Moving On

Christmas

Christmas

‘NICE TO HAVE YOU HOME,’ HER MOTHER SAID. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

‘Just a few pounds.’

‘Your hair is getting long.’

‘I’m letting it grow.’

‘Still biting your nails, I see.’

‘I’m trying to give up.’

There was no depth to their conversation, just a ping-pong of remark and response. They might have been casual acquaintances sitting together in a doctor’s waiting room, forced into polite small talk. She’s doing the best she can , Frances had said – but what good was her best now, after she’d been responsible for the departure of the parent Ellen had loved more? There was no getting past that.

Still, she must try, if only for Frances’ sake. ‘I’ll cook dinner some night,’ she said, ‘if you like.’

‘Frances said she was teaching you. That would be nice.’

Christmas Day came and went precisely as she’d expected it to. Eggs and bacon for breakfast – their father would make French toast on Christmas morning, the only dish he’d mastered – followed by mass. The usual invitation to Seamus’ house afterwards for coffee and his grandmother’s mince pies.

‘You’re enjoying Galway?’ Seamus’ father asked, and Ellen replied that she was.

‘Met anyone nice?’ the grandmother enquired.

‘I’ve met lots of nice people,’ Ellen replied, ignoring the image of Ben’s face that popped into her head.

‘Anyone special?’ the older woman persisted, and her daughter, Seamus’ mother, told her not to be so nosey, and Ellen, colouring, said no, nobody special.

‘Plenty of time for that,’ Ellen’s mother put in. ‘Your mince pies are as good as ever, Pearl,’ and the subject was dropped. Ellen caught her eye for an instant and gave her a tiny nod of gratitude.

They ate dinner back at home, in the late afternoon as usual, with gifts exchanged after the plum pudding. Scarves from their mother to her daughters, earrings from Joan to Ellen. Ellen gave books to both, Agatha Christie for her mother, Margaret Atwood for Joan. Seamus turned up as they were opening a box of Milk Tray to dip into while they watched It’s a Wonderful Life .

Next day the phone rang, and Joan went out to the hall to answer it. ‘For you,’ she said to Ellen. ‘Danny O’Meara.’

‘Just thought I’d give a ring,’ he said. ‘Nice to hear Joan. How did yesterday go?’

It was the first time they’d spoken since the night at the theatre over two weeks ago. He must have found her number in the phone book – was it still in her father’s name?

‘It went fine,’ she said. ‘Same as usual. How was your day?’

‘Just as bedlam as expected. I never want to see turkey again. When do you go back to work?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘Four more days – not much of a break.’

It was plenty of a break for Ellen. It was more than enough. ‘Are you all set for Dublin?’

‘Nearly. I had a good time,’ he said, ‘at the play. Shame we didn’t get to have that drink after,’ and she remembered the kiss that had brushed her cheek before he’d got out of Ruth’s car.

‘There’ll still be drink in Galway when you’re back,’ she said, and he agreed that there would be, and shortly afterwards she heard his mother’s voice calling him to dinner.

‘Happy New Year,’ he said. ‘See you in 1982.’

‘Happy New Year. Hope Dublin goes well.’

‘So, you and Danny,’ Joan said when Ellen returned to the kitchen.

‘What about me and Danny?’

‘Well, he’s ringing you here, so I’m assuming you’re more than just friends. That was definitely fate, bumping into him again.’ She was making a turkey sandwich, buttering bread, laying slices of meat on top.

‘Can’t he ring me as a friend?’

‘I doubt it,’ Joan said, dipping a spoon into the cranberry sauce jar. ‘Only a matter of time. If we hadn’t moved house, you’d probably be engaged to him by now.’

Ellen felt a dart of anger. Just because her sister was all sorted with Seamus, she was the expert on love. ‘You’re making a lot of assumptions, and none of them are right. Danny and I are just friends.’ The swift kiss flashed into her head again; she nudged it away.

Joan cut her sandwich in half. ‘Have it your own way.’

After dinner Ellen walked to Claire’s house, located next to the family pub on the corner of the town’s main street. Claire answered the door already wearing her red coat, temporarily freed from nights behind the counter by Martin’s return from London for Christmas. ‘Let’s do a pub crawl,’ she said, pulling the door closed behind her.

She hadn’t been back to Galway since her first visit. Ellen had mixed feelings about it. On the one hand she missed her friend; on the other, she didn’t want to give Frances any more reason to distrust Claire. Probably best to wait till Martin finally came home, and they could move on with their own plans.

They sat by the fire in Doherty’s Bar, a group of old men at the counter checking them out over their pints. ‘Has Martin given you any idea when he’s coming back?’

‘Summer, he says. He wants to give it a year. I’ve told Dad I’m leaving then, even if Martin stays in England. I’ll be twenty-one in February – there won’t be a thing he can do about it.’

Summer seemed so long away, with winter hardly halfway through. Then again, living with Frances was no problem at all. Living with Frances was infinitely preferable to living at home.

She’d flatly turned down Ellen’s tentative offer of rent from her first pay packet – ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking money from family!’ – so Ellen quietly replenished toilet rolls and firelighters and washing powder before they ran out, and slipped various foodstuffs into kitchen cupboards, and if her aunt noticed, no mention was made.

Thanks to Frances, she could now name flowers and herbs with confidence. She knew when to prune and how to deadhead, and which plants thrived in shade and which needed light and sunshine, and it was thanks to Frances too that she was finding her feet in the kitchen.

They did crosswords together – or rather, Frances called out clues and Ellen guessed wildly, and usually wrongly, leaving most of the solving to Frances. Ellen borrowed Frances’ big bicycle on her days off to explore the Galway countryside. When rainy Sunday afternoons made gardening impossible Frances made a cake, and put half into an old biscuit tin for Ellen to take into work on Monday morning.

Over the months of living together they’d grown closer, finding a wholly unexpected friendship that Ellen was grateful for.

‘Hang on,’ Claire said. She went to the counter and spoke with one of the old men, and came back with a lit cigarette.

‘I thought you’d given up.’

‘I have, I just fancy the odd one.’ She propped her feet on a rung of Ellen’s stool. ‘Guess what: I have a new plan for us.’

Ellen regarded her warily. Claire with a plan could be dangerous.

‘Stop looking so scared. I just think we should move to London in the summer.’

Ellen stared at her. ‘London? What’s wrong with Galway?’

‘Nothing’s wrong with Galway, but London would be bigger and brighter and more exciting. I’m sick of Ireland. I want real adventures.’

London. A whole other country. It would mean giving up a job Ellen loved, having to start all over again in a new place, saying goodbye to Ben and the others, and leaving Frances. ‘But I’m settled in Galway now. I like it. I have friends there, and my job is there.’

‘Oh, come on, it’s not as if London’s at the other side of the world. And you’d get another job no problem: I’m sure it’s full of bookshops. At least think about it. Think of the craic we’d have.’

‘I know . . . but accommodation could be expensive.’

‘So what? We’d both be working.’

The idea didn’t appeal to Ellen. She was happy in Galway, happy to make it her home for the foreseeable future. She had no appetite to uproot herself, even for a while.

Claire stubbed out her cigarette and drained her glass. ‘Come on, this place is dead. Let’s go to Casey’s, it’ll be a bit livelier. Look, just think about London, OK? Don’t rule it out.’

Ellen finished her drink and pulled on her coat. ‘I won’t rule it out,’ she said, but in her head she already had.