The Art of Friendship. Erin Kaye
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And in that instant her relationship with Dorothy altered for ever.
Scott’s death had united them all in grief. Although they did not live in the same house, in many respects the family unit consisted of grandparents, Kirsty and the children. The parenting of David and Adam had become the business of Dorothy and Harry as much as Kirsty. They often collected the boys from school, fed them, helped them with their homework, played with them, took them places and regularly had them to stay. They had even taken them on holiday twice, both times for a week in Portrush, to give Kirsty a break. But now, the dynamic had unexpectedly shifted. More precisely, Kirsty had changed.
Her life these past three years had been meshed with Dorothy’s and Harry’s. Together, they had focused all their energies on coping with Scott’s death – and the shared goal of minimising the effect of this disaster on the boys. And between them, they had made a very good job of it. The children seemed well-adjusted, happy, polite. And both were doing well at school. Kirsty couldn’t have coped without her in-laws, and her gratitude knew no bounds. They were good people and she loved them.
But three years on, she longed for a more independent life for herself and the boys. That was selfish of her, for the boys’ close relationship with Dorothy and Harry was entirely, and overwhelmingly, positive. Sadly, they did not know their maternal grandparents well – they were aged and suffered from ill health and did not like to leave Cumnock, on the east coast of Scotland where they lived.
And while Kirsty reminded herself of the importance of extended family, she couldn’t help but feel increasingly uncomfortable with the level of Dorothy and Harry’s involvement. It was time to put some distance between herself and her in-laws. At the back of her mind was the vague notion that her future happiness depended upon it. If she was to stand a chance of meeting a man – and making a new life for herself – she couldn’t have her in-laws living in her pockets.
But how on earth was she to disentangle herself and the boys without hurting Dorothy and Harry? They lived for their grandchildren – they had made them the centre of their lives.
‘Can I have the bag?’ said Dorothy, startling Kirsty.
‘Oh, yes. Of course,’ said Kirsty. She pushed it into Dorothy’s arms eagerly, to compensate for her earlier caginess. ‘And thanks again.’
For the first time Kirsty felt under an obligation to her in-laws. Before it had all been easy and uncomplicated. Now, as if she were looking through a different lens, she saw every act of kindness as a further nail in the coffin of her independence.
‘So, where are you off to tonight?’ asked Dorothy. ‘You mentioned Ballymena.’
‘Yes, there’s some art exhibition on that Patsy and Clare want to see. Me and Janice are just going along for the ride.’
‘Hmm,’ said Dorothy, her interest already beginning to wane. She had always struggled to understand Kirsty’s fascination with all things arty. She placed little value on art, financial or otherwise – it was simply something to fill a space on the wall. Dorothy’s interest extended only as far as her painted plate collection.
‘Do you have time for a cup of tea?’ said Dorothy, glancing at the ornate face of the grandfather clock.
‘Please,’ said Kirsty, and she paused before blurting out, ‘There’s something I want to talk to you and Harry about.’
‘I see,’ said Dorothy, and she gave Kirsty a searching glance.
‘Ah, here she is,’ came Harry’s voice from the top of the stairs, providing a welcome distraction. He descended gingerly, holding onto the banister, dressed in rust-coloured cords, a green checked shirt and worn brown suede slippers. With his greying hair and moustache, he looked like a picture-book grandfather.
He came over to Kirsty and placed a warm kiss on her cheek. His skin against hers felt thin and papery. ‘My favourite daughter-in-law,’ he said and looked at her for a few seconds, holding onto the forearms of her jacket. It was an old joke between them. They were no other daughters-in-law. Their surviving child, Sophie, was married to a doctor and lived in Dublin.
‘Kirsty’s going to stay for a cuppa,’ said Dorothy and she led the way to the cosy kitchen at the back of the house.
Dorothy made tea, noisily, and Harry and Kirsty exchanged small talk. When they were all seated with thin china cups and saucers in front of them and a plate of Rich Tea biscuits on the table, Dorothy poured the tea and said, ‘So what was it you wanted to talk to us about?’
Kirsty put her spoon in her cup and stirred the tea, even though she had added no sugar. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m thinking about going out to work.’
‘Oh, love. You don’t need to be doing that,’ said Harry with one of the tolerant smiles he usually reserved for the children when they said something silly. ‘Sure, she doesn’t, Dorothy? There’s plenty of time for that when the boys are grown.’
‘They are grown,’ said Kirsty into her cup, unable to meet Harry’s gaze. Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Grown enough anyway. I’m in the house on my own most of the day. There’s only so much cleaning and cooking and coffee mornings you can do.’ The spoon clattered against the saucer when she set it down.
‘What’s brought this on all of a sudden, Kirsty?’ said Dorothy, her brows knitted. Her gaze, when it met Kirsty’s, was like a laser.
Kirsty took a biscuit and broke it in half. Pale golden crumbs littered the spotless table. ‘It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while,’ she said. ‘Ever since Adam started school last year.’
‘I see,’ said Dorothy and she lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of tea. She let the silence sit between them like a fog. Harry stroked his moustache, a nervous habit, and stared at his reflection in the window. He looked confused. Disappointed.
‘I’m only talking about part-time,’ said Kirsty, looking at their unresponsive faces.
Cocking her head to one side, Dorothy placed the foot of her teacup in the depression on the saucer, as though she were putting a jigsaw together. ‘Do you have something in mind?’ she said.
‘There’s a job advertised at the museum.’
Ballyfergus’s small museum was housed in the old Carnegie Library on Victoria Road. The building, which dated from 1906, had been beautifully refurbished and now housed a bright modern museum dedicated to the history and heritage of Ballyfergus and the surrounding area.
‘It’s only twenty hours a week,’ said Kirsty.
‘What about school holidays and when the boys are sick?’ said Dorothy.
‘I’ll arrange childcare.’
‘But me and Dorothy would look after the kids,’ said Harry, sounding slightly affronted.
‘I…I…well, that’s a very kind offer but I can’t expect you to drop everything to look after the boys. You have your own lives,’ Kirsty added, though she didn’t really believe this to be true. Their lives revolved around their grandchildren.
‘That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, Dorothy?’ said Harry, sounding a bit annoyed.
Dorothy nodded and Harry went on, ‘They’re my grandsons and I don’t want some stranger looking after them.’
‘Well, okay then. If it’s what you want…’ said Kirsty, feeling yet again that she had been bulldozed into something she didn’t want. But she couldn’t very well deny them access to the boys. She would pay for it though, in an indirect way – book a holiday for them, or something.
Harry, suddenly warming to the idea, said, ‘Maybe Kirsty’s right, Dorothy. It might do her good to get out a bit.’
Kirsty’s spirits lifted at finding an unlikely ally in Harry. Dorothy’s eyebrows, as effective a means of communication as her speech, crept up her brow a fraction. She waited for Harry to go on.