City Girl (44 page)

Well one thing was for sure, from now on
she
would be number one. No longer putting others first as before. From now on Maggie Ryan would do exactly what she wanted to, when and where
she wanted to. She would love and raise her children but, by God, she’d teach them to be independent of people. Never would they be hurt as she had been – not if she could help it.

‘Love many; trust few; always paddle your own canoe,’ her mother had advised after Marian rejected her. She should have learned her lesson then. But not Maggie, too generous, and
trusting and loving. That was her problem, always believing the best of people. But it was a failing she would guard against in the future and her children would learn from her. This she swore as
she drove towards Devlin’s grey graffiti-decorated tower block.

Devlin had listened to her sad and sorry tale, eyes wide with dismayed shock. ‘Is Terry crazy?’ she blurted out. Maggie burst out crying. Devlin said nothing else, just put her arms
around her friend and let her cry.

‘God, I haven’t cried for years!’ she gulped when it was over.

‘Just as well,’ Devlin smiled, ‘’cos it was a real Niagara and I’m drenched.’ In spite of herself Maggie laughed as she hugged her friend. ‘Thanks, Dev,
for letting me stay and for letting me bawl all over you and, most of all, for being there.’

‘Listen!’ said Devlin firmly. ‘Don’t give it a second thought! You’ve always been there for me and I’m more than glad to do the same for you. That’s
what being friends is all about. I just wish the circumstances were different.’

Maggie stared at the slender young woman beside her. How different from the frivolous girl she had first known. Devlin had matured so much since her pregnancy. They had become much closer since
they had returned to Dublin, sharing the joys and traumas of motherhood. It was to Devlin that she had instinctively turned in her time of need and as her friend fussed around making tea and toast
she realized that Devlin was a far better friend to her than Marian Gilhooley had ever been. There was a steady integrity about Devlin and Maggie knew without a doubt that she could rely on her for
anything. The thought comforted her. It was during the bad times that you found out who your real friends were and these were bad times!

Later, they went shopping as Devlin hadn’t been expecting visitors and after they had gone back to the flat and Devlin had put the baby to bed, Maggie found herself starting to relax. It
was strange not to have to rush out to the kitchen to get a meal for Terry and not to have the twins to watch out for. What was Terry doing now? Was he with Ria? Would she ever learn to trust him
again? Did she want to stay married to him? Maggie swallowed the lump that was in her throat. Devlin was putting fresh sheets on the bed and she was alone in the shabby but spotless lounge.

To break up a marriage was a serious thing. Would she cope with two children and another on the way if she decided to leave Terry? Suddenly, she felt lonely for the twins. How were they getting
on down with their grandmother? Michael had forgotten his favourite Teddy so he wouldn’t be able to go to sleep. And Michelle? Maggie smiled as she thought of her precious little daughter.
Always the one to get into mischief first, she was going to grow up exactly like her mother!

Devlin came back into the room, took one look at her friend’s exhausted face and packed her off to bed. Maggie felt bad about taking Devlin’s bed but her friend had insisted.
‘For goodness sakes, Maggs, make the most of the weekend. Get as much rest and sleep as you can – you look as though you need it!’

It was ironic. For the first time since the birth of her babies Maggie had time to herself, time to be alone, time to sleep, but her mind kept exploding with memories of the day’s events.
Just before dawn she stood at the bedroom window and watched a jet gliding gently down on its approach to the airport. It seemed so near that she felt she could reach out and touch it. The
twinkling lights disappeared from her sight and she heard the subdued roar of its landing. Silence had descended truce-like after the noisy battles of the day on the vast estate, its tower blocks
reminding her a little of New York. Below and above her the lights of Ballymun shimmered and glittered in a losing battle against the glimmering dawn of the eastern sky.

There was so much hardship here it was unbelievable. She took so much for granted. Devlin had told her that sixty-one per cent of its population was unemployed. She had seen the queues of men in
the local supermarket doing the shopping. Some of them looked so hopeless and despairing her heart had gone out to them. Even shopping with Devlin had been an eye-opener. Devlin had selected the
cheapest brands of every item she had to buy. Coffee was a thing of the past, she confided matter-of-factly, as she purchased special offer teabags and Maggie, knowing better than to offer to buy
some, had begun to realize how unaware she was of the poverty that existed in her own city.

As she stood staring out of Devlin’s high-rise window she reflected a little ashamedly that she was one of the lucky ones. So her husband had cheated on her! So a friend had let her down
in the past! How trivial these problems might seem to many of the people here who were living in grinding poverty with no future to look forward to. At least Maggie knew she could go back to work
if she had to. If she left Terry she’d manage – of that there was no doubt!

‘Make the most of what you’ve got and stop whingeing, Maggie!’ she murmured, easing her pregnant bulk into bed and snuggling down into its comfortable warmth. Minutes later she
was asleep. Around midday, having slept soundly for the first time in almost two years, Maggie woke to find Devlin grinning at her, a tray in her hands.

‘You’d better give that child inside you some nourishment,’ her friend smiled warmly. Maggie gave a catlike stretch and an appreciative sniff. Her morning sickness had not
lingered beyond three months in this pregnancy and she was hungry. Her eyes surveyed the attractive breakfast on the tray before her.

‘It’s a “Cruiser Breakfast”,’ Devlin grinned.

Maggie grinned back at Devlin’s reference to a holiday Caroline, Devlin and she had taken – a cruise on the Shannon – the year before she got married. It had been a fantastic
holiday. The three of them had hired a luxury cruiser for the week and sailed from Banagher to Clonmacnoise and then up to Athlone, across Lough Ree and up to Dromod. They had had a ball. The
weather had been terrific and at times they had felt they were on the Mediterranean, passing little islands in the lakes, with the sun shimmering and glittering on the water. They had read and
fished and giggled and ate. And at night they would pull into a riverside berth, join up with other cruisers and have barbecues and sing-songs until the early hours. The only thing was, they were
eating like horses, the healthy fresh river air giving them enormous appetites.

Each morning whoever was on cooks for the day would serve juice, cereal, tea, toast, rashers, sausages, mushrooms, puddings, and crispy fried bread. Having polished off this repast they would
then attack the ‘Sin bag,’ so called because in it reposed occasions of sin, most injurious to the figure. Yorkies, Crunchies, Twixes, Flakes. The ‘Sin bag’ was replenished
at every riverside stop . . . and was never empty. All three of them had returned to Dublin half a stone heavier!

Maggie smiled at the wonderful memory. ‘That was a great holiday, wasn’t it? We were all so young and carefree and untroubled.’

‘The best ever! We’ll do it again some time!’ Devlin agreed, plumping up a pillow at Maggie’s back. Maggie surveyed the loaded tray.

God! Devlin must have spent a fortune. Honestly, she was the best in the world.

‘Eat up, Maggie,’ Devlin admonished her. ‘It’s great having you here. It’s just like old times!’

They spent a lovely day together. They went into town and rambled around the shops, not looking for anything in particular, just enjoying the freedom of having time together. On their way back
to Ballymun, Devlin asked Maggie to stop at the library so she could get some books for the rest of the weekend. As she made her selection, Maggie strolled around the impressive single-storeyed
building with eyes wide. Libraries had certainly changed since she was a child, she mused, as she observed scores of children painting, playing chess and Scrabble, or just reading in the brightly
decorated airy children’s section. As she studied a large well-filled notice board displaying information on a variety of subjects, she thought that maybe when Michelle and Michael were older
she would enrol them. She noticed a door that was marked ‘Community Information Centre.’ If she decided to leave Terry she’d need the services of such a centre. What on earth
would her entitlements be? Fishing in her bag, she took down the times of opening and noted with surprise that the Centre held free legal and financial advice sessions as well. It was good to know
such services existed. Then another notice caught her eye.

‘Would you like to write? Join our Writer’s group!’ Well that was an idea! The memory of a half-written novel came to mind. She should take up her writing again. A
writer’s workshop would be a great outside interest. She was too consumed with her children and the home. It was time she started discovering her own identity again.

‘Ballymun has a nice library,’ she remarked to Devlin as they drove to the flat in the light drizzling rain.

‘I’d be lost without it!’ Devlin replied frankly. ‘I can go there to borrow a painting, cassettes, magazines, books and I can read the papers too, all for nothing. But
Mollie says that because of the cutbacks the services provided have gone down badly; and you could see for yourself the staff on the desks are run off their feet. Did you see that gang of kids?
Imagine having to put up with that all day? The kids here love the library but I suppose they’ll start charging eventually and for the likes of me and them, that will be disastrous. Believe
me Maggie I’m an expert on free entertainment and you won’t get much better than this.’

‘Don’t you ever feel bitter?’ Maggie asked, sometimes wondering how Devlin, who had had so much, could cope so well with living on the breadline. It annoyed Maggie sometimes,
because she felt that if Devlin wasn’t so stubborn about letting her father and Kate help her, she could have been out of Ballymun long ago. She was going to say it to her too some day.

Devlin grimaced. ‘Maggie, sometimes I wake up cursing the day I was born. But,’ she shrugged her shoulders, ‘it’s a mess of my own making. Things could be much worse. I
have a beautiful daughter, good friends, an independence of sorts and a roof over my head, and I’ll get out of here some day.’

You can say that again, if Kate and I have anything to do with it, Maggie thought to herself. She insisted on buying a steak for each of them for dinner plus a bottle of sparkling wine.
‘My treat!’ she said in tones that brooked no argument. She cooked a delicious meal and they enjoyed every morsel. By now there was a full blown gale outside. Yesterday’s sun was
a memory, and as the rain lashed against the windows, they sat mellowed by wine, giggling at memories of the good times in the past.

That night Maggie went to bed early and slept like a log. She took her leave of Devlin the following day, refreshed in body, determined in mind. She was going to change her life too, she told
herself firmly, as she drove along the rainwashed leafy back roads to Castleknock.

She stopped off at a newsagents to buy some chocolate for her craving hormones and the heading of an article in a magazine caught her eye: ‘See your Novel in Print!’ She smiled
wryly, remembering the novel started in Saudi. God knows she had enough experience of life there and in the States to write about, and what about Terry and Ria? Maggie grimaced. No Jackie Collins
novel had quite prepared her for the shock of finding her husband with another woman. Picking up the magazine, she bought a box of Milk Tray as well. Let Terry go and pick up the children in
Wicklow.
She
was going to read her magazine and eat chocolates for the afternoon, she decided. A subdued and abashed Terry agreed to her cool suggestion that he collect the children and
when he was gone she settled down to enjoy her afternoon of lazy solitude. When Terry returned with the children, there was no meal ready for him, and so he had put the twins to bed and for the
first time she could remember, her husband had cooked dinner.

That night she told him to move in to the guest room, and seeing the expression in her eyes, he didn’t argue. There he would stay, she decided, until she was ready to forgive him. That was
if she ever forgave him. It had been his choice to play around, she was making her choice now. The following morning before her husband went to work, Maggie informed him that she was going to
employ a woman to come every Friday and take care of the twins and do some housework. From now on Fridays were going to be hers completely. Terry was too taken aback at her determined attitude to
protest and when he came home from work and found his dinner not ready, the twins playing with her knitting and Maggie tapping inexpertly but enthusiastically on a new portable typewriter, she
could see from the expression on his face that Terry felt that his carefully ordered existence had collapsed!

Thirty-four

For months Maggie worked on The Novel. Her diary had sown the seeds when she had been in Saudi and although it had been a long time since she had read what she had written
there in that hot dusty country, her pulse had quickened with excitement as ideas began to form and she started to write again.

She would enter the competition in the magazine and see how she got on. Maybe she would win and see her novel in print. What a thought! She decided to base her story on the lives of three wives
of very different backgrounds who find themselves becoming friends in the claustrophobic setting of a foreign compound in Saudi. Smiling to herself one day she prepared to introduce a new
character.

‘Ira Kingston was the kind of woman who wore
Poison.
And it suited her!’ she had written. Maggie knew
precisely
who the bitch in the story would be modelled on.