Homecoming (18 page)

At home afterwards, Connie realised she had asked almost nothing about Eleanor herself. For sure, Eleanor hadn’t volunteered anything, but Connie still should have asked.

She was becoming self-obsessed. So she didn’t have everything she wanted in life, but so what? And yet Eleanor hadn’t said that it was OK to accept not having it. In fact, she implied that it wasn’t foolish to look for more.

You can start again
, Eleanor had said.

Had Keith taken all the fight out of her? She’d been youthful and full of energy with him. When he left, she’d become old overnight.

On a whim, she sat down at the small laptop computer she and Nicky shared, and Googled Keith.

It took a while to find him and when she did it was on a social networking site.

Because she wasn’t a member of the site, his photo only came out as a hazy silhouette, but it was him, she was sure of it. She’d recognise the shape of his head anywhere.

His relationship status said:
engaged.
Connie stared at the screen without moving.

Engaged.

His ‘favourite things’ were condensed into five words:
Michaela, love of my life.

A twinge of pain hit her.

Then Connie peered more closely at the listing. That couldn’t be right. Keith was the same age as she was. Forty in August. And yet, according to this, he was only thirty-six. His birthday fell on the correct day, just the wrong year.

He was pretending he was younger!

Quite why this cheered her up, she didn’t know, but there was something infinitely amusing to think of Keith claiming to be in his mid-thirties because he had a much-younger girlfriend.

She closed the site and turned off the laptop. No more mindless surfing over Keith. Pretending-he-was-younger-Keith.

No more self-sabotaging.

She felt better already.

‘You still haven’t told her?’ Freddie couldn’t believe it.

It had been three weeks since he’d proposed and Nicky still kept the ring on a long golden chain around her neck, because she couldn’t wear it on her finger until she’d told Connie.

‘Why not? And put it on your finger. She won’t notice,’ he said.

Nicky looked at him grimly. ‘Just because you wouldn’t notice it, doesn’t mean Connie wouldn’t. Of course she’d spot an engagement ring on my finger. Women notice things like that. Just like you noticed that woman in the pub last night who wasn’t wearing a bra, and had the fakest tits I’ve ever seen in my life.’

Freddie objected. ‘I only glanced at them. At her,’ he amended.

‘I’m just saying: men notice fake tits and women notice engagement rings.’

‘I can’t tell my parents until you tell yours and Connie,’ he said. ‘I know we’re only going to have a small wedding, Nicky, but we have to get going with it or there won’t be one at all.’

‘I’ll tell her soon, I promise.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight, OK?’

Connie looked at all the short men in the supermarket that afternoon. Normally, she only noticed tall men and petite women. Petite women reminded her of Nicky, and tall men made her run through her mental checklist.

But not today. No, this was a new start to her life. Talking to Eleanor had given her new hope. So what if Keith had liked her to wear flat shoes and had been threatened by her height? Not all men would be. She’d put the Keith baggage in the mental dustbin and was moving on.

The supermarket was jammed with Saturday afternoon shoppers but Connie was serene as she wheeled her mini trolley up and down the aisles. Nicky had said Freddie was at a football match and, for once, he wouldn’t be around that evening, so the sisters had arranged to have dinner together.

‘We could order in an Indian takeaway, and I’ll get wine and dessert,’ Connie said happily, looking forward to it.

She spent so many Saturday evenings at home alone. Of course, Freddie and Nicky went to the cinema with her and took her to concerts and parties, but she often felt like a third wheel. Not any more. Look out short men!

As she was parking the car, she spotted the man from the next-door apartment out of the corner of her eye. Eleanor had mentioned him, so Connie tried to look closer without it being obvious.

He was hefting groceries out of his truck and the little girl was helping by picking things she liked the look of out of the bags and just carrying those in. Her russet hair was in a long, neat plait down her back and Connie had a moment of wondering if the little girl’s father had plaited it. He must have. Her mum was never around, he was clearly a single father. There was something both touching and sad about the idea of him patiently plaiting his daughter’s hair.

Something made him look over at Connie, who went red because he might guess she’d been staring, and then gave a little wave hello. He smiled politely and turned away. Feeling unaccountably disappointed, she dragged her own shopping from the car and lugged it up the steps.

‘I’ve something to tell you,’ Connie said, when she and Nicky sat down at the table that evening. She’d lit candles, had taken the good glasses out for their wine and water, and the takeaway had all been decanted into Connie’s best dark-red tableware. The curtains were closed, Michael Bublé was crooning quietly on the stereo, and everything was cosy.

‘You do? Me too,’ said Nicky, her mouth full of naan bread.

‘Oh, you first!’ said Connie cheerfully. Nothing could dim her enthusiasm.

Talking to Eleanor had been like a tonic: she felt so energised, so ready to take on the world.

‘Well, I wasn’t sure how to tell you. We’ve talked about it…’ Nicky hesitated. There was no point in beating around the bush, she had to just do it. ‘Freddie and I are getting married. In April, hopefully. We want to do it quickly. I mean, why hang around when you’ve made up your mind? I want you to be bridesmaid, of course.’ The words came out in a rush.

She looked at Connie’s kind, round face with its warm eyes and gentle, usually smiling mouth. Connie blinked quickly, as if she had an eyelash in her eye.

Magnificently, she rose to the occasion. ‘Nicky! I’m so thrilled for you!’

And she was utterly thrilled that her darling, precious little sister had found absolute happiness. Connie shoved her plate aside, pushed her chair back, and was beside Nicky, hugging her.

‘I was so worried!’ Nicky was saying. ‘I know how hard it must be for you because of Keith. He’s a waster, a total louser. He wasted years of your life, and Freddie wanted me to tell you straight away –’

‘You should have, but I’m happy you’re telling me now,’ Connie exclaimed. ‘It’s wonderful. When did he ask, have you made any plans?’

‘None yet. We wanted you to know first. Oh, Con, I love you. I wanted to tell you straight off because it’s so exciting.’ Nicky drew a gold chain out from under her sweater. On the end of it dangled a delicate engagement ring, which Connie grasped and pronounced ‘beautiful!’.

At Connie’s urging Nicky slipped the ring on her finger and they both admired it, then Connie had to turn on the main light so they could see the jewels more clearly.

‘But Freddie should be here if I’m the first person you’re telling,’ Connie said. Inspiration struck. ‘He’s not really at a football match, is he?’

No,’ admitted Nicky. ‘Freddie isn’t out at all. I just wanted some peace so I could tell you in private.’

‘Get him round!’ said Connie. ‘Phone him! I’ll order some more takeaway from Khans; I can rush round to pick it up and get some champagne. We must celebrate.’

With one last hug for her sister, she left the table to get her coat and her purse.

‘What was your news?’ asked Nicky, reaching for her mobile phone to ring Freddie.

‘Oh nothing, compared to yours, just that I met our new neighbour today. You’ll like her, she’s great.’

Connie got another helping of tandoori chicken, more naan bread and another order of dhal. She picked up a bottle of champagne in the off-licence, and then took a trip into The Nook to buy chocolate for later, when she was in bed. Chocolate nearly always helped. She lingered near the circular book rack where paperbacks were squashed into the top and Mills & Boon novels were lined in the bottom. Tonight, the chocolate might not be enough.
The Bride’s Ransom
shone up at her, with the kind of picture that had been her fantasy for as long as she could remember: a bronzed man with a hawkish, proud face, holding a fragile but beautiful woman tightly to him. In the middle of the day, Connie could walk past the rack without blinking. But come nighttime, when she was lonely and sad, she wanted to be the one of the women in the Mills and Boon pictures, being held and protected.

Freddie was at the apartment when she got back.

‘Brother-in-law-to-be!’ she greeted him with a hug.

‘I knew you’d be happy when you heard,’ he said innocently. ‘Your sister’s an awful worrier.’

‘I know,’ Connie said cheerfully.

She reheated the original meal and served it all up, whereupon they ate happily and toasted Freddie and Nicky’s engagement, and talked about the plans.

The engaged couple had drawn up a shortlist of guests already, and had discussed venues. Connie and Nicky’s parents’ house in Wexford was small and they had a tiny garden, so there was no room for the party there. Freddie’s parents had lost a lot of money in bank stocks, and had downsized to an elegant but modest two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Cork.

‘That’s another reason we want to keep the wedding small,’ Nicky said.

‘I know, but even though they’ll understand, they’ll still be upset that all the mad aunties and uncles can’t come,’ Connie warned. ‘People can get very emotional about weddings,’ she added, privately thinking that this sentence must surely qualify for understatement of the year.

‘You’ll help us explain it to them, won’t you, Connie?’ begged Nicky, and Connie managed to keep the smile on her face.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Now, when are you planning the big day?’

‘April,’ said Nicky. ‘Rochelle in work is taking half of May off, and we can’t really go on holidays at the same time as she handles my authors when I’m away. So we can get married in April and have our honeymoon with a clear conscience.’

‘Great,’ said Connie calmly. ‘And, er, where are you planning to live?’

It was a hard question to ask – she loved having Nicky living with her, and could quite happily put up with Freddie moving in too, if it meant she could keep Nicky with her.

‘That’s one of the really exciting bits!’ Nicky said, beaming at Freddie. ‘The top-floor apartment in Freddie’s house is going to be free at the start of April. It needs a bit of work, but we’ve talked to the landlord and he’d love us to have it. Steady tenants, he called us.’

Freddie grinned at this.

‘It’s got two bedrooms and an amazing view of the harbour. Much better than Freddie’s.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Connie said, the smile still fixed on her face. ‘Wonderful.’

At eleven, pleading tiredness, she went to bed.

From the living room. Connie could hear laughter and happiness. She was so pleased for Nicky and Freddie, but they must never know how achingly lonely she felt in her pink boudoir. Connie pulled the frilled covers up around her, broke off a couple of squares of chocolate, and began to read
The Bride’s Ransom.

9
Roasts

You’re too young to remember the big storms in the 1920s, Eleanor. There were bad winters with fierce winds that felt as if they’d take the thatch off the house. One March, when you were just three years old, we had the worst storm of all. Several trees went down in the garden. The biggest, an ash, hit the side of the house and knocked in part of the gable wall. My mother and Agnes shared that bedroom, and what a night we had. We got the bedding out of the room, but my mother’s pretty cabinet with her little bits of glass and china was badly smashed.

Your father said he’d fix it up as good as new, and he did.

He also mended the wall. It took him a month, but when Joe said he’d do something, he did it right.

The night he finished, we had roast dinner to celebrate. There was no butcher in Kilmoney, so we had to go to Clifden, the nearest big town, if we wanted to buy meat. Kilmoney was tiny then, you see. Like everyone else, we kept a pig and always butchered our own bacon and salted it in a big oak barrel for winter. We’d kill a chicken, if we had one, on a Saturday for
Sunday’s dinner. For anything special, like a piece of beef to roast, we’d go to Clifden. Even today, I still get a warm feeling inside me when I smell a roast. The trick is to have the oven as hot as you can bear it and then sear the sides of the meat, and that makes it tender on the inside.

We couldn’t always afford a roast for Sunday dinner, so if the funds were low and the tallyman was at the door, you couldn’t beat some boiled bacon and cabbage. The loin is the best cut, with a decent bit of fat on it. Boil the bacon for an hour, changing the water a few times and skimming the froth off the top, then twenty-minutes from the end, add the cabbage into the pot. By the time it’s all cooked, the bacon will melt off the fork. I like a little mustard with it. I had a flowery egg cup I used to make the mustard powder up in. It broke when we moved from Kilmoney and even now I think no mustard ever tasted as good as it used to in that egg cup. It wasn’t the mustard, it was the place, you see. The egg cup reminded me of home. Nothing’s sweeter than home, Eleanor.

Rae liked walking into the tearooms and seeing it the way the customers saw it. The scent hit people first: there was always cinnamon because of the apple-and-cinnamon muffins; a hint of vanilla from the lemon-and-vanilla poppyseed cake; and then there was the subtle spice of coffee. Rae liked to offer interesting coffees and this month her special was Rwandan.

This particular morning, Rae had had two cups of coffee already and it was only half nine. Timothy, who owned the tearooms, had been in and they’d gone over the books. Business was flourishing.