Putting Out the Stars (26 page)

Stop it.
She willed herself to relax, breathed deeply to try to dislodge the knot that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside her. If she didn’t watch herself,
she’d end up twisted and bitter. And it wasn’t Donal’s fault that she wasn’t pregnant – at least, they didn’t know which of them was to blame yet. Another two
months at least to endure before they found out – if they ever did find out.
God, why can’t I think about anything else?
Her heart ached; she seemed to be on some kind of awful
treadmill, going round and round the same old endless
whys
and
what ifs.

And no answers. Nobody to tell her that she was being silly – that of course she’d get pregnant, any time now. That it just took longer with some people, that was all. That there was
absolutely no problem – none whatsoever.

‘Laura, dear?’ Cecily was holding out a plate. Laura saw immaculately arranged crackers on which were perched slices of herbed cheese and slivers of cucumber, wafer-thin salami, some
kind of pâté topped with olive halves.

‘Thank you.’ She took a salami-topped cracker – Cecily would probably take it personally if she refused – and placed it on the small china plate on her lap. She felt sure
that Breffni and Cian were getting merry on sparkling wine, along with the gang they’d invited to the turkey dinner. No standing on ceremony there; no perching on a spindly-legged chair,
forcing down silly, fiddly food you didn’t want, listening to operatic music, which Laura had always detested, and trying to look as if you were enjoying yourself.

After what seemed like an eternity, they managed to escape. Laura turned to Donal in the car as they drove off. ‘Please let’s go on a Christmas break to the sun next year.’

‘I promise.’ He grinned across at her – probably a bit high on Cecily’s brandy. ‘Listen, it could be worse. I’m just glad that she doesn’t expect us to
stay for dinner. Poor Ruth.’ When Laura didn’t respond, he put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Darling?’

She darted a look at him, unsmiling. ‘What?’

‘We have each other. We’ll always have each other, whatever happens.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah, I know.’ She felt a tear trickle out of one eye and run slowly down her cheek.

‘I love you.’ He squeezed her shoulder gently; hadn’t noticed the tear.

She nodded again, and then said, ‘God, I could use a drink when we get home.’

Donal said nothing, just looked at her as they turned onto the North Circular. After a minute, he took his hand away.

All day long, she was on autopilot. Doing what was expected of her. Saying all the right things. Dragging her thoughts back whenever they strayed to him. Managing somehow to get
through the day without someone looking curiously at her and asking, ‘Are you OK?’

A few days ago, the third time. The same room as the first time, when he’d been so endearingly nervous. He was more confident now, more sure of her. Took his time with her. Her hair was
damp with sweat, her voice hoarse as she begged him not to stop.

‘I adore you . . . you’re so beautiful.’ His voice was muffled against her neck. ‘So unbelievably beautiful.’

She drank in every word, shuddered when his tongue traced her collarbone lazily.
I adore you.
She echoed it back to him in her head, afraid to say it out loud.

Afraid now that this thing they’d started was going to be impossible to stop. Terrified that it would grow and blossom and take control, and destroy everything that got in its way.
Already, so soon, she was powerless to resist him. Unable to say
no, stop this, we have to end it.
She couldn’t imagine it ending; it could never end.

Somehow, she got through Christmas Day without him.

‘Frank – kettle’s boiling.’ Ruth drew in her head when she saw him look up and wave. She put spoons on the table, emptied the last few digestives onto a
plate, poured steaming water into the teapot.

The back door opened and Frank appeared, shaking his feet out of his battered-looking boots. ‘How do you always know just when I’ve decided that I could murder a cuppa?’ He
stepped into the pair of shoes on the mat and crossed to the sink. ‘It’s a perfect day out there, actually quite warm in the sun. Hard to believe it’s December.’ He turned
on the tap and pumped the liquid soap into his hand.

Ruth poured tea into both cups, wondering again why Frank kept reminding her of someone. ‘You’re doing fantastic work out there. You must have loved your job, did you?’

‘I did; never minded getting up in the morning, no matter what the weather was like. Loved getting my hands mucky; the muckier the better.’ He put the towel back on its hook and sat
at the table. ‘Poor Angela was worn out trying to get the grass stains out of my trousers. Didn’t matter how much I told her it didn’t bother me – ’twas only my
gardening gear – she’d still go at them with every kind of cleaner.’

Ruth pushed the sugar bowl over to him, thinking how rarely he mentioned his late wife. ‘You must miss her.’

He nodded, spooning sugar into his tea. ‘Every day. She was a wonderful woman; always so positive – and God knows, we went through our share of tough times.’ He glanced over at
Ruth. ‘We lost a daughter, you know. Leukaemia.’

‘Oh Frank, I didn’t know. How terrible.’ Ruth instinctively took his hand and squeezed it. ‘You poor thing. How old was she?’

‘Twelve. Just getting ready to start secondary school.’

‘God.’ Ruth held his hand tightly. ‘Had you . . . have you other children?’

He paused, picked up his cup with his free hand. ‘A son, yes.’ Another pause; he sipped his tea, put down his cup. ‘I . . . we lost touch, years ago.’ Then he shook his
head slightly and smiled. ‘And that’s quite enough about me and my dark past. Christmas reminds you of the ones who are gone – that must be why I’m rattling on like this.
Now, my dear, I’m admiring your beautiful necklace and guessing it was a present from your husband.’

Ruth smiled, fingered the necklace. It
had
been from Andrew – she’d been delighted when she’d opened it, amazed when he insisted that no one had helped him choose
it.

She still felt a lurch of unease when she remembered the other night – how she’d pushed him away in the taxi on the way home from the Chinese restaurant. She knew she had nothing to
apologise for – he’d only had himself to blame, pushing himself on her like that, ignoring her protests – but still . . . she was his wife, after all, and he’d had a lot to
drink, didn’t really know what he was doing. Fortunately, he’d seemed to have forgotten it by the morning – how he’d lurched upstairs as soon as they were in the door, and
gone straight to bed without another word to her. When she reached the bedroom a few minutes later, he was fast asleep in his underpants, clothes tossed in a heap onto the floor. Ruth had picked
them up and plonked them on a chair, not attempting to straighten them out. She was his wife, not his mother.

In the morning, he’d turned to her with a groan: ‘God, my head’s splitting; did I make a total idiot of myself last night?’

‘Not at all; you were in great form.’ Ruth got up and made him tea in bed, grateful that the little unpleasantness on the way home seemed to have been forgotten.

After Frank had finished his tea and gone back outside, Ruth stood at the kitchen window and watched him digging just inside the back wall, pushing the spade down into the earth, bending to
lever it up and turn the soil, cutting into it with the side of the spade. Ruth had asked him about climbers; she wanted to cover the ugly concrete wall. He suggested summer jasmine for scent, and
Virginia creeper for the glorious flaming colour it went in autumn, or maybe variegated ivy, if she didn’t want it too bare in the winter, and a few sweet peas here and there, because their
scent was wonderful too, and their colours so delicately pretty.

He also suggested runner beans, which surprised her until he described the beautiful orange blossoms that covered the plant before the beans appeared. ‘And then you’ll get a few
dinners out of them too; you’ll be like the woman on
The Good Life
, remember her, Felicity somebody?’

Ruth had laughed. ‘Only the repeats, I’m afraid.’

She watched his slow, systematic turning of the earth; saw him crouching down every now and again to look closely at whatever had caught his attention. She wondered how anyone could survive the
loss of a child; and terrible as the death of his daughter must surely have been, wasn’t it as bad in its own way not to know where his son was – or even if he was still alive? What on
earth could have been so awful for them to have lost contact, to have stayed apart for years? She supposed his son would be in his thirties or forties now. Ruth’s heart went out to Frank; she
wished there was some way she could help him.

Her eyes roamed the garden; it
did
look like a lovely day, and she hadn’t put her nose outside the door yet. She’d finish the few jobs around the house and go for a walk;
maybe track down a few local hairdressers. In just three days it would be January – time for some serious job-hunting.

She’d pick up a gardening magazine for Frank somewhere too, when she was out.

‘Only me.’

‘In here.’ Breffni lifted the throw and draped it over the back of the sofa. As she sat up, yawning, Cian came in. ‘What’s up – are you sick?’

She shook her head, pulling her fingers through her hair to untangle it. ‘I was just grabbing a quick snooze after Poll went up; I think Christmas has caught up with me.’

‘Poor you.’ He sat next to her and massaged her shoulders. ‘Worn out looking after us all. Will I phone for a takeaway?’

‘No – it’s in the oven, all ready.’

He stood again. ‘Well then, you stay there and I’ll bring it in on a tray.’

She shook her head, smiling. ‘No, I’ll come out. I’m fine, honest.’ She stood and put her arms around his neck. ‘You’re far too good for me – I
don’t deserve you.’

He considered, then shook his head. ‘No, you don’t. You deserve someone a lot better-looking, and a damn sight more exciting; not to mention a bit skinnier.’

She dug him in the ribs. ‘Stop; I’m serious; you
are
too good for me. And if I wanted a skinny man, I’d put you on a diet.’

He hugged her tightly, chin resting on the top of her head. After a few seconds of silence, he said, ‘Bref.’

‘Yeah?’ She pulled her head back and looked up at him.

‘Is it time to think about another baby?’

He felt her stiffen slightly – such a tiny movement; or maybe he imagined it – before she answered. ‘Let’s leave it a while; Poll’s not out of nappies yet.’
She watched him with those wonderful blue eyes.

He nodded. ‘OK, if that’s what you want.’ He dropped his arms. ‘Can I run up and say hi before she drops off?’

‘Do; I’ll dish up.’ She stood in the middle of the living room and listened to his footsteps for a minute, staring off into the distance. Then she smoothed the cushions on the
couch and turned towards the kitchen, wondering how long she could put him off.