The People Next Door (27 page)

She helped Grainne out of the bath, wrapped her in a warm towel and dried her feet carefully, between each toe, before putting them into slippers that had been sitting face down on the radiator. Then she towelled the rest of Grainne dry – gently, gently – and helped her into her clean nightdress. She dried Grainne’s hair, using the warm setting on the drier, and parting it to the left, as Grainne preferred.

She read to Grainne every evening after dinner when Justin had gone for a walk to get some air.
She read short stories from the magazines Grainne liked, and the problem pages and the letters and the gardening notes.

She played CDs for Grainne. She played Debussy and Chopin and Bach, and she played Mary Black and Maura O’Connell and Dolores Keane. All Grainne’s favourites. She cooked egg-white omelettes and steamed fish and made mushroom soup from scratch.

She cut Grainne’s nails. She laundered her sheets, her underwear and her nightdresses. She bought her a new bed jacket in powder blue. She polished the top of Grainne’s bedside locker, the window sill and the dressing-table.

And sometimes, late at night, she sat in Grainne’s room while Justin was downstairs watching television or on the internet. The bedroom was stuffy and slightly too warm, but Kathryn didn’t mind. In the faint light from the lamp on the locker, she sat and watched her mother-in-law dying.

She thought about the wonderful irony of herself and Justin preparing to welcome a new life into the house while Grainne had already begun to leave it. She thought about all the times Grainne had humiliated her, all the times she had reminded Kathryn of her age, of how much older than Justin she was. All the little digs, the slights.

She imagined Grainne going in to buy the perfume. Getting a lift into town with Justin, as she used to do, telling him she needed a few things, that she’d meet him in half an hour. Browsing through the bottles on the shelf, picking out the Chanel.
Maybe telling the sales assistant that it was a little present for her daughter-in-law.

She pictured Grainne taking the receipt and stowing it carefully in a pocket of the jeans Justin had left in the laundry basket.

She saw her going into the florist’s another day, choosing a bouquet and arranging to have it delivered to a fictitious address, throwing the receipt under the hall table when the coast was clear.

And all the time, while Grainne was systematically attempting to destroy her daughter-in-law’s happiness, the tumour had been growing in her brain, slowly, steadily and quietly. Kathryn wondered if it felt like a punishment now.

Grainne rarely got up any more, except to use the bathroom, and then she moved slowly, leaning heavily on Kathryn’s or Justin’s or Marzena’s arm, like the old woman she would never become.

All the fire had left her. When she spoke now, her voice was dull, no life in it. She answered questions and she thanked Kathryn when food that she still barely touched was put in front of her or taken away. She opened her mouth to receive the tablets Justin doled out and she seemed to listen when one of them read to her.

She didn’t ask about Kathryn’s work or about any of the neighbours. She didn’t complain about pain, even to Dr Lynch when he called. He told them she was amazingly stoical.

One evening, they told her about the baby.

‘Mother, we have some news for you,’ Justin told her.

While he talked, Kathryn watched Grainne’s face. And when she heard about the baby, Grainne turned to her daughter-in-law, utterly defeated. ‘Congratulations. I hope everything goes well.’

And just like that, Kathryn’s rage and triumph dissolved and nothing was left behind but pity.

‘Behave yourself – we’re getting within eyeshot of my house.’ Clara giggled. ‘Is there such a word as eyeshot?’ She pushed Dan’s arm off her shoulders. ‘My mother could be looking out the window.’

Dan immediately wrapped the arm around her waist. ‘Sorry, I just can’t keep my hands off you.’ He was feeling wonderful – drunk and happy enough not to care about anything that happened beyond this moment. He pressed Clara tightly to his side, kissed her cheek loudly. ‘You’re beautiful, d’you know that?’

Clara giggled again. ‘Well, I should know it by now – you’ve been telling me all night.’

They were approaching Miller’s Avenue from the alleyway that connected it to the town’s main street. Just before they turned into it, Dan stopped, leaned against the park railings and pulled Clara towards him. ‘C’mere – let’s give the neighbours something to talk about.’

They’d cooked pancakes earlier, flipping them with varying degrees of success, then filled them with their choice from the ingredients that everyone had
contributed – diced ham, grated cheese, chocolate spread, honey, sugar, butter, lemon juice, stewed apples.

Afterwards they’d all walked to the nearest pub and Douglas, as good as his word, had bought everyone a drink, and they’d presented him with the blue and green pottery bowl that Judy had collected a fiver from everyone for. They’d all had another drink and then people had started to scatter. By eleven o’clock, only Douglas, Dan and Clara were left.

‘So you two are an item then?’ Douglas looked pointedly at Dan’s hand, which was resting on Clara’s thigh.

Clara smiled. ‘Since the fifth class.’

‘So I’m the one who brought you together? I reckon that qualifies me for a matchmaker’s fee.’

Dan grinned. ‘How about a drink in lieu?’

Twenty-five minutes later, the three took a taxi from the pub. Dan and Clara dropped Douglas at his flat and went from there to the main street, where they got out and walked up Miller’s Lane, which led onto Miller’s Avenue.

Dan buried his face in Clara’s neck. ‘God, you’re amazing.’ His hands were in her hair. His mouth was against her throat. He was drowning in her scent. He closed his eyes and everything spun gently, so he opened them again. ‘Come home with me.’

Clara laughed softly. ‘Funny you should mention that.’

Dan put his lips to her ear. ‘What d’you mean?’
He bit the lobe gently.

Her hands pushed under his jacket for warmth. She whispered, ‘I’m ready.’

‘You are?’ Dan took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth. ‘Wonderful.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘C’mon, before we freeze to death.’

Miller’s Avenue was deserted. A light was on upstairs in number nine. Number seven was in darkness. Dan stumbled slightly against the black railings as they turned in at the gate of number eight.

‘Oops.’

‘Ssh.’

At the door, he rummaged in his pockets. Was Kieran still up? No sign of life inside, no sound. Not that he cared.

‘Hurry up – I’m freezing.’ Clara shivered and huddled against his back.

‘Here we go.’ He pulled out the keys and scrabbled for the lock. He’d just opened the door and stepped back to let Clara in ahead of him when a car drew up outside his gate. Dan turned and watched, swaying slightly, as the engine was cut.

Clara glanced back. ‘Who’s that?’

The car door opened. Dan’s face hardened, his good mood gone, as he recognised the man who stepped out. ‘Go on in, I’ll follow you in a minute.’

‘But who—’

‘Just go in, OK? I won’t be long.’

When she’d disappeared, Dan pulled the door closed and leaned against it. ‘What the hell are you doing here?

Brendan pushed open the gate. ‘Dan, I know you don’t want—’

‘No, I don’t. You’re not welcome here. Fuck off.’ He saw two Brendans drifting in and out of each other. He blinked hard.

‘Look, Dan, I haven’t come to fight—’

The Brendans stepped towards him. He clenched his fists. ‘I said fuck off.’

‘It’s Ali.’ Brendan spoke loudly, over him. ‘She’s gone into labour.’

Dan looked at them, trying to work out which Brendan was talking. ‘She’s gone where?’

‘She’s asking for you.’ Brendan put a hand on his arm. ‘She sent me to get you. The baby is coming.’

Dan shook his arm away. ‘Take your fucking hands off me.’

Brendan dropped it and said, slowly and patiently, ‘Look, Ali is in the hospital, Dan – your son is going to be born, and she wants you to be there.’

‘My son?’ Dan glared at him. ‘My son? No way – she’s not due for ages.’

‘Well, it’s happening now, and she’s asking for you. Make up your mind. Are you going to come with me or not?’

The baby. It was much too early. Ali wanted him. Dan shook his head, trying to unscramble it.

Brendan rattled his car keys. ‘Come on – I can’t hang around here. Let’s go.’

Dan looked at his uncle with loathing. ‘I’m going nowhere with you. I can drive myself.’

‘Dan, don’t be an idiot.’ Brendan’s voice was harsh.
‘You’ve obviously had a fair bit to drink. There’s no way you can drive, you’ll kill yourself.’ He turned towards the gate. ‘Look, are you coming with me or not? I’m leaving now.’

Dan blinked hard. The Brendans floated together briefly, then wandered away from each other again. He struggled to think. ‘Hang on.’

His key was still in the door. He turned it and went inside. Clara was standing in the dark hall. She spoke quietly. ‘I heard – you have to go with him. Go on, I’ll let myself out when you’re gone.’

Dan hugged her quickly. ‘Sorry – I’ll see you soon.’ He shoved his keys into his pocket and walked as steadily as he could down the path to the passenger side of the car that his uncle had already started.

He slid into the seat and slammed the door. He was drunk. His son was being born.

‘Fasten your seatbelt.’

‘Fuck off.’

His son was being born. He hoped blearily that he’d be sober by then.

Kieran lay in bed, listening to the voices below. He couldn’t make out the conversation, but it didn’t sound particularly friendly. He wondered if he should go down and intervene, but while he was still debating, he heard a car start up and drive off. Then, straight afterwards, he heard Dan’s front door closing quietly and quick, light footsteps going down the path, out of the gate and into number seven next door.

So he’d been right about the pretty blonde girl and Dan.

He turned over and willed sleep to come, but as usual it ignored him. He wondered if he’d ever get a decent eight hours again. Even six would be wonderful. He wouldn’t say no to five.

He knew what had to be done, but the thought of it filled him with dread. He closed his eyes.

Yvonne dropped her bag on the reception desk and rubbed her hands briskly. It had got wintry so quickly, without any real warning. At the weekend she’d been working in the garden, digging out the last of the marigolds that insisted on resurrecting themselves every spring. It had been cool then, certainly, but nothing like this. Today there was a real chill in the air. Today you could definitely smell winter on the way.

Of course, it was nearly the end of November, and since the clocks had gone back a few weeks ago, there was no length in the days any more.

Yvonne pulled the appointments book towards her wearily. She hated the darkness of winter, dreaded the months ahead, full of sleet and ice and biting winds, frozen fingers, raw throats and flu. Give her sunshine and blue skies any day, breakfast out on the patio and long, comfortable evenings watching the sun go down.

But winters would be different from now on. By next winter, she’d be a married woman again, living with her husband in Dublin.

Her husband Greg – when would it stop sounding so strange?

They’d gone shopping for a ring, even though Yvonne had insisted she didn’t need one. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something slightly ridiculous about people their ages picking out an engagement ring.

But Greg had been adamant. ‘You may have done it before, but this is my first time and I intend to do it right.’

In the end, they’d compromised with a white gold band inlaid with a scattering of tiny diamonds, that Greg reluctantly agreed could double as Yvonne’s wedding ring.

‘I’m beginning to think you’re having second thoughts.’ They were sitting in the jeweller’s, waiting for the ring to be polished and boxed.

Yvonne laughed. ‘No, I’m just making sure you have enough money left to let me be a kept woman.’

She remembered the ring Brian had given her, a few days after she’d told him she was pregnant, and before they’d found the courage to tell anyone else. They’d been in a park, sitting on a green bench. Without a word, Brian had pulled it out of his pocket and put it into her hand.

She’d looked down at it. ‘What’s this?’ Realising, as she asked, what it was. ‘Oh.’

It wasn’t what she would have chosen – too ornate, with its tiny raised diamond surrounded with swirls of gold. It must have cost him an arm and a leg.

She looked back at him, at his heartbreaking, hopeful face. ‘It’s … ’ She got stuck and started again.
‘Is this – are you—’

‘Will you marry me?’ He tucked his hands under his arms. ‘Please say yes.’

Yvonne thought about her parents, her mother who lived in terror of what the neighbours would say, her father who doted on his only daughter, who talked football with Brian whenever he came to tea. And she thought about how Brian loved her and wondered if she’d ever meet anyone who loved her as much. She thought about their baby, growing up with a father it only saw now and again.

And she’d said yes and slipped on the ring, which was too loose, and watched Brian’s face light up.

She’d worn the ring, with the matching plain gold band he’d given her on their wedding day, until Clara was ten or eleven. Then one morning, without really thinking about it, she didn’t put them on, just left them sitting side by side in the little blue china dish that she dropped them into every evening.

For a while she missed them, felt the absence of their weight on her finger, and then she got used to not wearing them. The night before Clara’s twenty-first birthday, she took them out of their china dish, wrapped them in a tissue, slid them into a matchbox and tucked it into a drawer she rarely opened, full of old clothes pegs and mismatched napkin rings and elastic bands that had once held bunches of rhubarb, that she hated to throw out.