Putting Out the Stars Read online

  ‘Yes, darling, this is for you.’ She spread it with butter. ‘Now, will you sit up at the table with Mammy, and we’ll have a little party? Careful now, getting down. Don’t fall.’ She spotted Polly’s floury hands. ‘Oh dear, we’d better clean those hands first. Come here, lovey.’

  As she took a facecloth and rubbed Polly’s hands, Breffni watched with affection, marvelling at how compliant Polly always was with Mary – she’d never have let Breffni wipe her hands so easily. Mary was manna from heaven, no doubt about it. She patently adored her small great-grandchild, and the feeling was mutual. Mary had looked after Polly from the first time Breffni and Cian felt able to leave her. There was never a question of finding another babysitter; Breffni’s parents in Limerick were too far away to call on, and they didn’t know anyone else well enough in Nenagh, not then. And Granny Mary – really Cian’s granny, and one reason why they’d settled in Nenagh after coming back to Ireland – so delighted at the prospect of Polly’s arrival, had assured them that she’d be only too happy to help out any way she could.

  Breffni had spent the first few weeks of Polly’s life wondering why in God’s name she and Cian had ever imagined they could raise a child. And why on earth they had bought a house so far from her parents – what was so wrong with Limerick? It didn’t help when Cian gently pointed out that they’d got a far cheaper house in Nenagh, that the job he’d managed to find was here, and that his only relative in Ireland was up the road and had nobody else living nearby. And Breffni had come to thank her lucky stars for that relative – if it hadn’t been for Mary, Breffni might well have taken Polly and gone back to live with her parents in those first fraught months. Or left Polly with Cian, and gone off herself.

  But Granny Mary was a godsend. Somehow she always knew what would help the most, whether it was taking the baby for a walk, sitting down for a quick chat with Breffni if Polly was asleep, or just getting a shopping list and heading off.

  And she never came empty-handed. Half a dozen scones, a triangle of brown bread, a little knitted hat or a furry red bear for Polly. Once, after a particularly bad week of teething, she brought a bottle of red wine. Breffni took one exhausted look at it and put her head in her hands.

  ‘I can’t do this, Mary, it’s too hard . . . I can’t do it.’ Her shoulders shook.

  Mary set the bottle down on the table and sat next to Breffni and put an arm around her.

  ‘You’re worn out, you poor creature. I know it seems like there’s no end, but believe me, it will get better. I well remember Cian driving his mother to distraction as a baby, and look at him now.’ She squeezed Breffni’s shoulder and smiled. ‘Very well-behaved most of the time.’

  Breffni found herself half-laughing, half-crying. ‘Sorry, Mary – it was a tough week.’ She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with a sleeve and looked at her saviour. ‘I have simply no idea what we would do without you – you do realise that, don’t you?’

  Mary reached over to the dresser for the box of tissues. ‘Rubbish – you’d manage fine, like all new parents; and you’re doing a lot better than some, believe me. I’m just happy to be able to help now and again, that’s all.’

  Breffni pulled a tissue from the box and blew her nose, then reached for the bottle of wine. ‘We’ll have a glass, Mary – purely medicinal, of course.’

  ‘Indeed we will not, at ten o’clock in the morning. I’m bad, but I’m not that bad.’ Mary stood up and took Polly’s tiny padded jacket from the hook on the back of the kitchen door. ‘You’ll put that away till you and Cian find a quiet hour sometime. And now you’ll go and have a bit of a lie down, and I’ll take this scallywag out for a breath of fresh air that’ll hopefully tire her out.’

  As she spoke, she whisked the grizzling Polly from her bouncer seat and manoeuvred her flailing arms into the jacket. Then she nuzzled into the baby’s chest, talking softly. ‘Yes, you little monkey. I’ll have you asleep before long, don’t you worry. Fast asleep, dreaming of the angels you left behind in Heaven.’ She lifted her head and smiled at the baby in her arms, still murmuring softly. ‘Won’t you go to sleep for Granny Mary? You will. Yes, you will.’ And watching Polly looking back solemnly at her, thumb already heading towards her tiny mouth, Breffni didn’t doubt it.

  It was hard to believe Mary was well into her eighties. Her memory was better than Breffni’s, she read everything she could lay her hands on and she was addicted to card games, the more complicated the rules the better. In the time she’d known her, Breffni couldn’t remember her ever being sick, apart from the odd head cold.

  Mary admitted herself that she’d slowed down in the last few years – ‘I used to pass everyone else when I was out walking; now most people fly past me’ – but for a woman of her age she was amazingly well preserved. She’d given up driving when she reached seventy-five, sold her ten-year-old Fiat to a neighbour’s son – ‘I felt I’d had quite enough of that’ – and now she pottered around Nenagh quite happily.

  Breffni drove her into Limerick about once a month for a shopping afternoon. They had lunch when they arrived, in the Arthur’s Quay Centre because it had a crèche for Polly, then they browsed around the shops, sometimes splitting up for an hour or two and meeting again for coffee and cake before heading home.

  And any time Breffni invited her parents out from Limerick for dinner, Granny Mary joined them for the night.

  ‘There we go, darling.’ As Polly scrambled up onto a chair at the table, Mary put a plate in front of her with half a scone on it. The butter pooled on its gently steaming surface.

  Breffni watched her little daughter as she grabbed the half scone with both hands. ‘Mmm – yummy. What do you say to Granny Mary?’

  ‘Ta ta.’ Scone poised halfway to her mouth, Polly spotted the bowl of blackcurrant jam in the middle of the table. She stretched the scone towards Breffni. ‘Mama, dam.’ Breffni reached over and spread a little jam on the scone, and Polly immediately aimed again for her open mouth.

  Breffni looked sternly at her. ‘Small bite.’ Polly opened her mouth wider and lunged at the scone, sinking her tiny teeth into it and covering her cheeks with jam, watching Breffni across the table. She looked so comical that Breffni had to struggle not to smile. ‘Small bite, I said.’

  Mary put a plate of warm scones and a little bowl of whipped cream in front of Breffni. ‘Live a little.’

  Polly eyed the bowl of cream and immediately stretched out her hand with the ravaged scone in it. ‘Me.’

  ‘Just a little bit.’ Breffni daubed a tiny blob of cream onto Polly’s scone before looking up at Mary. ‘You’re the devil in disguise; I shouldn’t be eating this.’

  Mary put a knife on her plate. ‘Go on, there isn’t a pick on you; you’re like a model.’

  ‘Model my hat – but you’ve talked me into it anyway.’ Breffni split a scone and spooned a small amount of jam onto it. Then she added a blob of cream – might as well be hung for a sheep – and bit in hungrily as Mary sat across from her and poured tea. ‘Mmm, gorgeous.’ She couldn’t diet this week anyway, with Laura’s dinner. ‘Oh, that reminds me, Mary. Would you be free to babysit this Thursday night? We’ve been invited into Limerick for dinner.’

  Mary buttered a half scone for herself. ‘I will of course, dear; I’d love it.’ She always stayed in their spare room when she babysat, leaving them very free.

  Breffni talked through a mouthful of scone. ‘You’re the best. I’ll have your room ready.’ She turned to Polly. ‘Did you hear that? Granny is going to mind you. What d’you say?’

  Polly munched her scone, swinging her chubby legs. ‘Ta ta, Ganny.’

  Emily reached across the supermarket aisle and waved her hand in front of Cecily’s face. ‘You’re miles away.’

  Cecily blinked and turned towards her friend. She hadn’t been miles away at all, merely trying to decide on the evening meal. She’d thought about a prawn salad, but the prawns in the fish shop hadn’t been very impressive, and they’d sold out of
rainbow trout, her second choice. Maybe they’d have something here, although she normally avoided supermarket fish. She smiled at Emily.

  ‘Hello, dear. Any news?’

  ‘Not since I saw you, unless you count pruning the shrubbery, which I spent all yesterday doing. I really need a new pair of gardening gloves; my hands are cut to ribbons.’ Emily extended her well-manicured hands, which looked perfect to Cecily apart from a few tiny scratches.

  ‘How are you getting on with the new daughter-in-law? I hope she appreciates that handsome son of yours – not to mention the excellent board and lodging she’s getting.’

  Cecily laughed. ‘Well, it’s hardly five star, but everything is going fine. Ruth is very easy to get along with really, no trouble. You’ll meet her soon.’ She paused, struck by a thought. ‘I might ask her if she’d like to sit in on our next meeting – in fact, I’ll be hosting, so she’ll be around anyway.’

  Emily beamed. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Yes, she’d probably enjoy it; she’s quite a reader.’ And why shouldn’t Cecily bring along someone new, since everyone else seemed to be at it? She kept her smile in place as she watched Emily. ‘Have you noticed, by the way, how we seem to be growing in number lately?’

  And Emily said, as Cecily knew she would, ‘Ah yes – Dorothy’s man.’

  Cecily waited.

  Emily paused. ‘He was rather foisted on us the other night, wasn’t he?’

  Cecily nodded, careful not to look too pleased – Emily seemed to be of the same mind, thank goodness.

  ‘And it looks like he’s going to be a permanent fixture – I heard Margaret telling Dorothy to be sure and bring him along in future.’ She shrugged her cashmere-covered shoulders. ‘He doesn’t exactly strike me as the literary type – I suppose we’ll just have to see what he makes of the new McGahern.’ And that was it. No sign of real disapproval, no indication that she was seriously put out by his appearance at the book club.

  Cecily’s heart sank; her one hope of an ally was gone. She began to edge away, keeping the polite smile in place with difficulty. ‘Well, I’d better get on; can’t dally, now that I’m cooking for three.’

  ‘Right, dear. See you Thursday week.’ Emily fluttered her fingers and turned away, basket swinging from her arm. Cecily watched for a minute, then made her way towards the fish counter.

  She’d get kippers; they’d do fine. She wasn’t made of money.

  ‘Hello?’

  Laura’s heart sank. She’d been hoping for Andrew or Ruth.

  ‘Hello, Mother. How are you?’ Cecily had always been ‘Mother’. Never ‘Mammy’ or ‘Mum’, even when Laura was very small.

  ‘Oh hello, dear. I’m fine, anything wrong?’ Because there would have to be a reason for me to ring you other than simply to find out how you are. Message received, Mother.

  ‘No, nothing, everything’s fine with us too.’ God, listen to them; they sound like a bad play. ‘I just wanted a quick word with Ruth, if she’s around.’

  ‘Ruth.’ Cecily allowed just enough of a pause to create tension. ‘Yes, I believe she’s here somewhere. Hold on.’ As if the house was so huge that two people could be unaware of each other’s presence. Try the west wing, Mother.

  While she waited, Laura marvelled at her mother’s capacity to make her feel bad with a few well-chosen words – a look, even. She could take the wind out of Laura’s sails with a slight lift of one plucked eyebrow. How did the damn woman do it? Why had they never had the kind of relationship Breffni had with her mother?

  Laura got on so much better with Mona than she ever had with Cecily – easygoing chatter whenever they met, not having to watch what she said all the time, not having to justify her bloody existence. Growing up, she’d envied Breffni the noisy family teas in the Comerford house, everyone talking with full mouths and reaching across the table and planting elbows wherever they wanted. Why wasn’t . . .

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ruth, it’s Laura.’ Because my mother probably didn’t tell you who was calling. ‘Just confirming the dinner – Thursday night at my house, around half eight, does that suit? Breffni and Cian are coming.’

  ‘Lovely.’ She could hear the smile in Ruth’s voice – probably delighted to be escaping the dragon’s lair for a night. ‘Thanks a lot, Laura. What can we bring?’

  ‘Oh, a bottle of red would be great, and two big appetites.’

  Ruth’s laugh drifted along the line. ‘Fine; we’ll see you then. Say hi to Donal.’

  ‘I will. Take care, Ruth.’ As she hung up, Laura wondered again how Breffni and Ruth would get on. They were so different – she hoped to God they found some common ground.

  Apart from Andrew, of course. She grinned and turned back to her illustration.

  ‘Darling?’ It still felt funny to her, calling someone darling. And even funnier to have someone call her darling. But funny in a really nice way.

  ‘Yeah?’ He didn’t look up from tying his lace.

  ‘Is there a special kind of wine Laura likes?’ She reached across the bed and ran her fingers lightly down his back, feeling the knobs of his spine under his blue work shirt. She was wearing an old pyjama top of his, wide purple and white stripes, sleeves rolled up. Her light blond hair was matted where she’d lain on it, like a child’s; one cheek was slightly flushed.

  He finished tying his lace and stretched a hand over to touch the hot side of her face for a second. ‘You look adorable.’ She smiled, leant briefly into the coolness of his hand.

  He began tying the second shoe. ‘Wine . . . she goes for French, I think. Doesn’t really matter; none of us are wine buffs, except maybe Donal.’ He mimed holding a glass, sticking out his little finger in a mock genteel way, and spoke in a cartoonishly cultured voice. ‘Hello, I’m Donal, and I know about wine – and everything else too.’

  Ruth laughed, gave him a playful push. ‘Andrew, that’s mean. I think Donal is lovely; not a bit know-allish.’

  He reached around and grabbed her hand. ‘My darling wife –’ She’d never get tired of hearing him call her his wife; it made her want to purr, like a contented cat ‘– you’d think Attila the Hun was lovely; or at least misunderstood. You’d be a character witness for Hitler if he asked you.’ He leant nearer and pecked her cheek. ‘It’s one of the thousand things I love about you. See you tonight.’ As he released her hand and went to get up, she grabbed quickly on to his wrist.

  ‘Andrew?’

  He smiled, half-standing, trapped by her hold. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘You know how happy you’ve made me, don’t you?’ He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles gently.

  ‘My dear, the pleasure has been all mine, I promise you.’ He checked his watch. ‘And now I must fly. Have fun; see you this evening.’ She dropped his hand and he was gone; she could hear him hurrying down the stairs to the egg that Cecily prepared for him each morning.

  If Ruth was honest, it did bother her a tiny bit that Andrew’s mother was still cooking his breakfast for him. She’d far rather be the one getting up in the morning to see him off, but when she had tentatively offered to do this, the day they came back from honeymoon, Cecily had immediately refused.

  ‘My dear Ruth, it would be pointless to have both of us up at that hour, and I wake at cockcrow every morning anyway, have done for years. I’m used to seeing Andrew off to work. No, you stay in bed, I insist; I know how you young people enjoy your lie-ins.’ And Ruth decided that she was imagining the implied criticism; Cecily had been so good to them – of course she wasn’t implying anything. And anyway, why would she be critical of Ruth for staying in bed, when she clearly preferred her to – at least until after she’d had Andrew all to herself while he ate his breakfast?

  Cecily had been just as adamant about cooking in the evenings, when Ruth had offered to take over some of the meals.

  ‘Thank you, dear, it’s sweet of you to offer, but you must allow an old lady her foibles.’ Smiling, waiting.

  ‘Moth
er, you’ll never be old.’ Andrew’s response was delivered right on cue.

  Cecily pretended to ignore him, continuing to look at Ruth, but her face softened a little. ‘I simply couldn’t countenance anyone else in my kitchen. Andrew will tell you that I wouldn’t even allow Laura to cook while she lived here.’

  Ruth looked obediently at Andrew, who nodded, and Cecily continued smoothly. ‘But my dear, if you really want to help, you could of course clear away afterwards.’ So every evening, after Andrew and Cecily had moved into the sitting room, Ruth carried the used plates and glasses back into the kitchen and washed them carefully in the sink, terrified of the cut crystal and wafer-thin china. So far, thank goodness, she’d managed not to break anything. And it gave Andrew a bit of time with his mother; she could see how close they were.

  Ruth knew – of course she did – how lucky they were to have Cecily to stay with, but all the same, it would be wonderful when they had their own place. Though she’d never have admitted it to Andrew, for fear of offending him, she was a little in awe of her mother-in-law – Ruth would never in a million years have Cecily’s confidence and elegance. Sometimes she agonised about this, thinking that Andrew must surely compare them; how could he not? Cecily so suave and self-assured, and she, Ruth, ridiculously gauche and naïve for someone of thirty. Surely, the more Ruth and Cecily were living in such close proximity, the greater the chances of Andrew noticing the huge gulf between them – how long before he realised that he’d chosen a very poor substitute as his wife?

  She often wished she could talk to her mother, suddenly so far away in Dublin. Letters or phone calls just weren’t the same – she wanted to have Mam beside her, watch her expression as she poured out her anxieties, hear her telling Ruth she was just being silly – of course Andrew wasn’t comparing his wife with his mother; anyone could see how much he loved her. She wanted to watch Mam’s face as she spoke, see from her face that she meant it.

  It was the first time she’d been separated from the family; her married sisters, Siobhan and Mairead, were living within walking distance of their parents, and Irene, the youngest, was still at home. And even when Ruth had moved out of home to share the flat, they all saw each other at least once a week, usually more often. You just dropped in home whenever you were passing, and more often than not, someone else was there too.