The Art of Friendship (9 page)

‘Hear! Hear!’ said Clare and she gave a little round of applause.

Right Patsy may be, thought Kirsty, but it put her on a collision course with Dorothy and Harry.

‘You’re much more likely to meet an eligible man working in the museum than stuck in that factory all day,’ mused Janice.

‘That hadn’t occurred to me,’ said Kirsty, unable to contain the smile that sprang to her lips. Janice was far more interested in finding a man for Kirsty than she was herself. All the same, the observation helped to strengthen her resolve. ‘But you’re right, Janice.’

‘Are you going to apply for it, then?’ said Clare.

‘I’ll have my application in first thing, Monday morning. Wish me luck!’

‘To Kirsty,’ said Clare, always quick to raise her glass, and the others copied. Then the food arrived and everyone was absorbed in eating and exchanging chit-chat.

When Janice was finished – she’d eaten only half of what was on her plate – she leant forwards in the chair, and said conspiratorially, ‘Now, what’s the latest on your safari, Patsy?’

Patsy started and her napkin dropped to the floor. She bent down under the table to pick it up and reappeared somewhat flustered-looking. She shook the napkin in the air and laid it across her lap.

‘Well, I’ve paid the deposit,’ she said.

Everyone was silent, waiting for her to go on. It wasn’t like Patsy to be so reticent. Kirsty was just beginning to wonder if something was wrong when Patsy’s face broke into her more familiar smile. ‘It hasn’t been easy keeping it a secret from Martin, let me tell you,’ she said brightly. ‘I had to hide the holiday brochures under the bed and I’m terrified someone from the travel agency’s going to call when he’s there and spoil the whole thing!’

‘What’s the itinerary, then?’ asked Janice. Patsy pulled a slim brochure out of her bag and passed it to Janice, who flicked through the pages and nodded approvingly while Patsy talked.

‘We’re going to the Central Kalahari Game Reserve – it’s the second biggest in the world. And the Chobe National Park, which has sixty thousand elephants. Then there’s the Makgadikgadi saltpans, which are supposed to be amazing.’

‘Saltpans?’ asked Kirsty, picking up the brochure from where Janice had discarded it on the table. It all sounded so incredibly exciting, so far removed from her dull, everyday existence.

‘They’re very remote, shallow basins containing salt deposits from an evaporated lake. They stretch for miles and you explore them on quad bikes.’

Kirsty nodded, her eyes coming to rest on a picture of a vast white plain, the edges disappearing in a shimmering heat-haze. In the photograph a rugged explorer sat astride a black quad bike, a pair of slender arms wrapped round his waist.

‘I know it’s just a holiday,’ said Patsy, looking round at the others, her grey-green eyes misted. ‘But for me it’s a dream come true. A once-in-a-lifetime experience for me and Martin. I doubt if we’ll ever do anything just as exciting, or expensive, as this again. It’s going to be the proper honeymoon we never had. I’ve been thinking we could renew our marriage vows.’

‘Ohhh,’ the women chorused in unison and Kirsty said, ‘That’s so romantic.’

‘It would be, wouldn’t it?’ said Patsy and paused. ‘When you’ve been married a long time, well, you have to do things to…to re-connect every now and then. It’s easy to lose each other in the everyday business of living, isn’t it?’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Clare and Kirsty wondered if that had been part of her and Scott’s problem. Had they allowed themselves to drift apart? Given up too easily? If he had lived would they have been able to re-connect? Would she have been able to save her marriage?

Kirsty eyes pricked with tears and she picked up the brochure and stared at the glossy pictures of majestic lions and leopards, a prehistoric-looking hippo, vast herds of antelope, and a great cloud of long-legged birds rising from a lake. It was a magical world, so remote from small-town Ireland, so exotic, primeval even.

Maybe one day she would go and see these things for
herself. She’d like to. But not on her own. It was an experience to share with someone – and not just anyone. Your soulmate. She threw the brochure down in the middle of the table as though it had suddenly become too hot to hold and pushed the remains of her spaghetti carbonara away. Her appetite had evaporated.

She had so much to be grateful for, but she was fed up being alone. Fed up standing on the sidelines of life watching other people, like Patsy, getting on with theirs. She was absolutely delighted for her friend but she couldn’t help but wish it was her planning the holiday of a lifetime with the man she loved.

She would just have to try harder. She glanced at the men at the bar, almost all of whom she knew – or knew of. Ignoring the married ones, she studied the four available men in her age group, three divorced, one single. The fact that Vincent Agnew, plumber, was in his forties and had never, so local gossip went, been in a committed relationship didn’t bode well, Kirsty thought. And not only did she know the ex-wives of the others – she even knew the names of their children. That was problem with Ballyfergus; you knew far too much about everybody and you never met anyone new. And try as she might she didn’t find any of them in the least bit attractive.

She averted her gaze and looked out of the window instead. Outside an icy fog had settled and the crisp night air was punctuated only by the soft haze of the street-lamp and squares of yellow light in the low-rise block of flats opposite. The only males she liked spending time with these days were David, Adam and Harry – how sad was that? Things, she decided firmly, would have to change.

The letter from the council finally came on a wet and windy Friday morning in the last week of February. Kirsty, recognising what it was at once from the frank mark on the envelope, retrieved it from the doormat before the boys trod on it in their muddy shoes. She set the long white envelope carefully on the hall table, drove the boys to school and could think of nothing else ‘til she was back home.

Candy the cat, with her ragged patchwork coat of brown, marmalade and white, was there to greet her on her return. When Kirsty opened the door, Candy slanted her eyes and screwed her nose up in distaste, recoiling from the foul weather.

Kirsty shook the rain off her coat vigorously and hung it up to dry. She carried the letter into the kitchen, put on the kettle and stood by the sink examining the envelope, front and back. It was thin – it probably contained only one sheet of paper. Was that good or bad? She set it down on the counter and regarded it from a distance, realising only now how much hope she had placed on this job application.

Already she could see herself, smartly dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, standing behind the reception desk at the museum, smiling, helpful, professional. She imagined the different people she would meet, how time would
fly, how she would have something else to think and talk about other than the buy-one-get-one free offer on dishwasher tablets at the supermarket. And how useful the extra money would be.

The kettle came to the boil and switched itself off.

But then there was that panel interview. She sighed and put her hands over her face. It had taken place a fortnight earlier in the council offices on Victoria Street, the former cottage hospital. She’d been intimidated by the grey suits and felt out of her depth – she was sure she’d spewed out a load of old rubbish.

Kirsty made a pot of tea and put milk in a mug. In her basket, Candy circled three times, kneaded the fleece rug with her paws, extending and retracting her claws, and then curled up with her eyes closed.

No, Kirsty was quite sure she’d blown it at the interview. Best not to get her hopes up. She picked the envelope up, put it down again. This was her first job application in years – she couldn’t expect it to be successful. The sensible thing would be to view it as a learning experience. She would be better prepared next time round. She told herself there were probably hundreds of people more suited to the job than she was. And there would be other jobs, other opportunities.

But, oh, how she wanted this one!

Unable to bear it any longer, she took a deep breath, snatched the envelope up and ripped it open. She unfolded the crisp sheet of white paper inside and skim-read the short typed letter. Her eyes came to rest on the phrase, ‘successful in your application’.

‘Yeessss!’ she cried and danced around the empty room, waving the letter above her head. She stopped, and read the letter again, just to be sure. Then she continued her celebratory dance around the island unit.

‘Oh, Candy! I got the job! I got the job! I got the job!’ she chanted. Candy looked up impassively, shut her eyes and went to sleep again.

Kirsty threw her head back and laughed, feeling euphoric for the first time in years. Her life was so dull, so pedestrian, so focused on the needs of the boys. This job was something just for her, a bit of independence, a chance to live a little, earn some money, maybe even have some fun. Wait ‘til she told the girls! She punched the air with delight.

It was then that she saw him through the rain-streaked window, watching her. A man in a green waterproof, the hood pulled up over his head. His face was partly hidden, but the lopsided smile was unmistakable. It was Chris, the gardener.

Her hands dropped to her sides and she froze. Her heart pounded in her chest – the effect of the shock she’d just had, she supposed. She took a moment to compose herself, then stuffed the letter in the rack on the wall. She opened the back door, stood on the threshold with her arms folded and called out, ‘You’d better come in out of the rain. You’ll get drenched.’

Chris ducked his head as he entered the kitchen, dripping wet, his workboots leaving a brown slick on the tiles. He pulled the hood of his jacket down and was still grinning when he said, ‘Thanks. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ His eyes, deep-set in a tanned, craggy face, were the colour of the blue hydrangea that grew in the front garden.

Kirsty blushed. ‘It’s okay.’

Chris Carmichael was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a figure honed by years of hard outdoor work that belied the fact that he was well into his forties. His short, greying hair, wet with rain, stood up in spikes as if it had been thickly gelled – though Kirsty was certain Chris had never used a hair-styling product in his life.

He did not proceed into the room but stopped just over the threshold, so that they stood together in the tight space between the open door and the fridge. Kirsty was suddenly aware of his proximity, the smell of wet and diesel and manly things. Unsettling smells and sensations she wasn’t used to. She pressed her back against the fridge door, trying to put a little space between them.

‘So what’s made you so happy?’ he said, pinning her against the fridge with his eyes. One corner of his full mouth turned up, causing a deep crease in his right cheek. In his younger days it would’ve been a dimple. He must’ve been so handsome back then. She noticed for the first time that he still was, though his attractiveness wasn’t so much in his looks but his character. He exuded a virile magnetism and charisma that made Kirsty feel flustered.

‘I got some good news, that’s all,’ she said off-handedly, a little afraid that he might be laughing at her.

‘Please,’ he said and smiled again, this time a full-on hundred-watt grin. He put a hand, strong and sinewy, to his head and attempted to flatten down his hair. While he did so, he looked down at her from under a deeply furrowed brow, his features taking on a boyish character, and said, ‘Whatever it was, don’t let me spoil it. I haven’t seen you laugh like that before.’

Kirsty glanced at the letter in the rack and slipped away into the middle of the room. ‘It’s nothing really,’ she said shyly, though the smile that crept to her lips belied this. ‘Only I got a letter this morning offering me a job at the museum.’

‘Why, that’s really great, so it is, Kirsty. Well done you!’

His obvious delight in her success pleased Kirsty more than it ought to have. She went over to the sink, filled the kettle, then realised she’d already made tea. She turned to face him with her hands behind her back, as though she was
hiding something. She held onto the edge of the work surface and asked, ‘What are you doing here, Chris?’

She hadn’t meant her question to come out so abruptly. She looked at her stockinged feet, embarrassed by her rudeness.

‘I’m going round all my customers just to check that they’re wanting me to come back this season.’

‘Of course,’ she said quickly. ‘Of course I want you back. How would I cope without you?’

And she meant it. The garden had been Scott’s pride and joy. He had designed it, planted it, built the pond one summer with the help of his father and spent every spare minute from March to October (when he wasn’t out cycling) working in it. Kirsty, on the other hand, had never so much as turned a sod of earth nor cut a blade of grass.

The following spring after Scott died, Harry attempted to take on the maintenance of the garden but, also with his own large plot to tend, it soon became clear it was too much for him. The final straw came when he ended up in bed for a week with a strained back. That night Kirsty chose Chris at random from the Gardening Services section in the Yellow Pages.

‘That’s good,’ said Chris. ‘I don’t like to make assumptions. I reckon the grass’ll need its first cut in a couple of weeks.’ She stole a glance at him in profile. He was staring out of the window, his eyes narrowed slightly, his crow’s feet deep like scars. The rain hit the window loudly in bursts, like handfuls of peppercorns. ‘And a feed,’ he went on, ‘the season’s starting earlier every year.’

‘Good business for you, then,’ said Kirsty.

‘Aye, I suppose it is,’ he said in his soft Glens of Antrim accent and brought his gaze back to her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and placed the flat of his hand on the adjacent work surface.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Kirsty, opening a cupboard and lifting out a second mug before he could reply. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’

‘So long as I’m not holding you back.’

‘No, you’re not. Stay.’ She poured the tea and listened to the sound of his boots on the floor, the squeak of the chair being pulled out, the creak as it took his weight. When she turned around he was seated at the head of the table, his elbows resting on the oilcloth.

She placed a steaming mug in front of him, took a small round tin out of the cupboard, removed the lid and placed it on the table. ‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘Homemade shortbread.’

‘Thanks,’ said Chris, taking a piece and examining the crumbly biscuit. ‘You’ve been busy.’

Kirsty laughed at the notion of her baking – she rarely did – and sat down in the chair next to him. She relaxed, comfortable to have him here in her kitchen, sitting at the table the way she used to sit with Scott in earlier, happier times. She realised how much she missed having a man about. ‘I can’t take credit for that. Dorothy made it.’

Chris nodded, took a bite of the shortbread and said, ‘Haven’t seen Harry and Dorothy since last summer. How are they doing?’

‘Just the same. They’re both well,’ Kirsty said and took a big gulp of tea.

‘They’re good people, your in-laws,’ he observed.

‘Yes. I don’t know what I would’ve done without them.’ She thought fleetingly of the weeks immediately following Scott’s death and pushed the horrible memories from her mind. ‘You know, in some ways the last three years have flown. I look at the boys sometimes and can’t believe the size of them. David, especially, is getting very grown-up.’

Chris finished the shortbread, blew on his tea, took a noisy sip. ‘Hard to imagine now but they’ll be up and away faster than you think, Kirsty. In a blink of an eye, really. You’ve probably heard people say that a hundred times but it really is true. And suddenly you’re on your own.’ He paused, looked a little sheepish and added hastily, as though worried he might have upset her, ‘Though I guess that’s a long way off yet.’

‘No, not really,’ she said, keen to show him that she wasn’t troubled by the prospect. ‘In seven years David will be sitting his driving test. I imagine by the time they’re fourteen or fifteen, they’re not going to want to spend much time with me. That’s one of the reasons I’m taking this job at the museum.’

He nodded approvingly, and she took it as encouragement to go on.

‘Dorothy’s been supportive but Harry’s not very happy about it. He wanted me to take an office job at the mill. Can you imagine? I can’t think of anything worse!’

Chris laughed and she went on, ‘He doesn’t understand that I need a bit of independence from them. I need to start getting out and meeting people, living a little. You know.’

Chris nodded once and said, ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Kirsty. It’s just that he cares for you and the boys. And I…’ He paused, then went on, ‘…Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it? After what you’ve all been through, it’s understandable that he’s a bit protective. I would be too.’

A little ashamed, Kirsty stared at him for a few moments, taking in the detail of his profile – the weatherbeaten skin on his cheeks, the strong line of his jaw, an old scar she’d not noticed before that ran from his ear into the neck of his shirt. She liked the way every emotion played out across his craggy features and the stillness of the rest of him. He was,
she thought, a man at peace with his world and his place in it. ‘I know he’s only thinking of what’s best for us. He means well.’

‘He’ll come round, you’ll see.’

Kirsty bit her lip and there was a short silence. Chris cleared his throat and frowned before addressing her. ‘And I suppose you’ll be starting to date,’ he said, without taking his eyes off his motionless hands where they lay, palms down, on the table.

Kirsty started, a little shocked by such a personal question. She put her hands together and pressed them so hard her knuckles went white. Her pulse throbbed in her temple, filling her ears with noise. She managed to shrug and said, ‘I have been on one or two dates, yes. My friends keep setting them up. In fact,’ she added nervously, ‘they seem more interested in pairing me off than I am!’

Too late, she wished she could retract what she’d just said. She didn’t mean to give Chris the impression she wasn’t in the market for a partner. ‘It’s just, well, I don’t think I’ve met the right person yet,’ she said and felt herself colouring.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Kirsty,’ he said softly, tracing the harlequin pattern on the oilcloth with his right index finger. ‘I know that it’s really none of my business. And if you don’t want me to say another word about it, I won’t.’

‘Say what?’

‘It’s just that, well, I saw you in No.11 the other week.’ He drained the mug.

‘You were in No.11?’ asked Kirsty, incredulously. ‘I didn’t see you.’

‘It’s not a place I normally go. You know the way I live down at Glenarm?’

Kirsty nodded, though this was news to her. Glenarm, dating back to the twelfth century and lying ten miles north of Ballyfergus, was one of the prettiest villages in County Antrim. Named after one of the famous Nine Glens of Antrim, the village nestled at the bottom of the glen from which it took its name, where the wide river, rich in brown trout, met the sea.

‘Well, I was down this way one night a couple of weeks ago, seeing about a bit of business,’ said Chris, ‘and popped in with a mate for a drink. And that’s when I saw you.’

‘Why didn’t you come over?’ said Kirsty, perplexed. Chris was usually so friendly.

‘Well, you were with someone,’ said Chris and shot her a meaningful glance. She felt her face colour. ‘And,’ he went on, looking away, ‘I didn’t like to interrupt.’

‘Oh, that’ll have been Vincent Agnew, the plumber,’ she said airily, taking care to sound dismissive. ‘Sandy-haired fella, tall like you, about six foot two?’