Something in Common (20 page)
She folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope, and ripped open the second.
‘More tea?’ Neil
asked. She shook her head and read the short, ink-stained message on the lined sheet.
Dear Mrs Flanery
My mother said I had to write to you or I wouldent get any poket money. Thank you for the book. I was called after the Alice in it. I think its a good storey but I didn’t like wen the baby turned into a pig, that bit was yuk. I liked the cat, he was cool. OK I hav to go and do my homework.
from Alice Fitzpatrick
‘Good news?’
Sarah looked up.
‘You’re smiling,’ he said.
She handed him the sheet. ‘I sent Helen’s daughter a copy of
Alice in Wonderland
.’
He read it, a grin spreading across his own face. ‘Was it her birthday?’
‘No … I just felt like it.’
He held out the note, and as Sarah took it he grabbed her hand. ‘I love you,’ he said, ‘and I don’t deserve you.’
It was unexpected. He wasn’t good at romantic pronouncements. Sarah squeezed his hand, met his grey gaze behind the glasses. ‘Of course you deserve me,’ she said, pulling him to his feet. She rested her head against his chest, raised the fingers still entwined in hers and put them to her lips, felt his heart beating under the checked flannel shirt she’d bought for him the week before. They stood unspeaking for a minute or so, his free hand cradling her head.
They’d make
good parents: they’d give a baby a settled, loving home. She’d think about adoption. It couldn’t hurt to think about it.
Helen
S
he squinted through
the landing window. Was that a
dandelion
on Malone’s lawn? She stared at
the small bright yellow splotch in the middle of the otherwise immaculate rectangle of perfectly striped grass, and tried to remember when she’d seen him last.
Not anytime
during the past week she was sure, up to her eyes with three books waiting to be reviewed, and Breen yelling for her take on AIDS in Ireland, and the drama with Alice last Thursday. Yes, at least a week – more, maybe two – since Malone had been spotted.
She frowned at the weed. Was he sick? Did she care? She had no idea if he had family – she’d never seen a visitor calling. Not that she was keeping track, but with the houses so huddled together, and her working from home, it was hard to avoid being aware of the general comings and goings in the neighbourhood.
The only people who passed Malone’s gate were ones who had to, like the postman and the meter reader – and if there was an election coming up, a canvasser or two might ring his bell, but that was it. From what she could see, her neighbour was as friendless as herself.
And she was fairly sure he hadn’t gone away. In all the years they’d lived beside one another he’d never travelled further than the supermarket. Probably afraid someone would break in and steal his ratty old furniture, or find his fortune under the mattress.
She should probably call to make sure he was still alive. Wasn’t that what neighbours were expected to do, even if she didn’t give a damn whether he’d kicked the bucket or not? And she’d look a right idiot if he simply hadn’t noticed the dandelion, unlikely as that seemed.
She could imagine Sarah heading up his path with a homemade apple pie and a face full of neighbourly concern. Pity he didn’t live next door to her. Shame Helen couldn’t put him in a box and ship him off to Kildare.
Maybe he was starting to go gaga. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been out with his little trowel at the first sign of the dandelion. If that was the case, he’d probably tell her to mind her own business and slam the door in her face before going in to leave the cooker on all night, or wander around the neighbourhood in the nip.
She’d leave well enough alone for the time being: if there was no sign of him over the next few days, maybe someone else would investigate. Hardly his other next-door neighbours – for as long as Helen had lived on the road, the house had been rented to various combinations of young women who, she was sure, hardly knew his name. But the meter reader might turn up and raise the alarm if he couldn’t get in, or the postman might spot letters still lying in the hall.
She walked downstairs. He wasn’t Helen’s responsibility, and she had enough to do without worrying about him. She’d wait to see if any more dandelions appeared, or smoke started to pour out of a window. She could try cranking up the music for a few days, see if he reacted.
In the kitchen, Alice flicked the pages of a magazine. A huddle of crockery sat in the sink from breakfast: perish the thought that she’d wash them up. Johnny Logan sang ‘Hold Me Now’ on the radio, practising for his second Eurovision in a week’s time. The man was addicted.
Helen lifted out the plates and ran water into the sink.
‘I’m bored,’ Alice said, without looking up.
‘I’m not listening,’ Helen replied, reaching for the washing-up liquid.
‘Can I phone Karen?’
‘You can not.’
Alice sighed loudly. Helen turned
up Johnny Logan, and sang along.
S
arah
Hope this finds you as wonderfully happy as in your last several letters. Life here continues to be the barrel of laughs that it always was. I’m still man-less, not a sign of a fling since Toyboy decided to give his marriage another go. Imagine it’s nearly two years since he and I were making the earth move. Wonder if he’s still enjoying wedded bliss, or if she kicked him out again.
You’ll be
sorry to hear that my cranky neighbour has gone missing – no sign of him for about two weeks, and there’s a dandelion in his garden. In case you don’t get the significance of this, I should remind you how fanatical he is about that lawn – if he could roll it up and bring it in at night he would. I suppose I should check and see if he’s still in the land of the living, but the thought gives me hives. I’ll wait another while, hope someone else gets there first. (Don’t judge me: I’m kind in other ways. Well, I’m not, but if you knew him you’d understand.)
On a cheerier note, I got a call last week from the manager of a chemist in our local shopping centre. Alice was caught with a couple of unpaid-for lipsticks in her pocket. I squeezed out a few tears and played the poor widow card, and she was let off with a warning never to darken their door for the rest of her life.
She’s grounded for two weeks, not allowed to step outside the house after school, and no phone calls either. I can’t decide who’s being punished more, her or me. She swears she never did it before: I told her I’m more concerned that she never does it again. But she will, watch this space.
I don’t think I mentioned that I found cigarettes in her coat pocket last month. What could I say, except that I didn’t start until I was older than her? I didn’t add that I was just a year older at seventeen (sorry, shocked you again). I’ll just have to hope she doesn’t move on to anything more sinister than ciggies.
Wonder what I did to deserve this kid. I thought puberty was bad – remember the meltdown when I wouldn’t let her get her ears pierced at thirteen, and the time she put that bleach in her hair and it went bright yellow, and that whole business with the history teacher, to mention just a few highlights?
The only chink
of light is her art. She’s definitely got talent – and that’s not maternal blindness, believe me – and she’s mentioned art college a few times, but I’ve told her without a few more subject passes she hasn’t a hope of getting in. Inter Cert in three weeks and she’s finally doing a bit of study, but I’m not holding my breath. The scary thing is, she reminds me a bit – a lot – of me when I was that age, except that I was nicer. (I think.)
You wouldn’t like to swap, would you? No, didn’t think so – and I’m not sure I’d want to go back to the start anyway. Be happy with your little bundle of joy while you can – as far as I recall, Alice was fairly manageable up to about two and a half. That gives you another six months of baby-honeymoon.
Sarah laid down the letter, smiling. She smiled a lot these days. Everything made her smile. Even the thought of Alice slipping a couple of lipsticks into her pocket didn’t unduly upset her. Silly girl: but there were worse things she could be doing, and she was still only sixteen, she’d surely grow out of it. Maybe Sarah should write to her again; maybe she just needed someone to show an interest in her.
She stretched her arms over her head, relishing the unaccustomed peace, the precious solitary cup of tea. The others would be back soon and she’d have to think about what to cook for lunch – something without cheese, which she seemed to have gone off lately – but for another few minutes she was happy to sit and marvel at the way everything had turned around for them over the past few years.
Who would have thought that one small child could change their lives so very much? The house hadn’t been clean, not properly clean, for well over a year. The sitting room had become a jumble of toys, jigsaws, books, playpen, miniature jackets, hats and shoes, teething rings, doll’s pram, buggy, tricycle – you had to pick your way through them to get to the sofa. The carpet, what you could see of it, was stained in several places, the tiles around the fireplace constantly smeared with small fingerprints.
Most of the
kitchen worktops had been commandeered by bundles of dribblers, stacks of nappies and jars of powders, creams and lotions devoted to the business of warding off nappy rash, eczema, flaky scalp and a myriad other baby-related conditions. In the freezer, miniature tubs of homemade ice-cream and stewed fruit nestled among the salmon cutlets, minced beef and chicken fillets.
Upstairs was no better. The bath was piled with cloth books, rubber ducks, star-shaped sponges, plastic boats and a little yellow watering can. In Sarah and Neil’s room the bed had been joined by a cot, a changing mat, a rocking chair and yet more toys.
After much deliberation, Sarah had decided to keep her job but reduce her hours – now she worked mornings only, finishing straight after she’d plated up lunch, and getting home by half past two. Shorter hours, smaller pay packet – and less time with the residents, which was the hardest part.
But home life was wonderful, better than it had ever been. And today was Saturday, and for once Neil didn’t have to work, and it wasn’t raining. This afternoon they were going to Christine and Brian’s house for Tom’s seventh birthday, and later she and Neil would watch the Eurovision, Johnny Logan the Irish entry for the second time. Not that he’d win again – nobody could win the Eurovision twice – but she couldn’t care less if Ireland came last.
She heard the front door being opened and she rose immediately and went out to the hall, where her husband was manoeuvring a buggy across the threshold. ‘You’re back,’ she said, bending to kiss the wonderfully soft, beautifully warm and rosy cheek of her little daughter.
***
Dear Alice
Remember me? I’m your
mum’s penfriend, the one who sent you
Alice in Wonderland
a few years ago. You wrote me a very nice letter in return. In fact, I still have it. I just thought I’d drop you another line, see how you were doing.
I can’t believe you’re sixteen already. I don’t remember very much about being sixteen, it’s so long ago! But one thing I do remember is watching a singer called Butch Moore singing for Ireland in our very first Eurovision, around the time I was fifteen or sixteen – gosh, that makes me sound really ancient, doesn’t it? Were you watching the Eurovision last week? Imagine Johnny Logan won it again, I was sure he wouldn’t.
I don’t know if your mum ever talks about me, but if she does you’ll know that my husband and I adopted a little baby girl two years ago, and I can honestly say that my life has been utterly changed by her. Even though I’m not her natural mother I don’t think I could possibly feel any more love for her if I was. Before I even considered adopting, your mum said something in a letter that I’ll never forget. She said if I adopted a baby, it wouldn’t take more than five minutes for me to fall in love with it – I’m guessing it was the length of time it took her to fall for you – and she was right!
I’m sending a photo of her, so you can see how adorable she is. We called her Martha after my mother, who died nine years ago. My sister is really jealous – she has three boys, and would love a daughter! Your mum is so lucky to have you. She often mentions you in her letters.
Well, I’d better stop – sorry for going on about Martha so much, I can’t help it!
All the very best
,
love Sarah xx
PS You don’t have to
write back, honestly!
‘S
o how’s school? You’re getting on all right?’
Alice lifted a shoulder. ‘Yeah, fine.’
‘You won’t feel it now till the Inter Cert – three weeks, is it?’
‘Two.’
‘Two? You’ll be glad when it’s over, I’d say.’
‘Mmm.’
‘What’s your favourite subject?’
‘Art.’
Her grandfather’s smile dimmed somewhat. ‘Art. I see.’
Helen sat in her parents’ kitchen, happy to let her father struggle through a conversation with his only grandchild while she sipped coffee and thought about Malone.
The dandelions plentiful now, almost a month since she’d spotted the first. Still no sound from next door, no reaction to Meatloaf at full volume for two hours yesterday afternoon. His cat mewing outside Helen’s back door last evening until she’d thrown the dustpan at it. Something was up, and she might be the only person who’d realised it.
‘Some more?’
Her mother stood
beside her, holding the coffee pot. Still elegant at seventy-six, still capable of keeping the four-bedroom Dalkey home running smoothly for herself and the retired judge.
‘No thanks,’ Helen said. Every time she and Alice visited, a coffee refill was offered and declined.
