The Honey Queen (10 page)

‘Any news of Meredith?’ she might ask occasionally, and Freya would fill her in on the latest details.

‘The gallery’s going very well, apparently. It’s the Alexander
Byrne
Gallery now – there was a big write-up in the paper about it.’

Freya didn’t let on that Opal had proudly cut out the clipping from the paper and put it in the scrapbook she kept about Meredith. Nor did she say that Meredith hadn’t rung to tell her mother of this great event, which implied that she was now a full partner in the business. No, Opal and Ned and the boys had had to read about it in the paper. ‘She was asking after you,’ Freya would lie. And every time she said it she’d wondered why, because what was the point of lying about it?

Meredith never asked about anyone. Her phone calls were brief, as if she only rang home out of a sense of duty. On the rare occasions she visited, she never asked about anyone in Redstone. It was as if, in leaving home, she’d somehow distanced herself from the place totally – and that included her old school friends. Still, it was worth the lie, Freya decided, just to see the smile on Grainne’s face.

‘Send her my love back, will you, and tell her we must meet up next time she’s in town. Explain I don’t get out to cool events like her gallery openings,’ Grainne would add. ‘Not with this little bunny here—’ And with that she’d grin down at Teagan, who’d dimple back at her.

Freya wondered yet again what had happened to Meredith to make her walk away. Although her cousin was perfectly friendly on the rare occasions they met, it was obvious that something had changed her. One day Freya was going to figure out what it was.

Freya’s ten-minute trip to school took her past the crossroads, and if she had the money for a takeaway coffee she’d stop at the Internet café, where cool-looking guys sometimes hung out. Freya noticed everything. She liked Bobbi’s beauty and hair salon, too. Bobbi was Opal’s best friend, going back years. Outwardly, she was the complete opposite of Freya’s aunt, in that she looked as tough as old boots, but under the patina of foundation, platinum hair and the killer glare was a woman with a heart of gold.

Deciding that she was too late for coffee today, Freya crossed over at the lights, walking past the new lavender-painted shop where the old off-licence had been.

The new shop was as different from Maguire’s Fine Liquors as it was possible to get. Maguire’s used to look as though it had been dipped in a combination of nicotine and scotch, and the smell of both swirled around it. The lavender of the new place looked fresh and beautiful; Freya imagined that when the shop finally opened for business it would smell of a combination of fragrant French roses and wild lavender. A cast-iron sign with swirly writing hung at ninety degrees to the shop over the glass door and the name was painted in the same writing above the large front window:
Peggy’s Busy Bee Knitting and Stitching Shop.

Freya peered in and saw a young woman in workman’s overalls up a ladder, diligently painting the ceiling. Decorating was clearly not her profession because her rich brown ponytail was splattered with white paint.

As if she sensed someone watching her, the woman turned, saw Freya, and smiled at her.

Freya smiled back and toyed with the idea of going in and chatting, but she’d be late. She lengthened her stride, ran her fingers along the peeling bark of the oldest sycamore, and turned down the alleyway that was her shortcut to school. Out of the alleyway and across the road, she joined the heaving throng moving slowly towards the school building, blending in immediately: just one more small, dark-haired fifteen-year-old girl in clumpy shoes and an ill-fitting school uniform.

T
he wedding invitation felt as if it was burning a hole in Opal Byrne’s handbag. It was the gold envelope that was part of the problem. Gold envelopes, rather. The sight of so many of them on the mat that morning had given her quite a shock, and she’d hastily gathered them up without a word to either Ned or Freya. There were the usual bills (brown envelopes), fliers (white envelopes), something tax-related (a brown, evil-looking envelope) for Brian and there, in the middle, like a bit of false fairy glitter come to St Brigid’s Terrace, the five gold envelopes.

Noel and Miranda Flanagan invited Opal and Edward Byrne to the wedding of their beloved daughter, Elizabeth, to Brian Byrne in the Church of the Holy Redeemer, Blackfields, Co Cork, and afterwards to a dinner in the Rathlin Golf and Country Club.

Opal’s mind had gone blank then. There was one for her and Ned – why hadn’t they called him Ned? Nobody called him Edward – except for his mother and she was dead, God rest her, and had never so much as set eyes on Liz’s parents. Another one for Freya and guest, although that was asking for trouble because Freya would do her best to find the least country-club-looking one of her friends and pitch up with him just for pure devilment. Freya had a hate/hate thing going on with Liz’s mother, and the wedding would be the perfect opportunity to up the ante.

And there was one each for David, Steve and Meredith plus guests, which Opal felt was for some reason an insult to Meredith and the boys, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why yet.

Meredith had a flat – sorry, apartment – in the city with panoramic views, curtains that closed if you pushed a button and a sports car that had no room for groceries in the boot, not that Meredith was likely to venture into a supermarket. Miranda could have asked Brian for the address and posted the invitation to Meredith’s apartment but she hadn’t. She knew David and Steve’s address because it was the same as Brian’s. But no, she’d sent them all to St Brigid’s Terrace, which was the same as saying ‘You’re all from the wrong side of town, no matter how posh Meredith’s address is these days.’

That was it. That was the insult. Opal fumed quietly as she walked towards the shops.

Redstone was a suburb that had only recently been deemed ‘up and coming’ after years of being considered ‘the wrong side of town’. Opal had been raised half a mile from here and recalled how everyone had looked down on Redstone in those days. It was the place where men with ‘bad backs’ avoided earning a living and instead spent working hours listening to the radio in the bookies. The houses were lined up in terraces and women stood chatting over the fence as they hung the washing out.

That was how it was between her and Molly next door. As soon as she saw Opal out at the line with her laundry basket, Molly would come out with a cup of tea for her and they would talk.

Now that Ned had taken early retirement from the bus depot, he might come out to do a bit of pottering in the garden and Molly would make him tea, too.

Not everyone was as lucky with their neighbours, Opal knew.

St Brigid’s Terrace had changed a lot over the years. During the boom, property prices had gone up wildly on the terrace and in Redstone in general. Several new housing estates had been built on the fields beside the old lightbulb factory, which had been turned into an apartment complex with electric gates. And the crossroads in the centre of Redstone no longer boasted four pubs, two chippers and a bookie’s. Instead, there was her friend Bobbi’s beauty salon, a delicatessen, the bakery, a mini-market that sold expensive ready-meals, two cafés, a bank, a boutique that sold outrageously priced clothes, and the wool and craft supplies shop that was due to open soon. Opal was thrilled about that because she loved knitting.

Opal’s mother wouldn’t have recognized the place. She wouldn’t have recognized Opal either, now that she had highlights in her hair every few months.

Freya had made her do that.

‘Aunt Opal, I can see bits of grey. It’s not a good look,’ Freya had said kindly the year before.

It was funny, Opal thought, that after raising three sons and one daughter, it was the niece she’d taken into her home who was lighting her life up now that she was within striking distance of sixty.

Freya brought her home the first daffodils of February; it wouldn’t have occurred to the boys to do such a thing. Freya was the one who noticed when Opal’s ankles were swollen on Sundays and made whoever was over for Sunday lunch pitch in and help out so their mother could sit down.

Meredith would have noticed too, Opal thought loyally, but she was always too busy to drop in to see them at weekends. The boys were different. They liked a good feed on a Sunday. She invited Meredith to these lunches but Meredith rarely came. When she did, she barely ate. She was so slim that Opal worried her daughter wasn’t eating properly.

Opal was quite sure that cooking wasn’t Meredith’s strong point. She’d refused to do Home Economics in school. Even back then, her mind had been set on loftier things. Whenever she thought about Meredith, Opal felt a sense of failure. They didn’t have mother-and-daughter days out the way some of her friends did. Meredith had never suggested they go away for a weekend to one of those spa places, though she knew Meredith liked those stone treatments and suchlike. Opal had never been herself and, to be honest, she wouldn’t have cared for it. But she’d have gone if Meredith asked her. Except Meredith didn’t ask.

Opal grinned as she thought of her niece. Freya was a different kettle of fish altogether. She probably knew how to do all sorts of mud baths at home herself. There was nothing Freya didn’t know. Opal thought of herself at fifteen and what a naive, bewildered young thing she’d been. And look at Freya, clever as anything and kind with it. Lord, she’d better not show the wedding invitations to Freya. Freya would instantly understand the insulting code behind Miranda’s addressing of the envelopes. She’d probably phone Miranda and say something. Above all else, Opal hated people
saying
things.

By now, she was nearing the crossroads. She walked past the bus stop with a nod and a brief ‘hello’ to the two old fellas sitting there, Seanie and Ronnie. They were always sitting there. Freya joked that they never actually got a bus anywhere. They just liked to watch the workings of the village carry on around them, smoking Woodbines and commenting on life, the universe and everything.

‘Grand day, isn’t it, Opal?’ said Ronnie. ‘Aren’t we blessed with the fine weather?’

‘We are indeed,’ agreed Opal.

‘And isn’t it a lovely day to be sitting here taking it all in?’ said Seanie happily, with an expansive wave of his hand as though sitting on a seat at a bus stop at the side of the road in a small suburb outside Cork was on a par with sitting on a private jet and flying off somewhere fabulous for the day. The height of excitement and all a person could ask for. Freya thought the two of them were wonderful and quite often she squashed in between them for a chat.

Opal suspected she took the odd Woodbine too and smoked it, although she’d yet to catch her at it. That was the thing with Freya: you never caught her doing anything bad. Perhaps she’d trained the men to grab the cigarette out of her hand as soon as any of her family came into view. Opal had tried sniffing Freya’s clothes for the telltale smell, but Ned smoked five cigarettes a day, and even though he did it outside the back door, that confused matters. Besides, once Freya set her mind to do something, she just did it.

Opal passed the bakery and waved to Sue in the window, whom she could see arranging a big batch of bread on the shelves. Opal loved the bread in the shop, especially all of the different fancy ones with olives and rosemary in them. There hadn’t been anything like that when she was a kid. But it was expensive. She walked on by and went into the dry cleaner’s. Moyra was sitting there as usual, head in a book. She looked up with a smile when Opal came to the counter to hand over her things – a bag that included a pair of good navy trousers belonging to Brian. She’d had to smuggle them out of the house without Freya seeing, because there’d have been war if Freya spotted the contents of the bag.

‘Aunt Opal, what are you doing, taking Brian’s things to the dry cleaner’s?’ Freya would have demanded. ‘He’s well able to do it himself. And if he can’t for some mad reason, there’s always Liz. Doesn’t she have hands, legs and a car? What’s wrong with her?’ Freya liked Liz, though she didn’t think it was right the way she let Miranda get away with being rude to Brian’s family. Since the organization of the wedding had begun to gather pace, it was getting harder for Freya to hide her dislike of Brian’s future mother-in-law.

Opal had also brought a couple of ties belonging to Ned and a jacket that Steve had somehow managed to get curry sauce on. Lord knows, that was never going to come out, but Moyra said she’d do her best.

After the dry cleaner’s, Opal got the paper and some milk in the corner store. Then she crossed the road to the gleaming peony pink and chocolate façade of Bobbi’s Beauty Salon. She hadn’t planned to drop in, but she wanted to share her upset over the gold envelopes with someone who’d put it all in perspective. If anyone could do that, it was Bobbi.

She and Bobbi had been friends since they were four-year-olds in pigtails, shocked by the harsh world of junior infants – or ‘low babies’ as they used to call it in those days. Fifty-five years had flown by since then. Bobbi had built up her empire to the beautiful salon she now ran with her daughter, Shari.

‘It’s not an empire, Opal,’ Bobbi would say fondly and yet proudly whenever Opal used the term.

‘’Course it’s an empire,’ Opal would respond on the rare occasions when she went in to have something done. ‘Look at it, it’s beautiful.’

And it was. Lovingly decorated by Shari’s husband, the salon was a haven of loveliness.

Bobbi’s husband Richard hadn’t turned out to be as solid as Opal’s Ned. He’d run off with one of the junior stylists many years ago. But Bobbi hadn’t flinched, she’d held her head high. A small woman, like Opal, there was steel behind the platinum curls that framed her face.

‘He’s not getting a ha’penny out of this business,’ Bobbi had insisted – and he hadn’t.

Richard still turned up from time to time, normally to borrow money, and occasionally, Bobbi lent him some.

‘He
is
Shari’s father, after all,’ was all she’d say.