Putting Out the Stars (32 page)

‘Are you trying?’ Perfectly pleasant, eyebrows raised enquiringly.

God, what gave her the right to be so personal? Ruth gripped the cold handle of the jug and looked Breffni straight in the eye.

And her courage failed her. ‘Er, we haven’t really talked about it.’ She wished to God she had the guts to tell Breffni to mind her own business. Why couldn’t she stand
up to her – why had she never been able to stand up to people like Breffni? She pulled a ladle out of a pottery jar and plunged it into the crumble, then turned to get the bowls.

‘Here, I’ll take in the cream for you.’ Obviously Breffni was bored with Ruth now, wanted to get back to the men.

Just then the kitchen door opened and Laura’s head appeared. ‘I had to escape; they started talking soccer.’ She came in, glass in hand, and spotted the dessert on the table.
‘Apple crumble; lovely.’

And Ruth knew she’d take a tiny bit, and poke it around in the bowl for a while, and leave it entirely uneaten.

‘Hi. Sorry nobody’s here to take your call. Leave a message for Laura or Donal, and they’ll get right back to you.’

‘Laur, it’s me. Hope the head is OK – mine is splitting, as usual. We hadn’t a chance to chat last night – haven’t had a proper gossip for ages. You must be
working your fingers to the bone. Anyway, call me. Polly says hi.’

‘Message for Laura: this is Dan Holloway at Thompson Publishers. I need to speak to you urgently – we really can’t extend your deadline any further; our printers are putting a
lot of pressure on us. Please call me immediately you get this message. Thank you.’

‘Laura and Donal, this is Maria Sloan. I’d like to meet with you again, if you feel ready to talk. Laura, I hope you’re coming to terms with the situation – please bear
in mind that there are lots of options available to you. Do call my receptionist to arrange an appointment.’

Laura sat on the stairs, leaning against the banisters. Every time the phone rang, she turned her head in its direction, waiting for it to stop, listening to the different voices as they left
their messages. The belt of her old blue dressing gown trailed down on either side. Her head felt vaguely itchy. After a while she turned and went back upstairs, slippers flip-flopping. Back to the
drawer, because that was all she had now.

Ruth glanced at the photo on the mantelpiece, then peered more closely. The boy looked about twelve, the girl a bit younger. They must be some relations of Frank’s –
maybe even himself as a boy, with a younger sister? No, the photo didn’t look old enough for that. She turned to the one beside it; now that was definitely a younger Frank, and the woman at
his side was surely his late wife. Of course – the children must be his own, the daughter who died and the son . . . she studied him closely again. Yes, the resemblance was there,
definitely.

‘That’s Don and Catherine.’

Ruth started; she hadn’t heard him coming back in. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to be nosy . . .’

‘Not at all – they’re there to be looked at. God knows, I look at them enough.’ He held out the gardening book he was carrying. ‘Here, take this home and have a
browse through it; you might get some ideas for that side bed.’

They were still planning the garden; filling in the shrubbery, deciding what flowers to plant in the new beds, what to choose for the containers that Ruth was going to get for the little
stone-paved patio. At least they’d made a start on the end wall – clematis and honeysuckle, and some everlasting sweet pea. Ruth took the book and looked at the riot of colour on the
cover. Soon Andrew and herself would have something like that to look out at, to sit in and be soothed by on warm summer evenings. To watch the children climbing the tree, Andrew laughing at
Ruth’s nervousness when one of the children went too high.

She pulled herself back to the present. ‘Thanks a million, Frank – I’ll bring it to the meeting on Thursday.’ Since she’d started working, she wasn’t at home
any more when Frank called around to work in the garden, unless he caught her before she went out to do the big weekly shop on her day off. And Frank had never even met Andrew, not once. He never
came around at the weekends when Andrew was there, said he preferred to leave them alone then.

He’d met Laura though. She’d dropped by on Ruth’s last day off, delivering a dish that Ruth had asked to borrow for the lasagne, and Frank had happened to be there, having his
usual tea in the kitchen.

Ruth had introduced them. ‘Frank’s new to Limerick too; he came down from Sligo a few months ago. He’s in the book club.’

Laura nodded. ‘You’ll know my mother so – Cecily O’Neill.’

‘Indeed I do.’ Frank’s smile was warm. ‘A lovely lady.’ He turned to Ruth, missing Laura’s raised eyebrows. ‘So your husband is Laura’s
brother.’

Ruth nodded. ‘Yes. We’re a bit like spaghetti, really – all tangled up together.’ She looked at Laura. ‘And isn’t Donal from Sligo too?’

Laura nodded. ‘But he’s been in Limerick for over twenty years; ever since his parents emigrated to Australia.’ She looked out the window. ‘This is going to be lovely; is
that clematis at the bottom?’

They’d chatted briefly before Laura left, pleading work. Ruth had begun to worry about her sister-in-law; what on earth was up? She wondered if it could be the job that was causing the
lines of worry on Laura’s face, the weight loss. She hoped it was nothing more serious, nothing wrong between Laura and Donal. Maybe she’d talk to Andrew about it later.

As she walked home from Frank’s, Ruth thought ahead to the night out she and Andrew had planned – a visit to an Indian restaurant in belated celebration of Ruth’s new job.
Belated because Andrew had been working overtime lately – some big project that she didn’t even try to understand. No matter – they were finally going; and she was looking forward
to having Andrew all to herself for the evening.

Since she’d started working, they’d hardly had a night on their own. When Andrew wasn’t working late, it was Cecily coming over for dinner every Tuesday, or the book club, or
the awful dinner with the others last week . . . it would be nice to be just the two of them tonight. And afterwards, maybe they’d make love – they hadn’t done that in a while
either. Andrew hadn’t initiated it, and Ruth couldn’t imagine making the first move. But maybe tonight, after a nice meal and a few glasses of wine, she’d find the courage, if it
looked like nothing was happening . . .

She’d wear her black suit – Andrew liked her in that. And the lacy burgundy-coloured underwear her sisters had got her for Christmas; she’d been saving that for a special
occasion.

Yes, definitely tonight. She turned into Farranshone with a light step.

Donal hardly felt the impact; nothing hurt as he sailed through the air, almost enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. Then the wet road slammed up to meet him, and a lot of
things hurt. Everything around him seemed to be floating gently. He tried to get his feet under him to stand up, and when that didn’t work, he planted his hands on the ground and pushed. Bad
idea. A sharp pain shot up from his right elbow, and that arm immediately buckled, ramming him down on the ground again. He groaned softly.

‘God, are you all right?’

He looked up from his prone position into the frightened face of a middle-aged woman. ‘I’m so sorry, I – I never saw you, you seemed to appear out of nowhere – are you
hurt?’ She was the first person he’d ever seen actually to wring her hands. He wondered if she could be his mother; now, what had she looked like again? His mind didn’t seem to be
working – everything felt scrambled when he tried to think. Like scrambled eggs. He giggled, then winced when his ribs hurt.

‘Don’t move, stay there, I’ve called an ambulance.’ Another voice, from behind Donal. He attempted to turn his head to see who was there, and then thought better of it.
Someone pushed something soft under his head, causing his neck to twinge sharply; someone else covered him with something warm that smelt of perfume. He was dimly aware of voices, car doors
slamming, someone speaking agitatedly. He closed his eyes and settled down; might as well let them get on with it. Just a little snooze and he’d be fine.

‘Wake up . . . can you hear me?’

Something was hitting his cheek. He opened his eyes; he seemed to be in the back of a van; somewhere too near a siren was blaring – why didn’t someone switch it off? A man in a
bright orange jacket stopped slapping Donal’s face and leant over him. Donal smelt mint. ‘Can you hear me? What’s your name, son?’

Son – was this man his father? ‘Donal.’ At least he could talk, even if he suddenly didn’t seem to be able to do much else.

The man’s anxious expression cleared slightly. ‘You were knocked down, Donal. Apparently you ran a red light on your bike. You’re lucky the driver wasn’t speeding.’
He paused. ‘You had a few drinks this evening, Donal, I’d say.’

Donal attempted a smile; he must smell like a brewery. ‘A few.’

‘Are you having any trouble breathing?’

Donal took an exploratory breath; his ribs protested faintly. ‘Not too bad.’

‘Good; now try not to move about; we’re headed for St John’s, so it won’t be long.’

Donal wondered what St John’s was: a hotel maybe. That would be nice, a nice soft bed with clean sheets to go back to sleep in. Room service – some chicken for Dad and himself.
‘Thanks.’ He closed his eyes again, and immediately the man started tapping his cheek again and said, ‘Don’t go to sleep. Wake up, Donal. Open your eyes, son.’

It wasn’t until much later, long after the meal and the wine, lying contentedly in Andrew’s arms and listening to his steady breathing, that Ruth thought of
Frank’s son again. Don, wasn’t it?

She wondered idly how old he would be now. Did he ever think of his parents? With a shock, she realised that he probably didn’t even know that his mother was dead. She supposed he knew
about Catherine’s death – he didn’t look that much older than her in the photo, and if she was only twelve when she died, he’d have been in his mid-teens at the most –
surely whatever had caused him to lose contact with the family had happened later than that.

So sad . . . she wished again that she could do something to help Frank – but what? If his son had wanted to find him, he could have, even after Frank had left Sligo; presumably some
people up there would have a forwarding address, or there’d be some relatives he could contact, surely. It must be easy to find someone in a place as small as Ireland. Then again, the son
might not even be living in Ireland any more – or he could be dead, like his mother and sister. She still wondered who Frank reminded her of; when she looked at him, it was as if something
was nagging at the back of her mind, waiting for her to realise . . . she must remember to ask Laura if she thought Frank looked like anyone they knew, now that she’d met him too.