Echoes (49 page)

Clare said nothing.

“I was down there for a long time. Throwing stones in the sea. And I realized something.”

She looked at him.

“I realized I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

She didn't know why she was crying, it was ridiculous to cry when this happened. This was the best thing in the whole world that could happen. Why did the tears come down out of the corners of her eyes? She could taste them mixed with the spray, the salty spray which came up and whirled lightly around them as they kissed each other and held on to each other on the cold New Year's Day of 1960.

DAviD'S FATHER AND MOTHER DROVE HIM TO THE TRAIN; DICK Dillon and Angela drove Clare.

“There's David,” Angela said, pleased, as they stood on the platform.

Clare was casual. She had a book in her hand already. Everyone knew she was going to study all the way to Dublin. David waved cheerily, and his mother nodded, a kind of bow as if she had hurt her neck. Dr. Power had gone to the newsagent's stall to buy David a magazine for his long journey.

When the train was half a mile from the town they were in each other's arms in the corridor, each whispering the other's name over and over. They were going back to Dublin. City of freedom. So Clare was in a hostel run by nuns and David was a resident doctor in a big city hospital. Compared to where they came from this was license and freedom.

The book on the history of law and the magazine just bought at the newsstand lay beside each other on the seat of the train unread. The train was not crowded. They had a compartment to themselves for most of the journey, and when they were joined it was by an elderly American who said it was the coldest country he had ever visited in his life and he had visited a few. David encouraged him to wrap something round his feet—it was the extremities that often felt most cold. The American had a huge muffler and they tied it loosely around his ankles. He was asleep in no time and they kissed and held hands and snuggled up to each other happily in the corner without interruption.

 

They had two whole days in Dublin before anyone knew they were back. Clare's hostel didn't open till Sunday; and David wasn't expected in the hospital until eight a.m. on the Monday morning. It was only Friday night. They had made no plans, almost as if they both felt it might be unlucky.

Now in the winter evening outside Kingsbridge they walked past the line of taxis and to the bus. Clare had one small case, David two huge ones. She accused him of having brought all his washing home for Nellie to do and he opened his eyes wide. Didn't everyone do that?

She wanted to ask him what they were to do now. Or better, she wanted to tell him all her options: she could stay with Kevin and Emer, if he wanted to go and stay with James for example. She could go to the hostel and throw herself on the mercy of the nuns. They thought she was one of the most reliable girls they ever had, so they would grumble only a bit and let her into her room—even though it hadn't been aired for her and no hot-water bottles had been put in the small iron beds.

She had £18 in her wallet. They could stay in a guesthouse: there were lots of them in Glasnevin, she knew lots of students who had cheap digs out that way.

But she thought she should wait and see what David had in mind. Her throat closed over once or twice in case he suggested that they sleep together. She hoped and prayed he wouldn't ask her to. Not yet. She had to think. It was all too sudden.

As they got on the bus to O'Connell Bridge, David said easily, “You know the flat I used to stay in before they locked me up in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“I still have the key. And I can go there always. There'll be nobody back until Monday. And there's lots of rooms. You could go in the one I used to have—it's one of the nicest. And I could go . . . well, anywhere. Far away from you, I think, so that I won't come and break down the door and get at you.”

She smiled at him, relieved that she hadn't spoken, pleased that he felt the need to break down the door, and very grateful that he wasn't going to. He had said absolutely the right thing.

They had a honeymoon without sex. They held hands and she took him on tours of her Dublin. He had never been inside the Bank of Ireland to look from within at what had once been the Irish Parliament. He said he must have known that but somehow he had forgotten. She promised to take him on a weekday.

She crossed the road with him and showed him the book of Kells in Trinity College. He said he had known it was there and he had been going to see it one day.

They climbed Nelson's Pillar to look out over the city. It had a long, dark, windy staircase. There was a lot of pausing to catch breath and to kiss. David embarked on a long tale of a doctor who was married but having an illicit romance with another married lady. They couldn't go anywhere to make love because they were too well known, so they used to meet twice a week inside Nelson's Pillar and make love on the stairway. If any tourist climbing up or down was troublesome enough to interrupt them they just flattened themselves against the wall.

“That's why I brought you here of course.” She laughed and jumped lightly ahead of him so that he'd know she wasn't contemplating it for a moment. She took him down the Quays to St. Michan's, an old Protestant Church where they had a totally preserved mummy in the vaults.

In the evenings they made themselves meals. David was rather better at preparing them than Clare.

“I thought you'd be very domesticated, big family, all those brothers to cook for,” he teased.

“I'd be fine throwing a big dinner for eight on the table, lump of bacon, half a ton of spuds. But I've never cooked just for one or two. We get the food handed to us up in the hostel.” She sounded apologetic.

“It's not the end of the world, Clare. Stop looking so mournful!”

“What will we have tonight? Will we go out and get something or what?” She hoped he'd say that they'd get chips from the place down the road.

“Oh, there's lots of eggs there—why don't you just make an omelet?” He was talking absently, concentrating on clearing out the grate.

Clare looked stricken.

“There's a bit of cheese there, isn't there? We could have a cheese omelet,” he called.

“I'll do the fire.
You
do the omelet.”

“Don't tell me you can't make an . . .” David stopped when he saw her face.

“We never had them at home. If you show me, I'll know then.”

“Listen, it doesn't matter, scrambled eggs, anything . . .”

“Show me how to make an omelet. I want to know.” Her face was set and determined.

“All right then.” David was good-natured. “It doesn't matter a damn, you know. You
do
know that, don't you?”

They kissed over the frying pan. It didn't matter a damn.

 

On Sunday night, he asked her, “What are we going to do?”

“I don't know.”

They sat for a long time on the floor with a bottle of wine between them.

“It's too soon isn't it? We met too soon.”

“We met when we were babies, David.”

“You know what I mean. Now. It's too early.”

“I love you. The other seems unimportant. I wouldn't want to be a history don somewhere without you.”

“I don't want to be anywhere without you.”

“Maybe we can go round the world only taking universities that will have research facilities for both of us.” She smiled nervously.

“But in real life . . .” he said.

“Yes. Real life. Which begins tomorrow.” She looked stricken.

He kissed her and rocked her in his arms. “Nothing bad can happen now. I was never more sure in my life. I'll love you forever. I half loved you always and didn't know it.”

“No, nothing bad can happen now,” said Clare.

 

They knew immediately of course. Mary Catherine and Val. There was no point in denying it.

“Do you mind if I don't talk about it,” she said.

“Yes, we bloody do,” Valerie said indignantly. “What kind of nonsense is that? We've told you everything, every pant and groan.”

“It's very unfair to hold out on us now. It's secretive and it's not like you at all. I can't understand it.” Mary Catherine was upset.

“But there's nothing to tell. I beg you, there's no new panting and groaning in it, in fact there's a lot less than there was with Ian that night in the car. So now, will that satisfy you?”

“It will not. How did it happen? Did he say he loved you, did a thousand violins start to play? I
must
know.” Valerie was sitting on her bed, legs crossed like an old-fashioned tailor. She looked very young, Clare thought. They were all young, nobody was twenty, she was too young to feel the way she did. The realization swept over her.

“You see I'm too young,” she said stupidly.

“For what? God Clare, you're very irritating when you put on this dramatic bit. Does he think you're too young for him or what?”

“No, but it's all right for him. He's old. He's twenty-five. His life's nearly over. In terms of studying, I mean.”

“This is very tedious,” complained Valerie.

“I
told
you it was tedious,” Clare said defensively.

“It may pass over. Seriously, if you've known the guy all your life and never thought about him in that way until ten days ago, it's bound to blow over.”

“It won't. That's what really is going to be tedious for you. I can't think of any better way to put it than this and it's going to make you vomit.”

“Say it,” said Valerie grimly.

“I feel as if I'd been looking and looking for something I'd lost and now I've found it. It's like going home, except much nicer than going home, it's like you think going home should be.”

“It's a bit soppy,” Val said objectively.

“I'm afraid it is.”

“Will you be any fun do you think, ever again?” Mary Catherine asked.

“Oh, I hope so, but do you see what I mean, it's no good my talking about it, I can only use these awful, sickening words.” She looked from one to another.

“It's going to be very hard,” said Val. “In the middle of a perfectly normal conversation about sex or about who we're going to set our sights on at a party we'll remember that you've had this coming home feeling about the boy next door.”

“Will you do me one favor? Will you get it into your heads that he is not the boy next door? Whatever he is, he's not that.”

 

He was hungry for every detail of her, he told her that he used to envy the O'Briens as children going off with their jam jars picking blackberries, or with the same jam jars on strings trying to catch pinkeens. There were always children running in and out of the shop and calling to each other winter and summer while his own house was very big and you could hear the clock ticking in the hall.

She told him about how terrible Chrissie had been and somehow they made her into a comic character. All her cruelty, and pulling Clare's hair, and trying to persuade her she was abnormal didn't matter anymore.

He told her about his father and how he tried hard not to drag David back to the practice but he really wanted him there. Tomorrow. David admitted that his mother sometimes drove him mad. She was full of childish nonsenses; but years ago in a man-to-man talk his father had urged him not to be impatient, and said that Molly had given up a lot of bright lights and fun to come to a backwater as a country doctor's wife. It irritated David greatly that his father should be somehow grateful to his mother for this. It was her choice after all. And there was the history of miscarriages and stillbirths so she had to be forgiven her little silliness from time to time.

He told her that his mother came to Dublin every year to spend a few days with the Nolans; and he used to be ashamed of her carry-on, sitting in the lounge of the Shelbourne, or the Ibernian or the Gresham having afternoon tea. Far too dressed up, and asking at the top of her voice who all the other people were, then trilling with affected laughter when David hissed that he didn't know and saying that really he was quite a recluse. Clare was sympathetic. It was probably because Mrs. Power wanted to feel important just for a couple of days; she could go home and remember that so and so had saluted her and so and so had made a fuss of her. It was like a child really. David's father indulged her just like a child. Some people always got that kind of treatment.

After a while she told him about Tommy. She wasn't going to. He didn't need to know and it seemed disloyal to them all at home with this sad secret they hugged to themselves. It seemed somehow indulgent to confess it in the great heat of love. Maybe David shouldn't have to hear it either. But she told him suddenly, when he had been talking so honestly about his own life and hiding nothing. She told him quickly and unemotionally. He reached across the table and held both her hands tight. He was upset but not shocked. If Tommy were such an eejit as to get in with this kind of a crowd, maybe the safest place for him was in jail. And since he'd always been such a nice fellow he wouldn't get beaten up by the other prisoners or the warders or anything.