Happiness
Happiness
BY THREE O’CLOCK, THE FINAL PIECES OF FURNI-ture from Frances’ old house have been unloaded and brought in. When the sound of the removal van has faded, Ellen opens one of the book boxes and starts to fill the large bookcase they’d chosen together for the sitting room.
From the kitchen she hears humming. He has volunteered to cook the first dinner in the new house: You can do the unpacking; I’m hopeless at it. The arrangement suits her perfectly. This way, she gets to decide where everything goes.
As she opens a second box he appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled. ‘Any idea where the knives are?’
‘There’s a box that says crockery and cutlery,’ she tells him. ‘You’ll get plates and cups too, and glasses.’
‘Yes, ma’am. How’s it going?’
‘I’m not sure they’ll all fit. We might have to build an extension.’ Between them, they have a ridiculous number of books.
‘We can leave some of yours in the attic for now,’ he says, and ducks as she feigns flinging a book at him, and retreats again to the kitchen. When the bookcase is full she pushes the remaining two boxes under the window. More shelves are definitely needed – but where can they fit them? The couch takes up most of the adjoining wall, leaving just enough room beside it for Frances’ little china cabinet, which Ellen couldn’t bear to part with.
She moves upstairs, happy to leave the books question for later. The stair carpet is worn in parts: another job for them to do. No rush, they have all the time in the world now. This brings a wave of happiness as she lifts a suitcase onto the bed in their room and begins to take out clothes.
Presently, the smell of frying onions drifts up. He’s making pizzas, he told her. My own secret recipe, so no peeking.
There might be peeking , she’d said. I might have to steal the recipe , and he’d threatened the wooden spoon if she came within ten feet of the kitchen.
You haven’t got a wooden spoon. It’s still packed.
I’ll find it, missy .
Oh, they will have so much fun together.
Last night’s launch in Bookshelves went smoothly, with her biggest turnout yet. In addition to the usual local crowd, all her own old faithfuls showed up to celebrate the arrival of her tenth novel. Juliet and Rosie, of course – and Grace turned up with Tom, much to her mother’s relief.
Sorry, Mum , Grace whispered on seeing her. Sorry for getting mad at you on the phone , and Ellen pressed her lips to Grace’s cheek and told her it didn’t matter at all.
Her sister Joan came from Cork, along with her daughters, Trisha and Daphne, who have made it their business to distribute their aunt’s books among all their friends – and sometimes , Trisha told her, we give your books better positions on bookshop shelves , and Ellen had to pretend she hadn’t heard that, knowing from her own days in Piles of Books that booksellers didn’t appreciate customers moving the books around.
Henri and Sabine and fourteen-year-old Esme travelled all the way from France. Iris and Ultan flew from London with their twins. Ellen’s editor, Vanessa, and her agent, Dorothy, both made speeches, and afterwards Ellen saw them together, heads bent in conversation, Dorothy, no doubt, negotiating better terms for the latest offered contract.
And seeing all the faces she loved around her, she was inevitably reminded of the ones who weren’t there.
Her mother, who might be proud of her daughter now if she could see her.
Her father who left them last year, his three daughters gathered at his bedside as he slipped away. Buried now beside Iris’ mother, Sarah, the woman he should have married.
Frances, still missed every day.
Tony, her first editor, who’d phoned her earlier in the day to wish her well. Still here , he’d said. Still going strong , after all their dire predictions.
Danny, her oldest friend, reunited after all with Bobbi, and busy looking after their first grandson, child of their son Cormac. Danny, who came close, but not close enough.
Leo, father of her children, breaker of her heart, currently living in the south of France with the ex-wife of one of his old banking colleagues. Leo, who after all only wanted what he couldn’t have.
She’s hanging the last shirt in the wardrobe when the doorbell rings. ‘I’ll get it,’ she calls, and flies down. She opens the door and there they all are.
Rosie and Juliet, Grace and Tom, Iris and Ultan with the twins, Henri and Sabine and Esme – all of whom stayed last night in the rental house Ellen had booked for them. They’ll stay there tonight too, because she insisted on them all being here for the first dinner in the cottage.
Boxes are moved from the kitchen to the hall. As folding chairs are unfolded, Hugh arrives from the bookshop. Places are found, some at the table, others at the worktop.
The chef distributes pizza slices, which are well received. ‘This can be your signature dish,’ Rosie says, ‘whenever we have an occasion.’
‘Just as well,’ he says. ‘The only thing I can cook.’
When the food has been eaten and coffees poured, he gets to his feet and pats his pockets. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘there’s a little thing I must do.’ More patting. ‘Hang on, I know it’s here somewhere.’ Eventually he casts around, frowning. ‘Where did I put it?’
‘What are you looking for?’ Grace asks, and he holds up a hand and goes on scouring the room.
‘Ah!’ he says then, and opens the fridge and sticks his head in, and emerges with a little box.
A little blue velvet box.
At the sight of it, everyone goes still.
Ellen puts a hand to her throat as her first love, Ben McCarthy, drops to one knee beside her chair. Ben McCarthy, married in Australia, divorced when his son Hugh was twelve.
I should have come back then , he said, after they reunited. I should have come back and hunted you down , and Ellen said no, she wouldn’t have been there, she would have been in London. It wasn’t our time. Now is our time.
They didn’t need to fall in love again; they simply stepped back into the old love, and it still fit perfectly. Within weeks of meeting, they were spending nights together; within months, he’d given up the lease of his flat and moved in with her and her father. And nothing in her life has felt so completely right as here and now, their own place together at last.
They’ve planned a pup, and Ellen fancies a kitten or two, and maybe a pair of donkeys to eat the grass in the field that came with the house – and he’s threatened to squash a piano into the cottage. No music degree after all, just plinking along like he always did – but marriage wasn’t mentioned by either of them. Marriage, she thought, wasn’t in their plans.
He opens the little box now, all eyes on him. He looks at Ellen, nobody else, as he shows her the ring.
‘Ellen Sheehan,’ he says, ‘will you for God’s sake make an honest man of me?’
She nods, too full for words, and the room erupts in cheers as he slides the ring onto her finger and pulls her to her feet to embrace her. ‘We got there in the end,’ he whispers.
And safe in his arms, she knows she has finally come home.