A Time for Friends Page 8

  She who, like her peers, had felt she was such a ‘liberated’ young woman of the eighties, with the world as her oyster, had still been unable to shake off the notion that marriage was the holy grail for a woman. Centuries of conditioning had not been eroded by the advance of so-called feminism, whatever feminists might like to think, she thought wryly, thinking of a banking acquaintance of theirs who had shot up through the ranks, was highly skilled and competitive, but was desperate to be married before she was forty when her ‘successful high-flying career-woman’ label would inevitably change to ‘sad singleton who never got a man’. Better to be divorced even than to be one of them.

  Hilary and Niall had married for love, and for years Colette had secretly envied them that. The way they looked at each other, the intimate little manner they would hold hands or hug or make each other laugh. No matter how much Colette had sparkled or flirted, Niall had only ever had eyes for Hilary, much to her chagrin because she had always fancied him.

  The Hammonds’ marriage was far different from hers and her husband’s. She and Des were a perfect match. They always looked designer good; they had the same aspirations: to be wealthy, successful, and well placed in society. They each recognized what the other brought to their marriage and appreciated it, but were they deeply in love? Colette sighed. Love was for fools! Love hurt! And love didn’t last. She had seen that at first hand, thanks to Rod Killeen. She preferred what she had, thank you very much, she decided briskly, flipping through the phone section of her diary to find Marcy Byrne’s number.

  ‘Honestly, Frank, Colette could have let us know she was going to be in Dublin for the weekend, and she could have brought Jasmine. She has no consideration for us after all we did for her,’ Jacqueline groused, placing the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. ‘She makes no allowance for the fact that we rarely see our granddaughter. The child will soon be a stranger to us. Sometimes I think Colette’s trying to punish us for something.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jacqueline,’ Frank said irascibly. ‘What would she be punishing us for? We gave her the best of everything. A car when she was eighteen, foreign holidays, college in London. All she ever wanted. We paid a fortune for that wedding in Rome! What’s her problem?’

  ‘She’s always been the same, a little madam,’ Jacqueline declared. What kind of a family were they when their only child didn’t let them know that she was coming for a visit, and instead preferred to stay in a hotel? She sighed deeply, staring out at the sea, framed by two spiky palm trees, that shimmered and glittered at the end of their immaculately kept landscaped gardens. A house, not much bigger than theirs, half a mile away, had sold for a million recently causing huge excitement at the golf club. Prices were beginning to climb after all the grim, grey days of the eighties recession and the economy was powering ahead. She and Frank were seriously thinking of buying a villa beside a golf course in the Algarve. The Sheedys had bought one near Albufeira and were always boasting about their fabulous views of the Atlantic, visiting several times a year and coming home with terrific tans and much improved handicaps. She and Frank had worked like Trojans for years: it was time to start winding down a little and enjoy their hard-earned affluence.

  Someday this house and all their wealth would be Colette’s, for all the thanks her hard-working parents were getting from their ungrateful child. It would be good enough for her if they left it all to charity.

  They weren’t close, she and Colette. They’d never had that great mother–daughter bond that some of her friends enjoyed. Jacqueline had got pregnant unexpectedly at the very worst time in her career, just as she was starting to make a name for herself. She and Frank had gone into business together, and O’Mahony and Co. were clawing their way up the legal ladder. A baby was the last thing Jacqueline had wanted. It was a huge shock to realize that she was not as in control of her life as she thought she was and that the rug could be pulled from under her arbitrarily, whether she liked it or not.

  Jacqueline sighed, remembering how furious she had been that, despite going on the pill and taking responsibility for her life choice, her wishes had counted for nothing in the grand scheme of things. It was the same kind of fury she felt, even to this day, when she lost a court case.

  She had always been a control freak, Jacqueline conceded, wiping her Italian marble countertops with more vigour than was necessary. That had come from being the child of a mother who had frittered away housekeeping money on bingo, horses and the slot machines in the sleazy arcades in town. Money that meant eating more cheap mince and beans than she could stomach, and going to school in her sister’s hand-me-down uniform. When she grew up she would be in charge of her own life, the young Jacqueline vowed, after the umpteenth time of telling the gas meter man her mammy wasn’t in when he came to collect payment. ‘Good girl,’ her mother would say. How could her mother get her to tell lies and then make her go to confession religiously every Saturday? It just didn’t make sense.

  It was her difficult childhood that had propelled her to achieve top marks at university, and that same drive fuelled her desire for success in her chosen career. And then she had fallen pregnant.

  No doubt her newly conceived daughter had absorbed the energy of her mother’s immense dismay, and the other myriad emotions Jacqueline had experienced. She had been sick morning, noon and night, which only added to her resentment.

  She hadn’t told her husband when a pregnancy test confirmed what she already knew. She had wrestled with the idea of going to England for a termination. She could have easily said nothing and Frank would never have known. But she loved her husband dearly, and she knew one of his dreams was to have O’Mahony and Son, or Daughter etched on a discreet gold plaque on their office door. The child was his as well as hers. Created by them both. It wasn’t all about her. To her consternation, Frank had been delighted. An only child, he’d told her when they got engaged that he’d wanted a boy and a girl to make them a ‘proper’ family.

  ‘But, Frank, it’s crap timing.’ She’d burst into tears. ‘I can’t take time off to look after a baby! We haven’t planned it.’

  ‘That’s OK! We can get someone to mind it,’ he soothed. ‘We’re getting a lot of referrals, we can afford—’

  ‘Exactly, we’re up to our eyes, and this is the last thing I need. Why is it the woman always has to make the sacrifices? That’s my career up the Swannee,’ she raged.

  ‘You won’t have to sacrifice your career. We’ll manage fine. Working mothers are becoming the norm now, it’s not like when we were growing up,’ Frank reassured her. Their parents, family and friends had been thrilled with their news so she constantly had to stifle her negative feelings and keep them to herself, putting on a façade in the face of their anticipation and delight.

  Childbirth had been the most long-drawn-out, painful, embarrassing event of her life. Jacqueline had felt a complete and utter failure looking at her daughter’s screwed up little red face as she screeched loudly when placed in her arms, and felt no overwhelming bond, just exhaustion and irritation that her freedom was curtailed and life as she knew it had changed completely and she was now responsible for another being, whether she wanted to be or not.

  Difficult as it was to admit now, all these years later, having a child had not brought a great deal of joy into her life. No wonder she and Colette weren’t close, Jacqueline conceded. She had put her career before her child and now she was paying the price. And, much as it pained her to say it, her daughter was making the same mistakes with Jasmine. It was something she should try and diplomatically point out. Perhaps at brunch tomorrow, Jacqueline decided. If Colette wanted a better relationship with her daughter than the one she had with her mother, something had to be said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘She sounds very nice and a bit of a laugh as well.’ Orla munched on a slice of toast liberally smeared with pâté, snuggled up beside Jonathan on his bed as he told her all about meeting Hilary at the lighting design course the previous day.
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  Orla had made them breakfast. Jonathan had been too tipsy the previous night when he had arrived home with her cheeseburger to have a proper conversation and after yawning his head off yet again she’d sent him packing off to bed and told him she’d see him in the morning.

  ‘Hilary is lovely, really down to earth, a bit scatty, and good fun. Just my sort of woman! And you should see her showrooms. FABULOUS, darling.’ Jonathan took a slug of coffee and forked half a sausage into his mouth. ‘The other one now, the Colette one, was a right little madam. I know she wanted me to leave, she kept giving me the evil eye, and if I’d felt that Hilary wanted me to go I would have, but I kinda felt that Hilary wasn’t overly excited to see her. Colette was all Me! Me! Me! You know that sort,’ Jonathan observed tartly.

  ‘Oh dear! Me! Me! Me! And You! You! You! I’d say that was good,’ Orla murmured wickedly.

  ‘Cheeky hussy,’ Jonathan grinned. ‘Her clothes were gorgeous though, all designer, and the Louis Vuitton bag, and the Cartier watch. Lashings of dosh, I’d say. The husband works in finance and she works in fine art. Lots of name-dropping. Her parents are that legal pair that are always in the papers. The O’Mahonys.’

  ‘Ooohh posh! You’re coming up in the world, Mr Harpur.’

  ‘Yes indeed, on the fringes of High Society! Hilary and I are going to be THE interior and lighting designers to go to,’ Jonathan smirked.

  ‘Right, Mr Interior Designer, I have to go. I’ve got basketball practice and I’m meeting the girls in town afterwards.’ Orla took a last gulp of coffee and got off the bed.

  ‘And how are your lady pains?’ he asked solicitously.

  She made a face. ‘I’m dosed up with Solpadeine. The exercise will help. What are you doing for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I’ve to go and buy gold brocade curtains, and source a glass coffee table and some lampshades. And then I’m meeting some of the lads in the George.’

  ‘We probably won’t see each other until tomorrow then. Brekkie and the papers in Omni around eleven? I’ll drive.’ Orla arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said as she blew him a kiss on her way out.

  What a delightful weekend it was turning out to be, Jonathan reflected, lying back against his pillows as the sun spilled in through the big bay window and a lark sang in the branches of the minty green rowan tree that was bursting into soft-blossomed bud in the front garden.

  How different he felt from the day before yesterday when he had been so demoralized after his confrontation with Gerard. He’d made a new friend in Hilary, had a great time on the course and was eager to move forward in his design career. Optimistic, that’s what he was, Jonathan decided, relieved that the feelings of depression he’d felt coming on had receded. It was hard work keeping the darkness at bay sometimes, but on days like today he felt ready for anything. He sprang out of bed and headed for the shower. Today was not the day to linger in the snug confines of his bed. Today was a day of purpose. He had things to do, places to go and people to see. And then tomorrow he and Orla would have breakfast together and sit reading the papers in a cosy booth in Bewley’s in Omni, and then perhaps have a walk in the Botanics, and he would come home and work on his portfolio and his latest project in the afternoon. He wanted to bring his new client to approve the furnishings he’d selected, as soon as possible. He wanted to be ultra prepared.

  Jonathan was carefully folding a selection of small swatches of material to put into his shoulder bag when the communal phone in the hall rang. He knew Tommy, the occupant of the bedsit beside his, was out, as was Orla, so he went to answer it.

  Surprised, because they’d only spoken in the last two days, he heard his mother’s voice at the other end of the line. ‘Hello, love,’ she said, but he knew by her tone something was up.

  ‘What’s up, Mam?’ he asked, instantly alert.

  ‘Some sad news, Jonathan. Poor Gus next door died yesterday evening. Took another massive heart attack. I waited until I had the funeral arrangements before I rang you and the girls. The removal’s tomorrow evening and he’ll be buried after ten Mass on Monday. You’ll be down for the removal, won’t you? I don’t think Rita would expect you to take a day off work and I certainly wouldn’t but tomorrow is a Sunday so that will be grand. I’ll be there on Monday but we can all be at the removal tomorrow,’ his mother said firmly.

  Jonathan couldn’t speak. He literally froze. His abuser was dead and his mother wanted him to go to his removal service. He couldn’t do it, he just couldn’t! He swallowed hard. ‘Ma . . . Mam,’ he stuttered. ‘I have something arranged for tomorrow. I’m not going to be able to make it.’

  ‘Oh Lord, Jonathan. Couldn’t you rearrange it? He was a kind neighbour. He was good to me. To us,’ Nancy said in dismay.

  ‘Mam, I have to go now, I’m meeting a client. I’ll ring you this evening,’ Jonathan fibbed, desperate to get his mother off the phone.

  ‘Well, get a Mass card at least, and try and rearrange whatever you have on tomorrow, Jonathan. You should be there if at all possible,’ Nancy urged.

  ‘OK, bye, Mam, bye,’ he said hastily and hung up. Jonathan was shaking as he walked across the hall and closed the door behind him. The memories came surging back against his will and he was instantly transported to that untidy, smoke-polluted sitting room with the brown tweedy sofa and the big chipped oval mirror over the fireplace. The memory of the curtains being pulled, the belt being unbuckled, Gus’s raspy breath as he forced him to his knees brought tears to Jonathan’s eyes. The recollection of the fear and revulsion that always overwhelmed him came back with a force that stunned him. And afterwards, when the hideous assault was over, he remembered Gus’s finger held up in warning. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this now or I’ll make things difficult for yer mammy, and I won’t buy her any more cigarettes and ye wouldn’t like that, now would ye?’

  Jonathan would nod his head and run out of the house as fast as he could, down the small pathway that separated their two houses and into the shed at the bottom of his garden where he would fling himself onto an old quilt his mother had given him to play house with Alice. He would sob into his forearm, his body shaking with terror, revulsion, rage and helplessness.

  For three years, Gus had made his life a living hell. If he didn’t see Jonathan outside, he’d wait until he saw Nancy and say, ‘Nancy, will ye ask the wee lad to run to the shops and get me a few fags and I’ll get him to buy ye a packet too.’

  ‘I don’t want to go, I’m too tired,’ Jonathan often protested, petrified and desperate at the thought of what would inevitably happen. On one occasion he had refused outright. His mother had gazed at him sternly and said, ‘I’m surprised at you, Jonathan, that you wouldn’t run an errand for a neighbour, and he not a well man. I thought I’d reared you better than that. I’ll go myself.’ She had gone to the shops in a huff and not spoken to him for the rest of the evening.

  ‘Sorry, Mammy,’ he’d muttered, suffused with guilt when he’d gone into the kitchen to say goodnight and seen her sewing a button on his good white Sunday shirt.

  ‘Ah sure, it’s not often you don’t do me a favour when I ask you. We’ll let bygones be bygones and forget about it,’ Nancy said kindly, opening her arms to him. She’d hugged him tightly and he’d rested his head on her shoulder and so badly wanted to blurt out that Mr Higgins wasn’t a kind man. That he was mean and dirty and made Jonathan do horrible things.

  Shortly after his eleventh birthday, his neighbour had crooked a finger at him one Saturday afternoon when he was mowing the grass. Jonathan, being the man of the house, was responsible for keeping the front and back gardens neat and tidy and for putting out the bin. Nancy had gone to measure up a woman for a dress she was making for her and his sisters were doing housework, making sure the dusting and polishing was done to have the house spick and span for Sunday. ‘I want a few fags, laddie. G’wan to the shops and get me some – here’s ten shillings. Get yer ma a packet as well.’

  Jonathan h
ad taken the money without a word, hurried to the shop to complete his purchase and walked home, his heart thumping, his stomach knotted so tightly he could hardly breathe. Instead of knocking on the front door as he usually did, he shoved the cigarettes and change through the letterbox, making sure to keep Nancy’s packet in his pocket. He leapt over the garden wall in a bound and hurried into his own front garden to complete his grass cutting, comforted by the fact that the door to their small front porch was open should he need to make a run for it.

  Gus opened his front door scowling. ‘Come over here you and bend down and pick up these fags. Why didn’t ye knock on the door?’ he growled.

  Jonathan ignored him. He thought he was going to vomit, but he knew he had to make a stand. There was something very wrong with what that man made him do. His mammy wouldn’t like it if she knew, he was sure of that.

  ‘De’ye hear me, lad?’ said Gus, raising his voice a little. His face crimson with temper.

  ‘I’m not going into your house ever again,’ Jonathan shouted, brought to breaking point. ‘Ever! Ever! EVER! And I’m not doing that thing you make me do. You’re a bad dirty bastard!’ he cursed.

  Gus came down his path like a bull. ‘Shut up, ye little runt. Shut up, I tell ye! De ye want the neighbours to hear? Now get in there and pick up those fags and go into the front room like ye always do and no more of yer guff!’

  In desperation, Jonathan picked up the gardening shears and pointed them at Gus. ‘Get away from me or I’m telling my teacher on you—’

  ‘Don’t ye ever tell anyone or ye’ll be mighty sorry. I’ll say you’re a little liar,’ Gus ranted, astonished at this utterly unexpected onslaught. Seeing Mrs Johnston, another neighbour, coming along the road towards them, he turned on his heel and stomped, puffing and wheezing, back into his house, leaving Jonathan trembling like a leaf.

  ‘That’s a nice job you’re doing, Jonathan. If I gave you a shilling would you do mine?’ his neighbour asked when she got to his gate, oblivious to the incident that had just occurred.