The Art of Friendship (37 page)

Eventually Janice spoke. ‘Do you think we can be friends again, Patsy?’ She looked into the other woman’s face.

Patsy smiled. ‘Of course we’re friends. As best as we ever were.’

‘You will all be happy again, I promise.’

Patsy looked at the floor. ‘I hope you will be too, Janice.’

Janice shrugged. ‘I’m as happy now as I ever was, I think. I can’t ask for more than that.’

‘I’m sorry for banging on about my family’s woes. Everyone,’ said Patsy, turning her gaze on Janice, ‘has problems.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with crying over someone you love, Patsy.’

Patsy sniffed. ‘I’ve been uptight about Martin too.’

‘Still no sign of a job, then?’

Patsy shook her head. ‘We’ve used all our savings now. Martin sold his car and we used the money to pay off credit cards and loans. We’ve calculated that if we cut back on everything but absolute essentials, we can manage on what I make from the gallery, for a few months anyway. Martin’s been a great help in getting the shop ready – you know we’re going to open a coffee shop in the back, where the storeroom used to be?’

Janice nodded.

‘He’s worked like a Trojan. I’m very proud of him. If it takes off we might be able to save the gallery. But we’re hoping it won’t come to that.’

‘I hope so too,’ said Janice glumly. ‘When are you opening?’

‘In a fortnight.’

‘Can I come?’ asked Janice, smiling tentatively.

‘Of course you can, you silly cow!’ said Patsy, breaking into a smile and then she went on, serious again, ‘You know, after what’s happened to Laura and Martin, it’s made us
realise what’s important in life. The holidays and the lifestyle never made us happy. It was each other and our family that brought us the greatest joy. Sometimes you can lose sight of that. And it’s not like we’re living in abject poverty. Yes, we’ll have to tighten our belts but we’re not going to starve.’

Janice brushed away the tears that had slid unnoticed from her eyes. She wished that she could have the same relationship with her son that Patsy had with her daughters. She would’ve traded every penny she possessed for a close relationship with Pete.

‘What about you, Janice? What are you planning to do now Pete has gone? Have you ever thought about training to be a counsellor?’

‘What, me?’ Janice pressed her chest with the tips of her fingers.

‘You’re a survivor, Janice. You haven’t let what happened to you destroy your life. Your experience could help other girls in the same situation.’

‘Could it? You think so? I’d never considered that. I never thought I might have something to offer other people.’ The idea was so alien to Janice that it left her almost breathless. But Patsy was right. It made sense of sorts. Now that Pete was gone, she had even more time on her hands and nothing to do. Maybe it was time to give something back – and to give her life some direction. She felt colour rise to her cheeks. ‘Do you think I could actually make a difference?’

‘You might do more than make a difference, Janice. You might save someone.’

Janice grasped Patsy’s hands in hers. ‘It would be good to do that, wouldn’t it? And though it’s not a reason for doing it and it sounds awful selfish, I think focusing on other people’s problems would help me put mine in perspective.’

‘Indeed it would,’ said Patsy and she smiled and squeezed
Janice’s hand, and Janice realised then that this was the reason Patsy had suggested it in the first place.

It was the end of November and autumn was gracefully giving way, day by day, to the icy grip of winter. A biting north wind had stripped the trees of the last of their curled brown leaves and people’s thoughts were turning to all things Christmassy as an antidote to the long, dark winter ahead.

Four weeks had passed since the conversation with Janice, and Patsy couldn’t get it out of her head. She stood in the empty gallery early on a Saturday morning filled with revulsion and hate for Janice’s father. She couldn’t stop thinking about the awful, graphic images and sometimes she wished Janice had not told her, it haunted her so. She put her palms over her ears and closed her eyes.

But in other ways, she was glad. Glad that her friend had been able to entrust her with such an unbearable secret. Glad that she had been able to help and that her friendship with Janice had been restored. And glad too because Janice’s story had helped put Laura’s into perspective.

She opened her eyes and lowered her hands. Unlike Janice, Laura had willingly engaged in intercourse – and not for the first time. Laura had been able to abort her unwanted child – an option not open to Janice. Of course Pete behaved repre-hensibly but Laura, Patsy finally admitted to herself – the knowledge settling heavily in her stomach like an undigested Ulster Fry – had largely brought this tragedy upon herself.

This did not in any way diminish her grief at her daughter’s suffering. And she couldn’t get the notion out of her head that Laura had been somehow sullied, tainted in a way that could never be erased. Laura would be scarred by what had happened for the rest of her days in ways she was too young to understand now. Patsy bit her lip. If she married, would she, for example, tell her husband? Or would she keep her
past a secret for ever, like Janice had chosen to do? Patsy’s heart still ached for her unborn grandchild but she tried to console herself that they had done the right thing.

The door to the gallery burst open and Martin came in, carrying a black plastic bin bag in his arms. ‘That’s the rolls from the bakery,’ he said cheerfully, as he kicked the door shut with his foot. ‘You can’t get much fresher than that.’

Martin dumped the bag on the floor and unzipped his ski jacket. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a rugby shirt – a far cry from the smart suits and stiff-collared shirts he used to wear to the bank. ‘Bloody cold out there today.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Do you think we’re ready, then?’

‘As ready as we’re ever going to be,’ said Patsy and her stomach turned over. She put a hand on her belly, as nervous as a teenager at her first dance.

‘What time’s the photographer from the
Courier
coming?’ asked Martin. It had been his idea to organise an official opening – and thereby gain free publicity in the local paper.

‘Ten.’

Martin smiled at her, his face alive with excitement. ‘Come on, Come and look.’ He took her hand and led her over to the opening that led to what had once been the storeroom at the back of the shop. Except the door was gone and the room beyond wasn’t a storeroom any more. They stood there at the threshold and Patsy stared in amazement at what they had achieved.

With sheer hard work, determination and a combination of ingenuity and imagination, the space had been transformed into a quirky, homely café. The mismatched china and the second-hand pictures on the walls had all come from charity shops, glad to be rid of unwanted boxes of tat. Patsy had sewn the tablecloths from roll ends of fabric purchased
at the market and Martin had picked up the odd chairs at a second-hand auction.

There was a basket of dog-eared magazines on a sideboard under an old mirror in a chipped frame and tealights from IKEA on every table. Patsy’s eye was drawn upwards to the cupola. Years of grime and dirt had been washed away, flooding the room with natural light. An old Christmas tree they’d found in the attic was erected in the corner by the loo and colourful paper chains – made by Laura and Sarah, bless them – served as Christmas decorations.

Patsy looked at Martin and said, ‘It’s fantastic. I can’t believe what you’ve done.’

‘What
we’ve
done, Patsy,’ he said, putting his arm across her shoulder. ‘Us. A team. Together we can do anything, you know.’

She looked up into her husband’s face, and saw he was, like the sideboard he had rescued from a skip and painted cream, restored somehow. His face was just as lined and his hair still thinning on top, but in spirit he was a happier, more contented man.

An hour later the front room of the gallery was crammed to bursting. Patsy stood grinning at the camera, holding a big pair of orange-handled scissors with Martin at her side, his hands on her hands, their arms outstretched, the way they had once stood and pressed a blunt knife into their wedding cake. The camera flashed, the scissors sliced through the red ribbon tied across the doorway and everyone cheered.

‘I declare the Devlin Gallery and Café open,’ shouted Patsy with a flourish of the scissors above her head, and everyone cheered again.

‘Who’s ready for a cuppa?’ called Martin and the small crowd cried, ‘Yeah!’ and surged into the room next door. Janice, Kirsty and Clare, dressed to the nines, took a table
right in the middle of the room. They were giggling and laughing and looking around excitedly, pointing out things to each other and examining the menu cards propped up between the salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table.

Patsy went over with a little pad in one hand and a pen in the other, ready to take their order.

‘Oh, look at you,’ teased Janice, reaching out and touching the frilly hem of Patsy’s old-fashioned apron. ‘You look like Ma out of
Little House on the Prairie’.

Patsy, laughing, put her hands on her hips and said, ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘It is,’ said Clare seriously. ‘Ma was very pretty.’

‘This is just wonderful,’ said Kirsty, looking around. ‘I love the paper chains and these tablecloths are so pretty.’ She ran the flat of her palm over the seersucker checkered material. ‘Everything’s got a lovely homespun feel. There’s a phrase for it, isn’t there?’

‘Shabby chic!’ cried Janice.

‘Well, we’ve done our best,’ said Patsy modestly, delighted, and then turning to business said, ‘To celebrate our opening we’re offering every customer today a free cup of coffee. And the carrot cake’s on special offer. It’s to die for – I persuaded Mary Clark, Kirsty’s neighbour, to bake for me.’

‘Her baking’s fabulous,’ confirmed Kirsty. ‘She made a lovely chocolate cake for me last week.’

‘Was that because it was Scott’s anniversary?’ said Clare and the atmosphere shifted.

Kirsty nodded. ‘She’s so kind. She knew I was having Dorothy and Harry round. We had a nice meal and looked at photos and watched some old videos – and then we went up to the grave and left some flowers.’

No-one spoke and Patsy felt a lump in her throat.

‘That must’ve been very upsetting,’ observed Janice at last.

‘Funny enough,’ said Kirsty, quite matter-of-factly, ‘I’d been dreading it. But it wasn’t awful. Not like other years have been. There were tears, of course, and sadness, obviously.’ She paused, fingered the salt shaker in the middle of the table and went on. ‘But we laughed too and told funny stories about Scott and the boys loved it, talking about their dad.’

‘You do a great job of keeping his memory alive,’ Clare said and Kirsty gave her a small, almost secret smile.

‘Hey, Patsy,’ shouted Martin playfully across the heads of the customers. ‘Are you going to stand there gabbing all day? There’s people here dying of thirst!’

The crowd in the room roared with laughter and Patsy said, just as loudly as Martin, ‘Sure, you know that’s what I do best.’

And to her friends she said, her heart full of happiness, ‘No rest for the wicked, is there? Now what are you lot having?’

‘Just a coffee for me,’ said Janice as the others picked up the menus and looked at them. ‘I’ll have to make it snappy.’ She glanced at her watch.

‘Why’s that?’ said Clare, looking up.

‘I…eh…I have some business to attend to,’ said Janice mysteriously and there was something about the way she said it that even Clare had the wit not to press her further.

‘Well then, I’ll get that coffee right away while the others choose,’ said Patsy and she tottered off to the kitchen, beginning to wish she’d worn more sensible shoes and wondering what Janice was being so guarded about.

It was December, and Kirsty and David were waiting in the porch for Adam who had decided at the last moment, just before leaving the house, that he needed the toilet. Kirsty checked her watch – if he didn’t hurry up they would be late for school. She noted the date on her watch and a wave of excitement rippled through her. Chris would be home in less than a week’s time.

As if reading her mind, David said, ‘When are we going to see Chris again?’

‘Next week, darling. He’s coming home for Christmas.’

David picked up an unopened Christmas card that was lying on top of the meter box and examined the stamp. ‘You like him, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Do you?’

‘He’s okay,’ said David, without much conviction. ‘Do you miss him?’

‘Yes.’

‘As much as Daddy?’

Kirsty’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Yes,’ she said.

David put the envelope back on the shelf. ‘When can we go back to Dubai?’

They had all gone over for a week during the October half-term break. In spite of the scorching heat, Chris made
sure they had a wonderful time. They went to water parks and wandered around the most amazing air-conditioned shopping malls Kirsty had ever seen. They went indoor skiing and rode camels at dawn to avoid the heat of the day. And one night they’d slept in Bedouin-style tents in the desert, staring up at the cloudless desert sky, studded with stars. And though neither of them vocalised it, they both knew Kirsty’s visit was more than just a holiday. It was an opportunity for her to see if Dubai was somewhere she and the boys could call home.

‘I don’t know.’ Kirsty took a deep breath. ‘How would you like to live there for a while? You know, go to school and everything.’

David frowned. ‘Are we going to?’

‘No, I’m only asking if you would
like
to.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’ Kirsty was more than surprised by this reply. Perhaps he didn’t fully understand the implications.

‘Sure,’ he said and shrugged, and what he said next demonstrated that he understood only too well. ‘But when would I see my friends? And what about Grandma and Grandpa?’

‘Well,’ she said slowly, trying to make it sound as if she was making it up as she went along – and not something she had considered in every detail. ‘We could come home during the summer holidays and you could see your friends then. Grandma and Grandpa could come out and visit us – as much as they liked. And it wouldn’t be for ever, David. Only for a year or two. It would be a…a great adventure.’

David pulled a face, considering this, and Kirsty asked herself if she was mad, thinking of taking the boys away from everything they knew to start a new life in a foreign country – one where they didn’t speak the language, temperatures reached over a hundred in the summer and the culture
was completely alien. If the last three years had been about anything, they had been about providing stability for the boys. Yet, in one fell swoop she was proposing to obliterate everything she and Dorothy and Harry had worked for since Scott’s death.

David picked up two stones from the windowsill where he had left them the day before, and weighed them in the palm of his right hand. ‘But why can’t Chris come and live here with us?’

Kirsty sighed. ‘He has a job in Dubai. It’s well paid and he…well, he just has to stick it out for a few years. And then he can come home again.’

Adam burst through the porch door just then bundled up in his coat, hat, gloves and rucksack. The handle of the door hit the wall with a thud. Normally she would’ve given off to him for marking the paintwork, but today she was glad of the diversion.

‘We’re going to be late for school if you don’t hurry up,’ said Adam, coming to a halt with his hand on his hip, mimicking both the voice and stance she adopted to chivvy them along when they were being tardy.

‘You’re the one that’s kept us waiting, you cheeky wee monkey,’ said Kirsty with an indulgent smile. ‘Come on, let’s get this show on the road.’

Later when was sitting at her desk in the deserted museum at lunchtime eating a sandwich, she reflected on the fact that she had what she wanted. Chris. It was what she had dreamt of – the chance to start a new life with the man she loved. But now that it was within her grasp, the dream had lost some of its allure. The well-worn phrase ‘be careful what you wish for’ rang in her ears. She thought of all the things she would miss – her home, Dorothy and Harry, her job and, most of all, her three dearest friends: Clare, Janice and
Patsy. They would always be her friends of course, but moving away from them was a bitter price to pay for being with Chris.

Why did it have to be Dubai? It was so far away, so
foreign.
Why couldn’t he have got a job somewhere more ordinary like Manchester or London or Dublin? Somewhere in the same time zone and within easy travelling distance of Ballyfergus, the place she had learned to call home.

The alternative was to stay on in Ballyfergus – to live apart from him until he returned from Dubai. But that could be a long time. The knowledge that Chris loved her and their long, frequent telephone conversations had sustained her over the last four months. But she could not live like this, conducting a long-distance love affair, in the long term. And while she was happy that they were together at last, her heart ached for him. The separation was almost more than she could bear. Some nights she cried herself to sleep because she missed him so much, remembering the hot nights of love-making in Dubai while the boys slept in the room next door. She felt like her chest had been spliced with an axe, leaving an aching open wound.

She could and would make Dubai work. So long as she had her boys with her and she and Chris were together she told herself that was all that mattered. She would work hard at making sure the boys were happy. No relationship was plain sailing – like gardens, this one would require care and attention to blossom. The challenges in this one were just different to the ones she had faced with Scott. And one day they would come back here and live in Ballyfergus all the rest of their days.

And so with her mind made up, she resolved to do what she had put off these last four months – break the news to Dorothy and Harry.

It was the Sunday before Christmas and Kirsty and the boys had spent most of the day at Dorothy and Harry’s house attending what had become something of an Elliott family tradition – a big get-together with Scott’s extended family. Old aunts of Scott’s, who hadn’t seen the boys since last year, fussed over them like they were babies and elderly uncles pressed crisp twenty pound notes into their eager palms.

It was after five now and everyone but Kirsty and the boys had gone home. Kirsty sat in the high-ceilinged lounge while the boys watched a
Dr Who
DVD in the room next door. The logs hissed and crackled in the grate and the heavy gold damask curtains were drawn against the darkness outside. On the wall to the left of the fireplace hung a large gilt-framed photo of Scott in his graduation gown, holding a rolled-up red certificate in his hand. Kirsty tried not to look at it.

‘That was nice of Chris to stop by and see us the other day,’ said Harry, touching his neatly trimmed moustache with his fingers as if checking there wasn’t something lurking in there that shouldn’t be.

‘Yes,’ agreed Dorothy. ‘He was telling us all about his job out in Dubai. It sounds like he’s really enjoying it out there.’

‘Still, it’s a shame he couldn’t make it today,’ said Harry.

‘Yes,’ said Kirsty. ‘Not enough time, I’m afraid. Today’s the only day he could get up to Dungannon to visit his mother’s family.’

Dorothy and Harry had accepted the news that Kirsty was seeing Chris with equanimity bordering on approval. Their reaction had surprised her. Perhaps knowing Chris personally had made the difference. She herself could not conceive of anyone disliking him. In any event, they treated him the easy way they always had and talked of him with fondness.

‘Yes,’ chimed in Dorothy. ‘It would’ve been nice for him to meet some of the family.’

‘Another time, perhaps,’ said Kirsty, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the extent of the claim Dorothy and Harry made on her. It was so kind of them to include Kirsty in all the family gatherings and to talk of her as though she was one of their own. She realised with sudden insight that, at some point over the last three years, they had started to treat her like a daughter, rather than a daughter-in-law. And part of her liked that intimacy, that sense of belonging. But she also knew that if she didn’t break free, it would suffocate her.

Dorothy started talking about Aunt Joan’s recent hipreplacement operation and Kirsty tuned out. It was almost half past five. Nearly time to go home. But first she had to tell them that she was going to Dubai. She couldn’t postpone it any longer. That was why Chris was absent today – not because he’d had to go to Dungannon, but because Kirsty thought it wise that she break the news to her in-laws alone. The food she had eaten earlier sat in her stomach like a brick and her hands twisted nervously in her lap.

Dorothy stopped talking and said, ‘What did you think, Kirsty?’

‘I thought she looked very well.’

‘Who?’

‘Aunt Joan.’

‘No,’ said Dorothy with a tut. She gave Kirsty a peculiar look and said, ‘I was talking about the ham. You didn’t think it too dry, did you?’

Kirsty forced her muscles into a smile. ‘Sorry. I thought it was just lovely. I could taste the honey.’

‘You’re tired, love,’ interjected Harry, always quick to protect her from Dorothy’s tongue, which could be unintentionally sharp at times. ‘My mind drifts like that too when I’m tired.’

The talk of tiredness brought a yawn to Kirsty’s lips.

‘See. I said she was tired,’ said Harry.

Kirsty covered her hand with her mouth and the yawn turned into a weary smile. ‘I really should be thinking of taking the boys home. They’ve school in the morning and I’ve work.’ But she made no move to go and fidgeted with the folds of her pleated silk skirt.

‘Roll on the holidays,’ said Harry and he gave her a big smile, revealing his perfect white dentures.

Kirsty took a deep breath. ‘But, before I go, there’s something I need to…’ Nerves made her voice high-pitched and squeaky. She stopped, cleared her throat and began again. ‘I’ve something important to tell both of you.’

‘What’s that?’ said Harry genially, but his fingers were working nervously at the tassles on his chair. He returned his gaze to Kirsty, a pained smile on his lips as though he knew already it would be bad news.

Dorothy looked sharply at Kirsty over the paper she had been half-heartedly reading. She folded it and placed it carefully on the coffee table. Then she took off her glasses and set them on top of the paper. She smoothed her skirt over her knees, folded her hands on her lap and waited.

Kirsty said, ‘I’m going to move out to Dubai with the boys.’

Kirsty’s heart pounded against her chest. Dorothy simply froze exactly as she was and Harry’s face fell. There was a long, stunned silence. This news would change everything between them. Her happiness could only come at the expense of Harry and Dorothy’s.

At last Harry, glancing at his wife’s crestfallen face, cleared his throat and said, ‘I…well…I imagine you’ve given this a lot of thought, Kirsty.’

Kirsty lowered her head and fought the urge to cry. ‘I have.’

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ he said, frowning so hard he looked like he was in pain, ‘but are you and Chris planning on getting married at some point?’

‘No.’

Harry sat back in his chair and ran his index finger over his moustache. ‘I see,’ he said, thinking, and then he went on, ‘You’d be taking quite a gamble going out there as a unmarried woman. These cultures aren’t as tolerant as the West. If things go wrong, you’d be on your own.’

‘Nothing’s going to go wrong, Harry,’ said Kirsty firmly, slightly irritated by the personal nature of his questions and the implication that Chris would abandon her. She knew that would never happen. And marriage, as she well knew, was no guarantee of anything.

‘Well, it’s ah…it’s come as a bit of a shock, hasn’t it, Dorothy?’ said Harry, mustering up a rigid smile, trying, bless him, to pretend to be if not exactly happy for her, then at least accepting.

When he got no response from a shell-shocked Dorothy, he carried on bravely, only his wavering voice betraying his true emotion. ‘Chris is a good man, Kirsty. Shall I tell you what I like most about him?’

‘What’s that?’ said Kirsty, her voice little more than a whisper.

Harry was rheumy-eyed and it looked like it required a great deal of effort to keep in place the small smile on his face. ‘What I like most about Chris is the way he is with those boys. It puts my mind at ease, so it does, watching him with them. I know he’ll be good to them.’ The smile slipped at last and his features settled into a picture of misery. ‘Dorothy and I are fond of Chris and we can see how happy you are with him. Happier than you’ve been in a long time.’ He paused and stared hard at her, his eyes bright with knowing. ‘A very long time.’

Kirsty blushed and looked at the floor. Was it possible that he
knew?
Had Scott spoken to his father before he died about how sterile their marriage had become? Or had Harry simply guessed? She had been so careful not to betray her true emotions regarding Scott. But had she fooled only herself? She felt like a fraud. She could not bear to look at Harry and glanced at Dorothy instead.

She was sitting ramrod straight like a statue, tight-lipped, tense. It was hard to tell from her expression what her thoughts were. Kirsty thought she might be angry and her stomach tightened into a ball. ‘You haven’t said anything, Dorothy.’

Dorothy started as though snapped out of a daydream. She let out a long, audible sigh, and Kirsty saw then that her hands, in her lap, were shaking. ‘It’s just so sudden. So unexpected. You’ve only been seeing him for a few months and he’s been in Dubai for most of that.’

Kirsty realised that Dorothy was in shock. Unlike Harry, she had not seen this coming. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to. Kirsty leant forwards, clasped her hands together and said very gently, ‘I’ve known Chris for three years, Dorothy. I know everything I need to know about him.’ Dorothy just stared at Kirsty in response and there was a long, anguished pause.