The People Next Door (28 page)

She turned the white gold band slowly, watching the minuscule diamonds flashing as they met the light. Greg was coming to Belford almost every weekend
now, and apart from a few short visits to his relatives, he spent most of Saturday and Sunday with Yvonne.

But he never stayed the night at number seven. Yvonne felt it wouldn’t be right, with Clara under the same roof. ‘I know she’s an adult now and probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid,’ she’d told Greg, ‘but I’d feel – I don’t know – as if I should be setting a good example or something. Does that make any sense at all?’

‘Of course it does. It’s perfectly understandable.’

They’d already slept together. About two weeks after she’d accepted his proposal, Yvonne had taken a couple of days off work and gone up to Dublin to see a play. They’d stayed the night in his rented apartment.

Greg had been awkward in bed – Yvonne was definitely the more experienced – but she was happy for things to sort themselves out. In time, she was sure, he would relax with her. Great sex wasn’t everything in a marriage anyway – certainly not when you were marrying someone who was already an old friend.

They’d decided on a small family ceremony in Belford’s oldest church, where the elderly parish priest had known Greg since his seminary days. Clara was going to be bridesmaid and Greg’s brother-in-law had agreed to be best man. Yvonne’s parents were travelling up from Cork for the occasion, Peggy and Jim would be there, Greg’s sister and her family, and hopefully Kathryn and Justin – the baby was due about a month before the wedding.

Clara had made Yvonne swear she wouldn’t have
to wear anything frilly or shiny. Yvonne had reassured her. ‘You can pick your own outfit – and maybe mine too, you’re much better at it.’

Clara was acting differently these days. She’d started humming, for one thing – she’d never been a hummer. She’d sit gazing into the distance, a twitch of a smile on her face, her book forgotten in her lap, humming softly.

Or she’d arrive home from work with a new CD for Yvonne, or a new lipstick – CDs and lipsticks, when she hardly remembered Yvonne’s birthday. Last Saturday she’d cleaned the bathroom, had powered through it before Yvonne was up, leaving every tile gleaming. Very strange.

And every few evenings after dinner, she’d drift out, smelling of flowers, eyes shining. ‘Don’t wait up,’ she’d tell Yvonne, and that would be that. Yvonne knew better than to ask where she was going, let alone who she was dressing up for. She’d meet him when Clara was ready for her to meet him.

The clinic door opened, scattering Yvonne’s thoughts. An elderly woman was walking towards her, wearing a dark coat and carrying a heavy shopping bag in each hand. She wasn’t someone Yvonne had met before.

‘Hello. Can I help you?’

The woman glanced quickly around the lobby. ‘Hello, yes. I was wondering if Dolores was around, please? I’m sorry to disturb her – I know she’s not supposed to have callers.’

She was nervous. She blinked rapidly as she spoke,
her words tumbling over each other. Her greying hair could have done with a wash.

‘No problem. I’ll phone upstairs and see if she’s back from lunch.’ Yvonne pointed to the chairs. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ She lifted the phone. ‘Who will I say is looking for her?’

‘Her mother.’ The woman rested her bags on the floor, her face pinched with worry. ‘I know I’m not supposed to disturb her here, but I couldn’t get in home, with all this shopping – it’s just that I lost my keys, you see, and I didn’t know what else to do.’

Dolores had never mentioned her mother, as far as Yvonne could remember. Her mother-in-law, yes, Yvonne had heard about Martin’s mother plenty of times, how good she was with the children, how much they loved her, but not a word about Dolores’s own mother. How peculiar.

Yvonne held out her hand. ‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Yvonne.’

The woman gave a tiny smile. ‘Oh, yes, Dolores has mentioned you. I’m Nuala.’ Her hand was very cold.

Yvonne pressed the extension for Dolores’s desk phone. ‘I know she was going into town for lunch, and I only just got back myself.’ She listened to the rhythmic burrs of the phone – one, two, three – and replaced the receiver.

‘No, she’s not back, but if you take a seat, she won’t be long. Here, let me help.’ The bags were as heavy as they looked. Yvonne dropped them beside the nearest chair.

Nuala sat, pressing her hands together in her lap.
‘Thank you, dear.’

‘Do you live nearby?’ She couldn’t have gone far with those bags.

Nuala looked at her in surprise. ‘No, dear, we live in Charleton. I thought Dolores would have mentioned that.’

‘Oh – you know, maybe she did. I’ve a head like a sieve.’ She’d said ‘we’. Was there another family member, also unmentioned by Dolores?

Maybe they didn’t get on. That would explain Nuala’s nervousness, reluctant to have to get help from the daughter she never spoke to, maybe.

Yvonne searched for a safer topic of conversation. ‘You must be very proud of the children.’ Too late, she realised that if Dolores wasn’t on good terms with her mother then, more than likely, her three children wouldn’t be either.

But Nuala smiled. ‘Yes, they’ve both done well…Dolores really enjoys this job, and her brother Edward is an engineer, you know. She probably told you about him.’

Yvonne stared at her. This conversation was becoming decidedly confusing. ‘Actually, I meant your grandchildren.’

Nuala’s forehead creased. ‘My … oh, but Edward has only the one. She’s just three now – Sarah.’ She smiled again. ‘She’s lovely, though. Dolores is mad about her.’

Yvonne stared. ‘But Dolores’s children, Chloë and Fionn and …’ She struggled to remember the oldest boy’s name. Hugh? No, not Hugh.

Nuala was looking equally bewildered. ‘Dolores doesn’t have any children.’ She paused and then said, ‘Dolores Mulcahy, I’m talking about?’

‘Yes …’ What on earth was going on? How could Dolores’s mother not know about her daughter’s children? (Hugo – the name of Dolores’s oldest boy leapt into Yvonne’s head.) Was it possible she didn’t know her grandchildren even existed?

Suddenly Yvonne wondered if Nuala suffered from some form of senility. She didn’t sound as if she was losing her reason, but what she was saying made no sense.

‘I think there must be some misunderstanding,’ she said carefully. ‘The Dolores I know is married to Martin and they have three children. They live about ten miles from here, on the way to Charleton.’

Nuala’s head was shaking slowly from side to side. ‘I just don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I know this is where Dolores works. She told me it’s the Miller’s Avenue health clinic. She’s been here for two and a half years now.’

Yvonne nodded. That part, at least, was right. ‘Yes, she started here a few months before I did.’

‘But she lives with me in Charleton. And Dolores isn’t married, she’s never—’

Just then the door to the clinic opened and Dolores Mulcahy walked in. She carried a bag from one of the town’s shoe shops.

‘God, the traffic on the—’

Then she spotted the woman sitting on a chair opposite Yvonne’s desk, and saw the expressions on both their faces, and the sentence died in her mouth.

The coffee tasted faintly of disinfectant. On some level, Dan thought that was probably reassuring. He balanced the cardboard cup on the arm of his chair and pressed the heels of his hands to the sides of his head.

There was a tiny but very energetic man with a sledgehammer inside his skull.
Whump, whump.
He could barely keep his eyes open, and every time he blinked it was as though a wire brush was scraping against his eyeballs. His back ached, his throat was raw and his hands hurt where his wife had gripped him. He probably smelled like a brewery that hadn’t been scrubbed out in a long time. Now his breath stank too, of disinfectant-flavoured coffee.

It was the best day of his life. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face. Waves of euphoria kept crashing over him. He thought there was a fairly good chance that he would die of pure happiness.

His son had been born at three minutes to five on the morning of 25 November, less than two hours ago. He had blue eyes and white eyelashes, a small round
head and no hair, and he weighed four pounds twelve ounces. He had ten fingers and ten toes and twenty minuscule nails, and perfect, amazing ears, and he waved his tiny fists and creased his forehead adorably and bawled. For the size of him, his lungs were truly impressive.

They’d let Dan hold him for a second and Dan had cried big foolish hungover happy tears, and fallen utterly in love.

Ali was eating triangles of thick toast. ‘Big softie.’ Her hair was matted with sweat and her face was misshapen with exhaustion and streaked with her own tears, and she’d left the marks of her nails deep in Dan’s palms while their son was being born. But she was happy too.

After the baby had been taken away, Dan sat by Ali’s bed until she’d fallen asleep, and then he wiped his face and went to find coffee.

Brendan was sitting in an armchair outside the labour ward. He stood quickly as Dan approached. ‘Well?’

He had to know. Dan couldn’t not tell him. ‘She’s asleep. Everything’s OK. The baby’s fine. He’ll be in an incubator for a while.’

Brendan put out a hand. ‘Congratulations.’

Dan waited for the feelings of hate and anger to rush into his head, and nothing happened. Here was the man who’d stolen his wife, who’d betrayed his trust, and all Dan could feel was happy. He reached for Brendan’s hand and shook it. ‘Thanks.’

His baby. His son. Always Dan’s son, no matter
what happened in the future. There was nothing anyone could do, no piece of paper, no court order, that could change the fact that, from today, Dan O’Farrell was a father, that he had a son.

He lifted the paper cup and downed the last of the terrible coffee, smiling happily into the cardboard cup.

‘Back in a few minutes.’ Justin pulled the front door closed behind him as Kathryn climbed the stairs slowly, looking forward to the nap before dinner that had become a daily event in the past couple of weeks. She’d never been one for naps before, never felt the need to recharge during the day. Now she made straight for the bed when she got in from work and slept soundly for an hour or so, until Justin woke her for dinner.

At her last check-up, Dr Lynch had advised plenty of rest. ‘Everything looks fine, but I’d rather err on the side of caution, so take it easy whenever you can now. Put your feet up and let that husband of yours pamper you. How’s his cooking?’

Kathryn had smiled. ‘Improving.’

‘And what about work? How are you finding that?’

‘Fine. It’s more mental than physical, and so far my brain’s holding up. I’m a bit tired at the end of the day, but nothing I can’t handle.’

‘Good.’ He wrote in Kathryn’s folder. All the same, you might consider part-time in a while, if that’s
an option. In the meantime, just keep going the way you are. Lie down any chance you get, and everything should be OK.’

Sometimes sleep didn’t come right away when she lay down. Sometimes she stayed awake, and dreamed.

If nothing went wrong, she and Justin would be parents in a few more months. She imagined him holding a baby in his arms. She pictured them wheeling out a pram, stopping so people could admire their child. She thought about feeding it, imagined it pulling on her nipple. She rested her hands on her stomach.
There you are. Keep safe. Look after yourself.

And sometimes, if she lay very still, she thought she could feel a tiny flutter. A few more months.

She leaned on the banister as she climbed the stairs, looking forward to the dark bedroom where she could lie quietly and listen to the rain pattering against the window and feel safe as she drifted off.

As she passed Grainne’s door, she thought she heard something. She stopped – had she imagined it? She didn’t usually look in on Grainne till after her nap, when she was feeling slightly more energetic. She listened intently and heard it again – a muffled groan.

She turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Grainne lay on the floor, a tangle of blankets half pulled off the bed. Her eyes were closed, but as Kathryn rushed over, they fluttered open. One arm was outstretched, her fist curled.

‘I can’t … get up.’ Her breathing was very rapid. Her cheeks were flushed. ‘I can’t …’

Kathryn crouched beside her. ‘Don’t move – I’ll get Justin.’ She ran back to the landing and called his name as loudly as she could, before she remembered that he’d gone to the garage shop for milk.

She went back into the bedroom and lowered herself onto the floor beside Grainne.

‘You’ll have to wait. Justin is gone to the shop. He’ll be back in a minute. I can’t lift you.’

Grainne struggled to get up, scrabbled on the floor, trying to push herself up. Kathryn said, ‘Wait, Grainne, please wait – he won’t be long. You’ll be fine.’

‘I can’t – I need the toilet.’ Grainne kept trying to push herself up, her hands pressed into the carpet. ‘I need the toilet …’

‘Don’t worry about that. It doesn’t matter – we can clean up. You need to wait for Justin.’

But Grainne was becoming more agitated. ‘I can’t wait for him, I
must
go to the toilet
now,
I
have
to go now.’

She struggled into an awkward, half-sitting position, and Kathryn reached out to stop her. ‘No, please wait—’

Grainne grabbed Kathryn’s arms and held on tightly. Her grip was amazingly strong. ‘I have to go
now
.’

Kathryn felt the pull of Grainne’s hands, felt the weight of Grainne heaving herself upwards, using Kathryn as leverage. ‘Please, Grainne, I can’t lift you, it’s too dangerous for me.’

She struggled to her knees, trying to get further away, trying to ease Grainne’s grip on her. ‘You need to let go, Grainne, I can’t hold you.’ The weight of her,
the surprising dead weight of her, almost pulling Kathryn to the floor. ‘You have to let me go.’

And as she did so, a sharp pain knifed through her abdomen. She gasped and Grainne lost her grip and slid from her arms and thudded back down onto the floor. Kathryn bent double and clutched her abdomen,
no, no,
as the pain shot through her again,
no, don’t go
—