Second Chance. Patricia Scanlan
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spent longer and longer there. In the end, Tony agreed to go and live in the red-brick house off the North Circular Road. He had never felt so fed up in his life.
Now, nearly a year later, he was sick to death of his life. Sick to death of his mother-in-law and, right at this minute, sick to death of his wife. Especially after their row this morning. He stared glumly out of the shop window. The rain was easing off. Where was he going to go today anyway? He had had no destination in mind when he had barged out of the house earlier on. All he had wanted to do then was to get away from his wife and her mother. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and took out the loose coins that jangled there. One pound and thirty pence, he counted. Hardly a fortune, still it was better than nothing. Last week he’d only had twenty pence left on his dole day. He wouldn’t mind buying a paper and going for a cup of coffee and a read. But if he bought the paper he wouldn’t have enough to buy anything to eat later. He had better stay out of Jean’s hair for the rest of the day. Tony sighed. He put the coins back in his pocket and headed on towards Phibsboro.
CHAPTER TWO
Jean scraped a slice of burnt toast. She had burnt her breakfast because of him. She was very angry. Just who did Tony think he was? You’d think he’d be a bit grateful to her mother for taking them in. For helping out when they were stuck. And they were stuck. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Her mother’s generosity had eased their financial situation a lot. Why couldn’t Tony be more gracious?
Jean sat down. She took a bite of toast. She made a face. It tasted horrible. Tony hadn’t had much to eat either. Jean felt a pang. She was feeling remorseful now that her burst of temper was spent. She shouldn’t have shouted at him the way she had. Just because he let the milk boil over. Her mother had started moaning about the way milk stains the cooker. There had been a full-scale row.
Her mother was not easy to live with. Jean had to admit it. She was fussy. She liked everything just so. If Tony left a paper on the chair she’d fold it up neatly and put it in the paper rack. Always with a little arch of the eyebrows and eyes thrown up to heaven. Bridie Feeny never had to speak to make her disapproval known. One arch of her plucked eyebrows was enough.
Angela whimpered in her high-chair. Jean stood up and gently lifted her out.
“Poor baba,” she soothed. Angela snuggled in for a cuddle. Jean gave a little smile. They had been so excited when she’d found out she was going to have a baby. Together they had decorated the small room in the flat. They had bought nursery wallpaper. She had even got a border to match. It was a beautiful border. It had little cows jumping over the moon.
Jean felt sadness well up. How she would love to be back in her cosy little flat. Just the three of them. Everything had been going so well for them. They had been saving for a mortgage. Their dream of buying their own house was shattered now. All their savings were gone. Tony felt a terrible failure. He felt he had let her and Angela down. Jean sighed. He shouldn’t blame himself. It wasn’t his fault. He was a good husband. And she loved him.
“Maamaa,” Angela interrupted her musings. Jean looked down at the little curly fair head. Tenderly she kissed her daughter. Angela was starting to talk. It was fascinating to listen to the garbled sounds and try to make sense of them. She could say hot. Everything was “hot”. Jean had to watch her like a hawk now that she was crawling. Angela was fascinated by the fire. But fortunately, “Aha hot” was enough to stop her in her tracks. She’d be one in a couple of weeks. It was hard to believe.
Gently she laid her daughter on the floor. She watched her scoot around. Propelling herself on her little arms and legs.
Jean cleared the dirty dishes off the table. She filled the sink with hot soapy water. She washed the dishes slowly. Where had Tony gone, she wondered?
Jean stared out the window into the small back garden. Her mother kept it immaculate. But, despite Bridie’s best efforts, autumn leaves covered the neat lawn like a patchwork quilt.
Jean watched the early morning sun shining on the damson trees. There had been a shower when Tony left. It was over now. The sun was emerging from behind the grey clouds. She could see patches of blue in the sky. It was early autumn. The leaves were still crisp on the branches. Gold, red, russet, brown and some still green. The slanting rays of the sun danced over them. The light breeze made them tremble on the branches. A little gust now and then would make them quiver and rustle. And then some would float lightly down to join the crisp, crunchy pile beneath the tree.
It was a mild autumn so far. The rambling pink rose was still in bloom. So were the fuchsias in her mother’s hanging baskets. Their full pink-and-white blooms were glorious against the whitewashed walls. Tubs of pink and red geraniums dotted the yard. Jean loved to sit out there on a sunny afternoon with Angela. It was a little haven of peace.
“Would you look at those leaves,” Bridie Feeny said crossly. She came and stood beside her daughter. She picked up the tea towel and started to dry up. “I think they look pretty,” Jean reflected.
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