Moving On

Disclosure

Disclosure

‘LET’S GO TO LUNCH TODAY,’ BEN SAID. ‘MY TREAT, next door. There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

For once he wasn’t smiling. His expression was thoughtful, unreadable. Instantly she was alarmed: had she done something wrong? For the rest of the morning, as she went about her usual tasks, she cast back to find anything he might have objected to, but nothing came to her.

It was the last week of May, the days long, the weather softening finally after a bitterly cold spring. The racking cough that had plagued Frances for over a month was drying up at last. Joan had got good results in her Easter exams.

Claire remained set on London, despite Ellen’s continuing reticence. July , she’d said on the phone two nights ago. Martin’s finally coming home. He says he can have a word with his landlord, see if we can rent his flat. You’ll love London, Ellen – wait and see . Claire never took no for an answer, but this time she might have to.

Lunchtime came. They took a table in the corner of the pub. Ellen ordered a salad sandwich she didn’t want, and coffee she did.

‘So,’ Ben said, tenting his fingers, then deciding against it and placing his palms on the table. He seemed ill at ease. Again she puzzled over possible wrongdoing on her part.

‘OK, right. So, here’s the thing. The thing is—’

He broke off as their coffees arrived. He waited until the barman had left. ‘My brother,’ he said then. ‘Rory, in UCG. I’ve mentioned him.’

His brother? He’d brought her here to talk about his brother?

‘He’s in his final year. I think I told you that.’

‘You did.’ The activist, he’d called him. Supporting every cause he could find. Where was this going?

‘I mentioned he was planning to travel after he graduates.’

‘. . . Yes.’ He had. She’d forgotten that.

There was a little pause. When he spoke again his voice was gentler. ‘The thing is, Ellen, I’m going with him. It’s all arranged, it’s been arranged for ages.’

She stared at him, the information dropping like a stone inside her, plummeting down like a broken lift shaft, yanking all her hopes and dreams down with it.

She found her voice. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You’re going too – that’s . . . good. Nice for him, to have company.’ Over-bright, horribly false. Fixing a smile, or a grimace trying to be a smile, on her face. ‘How long will you be away for?’

He hesitated. ‘A year. Possibly more.’

No. No. No.

She gave up trying to pretend. She let the smile, or whatever it was, slide off her face. She pushed aside her coffee, the smell suddenly nauseating her.

‘Ellen,’ he said, and the sound of her name, so softly spoken, was more than she could take. She sank her head into her hands and let the tears fall silently.

‘Look at me, Ellen.’

She couldn’t look at him.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Ellen, look at me.’

She drew in a ragged breath. She lifted her head, tears still streaming. If he hadn’t been sure how she felt about him up to this, he knew now.

‘I’m mad about you,’ he said, so quietly she just caught it. ‘You must know that. I’ve been mad about you for ages, but I couldn’t act on it, not when I knew I’d be going away. I couldn’t . . . start something I wouldn’t be here to continue.’

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. ‘God, this isn’t – this wasn’t supposed to happen. I can’t back out now, Ellen. I couldn’t do it to him. He’s got nobody else. I mean, he knows lots of people, but he’s never been good at making friends.’

She stopped listening to the words. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now that he was going away. She took another shuddering breath, tried to swallow the lump in her throat. He looked deflated, defeated. Not a trace of his usual merry smile.

‘When?’ she managed.

‘First of June.’

Less than a week away. She felt a fresh wave of despair. He was leaving her, leaving Galway for who knew how long.

‘I’m sorry, Ellen,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. Our timing is rotten. I’m going to say it to the other two this afternoon, but I wanted to . . . I had to tell you first. Muriel isn’t coming back, but there’s a new manager starting next week.’

She sat there, swiping at tears that continued to fall silently. Their sandwiches arrived. ‘Could you pack them up?’ he asked the barman as she blotted her face with a serviette. ‘We have to go.’

At the door she halted. ‘Can I have the rest of the day off?’ She must look a fright – crying always left her blotchy. She couldn’t face going back, couldn’t work in the shop all afternoon as if nothing had happened.

‘Yes, of course. Ellen, I’m sorry. Here, take your sandwich—’ but she’d already turned away, not wanting food, unable to listen to any more, needing to be alone so she could make sense of this, or try to.

She walked without purpose, her only objective to get far from the bookshop. She ended up in a park she passed on her way to and from work. She found a vacant bench and sat hunched, feeling utterly miserable. Today was Wednesday, tomorrow her day off. On Friday she’d have to go back to work and endure two days with him, pretending in front of the others that nothing was wrong, when everything that could be wrong was wrong.

Wednesday. Drinks with Danny. She couldn’t, not tonight.

She rummaged in her bag and found one of the crosswords she and Ben had done together. She scribbled on the back.

Danny, sorry, not feeling well, will skip drinks. Next week, hopefully – Ellen x

It was three o’clock. She prayed he wouldn’t be home from college. She hurried to his house and posted the note through the letter-box, relieved that nobody came out at the sound. She made her way back to Frances’, where she found her aunt arranging lupins in a vase.

‘A headache,’ Ellen told her. ‘I’m going to lie down. Count me out for dinner.’

Frances gave her a searching look. ‘Has something happened?’

‘No’ – but she knew something had. Frances didn’t miss things. Ellen spent the rest of the day curled in bed, her book for once unopened.

At some stage, Frances tapped on the door and appeared with a steaming mug. She looked down at Ellen’s tear-stained face. ‘Chicken soup,’ she said, setting the mug on the bedside locker. ‘You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong if you don’t want. But whatever it is, it won’t last. Things never last, Ellen. They really don’t.’

She was wrong, of course. This would never stop hurting. Never.