Always You. Erin Kaye
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mention of her best friend’s name ironed out the frown on Molly’s brow. ‘Did Dad give it to you?’
‘No, love. A friend.’ She dropped it into Molly’s outstretched palm.
‘If Dad didn’t give it to you, why don’t you wear it?’
Sarah flinched. She had thought that the child would not notice that she no longer wore her wedding or engagement ring, nor any other piece of jewellery Ian had given her. But of course she had noticed, because children miss nothing. ‘Because it was a long time ago. And I’m not really friends with them, not anymore.’ She plucked the ring from her daughter’s palm and stared at it, remembering the thrill when Cahal had slipped the ring on her finger. And the horror on her father’s face, and her aunt’s, when they’d first seen it, one evening after tea …
‘Where did you get that?’ Dad said, with a quick, sharp glance at Aunt Vi on the opposite side of the kitchen table.
Sarah nervously twirled the ring around the ring finger on her right hand, her pulse quickening. ‘Oh, from someone I’m dating,’ she said as casually as she could muster.
‘Who?’
Sarah thought of the promises she had made to Cahal and told herself determinedly that she was nineteen now and an adult and free to make her own decisions and choices. So why did she feel like a kid again, caught doing something wrong? She’d always known her father and her aunt wouldn’t approve of Cahal, but she had to face up to them sooner or later. She and Cahal would be engaged soon and married before the summer was out. Steeling herself with this knowledge, she took a deep breath and said, ‘Cahal Mulvenna.’
‘Mulvenna?’ said Aunt Vi and stared at Dad, her eyes wide open. ‘Where from?’
‘Ballyfergus. His family live in the Drumalis estate, though I’ve never met them.’
There was a long and heavy silence.
She didn’t of course expect them to be cock-a-hoop at the news that she was dating a boy from the Drumalis council estate. And her father knew without being told – because he knew everyone in Ballyfergus – that Cahal was a Catholic. Which wouldn’t exactly help matters. But their reaction was a whole lot worse than she’d expected. Aunt Vi’s face went pure white and Dad said, as grim-faced as she’d ever seen him, ‘I don’t want you seeing him again.’
‘What?’ said Sarah in disbelief.
‘You heard what I said.’ He tapped the handle of a teaspoon on the table and Aunt Vi stared wordlessly at the table, her mouth, which was never usually at rest, hanging slightly open.
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Indignation inflamed Sarah’s cheeks.
‘You heard what your father said,’ said Aunt Vi.
‘Because he’s not good enough?’ demanded Sarah, glancing at her aunt, then focusing on her father again.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Or because he’s a Catholic?’
‘That too,’ he said and, though he would not look at Sarah, he gave Aunt Vi a hard, knowing stare.
Becky, who was only eleven at the time, bless her, said quietly, ‘But isn’t it up to Sarah?’
‘No, it’s not,’ snapped Aunt Vi, her voice all high and shrill, like the way she sang in church. ‘His father’s been in prison, Sarah, for heaven’s sake.’ She clutched the neck of her blouse tight between shaking fingers.
‘So what?’ said Sarah, indignation giving way to anger. ‘That’s not Cahal’s fault! I knew you two were prejudiced, but I didn’t expect you to be out-and-out bigots.’
‘We’re not bigots,’ said her father calmly, setting the spoon on the table. ‘We respect other people’s views and beliefs.’
Sarah blushed because she knew this to be true. Her father played golf with Dr Flynn and he was a Catholic. And her aunt was never done sending meals and home baking over to old Mrs Riley who lived alone next door and insisted on flicking ‘holy’ water over Sarah every time she stepped through the front door with a plate of food.
Anger made her brave. ‘So what is it then? Because he’s working class?’ she said nastily.
Dad’s face hardened even more, the muscles in his jaw twitching. ‘I’m sure this Ca-, or whatever his name is –’
‘Ca-hal,’ interrupted Sarah, emphasising the two syllables slowly, taking offence at her father’s inability to pronounce the name.
Dad’s gaze flicked over her. ‘I’m sure he’s a decent boy but I didn’t raise you to mix with people like that.’
‘People like what?’
‘Stick to your own kind, Sarah,’ shouted Aunt Vi, who had never before raised her voice in Sarah’s presence. ‘That’s what your father’s saying. People who’ve been brought up the same way as you and believe in the same things. People with the same standards.’
‘You’re both just snobs, pure and simple,’ cried Sarah, slapping the table with both palms. And she jumped up and ran out of the room.
‘Can I have it?’ Molly’s dove grey eyes, the same colour as the bedspread, were wide, her expression expectant.
‘What?’
Molly pointed at the ring in Sarah’s hand.
‘Oh, no, love. I don’t think so,’ said Sarah gently, letting her hand fall onto her lap, her fingers closing around the ring.
‘Just to borrow?’
Sarah shook her head and her fingers tightened.
‘Please?’
‘It’s too big for you.’
‘I could wear it on a chain,’ she said, touching the pale delicate skin at the base of her throat.
How on earth would she explain its appearance round Molly’s neck to her father and Auntie Vi? They would recognise it immediately. Sarah put a hand on Molly’s arm. ‘Not this time, darling. You can have that silver bracelet though. I bought it for myself when I got my first job.’
Ignoring this comment, the child persisted. ‘But what’s the point of having it if you don’t wear it?’
Sarah’s hand slipped from Molly’s arm. ‘Because it’s a … a memory, Molly. Sometimes people like to keep things to remind them of happy times.’
‘But it’s not making you happy. It’s making you sad.’
Sarah forced a limp smile. ‘Sometimes happy memories make you a little sad.’
Molly screwed up her nose, folded her arms across her narrow chest and shook her head stubbornly. ‘I don’t get it.’
Sarah sighed. ‘It’s a little hard to explain,’ she began and floundered. How could she explain the bitter-sweetness of her memories? Or how the desire to remember, suppressed for so long, had been cracked open last night by the mere sight of Cahal Mulvenna. How could she admit to herself, never mind Molly, that seeing him again had brought with it not only pain but a stupid, fevered hope?
‘I think I might give it back to the person who gave it to me,’ she announced, realising as she said it that it was the right thing to do. The ring had never been hers, it had only ever been borrowed. It belonged to Cahal.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Come on, time for bed,’ she said sharply, dropping the ring and necklace into the box, and snapping the lid shut before shoving it back in the drawer, slamming it firmly shut.
‘And let’s see if we can find you some cough medicine, young lady,’ she smiled and taking a reluctant, wide-awake daughter by the hand, led her into the bathroom.