Two Fridays in April (9 page)

Mo shakes her head impatiently. ‘I don’t mean
that
. I mean are you happy in your work?’

‘As happy as I can be right now, yes. I
love
my job.’

A short silence falls. They hold one another’s gaze across the table, a few feet and a million miles apart, the remains of the meal nobody really wanted sitting between them. What a day, what a wretched, miserable day – but at least it’s nearly over.

‘Look,’ Daphne says finally, ‘I appreciate that you don’t like seeing the shop shut up. Neither do I – but your idea makes no sense. It’s one thing if
you
want to reopen it – maybe you could find people to staff it for you – but the idea of
me
being involved is absurd. I don’t know the first thing about running a shop.’
And the last person I would choose to work with is you
.

Mo gives a snort. ‘What’s to know, apart from stocking it and keeping the accounts right and being pleasant to people?’

‘It can’t possibly be that—’

‘Anyway, you’d have to be involved – how would we afford it otherwise? And as for bringing strangers in, you can forget about that. I’d do the books, obviously – and you’d be well able to deal with the customers, if you’d only pull yourself together.’

Pull yourself together
– possibly the most infuriating and useless phrase in the English language. As if Daphne could decide to send her grief packing, dust herself down and move on, just like that. The injustice, the heartlessness of it stings her far more than Mo’s earlier cross-examination. The last of her patience flies out the window.

‘For your information,’ she says levelly, ‘I’m still in mourning for your son, so pulling myself together isn’t exactly an option right now. You may have got over his death, but I haven’t.’

Mo’s face stiffens, and Daphne is instantly remorseful. What
a horrible thing to say, like verbally slapping her. No call for that; no call, whatever the provocation.

‘Mo, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—’

And again, Mo breaks in. ‘Now you listen to me,’ she says sharply, finger jabbing on the table, swollen knuckles rising like hillocks. ‘Just you listen to me for one minute. I
know
your heart is still broken, and mine is too, believe it or not – but do you think that’s going to go away all by itself? You think you’re going to magically wake up one day and not feel sad any more? You think
time
will heal you? Get some sense.’

‘But I can’t just
fix
myself – I just can’t! I don’t know how you expect me to do that.’

‘You need to get some
purpose
into your life again,’ Mo insists, still prodding the table. ‘You need something that’ll pull you out of the rut you’ve been in for the past year. We both need that. And even if you hate the thought of spending the money you got, it’s giving you the chance to do just that. At least say you’ll think about it.’

But everything in Daphne revolts against the idea. Pack in a job she’s perfectly happy with to jump into the great unknown? Burn her bridges to risk falling flat on her face and end up with nothing at all, not to mention using the money she’d sworn she’d never touch? Working side by side with
Mo
, day after day? Out of the question.

She’s been at Donnelly’s for sixteen years: it’s the only job she’s ever had. Mr Donnelly is like a second father to her. And it’s true she hasn’t sold anything lately – well, for quite some time – but that’s the swings-and-roundabouts nature of the estate-agency business, nothing to do with her.

What part of this whole hare-brained scheme could Mo possibly think would work? She’s nothing more than a delusional old woman, trying to bully Daphne into going along with it.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says firmly, ‘but I’m just not interested. It’s not going to happen.’

Mo regards her angrily. ‘You won’t
let
it happen, you mean. You won’t even think about it.’

‘That’s right. I won’t.’

And as they regard one another in a defeated, furious silence, Daphne’s phone rings, cutting shrilly into the tension. She picks it up, sees her mother’s name.

‘I have to take this,’ she says curtly, getting to her feet. A conversation with Isobel is the last thing she feels like having right now, but it gives her a chance to escape. She leaves the room and closes the kitchen door, pressing the answer key as she walks upstairs.

‘Daphne,’ her mother says, ‘how are you feeling?’

‘My car was stolen,’ Daphne tells her.

Give them something to talk about.

At almost half past nine there’s still no sign of Una. ‘Ring her,’ Mo says, refilling their three teacups, placing a second slice of cake on Daphne’s father’s plate.

‘You’re trying to fatten me up,’ he says.

‘I am indeed. Someone has to.’

They enjoy one another’s company, always have. He has the knack of softening Mo’s edges, however he does it.

‘Give Una a ring,’ she repeats, so Daphne calls the girl’s mobile again, and for the second time that evening she gets only her voicemail message.

‘Just wondering if you’ll be home soon,’ she says. ‘Jack and Mo are here, we’re having cake. We’d love to see you.’

The cake has been resurrected. It was sitting on a plate in the middle of the table when Daphne returned to the kitchen after her phone conversation with her mother. She stared at it.

Mo was doing the washing-up. ‘See what I found,’ she said, without turning from the sink.

‘You took it out of the bin.’

‘It was in a box. It’s fine.’ Her head swung around then, a bundle of dripping cutlery held in her rubber-gloved hand. ‘What I’m wondering,’ she said mildly, ‘is how it ended up there.’

Daphne slipped her phone back into her bag. At least their earlier argument seemed to have been put aside. ‘It seemed a bit … pointless, when Una wasn’t coming home to eat it.’

‘So you just threw it in the bin. Even though there wasn’t anything wrong with it.’ But her voice held none of its earlier sharpness; she wasn’t on the attack any more.

Daphne took the tea towel from its hook. ‘I shouldn’t have binned it, I know that. I was tired, and … upset. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

Mo set the cutlery on the draining board, peeled off the gloves. ‘And I’m wondering what became of the one you ordered. I’m assuming this isn’t it.’

‘No, of course not – this one was four euro in Mulligan’s. I never got to collect the other one.’ She paused. ‘I had other
things on my mind,’ she said. As briefly as she could, she recounted the events of the afternoon.

Mo was horrified. ‘Your car was
stolen
? Why didn’t you tell me? What did the guards say?’

‘That it will probably turn up, but it might well be crashed or burnt out.’

‘God above.’ Mo lowered herself stiffly into a chair, looking suddenly old and defeated. Looking every bit of her seventy-five years.

Daphne dropped the damp tea towel onto the draining board and sat next to her. ‘Mo, would you collect the other cake tomorrow and bring it to the charity shop for the tea break? It’s already paid for and I’d hate it to go to waste.’

Mo looked doubtful. ‘I’d have to give you something for it.’

If she knew how much it had cost, she’d faint. ‘No need, I don’t want money.’ Before they could say any more about it the doorbell rang and it was Daphne’s father, so they made tea and cut the pink cake and waited for Una.

And now it’s nearly half nine, and still no sign of her.

‘Who did you say she’s with?’ Mo asks.

‘Ciara, one of her friends.’

‘Have you a number for her, or an address?’

‘No.’

After a year, Daphne can hardly recall what Ciara looks like – long auburn hair is all she can picture. It hits her that she has no way of getting in touch with Una, apart from a mobile phone that’s proving useless. For the first time she feels a tiny twitch of apprehension. What if Una doesn’t show up, and continues to ignore her phone? What then?

‘What’s Ciara’s surname?’ Jack asks. ‘We could look them up in the phone book’ – but again Daphne draws a blank.

‘I don’t remember ever hearing it,’ she replies, knowing how pathetic it must sound to them. Una’s best friend, and she doesn’t even know her last name.

Finn knew it, of course. He knew where Ciara lived too – he’d often been at her house, either dropping her home or collecting Una from there. But Daphne had never thought to look for that information while he was alive, never imagined she’d need it.

It strikes her suddenly that she must have met Ciara’s parents: they would certainly have come to Finn’s funeral. They would have lined up and shaken her hand like everyone else; they might even have called to the house in those first nightmarish days – but her memories of that time are blessedly indistinct, all the hushed voices and clasped hands and bowed heads blurring together.

‘What about the school principal?’ her father suggests. ‘They’d be able to tell you the surname, and maybe they’d know the address too.’

‘The principal …’

For a few seconds her mind refuses to supply a name, or even a gender, for whoever is in charge at the comprehensive. No, she knows this – she’s been to events at the school, cake sales and parent-teacher meetings and end-of-term things. She
knows
this.

She racks her brain, aware of the other two looking expectantly at her, and finally remembers two Christmases ago, the school’s annual variety concert, Una singing carols with a few others. The principal introduced it, acted as MC for the
night – yes, a lanky, balding man in a tuxedo. Mr Dunphy – no, that’s not right. And then all of a sudden it’s there: Dunworth. John, or maybe Joseph, Dunworth.

It takes her three phone calls to locate him. A woman answers on the fifth ring.

‘Who will I say is calling?’ she asks, and when Daphne gives her name she goes off without further enquiry – resigned, maybe, to his being pestered by parents when he’s off duty.

The principal pretends to remember her when he comes to the phone, although she doubts that he could. Did
he
attend Finn’s funeral? She has no idea. If he’s annoyed at being contacted outside school hours he gives no sign. He tells her immediately that Ciara’s last name is O’Mahony, and that she lives on Morefield Terrace. A few hundred students in his care: can he possibly know where every one of them lives?

‘I don’t know the house number – all that information is at the school – but you should be able to find them in the phone book,’ he says. ‘Call me back if you have any problems.’

Daphne thanks him and hangs up. What must he think of her, not having contact details for Una’s friends? It’s probably one of the most basic rules of parenting.

For the second time she searches the phone book while Mo continues to try Una’s mobile – and there the O’Mahonys are as promised, on Morefield Terrace. Daphne dials the number, wondering how Una will react to being checked up on. Her own fault for ignoring her phone, but she might still—

‘Hello?’ A man’s voice.

‘Mr O’Mahony?’ She hasn’t a clue what his first name is, only that his initial is B.

‘Speaking.’

‘Daphne Darling here, Una’s stepmother. I was just—’

‘Ah, Daphne – hello there. Everything all right?’ From his tone they might have met yesterday.

‘I just wanted a word with Una. I’ve tried her mobile a few times, but she’s not answering.’

Pause. ‘Una? I don’t think— Hang on there a sec, Daphne, would you?’ She hears the receiver being laid down, a distant exchange. She waits.

‘Is she there?’ Mo asks.

Daphne nods. ‘He’s getting her now.’

‘Hello?’ But it’s not Una, it’s a different female voice. ‘Mrs Darling? It’s Ciara – Una’s not here.’

‘Oh – she’s left already? But she said your father was driving her home.’

‘Um … Una hasn’t been here today, Mrs Darling.’

‘Not
there
? Didn’t she have dinner with you?’

‘Um … no.’ Her voice filled with uncertainty now. ‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday.’

‘What?’ The conversation is making less and less sense to Daphne. She feels the tension of the afternoon returning, prickling her skin, tightening her jaw. She’s aware of the other two listening intently. ‘What are you talking about? Weren’t you at school today?’

‘Yes, but Una wasn’t.’

‘Of course she was. She was definitely there – I dropped her off myself.’

‘Um …’

‘Are you in different classrooms?’

‘Well, only when we split up for science and stuff – but we’re in the same room for most things.’

‘And you didn’t see her at all?’

‘No. I know it’s her birthday and … stuff, so I thought she just … stayed home today.’

Daphne tries to make sense of it. Ciara didn’t see her at school, but Una
was
there. She must have skipped some classes, maybe couldn’t face meeting her friends today, which is probably understandable – but where did she go, and who was she with?

Suddenly a light dawns: she’s not the right Ciara. Una must have two friends with the same name. There’s nothing wrong, it’s just a simple misunderstanding.

‘Is there another Ciara? I mean, has Una got another friend called Ciara?’