The Art of Friendship (7 page)

‘Thanks, love,’ he said. ‘That looks great.’

‘I’m just in the middle of something,’ mumbled Patsy, laying the gloves and lid quietly on the granite worktop. She slipped from the room and left him there, eating at the table alone, because she could not bring herself to engage in meaningless chit-chat. Not when her heart was so heavy and Martin was lying to her.

She went into the snug and sat with Sarah, watching the television but seeing nothing, and thought of all the things he could be hiding. Drugs, alcohol, gambling debts – all the usual vices that people fell victim to, even people like Martin who were sensible and balanced. But none of them rang true. None of them seemed to fit the Martin that she knew. And neither did adultery. He must’ve received bad news of some sort. But, if so, why hide it from her? Was it his health?

At this thought she got up immediately and went back into the kitchen. Her timing was perfect: just as she walked through the door, Martin pushed his empty plate away.

‘That was good,’ he said with a smile and ran his hand over his face as though wiping away his worries. But whatever they were, they remained etched on his face.

Patsy sat down on the chair opposite him, rested her elbows on the table and clasped her hands together, as though she was about to pray. ‘Martin, I know something’s wrong. Are you going to tell me what it is? Or are you going to lie to me?’

Martin’s pleasant expression, placed there by a square meal and the beer, fell away. He looked like he’d been caught out, taken unawares. The corners of his wide mouth turned down and he stared at her for some moments, long enough to make Patsy uncomfortable.

‘Are you ill?’ she asked softly and blinked. And when he did not answer immediately, she stretched her hand out and put it over his. ‘Are you, Martin? Because whatever’s wrong you know I’ll face it with you, don’t you?’

He laughed nervously and made a tutting sound. ‘Of course I’m not ill. I’m perfectly well. Just tired, that’s all.’

He slipped his hand out from under hers and went and got another beer. He prised the cap off and stood there drinking it, in front of the open fridge door. ‘The share price fell again today.’

‘Again?’ said Patsy and she put a hand to her throat. Almost all of their hard-earned savings were in bank shares – they’d planned to sell shares to fund Laura through uni, just like they’d done with Sarah. But they’d had to watch helplessly these last few months as the markets fell and the value of their investment plummeted.

‘They’re now worth less than a pound, Patsy. From nearly six pounds just a few months ago.’

‘The value of shares can go up as well as down.’ Patsy reminded herself, as much as Martin, of this mantra. She
removed her hand from her throat. ‘All we have to do is hold onto them and they’ll go up, won’t they?’ she said, optimistically. ‘Maybe the worst is over.’

‘It’ll be years before they recover.’ Martin shook his head and took another reckless swig of beer. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid, Patsy,’ he said angrily and stared at her, his face tight and pinched. ‘We shouldn’t have put everything in the bank’s shares. It’s such a fundamental error – not to spread the risk. I don’t know what I was thinking…’

‘Please, Martin, don’t beat yourself up about it. It was a…a joint decision,’ said Patsy, limply. ‘Who could have foreseen this happening to banks?’

‘I should’ve.’

Patsy did not refute this. Martin
was
the financial expert – she’d always left these things up to him. What did she know of investments and shares and stock markets? But even she knew not to put all your eggs in one basket. She relied on him and he’d got it wrong. Her resentment took her by surprise – she bit her lip and tried to focus instead on what this meant in practical terms.

‘Well, what’s done is done,’ she said, trying not to sound like she blamed him. ‘There’s no point fretting over it now. We’ll still be able to put Laura through uni, Martin. That’s the most important thing. We’ll just have to cut back on luxuries for the time being. It’ll be tight but we can do it out of our income. And, if worst comes to worst, she can take out a student loan.’

Thanks to careful management of their finances, Sarah had graduated unburdened by debt. And even if Laura had to take out a loan they would repay it for her – eventually. The situation was disappointing but not desperate.

‘Hmm,’ said Martin dully.

‘Cheer up, love,’ said Patsy. ‘It’s not the end of the world.
All we have to do is weather the storm and the shares will eventually recover their value. Other people are much worse off. Other people are losing their jobs.’

She took Martin’s plate and cutlery over to the sink where she rinsed them. She hummed loudly and thought nervously of the deposit she’d laid out for the safari. She glanced at him. He was seated again, long legs splayed apart, with a third bottle of beer, already half-drunk, in his hand. He was staring at the black-and-white poster of the Eiffel Tower on the wall opposite. A place they’d visited with the girls when they were in their early teens.

Twenty-five years they’d been together and they’d never had a holiday like the one she’d planned, just the two of them. They’d no money in the early days and then, when the children came along, holidays were always family-focused – Disney, Eurocamping and, lately, packages to the Med where they’d all squeezed into too-small apartments so the girls could spend a fortnight topping up their tans. If ever they needed a holiday like this, it was now.

She thought of Martin’s thinning hair, her own recurrent backache. They were getting older faster than she liked and they weren’t as close as they used to be. She longed to rekindle their romance – she wanted to feel the way she did when she’d first met Martin and truly believed she could not live without him.

It probably wasn’t prudent to take a luxury holiday in the midst of economic uncertainty but, if they didn’t go this year, when would they go? It would never be the right time. There’d always be something else to spend money on – in a few years it would be weddings and grandchildren. She had saved hard for this holiday – her own, hard-earned money Martin knew nothing about – and it meant so much to her. It was now or never.

‘You need a holiday, love,’ she said, into the sink.

‘The way things are looking at the moment, we might not be taking any holidays for a while,’ said Martin glumly and took another swig of beer.

‘Now, now,’ scolded Patsy, coming over and sitting down in the chair beside him. She patted his bony knee and gave him a sparkly smile. ‘I thought we’d agreed not to be pessimistic.’

‘I’m not,’ he said and the corners of his handsome mouth turned up in a laconic smile. ‘I’m being realistic.’

‘Well, you have to take some time off, don’t you?’ said Patsy.

‘I guess so.’ The corners of his mouth fell as he shrugged and looked away. Took another swig of beer.

‘Well, look, why don’t you book the last three weeks in September?’

‘Why three weeks? Why September?’ he said, sounding slightly irritated.

‘Oh,’ said Patsy. ‘No particular reason. Just that Laura should be off to uni by then. It seemed like a good time.’

‘It’s the worst time if you ask me.’

‘Maybe we could book a nice holiday, just the two of us,’ she ploughed on, ignoring his last comment.

‘I dunno,’ he said, uninterested, and a little knot formed in her stomach. Did he not want to go on holiday with her? And had he completely forgotten it was their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in September? She tried not to let his indifference hurt.

‘Don’t let’s make any rash decisions just yet,’ he said. ‘Let’s wait and see how…how things turn out with the economy.’

Patsy got up and busied herself with tidying away the supper things. She thought back to the image of Martin standing in the hallway earlier, wracked with grief. Sure, he’d
made an error of judgment about the shares, but it wasn’t that big a deal. They would adjust their finances, work round it. She couldn’t imagine that was what was upsetting him so much. No, there was something else. Something he wasn’t telling her.

When Martin got up to leave the room she went over to him and put her arms around him. She raised her face to his but, before she could speak, he stiffened and turned his face away. ‘I need to get changed,’ he said and simply walked out of the room.

Tears pricked Patsy’s eyes. She put her hands to her face and blinked fiercely to prevent them flowing. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. She knew it in her heart. Was he lying about his health? Had he done something stupid he was trying to hide from her? But what? She wracked her brain. And then the cold hand of fear settled on her shoulders, causing her to sink into the nearest chair. Had her first instinct been right? She thought of all the nights he’d been late home from work. And much as her heart told her it couldn’t be true, her head told her it could. Was he, after all these years, having an affair?

She thought of the vows they had taken all those years ago – vows she had believed in then and still did. The question was, did Martin? She’d hoped the safari might help them re-connect, inject romance back into their lives, help them find each other again. Now she needed it to do much more. She needed it to save her marriage.

‘Dorothy,’ said Kirsty. ‘It’s really good of you to have David and Adam overnight. Again.’

‘It’s no trouble, love,’ said Dorothy, a comfortably rounded woman, with jet-black hair from a bottle and bright red lipstick. She smelt of face powder and Chanel No.5 and was well-dressed in a smart black skirt, patterned blouse and scarlet cardigan. She wore a set of pearls round her neck and discreet diamonds twinkled in her fleshy earlobes.

They were standing in the hall of Harry and Dorothy’s handsome Victorian three-storey home on The Roddens – the house in which Scott had grown up. The boys had been here since lunchtime – Kirsty had been grocery shopping and called in on her way home to deliver their overnight things.

A grandfather clock tick-tocked at the foot of the stairs. The bold floral wallpaper, now fashionable again, dated back to the first time Kirsty had visited this house nearly eighteen years ago, when Scott had brought her home to meet his parents. The collection of china plates, each one depicting an agricultural activity of a bygone age, which covered the walls and snaked up the stairwell, had been in its infancy back then. And Kirsty had gone back home to Scotland with the impression that Dorothy and Harry had not approved of her.

The wallpaper might be the same, but everything else had
moved on. Grief had a way of changing people. Now she felt accepted by her in-laws, loved even. And every birthday and Christmas since had seen a new addition to Dorothy’s plate collection – it certainly simplified the task of buying presents for her – until every inch of wall space was covered.

David and Adam ran in from the garden where they’d been kicking a ball about and shouted, ‘Hi Mum!’ in unison. Then they threw off their coats, hat and gloves, kicked off their mud-coated shoes and left everything in a tangled heap by the front door.

David was well-built with ears like question marks, sandy-coloured hair, grey eyes that were a little too close together and highly coloured cheeks. His little brother had inherited more classically handsome looks – he had a pretty cupid’s bow mouth, china-blue eyes, darker hair and a slighter build. Neither child looked much like their father but Dorothy was never done rooting out family resemblances on the Elliott side of the family.

Suddenly Kirsty noticed something different about them. ‘Their hair!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes, I gave them both a wee trim. Thought they needed it. You know, for school.’

Kirsty swallowed and tried to smile. Their haircuts, while not a complete disaster, had been crudely done. Adam’s fringe was slightly crooked and David’s thick hair was cut just a tad too short above his ears.

‘But I always take them to Alison at Faith’s,’ said Kirsty faintly. ‘I was going to take them next week.’

‘Ach, no point wasting good money when you can do it for nothing at home. I always cut Scott’s hair when he was a boy.’

Kirsty’s heart sank. ‘I really would rather you didn’t do it in future,’ she said quietly and felt her face redden.

The smile fell from Dorothy’s face and she gave Kirsty a sharp glance. Then she gave her shoulders a quick shrug. ‘As
you wish,’ she said shortly and she ruffled Adam’s dark thatch. ‘Your grandpa’s on the top floor,’ she said. ‘Go and see what he’s up to. I think he might have something for you.’

‘SWEETS!’ screamed Adam. ‘It’s sweets, isn’t it, Gran?’

‘Let’s go and see,’ said David, always the leader.

They scampered up the stairs on all fours, like monkeys, almost delirious with happiness. They were so loved in this house, so spoilt by their grandparents – like all children should be. Kirsty felt a lump in her throat and swallowed. She just wished Dorothy and Harry wouldn’t overstep the mark.

Dorothy extended her hand to Kirsty and said, ‘Sure, you know we love to have them. We’d do anything for those boys.’ Her gaze drifted to the top of the stairs.

Kirsty stared at Dorothy’s outstretched hand, and tilted her head to the right. It took her a few foolish moments to realise that Dorothy was waiting for her to hand over the boys’ overnight bag. Not that they needed much – among other things, Dorothy kept pyjamas, dressing gowns and toothbrushes for them here. The bag contained only clean clothes for the next day.

‘Are you sure it’s not too much trouble? I could always get a sitter,’ said Kirsty, clutching the bag to her breast.

The smile on Dorothy’s face fell away as did her hand and she said, ‘Now don’t be silly, Kirsty. Where would you get a sitter so late in the day?’ She paused, adjusted her tone, and went on, smiling brightly as though to reinforce the truth of her words. ‘We’re their grandparents, Kirsty. They belong here.’

No, they don’t, thought a horrified Kirsty, they belong with me. She put her hand to her mouth as though she had uttered this realisation aloud. And in that instant her relationship with Dorothy altered for ever.

Scott’s death had united them all in grief. Although they did not live in the same house, in many respects the family
unit consisted of grandparents, Kirsty and the children. The parenting of David and Adam had become the business of Dorothy and Harry as much as Kirsty. They often collected the boys from school, fed them, helped them with their homework, played with them, took them places and regularly had them to stay. They had even taken them on holiday twice, both times for a week in Portrush, to give Kirsty a break. But now, the dynamic had unexpectedly shifted. More precisely, Kirsty had changed.

Her life these past three years had been meshed with Dorothy’s and Harry’s. Together, they had focused all their energies on coping with Scott’s death – and the shared goal of minimising the effect of this disaster on the boys. And between them, they had made a very good job of it. The children seemed well-adjusted, happy, polite. And both were doing well at school. Kirsty couldn’t have coped without her in-laws, and her gratitude knew no bounds. They were good people and she loved them.

But three years on, she longed for a more independent life for herself and the boys. That was selfish of her, for the boys’ close relationship with Dorothy and Harry was entirely, and overwhelmingly, positive. Sadly, they did not know their maternal grandparents well – they were aged and suffered from ill health and did not like to leave Cumnock, on the east coast of Scotland where they lived.

And while Kirsty reminded herself of the importance of extended family, she couldn’t help but feel increasingly uncomfortable with the level of Dorothy and Harry’s involvement. It was time to put some distance between herself and her in-laws. At the back of her mind was the vague notion that her future happiness depended upon it. If she was to stand a chance of meeting a man – and making a new life for herself – she couldn’t have her in-laws living in her pockets.

But how on earth was she to disentangle herself and the boys without hurting Dorothy and Harry? They lived for their grandchildren – they had made them the centre of their lives.

‘Can I have the bag?’ said Dorothy, startling Kirsty.

‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ said Kirsty. She pushed it into Dorothy’s arms eagerly, to compensate for her earlier caginess. ‘And thanks again.’

For the first time Kirsty felt under an obligation to her in-laws. Before it had all been easy and uncomplicated. Now, as if she were looking through a different lens, she saw every act of kindness as a further nail in the coffin of her independence.

‘So, where are you off to tonight?’ asked Dorothy. ‘You mentioned Ballymena.’

‘Yes, there’s some art exhibition on that Patsy and Clare want to see. Me and Janice are just going along for the ride.’

‘Hmm,’ said Dorothy, her interest already beginning to wane. She had always struggled to understand Kirsty’s fascination with all things arty. She placed little value on art, financial or otherwise – it was simply something to fill a space on the wall. Dorothy’s interest extended only as far as her painted plate collection.

‘Do you have time for a cup of tea?’ said Dorothy, glancing at the ornate face of the grandfather clock.

‘Please,’ said Kirsty, and she paused before blurting out, ‘There’s something I want to talk to you and Harry about.’

‘I see,’ said Dorothy, and she gave Kirsty a searching glance.

‘Ah, here she is,’ came Harry’s voice from the top of the stairs, providing a welcome distraction. He descended gingerly, holding onto the banister, dressed in rust-coloured cords, a green checked shirt and worn brown suede slippers. With his greying hair and moustache, he looked like a picture-book grandfather.

He came over to Kirsty and placed a warm kiss on her
cheek. His skin against hers felt thin and papery. ‘My favourite daughter-in-law,’ he said and looked at her for a few seconds, holding onto the forearms of her jacket. It was an old joke between them. They were no other daughters-in-law. Their surviving child, Sophie, was married to a doctor and lived in Dublin.

‘Kirsty’s going to stay for a cuppa,’ said Dorothy and she led the way to the cosy kitchen at the back of the house.

Dorothy made tea, noisily, and Harry and Kirsty exchanged small talk. When they were all seated with thin china cups and saucers in front of them and a plate of Rich Tea biscuits on the table, Dorothy poured the tea and said, ‘So what was it you wanted to talk to us about?’

Kirsty put her spoon in her cup and stirred the tea, even though she had added no sugar. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m thinking about going out to work.’

‘Oh, love. You don’t need to be doing that,’ said Harry with one of the tolerant smiles he usually reserved for the children when they said something silly. ‘Sure, she doesn’t, Dorothy? There’s plenty of time for that when the boys are grown.’

‘They are grown,’ said Kirsty into her cup, unable to meet Harry’s gaze. Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Grown enough anyway. I’m in the house on my own most of the day. There’s only so much cleaning and cooking and coffee mornings you can do.’ The spoon clattered against the saucer when she set it down.

‘What’s brought this on all of a sudden, Kirsty?’ said Dorothy, her brows knitted. Her gaze, when it met Kirsty’s, was like a laser.

Kirsty took a biscuit and broke it in half. Pale golden crumbs littered the spotless table. ‘It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while,’ she said. ‘Ever since Adam started school last year.’

‘I see,’ said Dorothy and she lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of tea. She let the silence sit between them like a fog. Harry stroked his moustache, a nervous habit, and stared at his reflection in the window. He looked confused. Disappointed.

‘I’m only talking about part-time,’ said Kirsty, looking at their unresponsive faces.

Cocking her head to one side, Dorothy placed the foot of her teacup in the depression on the saucer, as though she were putting a jigsaw together. ‘Do you have something in mind?’ she said.

‘There’s a job advertised at the museum.’

Ballyfergus’s small museum was housed in the old Carnegie Library on Victoria Road. The building, which dated from 1906, had been beautifully refurbished and now housed a bright modern museum dedicated to the history and heritage of Ballyfergus and the surrounding area.

‘It’s only twenty hours a week,’ said Kirsty.

‘What about school holidays and when the boys are sick?’ said Dorothy.

‘I’ll arrange childcare.’

‘But me and Dorothy would look after the kids,’ said Harry, sounding slightly affronted.

‘I…I…well, that’s a very kind offer but I can’t expect you to drop everything to look after the boys. You have your own lives,’ Kirsty added, though she didn’t really believe this to be true. Their lives revolved around their grandchildren.

‘That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, Dorothy?’ said Harry, sounding a bit annoyed.

Dorothy nodded and Harry went on, ‘They’re my grandsons and I don’t want some stranger looking after them.’

‘Well, okay then. If it’s what you want…’ said Kirsty, feeling yet again that she had been bulldozed into something
she didn’t want. But she couldn’t very well deny them access to the boys. She would pay for it though, in an indirect way – book a holiday for them, or something.

Harry, suddenly warming to the idea, said, ‘Maybe Kirsty’s right, Dorothy. It might do her good to get out a bit.’

Kirsty’s spirits lifted at finding an unlikely ally in Harry. Dorothy’s eyebrows, as effective a means of communication as her speech, crept up her brow a fraction. She waited for Harry to go on.

‘But don’t you see? There’s a much better way to go about it than this,’ he said firmly, pleased with himself.

‘There is?’ said Dorothy, the space between her eyebrows puckering.

Harry grinned broadly at them both, revealing a set of perfect dentures. ‘Kirsty’s a highly educated girl with a lot to offer.’

Kirsty smiled at him, grateful and relieved. And surprised. Of the two of them, she had expected more resistance from Harry.

‘I’ll tell you what, Kirsty. You can come and work for me at the mill,’ he said grandly, presenting his offer with all the flair of a generous gift.

Kirsty swallowed hard and tried to smile. She thought of the InverPapers mill, the relentless hum and thud of machinery and the sickly-sweet smell of the chemicals used in the manufacturing process – a nauseating stench that had permeated Scott’s hair and clothes and which, no matter how many times he showered or how many times she washed his clothes, never completely went away.

‘She could work in the office, Dorothy, like you used to do. Help with the accounting, payroll, bills, that sort of thing. You can use a computer, can’t you?’ Though supposedly semi-retired, Harry still played an active part in the business.
Kirsty pictured the stuffy office with its worn eighties furniture and single-glazed aluminium framed windows – and froze in horror.

She had never worked in an office in her life. She couldn’t think of anything more depressing. The factory employed one hundred and fifty people and it produced toilet roll. Toilet roll! Millions of sheets of toilet roll a year. Bog roll, Scott used to call it. Harry wanted her to work in a bog-roll factory. She bit her lip and blinked to stop herself from crying.