The Woman at 72 Derry Lane: A gripping, emotional page turner that will make you laugh and cry. Carmel Harrington
in response. ‘He’s a good boy. But tell him to come over today, would you, the bins need to go out.’
‘Right you are. He’s a pure divil at home, but I wouldn’t switch him for the world. Ladies, I’m off.’ Then she walked back across the street, giving a little wiggle as she went.
‘She’s a real tonic,’ Stella said.
‘Once in a while, she’s gas. But you wouldn’t want to be sitting next to her for hours. She talks about nothing else but sex. It would put years on you,’ Rea said.
‘Was better than the sex education we ever got in school. I’ve learnt more in those ten minutes …’ Stella replied. She noticed that Rea had taken another step back and was clasping the side of her hall table. She had paled and sweat glistened on her upper lip. She was scared! ‘It was nice talking to you, but you go on in now. But you know, if you ever need anything from the shops, I’d happily go for you.’
Rea looked at her in surprise, ‘That’s kind of you.’
Stella was surprised herself that she’d offered. But she liked the woman. ‘It’s no trouble.’
‘Well, I’ll remember that. It’s good for us both to remember that we’ve a neighbour to go to, should we need a helping hand.’ Rea moved closer to the front door again and reached over. She grabbed Stella’s hands between her own. ‘I make a nice cup of tea, if you ever need a chat.’
‘My husband isn’t much of a mixer. He likes to keep himself to himself,’ Stella said, in an even voice, unnerved once more by the gentle touch of this woman. Other than Matt, how long had it been since she experienced a kind, warm touch?
‘I wasn’t asking him, it was you I invited. And he doesn’t need to know what you do when he’s at work, does he?’ Rea smiled.
‘No, I don’t suppose he does.’ Stella looked at Rea, still feeling the soft warmth of the woman’s hands on hers. She felt an urge to throw herself into the older woman’s arms. But before she got the chance to make a fool of herself by doing that, Louis kicked a stone up the drive.
‘Ma said you wanted me.’
SKYE
Rathmines, Dublin, 2000
‘I hate you both. It’s not fair!’
My attitude to our dream holiday fund going on replacing Dad’s car was not my finest hour.
I’m ashamed to say that I was reacting with true teenage belligerence and I did nothing to ease the guilt of my parents, who hated to disappoint us.
It wasn’t their fault our car had decided to give up on life and we had to cancel the holiday, and I knew it, but even so, I just couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to make them feel pain like I was feeling. I was crippled with disappointment. And if I was honest, I felt mortification knowing that all my boasts in school about the holiday would now be jeered at. When would I learn to keep my big mouth shut?
My selfish wish was granted when they both winced in pain at my words. But the thing was, it didn’t help in the slightest. I still felt crap, and knowing that they did too didn’t change that. Now, not only was I miserable but guilt flooded me. Even so, I didn’t do anything to make them feel better, though. I stormed out, slamming the door behind me for good measure.
And so ended our first Dream Holiday Fund. We used the savings to buy a new family car, or at least a new car to us. It took me a while to stop doing a big dramatic sigh every time I squeezed my legs into the back seat. I hated that car and now I only have to see a green Ford focus to bring me down.
‘We went for a 1.2L engine,’ Dad told us. ‘That way the tax is half what it used to be for the old car. And the savings from that will go straight into our new holiday fund, I promise.’
It was hard staying annoyed when you heard statements like that. Dad looked so earnest and Eli gave me a look that spoke volumes, along the lines of ‘Cop on Skye, give the folks a break.’
‘We’ll be no length filling that jar again. As I always say, watch the pennies …’ Mam said.
And so, I chimed in, along with Eli and Dad, saying, ‘and the pounds will take care of themselves.’
‘We’ll get to paradise yet, love, I promise,’ Mam said, giving my arm a squeeze, and I believed her. This was just a little hiccup.
We fell into our familiar rhythm of saving. Dad got a promotion and Mam started to work in the local Supervalu. Eli and I continued doing our part-time jobs and we were back to being a family of thriftiness.
It was around this time that Mam decided she wanted to write a book. She went to see one of her favourite authors, Maeve Binchy, give a talk in our local library and came home all fired up.
Dad said, ‘Sure, everyone has at least one book inside of them.’
Things got a bit weird after that at home. Mam took to saying things like ‘plot twist!’ whenever something went wrong. She thought she was hilarious and, in fairness, we usually did laugh in response. Dad bought her a journal and she was never without it. Eli and I couldn’t open our mouths without her scribbling something into it.
‘That’s gold, pure gold,’ she’d mutter, scribbling away, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
‘What did we say?’ Eli would ask.
‘That book better not be about me,’ I declared and she’d just look enigmatic. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
One day, when she wasn’t looking, I stole a glance inside her journal. I couldn’t take any chances. I mean, I didn’t really think she had a cat’s hell in chance of ever getting published, but imagine if she did and the main character was called Skye and she wasn’t very nice.
I simply had to see what she was writing, why she was being so secretive? And if there was one thing about me that I didn’t like, well, she’d better watch out, because … hang on! What on earth was all this? I couldn’t see any semblance of a novel in her journal. It was full of shopping lists, the latest entry being Buy soap for John! And reminders to do things like, ring Paula. And the cheek of Mam, one even said, Skye’s hair is looking scraggy, book hair appointment.
As I said to Dad and Eli later that night, ‘That book that you kept saying was inside of Mam, well it’s sure doing a bad job of showing itself!’
‘Say nothing,’ Dad replied, when we’d all calmed down from laughing. ‘Your mother is enjoying exploring her creative side. You never know, maybe she’ll surprise us all one day.’
‘Plot twist, Mam gets a book deal!’ Eli said and we were off again. I swear I thought Dad was going to have a heart attack, he was laughing so much.
Another rainy summer in Ireland passed by and then, a quite warm Christmas, as it happens. And fourteen months after our second attempt at the Dream Holiday Fund began, Dad declared we had saved enough. We attempted to do another mad dance around the table, but it didn’t feel the same as the last time. But we did debate long and hard as to where Paradise would be for the Madden’s this time.
I don’t know why, but all of a sudden, Florida no longer held a lure for us. You see, Mam’s manager in Supervalu was forever boasting about all the cruising she and her husband had done. And over dinner most evenings, Mam would recount the stories to us and we would all hang onto her every word about midnight chocolate buffets and swimming pools with outdoor cinemas. It sounded lush.
‘So are we saying now that we should go for a cruise?’ Mam asked, her face alight with excitement. I liked seeing her look so happy.
‘You had me at the chocolate buffet,’ Dad said and Eli and I nodded in