The Street Where You Live

by Roisin Meaney

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

'Roisin Meaney is a skilful storyteller' Sheila O'Flanagan 'Utterly irresistible' Irish Independent When a heatwave coincides with rehearsals for an end-of-summer concert, temperatures soar - so too do the small town scandals ... It turns out that some members of the choir have secrets they are desperate to keep hidden. Christopher, the handsome and talented director, is embroiled in a steamy affair with someone who is strictly off-limits; Molly has become obsessed with a young boy whom she's convinced is her grandson; while Emily has just fallen in love - with the wrong man. As opening night approaches, it becomes clear that there are some tough decisions to be made. But until the curtain falls, you never know what might happen on The Street Where You Live. 'A real treat ... Meaney wraps her readers in the company and comfort of strangers' Sunday Independent

Release date: June 8, 2017

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 286

Sample

For the fifth day in a row the country had sweltered. Temperatures climbing into the early thirties, tar turning to goo on roads, ice-cream vans chiming around housing estates from early morning. Since the start of the unaccustomed heatwave, the weather had taken precedence over all other happenings. Sunburnt splashing beachgoers featured on the front pages of newspapers each day, politicians and scientists held earnest discussions on global warming, water safety messages were broadcast regularly across the airwaves.

In chemists and supermarkets, supplies of sun protection cream and hair depilatory products disappeared as quickly as they were produced. Meteorologists smiled with relief, if not downright smugness, on television screens each evening as they predicted more uninterrupted sunshine, more unblemished blue skies.

But now it was heading towards eight in the evening, and while the fierce burn of the day had loosened its grip, the air was still warm and heavy. Walking to the primary school that lent the choir one of its classrooms to sing in, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, Christopher Jackson was aware of a fresh layer of sweat on his skin, despite the cool shower he’d stood under for a good ten minutes after getting home from work. His armpits felt damp and ticklish; moisture crawled lazily down his spine. The palm that was curled around the handle of his briefcase felt unpleasantly clammy.

Notwithstanding this mild physical discomfort, his mood was buoyant. Tonight, after eight weeks of polishing already-learnt songs and numerous voice training exercises and general honing of its melodic skills, the choir was beginning to rehearse for its next performance. The concert theme, a tribute to the popular musicals of the twentieth century, was one particularly close to his heart: as a boy, those splendid old films had inspired and nurtured his love of music, and the playlist he’d devised was made up of all his favourite numbers. It boded well, and he was quietly hopeful.

This time his group of singers might finally make him proud. This time they might manage to avoid the errors he’d noticed in previous performances. He was pretty sure most listeners would have missed those millisecond miscalculations in timing, those tiny variations in timbre, those minute errors in tone or rhythm, but he’d heard them, and they’d stung.

In fairness though, they hadn’t done too badly in the eighteen months or so since he’d brought the choir into being, and selected the eighteen male and female voices that comprised it. They’d picked up a couple of minor festival awards and earned some positive reviews in the local press, and recently they’d received an invitation to participate, albeit in a very minor way, in a prestigious choral event in Wales next year. People were beginning to take notice of Lift Up Your Voices, which was gratifying.

He must try to hold his patience during this set of rehearsals. He must try to coax rather than demand results from them. It wouldn’t be easy – he’d never been good at counting to ten – but he’d do his best. A new member had joined them lately, a replacement for Grace, whose arthritic hip had forced her to bow out. The new arrival – Jane something or other – had a richly rounded voice that sat nicely in the altos. Yes, he was definitely hopeful this evening.

When he arrived at the school he found a few choir members already waiting by the side door. Conversations petered out as he approached; one or two said hello, others simply nodded at him. He opened the door and stood back to allow them entry, tapped in the alarm code as they walked ahead of him towards the classroom.

They weren’t his friends. He was well aware of it, and not at all put out. He had a professional relationship with them, which was precisely what was needed. He hadn’t founded the choir to make friends.

In the room he opened his briefcase and lifted out the sheaves of stapled pages as the remaining members showed up in ones and twos and took up their usual positions. ‘Fifteen songs,’ he told them, distributing the pages, ‘most of which I assume will not be new to you. I shall expect you to be word perfect within three weeks.’ Looking pointedly here at Ultan, who had the sense to blush.

Ultan McCormack’s beautifully modulated tenor voice – he claimed, possibly truthfully, to be directly descended from John – was all that stood between him and ejection from the choir. Always last to learn the lyrics, always casting sneaky glances at his pages as they sang, long after Christopher had banned them – how hard could it be, for God’s sake? – but the voice saved him, just about.

Halfway through the warm-up exercises, the door to the hall was flung open. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ She hurried in, peeling off a diaphanous outer layer. ‘Traffic was murder. Hello, everyone.’

Christopher regarded her with irritation, aware of the ripple of amusement her entrance had caused. The scales practice interrupted now, they’d have to return to the start. ‘I don’t tolerate lateness,’ he told her, whisking the final bunch of pages from the table behind him. ‘Leave home earlier next time.’

‘I will,’ she promised, reaching for the sheaf, the movement causing a waft of her scent, fingertips brushing his. ‘I definitely will, Christopher.’

She was good-looking: he wasn’t blind to it. Light brown hair cut to frame her face in choppy layers, shot through with gold and caramel streaks. Enormous dark-fringed eyes of a startling blue, skin without a blemish, unless you counted the mole – beauty spot? – to the left of her generous mouth. She had a face you didn’t ignore, and she knew it. Well turned out too, clothes cut to accentuate her curves. Money there, clearly. A gold ring on the usual finger, thick and wide. Somebody had snapped her up.

Three weeks she’d been with them. Long enough for her to have made her mark, with breezy comments thrown into the pauses between songs, usually earning her a titter from the others. Plenty of sidelong glances too, from the male choir members. Even Ultan, who definitely looked in another direction for his amusement, seemed taken with her: Christopher had heard them giggling together at the break.

Jane, who was most certainly not plain. But pretty or not, good voice or not, if she kept up her nonsense he’d have no qualms about sending her packing. Ultan might be slow to learn his words, but during rehearsals he had focus, like the rest of them.

At nine thirty on the dot Christopher called a halt. He waited while the room emptied out, checking his phone for emails. When he looked up, only Jane was left.

‘Looks like we’ve missed the crowd,’ she said, drawing on her gossamer thin jacket, or wrap, or whatever it was. ‘You do know they’ve gone to the pub to complain about you, don’t you? At least, that’s what they did last week.’

Smiling at him, waiting for his reaction. He was in two minds about her, torn between annoyance at her refusal to treat him like her director, and his reluctant physical attraction.

‘I’m sure you’ll catch them up,’ he said, ‘if you hurry. I’d hate you to miss the entertainment.’ Holding the door open for her.

She walked towards him, taking her time. ‘You know, I’m not really in the mood for them tonight. Why don’t we find another pub and you can buy me a drink?’

Again he felt a dichotomy within him, part exasperation, part flattery. ‘I don’t mix business with pleasure,’ he said, letting his gaze fall deliberately to her wedding ring.

If she noticed, she gave no sign. ‘Oh, come on, Christopher – the choir isn’t business, it’s fun. Don’t you enjoy it?’

He frowned. Here was his chance to tell her that she needed to treat the rehearsals with a little more respect, show up on time, cut out the silly remarks – but for some reason he said none of this. For some reason he remained silent.

She laid her palm on his chest, pressed lightly with the tips of her fingers. ‘Come on,’ she said softly, ‘loosen up a little, Christopher. I’m just looking for a different kind of fun, that’s all. No strings – and I can be very discreet.’

She was propositioning him. It was outrageous. He was her choir director: entering into any kind of relationship with her would be most inappropriate, totally unprofessional.

But he hadn’t had that kind of fun in months – and if nobody found out about it, where was the harm? The fact that she was more than likely married was her problem, not his.

‘We’re both consenting adults,’ she went on, slipping two fingers between his shirt buttons. ‘What do you say?’

Her touch on his bare skin, light as it was, sent a bolt of desire through him. ‘It can’t get out. No one can know – and I mean no one.’

Her eyes widened. ‘I’m like the grave, Christopher.’

Outside the coast was clear, the others gone. He sat into her red car and directed her to his house. Once there, she ignored the glass of wine he poured for her.

‘I have a better idea,’ she said, slipping off her outer layer, letting it drop onto his carpet. ‘This way,’ she said, making for the stairs. Knowing he would follow.

* * *

Molly Griffin loved the heat. She basked in it like a seal. True, the muggy nights made sleep a challenge, had her tossing and turning in sweaty sheets, but a shower in the morning perked her right up – and wasn’t it worth anything to be able to pull out the bright, summery clothes that usually lived at the back of her wardrobe? Wasn’t it lovely to witness happy faces everywhere she looked – well, apart from the ones who complained about the heat – to see winter-pale faces freckling and blooming, to feel the sun warm on her own skin?

And this morning was particularly uplifting. This morning, as she cycled towards the house of a woman she had yet to meet, Molly’s heart pattered joyfully at the thought of no more Websters. No more working her way through Bella Webster’s laminated list for a hundred and twenty minutes every Wednesday: two apricot bathrooms to be cleaned, five pale blue work shirts to be ironed, the insides of all the windows to be washed, the wooden floors to be mopped, the houseplants that had long since taken over the smaller living room to be misted – not watered, misted – and so on, all the while taking no notice whatsoever of Polonius, or Patagonia, or whatever daft name they’d given the bony Siamese cat that sprawled in his special chair, hissing softly at her if she came within six feet of him. And never a single window opened in case he did a runner, cloying cat smell fighting eternally with her furniture polish, no matter how much of it she used.

No more of that, ever – because last week Carl Webster had gathered up his lump sum and his gold watch and his pension and taken himself, Bella and the Siamese off to France, to live out their days in a village somewhere high in the mountains, where Bella would undoubtedly hunt down some unfortunate French equivalent to Molly, and subject her to the laminated list.

In fairness though, she hadn’t left Molly stranded. My niece Linda is looking for someone, she’d said, and so Wednesday mornings had been passed on to Linda, who’d sounded normal enough on the phone. Our house is third from the end, the one with the mailbox at the gate. If you get lost give a shout. She didn’t sound like someone who was in the habit of laminating. She didn’t sound like Siamese cats were her thing.

Molly pedalled along, legs pumping as she whizzed past parked cars, relishing the breeze on her hot cheeks. You go too fast on that bike, Emily told her, more like her mother than her daughter. Emily would never speed: it wasn’t in her nature. Emily kept within the limits in everything she did – which of course wasn’t a bad thing.

As she cycled, Molly sang. She sang about a beautiful morning, with the corn as high as an elephant’s eye. The August concert would be a breeze: she already knew each song inside out; all she’d have to learn were her alto parts. She’d grown up with the soundtracks of the old musicals: her father had had the whole collection on vinyl. For as long as she could remember she’d sung along to My Fair Lady, Oklahoma!, South Pacific, West Side Story and the rest – and singing them now evoked the innocent happiness that her early childhood memories were drenched in.

She loved being in the choir, she adored it. To think it might never have happened if Christopher hadn’t come home that day and heard her singing as she’d thumped the dust from his mats. The idea of joining a choir would never in a million years have occurred to her – choirs were for serious singers, polished singers – but when he’d told her he was starting one, and suggested she come along to the auditions, she’d gone in a flash, and dragged Emily with her, and he’d accepted both of them.

He certainly took his role as choir director seriously. She wondered how he didn’t pop a blood vessel sometimes, he got so fired up when they went wrong. She’d been surprised to see that tempestuous side of him: there’d been no sign of it in the little interaction she’d had with him up to then, and Emily said he was quite distant anytime she encountered him at work – but there was nothing distant about him at the choir practices.

Molly didn’t take too much notice of his outbursts though. He wasn’t really mad at them, he was just trying to knock them into shape, get the best out of them – it showed that he cared, didn’t it, when he got so het up? Poor man, he didn’t deserve the things some of the members said about him in the pub afterwards – but she had to admit that Ultan was hilarious whenever he took him off.

She reached the road where Linda lived – and there was the promised mailbox by the gate of the third from last house. A silver car was parked in the driveway, next to a well-tended lawn. A small yellow tricycle sat by the red front door, as if waiting to gain entrance. Good: she liked houses with little children in them, even if it meant more mess, which it usually did.

The house was detached, like the others on the road. Fair bit of money here, by the look of it – which would make sense for a relative of the Websters. Stone walls, bay windows to either side of the door. Three or four bedrooms; at least one en suite, more than likely.

She propped her bike by the door and rang the bell, feeling the familiar pleasant tremble in her legs after the vigorous pumping she’d given them. Her dress was sticking to her – she pulled it free and shook out the damp creases. The sun was hot on the back of her neck as she stood dabbing at her face with a tissue and listening for a sound from within.

And here it came, the soft pat of approaching footsteps. The door was opened: she saw blonde hair, navy top, white shorts, tanned legs.

‘You must be Molly.’ A hand outstretched. ‘Linda. Thanks for coming.’

Despite the heat, her hand was cool. ‘Where should I leave my bike?’ Molly enquired.

‘You can wheel it around the side. It’ll be fine.’ She emerged and lifted in the yellow tricycle. ‘Isn’t it hot?’

The tiled hallway was blessedly shady. Molly smelt lemons – maybe from Linda herself – and the strong dark scent of real coffee.

‘Let me get you some water.’ Linda led the way into the kitchen, a light-filled room that ran the width of the house, with a dining area at the far end and a pair of patio doors that opened onto the back garden. Through them Molly saw a small curly-headed child seated cross-legged on the grass outside, surrounded by an assortment of soft toys. A little tea party maybe, like Emily used to have with her dolls at that age.

Linda held a glass beneath a spout in the door of her giant fridge and pressed a button, and a slush of water and ice tumbled out. ‘Whatever you normally do will be fine,’ she said, handing the glass to Molly. ‘The usual cleaning, nothing out of the ordinary. You come highly recommended by Aunt Bella. We’ll try to stay out of your way.’

All very promising. Molly gulped the water as Linda indicated a door to the left of the fridge. ‘That’s the utility room: all the stuff you should need is there. Let me know if there’s anything else you want me to get. My office is the room at the foot of the stairs – just give a clean to the floor and leave the rest; it looks messy but I know where everything is.’

‘I usually start with the upstairs, and work my way down.’

‘Fine, whatever you prefer. I’ll leave you to it then.’ She crossed the room and went out through the patio doors, sliding them half closed after her.

Molly drained her glass and rinsed it. In the neat utility room she found bucket and mop, vacuum cleaner, a bundle of fresh cloths and dusters and a collection of cleaning fluids and sprays. Over the following hour she worked steadily through the upstairs rooms, pulling out beds to get at the dust behind, going down on hands and knees to wipe skirting boards. Shining mirrors, wiping fingermarks from door handles and window catches. Polishing wooden floors, mopping the bathroom tiles, running the vacuum cleaner over the landing carpet.

In one of the bedrooms that overlooked the back garden – the child’s room, full of toys and picture books – she glanced out and saw her playing at a sandpit by the fence. Blue T-shirt, green shorts, a pair of yellow sandals on the small feet. An only child, she must be, just two of the four bedrooms in use. Linda looked to be in her mid-thirties: time enough for brothers and sisters, if they were in the plans.

In the master bedroom a photo in a silver frame on the dressing table caught her eye. Linda held her little girl in her arms, each gazing into the other’s face, noses practically touching. A beach scene, sand dunes climbing up behind them. A year or two earlier, Molly thought, given the more babyish look of the child, who wore only a little pair of orange swimming trunks. The big curly mop of her.

The child’s father, maybe, had taken the photo. Funny there was no snap of him around the place. Odd that she saw no man’s slippers by the bed, no pyjamas beneath a pillow, no tie or jacket slung across a chair. No evidence of a man’s presence in the bathroom either. No shaving foam, no aftershave or men’s cologne.

Maybe they were living apart, for whatever reason – or maybe he was dead. None of her business: if Linda wanted to tell her, she’d tell her.

The house was silent on her return downstairs. She dealt with the remaining rooms, leaving the kitchen till last. In the small office she ran the vacuum over the floor and left the rest alone as instructed. Nothing she could see offered a clue as to what work Linda did – a laptop computer and a printer sat on the desk, along with a stack of manila folders, a mug of pens and a little dish of paperclips; hard-backed notebooks and box files filled the trio of shelves behind. Linda had called it messy, but Molly had seen far worse.

As she re-entered the kitchen she saw Linda and her little girl sitting now at the wrought-iron table on the patio, a jug of cloudy liquid between them. She cleaned the worktops and the sink, wiped down the table, emptied the dishwasher and discovered homes for the crockery and cutlery.

As she worked she listened to the high-pitched chatter of the child, audible through the half-open patio door. She seemed to be outlining to her mother in great detail the plot of a film she’d seen, or maybe a story someone had told her: ‘… an’ then the pig jumped into the car and drived away really fast, an’ the duck runned after him but he was too slow to catch up, an’ then he falled into a puddle an’ his clothes got all wet an’ he got mad. It was so funny, Mummy.’

Nice to hear it. A long time since small children had featured in her own house. She slid the patio door closed to polish its glass. Linda looked up at the sound and smiled at Molly, but the child didn’t turn her head. Shy in front of strangers maybe.

She pulled the door open again before sweeping and mopping the floor. In the utility room she rinsed her various cloths and draped them over the waiting clothes horse. She undid her pinafore and put it into her rucksack. The clock on the kitchen wall read ten past twelve.

She returned to the patio. ‘All done,’ she said.

Linda got to her feet. ‘Thanks, Molly – let me get your money.’ She entered the room and crossed the floor, Molly following. The child remained seated at the table.

‘What’s your little girl’s name?’

Pulling open a drawer, Linda smiled. ‘A lot of people make that mistake. It’s Paddy, and he’s a he.’

‘Oh, sorry – I thought, with the hair …’

‘Not at all. It’s my own fault – I can’t bring myself to cut those gorgeous curls. He’s starting school in September; I suppose I’ll have to do it then, or he’ll be teased to death.’ She handed Molly the envelope. ‘Thanks so much: can I get you some more water, or a glass of lemonade, before you go?’

‘Mummy.’

They turned. The child stood at the patio door. ‘Can I have a ice-cream?’ Gaze directed towards his mother, ignoring Molly but presenting her with her first proper look at him.

Jesus God almighty.

She was instantly thrown back twenty-five years. He was the image, the absolute image. The same little face, look, see the dark-fringed grey eyes, the full mouth, the sharp nose, the small cleft in the pointed chin. Take away the curls and everything else, everything, was the same.

He was Philip. He was her son. She was looking at four-year-old Philip.

‘Molly?’

She dragged her eyes away from him.

‘Water? Or lemonade?’

‘No, thank you …’

‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine … It’s just the heat. I’m grand.’

She wasn’t fine, and the heat had nothing to do with it. Her face was cold, her mouth dry. Her mind was spinning. She stowed the envelope at the bottom of her rucksack, watching as Linda peeled the wrapper from an ice-lolly and gave it to him, as he turned and trotted out through the patio doors, again not paying Molly a blind bit of notice.

It was a coincidence, it had to be. Just a coincidence. People resembled other people all the time, didn’t they? Look at that magazine Emily brought home from the supermarket: they had a page of photos each week, ordinary people who looked like celebrities. You’d swear some of them had to be related. It happened.

But cycling home she couldn’t let it go, kept turning what she knew around in her head. There was no sign of a father on the scene. Philip would be gone five years in March: he’d left the day after Molly’s fifty-second birthday. This boy was starting school in September, so presumably he was four. It fitted, everything fitted – and it would make sense of so much if it was true.

Could it possibly be true? Could this curly-headed child be Philip’s son, her grandson?

It could. It could. She might be a grandmother. Granny Molly.

Out of nowhere, a dog darted out suddenly through a gateway and ran right in front of her bicycle. She pulled sharply on the brakes, causing her front wheel to skew sideways and collide with the kerb. The impact sent her flying over the handlebars: she landed hard on the path, the breath knocked out of her. As she lay sprawled and shocked, afraid to try to move in case she couldn’t, waiting for the pain to kick in, she heard someone’s hurried approach.

‘Don’t move. Stay still.’

A female voice. A woman crouched beside her. ‘I’m a doctor, I live right across the street. I saw what happened. That dog is a menace. Don’t try to move just yet. Where does it hurt?’

Molly did a lightning mental check. Her palms were starting to sting, her knees to burn. ‘My hands,’ she said, her voice wobbling, ‘and my knees.’ A painful smarting began in the cheek that rested on the road. ‘My face.’

‘Can you wriggle your toes?’

She tried. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s good.’ She felt the woman’s hands coming to cradle her neck. ‘Now I want you to roll slowly onto your side. Stop if anything hurts too much. Take your time.’

Molly obeyed, moving in little cautious jerks, trying to keep the weight off her sore palms. Everything, it seemed now, was stinging.

‘You OK?’

‘I … think so.’ She began to feel immensely foolish. Her cheek continued to throb painfully. She wondered what it looked like.

‘Can you sit up? I’m afraid I can’t bear your weight in my condition—’ and only then did Molly see the enormous mound that strained against the light cottony top.

‘I can manage,’ she said, and little by little she made her shaky way to sitting, the doctor’s hands still braced around her neck. Her palms and forearms and elbows were grazed and bleeding, her knees the same. ‘You have a cut on your face,’ the doctor told her. ‘It’s not deep, but it needs cleaning. We can do it in my house. Is there anyone you can call to come and get you?’

‘I can cycle,’ Molly said. ‘I’ll be OK in a while to cycle.’

Her companion shook her head. ‘Not a hope. Look at your bike for starters’ – and Molly’s heart sank as she took in the badly buckled front wheel of the bike that lay sprawled by the kerb. No way would it get her home – but who could she phone? Not Emily, at work till six. Not Dervla, on holiday in Portugal until the middle of July. Not Tracy next door, hands full with her grandchildren. She could think of nobody.

‘We can call you a taxi from my house. Come on, let’s get you on your feet. Can you use the wall to pull yourself up?’

But a taxi would be a tenner at least, and what taxi driver would take a bicycle? And she still had to pay Clem for the job he’d done last—

Clem. She could call Clem. He mightn’t be too far away. She got to her feet, wincing at the stabs of pain from her various injuries, as her Good Samaritan retrieved the rucksack that had toppled from the bike’s basket. They made their way slowly across the road, the doctor – ‘I’m Patsy’ – manoeuvring the damaged bicycle, Molly hobbling along beside her.

‘There’s a friend I can try,’ she said. ‘He works out and about – he might be in the area.’

‘Give him a go so.’

In the house she scrolled through her list of contacts and found him under H for Handyman. He kept her waiting, as he always did, until the seventh ring.

‘Hello.’

‘Clem, it’s Molly.’

‘Hello, you – what’s up?’

She explained her predicament.

‘You OK? You hurt?’

‘Not badly, just a few cuts and bruises – but the bike is out of action. Are you in the middle . . .