Second Chance (2 page)

“Maamaa,” Angela interrupted her musings. Jean looked down at the little curly fair head. Tenderly she kissed her daughter. Angela was starting to talk. It was fascinating to listen to the garbled sounds and try to make sense of them. She could say hot. Everything was “hot”. Jean had to watch her like a hawk now that she was crawling. Angela was fascinated by the fire. But fortunately, “Aha hot” was enough to stop her in her tracks. She'd be one in a couple of weeks. It was hard to believe.

Gently she laid her daughter on the floor. She watched her scoot around. Propelling herself on her little arms and legs.

Jean cleared the dirty dishes off the table. She filled the sink with hot soapy water. She washed the dishes slowly. Where had Tony gone, she wondered?

Jean stared out the window into the small back garden. Her mother kept it immaculate. But, despite Bridie's best efforts, autumn leaves covered the neat lawn like a patchwork quilt.

Jean watched the early morning sun shining on the damson trees. There had been a shower when Tony left. It was over now. The sun was emerging from behind the grey clouds. She could see patches of blue in the sky. It was early autumn. The leaves were still crisp on the branches. Gold, red, russet, brown and some still green. The slanting rays of the sun danced over them. The light breeze made them tremble on the branches. A little gust now and then would make them quiver and rustle. And then some would float lightly down to join the crisp, crunchy pile beneath the tree.

It was a mild autumn so far. The
rambling pink rose was still in bloom. So were the fuchsias in her mother's hanging baskets. Their full pink-and-white blooms were glorious against the whitewashed walls. Tubs of pink and red geraniums dotted the yard. Jean loved to sit out there on a sunny afternoon with Angela. It was a little haven of peace.

“Would you look at those leaves,” Bridie Feeny said crossly. She came and stood beside her daughter. She picked up the tea towel and started to dry up. “I think they look pretty,” Jean reflected.

“Pretty!” exclaimed her mother. “They're a nuisance. They're so untidy. I cleaned that garden two days ago. There wasn't a leaf to be seen. And now look at the place. I'm going to get those damson trees cut down.”

Jean threw her eyes up to heaven.
Her mother made the same threat every year. But then spring would come. Each year white frothy blossoms would burst from the young buds. It was a glorious sight. Then the green leaves would appear. Later, as spring turned to summer, the damsons started to grow fat and juicy. They looked like big purple grapes.

After a long hot summer the branches would bow under the weight of their fruit. Jean and Bridie would spend the afternoon picking them. Then Bridie would make pots of dark, sweet damson jam. The memory of fresh Vienna roll, spread thick with butter and topped with the tasty jam made Jean's mouth water.

The last few years had not produced a good crop. The summers had been cool and cloudy. This year there hadn't been enough damsons to make jam.

“What are you going to do with yourself today?” Bridie asked. She reached down and lifted her granddaughter into her arms. Angela squirmed. She wanted to keep on exploring. “This one is getting a mind of her own,” Bridie said tartly. “Just like her father!”

“Don't start!” Jean warned. “I've had enough for one morning.”

Bridie glared at her daughter. “You've had enough!
You've
had enough. What about me? Just because I didn't want my cooker ruined with hot spilt milk. That Tony has a sharp tongue.” She sniffed.

“Mother, do you want us to move out?” Jean demanded.

“Don't talk nonsense,” Bridie retorted. “Where would you go?”

“We'd get a flat from the Corporation,” Jean snapped.

“There's no need for that kind of talk,” Bridie said hastily.

“There is need,” Jean fumed. She dried her hands. “I'm going to get dressed. I'm going in to the Housing Department to ask them to put us on the list. Then we'll be out from under your feet. Tony was right. I should never have let you persuade me to come home.” She felt the tears come to her eyes. She hurried out of the kitchen, not wanting her mother to see them.

Jean ran upstairs into her small back bedroom. She flung herself on the bed. Tears slid down her cheeks. She didn't think she could stand much more. She had said that she was going to see about getting on the housing list. Maybe she should do it. Things couldn't go on as they were. Jean sat up and wiped her eyes. It was her children's allowance day today. She
would call into the post office to collect it. Then she would get the bus into town. She must check the address of the Housing Department. She wasn't too sure if they had moved to the new civic offices. She hoped they hadn't. The civic offices were not that handy to get to. Jervis Street was much more convenient.

Jean went to the small wardrobe that held all their clothes. She took out her good black ski pants. She wanted to look smart. It helped, when you were down in the dumps. She chose her favourite pink cashmere jumper to go with the pants. Swiftly she began to dress. Enough was enough. It was time to do something about their situation.

Bridie put Angela back down on the floor and stood frowning at the kitchen sink. Why on earth was Jean picking on
her
? Anyone would think it was her fault that Tony and Jean had problems.
She
had gone out of her way to help them. She had opened her home to them.
This
was the thanks she got. Bridie pursed her lips. She should have known better than to expect gratitude. She dried the knives and spoons and settled them neatly in the drawer. She put the butter in the fridge. She wiped the top of the marmalade dish and put it in the top press. She gave the press door a good slam because she was so annoyed. There were Cornflakes all over the table mat where Tony had been sitting. He was most untidy.

She glanced at her granddaughter who was gazing wide-eyed at the clothes tumbling around in the washing-machine. Angela was her pride and joy. How lonely her life would be without her daughter and
precious granddaughter. And, to tell the truth, she liked having a man in the house at night. Since they'd come to live with her, Bridie slept soundly.

When she had been on her own, she'd slept fitfully. Always listening for unusual noises. Two houses on the street had been burgled. Bridie was terrified the same would happen to her. Now that Jean and Tony were living with her she felt protected.

But it was hard getting used to having people around the house all day. She had got into a routine of her own that suited her. She liked keeping a tidy house. Tony was not a tidy person. He didn't fold up his newspapers neatly. He left his jacket hanging on the back of a chair. It drove her mad. She had asked him to hang it up in the press under the stairs. When she asked him, he would do it for a few
days. Then he would forget. It was most annoying. Her dear dead husband Tom had been very neat in his habits. “A place for everything and everything in its place,” was his favourite saying.

Bridie's lip trembled. She missed Tom. He'd been a good husband. He was a quiet man. He let Bridie make the decisions. That suited her. Bridie was an organiser. They'd rarely had rows. Their life was a comforting routine that seldom varied. Breakfast together. Then he went to work. He worked in a furniture shop in town. She cleaned and tidied the house and did the shopping. Then she'd prepare lunch. Which was served up promptly at one o'clock. Except on Sundays. On Sundays they had lunch at one-thirty.

After lunch Tom would go back to work and Bridie would garden or knit
until it was time for Tom to come home for his tea. After tea they would go up to the Phoenix Park for a walk if the weather was fine.

Some would say it was a dull life. But she and Tom had been happy until he'd died suddenly of a massive stroke two years ago. Now all she had was trouble and strife. When Tony was made redundant, Bridie urged Jean to persuade him to come and live with her. It was the ideal solution. She was sure of it. But it hadn't worked out as she had thought. Having three people under her feet all day was not easy. Her little routines were interrupted. She was in a state of constant tension. She worried about Angela burning herself at the fire. Or pulling the standard lamp down on top of herself.

“Ga, ga!” A small pair of hands grabbed Bridie's skirt. She looked
down at her granddaughter. Angela was struggling to pull herself upright. She was almost walking now.

Bridie felt love flood through her. She leaned down and picked up the little girl. “What is it, my precious?” she crooned. “Who's a lovely girl? You're my little darling.” She cuddled the toddler tightly. It would be awful if Jean and Tony moved away to the other suburbs. She'd hardly get to see Angela. They wouldn't be able to afford the expensive bus fares into the city.

She should have kept her big mouth shut this morning. And all over a drop of spilt milk. She'd have to make amends some way. Bridie sighed deeply. Somehow, this time, she felt it was too late.

Dave Cummins had the shakes. He needed a fix. Badly. His mouth tasted like sandpaper. He felt sick and shaky. He crawled out of bed. He pulled his blue sweater on and stepped into his jeans. His clothes could do with a wash.
He
could do with a wash. He was stinking. But he couldn't care less. He had given up worrying about such things long ago. He used to care about the way he dressed. He'd had a good job in a finance company. But the pressure to bring in more clients was intense.

He'd started taking E at parties. The
first time Dave did it, he felt dead guilty. Thinking of his parents and younger brothers in Sligo. Just as well they couldn't see him. They'd be horrified to think that Dave, the pride of the Cummins family, was taking drugs. Gradually the guilt wore away. He started going home less and less at weekends. He was too busy, he told his family. It was important that he socialise and network and make new connections. His family were very impressed and very proud of him.

A friend of his had introduced him to acid and speed. Then … cocaine. Before long he'd been snorting lines of the fine white powder like there was no tomorrow. It made him feel good, in control. He felt he could do anything. He moved with a fast set, in the fast lane. He was working all hours. And partying until dawn. He needed the
coke to keep going. Only after a while Dave needed more and more of the drug to get his highs. His supplier had offered him heroin. High-grade stuff from Colombia. Dave refused vehemently. No way was he getting involved in heroin. That was a mug's game. You took heroin, you got addicted. You got addicted, you ended up on the streets with nothing. That wasn't going to happen to Hot Shot Cummins.

He'd resisted the pressure for months. But the coke wasn't doing it for him any more.

He'd been at a party that New Year's Eve in some posh penthouse in Killiney. Drugs and booze flowed freely. He snorted a few lines of coke and waited for it to hit. The rush didn't come the way it used to. He lowered a couple of vodkas and smoked a joint.
Stoned, he went into one of the bedrooms and collapsed onto the bed. Only then did he see a pale, thin black-haired girl sitting at the dressing-table. She was injecting herself.

“Hi,” she mumbled. Dave watched as she sat tense and agitated and then the drug hit her. Her body relaxed. A smile of pleasure crossed her face. All the tension left her. Her lovely face became serene.

“It's the best,” she murmured. “The best.”

She got up from the chair and weaved her way out of the room.

“Whatever turns you on,” Dave muttered and fell asleep.

He often thought of that girl and the expression of ecstasy on her face after she had injected herself. The pressure at work was intense. He felt stressed out trying to make his monthly returns
target. He was called in by his boss and told he wasn't trying hard enough. His sales performance was considered unsatisfactory. He'd have to try harder. He missed a few payments on his car loan and was threatened with repossession. His girlfriend kept hassling him about getting married. Dave just wanted to forget about the whole damn lot.

He went to a party and got pissed out of his skull. Jeff, his supplier, was there. “Do you want to go on the ultimate trip, Dave?” he invited. “Just do it the once. Believe me, nothing else compares.”

What the hell, thought Dave groggily. Once couldn't do much harm. And boy was he stressed out. The memory of a pale face with its smile of ecstasy came to him.

That night, Dave took his first hit of
heroin. It blew his mind. Jeff was right. It was the ultimate trip. He had never felt such peace and contentment. All his worries evaporated. Life was better than it had ever been.

Six months later, he was jobless, carless, had no girlfriend and was living in a grotty bedsitter on the North Circular Road. But none of that was important. All that mattered was heroin.

Shivering, Dave pulled on his anorak. He was always cold these days. Still, he'd be all right once he scored. He'd get the money some way. Dave shuffled downstairs and out into the crisp autumn day.

Sara Collins ate her last spoonful of porridge with relish. She finished the rest of her tea and toast. “That was lovely Eddie,” she said. She smiled at her husband. He smiled back.

“That will keep you warm. There's a nip in the air today,” he said. “Are you sure you don't want me to bring you into town?”

“Certain,” Sara said firmly. Today she was going to have a good browse. She didn't want to be put under pressure by her husband. He got impatient if he had to spend longer than two hours in town. She liked to pick things up and look at them and put them down and come back to them again. This drove Eddie mad.

He was a list man. He felt that she should write out a list of what she needed and stick to it. Just like he did. It was good to be organised, he told her. It made life easier. It might make life easier but it wasn't half as much fun, was Sara's view. Besides, today she had a particular reason for going into town on her own. She wanted to buy
Eddie's birthday present. She had seen just the thing. A gorgeous miniature grandfather clock. It was so tiny and delicate, hardly much longer than her middle finger. It was perfect for Eddie.