers, and so patient with Stephen when his small cousin followed him around.
Her father approved too. ‘Great idea, just up your street. Surprised no one thought of it before.’
Neil hadn’t been informed. The first person she would have told in the past, now excluded from any events in her life that didn’t concern the children. They met only when he came to collect Martha and Stephen, and again when he dropped them back. Sarah dreaded the encounters, her hurt still raw, and kept conversation to a minimum.
‘He’s living in Noreen’s house,’ Martha had said after their first overnight visit. ‘She made us hot chocolate with marshmallows.’
‘She’s got a pond with goldfishes in it,’ Stephen had said, and Sarah had had to grit her teeth and pretend to be impressed, and silently wish Noreen and her goldfish at the bottom of a much larger body of water.
In the same letter, Helen told Sarah that Frank was moving in with her, eleven months since their first date.
I’m
a disgrace, living in sin at forty-nine. He wanted me to move to his house, which is the one where he grew up, but you should see it. It’s about three times the size of mine, with mountains of giant mahogany furniture that was probably there since his great-great-grandfather’s time. I’d feel like I was living in a museum – and I’m betting it’s impossible to heat. There’s a big yard out the back full of pots of things that he’s bringing on for the garden centre, and that I’d probably kill in a week just by being near them. The only things that grow for me are weeds. Anyway, I want to stay put for when Alice and Jackie come home for holidays.
The news of Alice had taken Sarah by surprise. The only gay person she knew was Lawrence, who delivered vegetables from his farm to the nursing home, and who had them in stitches with his commentaries on the latest episodes of
Fair City
, which he loved, and
Glenroe
, which he claimed to despise, but which he still watched avidly.
Lawrence, of course, had never made reference to his sexual orientation but his gait, his voice, his whole demeanour said it louder than any words. He lived in a converted stable at the back of his married brother’s house, and they farmed the land between them. Sarah had wondered, from time to time, how he coped in a small rural community, and where he went to find like-minded folk, and whether he’d ever been targeted because of his difference.
There was never talk of a partner, never a hint of a romantic interest. It must be hard for him, existing as he did within his locality in a minority of one. She tried to imagine Martha or Stephen in years to come telling her they were gay, and she wondered if she would be as accepting as Helen seemed to be.
Jackie
is a decent girl and they seem happy together, which is all you want for your child, right? I’m just stunned that it never occurred to me. Maybe I didn’t want it to. It’s a tough road, but hopefully she’ll be able for whatever’s flung at her.
In the meantime there was a cookery book to be written – or maybe a series: maybe half a dozen slim little books were called for. In pastel colours – no, primary colours, bold reds and blues and yellows. With cartoon illustrations, or maybe photos of real children in action in the kitchen. And then there was a title to be decided on. So much to think about before her Christmas deadline.
But all good, all very good indeed. Just the tonic she needed.
‘W
here
should I hang my jackets?’
Sixteen years since she’d lived with a man, since anyone other than Alice had been given a key: even Helen’s mother didn’t own one. Helen had moved in when the house was Cormac’s, and it had become theirs. Now Cormac was gone, and Frank was moving in. It was … She searched for a word and settled on ‘strange’.
‘Is it OK to put my golf clubs under the stairs?’
He wasn’t selling his own house: that had never been up for consideration. For one thing, there were all the potted plants in his big back yard, destined for the garden centre when they grew strong enough – no room for them in Helen’s poky space. And for another, the house had been in his family for five generations and wasn’t easily parted with.
‘I can leave those books in boxes, if you’d prefer.’
From the start, Alice had approved of him. ‘He’s a dote,’ she’d said to Helen, ‘and it’s obvious he’s mad about you.’ When Helen had told her he was moving in, an envelope had arrived from Cardiff addressed to both of them. The hand-painted illustration on the card inside had been of a car disappearing into the distance, tin cans rattling on strings from the bumper and a
just shacked-up
sign stuck in the back window.
Delighted with your news
, Alice had written.
Just make sure you don’t turn my room into a nursery.
A nursery. Pregnant at
forty-nine: it didn’t bear thinking about. Helen had barely survived motherhood at twenty-nine. Although Frank would probably be in his element – she could just see him with a toddler on his knee.
‘My van will have to stay on the road. Hope the neighbours don’t mind.’
She hadn’t broken the news to her mother yet, but she didn’t see any complaints being made. As far as Margaret D’Arcy was concerned, Frank was the knight in shining armour Helen had missed first time around. She’d get over no ring eventually.
‘Are you completely sure about this?’ he asked, standing in the middle of her living room, surrounded by boxes and bags. ‘You can change your mind – I can stay in my own place. I won’t be upset.’
Because he knew, after nearly a year of being a couple, after all their nights together, after countless days out, after meeting her mother and her daughter, that he was the one in love here. He was sensitive and kind and courteous, and a far better man than she had any right to, and she desperately wanted to return his feelings – because if anyone deserved to be loved, Frank Murphy did.
She put her arms around his waist and stood on tiptoe to press her lips to his. ‘Of course I’m sure,’ she told him. ‘You’re very welcome here. Mind you, I’m a bitch to live with. You’ll probably have run out screaming within a week.’
He laughed his rich, happy laugh, enfolding her in his strong arms. ‘Never.’
In time, he’d love his way into her heart. She was sure of it.
‘M
rs
Flannery, you need to relax a little. You’re not making it any easier for yourself by being so tense.’
‘I’m
trying
,’ Sarah said crossly. ‘I might manage it if you didn’t keep going on about it.’
Easy for him to be relaxed: all he had to do was sit beside her and criticise. She was the one supposed to steer this monster down the road without careering into a gatepost, or sending a pedestrian flying. Her fingers ached from being clamped so tightly on the steering wheel.
‘Now, Mrs Flannery, we’re approaching a bend,’ the instructor said. ‘Time to change down in gear. Do you remember what to do?’
‘Of
course
I don’t,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t possibly remember everything you’ve said.’ Why did he insist on calling her Mrs Flannery? She’d told him a dozen times her name was Sarah. Stupid man.
His calm voice didn’t change. ‘No problem … Ease up on the accelerator, and at the same time depress the clutch gently.’
Sarah’s left foot slammed down on the clutch.
‘Now lift your foot slowly off the accelerator,’ the instructor repeated, ‘and take hold of the gear stick.’
Sarah’s hands didn’t move from the steering wheel.
‘The gear stick, Mrs Flannery, the bend is coming up now. Move it from third to second the way you practised. Nice and quick.’
Sarah grabbed
the gear stick and jiggled it around.
‘No, you’re going into fourth now – back to second. Bring it into the centre and over to me, and then down again … Watch the road, keep your eyes on the road. Keep your foot on the clutch – no, no, that’s the accelerator—’
She revved the engine loudly as the car jerked violently forward before cutting out, right on the bend. She thumped the wheel with her palms.
‘Oh, this is
too
hard. I
can’t
do it.’ She looked pleadingly at the instructor. ‘Will you drive it home? I don’t think I’m cut out to be a driver.’
‘You’re doing fine,’ he told her in his infuriatingly calm voice. ‘This is just your second lesson. You can’t expect to learn it all at once. Now, make sure you’re in neutral gear before starting the engine again.’
She gritted her teeth and grabbed the gear stick. It wasn’t working, she’d never manage it. She’d been a nervous wreck after her first lesson, and it was looking like she’d need to be hospitalised after this one.
And the worst thing, the most
horrible
thing was, even if she did learn to drive, even if she became the world’s most careful driver, she could still run into black ice, or a slick of oil on the road, or a drunk driver careening at full tilt towards her. She could die, or be horrendously maimed, without doing one single thing wrong.
She managed to get the car started and they jerked down the road. The hedges and trees flew past alarmingly fast – surely he should pull her up on that. She must be well over the speed limit, but she was afraid to try to slow down in case they cut out again.
‘You could go a little faster,’ he murmured. ‘Get out of second gear, move up into third.’
Faster? She wanted to look at him to see if he was joking, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off the windscreen. Oh, why had she started this? Her father was perfectly happy running the children around – and it gave him something to do; he’d said it himself. And he was a very steady driver – she need never worry when the children were in his car.
‘Left
foot on the clutch, down all the way, that’s it. Now slide the gear stick over to you and then up … very good. Now ease off on the clutch again, and away you go.’
She’d wait until they were home, and then she’d tell him she didn’t know when she’d be free for another lesson. She’d say she’d be in touch, she was under no obligation to keep going, and she didn’t care about having paid for six lessons in advance: that was the least of her worries. She’d given it a go and it hadn’t worked. Anyway, she had the children’s cookbook to finish. She hadn’t time for driving lessons.
‘Watch the cyclist here. Check your mirror before moving out. Don’t forget your indicator. Keep well out … not quite that far.’
So much to remember, pedals and gears and mirrors and indicators to keep account of – and that was before it got dark, and you had to think of lights too. She couldn’t understand how people ever got the hang of it, and yet you’d see really young drivers, much younger than her, flying around in their cars.
Maybe she’d left it too late, maybe forty was too old to learn a skill as complicated as driving. Christine had learnt before she was twenty. But Sarah had never wanted to learn, and she didn’t now.
‘Approaching the bridge,’ the instructor murmured. ‘Slow down, check your mirror, use your indicator.’
The bridge, upgraded last year, its wooden surface replaced with concrete, much to the disgust of the inhabitants of the surrounding area, a few of whom had protested for weeks while the renovations were going on. The old railings were gone, a much higher structure in place on either side now, metal struts punctuating a mesh fence. Not attractive in the least but perfectly functional, and the river still clearly visible below. Safer too, no risk of anyone scaling that fence to jump in, with its crown of metal spikes.
Somehow she survived the hour without further mishaps, and turned finally onto her own road with relief. As she approached the house, she saw Neil’s car parked outside. Had the driving lesson run late? She checked the dashboard clock and read a quarter to six, the time they were supposed to finish. But maybe the clock was slow.
‘What
time does your watch say?’ she asked the instructor.
‘Almost ten to six.’
Neil never brought them back early. Something had happened. There’d been an accident, or one of the children was sick. Sarah jammed on the brakes and the car lurched to a halt in the middle of the road.
‘You need to pull in to the side,’ the instructor told her. ‘Put your gear stick into neutral, switch on the engine again.’
She ignored him, grabbing her bag from the back seat and yanking open the door.
‘Hang on, d’you want to make another—’
‘I’ll ring you,’ she called, as she half ran up the path. The front door was ajar. She pushed it open with trembling hands, her heart pounding. Martha had fallen off a tree – Stephen had run out onto the road. She stumbled down the hall and into the kitchen.
Neil sat at the table, Stephen on his lap. Beside him, Martha looked up from her open colouring book. All was calm.
Sarah scanned her children’s bodies for bandages or other evidence of calamities, and found none. No sign of tears recently shed, nothing at all amiss as far as she could see.
‘Your face is funny,’ Martha said.
Sarah forced a smile, aware of Neil’s eyes on her. ‘Is it?’ She must be as white as a ghost. ‘You’re back early. It just gave me a surprise.’
It was disconcerting to have him in the house when there wasn’t a birthday party going on. It was uncomfortable to see him sitting at the very kitchen table where he’d told her, just eight months before, that it was all over between them, that he’d fallen in love with Noreen. She waited for him to explain.