Something in Common (43 page)

‘Is he sick?’

‘He’s … forgetful. I think it might be the start of something.’

Neil had shrugged. ‘He seemed fine, last time I saw him. Maybe you’re imagining it.’

She
hadn’t been forgiven, she knew that. Over two years since they’d separated, and he still felt bitter. He was civil when they met, and attended the children’s birthday parties with his mother. But he didn’t ask about Sarah’s cookery books, didn’t comment when she changed the front door from blue to green, didn’t engage with her in any way apart from matters that concerned the children.

Sarah mourned the loss of their friendship, and hid the sadness and regret that seeing him so detached caused her. And it hurt, too, that they weren’t sharing their other, deeper grief, that they never visited Luke’s grave together – Neil had refused stiffly the only time she’d suggested it.

After Luke she’d abandoned the final cookbook, the one intended for reluctant vegetable eaters. ‘I can’t do it any more,’ she’d told Paul. ‘I can’t summon up the energy.’ But it wasn’t lack of energy that stopped her: it was the thought that she’d begun it when she’d been pregnant, and it would always be too painful a reminder.

Thankfully, Paul hadn’t pushed it, telling her to get in touch if she ever had an idea for a new project, but she doubted that she’d ever feel that creative again.

The other books continued to sell steadily. They’d been translated into several European languages, and two years ago the series had been published in America. Every six months a royalty cheque arrived from Paul that was always a lot more than Sarah had been expecting. The money wasn’t important – they managed fine on Sarah’s income and Neil’s contributions – but she was quietly proud of her achievement.

Maybe she didn’t need to worry about her father. Maybe it was just old age. There’d been no more strange happenings in at least a month, and today he seemed fine, sitting in front of her fire as they waited for the chicken to roast.

‘I got another letter from America,’ she told him. ‘Someone who likes the cookbooks.’

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Nice of them to take the trouble.’

He was fine. She was worrying over nothing. He was old, that was all.

‘F
reezing out there today,’ she said, rubbing her hands together.

‘Nice
and warm in here.’ She laid her coat across the arm of the chair and stood by the window. Below was a little garden, square in shape, bordered with shrubs and scattered about with wooden seats.

‘When you’re feeling up to it, and when the weather’s a bit better we can have a walk around outside. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

A man appeared in the garden, carrying some kind of basin or bowl in both hands. He crossed to the shrubs and swung it high, and an arc of liquid rose in the air and landed on the plants. He turned and went back inside, the empty container swinging by his side.

‘I finished a piece today for the
Herald
magazine, I was telling you about it last week, how first-time buyers are coping with the rising house prices. I’ll bring it in to you when it’s printed.’

The sky above the window was pale blue, and quite cloudless. In the distance, towering above the rooftops, she could make out the skeletal shapes of several cranes. Dublin was being facelifted, apartment blocks popping up like dandelions along by the river and the canal, each one more ludicrously expensive than the last. Ireland was booming, its economy the envy of Europe.

‘Alice sends her love. She’ll come and see you as soon as she can.’

A lie, a downright lie. Helen hadn’t said anything to Alice, who would, of course, feel obliged to come home. What was the point of two of them sitting by the bedside, waiting for the inevitable? Alice had enough to occupy her, still waiting on tables at the weekends, still illustrating by night, but in the process of setting up her own design studio.

From
the corridor outside the room, muted sounds drifted in. The tap of footsteps, the clang of dishes, the squeak of a trolley wheel, the occasional raised voices of the cheerful women who appeared regularly with cups of dark-brown tea and plates of soft, plain biscuits.

‘You know what I heard on the news last night? They’ve printed Princess Diana stamps in Britain. Bet the Queen’s hopping mad. Must get Alice to bring home a few when she comes. I’ve pitched a piece to the
Herald
editor about who’s made it onto Irish stamps over the years. I’m waiting for the go-ahead.’

It didn’t matter what she talked about: what mattered was that she kept talking, kept feeding words into the too-warm little room. What mattered was that she didn’t think beyond the next inane topic of her one-sided conversation – and when inspiration failed she turned to whatever book she’d brought along and read aloud from that.

She had no idea if her mother heard a single thing. There was no sign that any of it was registering within the crumbling brain of the woman who lay unmoving in the narrow bed, eyes half open and unfocused, the only indication that she was still alive the minuscule rise and fall of her chest with each shallow breath she took, or a gush of unintelligible words every now and again.

Helen should probably phone somebody. She should get in touch with the few friends her mother still met for lunch, or the relatives who shook hands with them at funerals, who sent cards at Christmas and visited occasionally. But she did nothing, told no one.

Instead she came to the hospital each afternoon, once she’d churned out however many words were required of her, and for the rest of the day she sat by the bed or stood by the window, filling the room with words until some nurse urged her to go home and get some sleep, they’d let her know if there was any change.

And then she went home and lay awake all night, waiting for the phone to ring.

‘I
t’s about Dad,’ Christine said. ‘I called in to see him today on my way home from the library. He was still wearing his pyjama bottoms.’

Still in
pyjamas didn’t sound too worrying. ‘Maybe he was just having a lazy day.’

‘No – the top half of him was properly dressed. When I asked him about it, he couldn’t explain. He got a bit defensive, actually.’

‘Oh …’

‘I wouldn’t have taken too much notice except for the things you were talking about, the slippers and stuff.’

‘Yes … and there’s more,’ Sarah said.

‘What?’

‘He rang yesterday afternoon and said he couldn’t find his glasses. I put the kids in the car and drove over, and when I got there, only about ten minutes later, he couldn’t remember phoning me, and his glasses were sitting on the kitchen table.’

‘God … what should we do?’

‘I don’t know. He won’t go to the doctor – I’ve asked him.’

‘I’ll call to see him more often – I haven’t been half as good as you. And I’ll get Brian to drop by too, now and again.’

But it was becoming increasingly apparent that it was going to take more than dropping by. Sarah hung up and returned to the kitchen, her thoughts far from the spinach and bacon tart that was waiting to be taken from the oven.

A
t half
past eight on Sunday evening, five days after a weakened blood vessel had burst open in her brain and caused her to drop unconscious to the ground, Margaret D’Arcy’s eighty-seven-year-old heart pumped out its final beat. Her eyes fluttered closed, her head tilted a fraction to the right, the hands that lay palms up on the sheet tipping inward as the last breath left her body with a soft rattle.

Helen, dozing in the chair by the bed, opened her eyes at the sound. She sat unmoving for several seconds, looking into the still, white face of the woman she’d known for almost fifty-six years. Eventually the door opened and a young nurse entered the room.

‘She’s gone,’ Helen said mildly. ‘Just now.’

‘Oh …’ The nurse lifted Margaret’s left wrist and held it briefly. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, laying it back gently on the sheet. ‘Can I get you anything at all?’ Her hand came to rest on Helen’s shoulder, so lightly Helen hardly felt it. ‘A cup of tea or coffee?’

The kindness in her voice caused Helen to rise abruptly. ‘No, thank you.’ She pulled on her jacket and felt in her bag for her car keys. ‘Is there anything I need to do – I mean, before I leave here tonight? Any … forms to be signed, or …?’

‘Not right now, no. That can all be sorted later.’ The nurse held the door open, her face full of sympathy. ‘Go home and get a good night’s sleep now for yourself, and you can drop in tomorrow whenever it suits you.’

Helen made her way along the corridor. She stood in the lift that smelt of feet as it carried her down with a soft wheeze. She stepped through the main doors, wrapping her coat tightly around her. She drove out of the car park and made her way home, negotiating the familiar streets automatically. In the car she felt bitterly cold, despite the full-blast efforts of its heater. When she got home, she was shivering violently.

The house was cold too. In the kitchen she plugged in a fan heater and boiled the kettle. She filled a pint glass a third full with whiskey and added a dessertspoonful of sugar and a lemon wedge. She topped it up with steaming water and brought it to the table where Sarah’s last letter, delivered more than a week earlier, still sat.

Helen
laid the letter aside, breathing in the whiskey fumes, grateful for the warmth that was beginning to creep back into her body. She sat at the table, listening to the muted tick of the clock that Frank had bought her a few weeks after he’d begun spending Saturday nights in the house.

‘You can’t have a kitchen without a clock,’ he’d declared, so Helen had stuck it on a hook above the back door, and there it had hung ever since. Twenty past nine, it read now. Less than an hour since her mother had died.

As she sat there, hands wrapped around the warm glass, she flicked through the mental images of her mother that were stored in her head. Sprinkling holy water from a plastic bottle onto the little red Fiat that was Helen’s first car; sitting in a blue dress with an infant Alice cradled in her arms; meeting Helen’s eye across Cormac’s open grave; hunched in her seat, eyes squeezed shut, as the plane to Scotland took off; placing her hand on Frank’s offered arm, smiling up at him as they crossed an icy street in Troon.

And now she was gone, and Helen would never see her again.

She took a sheet of paper from the open ream on the table. She got her pen from her bag and unscrewed the top.

She stopped and regarded the scatter of words. She crumpled up the sheet and threw it in the direction of the bin and drank again from the cooling whiskey before taking a fresh page.

For the second time she stopped. A drop of water splotched onto the page, just under the word tonight. She looked at it in surprise. She touched it with her finger and drew it through the still-wet ink, back and forth until the words were unreadable.

She slid the page away from her, blinking rapidly until the possibility of more tears had passed. She wished, all of a sudden, that she wasn’t alone. If Frank was there he’d know what to say: he’d tell her it was perfectly understandable to feel sad when your mother died, even if you hadn’t always got along. He’d take her to bed if that was what she wanted, hold her all night if she asked him. But she hadn’t laid eyes on Frank in more than two years, and it would be beyond cruel to ring him now.

She drank again, her face warm, her head beginning to feel light. She’d ring Alice, who needed to be told what had happened. She brought her drink out to the hall and dialled her daughter’s number and listened to the phone ringing in Scotland. Let her be home, let her pick it up.