children, one of each, who got top marks in everything at school.
Helen had a good mind to send her
To Kill with Kindness
, let her see what rubbish she was standing up for. She pulled a cigarette from its pack. Why not? She’d send her the book, ask Catherine to let it go through the post at the paper, say it was work-related. That should shut her up, silly Mrs-in-brackets Flannery.
She stuck the cigarette between her lips and looked around for matches, eyeing the typewriter that sat waiting for her to tap out a thousand words about the wonderful Joe Dolan. Her deadline was five o’clock, so delivery could wait till ten to.
She enjoyed making Breen sweat a bit.Did him no harm at all.
Sarah
‘S he bought the land two years ago, and she plans to build a new house there. Imagine, a real princess coming on holidays to Mayo.’
‘Bet Rainier couldn’t believe his luck when he got her.’ Christine gazed at the photo on the front of the magazine. ‘She even looks good in a headscarf. Mind you, the open-topped sports car helps.’
‘She’s gorgeous, shame she had to give up acting … Oh, by the way, you’ll never guess what I got in the post the other day.’
‘What?’
‘That book, the one Helen O’Dowd reviewed a few weeks ago. Remember I wrote to her because I thought she was too hard on it?’
‘I’d completely forgotten that … So she sent you the book?’
‘Well, there was no note or address or anything, but I presume it came from her.’
‘Did you tell her you hadn’t read it when you wrote?’
‘Well, yes. I thought I should be honest.’
Christine laughed. ‘Sarah, you’re so innocent – I find it hard to believe we came out of the same womb. Obviously she felt you needed to see what you were talking about. Let’s have a look then: where is it?’
Sarah took the book from the dresser and handed it to her. Christine’s nosewrinkled as she took it. ‘Stinks of cigarettes.’ She opened it and turned the pages.
Sarah crossed to the window and looked out at the cherry tree that Neil had planted at the bottom of the garden six months earlier, the day after they’d got home from their honeymoon in England. She’d watched him placing the sapling in the hole, thinking,
I might be pregnant already
. Now March was almost over, and the little tree had its first scatter of blooms, and she was still being disappointed every month. Not to worry, she was only twenty-eight. They had plenty of time.
The silence in the kitchen was shattered suddenly by a loud squawk. Christine took no notice, continuing to read.
‘Oh, let me.’ Sarah crossed to the pram and lifted out the warm, wriggling bundle. She cradled it against her, rocking and shushing and pressing her lips to the soft, damp cheek.
‘Needs a nappy,’ Christine said, not looking up. ‘I can smell him from here.’
‘I’ll do it.’
She couldn’t get enough of him, wanted to smother him in kisses, tickle his fat little toes, press her face to the tight drum of his belly and inhale his sweet, powdery scent. Four months old and already well aware that his aunt adored him, she was sure of it.
‘Aidan,’ she whispered into his ear, and he hiccupped at her. Born nine months after Christine’s wedding, the honeymoon baby that Sarah had wished for, but hadn’t got. Some wives had all the luck.
After they’d left, Sarah cleaned the kitchen and put on a wash. So little time on a Saturday to carry out all the jobs she didn’t get around to during the week. She remembered a time when all she’d wanted was to get married, have babies and give up working outside the home. But now that she had a job she loved, she was having second thoughts.
Raising a family and going out to work was undoubtedly a challenge, but it was 1978, and mothers in the workplace were becoming the rule rather than the exception – especially since women could now earn as much as men, in theory anyway. And it would be a bit demoralising, wouldn’t it, if she
Helen had a good mind to send her
To Kill with Kindness
, let her see what rubbish she was standing up for. She pulled a cigarette from its pack. Why not? She’d send her the book, ask Catherine to let it go through the post at the paper, say it was work-related. That should shut her up, silly Mrs-in-brackets Flannery.
She stuck the cigarette between her lips and looked around for matches, eyeing the typewriter that sat waiting for her to tap out a thousand words about the wonderful Joe Dolan. Her deadline was five o’clock, so delivery could wait till ten to.
She enjoyed making Breen sweat a bit.Did him no harm at all.
Sarah
‘S he bought the land two years ago, and she plans to build a new house there. Imagine, a real princess coming on holidays to Mayo.’
‘Bet Rainier couldn’t believe his luck when he got her.’ Christine gazed at the photo on the front of the magazine. ‘She even looks good in a headscarf. Mind you, the open-topped sports car helps.’
‘She’s gorgeous, shame she had to give up acting … Oh, by the way, you’ll never guess what I got in the post the other day.’
‘What?’
‘That book, the one Helen O’Dowd reviewed a few weeks ago. Remember I wrote to her because I thought she was too hard on it?’
‘I’d completely forgotten that … So she sent you the book?’
‘Well, there was no note or address or anything, but I presume it came from her.’
‘Did you tell her you hadn’t read it when you wrote?’
‘Well, yes. I thought I should be honest.’
Christine laughed. ‘Sarah, you’re so innocent – I find it hard to believe we came out of the same womb. Obviously she felt you needed to see what you were talking about. Let’s have a look then: where is it?’
Sarah took the book from the dresser and handed it to her. Christine’s nosewrinkled as she took it. ‘Stinks of cigarettes.’ She opened it and turned the pages.
Sarah crossed to the window and looked out at the cherry tree that Neil had planted at the bottom of the garden six months earlier, the day after they’d got home from their honeymoon in England. She’d watched him placing the sapling in the hole, thinking,
I might be pregnant already
. Now March was almost over, and the little tree had its first scatter of blooms, and she was still being disappointed every month. Not to worry, she was only twenty-eight. They had plenty of time.
The silence in the kitchen was shattered suddenly by a loud squawk. Christine took no notice, continuing to read.
‘Oh, let me.’ Sarah crossed to the pram and lifted out the warm, wriggling bundle. She cradled it against her, rocking and shushing and pressing her lips to the soft, damp cheek.
‘Needs a nappy,’ Christine said, not looking up. ‘I can smell him from here.’
‘I’ll do it.’
She couldn’t get enough of him, wanted to smother him in kisses, tickle his fat little toes, press her face to the tight drum of his belly and inhale his sweet, powdery scent. Four months old and already well aware that his aunt adored him, she was sure of it.
‘Aidan,’ she whispered into his ear, and he hiccupped at her. Born nine months after Christine’s wedding, the honeymoon baby that Sarah had wished for, but hadn’t got. Some wives had all the luck.
After they’d left, Sarah cleaned the kitchen and put on a wash. So little time on a Saturday to carry out all the jobs she didn’t get around to during the week. She remembered a time when all she’d wanted was to get married, have babies and give up working outside the home. But now that she had a job she loved, she was having second thoughts.
Raising a family and going out to work was undoubtedly a challenge, but it was 1978, and mothers in the workplace were becoming the rule rather than the exception – especially since women could now earn as much as men, in theory anyway. And it would be a bit demoralising, wouldn’t it, if she
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