Sowing The Seeds Of Love Part 13

I had spent all of my summer holidays at the home of my Dublin grandparents, marvelling anew each year at their strange vernacular. The delicious shock the first time my devout granny holy water font in the front porch said 'f.e.c.k'. The pure joy of it! Had I misheard? Trying the word in London on my schoolmates. Being made to stand in the corner.

The memories were visceral, as if they'd seeped into my cells. Even now, on certain mornings in late June, I was back in my parents' Ford Cortina, being driven on empty back roads from the ferry to my grandparents' house. Birdsong and hedgerows. Then the joy of arrival. Grandparents spilling out of the house to meet us, down the front steps, through the roses, the snapdragons, the Michaelmas daisies. My grandfather and his pipe. Mellow Virginia. For years after his departure, the scent lingered in the drawer beside his chair. My granny. Hair newly coloured and permed. Tattooing our cheeks with her red, heart-shaped kisses. We would run up the path, lured by the smell of Irish rashers and sausages split up the middle. Sodabread and black and white puddings. The white spread thick and smooth on the bread. The black, made of pig's blood, spurned for reasons of morality and disgust. Then, later, the potato cakes sizzling, salty b.u.t.ter melting. The tea brack at tea-time. The aunties dropping in. Benny Hill on the telly. Photos of grandchildren on every surface. Love.

My grandparents were gone now. My grandfather had died when I was nineteen, my grandmother a few years previously. The house had been sold and the memories divvied up. I had received a battered gold locket that I lost intermittently, only to find with great joy every time.

When I first moved to Ireland, I used to drive by their house, tripping myself up on my own nostalgia. I'd had to stop. Too much pathos can drag at the soul.

Michael and I compared notes for what seemed like hours: the lurid colour photo of John Paul II in the hall, the Sacred Heart in the kitchen, its fake red candle perpetually aglow all the babies named and blessed, including the ones who'd died at birth. Jesus offering his heart to share. Our grandmothers offering their limitless love we didn't say that but it was tacitly acknowledged. It made Michael seem dear to me already. Familiar and safe. Like family.

He proved himself later that night when he escorted me to the front door of my block of flats. 'Which is yours?'

'See that window up there?' I pointed to a pane on the third floor.

'When you're in, turn on the light, look down and wave at me. I'll be waiting.'

'For what?'

'To make sure you got in safe.'

I gave him a quick, shy kiss on the cheek and ran inside, not waiting for the lift, taking the stairs two steps at a time, wings on my heels. I got in and turned on the light. Breathless, I went to the window. There he was. A lone figure in a dark coat. He waved and I thought I saw him smile. He walked away and I watched his glorious red hair glint as he pa.s.sed beneath a streetlight.

That was it, really. We hardly spent a night apart until the one before our wedding two years later, the two Kathleens crying copiously in the church. I had no doubts. If Michael had them, he hid them well. I loved my gingerbread man and he loved me. And we lived in our gingerbread house. Because that was what it felt like as if we were playing at being grown-ups. I thought I'd feel the same when our first baby was born that we'd be playing at being mummies and daddies. But the advent of Liam catapulted us into adulthood and, suddenly, life wasn't a game any more. It was very real, very serious. What if something happened to him? Suddenly we were gambling on a planet that didn't always seem such a good bet. We started to row, nothing serious only bickering but the halcyon days were over. Reality had bitten us and life would never be the same again.

I didn't regret motherhood, not for one second. But I did regret failing to appreciate my freedom when I'd had it. I realized with a jolt that my ambitious travel plans had been curtailed. That I no longer had just myself and Michael to think about. Simple things, like taking my time in the shower, spending precious minutes slathering myself with body b.u.t.ter afterwards, were now distant memories. My grey hairs multiplied through stress and lack of care, and the tiny lines on my face multiplied through lack of sleep. I no longer cleansed, toned and moisturized. I was lucky if I managed to pa.s.s a baby wipe across my face at night before I fell into bed like a stone. Although these were only little things, they made me feel less human, less of a person and a woman. I was now 'mother' and all other aspects of my ident.i.ty were secondary. As for Michael, I believe he felt as though he was stuck in a job he wasn't too crazy about. As far as our relationship was concerned, we couldn't wouldn't take the pressures out on Liam so we took them out on each other. It sometimes felt as though we were rivals rather than batting for the same team.

'You go up to him. I'm knackered.'

'And I'm not? I've been working all day.'

'Oh, and I haven't, I suppose.'

'I didn't say that.'

'You implied it.'

'Don't be so b.l.o.o.d.y sensitive.'

'I'm not being sensitive. You're being inconsiderate.'

'I went up last time.'

'And I went up twice before that.'

And so on.

It was a compet.i.tion: who was the tiredest.

Nevertheless, we took another gamble on the planet and on ourselves, and shortly before Liam's second birthday Katie was born. Again my love for her was overwhelming, but different. With Liam, the funny little person with body parts I didn't possess, I had been excited but fearful, setting out on the strange odyssey of motherhood. With Katie, I was already home. She was a perfect fit inside my heart. I understood her tiny woman's brain. She loved the things I loved: her brother and her daddy.

Michael and I grew to inhabit our roles and, for a time, we grew in the same direction. Looking back, he kept on shooting upwards. It was me who veered off course.

I'd known Peter for years since I'd started work at the college. He lectured in physics. I'd always liked the way his mind worked, so different from mine. But that had been it. He was friends with Michael too. We went to each other's houses for dinner and stuck together at boring work functions. They had a son who was slightly older than Liam and the two boys would play together. Peter's wife, Lara a home-economics teacher crocheted Katie the most beautiful blanket when she was born. I used it on her cot at first. Later, I would shove it at the back of the airing cupboard so I didn't have to look at it.

I went back to work when Katie turned six months, weepy at her easy withdrawal from my breast. I settled into my coffee-break routine, a group of us huddled around our habitual table with the wonky legs in the canteen. Peter was always there.

'Would you like more milk, Aoife?'

He was always solicitous. At first I thought it was because I'd had a baby, but it continued. One day, seemingly out of nowhere, it dawned on me that his eyes always sought mine when we were in a group. It was my opinion he looked for. My approval. As if I was special to him. It made me think.

It had been years since I'd fancied another man. Michael had been enough for me since the night we'd met. Of course, I still noticed a good-looking male on the street or the screen, but in a dispa.s.sionate way, as if I was admiring a work of art. And I suppose I'd always thought of Peter as handsome in that same, dispa.s.sionate way. It had never occurred to me to imagine what it would be like to be with him.

Looking back, I don't know if I can put it down to anything more exalted than boredom. My life, my ident.i.ty, had become so subsumed into motherhood, so taken up with the humdrum details of my family's existence, that something in me yearned for escape. To become the heroine of my own romantic novel the more Mills & Boon the better. Instead of trying to fix what I already had which wasn't even that badly broken, just a few hairline cracks I looked for something new and whole. In a way, I was being lazy. Another unthinking partic.i.p.ant in our disposable, throwaway society. My marriage just needed a little recycling. And my children were far too precious for me even to contemplate throwing away their happiness and security.

It was a day like any other. Unremarkable weather. Drizzly. I had seen Michael that morning, of course: we had moved around each other, not saying much. This wasn't significant, just a usual workaday morning, people rushing to get ready. He had kissed me on the way out, on the cheek, mouth full of toast, leaving a residue of crumbs. I wiped them away.

I dropped the children at the childminder's, Liam battling against the constraints of his car seat, me against the traffic. Sheila was in her fifties and had raised a family of her own. My children adored her, which made me illogically resentful, for which I chided myself every morning. It was my choice to go back to work. Choice: the curse of the modern woman. Liam ran straight through the door the second it was opened.

'Look at my new twuck, Sheila.' He held up his latest toy for inspection.

'Oh, that's lovely, dear.'

Katie was almost leaping out of my arms in her eagerness to get to the other woman. For G.o.d's sake! She'd only known Sheila for three months.

'I'll see you later,' I said.

'See you later, dear. Liam, come and give your mummy a goodbye kiss.'

But Liam had already been swallowed into the dark interior of the house.

'Oh, it's fine. Don't bother him. I'm late anyway. 'Bye, Katie.'

I kissed my daughter's satin cheek and got back into the car. I pulled away, with the image of Sheila trying unsuccessfully to get her to wave at me in my rear-view mirror. I asked myself for the millionth time if I was doing the right thing. The right thing. What was that? I supposed I was lucky I didn't have children who clung to me, wailing inconsolably whenever I tried to leave them. I switched on the radio and my thoughts were subsumed in the traffic.

By the time I got to the college, I was more than ready for coffee so I went straight to the canteen and who should be there but...

I was immediately self-conscious. How ridiculous after all this time. 'Is this seat taken?'

Peter smiled and gestured to the chair opposite him.

'You're in early,' I said, striving for normality.

'Papers to mark.'

It was hardly a romantic setting the college canteen, sipping from polystyrene cups so why did I feel like I was on a date? I wished I could shake this infernal crush. It was ludicrous even to suspect that he was feeling anything even remotely similar. I was projecting my feelings on to him, something I used to do all the time with men before Michael always with disastrous results. It was quite distressing to learn that I hadn't progressed romantically beyond the mental age of nineteen. Had my third-level education, my marriage, my career not taught me anything? Apparently not. The sophistication I'd thought I'd developed was nothing more than the most fragile of veneers.

'How's Lara?' When in doubt, mention the wife. It proves you have no designs on him.

'Okay, I think. Haven't seen much of her lately.'

What does that mean? That you're not getting on? Doesn't your wife understand you? 'How come?'

He shrugged. 'Both just busy, I guess.'

How was it that I'd never before noticed the shape of his mouth? The unabashed sensuality of the upper lip, the squared-off curve of the lower. I tried not to stare. I took a sip of coffee and winced as it burned my mouth.

'Are you okay?'

'It's just hot.'

'Here. Have some of this.'

He leaned over and pressed his gla.s.s of water to my lips. I took a gulp, annoyed at how refreshing it felt. He took the gla.s.s away and a dribble of water ran down my chin. Embarra.s.sed, I wiped it away with my sleeve, eyes lowered, rattled by the strange intimacy of it all. I got up. 'I'd better go.' Pushing my chair away awkwardly behind me, I gathered up my papers and walked past him towards the door.

He stood up and grabbed my arm. 'I'll see you later?'

I was completely taken aback. I felt my colour deepen, his fingers sinking into my flesh, his eyes boring into mine. 'I'll be around at lunchtime.'

He nodded and released me, and I walked out of the canteen on legs that seemed to belong to another woman, my head and heart full of confusion.

That night I snapped at Michael, even though he'd done nothing. And when he came to bed, I pretended to be asleep.

I was just playing, really, trying to make life a little less boring. Trying to feel alive, for G.o.d's sake.

That weekend we visited a garden. The whole family. I consider it my last pure weekend, the memory of which was to burn like a beacon in darker times. The sun shone in reality and even brighter in memory. In reality, I'm sure that clouds, occasionally and momentarily, blotted it out. In memory, there were none. In reality, I had a sore back, from lugging around Liam and picking up Katie, as she tripped over her newly found feet. Of course, Daddy could do this too, but so often, it was me they called: Mummy, the centre of their tiny universe. In memory, my back is pain free. I experience no tiredness as I lift my children into the air and swing them around. They squeal with delight and the afternoon resonates with their laughter. Bees buzz, birds trill, b.u.t.terflies flutter by. The scent of sunblock, our picnic lunch. Pate and Bakewell tart for Michael and me. c.o.c.ktail sausages and pureed fruit for the children. Warm, fizzy 7 Up in plastic cups. Katie fell over herself to get to the flowers. Liam ran manically around the borders. Michael and I revelled in the magic.

'It doesn't get much better than this.' He was lying on the chequered blanket, propped up on one elbow, legs crossed at the ankles, a supremely contented expression on his face.

'No, it doesn't,' I concurred, meaning every word. I lay on my back and shielded my eyes with my arm, blocking out the light but not the heat. It was impossible not to feel relaxed under the benign force of the sun.

I felt Michael move closer to me and antic.i.p.ated his touch. Welcomed it. He whispered into my ear and his breath tickled. 'I love being here with you,' he said.

'I love being here with you too.'

'You know you're the centre of my universe, don't you?'

'Am I?'

'You know you are.'

I did.

'I don't know what I'd do without you, Aoife.'

'You won't have to do without me.'

'Promise?'

'Of course I promise. What is this, Michael? This isn't like you.'

'You've just seemed so distant lately. Like you're here but not here.'

I was shocked that he'd noticed. I'd thought I'd hidden it so well. Locked in my private fantasy world, locking him out. Telling myself that thoughts couldn't possibly affect him. But they had. The evidence was breathing in my very own ear.

The guilt was immediate and heavy, my enjoyment of the day eliminated. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked him in the eye. 'I'm sorry if I've seemed preoccupied lately. I promise I'll change.'

I meant it too. What need had I for a sordid, tawdry affair when I had all this? This perfect love. This perfect family. I vowed there and then to stay away from Peter, to make sure we were never alone, keep temptation at arm's length not a hair's breadth away as it had been last week. Only a madwoman would jeopardize all this all the gifts I had in my life. This goodness.

Michael did a quick check to see where the children were and whether anyone else was close by. Satisfied, he cupped my breast with his hand and kissed my lips. I giggled against his mouth. As it was in the beginning.

But I couldn't help it. It was like I was two different people living two different lives. In one, I was the devoted wife and mother, and in the other, the traitorous wh.o.r.e. Which was how I thought of myself at some moments, even though I hadn't done anything. But I knew what my intentions were and they weren't good every time I saw Peter. The thought of a different pair of hands on my naked skin was so unutterably exciting that I couldn't let it go. I did send him packing once: he came all the way to my front door when he knew Michael and the children were out they were with his wife and child at the Fun Factory.

I opened the door and he stood there, looking at me. What had remained unspoken had become undeniable through eye contact and body language. Through something strange and indefinable in the ether between us. The air we jointly breathed had become soup-like and vaguely tangible. It seemed incredible to me that n.o.body else was conscious of it. I stepped back and he came into the hall. I was still in my dressing-gown, luxuriating in having a rare morning to myself. I crossed my arms over my chest, acutely aware that beneath my dressing-gown I was wearing a flimsy nightie and no underwear. I couldn't speak. I felt absolute terror. Like that time on the motorway when I was convinced a lorry was going to plough into me. Yet it was only Peter standing in front of me. Peter my friend. Peter who, for some strange reason, had become the most attractive man in the universe. When I wasn't with him, I could deny it, discount it, but when I was in his presence, I felt myself drawn towards him, as if by an irresistible force. Again, I resisted. He took a step closer. I took one back.

'This is a surprise. I'm not even dressed.'

I'd deny what was happening with normal talk. Again, he wouldn't speak. Speak, G.o.ddammit. Help me break the spell. I was genuinely scared. I turned and went into the kitchen, heading for my trusty kettle and switching it on. 'Tea or coffee?'

'Aoife...' He came up to me and stroked the side of my arm with his familiar but unfamiliar hand. His face was close to mine now, his eyes imploring, pleading.

I shook him off. 'On second thoughts, I don't have time for tea. I think you'd better leave.'

He drew back and stared at me for a few interminable seconds. 'Is that what you want?'

'Yes.' I wouldn't look at him.

He left silently. I barely heard the click of the front door.

I don't know why I refused him that time. Maybe the venue was wrong: my home photos of my babies on the wall. Maybe the knowledge that our spouses and children were out innocently together. Perhaps simply that I hadn't yet brushed my teeth. I'd like to think it was moral strength but I was soon to learn that that was weak indeed. When he left that morning, I felt so bereft. It was over. I had nothing left but ba.n.a.l reality. I didn't want it. Next time I went to him.

Fearing it was too late, I arrived at his office that Monday. A soft knock on the door.

'Come in.'

He looked amazed. I was the last person he'd expected to see. I stood for a long while, my hand stuck to the door handle, eyes lowered. When at last I looked up at him he was staring at me. He dropped his pen on his desk and pushed back his chair. I sat on his lap, avoiding his eyes, closing mine, focusing on his lips, covering them with my kisses, his cheeks and his forehead, finally knowing what it felt like, my questions answered. His taste, so different. It was magical, ecstatic. Like the first time ever. We smothered each other with ourselves. Entered each other. It was urgent and vital and somehow inevitable. Maybe if one of us had had the willpower... but neither of us did. In the moment, I was exultant. Ten seconds later I was remorseful, guilt-ridden, devastated. I gathered myself up and made to leave.

'Don't go, Aoife. Stay and talk.'

'I don't want to talk. I have to go.'

'But '

'I have to.'

I was never going back. Except I was.

I thought my guilt was at its pinnacle. I had no idea. That evening I went home and threw myself into my role as earth-mother and hearth-G.o.ddess with greater gusto than ever before. I collected the children and talked to them animatedly all the way home. When we got in, I didn't begin picking up the morning's detritus as I normally did. Instead and this was revolutionary I played with them. To h.e.l.l with the house. I got down on my hands and knees and I played with all my might. I agreed to every one of Liam's requests. He lit up as I moved cars up and down endless ramps, drove trains backwards and forwards along infinite tracks, and picked up imaginary loads with pint-sized diggers. For Katie, I did whooshing in the air. Up over my head and down between my legs. Up and down. Again and again. She tired of the game before I did. Maybe there was a touch of mania about it all, but my children didn't seem to care. They revelled in the attention.