Putting Out the Stars (21 page)

Once she and Andrew were moved in, everything would be great; she just
knew
it. They’d relax and spend lots of time together, and really begin to enjoy married life properly. As
she reached the North Circular Road, she quickened her step. So much to do.

‘Hello.’

He turned; knowing who it was before he saw her. Even though she’d spoken softly, even though the place was crowded, and he’d barely heard her above the buzz of people rushing home
for the weekend.

For a second, he couldn’t speak. She literally took his breath away. Then she turned and walked towards the car park, and he followed her mutely, instinctively keeping a few paces behind
her, even though nobody seemed remotely interested in them. He could smell her scent as he followed her; watch her body as it moved.

She reached her car and got in, and he walked around and opened the passenger door and sat in quickly beside her.

For a second, neither of them spoke. He could hear her breathing. Her hands lay loosely in her lap; he could see them from the corner of his eye. He didn’t dare look at her, kept his eyes
fixed on a small dark car parked in front of them. It could have been black or dark blue, or maybe brown; hard to tell in the sodium lights. He could feel his heart pounding.

Then she spoke, rapidly and quietly. ‘You must never write to me or phone me at home. Never.’

He nodded, swallowed, then said, ‘OK.’ His voice sounded like someone he didn’t recognise.

‘We never meet anywhere there’s the remotest chance anyone would see us. No risks.’

Again he nodded, glanced over. She was staring straight ahead too. Her face looked paper white in the orange light. One hand was on the steering wheel, the other was resting on her thigh.

He reached over and touched it. She caught her breath and glanced at him. With the movement, her scent wafted over to him again. She turned her hand up and wrapped her fingers around his,
softly. Her hand was cold.

‘What are we doing?’ Her eyes looked black in the light. Her fingers pressed against his hand.

‘I don’t know.’ His free hand found her face, the back of his palm stroked her cheek; so incredibly soft. She turned her face into his hand, ran her mouth over his fingers. He
felt a sharp stab of desire. ‘I just know we have to.’

She nodded, face still pressed against his hand, rubbing up against it like a cat. In front of them, someone got into the dark car and drove off.

Abruptly she straightened up, pulled away from him, placed both hands on the steering wheel. ‘I must get back.’ She looked over at him. ‘I’ll make arrangements and
contact you. Is it safe to call you on your mobile?’

He nodded, pulled a card from his wallet with trembling fingers and scribbled rapidly on it before passing it to her. Then he forced himself to open the car door. As he was about to close it, he
leaned down and said, ‘Thank you.’

She smiled then, tentatively. ‘You’re welcome.’ He watched her drive off until her car disappeared out the gates. Then he walked quickly towards his.

Cecily folded the top of the sheet carefully over the duvet, smoothing it down gently. She took the pillows in their crisp cases from the chest of drawers and arranged them
neatly on top, then covered them with the finely crocheted spread that she and Brian had brought back from a distant holiday in the Algarve. Her meticulous washing had preserved it perfectly all
these years; it served her well on the cold winter nights.

Her eye fell on a photo on her bedside locker. Andrew was smiling in his usual charming way, sprawled in one of her deckchairs, one hand shielding his eyes against the sun. He wore a navy
t-shirt and a pair of light cotton trousers, and he looked so handsome. It was hard to believe that he would soon be leaving home. Oh, she knew she was lucky to have had him with her for so long;
other mothers had to wave goodbye to sons barely out of childhood these days, but still . . .

Privately Cecily dreaded the thought of her empty house: she hadn’t lived alone for over thirty years. She remembered the noisy times when the children were growing up, and Brian was
alive. Friends coming to dinner, birthday parties, first communions . . . always something to plan for, someone to clean the house and cook for.

Laura had been the first to leave, just as soon as she could – straight out of secondary school, if you don’t mind. If it had been up to Cecily, the girl would have stayed at home
until she had finished college and was earning a salary of her own. What nonsense to throw money away on rent when she could have gone on living here for nothing. But naturally, her father
couldn’t see sense when it came to his darling daughter; he’d handed over her rent quite happily, month after month. Cecily had long since learnt not to argue with him about Laura
– as far as he was concerned, the girl could do no wrong.

And then suddenly Brian was gone too, and it was just Cecily and Andrew. And after she’d mourned her husband for a while, she was perfectly happy with just the two of them: happier, maybe,
than at any other time, if the truth be told. Until Andrew had gone on holidays to Crete with a pal from work, and met Ruth.

Cecily had known he’d get married eventually; of course she had. And she supported his choice; in fact, she flattered herself that she might even have influenced him in some small way, who
knew? And as soon as Andrew got married, naturally it was only a matter of time before he moved out. But it was one thing knowing that something was inevitable, and quite another being able to deal
with it when it eventually happened. As long as Andrew and Ruth were living with her, Cecily had managed to avoid facing up to the fact that her son had begun the process of leaving her forever.
But now, with their house finished at last, and the day of their departure –
his
departure – approaching, she found herself struggling to come to terms with it.

And yes, she knew they were only moving to Farranshone, barely five minutes in a car – but it wasn’t the distance, that wasn’t the point at all. Who would she cook for now? Who
would tell her she looked lovely when she sat opposite him at the table in any old thing? Who would protest when she referred to herself as old, tell her not to be crazy, she’d never be old?
Who would make her feel as if she really mattered, as if he simply couldn’t imagine doing without her?

At least she still had the book club, once a month. And the occasional coffee with Dorothy or Emily in between. No male company though: Cecily had always enjoyed the attention of men. Even if
most of them disappointed one, sooner or later, one had to admit that they had their uses. A nice meal out, now and again. Flowers occasionally, or gifts. And it was flattering to be desired
– even if the man in question was not in the least desirable.

While Andrew had been living with her, Cecily had been quite satisfied, hadn’t felt the need for any other male company. Andrew was attentive, took her out to dinner once in a while,
bought flowers and champagne on her birthday – and of course, with her son there was no sense of obligation, as there would have been with another male, sooner or later. They always managed
to make one feel under obligation eventually.

But now Andrew was leaving. And Cecily would just have to face up to it, and get used to the fact that from now until the day she died, she would live alone.

She picked up the used laundry and left the room.

‘Hello?’

‘Ruth, it’s Laura.’

‘Oh, hi Laura. You’re ringing about the move.’

‘I sure am. You’re still planning for Tuesday?’

‘Yes; the furniture is coming down from Dublin sometime in the afternoon, so I’m going to head over straight after breakfast, around nine hopefully.’

‘OK, I’ll meet you there around nine thirty, and Bref says she’ll come in as soon as Mary arrives to mind Poll.’

‘That’s great – are you sure you’re not too busy with work though?’

‘Not really; I’ve been slogging away for ten days on the trot – I’m owed a day off, and it’d make a nice change.’

‘Laura, I really appreciate this; I intend having you and the others over for dinner as soon as we’re settled in.’

‘Hey, give yourself a chance, no hurry. We’ll see you Tuesday.’

Dorothy picked up the teapot. ‘I’d say that’s enough book talk for one night. More tea, anyone?’ She walked around, filling cups.

Valerie turned to Ruth. ‘You must be thrilled; your first house is so exciting.’

‘I am – you’ll have to come and see it when we’re installed.’ She turned and nodded towards Frank, sitting next to Cecily at the opposite side of the room.
‘And we’ve already got our gardener lined up; did you know that that’s what Frank did all his life?’

Cecily lifted her cup and watched him take another shortbread biscuit from the plate between them. The man certainly had a sweet tooth – that must be his third or fourth. Not that she was
taking any notice, despite the fact that he’d made a beeline for her as soon as he’d arrived, bent her ear from the moment he’d sat down. Talking to her as if she was his
long-lost cousin, and practically ignoring poor Margaret on his other side – who was, admittedly, busy swapping recipes with Dorothy.

And Cecily had to admit, somewhat reluctantly, that she was finding Frank slightly easier to stomach this evening. She’d been surprised to hear from Ruth that he’d been a landscape
gardener; to Cecily’s mind, anyone with an affinity to growing things had to possess at least a modicum of sensibility. To be able to see, before it existed, a neatly presented shrubbery, or
a tasteful arrangement of patio plants. To know what would thrive in a shady corner, what would cover an ugly wall with the most colour, which plants would work best together in a hanging basket.
She wouldn’t have credited Frank with that sort of insight. One never knew, really.

Cecily’s own medium-sized back garden was immaculate – neatly clipped shrubs, perfectly mown lawn where no dandelion or daisy dared to appear, two well-behaved rose bushes by the end
wall, one small flowerbed just outside the patio door where she planted dwarf tulips and daffodils in the autumn and petunias and pansies when spring came around. During the growing season, Andrew
mowed the lawn once a week; she suddenly wondered if he’d still do that when he was living in his own house. Surely . . .