The Art of Friendship. Erin Kaye
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‘But I resent it too.’ She ignored Liam’s sharp intake of breath, and addressed the flimsy paper lampshade hanging above them. She’d meant to replace it when they’d moved in four years ago but, like everything else in her life, such tasks had played second fiddle to the all-consuming activity of child-rearing. ‘I know that sounds like I’m contradicting myself. But it is possible to feel both. I know I do. Maybe other women don’t. Maybe there are women who can give themselves wholly and completely to mothering without a sense of loss of self. Do you know what I mean?’ she asked and looked at him.
It was clear from the blank expression on Liam’s face that he did not. She felt a pressing desire to connect with him, to make him understand what painting meant to her sanity.
Clare touched the space between her breasts, pressing down on her ribcage with the pads of her fingers until it hurt. She closed her eyes and said, ‘There’s this need inside me to express myself. I haven’t painted since the day Josh was born and every day it feels as though a little of me…sort of disappears. And I’m afraid that if I don’t do something about it soon, I’m going to lose my identity altogether.’
‘That is sad,’ said Liam, but without a hint of compassion. ‘Having two healthy children and the inability to enjoy them.’
Her disappointment stung like a fresh burn. She had opened her soul to him only to be met with cruel cynicism. She wanted to cry then but would not give him the satisfaction. It took her a few moments to compose herself before she could bring herself to speak again.
‘You’re wrong, Liam. I do enjoy my children,’ she said in a steely voice. ‘I love them and I treasure every precious moment with them. But is it wrong to ask for precious moments away from them too? Is it wrong to desire more from life? If we don’t have our dreams, Liam, then what do we have?’ A tear, cold as glass, slid out of the corner of her left eye and dropped onto the pillow.
‘Reality, Clare.’ He sounded sour, like milk gone off.
‘You used to have dreams once, Liam.’
‘I still do. I’m just a bit more realistic about achieving them than you are, Clare.’
‘I’m not asking for the earth, Liam. I’m asking for a few hours a week so I can go somewhere on my own and paint. It will cost little and harm no-one. And I might just make some money out of it.’
Liam reached out an arm, switched off the bedside lamp, pulled the covers up to his chin and faced the wall.
‘If that’s what you want to do, Clare, then don’t let me stop you.’
And Clare lay there for a full half hour until Liam went to sleep, thinking. Then she undressed, got into bed and lay awake, Liam’s opposition radiating from him like heat from a fire. After a while, her thoughts took flight and she pictured herself in the studio, working in the quiet solitude of the ghostly winter months and later, in the spring, the garden bursting with new growth and the light flooding in through those big windows. She heard the rushing silence, felt the brush in her hand and saw a picture of the Black Arch, near Ballyfergus, take form under her hand. She smiled.
And by the time she drifted off to sleep, she knew that this was something she had to do, with or without Liam’s support. Painting was essential to her existence, as necessary as breathing. She wished she could make him understand that.
All things considered, thought Patsy, trying to ignore the sound of her two daughters bickering upstairs, she and Martin had made a pretty good job of rearing their family. Both were well-rounded, kind, loving. Not like some she could think of – like Pete Kirkpatrick. She’d known him from the age of two and had never warmed to him.
Patsy drained the rice, turned the oven off and went and called up the stairs, ‘Will you two stop that this minute? You’re not kids any more.’ Silence. Good. She sweetened her tone and added, ‘Dinner’s almost ready. Hurry up and come down.’
Back in the kitchen, Patsy lifted a sizzling chicken and broccoli bake from the oven and set it on a trivet on the table, along with a dish of rice and one of sweetcorn.
Sometimes the girls irritated her no end, like just now, but she wouldn’t be without them. Her life was full, what with working at the gallery, running the home and making time for her circle of loyal friends. She particularly enjoyed running the gallery and she was justly proud of her success which had been achieved through sheer hard work. She’d started the gallery seven years ago, after a break from work to raise the girls, with a small business loan from the bank. She’d built it from nothing, ending up with an enviable clientele of loyal customers and a rounded portfolio of artists. She was proud of the fact that she’d repaid the bank loan within three years.
But it was her family which gave purpose to Patsy’s day. It was Martin and the girls that made her want to get out of bed in the morning. She would do anything for them.
Patsy filled a plate for Martin, who’d just phoned to say he would be late. She covered the food with metal foil and placed it in a low oven to stay warm.
As well as making a significant contribution to the family income, the gallery was her insurance against empty-nest syndrome, the idea being that it would keep her too busy to miss the girls when they eventually left home. But her nest was far from empty and it looked like staying that way for the foreseeable future. She and Martin might never be rid of the girls! At least that was what she joked over a glass of wine in company. Truth was, she didn’t want them to leave home. She wanted them to stay right where they were.
Not that she would ever admit this, not even to Martin. She didn’t want to be seen to be holding the girls back in any way. But at the end of the day, all that really mattered to Patsy was family. And with her parents both dead, and her siblings living overseas, family meant Martin and the girls.
Sarah had gone off to do nursing at Queen’s in Belfast three years ago but, after graduation last summer, she’d been driven back home by low wages and the high cost of living. By the time she’d paid for her car (essential to commute to Antrim Hospital where she worked), clothes, entertainment and the rest of it – she paid no board at home – there was nothing left at the end of the month.
Patsy encouraged Sarah to spend, told her she deserved ‘treats’ and plugged the holes in her daughter’s shaky finances. In short, Patsy made sure life at home was very comfortable for Sarah. No girl in her right mind would give it all up to go and live in some grotty bedsit in Antrim where she would struggle to make ends meet.
So, just as Laura prepared to embark on a life outside the family home at the University of Ulster, Coleraine, Sarah had come back to fill her shoes. Patsy knew she couldn’t hold onto the girls for ever, and she truly wanted the best for them – good careers, happy marriages and healthy children. But she made no apologies for trying to keep them with her just as long as she could.
The door overhead slammed shut and Patsy sat down at the table, calmly filled her plate and began to eat.
Sarah padded noiselessly into the room, wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a pair of battered, sand-coloured shearling boots on her feet. Her long auburn hair hung loose, framing a perfect oval face, delicate mouth and green almond-shaped eyes. She pulled at the sleeves of her hoodie, stretching them down her long arms to the knuckles, as though the backs of her hands were cold. At five foot ten Sarah towered over her mother and her figure was lithe like a cat. Nothing like Patsy at all, who had always struggled with her weight. She thanked God that both girls had inherited their father’s ‘slim’ genes. Sarah flopped into a seat and piled her plate with food.
Laura appeared soon after, dressed in tight jeans and a canary yellow angora sweater. She gave her sister a narrowed-eyed glare and sat down opposite her at the table. Laura was shorter and slimmer than her sister, blonde where Sarah was a red-head and her prettiness was of a different nature, emanating more from her vibrant personality