Something in Common (36 page)

His voice was so low and calm he might as well have been giving her the weather forecast. ‘Unfortunately, she’s never accepted the diagnosis, and tries periodically to do without her medication: not a good idea. She’s also an alcoholic who won’t admit it, which, as you can imagine, doesn’t improve the situation.’

He stopped, still watching her face. Helen looked back at him, aghast. Why was he telling her all this? Did he imagine one brandy gave him the right to throw his problems into her lap? What did he expect, that she’d pat his shoulder and say, ‘There there’?

‘Tell me to fuck off,’ he said then, in the same toneless voice. ‘You look like you want to.’

Helen let out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. ‘Why are you telling me this? I mean, why are you telling
me?
’

He turned his head, looked towards the fire. ‘Maybe you were handy, and I felt like sharing. Maybe because I knew you wouldn’t feed me crap, like “Things will get better.”’

And to her dismay, Helen realised that she felt some sympathy for him. If his story were true – and why would she doubt it? – he’d remained with a wife who, by the sound of it, needed round-the-clock care. He’d lived for years in a situation that a lot of people would have walked away from. Whatever else you could say about him, he hadn’t walked away.

Thirty years ago she’d been diagnosed, presumably after they were married. He’d lived with it for thirty years.

That was why he’d given up his job, it must be. He’d loved being an editor – any fool could have seen how perfectly the job had fitted him. He’d been good at it, he’d been quick and sharp and fair, and whatever about their clashes, Helen had respected him for it.

She remembered
suddenly asking him, the time they’d met in hospital, how he was enjoying retirement. ‘It’s Hell,’ he’d said, or words to that effect. She remembered the thin woman walking beside him in the street. Bi-polar, and an alcoholic who refused to acknowledge it.

Little wonder he was cranky.

And desperate, if she was the only one he could find to talk to. As she hunted for something to say – what the hell could she say? – he drained his glass and got to his feet.

‘You’ll run a mile next time you spot me,’ he said, folding his coat over his arm. ‘Sorry about that – you just happened to be in the wrong place, nothing personal. I’ll leave you in peace now. Have a good Christmas, O’Dowd. Tell Alice I said hello.’

‘Do you want a lift somewhere?’ she asked – but he shook his head and lifted a hand and strode from the room, depositing his glass on the counter as he passed, nodding farewell to the barman.

Helen sat on, cradling what was left of her brandy, imagining the Christmas they would have. No mention of children, probably just the two of them sitting across the table from one another. Trying to make conversation, or maybe not bothering.

What could Helen have done? What help could she possibly be to him? He wasn’t looking for help: he was like her, determined to solve his own problems. He’d needed an ear and she’d been there, that was all. But of all the people he might have chosen to confide in, it had to have been her. And of all days, with her mother’s earlier news still sitting uneasily in her head.

She looked around the quiet, warm room. Tempting to stay there for a few hours, downing the brandies and getting quietly sozzled; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had too much to drink. She could phone Frank from Reception: he’d come and pour her into his van and bring her home. He wouldn’t approve, sensible Frank, but he’d know better than to say it.

Breen could do with having a few too many drinks, forgetting his troubles for a night. He looked like he hadn’t a clue how to be happy.

She finished
her drink and got to her feet – no fun in getting drunk alone. As she put on her coat, she saw Breen’s books on the floor. She stooped and picked them up: Gore Vidal and Kingsley Amis, which didn’t surprise her in the least. She opened the Vidal and saw that it belonged to a library a couple of miles away, and was due back in a few days. Must have been on his way to return them when he’d met her, taking the scenic route to the library maybe, spinning out time until he had to go home.

She could drop them back; she could do that at least. She left a note for him at the reception desk, in case he came looking for them.

Outside a breeze was whipping up, the daylight almost completely gone. She scanned the dusky street in both directions but there was no sign of him. She got into her car and turned the heater on full blast, the taste of his brandy still in her mouth, and
headed for home.

‘Y
ou could come here for dinner,’ she said. ‘You and Nuala, I mean.’

She saw the surprise bloom in his face. ‘Are you sure about that? I know my mother would love it.’

‘We missed her last year.’

She didn’t say anything about missing him. She didn’t tell him how miserable she’d been, how she’d sobbed her way through the cooking of Christmas lunch for the handful of nursing-home residents who hadn’t had anyone to take them in, how she’d cycled home afterwards, still in tears, to cook another turkey for her father and the children. They’d been invited to Christine’s for dinner but Sarah had refused, unable to face putting on an act all evening.

She made no mention of the effort it had taken to seem happy in front of the children as she’d opened her presents and pulled crackers, the terrible absence of Neil shouting out at her, how she’d tried not to think about him being with Noreen instead of with his family, but how it had been all she could think of.

She wondered if he remembered that she hadn’t gone to the phone when he’d rung later that evening to wish the children a happy Christmas. She’d been terrified that his voice would cause more tears after the river she’d cried earlier.

‘I’ve
offered to do lunch at the nursing home again,’ she told him, ‘but I’ll be home by three at the latest. You could come around half past. You could be there when the children are opening their presents.’

‘We’d love that,’ Neil said. ‘Thank you, Sarah.’

She walked away from the car, conscious of his eyes on her. Nothing had changed: he was still taking the children on Saturday afternoons, and every other weekend they stayed the night with him and Nuala, and he phoned them just after dinner each weekday evening. Sarah wasn’t offering any more; he wasn’t asking for it. They spoke for a few minutes when he returned the children, that was all.

But where was the harm in inviting him and his mother to Christmas dinner? He was still the father of two children: he had a right and an obligation to be involved in their lives. And Nuala, who was innocent of any wrongdoing, certainly deserved to see her grandchildren on Christmas Day.

‘You’re mad,’ Christine said. ‘You let him back in and he’ll turn around and do the same in three or four years’ time.’

‘I’m not letting him back in, I’m just having him to dinner. His mother is Martha and Stephen’s granny. She deserves to be there, and I couldn’t very well ask her without asking him.’

‘Dad won’t like it. He mightn’t even go.’

‘Well then,’ Sarah replied lightly, ‘he can go to you.’

Christine’s sigh travelled down the phone line. ‘Look, I’m sorry – it’s just that I’m afraid you’ll get hurt again.’

‘I know, you keep telling me that … By the way, I’ve got a date for the driving test, Thursday week. Third time lucky, hopefully.’

And the subject of Neil and Christmas dinner was dropped, and not raised again during the conversation.

Her father, not surprisingly, was circumspect when he heard. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ he asked. ‘Are you certain you want to do this?’

‘I’m
certain. The children would love it, and I know Nuala would want to come.’

He made no response.

‘You’re OK with it, aren’t you?’

The only time her family had been in the same room with Neil since his departure had been at the children’s birthday parties, during which they’d studiously avoided any contact with him for the hour or so that he’d stayed. But this would be different, with her father and Neil thrown together for several hours, sitting around the same dinner table, opening presents with the children, making conversation before dinner.

‘If you’d prefer to go to Christine’s I’ll understand,’ Sarah said, ‘but I’d love you to be here – and so would the children.’

‘I’ll come, of course I will,’ her father replied. ‘And I’ll do my best not to challenge him to a duel.’

She smiled at the idea of her eighty-two-year-old father standing back to back with Neil, six foot two and fifteen stone. ‘Thanks, Dad – you’re a pet.’

It was for the children. Christmas was all about families; they deserved to have both parents there. But lying in bed at night, safe in the darkness and silence of her room, she allowed herself to acknowledge that she wanted it too.

***