Two Fridays in April (8 page)

He never moved to Canada. He trained as a teacher in Ireland and got a job here, in the school where he still teaches. He travels to Canada during the holidays, and his mother has been back to Ireland a couple of times. From what Daphne can gather, there’s no communication between her and Alex. A bitter split, it would seem.

In the almost ten years they’ve known one another, George has never mentioned a girlfriend; she wonders if he’s ever had one. It’s none of her business, but it doesn’t stop her wondering. Maybe he’s gay, although she never got that sense from him. She’d love him to find someone, sad to think of him on his own. At least she’d had Finn, even if it was only for a short while.

She watches a sparrow pecking at something in the grass. Four weeks yesterday to her own birthday, the second last day of April. Her thirty-sixth coming up; she’s still young. Finn, if he’d lived, would have been turning fifty-three in July. The age difference hadn’t mattered a damn to either of them.

He’d had a life before he met her. At thirty-eight he married Susan; they’d spent just four years as man and wife. Susan died in her early forties, a fortnight after stepping on a rusty nail that sent its poison zinging through her bloodstream. Six years after that, a driver opened a car door and Finn Darling cycled straight into it.

It used to frighten Daphne, how accidental their meeting had been. What if she’d opened the door a few seconds earlier or later, or glanced in her wing mirror and spotted him in time to prevent the calamity, or simply parked further along the road? What if illness, or a dental appointment, had prevented her going to work that morning, or being on that street at that particular time? All the variables that might have stopped them coming into contact.

But maybe there
was
such a thing as destiny; maybe the Fates would have conspired to bring them together in some other way if that encounter hadn’t happened. She might have twisted an ankle one day as she walked past his bicycle shop; they might have chosen neighbouring seats on a train, or stood next to one another in a checkout queue at the supermarket, or reached for the same magazine at the newsagent’s.

She used to feel sorry for Susan. She used to think
They only had four years together; we’ll have so much more
. But in the end Susan had had the longer marriage, and Susan had been spared the heartache of losing him.

They lie together now in the cemetery, he and Susan. Their mortal remains rest side by side in the plot Finn had bought when she’d died. It is a reality that Daphne must live with.

Her phone gives three shrill beeps. She takes it from her bag
again.
Una
, it says. She opens the text message.
Sorry, having dinner at Ciaras, her dad will drive me home, hope thats OK, c u later
.

She reads the words, re-reads them. Not coming home, not putting in an appearance on her birthday? Could she have forgotten that Mo is due, that they’re making a special effort? It doesn’t seem possible.

She scans the short message for a third time. Of course Una hasn’t forgotten, she’s simply avoiding it. She’s pretending it’s not happening. So much for Daphne cooking her favourite dinner, so much for the pricey cake that wasn’t even collected.

Mo will undoubtedly be put out when she arrives, but there’s not a lot Daphne can do about that.

She should try, though. She presses the call button and listens to Una’s phone ringing, and waits until the voicemail recording clicks on:
Sorry I missed you
,
please leave a message
.

She hangs up, half relieved. What could she say, after all, that Una would want to hear? Better, maybe, that the call went unanswered. Better to let her put this first painful birthday behind her, and hope she’s stronger by the time the next one comes along.

Good that she’s with Ciara this evening – always the most frequent caller in the days when Una’s friends still came to the house.
They’ve known one another forever
, Finn had told Daphne once.
Bonded in junior infants, never looked back
. Good that she’s with someone she feels close to.

The pink cake sits on the worktop. Una doesn’t want it; none of them do. Why on earth did Daphne think they had to celebrate today? Why did she press on with this farce? She’ll
send the cake home with Mo tonight – and if Mo isn’t interested she’ll give it to George when he calls tomorrow.

Or maybe she’ll do none of the above.

Suddenly she just wants rid of it. She slides it none too carefully back into its box, lifts the lid of the kitchen bin and deposits it inside. Terrible waste: she’ll tell nobody. And she’ll get Mo to collect the other one tomorrow – the bakery is just down the street from the charity shop, and the women who work with Mo would surely welcome a bit of cake at their break. It can be Daphne’s contribution to charity.

She slides open the patio doors, stands on the threshold and inhales the damp, early-evening air. Still chilly, but she’s warmer now after a hot shower, and dressed in dry jeans and a cosy sweater. On her feet are two pairs of the thick wool socks that used to belong to Finn and that she wears often around the house now. Better than any slippers.

The light is just beginning to wane at this hour, the longer day bringing a promise of summer. This time last year she couldn’t have cared less what season it was, didn’t give a damn that summer was coming. She can smell woodsmoke from someone’s chimney, above the earthy freshness of damp grass.

She watches little brown birds flitting above the lawn, flying up to perch on the wooden fence that separates her from Sheila and Jim Redden. Hopefully their cat isn’t on the prowl – nothing is safe with him around. She’s glad when they take off again, drifting upwards where he can’t get at them.

Something else in the sky catches her eye, fluttering higher than the birds. Two kites, tails trailing – years since she’s seen kites. She follows their dips and swoops, and is reminded of the
plane this morning with its message of congratulations for the couple whose names she’s forgotten. Married by now, dancing maybe at this moment as man and wife.

At five to eight the doorbell rings. Not Una, she has her key.

‘Smells good,’ Mo says, handing a tinfoil-covered box to Daphne before unbuttoning her coat. ‘That’s for Una.’

‘You look nice,’ Daphne tells her. She’s wearing make-up: when does Mo ever wear make-up? Awful blue eye shadow, lipstick, foundation. Amateurishly applied, the foundation too dark for Mo’s skin tone – but still making an effort, presumably for Una. And no Una here to appreciate it.

She takes the coat from Mo and hangs it on the hallstand. It’s olive green, with a half-belt and a line of brass buttons. It’s all wrong on Mo – the hemline hits her mid-calf, swamping her tiny frame, and the colour washes the warmth from her face – but it’s still the smartest thing she owns, and one of the few items of clothing that didn’t come via the charity shop.

Beneath the coat she wears black trousers and a powder blue cardigan buttoned to the neck, and for once she’s swapped the trainers for a pair of black lace-up shoes. The pearls have come out too, the ones Leo bought her for their thirtieth anniversary – definitely gone to some trouble for this evening. What will she say when she hears Una has decided not to show up?

Daphne leads the way into the kitchen, biding her time. She places the silver box on the worktop and opens a press. ‘The dinner will be a bit later than advertised – I was delayed getting home. You’ll have a drop of sherry.’

Mo isn’t much of a drinker. According to Finn, she first tasted alcohol nine years ago, at the age of sixty-six. Since then
she’s never ventured beyond a small sweet sherry, or a very occasional Baileys.

‘Where’s Una? She dolling herself up?’

Daphne fills two glasses, hands one to Mo. Here goes. ‘I’m afraid Una’s not eating with us – I got a text a while ago.’

Mo frowns. ‘What do you mean, not eating with us? Why not?’

‘… I think she just couldn’t face it.’
Please don’t turn this into a battle
, she begs silently. The last thing she needs tonight.

‘Face what? Isn’t it her birthday? Didn’t you tell her I was coming?’

‘Mo, I think she decided it would be too hard to celebrate – under the circumstances.’

‘Rubbish! Who said anything about celebrating? It’s just dinner and a cake – it’s not as if we’re planning to pop open the champagne.’

‘Mo, it’s her
birthday
, and she’s—’

‘Where is she? Or did she bother telling you that?’

‘She’s in Ciara’s house. She’s eating with them.’

Mo snorts. ‘Eating with
them
– does she think this is easy for any of us?’

She raises her glass, and Daphne bites back a sharp retort as she sees the tremor in the arthritic hand. Suffering every bit as much as Daphne and Una today, missing Finn just as acutely as they do – and missing Leo too, of course.

She searches for words of comfort, and finds none. ‘What kind of a day had you?’ she asks instead.

Mo flicks the question away with a toss of her head. ‘The
usual,’ she says curtly. ‘Same day I always have. Same old ding dong.’

Where do you go from there? Daphne sets down her glass and fills a saucepan with water. She breaks the broccoli into florets and puts two dinner plates into the warming drawer, conscious of the charged silence in the room. She checks on the chicken; few more minutes.

‘At least the rain has stopped,’ she says. ‘And the dinner should be good, even if it’s only the two of us eating it.’

No response. Going to be a long evening.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Mo says.

They’re well into the meal, almost finished it, and an uncharacteristic second sherry has gone some way towards softening her humour. All the same, the words trigger a small alarm bell in Daphne’s head: her mother-in-law’s thinking could go anywhere.

‘It’s about the shop,’ Mo goes on, laying down her fork. She’s left a small chunk of roast potato still impaled on a prong. ‘We need to sort something out.’

The shop. The bicycle shop, she must mean. Two Wheels Good, owned equally by both women since Finn’s death. Lord, what now?

‘I think,’ Mo says, watching Daphne’s face carefully, ‘that you – well, that we – should do something with it.’

The alarm bell grows shriller. Daphne’s grip tightens on her cutlery. ‘Do something with it? You mean … sell it?’

‘No, I do not mean sell it,’ Mo says steadily. ‘I mean open it up again.’

‘Open it up? Who?’

‘You and me,’ Mo says tartly. ‘The two of us. Who else?’

She has to be joking. She doesn’t look like she’s joking. Her mother-in-law is not known for her sense of humour.

‘Mo,’ Daphne begins carefully, ‘are you seriously suggesting that we reopen the bike shop?’

‘It wouldn’t have to be bikes,’ Mo says. ‘It could be anything. Toys, or … a grocery shop. I don’t know, I haven’t worked that out.’

Toys. Her and Mo in a toy shop. The two of them behind the counter, surrounded by dolls and tubs of Lego and inflatable paddling pools. The idea is so ludicrous that Daphne would be tempted to laugh out loud if laughter was remotely on the agenda, which it isn’t.

Instead she settles on the most obvious objection. ‘Mo,’ she says, in the same cautious tone, ‘I already have a job.’

Mo nods grimly. ‘You have, yes. And exactly how many houses have you sold in the past year?’

Daphne frowns. ‘What? I don’t see how that has anything—’

‘You’re an estate agent, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I am, but—’

‘Estate agents sell houses. I’m asking how many you’ve sold in the past year. A dozen?’

‘Mo, it doesn’t work like—’

‘Six? Have you sold six?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, if you’d let me get a—’

‘It’s none, isn’t it? You haven’t sold a single house in the past year, have you?’

Daphne glares at her, feeling her face flush with anger. ‘It’s not as simple as that. You have no right—’

‘I’m just saying that maybe it’s time to make a change.’

‘
What?
But I don’t
want
a—’

‘And one thing you could do, one thing the two of us could do, is open up some kind of a shop. It makes perfect sense.’

‘How can you even—’

‘We already have the premises, and you have the compensation money to invest in stock. It’s the obvious thing to do.’

Daphne looks at her in fresh disbelief. ‘Mo, you
know
I said I’d never touch that money.’

Mo waves an impatient hand. ‘For God’s sake, what good is it to anyone gathering dust in a bank? It should be
used
, and this is the obvious thing to do with it.’

The woman is insufferable. Daphne is rapidly running out of patience. ‘Look, even if I wanted another job, which I don’t, the last thing I’d look for is—’

‘But are you
happy
?’ Pushing her plate aside, planting her forearms on the table. ‘Are you
happy
?’ she repeats, staring fixedly at her daughter-in-law.

The question stops Daphne dead. Has the woman lost her wits? ‘Happy? Of
course
I’m not happy. I’m heartbroken. How can you possibly—’