Putting Out the Stars (22 page)

‘Penny for them; or I suppose I should be offering a cent now.’

Cecily started slightly, then smiled stiffly in Frank’s direction. ‘Oh, nothing of importance; I was just thinking of my garden.’ She felt like telling him that her thoughts
were none of his business, but of course, good manners forbade it.

He looked thoughtfully at her. ‘I’m sure it is quite lovely, if you are the one who manages it.’

Cecily was completely thrown: what a thing to say. She lifted her cup and sipped her tea, unable to think of a single answer. What in God’s name would he come out with next?

‘I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner some night.’ His voice was deliberately pitched so no one but herself would hear him.

Cecily put down her cup then and looked straight at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I would.’

Laura pulled up outside the house and blew the horn twice before getting out and opening the boot. As she hauled the black plastic sack from it, Ruth’s head appeared at
one of the upstairs windows, which were all thrown fully open.

‘Hang on.’ She disappeared and opened the front door a few seconds later. ‘Hi – is there more in the car?’

‘Just the telly, for now. I’m leaving the non-essentials for later; but I thought you might be suffering withdrawal symptoms, after four months of no
Coronation
Street
.’

Ruth laughed, imagining herself snuggling up to Andrew in front of the telly on their new deep-red couch – his colour choice, which she’d been unsure of, but which he promised
she’d grow to love. Settling down to watch whatever they wanted on telly, whenever they felt like it – just a few nights from now. Or listening to music they’d chosen themselves,
putting mugs of coffee – not china cups and saucers – straight down onto the table, without coasters. Or maybe glasses of wine – that one they’d brought to Laura and
Donal’s had been nice, Chateau something – she’d buy a bottle of that as a treat for their first night here.

Walking back out to Laura’s car, Ruth touched her sister-in-law’s arm briefly. ‘Thanks so much for this – you’re very good.’

Laura shook her head. ‘No, I’m not; I’m using you as the perfect excuse to skive off work. Don’t get me wrong – I’m delighted to have got this schoolbooks
job, but Lord, it’s pretty soul-destroying. All those bright, cheery, primary-coloured pictures; I’m beginning to feel like a Telly Tubby.’

Ruth laughed again. ‘Well, you certainly don’t look like one.’ If anything, Laura seemed to have lost a bit of weight; her old jeans looked quite loose on her. She was pale
too, and Ruth noticed faint dark circles under her eyes. But she seemed in good spirits; Ruth decided to say nothing. She always hated people telling her she looked tired; it always sounded to her
like they were really saying that she looked awful.

They deposited the television on the floor in the living room – Ruth had already cleaned it out – and started on the kitchen together. Laura pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and
began scrubbing the new worktops – they had a light film of what seemed like plaster on them – while Ruth washed down the wall tiles and wiped the shelves in the presses. She imagined
them filled with their things; saw herself reaching up to take down a box of Special K with Red Berries – her weekend treat in Dublin, too expensive to have every morning. Or maybe
she’d be rummaging for a jar of honey; she’d adored the Greek yoghurt and honey they’d had most mornings in Crete.

Breffni arrived in her battered Clio half an hour later. Her glossy black hair was in a single perfect French plait that Ruth guessed had taken her about five minutes to do. She wore
ancient-looking, threadbare jeans and a baggy red-and-black check flannel shirt, and black, well-worn Doc Martens. She’d probably chosen her oldest clothes for this day of scrubbing; Ruth
thought she looked charmingly tomboyish.

‘Mrs Mop reporting for duty.’ She dropped two full-to-bursting bags inside the front door. ‘Didn’t know what you’d need in the line of cleaning stuff, so I just
brought what I had under my own sink,’ she said to Ruth. She pointed to the second bag. ‘And that has a bit of lunch when we’ve done enough slogging to deserve it.’

‘I hope there’s chocolate in there somewhere.’ Laura poked a foot at the bag.

‘All in good time. Now –’ Breffni planted her hands on her hips and looked enquiringly at Ruth ‘– am I getting the grand tour before I start, or what?’

‘Of course.’ Ruth smiled brightly at her. ‘I forgot you hadn’t been here before.’ Like there was the slightest chance of Ruth forgetting. Like she hadn’t been
dreading this moment – when she would have to go through the house with Breffni and see her reaction to it. She prayed that Laura would come too.

But Laura didn’t. ‘I’ll get on with the scrubbing; don’t be too long.’ She turned back towards the kitchen, and with sinking heart, Ruth opened the living-room door
and stood back to let Breffni in.

And Breffni loved it. Each room seemed to delight her; she found something positive to say about everything she saw.

‘. . . Oh look, you could put a window seat in that bay – a nice long cushion, and you could curl up there with your book; when does this side of the house get the sun . . .
?’

‘. . . oh wow, a tree out the back – you lucky thing. Our garden is too small, and I’d adore one for Poll. Mind you, she’d probably fall off and break her neck . .
.’

‘. . . hey, plenty of room in that hot-press. I bet yours will be nice and tidy too – you should see the state of mine. Of course, it’s all Poll’s fault –
she’s got more clothes than Cian and me put together . . .’

‘. . . Now that windowsill is just crying out for a plant, look how lovely and deep it is – and I’ve one at home that might suit. It’s too big for where we have it, but I
think it could be just right there. I don’t know the name of it, but it’s got lovely purply coloured leaves. I’ll bring it next time I’m coming in to the city . .
.’

Back in the kitchen, Breffni sounded genuinely enthusiastic as she spoke with Laura. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous? Did you see the bathroom tiles? And the original fireplace in the living
room. And can’t you just see a hammock under that tree?’

And Ruth listened, and basked in Breffni’s praises, and warmed to her. Why had she ever been wary of Laura’s friend? Look how great she was being now. Obviously, she just took a bit
of getting to know.

Fourteenth of December; eleven days to Christmas. Donal closed his eyes and imagined himself and Laura sitting opposite each other at the dinner table. Between them, a duck
filled with Donal’s special chestnut and orange stuffing, the honey-basted roast parsnips Laura loved, her sherry trifle afterwards – they both detested plum pudding – a bottle or
two of their favourite wine, a few candles, a few crackers – and a volume of unsaid words.

When he’d met Laura, the thing about her that had charmed him the most was her openness. She wasn’t very confident – she had no faith in her ability as an artist until
he’d practically beaten it into her – but she was never afraid to talk about things, because she had nothing she felt she needed to hide. She spoke openly about her strained
relationship with Cecily, her deep attachment to her father. When Brian died, two years after Laura married Donal, she’d been desolate for months, crying night after night in his arms; but
she’d always been able to talk about her heartbreak, pulling out precious memories to console herself.

‘He’d always be the one to bring me to the dentist, never Mother. And on the way home we’d go into Eason’s and he’d let me pick out three comics. I’d be
sitting in the dentist’s chair trying to decide which ones I’d get . . . When I made my confirmation I wanted to wear these shoes that were all the rage, Swedish I think they were,
lovely soft leather, very casual-looking. Loads of the other girls had them. But Mother insisted on Clarke’s – a hideous black patent pair with a strap and a buckle, like little
girl’s shoes. I hated them; we had a huge row about it, but of course she won. The day after the confirmation, Dad brought me into town and bought me a pair of the other ones. We had to hide
them from Mother for ages; I’d wear the Clarke’s ones going out and change at Bref’s . . . He brought me and Andrew to see
Star Wars
three times, because we loved it so
much. He said he loved it too, but we were fairly sure he was only going for us . . . When I went to see Bref, the time she moved over to San Francisco, I had to take out a bank loan for the fare.
He insisted on repaying the loan in full when he found out, told me I could pay him back when I started earning, a Euro a week till I retired . . .’

For Donal, whose life until he met Laura had been a tangle of secrets and unspoken guilt, this ability of hers to vocalise everything was wonderful. She was the breath of fresh air that he
desperately needed, and he gulped her in gratefully.

And then, two years ago, it had started to go wrong. It was his punishment – he knew that. He could accept it, it was no more than he deserved. But it was punishing Laura too, and he hated
that. Couldn’t bear to see the closed look on her face when she thought he wasn’t looking. The pain in her eyes as the months went by and she kept on bleeding. He heard her crying late
at night, when he was supposed to be asleep, and it broke his heart. He saw her growing thinner, her beautiful cheekbones becoming more pronounced.

And now, they had begun the process that he had dreaded for years. He’d known it would come to this eventually – she’d made no secret of the fact that she wanted children
– but he’d refused to think about it, hoping against hope that maybe he’d never have to.

And of course, the worst thing, the most despicable thing, was that all of this was unnecessary. All of Laura’s anguish, all her waiting and praying and hoping – all of it was just a
huge waste of time. He knew, and he couldn’t tell her.

Because if he ever told her, if she ever discovered what he had hidden from her, she would have no choice – honest, open Laura would have no choice – but to leave him.

So he had to wait for her to find out the hard way, through the doctors, and the tests, and the months of trying – and then, when he and Laura were given the news, he would have to pretend
that it was news to him too.

He turned away from the calendar, wondering how on earth they’d make it through Christmas.

She hardly noticed the rain on the windshield, until her vision blurred, and a car coming opposite flashed at her to keep in to her own side of the road. Even at three in the
afternoon, the day was dark, with showers falling suddenly and heavily, and not making much difference afterwards to the leaden sky.

She saw the hotel ahead of her, and her heart lurched. It wasn’t too late to turn around and go home and forget this insanity. Pretend it had never happened – just something daft
she’d dreamt up on an idle afternoon. He’d wait awhile, eventually realise that she wasn’t coming. It would all blow over, it would have to. They’d avoid each other as much
as they could; they’d survive, and no damage would have been done.

She checked her mirror, indicated, and turned in the gravel driveway. Too late, much too late for that.

She saw his car, parked in the furthest away of the marked spaces. She pulled in four spaces down from his, avoided her eyes in the mirror as she lifted her bag from the floor in front of the
passenger seat. When she walked through the front door, he stood and came towards her, and she smiled and put her cheek up to his. You’d swear she’d been doing this all her life.