Dublin 4 (6 page)

‘No, I’m on a diet, but you get some if you like,’ she said pleasantly. He had looked at her face as she prayed; he had watched her come back from Communion with her head down. She never asked him why he didn’t go to Communion, she never asked him anything.

*   *   *

Anna and James were happy. It had been a glorious day and they had had their lunch out in the open. Twelve of them had sat and looked out over the bay and said that this was the life and they must all be mad to live in Dublin. Anna had arranged that a local woman make fresh soda bread and they had had this with their pâté. Everyone had raved about it. Cilian and Orla played at a distance with the three visiting children. Some of their friends had been staying at an hotel, others had rented a cottage … they all looked with open envy at the ease and comfort which James and Anna had built for themselves. This was balm to Anna and James. They stood and waved in the evening as the last guests drove off, they had cups of tea to get rid of the sleepiness the white wine had spread, and they looked at the clock. James had an iron rule: on the road back at seven. This meant an hour to wash up and tidy and pack the children and themselves – plenty of time.

They moved around the cottage gathering the bagful of educational toys. They plunged their twelve
plates, twelve glasses, twelve forks and twelve knives into the hot soapy water. A rubbish sack was collected, carefully tied up and put in the boot as well. There were no dustmen in this part of heaven, they laughed to each other. Cilian and Orla, sleepy from the day in the sun, were strapped in, the cassette of James Last was at the ready and they faced the road across the country.

They spent much of it congratulating each other on the cottage. Although they would never have admitted it, even to each other, there were times when they thought it was becoming a bit much for them. But on a day like today when they could see the admiration and the jealousy of the people who sat around in the sunshine, then it was all worth it a hundred times over. They forgot the weekends they had arrived to find pipes burst, roof leaking, ants walking the kitchen floor in their thousands, mice making nests in the window boxes … all that was as nothing. The strings of the Last orchestra thudded and swept in the background.

James said: ‘Do you know that your father’s having an affair with Ruth O’Donnell, the artist?’

‘Dad? Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘He is though, I heard it before. I heard it from someone who met them in London, of all places. Wouldn’t you think you’d be safe having it away in London, ten million people, but no, spotted in flagrante.’

Anna looked around almost automatically to see if the children were asleep. If their grandfather’s adultery was going to be discussed it would not be devant these enfants, she thought.

‘I don’t believe a word of it.’

‘Honestly, sweetheart, Frances and Tim were talking about it this afternoon. They didn’t like to mention it in front of you.’

‘So that’s what you were wittering on about. I thought it was business.’

‘No, they tell me they see him often coming out of Ruth’s apartment block, you know.’

‘The new one … yes … heavens above.’

‘Are you upset, are you upset that I told you?’

‘I don’t believe it, not
Dad
. I mean, he fancies her maybe and goes in and has the odd little drink. But not an affair, not sleeping with her, not Dad.’

‘Um.’

‘Well, don’t you agree?’

‘I don’t know, I only tell you what I hear.’

‘You think it’s possible that Dad would have a real affair?’

‘That’s what is said.’

‘But why would she? I mean she’s young and well known and got her own life … she could have anyone or no one if she wanted. What on earth would she want with Dad?’

‘Who knows? People want extraordinary people.’

‘Yes.’

‘You are upset. I shouldn’t have told you like that straight out. It’s just … well, it was on my mind.’

‘I’m not upset. I don’t know why. I suppose when I was young like everyone I was always terrified if they had a row that they were going to part. But they didn’t, nobody ever did. Things just go along drifting. That’s what happened to marriages in those days.’

‘And in
these
days, it would appear.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, they say that your Papa and Ms O’Donnell have been constant companions for two to three years.’

‘Never!’

‘Apparently.’

‘Imagine at Christmas, and the year before and the year before … all the family party … and all the time … I don’t believe it.’

‘Do you think Grandmama knows?’

‘I’m certain she doesn’t. Poor Mother. How odd, I don’t know why I’m not all crying and thinking it’s the end of everything. I suppose I just haven’t accepted it.’

‘I don’t know why I told you.’ James looked worried. ‘It’s only making you sad, but it seemed a big secret to keep from you … we don’t have secrets.’

‘No.’

‘And you’re so practical, I thought you’d want to know about it in case there’s anything you wanted to do.’

‘Like what, frighten her off? Please leave my Daddy alone?’

‘No, but you do know her sister, don’t you, Deirdre?’

‘Yes, Deirdre O’Donnell, she was in college with me. God.’

‘So there we are.’

‘There we are all right. Are you shocked?’

‘I’m a bit stunned, like you. I can’t see my father-in-law in the role, but I think I’m mainly sorry for poor Grandmama. I thought that’s what you’d feel most.’

‘No. Mother will survive. She’s very rarely living in the real world anyway. She seems a bit stoned to me a lot of the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if that doctor has her on valium most of the time. That’s why he’s such a success with all that generation, he just prescribes it by the ton … takes the edge off life, that’s his motto.’

‘Yes, well, it looks as if your mother’s going to need her supply.’

‘Yes, but in a way why should she? I mean if it’s been going on for years, nothing’s going to change.’

‘I suppose not. Check the mileage, will you, I’m turning in here for petrol.’

Anna got out the little leather covered book and wrote in 11,878 under mileage, Tralee under place, and then sat with her pencil poised until she could fill in the remaining two columns, gallons and price.

*   *   *

‘I’m not going to spend a month going in and out playing cat and mouse with them. I’m not going to do it,’ Sheila said on Sunday evening. She had the dining-room table covered with books that she was marking for tomorrow’s class.

‘I suppose you could just be there, you know, if she needed you, that would be a help,’ said Martin. He was doing the crossword while Sheila corrected her exercises.

‘That’s not the point. It’s unforgiveable being drawn into other peoples’ rows and scenes and disasters. I’ll never forgive him for accosting me like that and forcing me to take sides and attitudes. People shouldn’t drag you into their unhappinesses, it’s not fair.’ She looked very cross and bit on the end of her pencil in annoyance.

‘No, stop being tolerant and forgiving, Martin. It’s a fact. We never drag people into our marriage, now do we?’

‘No,’ said Martin thoughtfully. ‘But then we’re very lucky we don’t have any problems in our marriage.’

‘No,’ said Sheila sharply, going back to the exercise books. She had resolved long ago that if she was going to be the breadwinner, she wasn’t going to complain and ruin it all by being a martyr. The only thing that made the whole bloody business worthwhile was that Martin had no idea how tired
she was and how much she hated going in to that school each day. She thought of Carmel for a moment, and a great wave of impatience flooded over her. Carmel could get up at any time she liked, she had nothing more pressing in her day than to decide which clothes she should send to the St Vincent de Paul. Carmel’s children were married. Well, Bernadette was as good as married. They weren’t pounding home with huge appetites for meals which had to be prepared and shopped for. Sheila tried to give the appearance of being in charge of the kitchen so that Martin’s sons should not think him a sissy. They still said ‘Thanks, Mum’ when they found their clean clothes in their bedrooms, though as often as not it was their father who had done them.

In a way Carmel had only herself to blame if she was miserable and wretched over all this business about Ruth O’Donnell. Carmel was a lady of leisure with too much time to think about the too little she had to do. Then with a jolt Sheila remembered that it was she and Martin and Dermot who were wretched. Carmel had been very cheerful, and was in fact busy organising a dinner party and smartening up her wardrobe. Not at all what this wronged wife would have been expected to do.

*   *   *

Ethel and David had people in to bridge on Sunday night. They always had what they called a curfew on
Sunday nights, and everyone had to have played the last card by eleven-thirty.

When the car had driven off and they were emptying the ashtrays, opening the windows and taking out the dirty glasses to the dishwasher, Ethel said: ‘I have the most awful feeling, like doom, as if something dreadful is going to happen. Do you know that feeling?’

‘Every day going into work, and it’s always accurate,’ said David.

‘Don’t be trivial, you love your work, and why wouldn’t you? People fussing over you, fuss fuss fuss all day. No, I have a sense of foreboding and I can’t think what’s causing it.’

‘Maybe you feel guilty about something,’ David said.

‘It’s that kind of feeling, that sort of heavy feeling in the chest, but I’ve nothing to be guilty about.’

‘I think it’s the bank manager’s bit of skirt. I honestly think that’s what’s making us all so uneasy. I feel a bit edgy myself.’

‘But we’ve known about it for ages.’

‘Yes, but the poor sad wife must have only just found out.’

Ethel stood looking at a plate of peanuts thoughtfully. Eventually she tipped them into the pedal bin. ‘I’d only eat them,’ she said as an explanation, ‘and they’re more fattening than large g’s and t’s. I suppose that is what’s making us
nervous. It’s such a mad thing to do. Such a very men in white coats mad thing to do. Ask the woman to dinner and have a public scene.’

‘She won’t go of course,’ said David.

‘No, but the fact that poor Carmel actually asked her is so mad. That’s what’s upsetting. Who knows what she’ll do next, walk down Grafton Street in her knickers?’

*   *   *

Deirdre O’Donnell had no trouble in getting the porter to give her a key to her sister’s flat. She said that Ruth wanted her to post on some things.

She wandered around, luxuriating in being alone among someone else’s possessions. Now you could look and stare and ponder to your heart’s content. Everyone else in the block had their sitting rooms carefully draped and framed. They looked like the rooms in a doll’s house from outside. But Ruth’s sitting room was bare, it was in fact her studio, and what other people regarded as the master bedroom and decked with fitted cupboards and thick carpets, Ruth used as a secondary studio and office. The small spare bedroom was her bedsitting room; a sofa that turned into a bed sat neatly in its sofa role, and in the kitchen the saucepans sat shining in a row.

For an artist her sister was very neat, Deirdre thought. Spinsterish she had once believed … that was before she knew about the regular visits of Anna
Murray’s father. FATHER. A bank manager. Maybe she should go to him to authorise an overdraft. Seriously, that’s not a bad idea at all.

On the mat there were a dozen envelopes. Some were obviously brochures or advertisements. Then she saw the letter in the neat round handwriting. She eased it out carefully. It might be full of terrible intimate things … things that Ruth would not want her to have read. She must steam the envelope; she could stick it all back with glue if it really was too yucky and Ruth would get into a temper.

Dear Ruth,

I don’t know whether you remember me or not, but we met a couple of times with David and Ethel O’Connor and you also know my friend Sheila Healy who says you gave a wonderful lecture at her school. Anyway, we are great admirers of yours and so looking forward to your exhibition on October 8th.

I’m going to try to steal you for that night to come to dinner with us. This is why I’m writing to you so far in advance; I am sure you will get many invitations nearer the time but I want to be first in with mine. We will have the O’Connors and the Healys as well, so you will be among friends.

Please let me know soon if you can come. I’m one of these middle-aged fussy sort of women
who spend ages getting things organised, not like you and your friends. I’m sure you can combine about three lives successfully, but I’ll be setting and resetting the table for days before you come, and then I’ll pretend it all happened of its own accord. It will give us all a great deal of pleasure if you say yes, and I know Dermot my husband would be thrilled. He has bought three of your paintings for our home. I hope you will like the way we have had them hung. So looking forward to seeing you.