Putting Out the Stars (17 page)

Now Dorothy leant over towards them. ‘I think I’ll make a move, Frank, if you don’t mind. Liam had a bit of a sore throat tonight; I told him I wouldn’t be
late.’

‘That’s fine.’ Frank stood up and started gathering his book and scarf together. Cecily looked across, then came over. ‘Leaving already?’ She spoke to Dorothy.

Dorothy nodded. ‘I have to get back; Liam’s a bit under the weather. Thank you so much, Cecily – it was lovely. You went to great trouble.’ She hugged Cecily briefly.

Frank held out his hand. ‘Cecily, many thanks. We didn’t have much of a chance to talk tonight.’

She shook his hand, smiling faintly. ‘But I’m sure you made up for it with my daughter-in-law; looks like you had plenty to talk about.’ She looked down at Margaret. ‘I
hope they didn’t tire you out too much, my dear. How’s the arthritis?’

As Margaret responded, Ruth thought Cecily sounded a little brusque. What could Frank, such a nice man, have done to deserve that? Maybe she, Ruth, was just being over-sensitive again; she hoped
so. She turned to Frank.

‘It was lovely to meet you; I hope I’ll see you at the next gathering.’

He smiled back at her. ‘And you, dear. Take care.’ He didn’t seem at all upset by Cecily’s remark.

After everyone had left, and Ruth was helping her mother-in-law to clear the wafer-thin plates and cups from the sitting room, she found herself wondering again who Frank reminded her of. She
was sure she wasn’t imagining it; he definitely resembled someone she knew. Hadn’t he told her he lived in Sligo till recently though? So she was all wrong, probably – she
didn’t know a soul in Sligo. Maybe he just reminded her of someone she’d seen on the telly. She picked up a bundle of side plates and carried them gingerly to the kitchen.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, it’s me.’

She paused, then answered lightly, ‘Hello there; what’s up?’

He sounded tense – not a bit like the last time they’d spoken. ‘Can we meet? I – I need to talk to you.’

‘This sounds very mysterious – what about?’ She was careful to keep her tone light, although her heart had begun a gentle trot.

She heard him take a breath. ‘I really want to meet you: can we? Wherever you want. I – there’s something we need to discuss.’

She counted to three slowly. ‘Look . . . I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ Her fingers curled more tightly around the phone.

A long pause at his end. Then, when she was beginning to wonder if he was still there, a long exhalation. ‘Right. Sorry, you’re right. Let’s forget this conversation
happened.’

‘Of course.’

As she hung up, she realised that her palms were damp. She ran them down along her jeans, then went into the kitchen and sat down heavily and put her head into her hands, heart thumping.

He held the receiver long after she’d hung up. Finally he replaced it slowly, making hardly a sound. Right: that was it. He’d just have to forget her. Or try to
forget her.

Fat chance. He turned abruptly and walked away.

‘Laura?’ Ruth put down her fork and looked closely at her. ‘Are you all right?’

Laura turned quickly towards Ruth with a too-bright smile. ‘Sorry – I was miles away; a few jobs on my mind . . .’ She shook her head. ‘And too many late nights –
I’m a telly addict in the winter, can’t tear myself away to go to bed.’

Ruth picked up her fork again and twisted it in her tagliatelle. ‘You do look a bit tired; maybe you should take a few days off work, just stay in bed.’

Laura laughed, raked a hand through her curls. ‘I wish I could. But that’s the trouble when you’re working for yourself; you have to take the jobs when they come – and at
the moment I’m fairly swamped.’ She pushed her chilli around the bowl – she’d had only a few mouthfuls since it had arrived.

‘I’m not surprised you’re busy; you’re very good.’ Ruth lifted a forkful of creamy pasta. ‘I told you how many people raved about the wedding invitations,
didn’t I?’

Laura smiled again. ‘Thanks, Ruth; yeah, I’m well used to doing wedding stuff – it’s how I started out.’ Then she put down her fork, picked up her glass of water.
‘Enough about me; what about this house of yours? Have you got a date yet?’

Ruth dabbed at her mouth and made a face. ‘The last date they gave us was the end of November; they promised. But Andrew called round the day before yesterday and he was told that
it’ll take a good bit longer than two weeks; at least another month, they said. At the rate we’re going, we’ll be lucky if we’re in by Christmas.’

Ruth and Andrew had bought a house in Farranshone, six weeks before the wedding. It had belonged to an old man who’d spent the last few years of his life in a nursing home, and it was in
serious need of refurbishment. They were getting small rooms knocked together to make bigger ones, and units pulled out, and new floors laid, and a small extension to the kitchen at the back. Some
walls had to be dry lined, and the attic had no insulation, and the roof was in serious need of retiling. And what was originally supposed to have been finished in what Ruth realised now was a very
optimistic two months had already dragged on for over four.

She loved the location – Farranshone was old and friendly, and just a short walk into town – and she knew the wait would be worth it. The house had a big jungly back garden with a
gnarly tree in one corner that would be perfect for sitting under with her book when summer came round again. And perfect for children to climb. But she wished it wasn’t taking so long . . .
the strain of sharing another woman’s house, even someone as generous as Cecily, was beginning to keep her awake at night. If they could only have one or two evenings on their own, cooking
dinner together, sitting in front of the telly, watching whatever they wanted . . .

And she could see that Andrew was feeling it too – he’d been distracted lately, not his usual cheery self. Even snapped at her last week, when all she’d asked him was whether
he thought they should take Cecily out to dinner sometime.

‘Easily known you’ve nothing better to do than sit at home and plan nights out. Did it occur to you that I mightn’t fancy turning around after a hard day’s work to go off
out to a restaurant?’ He wasn’t cross exactly, more like mildly irritated, but Ruth was stung by the unfairness of it.

‘It wouldn’t have to be during the week – we could wait till the weekend. I just thought, with your mother cooking for us every night –’ She wanted to add
And I
don’t sit at home planning nights out – I try to keep busy, in a house where I’m not allowed to cook, and where I’m afraid to clean in case I do it wrong, or I go out and
look into the same shop windows I looked into yesterday, and drink coffee I don’t want, just to get in out of the rain
, but of course she didn’t.

She knew it couldn’t be easy for Andrew, trying to cope at work and then deal with the house too; he’d been calling over there quite a lot lately. She’d offered to go with him,
but he didn’t want the builders to feel they were putting pressure on them – he was afraid it might make them even slower. Ruth was sure he knew best, so she stayed away.

‘Don’t worry – I’m sure the house will be gorgeous when it’s done. I love those white oak floors you’re putting in.’ Laura picked up her fork again and
prodded at her rice. ‘You’ll have to have a big house-warming.’

Ruth smiled. ‘Yes, hopefully it won’t be too long more. And once we’re moved in, and have some kind of shape on the house, I can look for a job.’ That’d help settle
her, she was sure of it; a job would give her something to fill her days with.

Laura glanced at her watch and put down her fork. ‘I think I’d better get back; I don’t want to be working too late tonight.’ She stood and picked up the bill. ‘My
turn.’

Ruth watched as Laura went to the cash desk; she was definitely not herself today. And she looked a bit pale. Hopefully it was nothing major – probably overwork, like she said.

Ruth turned her head to look out the window at the rain. Might as well go home; it wasn’t a day for wandering around the shops. She could finish her book for the next club meeting.

It was going to be a lot worse than Laura had imagined.

Reading the leaflets that she’d got from Doctor Goode, she began to realise that it wouldn’t be the straightforward process she’d hoped for. After a few pages, her head was
buzzing with
Fallopian tube blockage, laparoscopy, endometriosis, chlamydia, fibroids
– she had no idea there could be so many different possible reasons for infertility, or so many
procedures that both she and Donal might have to go through to find the cause of their problem.

She read with dread about male tests for infertility – semen analysis, blood and urine samples, biopsy of the testes. She was well aware that Donal would be happy to let nature take its
course: the notion that they might never have children didn’t seem to worry him unduly. Would he be prepared to go through the humiliation of such intimate procedures, just to keep her
happy?

Because with each month that went by, with each discovery that she still wasn’t pregnant, Laura knew that she wouldn’t be happy until they’d done everything possible to find
the cause – and hopefully, the solution.

What really terrified her, what kept her lying sleepless beside Donal at night, was the notion that maybe there wasn’t a cause – or not one that could be discovered. She read with
dismay that in around fifteen per cent of cases – fifteen per cent of the one in six couples who had problems – no physical cause could be found. How would she cope if they were given
that news – that there was nothing that they could fix, because nothing broken had been found?

She wished there was someone she could talk to, maybe someone who’d been in the same position as herself once. Surely there was a support group for women trying to get pregnant? But no,
that wasn’t what she wanted – not a group of strangers, more concerned with their own problem than with hers.

Her heart clenched as she remembered Breffni’s joke at dinner the other night, about Ruth and Andrew not waiting as long as Laura and Donal to have children. When she said it, when the
others had laughed, Laura had felt such a wave of despair that she’d had to get up and leave the room before they noticed. It had taken her a good five minutes, cheeks pressed in turn to the
cool bathroom tiles, breathing in slow, steady breaths, before she could face them again. Listening to Cian singing Polly back to sleep in the room next door. Wondering if she’d ever have
someone to sing to sleep.