The Art of Friendship

Suddenly Kirsty noticed something different about them. ‘Their hair!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yes, I gave them both a wee trim. Thought they needed it. You know, for school.’

Kirsty swallowed and tried to smile. Their haircuts, while not a complete disaster, had been crudely done. Adam’s fringe was slightly crooked and David’s thick hair was cut just a tad too short above his ears.

‘But I always take them to Alison at Faith’s,’ said Kirsty faintly. ‘I was going to take them next week.’

‘Ach, no point wasting good money when you can do it for nothing at home. I always cut Scott’s hair when he was a boy.’

Kirsty’s heart sank. ‘I really would rather you didn’t do it in future,’ she said quietly and felt her face redden.

The smile fell from Dorothy’s face and she gave Kirsty a sharp glance. Then she gave her shoulders a quick shrug. ‘As you wish,’ she said shortly and she ruffled Adam’s dark thatch. ‘Your grandpa’s on the top floor,’ she said. ‘Go and see what he’s up to. I think he might have something for you.’

‘SWEETS!’ screamed Adam. ‘It’s sweets, isn’t it, Gran?’

‘Let’s go and see,’ said David, always the leader.

They scampered up the stairs on all fours, like monkeys, almost delirious with happiness. They were so loved in this house, so spoilt by their grandparents – like all children should be. Kirsty felt a lump in her throat and swallowed. She just wished Dorothy and Harry wouldn’t overstep the mark.

Dorothy extended her hand to Kirsty and said, ‘Sure, you know we love to have them. We’d do anything for those boys.’ Her gaze drifted to the top of the stairs.

Kirsty stared at Dorothy’s outstretched hand, and tilted her head to the right. It took her a few foolish moments to realise that Dorothy was waiting for her to hand over the boys’ overnight bag. Not that they needed much – among other things, Dorothy kept pyjamas, dressing gowns and toothbrushes for them here. The bag contained only clean clothes for the next day.

‘Are you sure it’s not too much trouble? I could always get a sitter,’ said Kirsty, clutching the bag to her breast.

The smile on Dorothy’s face fell away as did her hand and she said, ‘Now don’t be silly, Kirsty. Where would you get a sitter so late in the day?’ She paused, adjusted her tone, and went on, smiling brightly as though to reinforce the truth of her words. ‘We’re their grandparents, Kirsty. They belong here.’

No, they don’t, thought a horrified Kirsty, they belong with me. She put her hand to her mouth as though she had uttered this realisation aloud. And in that instant her relationship with Dorothy altered for ever.

Scott’s death had united them all in grief. Although they did not live in the same house, in many respects the family unit consisted of grandparents, Kirsty and the children. The parenting of David and Adam had become the business of Dorothy and Harry as much as Kirsty. They often collected the boys from school, fed them, helped them with their homework, played with them, took them places and regularly had them to stay. They had even taken them on holiday twice, both times for a week in Portrush, to give Kirsty a break. But now, the dynamic had unexpectedly shifted. More precisely, Kirsty had changed.

Her life these past three years had been meshed with Dorothy’s and Harry’s. Together, they had focused all their energies on coping with Scott’s death – and the shared goal of minimising the effect of this disaster on the boys. And between them, they had made a very good job of it. The children seemed well-adjusted, happy, polite. And both were doing well at school. Kirsty couldn’t have coped without her in-laws, and her gratitude knew no bounds. They were good people and she loved them.

But three years on, she longed for a more independent life for herself and the boys. That was selfish of her, for the boys’ close relationship with Dorothy and Harry was entirely, and overwhelmingly, positive. Sadly, they did not know their maternal grandparents well – they were aged and suffered from ill health and did not like to leave Cumnock, on the east coast of Scotland where they lived.

And while Kirsty reminded herself of the importance of extended family, she couldn’t help but feel increasingly uncomfortable with the level of Dorothy and Harry’s involvement. It was time to put some distance between herself and her in-laws. At the back of her mind was the vague notion that her future happiness depended upon it. If she was to stand a chance of meeting a man – and making a new life for herself – she couldn’t have her in-laws living in her pockets.

But how on earth was she to disentangle herself and the boys without hurting Dorothy and Harry? They lived for their grandchildren – they had made them the centre of their lives.

‘Can I have the bag?’ said Dorothy, startling Kirsty.

‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ said Kirsty. She pushed it into Dorothy’s arms eagerly, to compensate for her earlier caginess. ‘And thanks again.’

For the first time Kirsty felt under an obligation to her in-laws. Before it had all been easy and uncomplicated. Now, as if she were looking through a different lens, she saw every act of kindness as a further nail in the coffin of her independence.

‘So, where are you off to tonight?’ asked Dorothy. ‘You mentioned Ballymena.’

‘Yes, there’s some art exhibition on that Patsy and Clare want to see. Me and Janice are just going along for the ride.’

‘Hmm,’ said Dorothy, her interest already beginning to wane. She had always struggled to understand Kirsty’s fascination with all things arty. She placed little value on art, financial or otherwise – it was simply something to fill a space on the wall. Dorothy’s interest extended only as far as her painted plate collection.

‘Do you have time for a cup of tea?’ said Dorothy, glancing at the ornate face of the grandfather clock.

‘Please,’ said Kirsty, and she paused before blurting out, ‘There’s something I want to talk to you and Harry about.’

‘I see,’ said Dorothy, and she gave Kirsty a searching glance.

‘Ah, here she is,’ came Harry’s voice from the top of the stairs, providing a welcome distraction. He descended gingerly, holding onto the banister, dressed in rust-coloured cords, a green checked shirt and worn brown suede slippers. With his greying hair and moustache, he looked like a picture-book grandfather.

He came over to Kirsty and placed a warm kiss on her cheek. His skin against hers felt thin and papery. ‘My favourite daughter-in-law,’ he said and looked at her for a few seconds, holding onto the forearms of her jacket. It was an old joke between them. They were no other daughters-in-law. Their surviving child, Sophie, was married to a doctor and lived in Dublin.

‘Kirsty’s going to stay for a cuppa,’ said Dorothy and she led the way to the cosy kitchen at the back of the house.

Dorothy made tea, noisily, and Harry and Kirsty exchanged small talk. When they were all seated with thin china cups and saucers in front of them and a plate of Rich Tea biscuits on the table, Dorothy poured the tea and said, ‘So what was it you wanted to talk to us about?’

Kirsty put her spoon in her cup and stirred the tea, even though she had added no sugar. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m thinking about going out to work.’

‘Oh, love. You don’t need to be doing that,’ said Harry with one of the tolerant smiles he usually reserved for the children when they said something silly. ‘Sure, she doesn’t, Dorothy? There’s plenty of time for that when the boys are grown.’

‘They are grown,’ said Kirsty into her cup, unable to meet Harry’s gaze. Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Grown enough anyway. I’m in the house on my own most of the day. There’s only so much cleaning and cooking and coffee mornings you can do.’ The spoon clattered against the saucer when she set it down.

‘What’s brought this on all of a sudden, Kirsty?’ said Dorothy, her brows knitted. Her gaze, when it met Kirsty’s, was like a laser.

Kirsty took a biscuit and broke it in half. Pale golden crumbs littered the spotless table. ‘It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while,’ she said. ‘Ever since Adam started school last year.’

‘I see,’ said Dorothy and she lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of tea. She let the silence sit between them like a fog. Harry stroked his moustache, a nervous habit, and stared at his reflection in the window. He looked confused. Disappointed.

‘I’m only talking about part-time,’ said Kirsty, looking at their unresponsive faces.

Cocking her head to one side, Dorothy placed the foot of her teacup in the depression on the saucer, as though she were putting a jigsaw together. ‘Do you have something in mind?’ she said.

‘There’s a job advertised at the museum.’

Ballyfergus’s small museum was housed in the old Carnegie Library on Victoria Road. The building, which dated from 1906, had been beautifully refurbished and now housed a bright modern museum dedicated to the history and heritage of Ballyfergus and the surrounding area.

‘It’s only twenty hours a week,’ said Kirsty.

‘What about school holidays and when the boys are sick?’ said Dorothy.

‘I’ll arrange childcare.’

‘But me and Dorothy would look after the kids,’ said Harry, sounding slightly affronted.

‘I…I…well, that’s a very kind offer but I can’t expect you to drop everything to look after the boys. You have your own lives,’ Kirsty added, though she didn’t really believe this to be true. Their lives revolved around their grandchildren.

‘That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, Dorothy?’ said Harry, sounding a bit annoyed.

Dorothy nodded and Harry went on, ‘They’re my grandsons and I don’t want some stranger looking after them.’

‘Well, okay then. If it’s what you want…’ said Kirsty, feeling yet again that she had been bulldozed into something she didn’t want. But she couldn’t very well deny them access to the boys. She would pay for it though, in an indirect way – book a holiday for them, or something.

Harry, suddenly warming to the idea, said, ‘Maybe Kirsty’s right, Dorothy. It might do her good to get out a bit.’

Kirsty’s spirits lifted at finding an unlikely ally in Harry. Dorothy’s eyebrows, as effective a means of communication as her speech, crept up her brow a fraction. She waited for Harry to go on.

‘But don’t you see? There’s a much better way to go about it than this,’ he said firmly, pleased with himself.

‘There is?’ said Dorothy, the space between her eyebrows puckering.

Harry grinned broadly at them both, revealing a set of perfect dentures. ‘Kirsty’s a highly educated girl with a lot to offer.’

Kirsty smiled at him, grateful and relieved. And surprised. Of the two of them, she had expected more resistance from Harry.

‘I’ll tell you what, Kirsty. You can come and work for me at the mill,’ he said grandly, presenting his offer with all the flair of a generous gift.

Kirsty swallowed hard and tried to smile. She thought of the InverPapers mill, the relentless hum and thud of machinery and the sickly-sweet smell of the chemicals used in the manufacturing process – a nauseating stench that had permeated Scott’s hair and clothes and which, no matter how many times he showered or how many times she washed his clothes, never completely went away.

‘She could work in the office, Dorothy, like you used to do. Help with the accounting, payroll, bills, that sort of thing. You can use a computer, can’t you?’ Though supposedly semi-retired, Harry still played an active part in the business. Kirsty pictured the stuffy office with its worn eighties furniture and single-glazed aluminium framed windows – and froze in horror.

She had never worked in an office in her life. She couldn’t think of anything more depressing. The factory employed one hundred and fifty people and it produced toilet roll. Toilet roll! Millions of sheets of toilet roll a year. Bog roll, Scott used to call it. Harry wanted her to work in a bog-roll factory. She bit her lip and blinked to stop herself from crying.

‘I don’t think…’ began Kirsty, faintly, when she could bring herself to speak.

‘Mmm,’ said Dorothy, as though Kirsty had not spoken, her eyebrows uplifted with possibility. ‘Now that is a good idea. You could work the hours that suited you, Kirsty, and take all the time off you need.’

‘Don’t you see, love?’ said Harry, laying a cool hand on Kirsty’s sweating one. ‘It’s perfect. You can work whatever hours you like. And keep it in the family. I like that idea. I think Scott would’ve liked it, too. Don’t you, Dorothy?’

At the invocation of her dead husband’s name, Kirsty stared down at her lap. For all his faults, Scott would never have condemned her to work in the family business. He’d hated it himself.

Harry rubbed his hands together as though he’d just closed a deal and said, ‘And I’d make sure you were handsomely remunerated, of course.’

There was a long silence and Dorothy said, ‘What do you think, Kirsty?’

‘I think…I’m not sure. It’s not exactly what I had in mind.’

Harry frowned and looked from his wife to Kirsty.

‘I really like the idea of working in the museum. I think it would be interesting.’

‘The paper industry is interesting too,’ said Harry.

‘I’m sure it is, Harry. And I’m very appreciative of your generous offer. But I’m not sure I can accept it.’

‘Sure you can,’ he said. He folded his arms across his chest like a buffer.

‘Harry,’ said Dorothy, who had been quiet for some moments. ‘I don’t think it’s a case of not being able to accept. I think it’s a case of not wanting to. Is that right, Kirsty?’

In spite of her burning cheeks, Kirsty was determined to show them that she meant business. So often in the past she had been persuaded to go along with things that went against her better judgment. Little things, like how much TV the children were allowed to watch and what time they went to bed when they had sleepovers. But this time it was her life, her future, at stake.

She sat up straight and said, ‘Yes. That’s right.’

Harry let out a long sigh and visibly deflated. He rubbed his nose with the back of his right hand, sniffed, and refolded his arms. ‘I was hoping the boys would take over the business one day, you know,’ he said. ‘I would’ve been retired by now if Scott…’

‘Harry,’ said Dorothy tenderly and she paused, then lowered her voice. ‘That’s got nothing to do with this discussion.’

Admonished, albeit gently, Harry shrugged and looked out the window, though there was little to see in the rapidly falling dusk. Kirsty reached out and touched his elbow. ‘Harry?’ she said. He glanced at her hand and looked out the window again. She had offended him and for that she was truly sorry. But the offence was inevitable. He would never see things from her point of view.

‘You’d better watch your time, love,’ said Dorothy with a glance at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s gone five.’

‘Has it?’ she said dimly, without taking her eyes off Harry. She did not want the conversation to end on this unpleasant, unresolved note. She realised that she wanted them to give her something they could not – their wholehearted support.

But, for now at least, she had been dismissed. Kirsty stood up and said goodbye to her in-laws, awkward in their company for the first time in over three years. Then she slipped upstairs to say goodbye to the boys and, when she came down again, Dorothy was waiting for her at the front door. ‘Don’t you pay too much attention to Harry, love. He’s just…’

‘Hurt?’

‘Aye, that. And grieving. Still.’

Kirsty sighed and pulled on her coat. ‘I didn’t mean to offend him.’

‘I know. But he doesn’t think sometimes.’

Kirsty buttoned her coat and slipped on a pair of black leather gloves.

‘You apply for that job at the museum, Kirsty. And we’ll help you with the boys when you need it.’

‘It’s very good of you to offer,’ said Kirsty, rather formally. She gave the older woman a brief hug, stepped outside into the cold, damp night and onto the gravel path.

‘Just one thing though,’ said Dorothy.

Kirsty turned around, the gravel screeching under the ball of her foot.

‘Don’t ever forget how much we love those boys,’ said Dorothy.

‘I won’t,’ said Kirsty brightly, understanding only too well the plea – or was it a warning? – behind this statement.

Kirsty marched purposefully down the path towards the car but stopped as soon as she heard the front door close behind her. Then she turned and stared at the house, the windows bright with yellow light, her two sons happily and safely ensconced inside. And separated from her, it seemed, by more than just a Victorian brick wall. A few flakes of snow began to fall, swirling in the wind. She shivered, pulled the collar of the coat around her neck and hurried to the car.

The exhibition was in Cornerstone Gallery on Mill Street, Ballymena – directly opposite the Town Hall. The gallery was spread over two floors and Paul Holmes’ paintings were displayed on the ground floor. It was busy and noisy, people elbow-to-elbow with their complimentary drinks clutched like talismans in their hands. Kirsty did not have the means to splash out hundreds of pounds on original watercolours, however handsome. But she appreciated the high quality of the artwork, exchanged a few words with the artist himself and enjoyed the buzz. They didn’t stay long, mindful of the falling snow outside and the treacherous drive home over Shaneshill which awaited them. Parts of the road were lonely and deserted and at a higher altitude than the surrounding countryside so that snow often lay where there was none in town.

By nine o’clock they were back in Ballyfergus and settled at their usual table in No.11. The bar was two-deep with the familiar faces of local businessmen, ties removed and top buttons undone, who had dropped by for their regular Friday pint, or two, on the way home.

‘Good job you booked, Janice,’ said Patsy, ‘or we’d never have got our table.’ She arranged the folds of her wool skirt round her knees and ran her fingers through her short, dyed hair. She’d worn it in the same spiky, youthful style all the time Kirsty had known her. It showed off her good bone structure, and suited her lively personality. When she moved her head large diamond earrings winked in each lobe.

Janice, urbane in a black cashmere roll-neck, figure-hugging black skirt and boots, handed round the menus. ‘Let’s order quickly, shall we? The kitchen closes in half an hour.’

Once the food was ordered and they all had a drink in front of them Kirsty asked, ‘So what did you think of the competition, Clare?’

Clare downed a third of a glass of white wine before answering. She was more casually dressed than the others in black jeans and a patterned shirt. Around her neck, on a green leather thong, she wore a piece of pink shell sculpted into the shape of a flower. As usual her face was bare of make-up, and her long brown hair was freshly washed and fell around her shoulders like a waterfall. Over the years Clare had put on the pounds and it did not suit her. She had been prettier when she was slimmer. ‘Well, Paul Holmes’s got talent, that’s for sure.’ Clare let out a long sigh. ‘I’m not sure my work’s up to that standard.’

‘Oh, don’t say that,’ said Kirsty, loyally. ‘You paint just as well. Better even.’ If Clare had a fault it was that she fluctuated wildly between confidence and self-doubt – and more often the latter. She was always putting herself down. ‘How’s the studio?’

‘The studio’s fantastic,’ said Clare, enthusiasm returning to her voice. ‘Complete peace and no interruptions from screaming kids! So far I’ve managed a couple of evenings and a few hours on Sundays.’

Janice smiled broadly.

‘And how’s the painting coming on?’ asked Patsy.

‘The painting…’ Clare’s voice trailed off. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, let’s just say I’m a bit rusty.’

‘We just need to get you oiled then!’ cried Janice, laughing. ‘Speaking of which,’ she added, raised a glass and took a long drink. ‘That’s better.’ Clare almost finished her wine.

Janice looked round at the others and said, ‘Seriously though, Clare showed me and Patsy what she’d done and it was good. As good as what you were painting four years ago, Clare. Isn’t that right, Patsy?’

Patsy shook her head distractedly. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

‘I said, Clare’s work is good, isn’t it?’

‘It is so,’ said Patsy, nursing her glass and staring at Clare. ‘Do you know what I think, Clare? I think you’re too hard on yourself. Way too hard.’

Clare blushed, and looked at a spot on the floor which she rubbed with the toe of her brown boot.

‘I know what we should do!’ exclaimed Patsy and everyone said, ‘What?’ at the same time.

‘I think we should plan an exhibition for you.’

‘No,’ said Clare with a gasp, and she put the tips of her fingers to her lips. Her nails were badly bitten and her hands work-worn – the scourge not only of mothers of young children but artists too.

Patsy cocked her head to one side. ‘I’m thinking something pretty low-key, maybe in conjunction with another artist. Someone who works in a different medium. Mmm, let me think…’ She sat back in the tub chair and was quiet for a few moments, then came to life again. ‘I know. I was hoping to do a wee exhibition for Bronson in the spring.’ She was referring to an old friend of hers, the unlikely-named Bronson Gaffney, a local artist who did traditional landscapes in oil. ‘I could have a chat with him and see if he would be willing to do a joint exhibition. I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem. It would get you a bit of exposure, in a low-pressured way, and give you something to work towards. And Bronson’s just lovely, so he is.’

Clare’s fingers pressed against her lips until the colour leached from them but her eyes were alive with excitement. ‘Do you really think I could do it?’

‘Of course you could,’ said Patsy. ‘And what’s more, I bet you I sell every one of your pictures!’

It took Clare only a few seconds to consider the offer. ‘In that case, okay then. You’re on!’ she cried and the others gave a little cheer.

‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we can talk about it some more,’ said Patsy.

‘I think that calls for another drink,’ said Clare, flushed with excitement. She got up and went to the bar. Patsy, who was driving, declined the offer of another drink. When Clare returned, Kirsty asked, ‘So, how’s everyone else getting on with their resolutions?’

‘I ordered a new treadmill for the gym,’ said Janice.

‘I thought you had one already?’ Clare frowned in puzzlement.

‘Oh, we did, but that’s absolutely ancient,’ said Janice with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘This one’s state of the art.’

‘Well, rather you than me,’ said Patsy, unconsciously skimming her stomach with the flat of her palm. ‘There’s nothing of you as it is, Janice. If you exercise any more you’ll disappear!’

‘Always room for improvement, my dear,’ retorted Janice good-naturedly.

Listening to this exchange, Kirsty wondered why Janice, poised and elegant, was so obsessed with continual self-improvement. There was nothing wrong with making the most of yourself – and Kirsty was as vain as the next woman – but Janice pursued physical perfection with religious fervour. For the first time it crossed Kirsty’s mind that, perhaps, Janice wasn’t as happy as she appeared. In exercising every pick of fat away, was she exercising away demons too? Kirsty might have known her for fifteen years, but did she know the real Janice?

‘Have you been on any more dates recently?’ asked Patsy, rousing Kirsty from her reverie.

She let out an audible sigh and smiled wryly. ‘If you could call the last time a date. I think I need a few weeks to recover from that experience and drum up the enthusiasm to give it another go. I should have made a different resolution,’ she went on, seriously. She was sick already of the others asking her about dating. ‘I should’ve made it something simple. Like getting a job.’ Something, she thought, that she could realistically achieve.