Читать книгу Cathy Kelly 6-Book Collection: Someone Like You, What She Wants, Just Between Us, Best of Friends, Always and Forever, Past Secrets - Cathy Kelly - Страница 27

How Kirsten got out of Christmas dinner, Emma would never know. But whatever the combination of words were, they convinced Jimmy O’Brien that his dear, sweet younger daughter was ill and couldn’t possibly leave her sick bed simply for a bit of roast turkey and stuffing and a bit of family bonding.

‘Poor love, she’s worn out,’ he said, hanging up the phone and coming back into the kitchen where Emma, hair stuck to her forehead with perspiration, was basting the turkey for the tenth time that day. ‘I think she’s…’ Jimmy winked at his wife, ‘you know. Pregnant. She doesn’t want to say anything yet, but I’m sure of it. She did say she was feeling nauseous.’ He swelled up like a bullfrog with pride.

Emma slammed the oven door shut venomously. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that the deeply unmaternal Kirsten wasn’t pregnant. Hungover, more likely. Every Christmas Eve, she and a crowd of her old friends hit the Horseshoe Bar for a riotous evening of champagne cocktails, followed by a party in one of their houses until the wee small hours, or at least until Santa was at home in bed, having delivered his wares. One poor mug had to be designated driver to ferry the plastered revellers from the Shelbourne to their homes. Usually, Patrick drew the short straw.

Emma would have bet the very nice lilac mohair jumper Pete had given her that morning that her sister was lying in bed at that precise moment, gulping down Alka Seltzer and whining that she’d never drink another cocktail ever again. The cow. Kirsten knew that Emma was dreading the ritual O’Brien Christmas.

Every year, they all went to Anne-Marie and Jimmy’s house for dinner, along with Great Aunt Petra and Jimmy’s unmarried brother, Eugene. Torturous at the best of times, it was going to be worse this year, Emma was convinced of that. Her mother had been behaving quite normally for the past few weeks and there’d thankfully been no recurrence of the Laura Ashley incident. But Emma was sure it was only a matter of time until it happened again. It couldn’t have been a one-off, she was painfully sure of that. Christmas, with all the fuss and excitement, was bound to be the trigger for another attack.

In her usual ostrich fashion, Kirsten had refused to discuss it at all, but she’d known how nervous Emma was about the family party. It was pure meanness on her part to cry off at this late stage. It wasn’t as if she’d have had to do anything either. Emma had gone with her mother to the supermarket three days previously and bought all the food for Christmas. It was unheard of for her mother not to have ordered her turkey a month in advance, complete with spiced ham and a load of sausages. But this year, she had nothing organized and Emma had ended up doing everything. Her father wouldn’t notice that the Christmas pudding wasn’t home-made, she decided, if enough brandy was poured on to it. Kirsten could have helped a bit if she’d been there, even if it was only to put their father in a rare good mood.

‘I’ll phone Patrick,’ Emma announced suddenly, ‘ask him how she is. You know Kirsten, complete hypochondriac. She’s probably just got a cold.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ growled her father. ‘Your poor sister is in her sick bed and you think she’s just got a cold. And all because you don’t want to help your mother cook the dinner. Laziness, that’s what it is. In my day, we were damn lucky to get a Christmas dinner, never mind be complaining about having to cook it.’

Emma opened her mouth to protest that, actually, she was the one doing all the cooking while her mother had been fiddling about with a tin for ages. Turning away from her father, she caught a glimpse of Anne-Marie’s face: it was a picture of confusion. In one hand, she held a tin of the mushy peas Uncle Eugene consumed by the bucketful. In the other, she held the egg whisk. The tin-opener lay abandoned on the counter. She was trying to open the peas with the egg whisk, God love her.

‘Forget it, Dad,’ Emma muttered. ‘I won’t phone Patrick. You’re right.’ It was easier to placate him. She’d phone later, secretly.

He stormed off and Emma gently took the tin and the whisk away from her mother.

‘Mum, you’ve done everything so far, why don’t you sit down and talk to Auntie Petra for a while? I’ll bring you both a nice glass of sherry and you can watch the carols on the telly.’

Emma wasn’t sure whether sherry was good for people with problems like her mother’s, but if it calmed her down and took that sad, bewildered look off her face, then a good glass of sherry was ideal. A strong drink might also dilute the effect of Petra’s caustic tongue.

She left the two women sitting happily listening to some sweet child soprano singing ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing’ on RTE1, each with a giant glass of sherry. In the kitchen, she checked that everything was cooking away nicely and then phoned Pete’s home. He was having dinner with his family. The festive theory was that every second year, they had dinner with one family but Emma was tired of Christmas in the war zone of the O’Briens’.

Last year, they’d promised each other they’d break the Christmas cycle by having their dinner together in their own house, ignoring the plaintive demands from their families. The plan would have worked, because Pete’s parents perfectly understood their son’s desire for a break with the tradition. But, naturally, Jimmy O’Brien hadn’t been pleased.

‘Have Pete here,’ he’d commanded, ‘then you’ll be together.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Emma had tried to explain, in vain. To make life easier for her, they’d compromised again this year.

Pete hadn’t said anything about not letting her father boss her about. He’d kept his peace and had hugged her tightly that morning when she’d said goodbye to him and had driven to her parents’ house. Next Christmas, she vowed fiercely, it’d be different.

‘Hi, Pete,’ she said now, wishing he was beside her for a cuddle.

‘Hi, my darling,’ he responded. ‘Wish you were here. I miss you.’

‘Oh, don’t,’ she groaned. ‘I can’t wait until tonight. You’re sure your mum doesn’t mind me only popping over later?’

‘No, she’s dying to see you. She’s told me what she’s got you for Christmas and you’ll love it.’

Emma couldn’t stop her eyes brimming over. How she wished she was with Pete now, laughing with the rest of the Sheridans as they stood around in the kitchen, chatting and generally hindering Mrs Sheridan with her dinner preparations. They usually sat down at around half five after an afternoon playing Scrabble or charades. There was rarely any alcohol at the Sheridans’, but their Christmas party didn’t suffer because of the lack of it. The small, close-knit family got on so well that they didn’t need anaesthetizing. They didn’t need to watch TV to enjoy themselves, either. Emma’s favourite part of Christmas Day in her parents’ was when dinner was over and they all sat down to watch whatever big movie was on the box. With nobody given the opportunity to argue with anybody else, and with a few glasses of wine inside them, peace reigned briefly. Jimmy loved the telly and loved films and, while he was watching one, he managed to keep his temper under control.

It was no accident that Emma had bought him four classic videos for Christmas. If there was nothing good on after lunch, she’d stick on Dr Zhivago. He loved that and it was at least three hours long. She yearned for those three hours of peace, but first, they had to get through dinner.

Having said a tearful goodbye to Pete, Emma dialled her sister’s house. Patrick answered.

‘You sound miserable,’ Emma remarked.

‘I am. Madam is in bed with a brutal hangover and there’s nothing in the house for Christmas dinner,’ her brother-in-law said gloomily. ‘I’m having four sausage rolls, a pizza and oven chips. She’s not eating anything because she says every time she opens her eyes, her head spins.’

‘I’d make her head spin if I was anywhere near her,’ Emma said crossly. ‘I’ll throttle her for wriggling out of dinner here. It’s like Chateau Despair. The turkey would kill itself if it wasn’t already dead.’

‘Happy days, as usual?’ Patrick asked.

‘You said it. I’m worried that Mum will have another turn and I don’t know if I can cope on my own, that’s why I wanted Kirsten here.’

‘What sort of “turn”?’ Patrick asked, sounding puzzled.

‘You know, like in Laura Ashley’s.’

‘I don’t want to sound dense, Em, but I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘You mean, Kirsten never told you!’ Emma was utterly shocked. She couldn’t believe her sister hadn’t mentioned their mother’s problem. Kirsten was unbelievable. ‘I can’t talk now,’ Emma whispered, ‘but ask Kirsten to tell you what happened earlier this month when I brought Mum out shopping. I’m worried about her – really worried…’

Dinner was hellish. Great-Aunt Petra dubbed the turkey too tough, the sprouts inedible and the gravy lumpier than an old mattress. Jimmy agreed, conveniently deciding that it was all Emma’s fault. Anne-Marie had listlessly picked at her food, more interested in chasing sprouts round her plate with the knife than actually eating any of them. Only Uncle Eugene had eaten everything uncomplainingly, with the delight of a bachelor who rarely had home-cooked meals.

‘You’re a great oul’ cook, Emma,’ he said gratefully as he shovelled another forkful of mushy peas into his mouth.

At least she could get mushy peas right, Emma thought, with gritted teeth. She brought all the dishes out to the kitchen and couldn’t help noticing that, for all her aunt’s protests about rubbery turkey, she’d managed to eat enough of it.

She loaded the dishwasher on her own, made tea, custard for the pudding, and delivered the next course into the dining room in time to hear her father talking about Kirsten as though he was discussing the Second Coming.

‘She’s a great girl,’ he said fondly. ‘Did that Ballymaloe cookery course with Darina Allen and, boy, can she cook. She’s something of a whizz in the kitchen, all right. What was that thing she made last time we were in Kirsten’s house, the dinner she learned how to make?’ he asked his wife.

Anne-Marie shrugged blankly.

I’m surprised he can remember that far back, Emma growled, putting the teacups down with a clatter. Kirsten wasn’t known for the regularity of her family dinners. She wasn’t known for the regularity of any dinners for that matter. Poor Patrick was never in any danger of putting on weight from his wife’s cuisine.

Thanks to that two-day course in the famed Ballymaloe House, which she’d only gone on because some of her charity lunch pals were organizing it, Kirsten could conjure up a roasted pepper salad, make organic boeuf en croute and whip up a nice frozen yoghurt dessert. But there was no point asking her to roast a chicken, cook an omelette or prepare any sort of vegetable that didn’t come washed and trimmed in supermarket packaging with instructions on how to microwave it.

‘Fish thing, was it?’ her mother was saying, her face puzzled. ‘No, not fish but, that thing, you must know what I’m talking about!’ She turned in frustration to Emma. ‘You know what I’m talking about, Emma. I can’t think of it…’

‘Beef, that was it. You should have tasted it,’ said Jimmy, waxing lyrical. ‘Pity she wasn’t here today.’

Emma wasn’t listening. She was staring sadly at her mother’s baffled face. She knew that her mother could remember what Kirsten had cooked, she remembered everything her darling Kirsten had ever done. Yet it was as if she couldn’t find the words for it. They were lost in her head. She tried to smile bravely and encouragingly at her mother, but Anne-Marie was staring into her plate, silent and confused.

‘Emma has made us a great dinner,’ said Uncle Eugene loyally.

‘Well, yes,’ Jimmy said. Then catching sight of his daughter’s tired face and the apron she wore over her new lilac jumper, he seemed to relent. ‘She’s a good girl, aren’t you, Emma. Now, I hope this custard isn’t too lumpy and not out of a packet. You know I like proper custard.’

‘Of course, Dad,’ Emma said automatically. In the kitchen, she tried to make sense of her mother’s problem. She knew what it was, what it had to be. But she hated to face up to it. How could Anne-Marie cope with the loss of her mind? How could anyone?

‘Have you got the pudding ready yet?’ roared her father. ‘Our stomachs think our throats have been cut!’ He laughed uproariously at his own joke.

Emma gave the custard a vicious stir, relishing her small victory by virtue of the fact that it wasn’t real custard: it wasn’t even custard you had to add boiling milk to. It was instant – the just-add-water variety.

Tough bloody bananas, Dad. She’d poured a huge dollop of brandy into his bowl when she was dishing up the pudding earlier: she didn’t want to bring it in and light it in case anyone copped on that it was an M & S special instead of Anne-Marie’s own secret recipe. She gave everyone a bowl and they tucked in.

‘Lovely,’ Jimmy said as he dug in. ‘There’s nothing to beat your pudding, Anne-Marie,’ he said proudly. ‘I’d recognize it anywhere.’

The brandy had the desired effect. Emma shooed them all off into the sitting room afterwards, ostensibly to watch Dr Zhivago. ‘I’ll be in soon,’ she sang cheerily, having no intention of joining them. She was going to tidy up, scrub all the pots and pans, and then retire to the conservatory for a rest. Her relatives could pass out in front of the box without her.

However, the best-laid plans and all that…Jimmy found her sitting quietly in the conservatory and chivvied her back into the fold, like a bull driving a solitary cow into his herd. She quite liked Dr Zhivago but not when she was already feeling emotional and depressed. The haunting ‘Lara’s Theme’ echoed through her mind with each fresh tragedy. Only the knowledge that she had to drive soon and couldn’t drink kept Emma from diving into the sherry herself. She could barely watch the film any more when salvation came in the unlikely form of the doorbell.

‘I’ll get it.’ She leapt to her feet and ran into the hall. To her utter surprise, Patrick and a green-faced Kirsten stood outside.

‘We couldn’t leave you to face the whole day on your own,’ Patrick said grimly.

‘Oh yes we could have,’ grumbled Kirsten, pushing past her sister and hurrying into the kitchen to get a glass of water to slake the ever-present hangover thirst.

‘I got her to tell me what had happened to your mother,’ Patrick whispered to Emma. ‘It sounds terrible.’

‘You and Pete are the only people taking this seriously,’ Emma said, relieved Patrick was there. He was a very capable man. Her father never bullied him, although Kirsten did all the time. Still, having Patrick on her side was a bonus.

‘Where’s Pete?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I was supposed to go to his parents’ this Christmas but Dad insisted we come here. Under the circumstances, we decided to split the celebrations. I’m going to his house later.’

‘Why don’t you go now?’ Patrick said kindly. ‘We’ll stay here for the evening. And if your father wants to roll out the fatted calf for Kirsten, she can cook it herself!’

‘You can’t leave,’ hissed Kirsten, who’d emerged from the kitchen and had heard the last bit. ‘I’m not sitting here all night with bloody Great-Aunt Petra…Hello, Aunt Petra! How are you? I love your outfit,’ she cooed, straight-faced as Petra and their father appeared in the sitting-room doorway.

‘Kirsten, my love! Happy Christmas!’ said Jimmy O’Brien.

It was hugs and kisses all round. Even Anne-Marie seemed to come out of her trance-like state to greet the new arrivals.

‘I’ve got your presents under the tree,’ Anne-Marie told her daughter happily. ‘And I haven’t forgotten you, Patrick.’

Emma watched and wondered if her mother’s problem really existed except in her own imagination. Earlier, Anne-Marie had been sitting quietly, not really taking part in the conversation, merely nodding and saying ‘yes’ when her husband spoke to her. But now she was the life and soul of the party, happy and laughing. Did she enjoy Kirsten’s company so much that she only came to life when her younger daughter was around? Was Emma imagining some horrible illness purely because she couldn’t come to terms with the fact that both parents preferred her sister?

Confused and tired, Emma got her coat and handbag. ‘I’m going to Pete’s,’ she said quietly to Patrick.

He gave her a sympathetic hug before she slipped away without anyone really noticing. No doubt her parents would be angry that she hadn’t gone through the palaver of kissing everyone goodbye, but she couldn’t face it today. She’d played the dutiful daughter for most of the day. Now she wanted to be with her husband.

‘Is it me?’ she asked him an hour later when she’d been welcomed with open arms by his family and they’d exchanged more gifts and drunk yet another pot of tea. ‘Could I be imagining that Mum’s sick? She seemed OK today and when Kirsten arrived, she was absolutely normal. God, maybe I’m the one who’s losing my marbles.’

Pete scooched up closer to her on the bench seat in his mother’s kitchen. ‘Don’t be daft, love. You’re the sanest one in your family. And you said she tried to open a tin with the whisk. That’s not exactly normal behaviour, is it? The thing is, your mother adores Kirsten. She’d go to hell and back not to upset her. I think she’s trying very hard to cling to normality when Kirsten’s around and it’s only when she’s with you that she can lapse into how she’s really feeling.’

Emma didn’t think it could be that. ‘You don’t choose the times when you feel confused and when you don’t, do you?’ She rubbed her eyes tiredly. ‘I wish I knew more about things like Alzheimer’s. Should we get a book on it? There’s bound to be one with a guide to what to do if someone you know has it. Or should we go to the doctor and talk to him?’

‘Talk to the doctor about what?’ enquired Mrs Sheridan, coming into the kitchen to see if they wanted to play Scrabble.

‘Nothing.’ Emma smiled brightly. It was bad enough that her mother’s problems had ruined the festivities in her home, without the spectre of it hanging over someplace else.

Patrick and Kirsten turned up at Emma and Pete’s home the following day, bearing a bottle of champagne and a huge box of hand-made chocolates.

‘Peace offering,’ said Kirsten with an irrepressible grin as she marched into the kitchen, leaving the men on their own. ‘Let’s open them now.’

The only green things about her today were the emerald studs she wore, one of her presents from Patrick. ‘They match my engagement ring,’ she said, angling her small head so that Emma could admire the earrings.

‘Lovely,’ Emma said truthfully, taking out wine glasses for the champagne as she and Pete had never found it necessary to buy champagne flutes. ‘Is the coat new, too?’

‘God no, this is ancient,’ Kirsten said, flicking a disdainful hand over the full-length black leather coat Emma had never seen before. ‘My other present is a week in a health farm, which isn’t much of a present, really.’

‘You’re greedy and spoiled, you know that?’ Emma reproved her. ‘Patrick is too kind to you.’

‘It’s not greediness. It’s just a useless present for me. I don’t want to lose weight and I’m not stressed.’

‘Give it to me then,’ said Emma shortly. ‘I’m stressed out of my brain.’

‘I know, sorry. Patrick nearly murdered me when he found out about Mum. But I mean, Emma, we don’t know anything for sure and I think you’re over-reacting…’

Emma snatched the bottle out of her sister’s hands. ‘Don’t tell me I’m over-reacting! If you want a drink, bring those glasses into the sitting room.’

Pete, Patrick and Emma were all agreed that something was obviously wrong with Anne-Marie O’Brien. ‘My grandmother went like that before she died,’ Patrick revealed. ‘In those days, they called it senility. Now they’ve lots of names – dementia, Alzheimer’s – I saw a TV programme on it and it was pretty terrible, I must say.’

They were all silent for a moment, even Kirsten, who had been sipping her champagne as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

‘What do we do?’ Emma said finally. ‘If we’re wrong, Mum or Dad will never forgive us. And if we’re right, and we don’t do anything…Mum could hurt herself or have an accident driving – who knows what could happen. I’d never forgive myself if she got hurt and it was because I’d been too nervous to tell Dad.’

The three of them were all agreed on one thing: Kirsten would be the best person to broach the subject to her father. ‘Just tell him you’re worried about Mum and maybe you could bring her to the doctor to get her checked out. Who knows,’ Emma said, clutching at straws, ‘it could be something they can operate on. We could be barking up the wrong tree entirely.’

There was only one flaw with the plan: Kirsten refused to do it. ‘No way!’ she said. ‘I think you’re all mad. There’s nothing wrong with Mum and I’m not going to say there is.’

‘Kirsten!’ said Patrick angrily.

‘Well, you didn’t notice anything wrong with her yesterday, Patrick, did you?’ Kirsten pointed out. ‘You said so yourself: she was pretty normal all evening.’

‘Yeah, and I also said that I wasn’t the best judge and that if Emma thought there was something wrong, there was. Don’t quote me if you’re only going to quote half of what I say.’

He looked furious and Emma wondered exactly what was going on between Kirsten and Patrick. He normally wouldn’t say boo to his wife, letting Kirsten do and say what she liked without comment. But something had changed, definitely.

‘I don’t care what you all think,’ Kirsten said stubbornly, ‘I’m not saying anything to Dad. Mum has behaved perfectly when I’ve been around her, and that’s enough for me. If you think she’s going nuts, Emma, then you tell Dad. Come on, Patrick, we’ve got a party to go to.’

Later that evening when she and Pete were cuddled together in front of the fire chatting, Emma brought the subject up again. ‘You don’t think I should say anything to Dad, do you?’

‘I don’t know, love. Your father would certainly be the sort of man who’d kill the messenger who brought him the bad news. It’d be your fault she was sick, you know that. He’d never forgive you.’

Emma nodded in agreement. ‘You’re right. I just wish someone else had experienced Mum acting strangely and not just me. If Kirsten had seen – ’

‘Forget about Kirsten,’ interrupted Pete. ‘I know she’s your sister and everything, but she’s so flaky it’s unbelievable. Kirsten wants everything in her garden to be rosy and this doesn’t fit in with her plans. If she didn’t have Patrick to look after her, God knows what’d happen to her.’

Remembering how angry Patrick had appeared with her sister earlier and how furious he must have been the previous day to drag her out of bed to spend time with the O’Briens, Emma had the feeling that the worm was beginning to turn.

And if Patrick did decide he’d had enough of Kirsten’s histrionics, then life was going to be very rocky in their household.

Stop it! Emma told herself crossly. Stop worrying about Kirsten. Kirsten wouldn’t give ten seconds to thinking about anyone else’s problems. It was a skill Emma wished she could develop.

She was sick of worrying about her family: let them look after themselves. She was going to enjoy her time off with Pete. She stretched her bare feet out towards the burning coals and yawned languorously, snuggling up closer to Pete.

‘How do you fancy going to bed early?’ she murmured.

In response, he nibbled her ear gently and slid a hand down to open the top button of her blouse. ‘Or how about we don’t bother going to bed early but stay in front of the fire?’

‘Brilliant idea,’ his wife replied. There was something so sensual about lovemaking in front of an open fire. It reminded her of when they’d been engaged and never managed to get any time on their own together. Back then they used to wait until everyone in the Sheridan household had gone to bed and then they’d cuddled up in front of the huge fire, growing more and more passionate but too scared to let go and make love in case someone coming downstairs for a drink of water caught them in a compromising position. They’d never tried that in Emma’s home: she’d have been in a state of constant fear that her father would appear at the sitting-room door with a shotgun and a Bible in his hand. But they’d had some wonderfully torrid sessions in Pete’s house.

Time to rekindle that old, easy-going lovemaking, Emma thought as Pete gently opened her buttons. That had been a time when her only worry about impending motherhood had been that she’d get pregnant before the wedding. She was determined to let go of her constant thoughts about a baby: that was to be her New Year’s resolution. She’d never have a baby if she became obsessed with it. From now on, that obsession was in the past. She and Pete had to enjoy whatever their marriage brought. If that meant no babies, then so be it.