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‘It’s not only the expense,’ said Liam, in not much more than a whisper.
‘You don’t want me to do it because of the effect it’ll have on your life, do you?’
‘It’s not my life I’m worried about, Clare. It’s the kids’.’
Clare turned her gaze on him again, her anger now abating to be replaced with anxiety. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘I don’t want strangers looking after my children,’ he said and gave her a hard stare. His right eyelid twitched involuntarily. ‘I thought we agreed this when you gave up work. That you would stay at home with the children at least until they were both at school.’
Clare bit her lip and looked away. He was right. That was what they had agreed. But he wasn’t the one who’d given up a good job as Arts Officer for the local council to stay at home and play earth mother. And if truth be told, had she known what was involved in being a full-time mother to two under fives, she never would’ve agreed to it. She would’ve kept on working, at least part-time. And she would’ve definitely kept on painting.
‘Izzy was practically raised by childminders,’ went on Liam, in the face of her silence. ‘I don’t want that for Rachel and Josh.’
‘Neither do I. But I’m only talking about a few sessions a week. And things change, Liam. It’s time for me to be thinking about going back to work. And, if you think about it, painting is perfect. I can be my own boss and I can fit it round the family. This is my big break and I don’t want to fluff it.’
‘You’re talking it up, Clare. All that’s happened is that Janice has offered you an old office to work in rent-free. That same offer would probably still be there three years from now. At least by then Josh and Rachel would both be in school.’
‘I can’t wait that long.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just can’t.’
‘You mean you won’t. You’re not prepared to.’
Clare sighed and said, ‘You don’t understand what it’s like being at home with young children all day, Liam. It’s absolutely mind-numbing.’
‘And I think you’ve forgotten what the pressures of corporate life are like, Clare.’ He picked up the sheaf of papers he had been reading, scowled at them, threw them down again. ‘Do you think I like sitting in bed at night reading this crap?’
‘No,’ lied Clare. He had surprised her. She had come to believe that Liam was wedded to his job. It suited her to believe that he enjoyed working long hours, that he was passionate about what he did for a living.
‘Are you unhappy at work?’ she asked, considering this possibility for the first time.
Liam rubbed his chin. The stubble rasped against his palm. He sighed. ‘No, not really. It’s just that sometimes…sometimes I’d rather be doing other things. Like spending more time with the kids.’
A mixed blessing, thought Clare, but also a point well made.
‘I know I’m fortunate to be able to spend time at home,’ said Clare, choosing her words like she was walking through a minefield. ‘But I resent it too.’ She ignored Liam’s sharp intake of breath, and addressed the flimsy paper lampshade hanging above them. She’d meant to replace it when they’d moved in four years ago but, like everything else in her life, such tasks had played second fiddle to the all-consuming activity of child-rearing. ‘I know that sounds like I’m contradicting myself. But it is possible to feel both. I know I do. Maybe other women don’t. Maybe there are women who can give themselves wholly and completely to mothering without a sense of loss of self. Do you know what I mean?’ she asked and looked at him.
It was clear from the blank expression on Liam’s face that he did not. She felt a pressing desire to connect with him, to make him understand what painting meant to her sanity.
Clare touched the space between her breasts, pressing down on her ribcage with the pads of her fingers until it hurt. She closed her eyes and said, ‘There’s this need inside me to express myself. I haven’t painted since the day Josh was born and every day it feels as though a little of me…sort of disappears. And I’m afraid that if I don’t do something about it soon, I’m going to lose my identity altogether.’
‘That is sad,’ said Liam, but without a hint of compassion. ‘Having two healthy children and the inability to enjoy them.’
Her disappointment stung like a fresh burn. She had opened her soul to him only to be met with cruel cynicism. She wanted to cry then but would not give him the satisfaction. It took her a few moments to compose herself before she could bring herself to speak again.
‘You’re wrong, Liam. I do enjoy my children,’ she said in a steely voice. ‘I love them and I treasure every precious moment with them. But is it wrong to ask for precious moments away from them too? Is it wrong to desire more from life? If we don’t have our dreams, Liam, then what do we have?’ A tear, cold as glass, slid out of the corner of her left eye and dropped onto the pillow.
‘Reality, Clare.’ He sounded sour, like milk gone off.
‘You used to have dreams once, Liam.’
‘I still do. I’m just a bit more realistic about achieving them than you are, Clare.’
‘I’m not asking for the earth, Liam. I’m asking for a few hours a week so I can go somewhere on my own and paint. It will cost little and harm no-one. And I might just make some money out of it.’
Liam reached out an arm, switched off the bedside lamp, pulled the covers up to his chin and faced the wall.
‘If that’s what you want to do, Clare, then don’t let me stop you.’
And Clare lay there for a full half hour until Liam went to sleep, thinking. Then she undressed, got into bed and lay awake, Liam’s opposition radiating from him like heat from a fire. After a while, her thoughts took flight and she pictured herself in the studio, working in the quiet solitude of the ghostly winter months and later, in the spring, the garden bursting with new growth and the light flooding in through those big windows. She heard the rushing silence, felt the brush in her hand and saw a picture of the Black Arch, near Ballyfergus, take form under her hand. She smiled.
And by the time she drifted off to sleep, she knew that this was something she had to do, with or without Liam’s support. Painting was essential to her existence, as necessary as breathing. She wished she could make him understand that.
Chapter Five (#ulink_efc65968-a82f-5cb8-9599-eb36e0c85cd2)
All things considered, thought Patsy, trying to ignore the sound of her two daughters bickering upstairs, she and Martin had made a pretty good job of rearing their family. Both were well-rounded, kind, loving. Not like some she could think of – like Pete Kirkpatrick. She’d known him from the age of two and had never warmed to him.
Patsy drained the rice, turned the oven off and went and called up the stairs, ‘Will you two stop that this minute? You’re not kids any more.’ Silence. Good. She sweetened her tone and added, ‘Dinner’s almost ready. Hurry up and come down.’
Back in the kitchen, Patsy lifted a sizzling chicken and broccoli bake from the oven and set it on a trivet on the table, along with a dish of rice and one of sweetcorn.
Sometimes the girls irritated her no end, like just now, but she wouldn’t be without them. Her life was full, what with working at the gallery, running the home and making time for her circle of loyal friends. She particularly enjoyed running the gallery and she was justly proud of her success which had been achieved through sheer hard work. She’d started the gallery seven years ago, after a break from work to raise the girls, with a small business loan from the bank. She’d built it from nothing, ending up with an enviable clientele of loyal customers and a rounded portfolio of artists. She was proud of the fact that she’d repaid the bank loan within three years.
But it was her family which gave purpose to Patsy’s day. It was Martin and the girls that made her want to get out of bed in the morning. She would do anything for them.
Patsy filled a plate for Martin, who’d just phoned to say he would be late. She covered the food with metal foil and placed it in a low oven to stay warm.
As well as making a significant contribution to the family income, the gallery was her insurance against empty-nest syndrome, the idea being that it would keep her too busy to miss the girls when they eventually left home. But her nest was far from empty and it looked like staying that way for the foreseeable future. She and Martin might never be rid of the girls! At least that was what she joked over a glass of wine in company. Truth was, she didn’t want them to leave home. She wanted them to stay right where they were.
Not that she would ever admit this, not even to Martin. She didn’t want to be seen to be holding the girls back in any way. But at the end of the day, all that really mattered to Patsy was family. And with her parents both dead, and her siblings living overseas, family meant Martin and the girls.
Sarah had gone off to do nursing at Queen’s in Belfast three years ago but, after graduation last summer, she’d been driven back home by low wages and the high cost of living. By the time she’d paid for her car (essential to commute to Antrim Hospital where she worked), clothes, entertainment and the rest of it – she paid no board at home – there was nothing left at the end of the month.
Patsy encouraged Sarah to spend, told her she deserved ‘treats’ and plugged the holes in her daughter’s shaky finances. In short, Patsy made sure life at home was very comfortable for Sarah. No girl in her right mind would give it all up to go and live in some grotty bedsit in Antrim where she would struggle to make ends meet.
So, just as Laura prepared to embark on a life outside the family home at the University of Ulster, Coleraine, Sarah had come back to fill her shoes. Patsy knew she couldn’t hold onto the girls for ever, and she truly wanted the best for them – good careers, happy marriages and healthy children. But she made no apologies for trying to keep them with her just as long as she could.
The door overhead slammed shut and Patsy sat down at the table, calmly filled her plate and began to eat.
Sarah padded noiselessly into the room, wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a pair of battered, sand-coloured shearling boots on her feet. Her long auburn hair hung loose, framing a perfect oval face, delicate mouth and green almond-shaped eyes. She pulled at the sleeves of her hoodie, stretching them down her long arms to the knuckles, as though the backs of her hands were cold. At five foot ten Sarah towered over her mother and her figure was lithe like a cat. Nothing like Patsy at all, who had always struggled with her weight. She thanked God that both girls had inherited their father’s ‘slim’ genes. Sarah flopped into a seat and piled her plate with food.
Laura appeared soon after, dressed in tight jeans and a canary yellow angora sweater. She gave her sister a narrowed-eyed glare and sat down opposite her at the table. Laura was shorter and slimmer than her sister, blonde where Sarah was a red-head and her prettiness was of a different nature, emanating more from her vibrant personality than classical good looks. And while Laura hadn’t inherited Patsy’s frame she had inherited her mother’s bosom, giving her the most amazing Barbie-doll figure, with an incredibly slim frame and disproportionately large breasts. That chest could turn heads – Patsy had seen it in action on Ballyfergus High Street.
Laura sighed softly at the sight of the food. ‘This looks delish. Thanks, Mum.’
‘Yeah, thanks Mum,’ chimed Sarah.
‘You’re both welcome,’ said Patsy. ‘But I wish you two would stop fighting. It gives me indigestion.’
Immediately Laura, always the one to cave in first, addressed Sarah. ‘Can I borrow your straighteners, please?’
‘Course you can,’ returned Sarah, fast as a tennis ball.
Laura stared at her sister, her clear hazel eyes wide like saucers. ‘What was all the fuss about upstairs, then?’
‘You didn’t say please,’ said Sarah quietly, a sly smile creeping onto her lips.
‘You’re a big kid, Sarah. Do you know that?’ said Patsy, starting to giggle and soon the three of them were laughing uncontrollably. Patsy held her hand over her belly and, said, ‘You two crack me up, you really do.’
When they’d quietened down, Laura helped herself to some food and asked, ‘When’s Dad coming home?’
Patsy glanced involuntarily at the clock. ‘Don’t know. He’s going to be late again.’
‘He’s always late,’ said Sarah, her mouth full of food. ‘These days anyway.’
Patsy paused, considering this. Sarah was right. Martin had been getting in later and later, rarely making it home before eight. He blamed it on pressure at the bank in Belfast where he worked and the ever-worsening commuter traffic that clogged up the city’s arteries like cholesterol.
‘Is everything alright, Mum?’ said Laura, helping herself to more chicken. ‘I mean with Dad.’
‘Of course it is. He’s just busy, that’s all,’ she said, the maternal instinct to protect them springing forth. Some habits were hard to shake.
She pushed her plate away, the food like a balled fist in her stomach while the girls ate in silence. Since Christmas, Martin had been withdrawn, uncommunicative. She’d put it down to the January blues and, if truth be told, she’d been so busy she hadn’t really paid too much attention. Was it just work, like he said? Or something more sinister? She glanced at the clock again. Could he be having an affair? Her heart stopped, started again. She shook the notion off energetically like water from an umbrella.
‘Where are you off out tonight?’ said Sarah to her younger sister, scraping her plate clean.
‘A crowd of us are going round to Catherine’s to watch a DVD.’
‘Tell me something, Laura,’ said Sarah. ‘If you’re just going to watch a DVD at Catherine’s what d’you need to straighten your hair for?’ Sarah winked at Patsy. ‘Will Kyle Burke be there?’
Laura blushed, still young enough to be embarrassed by a crush on the best-looking boy at St Pat’s. ‘He might be,’ she said casually, looking at her plate. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Leave her alone, Sarah, will you?’ said Patsy, standing up and carrying her plate over to the sink. ‘Come on. Help me clear up.’
Laura collected the glasses from the table and Sarah stacked the plates. Patsy said, ‘Aren’t you going out tonight, Sarah?’
‘No. I’m tired,’ she said, punctuating her sentence with a yawn. ‘I’m going to watch the telly and have an early night.’ She carried the plates over to the dishwasher.
If she’s tired at twenty-one, thought Patsy, what’s she going to be like when she’s my age? She rubbed the small of her back, achy from being on her feet all day. Sarah loaded the dishwasher and Patsy regarded her thoughtfully.
Her elder daughter was a self-contained, solitary girl who was a bit of an enigma. Patsy was proud of Sarah and she loved her, of course, but she did not easily identify with her. Laura she understood. Like Patsy she was fun-loving, gregarious, people-orientated, always in the thick of any social action. She hated even being in the house alone.
And Patsy had known, almost from the moment of her birth, that Laura was her favourite. She had accepted this realisation with equanimity; she didn’t love Laura more than Sarah, she just enjoyed her more. And because she was acutely aware of this favouritism, she took great care to make sure she treated the girls equally.
‘You can’t stay in on a Friday night,’ scoffed Laura, who had been out for the last three nights on the trot.
‘Not everyone’s like you, Laura,’ said Sarah pointedly, picking a cherry from a bowl on the island unit and popping it in her mouth. ‘Some of us are quite content with our own company.’
‘Oh, my God! Look at the time,’ cried Laura suddenly. ‘I’d better get ready. Louise is coming for me at eight.’ She dropped the glasses in her hands into the sink with a loud clink and ran out of the room.
Sarah opened the bin, spat the cherry stone into it, and let the lid slam shut. ‘She goes out too much,’ she observed. ‘She should be studying.’
‘Ach, sure she might as well have some fun while she can,’ said Patsy indulgently.
‘You’ll not be saying that if she fails her exams,’ said Sarah darkly.
‘She’ll knuckle down when she has to,’ said Patsy. She hung her apron on a brass hook on the back of the kitchen door and wondered how two siblings, raised the same way, could be so very different in nature and temperament. ‘So what’s on telly?’
‘NCIS and Numbers,’ said Sarah, moving towards the door into the hall. ‘Fancy watching them with me?’
‘No, thanks, love. I’ve got some work to do,’ said Patsy. ‘I might as well get it done before your dad gets in.’
Half an hour later, Patsy was engrossed on the PC, looking at dates for the Irish art fairs. Perhaps Janice, Clare and Kirsty could be persuaded to join her at the Art Ireland spring fair at the end of March – the perfect time for an overnighter in Dublin, a warm-up for their more ambitious trip to London later in the year.
‘Well, that’s me off,’ said Laura, bouncing into view at the door. She’d changed into another (even tighter) pair of jeans, with the over-priced and completely impractical grey knitted Ugg boots she’d so desperately wanted for Christmas. One good rain shower and they’d be ruined. Her face was shining with youth and vitality.
‘Well, you have a great time, love. And be…safe,’ said Patsy. ‘Tell Louise to drive carefully.’
The doorbell went and Laura said, ‘Gotta go.’ She gave her mother a forceful hug and kissed her on the top of the head. ‘Bye, Mumsy,’ she said and Patsy laughed.
Laura bounded out of the room. Patsy got up immediately and followed her but only as far as the landing so that she could watch her daughter trip nimbly down the stairs, open the front door and slam it shut behind her. Coatless as usual. Patsy pulled her cardigan tighter and smiled, remembering the thrill of going out at that age. The feeling that the whole world was there to explore, that endless possibilities awaited you. The feeling of having your whole life ahead of you.
A few moments later a car pulled up outside. A door slammed and Martin came in, pushing the door to quietly. He did not see Patsy watching him. He put his keys in his jacket pocket, set his briefcase on the floor and then paused. He put both his big hands over his face and stood there for some moments, rocking back and forth, in a state of private grief. He might have been crying.
Patsy put her hand to her throat, shocked. Martin rarely showed emotion. She had never seen him cry. Not even when the girls were born or when his father died. Suddenly she felt like a peeping Tom, observing while herself unseen. She took a few steps back, so that she was out of Martin’s sight line should he happen to look up, and waited.
‘Patsy,’ came his voice after a few moments, sounding just like normal. ‘That’s me home.’
She took a deep breath and stepped out onto the landing again.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said brightly and descended the stairs. ‘Laura went out just now. Did you see her?’
‘I saw her in the car. With Louise,’ he said and attempted a smile. His face was tired, wretched even, but he acted as though nothing was wrong. ‘Where’s she off to, then?’
‘Oh, just round to Catherine’s.’
Patsy went over and put her arms around Martin’s waist, still slim but thicker than it had once been – but then he’d been a beanpole when she’d first met him. She rested her head on his chest and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I’m tired,’ he said, and he stiffened a little. He did not put his arms around her. ‘And I’m starving.’
Was this how people kept secrets? Using half-truths as diversions? Acting as though everything was normal when clearly it wasn’t?
Patsy swallowed the lump in her throat, broke away and said, ‘I’ll get your dinner. Do you want to change first?’
What on earth was he hiding from her?
‘No,’ he said, pulling roughly at the dark blue tie around his neck. It bore narrow green stripes and the bank’s logo, a gold harp intertwined with shamrock. He discarded the tie on a nearby chair. ‘I’ll just eat like this.’ He took off his suit jacket and threw it carelessly on the coat stand.
