Free The Better Woman by Ber Carroll Page B

condolence with a slight nod of her head. Some of the mourners were too emotional to say anything and just squeezed her hand. This rocked her composure even more.
    â€˜I’m so sorry, Sarah.’
    Sarah’s face crumbled when she saw Nuala. She choked on a sob. Had she let it out, she wouldn’t have been able to stop.
    Don’t lose it
, she told herself.
Cry later
.
At home
.
    She’d been repeating that mantra,
Cry later
, for the last three days and, somehow, she’d held on. Until she was alone. Then she’d cry and cry and cry.
    â€˜Sorry, Sarah.’
    It was Tim. Followed by Emma, Fiona, and other faces from her class, some of whom she hardly knew. Cries of despair lodged in her throat, a nanosecond from coming out.
    Hold on. Hold on
.
    The funeral moved from the church to the cemetery, the casket borne on the shoulders of old friends. Sarah walked behind. Nuala linked one arm, Tim the other. They stayed by her side as the casket was lowered into the ground.
    Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .
    It was over. Everyone blessed themselves and headed across the road to Delaney’s.
    â€˜Are you coming?’ asked Nuala.
    â€˜In a while.’
    â€˜We’ll see you there, okay?’
    Sarah was left alone, all but for Mr O’Hara who was waiting, shovel in hand, to fill the grave. She gazed down at the coffin, covered with a few clods of earth and a single red rose. The finality of it shattered her resolve not to cry.
    Mr O’Hara moved forward uncertainly when he saw the gush of tears. ‘Are you okay, Sarah?’
    She nodded and stumbled away.
    In Delaney’s, the mourners would be marking the end of Peggy Ryan’s life in the traditional way: raising their glasses and sharing fond memories and anecdotes. They would be waiting for Sarah to join them. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face them. The tears she had to cry wouldn’t stop now that they’d started. They were more enduring than any tradition.

Chapter 8
    Sarah pounded around the track, her breath fogging the icy air. Her lungs hurt. The pain was welcome. She wanted to feel something and if physical pain was the only thing on offer, then she’d take it. Gladly.
    The sleepless nights were back. The crying. The self-hatred. The helplessness. The hopelessness. Fear of the future. Of not ever being good enough. Of being alone.
    When she wasn’t crying, Sarah would self-analyse. She looked at herself dispassionately. She saw a girl who had been defined by those close to her. Her happiness had emanated from Peggy and John, not from within. So it wasn’t any wonder that without them she was nothing.
    She had to force herself out of bed every morning. Had to force herself to eat. To run. To believe that if she kept going, kept doing everyday things, she would eventually pull out of the darkness. The running did give her a sense of pleasure, muchdiminished than usual, but she clung to it nevertheless. She ran as often as she could, pounding round and round the track at the Mardyke, as though her life depended on it.
    Head down, eyes on the red clay underfoot, Sarah hardly noticed the other runner join the track. Her legs eventually lost their strength and she veered to the grassy centre. There, she bent over, hands cupping her knees, and took deep breaths of bitter cold. The runner swished by.
    She straightened, balanced herself on one leg and bent the other back.
    Hold. Hold. Next leg.
    Then, one foot slightly in front of the other, she pushed forward and felt the muscles in her calf loosen in response to the pressure.
    The runner was coming round again: male, wearing a navy tracksuit and a peaked cap that hid his face. He was going fast, too fast for the ten thousand metres.
    Maybe he’s in training for the five thousand.
    Sarah unzipped her gear bag and took out a towel. She buried her sweaty face in the soft cotton before draping it across her shoulders. Then she unscrewed her