Maureen poured some dry food in his bowl and as she padded toward her room spied the blinking light of the answerphone. She sighed, pushing play in case it was urgent.
‘Mammy, it’s Moira. Where are you? It’s Tuesday night. Nobody goes out on a Tuesday night. I wanted to see what you thought to Carol Foley falling off the wagon but you’re not home.’ There was click as she hung up. It took Maureen a second to realise Moira was talking about Carol from Fair City the Dublin soap opera neither of them would hold their hands up to being addicted to. She glanced over at the tele. She’d recorded it but now she knew what happened there was no point in watching it. Tom must have been waiting tables at Quinn’s tonight, or studying, because she wouldn’t have telephoned her mammy, unless she was home by herself. It was becoming clear to Maureen that while her girls were all entitled to be caught up with their fellas, they’d grown used to Maureen being on her own. Sure, she was a hard woman to pin down during the day because she’d kept herself busy by joining all manner of community groups since she’d moved to Howth but the evenings had stretched long. The thing was she hadn’t ever lived on her own before.
Maureen had grown up in a small cottage in the village of Ballyclegg. There’d been seven of them squeezed inside its stone walls. And while it hadn’t been the happiest of childhoods there’d always been comings and goings. She’d left that cottage for Dublin and not looked back as soon as she was able and had found work at O’Mara’s guesthouse where she’d met Brian whose mammy and daddy ran the place. She’d had to leave Dublin in order to show him how much he’d miss her and had gone adventuring to Liverpool where she’d lived in a lodging house. There’d always been doors banging shut, taps groaning and shouts from the street below. Mrs Murphy, the landlady, could always be found in the kitchen with the kettle waiting to be boiled, keen to hear all about Maureen’s day.
The sounds of life had always carried on around her but here in her double glazed, insulated apartment, the only sound was that of the radio or the television. It had helped when she’d wound up with Pooh but still it wasn’t the same because he could hardly make her a cup of tea and ask her how her afternoon had been. He didn’t sit opposite her at the table and share a meal or help with the washing-up. She wasn’t the sort of mammy to moan either. She didn’t tell Rosi, Aisling or Moira how alone she’d felt these last few years because they’d only have turned around and said, ‘But you’re not alone, Mammy. You’ve got us.’
She wouldn’t think about how they’d take to Donal either. No, tonight she’d remember the way Donal’s lips had felt against hers. She felt Brian’s eyes boring into her then and she marched up to his photograph. ‘And don’t you be looking at me like that. It doesn’t mean I love you any less. You were my sun and moon, Brian O’Mara, but you’re not here anymore and it’s been a lonely life without you.’ She picked up the photo and carried it through to her room. ‘How did you get in here so fast you naughty boy?’
Pooh was already ensconced on the bed. He’d curled up into a ball of curls and was pretending to be asleep. He was too big as a standard poodle for Maureen to lift and so she placed Brian’s photograph on the bedside table before doing her ablutions. She climbed into bed weary and, although she’d never admit it, she was grateful for the warm lump beside her feet as she said goodnight to her husband before flicking the light out and pulling the covers up under her chin.
Chapter 4
Maureen slept surprisingly well and whether it was down to the bicarbonate soda or whether she’d worn herself out with the emotions that had surfaced the night before, she didn’t know. Either way, Wednesday, she decided, flinging the covers aside, was going to be a good day. She’d start off by practicing her Sheena Easton in the shower and then she had line dancing at ten o’clock on the dot, in the church hall.
Pooh held a vigil outside the bathroom door, wincing as Maureen hit the high notes.
The first conundrum of the day occurred when Maureen tried to squeeze into the jeans she wore to line dancing. They must have shrunk in the wash given how tight they were around the middle, or was that down to last night’s pasta? Pasta always made her bloat, she thought, holding her breath as she zipped them up. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in the spare room and stuck her fingers in the loops of the unforgiving denim before striking a pose. No, it wouldn’t do. She couldn’t get through a minute of this let alone an hour. It was a yoga pants day,
