Stand by Me by Sheila O'Flanagan Page A

rain. Evelyn would think the wrong things about it. She’d think of it as cheap and nasty, just because it didn’t fit in with her picture of what sex should be. (Beneath the sheets with the light out, Dominique was certain of that.) But what had happened between her and Brendan hadn’t been cheap and nasty. It had been wonderful. And, she had to admit, there had been a certain excitement in doing something in an empty field with the (admittedly slight) chance of being caught that (a) in her mother’s eyes was a sin and (b) was usually done indoors. All of those things, as well as the fact that it had been with Brendan, and she was madly and crazily in love with Brendan, had made it an experience to remember.
     
    Evelyn had looked at her impatiently while all these thoughts had gone through her mind. Dominique had told her that the dress had probably slipped off the hanger or something and she’d wash it herself later, all the time wishing that her domineering mother would butt out of her life. Also, she thought, it wasn’t right that Evelyn should just walk into her room whenever she felt like it. It was her room, not Evelyn’s. Her private space.
     
    Of course, she admitted to herself as she hung the dress on the line to dry, it wasn’t unusual for Evelyn to come into her room to pick up her washing, and normally she didn’t mind. It was only guilt that was making her feel that her mother was overstepping the mark. Nevertheless, things had changed. She would have to set boundaries that Evelyn couldn’t cross.
     
    She looked at the dress as it flapped on the line. The stains were gone but the rip was very obvious. Her mother was bound to want to know what had caused it.
     
     
    ‘So, how did it happen?’ Evelyn asked as she examined the rip.
     
    ‘I’m not sure,’ lied Dominique. ‘Maybe when we were dancing.’
     
    ‘It’ll be hard to mend.’
     
    ‘Impossible,’ said Dominique.
     
    ‘Oh, I’ll manage it,’ said Evelyn. ‘You young ones think nothing of throwing clothes out, but it was different in my day.’
     
    Dominique hoped she wasn’t going to launch into one of her favourite ‘in my day’ speeches, in which life had been tough beyond belief and there’d been none of the luxuries of the 1980s. Besides, it was ludicrous to say that Dominique threw out clothes. Maybe she didn’t have to darn socks like Evelyn used to, but she couldn’t afford to buy new things that often.
     
    ‘Thanks,’ she said, her tone offhand.
     
    ‘I told you it was unsuitable in the first place,’ said Evelyn. ‘There’s nothing to it. It’s no wonder it ripped.’
     
    ‘But it’s lovely,’ Dominique told her.
     
    Evelyn looked sceptical. ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I can’t see why you spend your hard-earned money on something so unsubstantial. ’
     
    ‘Didn’t you ever want to?’ asked Dominique with genuine curiosity. ‘Didn’t you ever want to wear a dress that was just a silly bit of fabric simply because it was gorgeous?’
     
    ‘I never had the opportunity.’ Evelyn was looking in her big wicker sewing basket. ‘My life wasn’t like that.’
     
    ‘How about now?’ suggested Dominique. Critically she appraised her mother’s lilac tweed skirt and blue cotton blouse with its ruffled collar. ‘You’re not that old. You could look more ... more ...’
     
    ‘Appearances mean nothing.’ Evelyn took a spool of thread from her basket. ‘It’s all superficial. You should know that.’
     
    Dominique nodded. But she couldn’t help thinking that Evelyn, in her late forties, looked decades older than Maeve Mulligan’s mother, who enjoyed Majorcan holidays and going to the pub every Friday night. It didn’t matter that there was only a couple of years between them; Evelyn was an entire generation older in attitude than Kay Mulligan.
     
    I don’t want to be like her, she thought. I don’t want to think like an old person when I’m not. And I want to wear fashionable clothes