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Authors: Roisin Meaney

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She nodded. ‘I suppose so.’ Donal always managed to make sense of things. She smiled across at him; she was lucky to be married to him – not that she’d ever give him the
satisfaction of admitting it, of course.

He’d never learnt to drive – a quirk she secretly found endearing. ‘There are enough internal combustion engines polluting the planet without me adding to them. And the bike
helps keep me in shape.’ He bent his elbow and made a fist, pointing at his barely bulging tricep. ‘Feel that for muscle. Go on, feel it.’ She tickled under his arm instead, and
he grabbed her. ‘You’re just jealous of my perfectly toned physique. I’m getting you a bike for your next birthday.’

She put her most innocent face on. ‘How’ll you afford it though, after you’ve paid for the diamond necklace?’

She got used to being the driver for both of them, had always preferred to drive than be driven anyway. And she had to admire the stance he’d taken: cycling to work at dawn in the middle
of an Irish winter couldn’t be anyone’s idea of fun, however environmentally friendly it was. But he never complained, and it was definitely cheaper – although she wasn’t
convinced that cycling through all those petrol fumes was healthier than driving through them.

Once, she’d suggested that he wear a mask on the bike, showing him a magazine photo of masked cyclists in Tokyo. ‘I hate to think of you inhaling all those fumes every
day.’

She was wasting her time – he’d been highly amused. ‘Right, I’ll pick up the mask when I go to collect the cape and the special powers, OK?’ Sometimes he could be
too damn smart.

Now she reached out and pressed the slumber button on the radio, and Diana Krall sang ‘Cry Me a River’ in her chocolaty voice. Laura sank back onto the pillows – ten more
minutes. There was an estate agent’s brochure waiting to be finished off that should have been gone two days ago; she’d better get it out of the way today.

She started to plan the menu for Thursday night.

Blast
. Andrew O’Neill braked sharply as he reached the traffic lights, just gone red. If the garda car hadn’t been in his rear-view mirror he’d have
kept going; everyone else did. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he watched the stream of cars crossing in front of him. One person in most of them; no wonder they all crawled home
every day. He’d share if anyone suggested it – quite a few of the lads lived around the North Circular – but nobody else seemed too bothered, so why should he? Mind you, the
traffic here was still nowhere near as bad as Dublin – imagine the poor sods who had to battle through
that
every day. He’d driven up there only once when he started seeing
Ruth; after crawling all the way through Monasterevin, and arriving two hours late to meet her and her flatmates in The Gravediggers, he vowed to switch to the train.

His stomach rumbled; he thought about dinner. Chicken, maybe – they’d had fish last night. With health-conscious Mother doing the cooking, they didn’t see a lot of red meat.
Not that he was complaining; his mother’s meals were up there with the best, no doubt about it. Everything fully planned and meticulously timed, and beautifully presented. Nothing was left to
chance in Mother’s kitchen.

He remembered watching her when he was a young boy – the way she’d cover the open page of her recipe book with a sheet of acetate to protect it before she started. How she’d
peer at the page as she went along, measuring out the ingredients exactly – even quarter teaspoons of salt were carefully calculated. Everything was washed up as she went along; any rare
spills were cleaned away immediately.

Then he thought of weekends in Dublin over the past few months, in the poky flat that Ruth shared with Claire and Maura. Their potluck casseroles, where they’d fling in whatever they could
find in the fridge and hope for the best – inevitably, with more success some times than others. Every saucepan used; onion skins, red pepper seeds and eggshells littering every worktop. A
couple of bottles of not very good wine to go with every dinner, once the few decent ones he’d brought up had run out. A lot more fun, he had to admit, than Mother’s perfect meals in
Limerick – although he
was
tempted, once or twice, to hint that they try following a recipe occasionally. He’d held his tongue though – they might suggest he do it
himself.

He thought about the food in Crete, when he and Ruth first met. Plates of stuffed vine leaves – Ruth went mad for them – salads drenched in salty olive oil, crowned with a thick slab
of feta sprinkled with herbs. Tender chunks of chicken wedged between deliciously crisp vegetables on a skewer, slow-cooked lamb, rich with oregano and basil. Inch-thick monkfish steaks that melted
in your mouth. Spinach and cheese pies, still warm from the oven, which they brought to the beach every day. He remembered leaning over and licking the flakes of pastry off her bare stomach, and
Ruth laughing and pushing him away, probably not wanting him to notice that she wasn’t as flat there as she could be.

Funny how he’d ended up marrying someone like Ruth really, when he’d always gone for someone so different. But Mother was right – Ruth had exactly the qualities a man should
look for in a wife. She’d look after him, put his needs first, support him in whatever he did. And she’d have children too, without worrying about her figure, or whether babies would
interfere with her career – Ruth wasn’t a bit like that. Didn’t really have a career anyway – you wouldn’t call hairdressing a career – so it would be no big
deal for Ruth to give it up when the kids came along. Not, indeed, that he was in any hurry for kids – time enough for all that responsibility when they were well into their thirties, like
his mother had been – but Ruth had hinted often enough that she wanted a few; he’d be able to put her off for only so long.

He’d enjoyed their fling in Crete, of course – who wouldn’t get a kick out of being so patently adored? Andrew was used to his mother’s adoration, but to find this in a
girlfriend was something new and delightful for him – girls usually played such games. But Ruth was different – so innocent, so eager to please; really, he’d felt a pang when his
two weeks were up and she’d seen his coach off. Waiting for her at Dublin Airport two nights later – no need to tell her that he’d been planning to stay with pals in Dublin for a
few extra nights when he flew back anyway, before heading down to Limerick – he’d quite looked forward to seeing her again. And her face when she’d spotted him – well, that
was gratifying. That in itself, that depth of feeling that she wasn’t experienced enough to disguise, was enough of a novelty to keep him interested. Enough to keep them together for a few
months, until Mother started asking him when he was going to bring Ruth down to meet her.

And then, when they’d met, when his mother had taken to Ruth so strongly – well, that clinched it. Mother was no fool; if she thought Ruth would make a worthy wife for him, that was
good enough for Andrew. His mother had looked out for him all his life, had kept him from making some disastrous decisions; and while he mightn’t always have agreed with her advice –
would almost have resented it sometimes – he’d had to acknowledge that she always had his interests at heart. He had always come first with her; he appreciated that. And so he had
married Ruth, and made both his women happy.

He wondered how it would be when they moved into their own house. They’d have to work out some kind of a routine when Ruth started working again. If she got a job in town, he could drop
her in on his way to work. Mind you, with this traffic every evening, she’d be better off walking home – it wasn’t that far out to Farranshone. Give her a chance to put the dinner
on, rather than be hanging around waiting for him. And let’s face it, Ruth was going to be the one doing the cooking – he was useless at it, never had the chance to learn, with Mother
insisting on doing it for him all his life. He wouldn’t have minded having a go now and again; he might have been quite good at it actually. But there wasn’t much point now, with Ruth
probably delighted to do it. And Mother had that fancy cookbook ready to give to Ruth as a house-warming present – that would help her along nicely.

Not that they’d abandon his mother when they moved, of course not. They’d only be a few minutes away anyway – probably go over to her for Sunday lunch or something. Thinking
about Cecily’s typical Sunday meals – stuffed roast chicken, tender baby vegetables, homemade potato croquettes – his stomach rumbled again. And they could have Mother over to
their place some night during the week maybe, Ruth could make a bit of an effort. It might be hard for Mother initially, on her own for the first time in years. But then, she had her book club, and
her friends. Such a strong woman his mother had always been. So capable.

He pulled up in front of the house as Ruth opened the front door and walked towards him, smiling. She must have been watching out the window for him.

He noticed that her tan was fading.

‘Mama.’ Polly’s flour-covered hands reached out as she toddled over to the door, grin almost splitting her fat little face in two.

‘Oh great, dinner’s here; I’m starving.’ Breffni scooped her up and nuzzled into her neck, making munching sounds. Polly shrieked with glee, trying to push
Breffni’s head away, kicking against Breffni’s hip with her miniature trainers. ‘Stop, Mama.’

Breffni lifted her head up – ‘Hang on; I’m nearly finished. Just a few more bites’ – and dived under Polly’s chin again. Polly squealed and giggled again,
squirming. ‘Mama – tiddle, tiddle.’

‘Well, I don’t know which one of you is worse.’ Mary finished filling the teapot and walked over to Breffni, who put her free arm around her shoulders and hugged her.

‘Me, definitely. Polly would never eat a person, would you, Pollywolly?’ She poked Polly in the side, making her squirm again. ‘You’d prefer fish fingers.’

She put Polly down and looked back at Mary. ‘I hope she was good for you.’

‘She was of course, as good as gold. It’s great to see her over that old bug she had.’

‘It is – it knocked her sideways for a while. And how are you, Granny Mary? You look great, as usual.’

Mary flapped a hand at Breffni. ‘Great, my foot – I look like a holy show. I’m getting a perm on Saturday.’ She reached out and stroked Breffni’s glossy hair.
‘Now if I had your head I’d be fine; you were blessed with that hair. I hope you appreciate it, not having to run to the hairdresser’s every month trying to look
presentable.’

Breffni grinned – ‘God, no – I want a head of blond curls, like Shirley Temple here,’ – ruffling Polly’s hair. ‘Would you ever tell me how Cian and I
ended up with a blonde? There’s never been anything lighter than dark brown in my family – and none of Cian’s relations I’ve met are fair.’

Mary considered, looking down at Polly, who was rummaging through Breffni’s shopping bags. ‘I had an uncle who was blond like that – not curly though. And his daughter, a good
bit older than me – she went to Canada and settled there – she was fairly light, I think. And actually I was quite fair myself, before age caught up with me and washed it all out. Now
the only choice I have is grey or blue, or maybe lilac.’

Breffni laughed. ‘Stick to the grey, I think. And what are
you
up to, Missy?’ Polly had discovered a stick of French bread; after a struggle, she managed to pull it out of
the bag, but the momentum knocked her backwards and she thudded down on her well-padded behind. She looked up at the women and grinned, showing a row of tiny teeth. ‘Bump a daisy.’

‘I’ll take that, thanks.’ Breffni whisked the bread away, and before Polly could react, replaced it with a mandarin orange, which she pulled quickly from the bag.

Polly looked at the little fruit in her hand and slowly her smile vanished. ‘No.’ She threw the mandarin on the floor and it rolled gently under the table.

Mary immediately stretched out her hand towards Polly. ‘I think I know what you want, darling. Come with Granny, and we’ll get the surprise for Mammy.’ Polly immediately
struggled to her feet, bread forgotten, and grabbed hold of Mary’s little finger. ‘We made scones, didn’t we, lovey? Let’s see if they’re ready.’ They walked
over to the worktop, the older woman leaning down towards the little girl.

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