The Art of Friendship. Erin Kaye

puckering.

      Harry grinned broadly at them both, revealing a set of perfect dentures. ‘Kirsty’s a highly educated girl with a lot to offer.’

      Kirsty smiled at him, grateful and relieved. And surprised. Of the two of them, she had expected more resistance from Harry.

      ‘I’ll tell you what, Kirsty. You can come and work for me at the mill,’ he said grandly, presenting his offer with all the flair of a generous gift.

      Kirsty swallowed hard and tried to smile. She thought of the InverPapers mill, the relentless hum and thud of machinery and the sickly-sweet smell of the chemicals used in the manufacturing process – a nauseating stench that had permeated Scott’s hair and clothes and which, no matter how many times he showered or how many times she washed his clothes, never completely went away.

      ‘She could work in the office, Dorothy, like you used to do. Help with the accounting, payroll, bills, that sort of thing. You can use a computer, can’t you?’ Though supposedly semi-retired, Harry still played an active part in the business. Kirsty pictured the stuffy office with its worn eighties furniture and single-glazed aluminium framed windows – and froze in horror.

      She had never worked in an office in her life. She couldn’t think of anything more depressing. The factory employed one hundred and fifty people and it produced toilet roll. Toilet roll! Millions of sheets of toilet roll a year. Bog roll, Scott used to call it. Harry wanted her to work in a bog-roll factory. She bit her lip and blinked to stop herself from crying.

      ‘I don’t think…’ began Kirsty, faintly, when she could bring herself to speak.

      ‘Mmm,’ said Dorothy, as though Kirsty had not spoken, her eyebrows uplifted with possibility. ‘Now that is a good idea. You could work the hours that suited you, Kirsty, and take all the time off you need.’

      ‘Don’t you see, love?’ said Harry, laying a cool hand on Kirsty’s sweating one. ‘It’s perfect. You can work whatever hours you like. And keep it in the family. I like that idea. I think Scott would’ve liked it, too. Don’t you, Dorothy?’

      At the invocation of her dead husband’s name, Kirsty stared down at her lap. For all his faults, Scott would never have condemned her to work in the family business. He’d hated it himself.

      Harry rubbed his hands together as though he’d just closed a deal and said, ‘And I’d make sure you were handsomely remunerated, of course.’

      There was a long silence and Dorothy said, ‘What do you think, Kirsty?’

      ‘I think…I’m not sure. It’s not exactly what I had in mind.’

      Harry frowned and looked from his wife to Kirsty.

      ‘I really like the idea of working in the museum. I think it would be interesting.’

      ‘The paper industry is interesting too,’ said Harry.

      ‘I’m sure it is, Harry. And I’m very appreciative of your generous offer. But I’m not sure I can accept it.’

      ‘Sure you can,’ he said. He folded his arms across his chest like a buffer.

      ‘Harry,’ said Dorothy, who had been quiet for some moments. ‘I don’t think it’s a case of not being able to accept. I think it’s a case of not wanting to. Is that right, Kirsty?’

      In spite of her burning cheeks, Kirsty was determined to show them that she meant business. So often in the past she had been persuaded to go along with things that went against her better judgment. Little things, like how much TV the children were allowed to watch and what time they went to bed when they had sleepovers. But this time it was her life, her future, at stake.

      She sat up straight and said, ‘Yes. That’s right.’

      Harry let out a long sigh and visibly deflated. He rubbed his nose with the back of his right hand, sniffed, and refolded his arms. ‘I was hoping the boys would take over the business one day, you know,’ he said. ‘I would’ve been retired by now if Scott…’

      ‘Harry,’ said Dorothy tenderly and she paused, then lowered her voice. ‘That’s got nothing to do with this discussion.’

      Admonished, albeit gently, Harry shrugged and looked out the window, though there was little to see in the rapidly falling dusk. Kirsty reached out and touched his elbow. ‘Harry?’ she said. He glanced at her hand and looked out the window again. She had offended him and for that she was truly sorry. But the offence was inevitable. He would never see things from her point of view.

      ‘You’d better watch your time, love,’ said Dorothy with a glance at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s gone five.’

      ‘Has it?’ she said dimly, without taking her eyes off Harry. She did not want the conversation to end on this unpleasant, unresolved note. She realised that she wanted them to give her something they could not – their wholehearted support.

      But, for now at least, she had been dismissed. Kirsty stood up and said goodbye to her in-laws, awkward in their company for the first time in over three years. Then she slipped upstairs to say goodbye to the boys and, when she came down again, Dorothy was waiting for her at the front door. ‘Don’t you pay too much attention to Harry, love. He’s just…’

      ‘Hurt?’

      ‘Aye, that. And grieving. Still.’

      Kirsty sighed and pulled on her coat. ‘I didn’t mean to offend him.’

      ‘I know. But he doesn’t think sometimes.’

      Kirsty buttoned her coat and slipped on a pair of black leather gloves.

      ‘You apply for that job at the museum, Kirsty. And we’ll help you with the boys when you need it.’

      ‘It’s very good of you to offer,’ said Kirsty, rather formally. She gave the older woman a brief hug, stepped outside into the cold, damp night and onto the gravel path.

      ‘Just one thing though,’ said Dorothy.

      Kirsty turned around, the gravel screeching under the ball of her foot.

      ‘Don’t ever forget how much we love those boys,’ said Dorothy.

      ‘I won’t,’ said Kirsty brightly, understanding only too well the plea – or was it a warning? – behind this statement.

      Kirsty marched purposefully down the path towards the car but stopped as soon as she heard the front door close behind her. Then she turned and stared at the house, the windows bright with yellow light, her two sons happily and safely ensconced inside. And separated from her, it seemed, by more than just a Victorian brick wall. A few flakes of snow began to fall, swirling in the wind. She shivered, pulled the collar of the coat around her neck and hurried to the car.

      The exhibition was in Cornerstone Gallery on Mill Street, Ballymena – directly opposite the Town Hall. The gallery was spread over two floors and Paul Holmes’ paintings were displayed on the ground floor. It was busy and noisy, people elbow-to-elbow with their complimentary drinks clutched like talismans in their hands. Kirsty did not have the means to splash out hundreds of pounds on original watercolours, however handsome. But she appreciated the high quality of the artwork, exchanged a few words with the artist himself and enjoyed the buzz. They didn’t stay long, mindful of the falling snow outside and the treacherous drive home over Shaneshill which awaited them. Parts of the road were lonely and deserted and at a higher altitude than the surrounding countryside so that snow often lay where there was none in town.

      By nine o’clock they were back in Ballyfergus and settled at their usual table in No.11. The bar was two-deep with the familiar faces of local businessmen, ties removed and top buttons undone, who had dropped by for their regular Friday pint, or two, on the way home.

      ‘Good job you booked, Janice,’ said Patsy, ‘or we’d never have got our table.’ She arranged the folds of her wool skirt round her knees and ran her fingers through her short, dyed hair.