Moving On

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SHE THOUGHT OF THE SINGLE RUCKSACK THAT had held everything she needed when she’d moved to Galway, and later to London, and marvelled at the belongings she’d accumulated since then. She had the girls now, of course, with their share of luggage, but still it seemed excessive.

She managed with some difficulty to fit their clothes in the wardrobe of the room he’d prepared for them. He must have got the bunk beds specially – and was that a fresh coat of paint on the walls, or had they already been pink?

Her room across the landing had cream wallpaper printed with yellow rosebuds, and pretty matching furniture. Iris’ room, had to be. Ellen’s computer, which her father had been looking after, sat on a small folding table by the window. She hadn’t thought she’d need it again, and was glad she hadn’t sold it or donated it to a charity shop.

She fitted her things where she could, and pushed her empty suitcase under the bed. Her box of books could live at the bottom of the wardrobe; no point in unpacking them when they’d be moving again as soon as she found their own place.

The house was part of a small development in Rathfarnham, just two minutes’ walk from a big park. Semi-detached, painted cream, with a pair of bakers living next door, one of whom had already called around with a plastic container of gingerbread men. Welcome , she’d said. Your father’s been so looking forward to your arrival. Ellen wondered exactly how much he’d told them.

‘I suggest,’ he said to her that evening, ‘that you enrol the girls in a local school – I mean local to here, and then, if you still want to rent a place you could get one close by, and I could be on call if you wanted me for anything. I could do school runs, or take the girls for a few hours in the afternoons to let you work. Anything, really.’

He was trying to help, she had to acknowledge that. She did need to sort out a school before the new year started in September, and she couldn’t deny that it would be useful to have someone to call on if she needed to. But did she want to live in Dublin, or move closer to Frances in Galway?

‘I’d love you to stay here in this house,’ he said, reading the doubt in her face. ‘It makes more sense. I won’t expect rent, and it’ll give you a chance to concentrate on finding work if you don’t have to look for a place to live too.’

It did make sense. The girls could get to know their grandfather. They’d have a male role model in Leo’s absence. Still she was slow to commit to something more permanent. ‘I’ll look for a school,’ she said. ‘I’ll start with that. I’d rather pay something, though, while we’re here.’

‘How about you help with the meals then?’ he said. ‘I’m not much of a cook, and Frances tells me she turned you into one when you were with her.’

‘I could do that.’ She remembered his French toast. They’d loved his French toast. She opened her mouth to ask if he still made it, and closed it again. ‘I’ll organise the evening meal, and buy what food is needed. We can take it from there.’

She found a school within walking distance whose principal agreed to take the girls in. She wanted to admit that it might not be for long, but said nothing in case he decided to give the places instead to children whose parents had no plans to move out of the area.

She approached ad agencies in the city and slowly began to pick up freelance work, and Lucinda was in touch as she’d promised too. After some hunting around, Ellen found a narrow writing bureau to replace the small table in her room, and got to work.

As she’d known he would be, Leo was generous with his financial contributions, depositing a sum into her Irish bank account each month that more than covered the girls’ expenses.

She never spent a penny of his money on herself. What she didn’t need for the girls she used for groceries and to pay the house’s electricity bill that she insisted on covering too.

He flew from London every other weekend to spend the day with his daughters. He took an early flight on Saturday morning and turned up at the house around ten. At the sound of the doorbell, Grace would dash to the hall.

‘Hello,’ he would say, giving Ellen a little smile as he lifted his younger daughter into his arms, and for the sake of the girls she would force herself to smile back.

‘All OK?’ he would ask as Juliet got into her coat.

‘Fine.’ She never asked how he was. ‘See you later, girls.’

Even-tempered Juliet took the visits in her stride, but Grace would be sulky with Ellen afterwards. Six since August, she made it clear to her mother that she held her wholly responsible for the split. The irony wasn’t lost on Ellen.

To her relief, her father avoided all contact with Leo. She had to acknowledge the benefits of living with him, the hours he freed up so she could work. And once, she’d overheard him remonstrating gently with Grace. Mum is doing her best, pet , he’d said. Try and be a bit nicer to her , and Ellen was reminded of Frances saying much the same to her. How history repeated itself.

In September the girls started in their new school. She’d been dreading it, remembering Grace’s difficulty with the crèche – and sure enough the first few days were tricky – ‘I want Dad to bring me!’ she would wail – but with Juliet’s help, and a sympathetic teacher’s support, her younger daughter eventually settled and found friends.

Later in the month Ellen left the girls with her father and went to Galway to celebrate Frances’ eighty-fourth birthday. ‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ Frances told her, ‘and isn’t it great to be finished with all that other nasty business?’

‘It is.’

But Ellen saw with dismay how frail her cherished aunt had become, how firm a hold the arthritis had now, making her wince as she climbed the stairs or stooped to add coal to the fire.

‘When does your student get back? When is college reopening?’

‘Next week. You wouldn’t know she’s in the house, she’s that quiet – but she makes herself useful, doesn’t wait to be asked to do anything. That was a good idea of yours. I’m looking forward to having her back. How are things between you and your father now?’

Ellen considered. ‘They’re better – at least, on the surface we get on fine, but . . . I’m not sure we’ll ever be as close as we were.’

‘That’s up to you,’ Frances replied. ‘That’s within your gift, Ellen.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean talk to him. Open up to him, tell him what you’re think-ing and feeling, and give him a chance to respond. If you’re both honest with one another, that will help.’

Ellen looked at the woman who’d taken her in, who’d made her feel welcome, who’d taught her how to cook, and how to tell a flower from a weed. The woman who’d guided her when she’d needed it, who’d supported her in everything, and praised her when she’d earned it. The woman who always told the truth, and expected it from others.

‘Frances, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’ve been so good to me.’

For once, Frances didn’t flap away the compliment. ‘I’m glad we had the chance to get to know one another properly. You learnt that my bark is worse than my bite.’

Ellen smiled. ‘I certainly did.’

When Ellen was leaving, Frances packed up a batch of home-made flapjacks, one of the few things she still baked. She pressed a twenty-pound note into Ellen’s hand and instructed her to pick out books for the girls. ‘Come and see me soon again,’ she said. ‘Bring my grand-nieces,’ and she stood at the front door, leaning heavily on her stick as Ellen walked the familiar path to the gate.

Talk to him. Open up to him. Easier said than done.