The Art of Friendship (25 page)

Kirsty folded her arms and peered into the murky waters of the pond, her banal response stuck in her throat.

There was a pause. He looked at the pond, back at her, and then at the pond again as though he wanted to get on with his work but didn’t want to be rude and say so. Time to cut to the chase. Time to say what she had rehearsed all week. She took a deep breath.

‘Chris…’

‘Kirsty…’ he said at the same time.

‘What?’

‘No, you go first,’ he said.

She took a deep breath. ‘There’s something I want to ask you.’ She paused – and could not go on. ‘But…it’ll…it’ll keep. What was it you were going to say?’ She smiled brightly and blushed. She was such a coward.

‘I went over to Dubai for five days last week.’

‘Dubai?’ she said. ‘On holiday?’

He shook his head and said, looking confused, ‘I thought I’d mentioned it to you before?’

‘Mentioned what?’

He shrugged and said, ‘Oh, well, it must’ve been someone else. I’ve been offered a job there.’

Kirsty’s legs felt weak and her head light. Dubai. It was worse than she’d thought. She took a deep breath.

‘One of my friends has a very successful business out there,’ went on Chris, oblivious to her distress. ‘He’s been badgering me for years, on and off, to come out and work for him.’

‘I see,’ said Kirsty faintly and started to shiver. She wrapped her arms around herself.

‘I’d be project manager of the team out there, which would mean no more physically demanding work. And the pay’s good.’

She tried and failed to think of a valid objection. Only that she loved him and she could not bring herself to say that now – not now that it was so obvious he didn’t care for her.

‘I start at the end of August, in three months’ time.’ He paused and looked at his feet.

She pressed her fingers into the flesh of her upper arms so hard they hurt. ‘Oh. That’s…that’s great.’

He looked over his left shoulder and cleared his throat.
‘It’ll give me time to wind down the business, sell the van and tools and clear out the house. I’ll not sell the house just yet – I think I’ll rent it out. Best to keep my options open in case things don’t work out.’

‘Yes. Quite.’ Her voice was a whisper.

She was too late. His mind was made up. He was going to Dubai. What on earth had made her think he cared for her? Thank God she hadn’t delivered her planned speech. She would just have embarrassed him – and felt like a complete fool.

‘Oh, cheer up, Kirsty. Don’t look so glum.’ He showed his teeth in a smile and the corners of his eyes creased like fans. ‘I’ll make sure I find someone reliable to take over from me. I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch, now would I?’

She forced a smile.

He shifted his weight to the other foot and pinned his gaze on her, his eyes the colour of the blue stripe on her kitchen china. ‘Now, what was it you wanted to ask me?’

She stared at him, her heart pounding against her chest.

He waited. ‘Just there now. You said you wanted to ask me something.’

‘I…I…’ she said and glanced desperately around the garden. Her eye fell upon a buddleia bush, the purple cone-shaped flowers half-obscuring the lounge window. ‘I was wondering if you could cut back that buddleia,’ she said and pointed. ‘It’s cutting out quite a bit of light into the lounge.’ He followed her gaze and she closed her eyes momentarily.

‘Are you sure? I cut that back in the spring. And it’s in flower now. You’d need to leave it ‘til next year,’ he said.

She opened her eyes. ‘I forgot. Yes, of course.’

He looked at her oddly and his brow furrowed. ‘Are you alright?’ he said, and he rubbed his chin, the rough skin on his palms rasping against the stubble on his face.

‘Yes, perfectly,’ she said with a smile that felt like it might crack her face.

He nodded and returned to his work, dismissing her or so it seemed. She took three slow steps backwards, away from him, and then turned and ran inside, closing the back door behind her. She turned the key in the lock and leant her back against it, barricading herself inside. Then she put her face in her hands and cried silently.

How she would miss Chris. How much she wanted him to love her, but he did not. That much was clear. Just as she could not make herself love Scott again, she could not make Chris love her. It simply was not to be and she must accept that. But, oh, it was hard.

After some time had passed and she had no tears left, she took a deep breath. She was being indulgent, self-centred. It was a disappointment, yes, but one that she could, she must, overcome. She dug her nails into her palms in an attempt to ground herself – to abandon this fantasy and face up to reality. She had her health, her boys, her friends, and a job she loved. And she had the support of Dorothy and Harry. She had a good life and, if it wasn’t entirely fulfilled, then she must learn to live with that, to appreciate what she did have, and not to mourn what was missing.

Later, after she’d composed herself, she took a glass of cordial out to Chris and, just to prove to herself that she could do it, she chatted like old times about everything but Dubai. And then she left him and went to collect the boys from school. But she had swallowed a bitter pill that left her with a burning ache in her chest that would not go away. And though she tried to put a brave face on it, she knew that something inside her had died that afternoon in the garden.

‘Mum, can I ride my bicycle?’ asked Adam later that afternoon.

Kirsty opened her mouth to tell him that he, along with his brother who was playing on the Wii next door, had to tidy his room instead. But he stood there in his long shorts, freckles dusted across his nose like wet sand, his little face alive with excitement. The battered and scraped cycling helmet, a hand-me-down from his older brother, was already on his head, the strap secured under his chin.

‘Look, Mum! Conor and Aidan are out on their bikes,’ he said, pointing out of the window at the twin brothers who lived two doors down.

‘Sure,’ said Kirsty, watching the twins race each other up the road on their matching red bikes. ‘Why not?’ Why spoil everyone’s happiness just because her own was destroyed? ‘Just make sure you stay on our street and watch out for cars,’ she said but, when she turned around, he was already gone.

She shrugged and resumed her position at the window. Even though he was only six, she tried not to worry about his safety out on the road. Olderfleet Road, though not a cul-de-sac, was quiet and residential and mostly everyone who used it lived around here. There were no parked cars on the road to shield a vulnerable child from a driver’s view; no-one speeded, everyone knew kids played in the street.

The memory of the time immediately after Scott’s accident skidded across her brain, a jumbled mass of images and sounds and a tightness across her chest. She took a deep breath. She mustn’t let what had happened to Scott make her paranoid about the boys and their bikes. All the other kids rode their bikes in the street, even little Jenny Clark who was a year younger than Adam. The other parents wouldn’t let their kids do it unless it was safe, or as safe as riding a bike on a street could ever be, would they? No. The risk was
minimal. She would have to learn to switch her brain off, to relax. Nothing was going to happen to Adam.

There he was, sitting on the kerb with the twins, the bikes abandoned on the pavement. In a few minutes they would no doubt run into someone’s house to play, the novelty of riding their bikes already worn off. She turned and walked out of the room.

She went into the kitchen, weary with exhaustion, took an apron from the peg on the back door, pulled it over her head and tied the strings around her waist. It was time to make the kids’ tea. As for herself, she couldn’t care less if she never ate again.

It was then that she heard a dull thud, muffled and quiet like the sound of a car boot slamming shut on a snowy day. She listened but heard nothing more. She shrugged, got a box of chicken out of the freezer, flicked the oven on and tipped the sandy-coloured nuggets onto a tray. Then she poured frozen peas, hard like pellets, into a Pyrex bowl, covered them with water and put them in the microwave.

Dring-dring went the doorbell and then again and again, too loud, too fast. She tutted to herself. It would be Adam. He quite often rang the doorbell when he wanted something, instead of simply opening the door and walking in. It was laziness – he didn’t want the hassle of having to take off his shoes and come looking for her. It was easier to summon her to the front door.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Kirsty frowned. If he banged any harder he would break the glass. Then she remembered the odd sound she’d heard only minutes before. A chill ran down her entire body like an electric shock. She moved into the hall. Through the frosted glass she saw an outline, not of a child, but an adult. Kirsty flung the door open.

It was Mary Clark, Jenny’s mum, wearing fluffy pink
slippers on her feet. ‘Come quick, Kirsty. There’s been an accident.’

‘Is it Adam?’ she said.

Mary opened her mouth, closed it. Didn’t answer. Kirsty pressed her teeth together so hard it hurt and pushed past Mary down the garden path, onto the pavement, looked right then left.

It was then that she saw them. Less than a hundred yards away, where Olderfleet Road and Fleet Street met at the T-junction. A group gathered around the base of the lamp post. And a big blue four-wheeled car abandoned, the front wheels up on the pavement, the driver’s door hanging wide open.

Kirsty did not cry out. She did not scream. She ran straight up the middle of the road. The ballet pumps on her feet flew off and she did not stop. All she could think about was the fragment of Scott’s skull embedded in his brain – the thing that had killed him – and Adam on his bike, his skinny limbs as fragile as twigs.

Please God. Please God. Please God.

Her feet pounded the tarmac, blood crashed in her head like waves in a storm. Distracted by Chris she’d taken her eye off the ball – the only thing that mattered. Her child. Her Adam. The sound of rushing air filled her ears.

Please God. Please God. Please God.

She should never have let him out on the road on his bike.

If He spared him, she never would again.

The small crowd parted as Kirsty approached. People stepped back out of her way, heads bowed. And there in the middle of the crowd, lying on his side, was the slim unmistakable form of Adam. He was on the pavement, eyes closed, on top of the mangled front wheel of his bike. Someone was leaning over him, their hand under the small of his back.

She found her voice at last. ‘Adam!’ she screamed. She fell to her knees. ‘Oh, my God! Adam!’ She put her hands to her face, closed her eyes, opened them. ‘Please God,’ she said to the picture-book white clouds whipping across the azure sky. ‘Please God, save him!’

Adam opened his eyes and made a sound.

‘It’s me, Adam. It’s Mum,’ she gasped and touched his arm. He moaned and closed his eyes. ‘Adam! Adam! Adam!’ She could hear the rising hysteria in her voice but was powerless to stop it. Tears filled her eyes, she could no longer see clearly. She cried out – a long, low howl, a sound with no form, a primeval cry of pain.

A hand pressed down on her shoulder, hard, forcing her to look up. It was Phil O’Brien, the twins’ father.

‘Kirsty! Look at me. Kirsty!’

She tried but could not see him through the tears and the fog of her grief. She felt two meaty hands on her shoulders
now, holding her upright. She blinked and Phil’s green eyes came into focus as he said, ‘Listen to me, Kirsty. He’s okay. He’s going to be alright. Look.’

Suddenly silenced, she stared at Adam again. Incredibly, he was sitting on the pavement with his legs stretched out in front of him, staring at his bloodied knees. ‘You’re scaring me, Mum,’ he said, plugged his thumb into his mouth and promptly burst into tears.

‘See,’ said Phil’s deep voice though she could no longer see him. She was focused only on Adam – everything else was a blur. ‘He’s absolutely fine. Just a few cuts and bruises, that’s all.’

‘Was he unconscious?’ asked someone.

‘No, I don’t think so. He just got a nasty shock. Here, let’s get that helmet off you, wee man. Where does it hurt?’ Kirsty remembered with eternal gratitude that Phil, the leader of the local scout troop, was a qualified first aider.

‘Here. And here,’ sobbed Adam, pointing to his knees and right elbow.

‘Can you bend your elbow for me?’ asked Phil, removing the boy’s helmet. ‘That’s a good boy. No, nothing broken. It’s just going to be a bit sore for a day or two.’

Kirsty pulled Adam onto her knee. He was howling now, the wonderful, joyous, shocked, indignant cry of an injured child. The sort of cry that tells you no real damage has been done. It’s when they don’t make noise that you know you have something to worry about.

She held Adam close and kissed the top of his head, sweaty from the helmet, and cooed, ‘It’s okay, now. Mummy’s here. Everything’s going to be alright.’ She looked up at Phil who was still leaning over her, and wiped away her tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I over-reacted. I thought…I thought…’

‘You’ve no need to apologise, Kirsty. It’s that bloody
idiot who knocked him off his bike who should be apologising. Where is she?’ He stood up, glowering, his big belly protruding over the waistband of his jeans, his hands on the place where, had he been slimmer, his hips would have been.

‘Over there. Sitting over on the grass,’ said Mary’s voice. ‘Bawling her eyes out. The stupid cow. She could’ve killed him.’

‘Did she hit him?’ said someone.

‘No, but he had to swerve to avoid the car and that’s how he ran into the fence. Poor wee mite. Must’ve got the shock of his life.’

‘Looks like she’s been drinking,’ said someone else.

‘She has not!’ said a horrified voice. ‘There’s a wee girl in the back of the car.’

‘Right. That’s it. I’m phoning the police,’ said Phil and he pulled a mobile phone out of his shirt pocket and dialled.

‘We’d better get the child out of the car,’ said Mrs Renton, a widow, from number twelve. She and two other adults moved off towards the car. Someone laid Kirsty’s shoes gently on the grass beside her.

Adam’s weeping subsided and he picked at a nugget of dusty grey gravel lodged in his knee. Kirsty stood up, brushed the gravel from the knees of her jeans and pulled Adam gently to his feet. She slipped her feet into the pumps. ‘Come on, love. We’d better get you home.’

He winced and hobbled a few steps, and Kirsty felt a lump in her throat. He was such a brave little boy. If the person who did this had been drunk…she thought she might be capable of causing them actual bodily harm. She tried to put the thought out of her mind. Let the police deal with it. Her priority was to get Adam home and into a hot bath to soak the gravel out of his bony little knees. She raised her face to the sun. Thank you, God.

She glanced over at the car to see a slim, dazed-looking girl emerge onto the road. A girl about the same age and size, and with the same hair colour, as Izzy. Wait a minute. It
was
Izzy. And the car. She recognised it. Clare had one just like it. She sometimes used this road on her way to, and from, the nursery.

‘Adam,’ she said and she pushed him gently towards Mary. ‘You go with Mary. Just for a wee bit. I’ll be back in a minute.’

Kirsty stared hard at her neighbour. ‘Mary, can you take Adam home with you please? I just want to have a…a word with the driver of the car. I’ll collect him in a few minutes.’

Mary nodded, laid her hand on Adam’s shoulder and looked over at the blue car, her lips pursed together as tight as a mussel. Then she led Adam away with the promise of an ice-lolly from the freezer.

Kirsty walked to the back of the car and round the other side. And there, as she expected, was Clare, sitting on the grass with her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Her feet were bare, sequinned turquoise flip-flops lying on the grass. Jean Ross from number seven, wearing orange leather gardening gloves, was standing beside her like a grim sentinel, her arms folded across her chest, deliberately looking away from her charge in disgust.

‘The police’ll be here any minute,’ she said when Kirsty approached. ‘We’ll see what they have to say when they breathalyse her.’

‘Clare?’ said Kirsty, too focused on ascertaining for herself exactly what had happened to pay any attention to Jean.

Clare’s tear-stained face looked up and she gushed, the words tumbling out one on top of the other, ‘Oh, Kirsty. Thank God you’re here. I don’t know what happened. One minute I was driving along, the next…I…I lost control
of the car and nearly hit this little boy on his bike. I didn’t hit him, thank God. I went into the lamp post. But he fell off his bike. Is he alright?’

‘As far as I know,’ said Kirsty evenly, taking deep breaths. ‘What happened, Clare?’ She dropped to her knees and leant close into her friend’s face.

Clare stared at her blankly for a few seconds and then said, ‘I really don’t know. One minute I was taking the corner. The next I was heading towards the lamp post.’

The unmistakable smell of wine on her breath made Kirsty nauseous. She sat back on her heels and took a deep breath. Then she got up, walked over to the car, kicked the back tyre with the toe of her right foot and counted to ten before coming back again. She stood over Clare, still sitting on the grass, feeling sorry for herself.

‘You promised me you’d not drink and drive, Clare,’ she hissed. ‘You promised me.’

‘I know and I wouldn’t have, only I thought Liam was going to pick the kids up from nursery and then he phoned at the last minute to say he was late and he couldn’t do it. Just typical, isn’t it? Though you think I’d be used to him letting me down by now, wouldn’t you? It’s only a short drive. I thought it’d be alright.’

‘Jesus, Clare. How could you be so bloody stupid? Izzy was in the car, for God’s sake. She could’ve been hurt. And what about Josh and Rachel? What if you’d had an accident with them in the car on the way back?’

Clare hung her head.

‘How could you do it?’ Kirsty’s voice rose to a scream. ‘You promised me! You stood in your kitchen four days ago and you promised me you wouldn’t drink and drive.’

A few onlookers, drawn by the shouting, stood at a distance watching.

Clare blinked and said, ‘I know. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.’

‘Have you any idea the trouble you’re in? The police are on their way. You’re going to get done for drunk driving, Clare.’

‘No,’ said Clare, shaking her head. ‘I only had a couple of very small glasses. Not nearly enough to be over the limit.’

‘You don’t need to be over the limit to be a danger to yourself and to others!’ shouted Kirsty.

Clare rose to her feet. ‘For God’s sake, will you stop screaming, Kirsty. Get a grip on yourself. Alright, I made a mistake. But there’s no harm done. No-one got seriously hurt. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m sorry.’

Kirsty’s ears burned with rage. She saw Adam’s bloodied knees and his freckled face smeared with tears and snot. Her head filled with a rushing sound like standing beside a waterfall. She put her hands on the top of her head in a vain attempt to stop the throbbing inside.

‘It was Adam, Clare,’ she screamed and she felt the veins stand out on her neck. Her voice started to break. ‘It was Adam,’ she said, choking on tears. ‘You knocked Adam off his bike. I thought he was dead.’

Clare’s face drained of colour and she pulled herself awkwardly to her feet. She took a few uncertain steps towards Kirsty and held out an arm towards her. ‘Oh, my God, Kirsty. I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t,’ warned Kirsty and her voice came out hoarse and vicious. She put a hand up. ‘Don’t come anywhere near me. I swear to God if you…’

‘Come on, Kirsty,’ said Phil’s voice and he put a hand on her arm and forced it slowly, gently, down to her side. ‘She’s not worth it. Let’s get you home. Adam needs you.’

She stared at him and blinked, suddenly deflated, all anger spent. ‘Yes. Adam. I need to go home.’ She looked down at
herself and realised she was still wearing her apron, smeared with her son’s rust-coloured blood.

Everything was going to be alright, she told herself, fighting against the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Nothing was broken. No real harm had been done. Not physically anyway.

No, the worst thing was that the awful memories from three years before had been catapulted right into the present. It felt as though everything was happening all over again, all the pain and grief and shock, as raw as the day Scott died. And all this anguish had been caused by Clare.

She could not forgive her for drinking and driving. She could not forgive her for breaking her promise.

So she let Phil put his arm around her shoulder and lead her away from the woman she had once regarded as her best friend. And she didn’t look back.

Clare sat in the back of the police car flanked by an officer on her left and one in the driver’s seat in front. The policeman held a small machine in his hand. It beeped, he peered at the display screen, then held it up to her face and said, ‘Please breathe sharply and steadily into the mouthpiece.’

She inserted the clear plastic tube in between her lips and blew hard. And when she was done she sat there and waited, silent tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes.

A man Clare recognised as Kirsty’s neighbour walked over to the police car and almost stuck his head in the driver’s window. ‘Are you going to take her in?’ he demanded.

Clare ducked her head, hiding behind her long hair. She was too ashamed to be seen. Even now she still couldn’t fully understand what had happened. The afternoon was a blur. She’d spent most of it in her room, sobbing into her pillow, and had only emerged when Izzy turned up, on foot, at about four o’clock. Yes, she’d had two very small glasses
of wine, one at lunchtime and one just before she’d left the house, but she was far from drunk. She’d hardly slept for a week – not since Liam had told her about Gillian. If her judgment was impaired it was through lack of sleep, not excess alcohol.

The officer in the driving seat puffed up his chest. ‘Sir, we’re trying to do a job here and you’re obstructing police business. Now will you stand back from the car please? Thank you.’

His colleague, sitting in the back of the car with Clare, said, ‘The reading’s thirty.’ The officers exchanged glances in the rear-view mirror.

‘What does that mean?’ said Clare.

‘It means you’re within the legal drink-drive limit of thirty-five.’

The officer beside Clare let out a sigh that spoke of wasted time, and started to pack away the breathalyser equipment in a hard protective case, the inside padded with grey moulded foam. Clare, numb, gave no reaction to this news.

‘Have you taken statements from all the witnesses, Colin?’ said the officer in front.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s us done, then.’

There was silence.

‘Mrs McCormack?’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re free to go.’

Clare looked out at the small crowd, still hanging about on the pavement.

‘Though that lot aren’t going to be happy,’ said Colin. ‘They look like they’re ready to lynch you.’

Clare bit her lip and forced back the tears.

‘I don’t think you’re in any fit state to drive,’ said Colin, his voice full of disapproval. ‘I’d suggest you park your car
safely on the road and leave it here for now. Can someone come and collect it? The damage’s only cosmetic.’

‘My husband. I’d better ring him.’ She fumbled in her bag for her mobile and called Liam’s number. Miraculously, he answered.

‘Liam, I’ve been in a car accident.’

‘What?’

‘Everything’s okay. I just need you to…’

‘Are you okay? Where are you?’

‘I’m fine. I’m on Olderfleet Road, Just down a bit from Kirsty’s house. The police are here.’

‘And the kids?’

‘Izzy’s with me. Liam, I need you to collect Josh and Rachel from nursery. They should’ve been collected half an hour ago.’

‘Is Izzy alright?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘I’m almost there.’ He hung up.

Clare slipped the mobile back in her bag. The officer beside her got out of the car and started dispersing the crowd of onlookers.

‘Mrs McCormack?’ said the policeman in the front of the car.

‘Yes?’

‘Can you get out of the car please and park your vehicle safely by the kerb? Then we’ll run you and your stepdaughter home.’