Scarlet Feather (3 page)

Tom sat on the bus, his heart heavy. He was so stupid to be upset by that skimpy dress Marcella was wearing. She was dressing up for him; she loved only him. He was so mean-spirited to grudge the hour it took to go and sit with his parents in their cluttered sitting room. It was just that they were so pessimistic, so willing to see the downside of things, while he had always been the reverse. He was a fool to be upset because they hadn’t found premises for the new company yet. They would: it took time, that’s what everyone said, and then the right place would come along.

Tom’s mother said they had heard nothing from Tom’s brother Joe, nothing at all even on Christmas Day. There were phones in London, he could lift one of them. Tom’s father said that there was an article in the paper saying that the building industry was going to go through the roof, and yet Tom Feather was chasing after moonbeams trying to set up a catering company instead of entering a ready-made office. Tom was pleasant and cheerful, and talked on and on until his jaw ached, hugged them both and said he must go back.

I don’t suppose you’d make an honest woman out of Marcella’t, next year. Could that be your resolution?’ his mother asked.

‘Mam, I wanted to marry Marcella about twenty-five minutes after I met her. I must have asked her at least a hundred times He spread his hands out helplessly. They knew he was telling the truth.

Walter Mitchell looked at his watch in the pub where a group of his friends were having a New Year’s Eve drink.

‘Shit, it’s eight o’clock,’ he said.

Cathy would be like a devil over this, but still, Uncle Jock and Aunt Hannah would stand up for him. That was the great thing about being family.

There was no sign of Walter, so Cathy unpacked the glasses, filled thirty of them with a sugar lump and a teaspoon of brandy and laid them on a tray. Later, once the guests arrived, she would top the glasses up with champagne. That boy was meant to be doing this while she got her trays of canapes ready. Cathy caught sight of herself in the hall mirror – she looked flushed and uneasy. Wisps of hair were escaping from the ribbon that tied it back. This would not do.

She went into the downstairs cloakroom and smoothed a beige liquid make-up over her face and neck. She dampened her hair and tied it more expertly back. This is where she needed Marcella, to put something magical on her eyes. Cathy hunted in her handbag. There was a stubby brown pencil, and she made a few stabs at herself with that. She put on her clean white shirt and her scarlet skirt. It looked a
bit
better, she thought. How wonderful if she got a lot of business for the company out of this party! But Cathy knew she must be careful. Any sign of touting for business, or giving a card, would be frowned upon by her mother-in-law. Please may it be a success, otherwise days and days of effort, and money they could ill afford, would all have been wasted.

Ricky’s studio was in a basement, three rooms opening into each other, drink in one, food in another and dancing in a third. You didn’t so much come in, you made an entrance by walking down a big staircase which was brightly lit.

Tom and Marcella had left their coats on the ground floor, and he felt every eye in the room was on Marcella in her little red dress as she walked gracefully ahead of him down the stairs, with her beautiful long legs and the gold evening sandals that she was so proud of. No wonder they looked at her. Every other woman seemed suddenly drab by comparison.

Marcella never ate or drank at these functions. She might have a glass of fizzy water. But she genuinely wasn’t hungry, she said, with such sincerity that people believed her. Tom, however, was dying to see the food, to compare it to what he and Cathy would have done. For a party like this they would serve a choice of two hot dishes with a lot of pitta bread, something like the chicken in herbs and the vegetarian dish that Cathy was preparing at her in-laws’ house. But Ricky’s caterers seemed to have endless plates of insubstantial and tired-looking finger food. Smoked salmon already drying and hardening on bread, some kind of pate spread sparsely on unappetising-looking biscuits. Cocktail sausages congealing and allowed to cool in their own fat. Bit by bit he tasted and examined, identifying a shop paste here and a bought biscuit base there. He ached to know how much they had charged a head. He would be able to ask Ricky eventually, but not tonight.

‘Tom, stop tearing those unfortunate things to bits,’ Marcella giggled at him.

‘Look at them, will you – soggy pastry, far too much salt…’

‘Come and dance with me.’

‘In a moment. I have to see what other awful things are lurking here,’ he said, poking around the plates.

‘Would you like to dance with me?’ A boy of nineteen was staring at Marcella in disbelief.

‘Tom?’

‘Go ahead. I’ll come in and drag you away in a minute,’ Tom grinned.

It was considerably later, and after three glasses of inferior wine, that he found his way to the little dance floor. Marcella was dancing with a man with a big red face and big hands. The man’s hands were spread over Marcella’s bottom. Tom moved up to them.

‘I’ve come to drag you away,’ he said.

‘Hey,’ the man said, ‘fair’s fair, find your own girl.’

‘Oh, this
is
my girl,’ Tom said firmly.

‘Well have some manners, then, and let us finish the dance.’ 
 
[]

If you don’t mind…’ Tom began.

‘Let’s just finish this dance,’ Marcella said. ‘And then I’ll dance with you, Tom, I
have
been waiting for you.’

He moved away, annoyed. Somehow it was now
his
fault that this lout had his hands all over Marcella. He saw Shona Burke, nice girl from Haywards, one of the many people in Dublin who had been asked to look out for premises for the new catering company.

‘Would you like me to get you a glass of red ink and a piece of cardboard with a scrape of meat paste on it?’ he offered.

Shona laughed. ‘Now, you’re not going to get anywhere by bad-mouthing the opposition,’ she said.

‘No, but this kind of thing really does annoy me. It’s so shoddy,’ Tom said. His glance went back to Marcella, who was still talking to and dancing with that horrible man.

‘It’s all right, Tom, she has eyes for no one except you.’

Tom was embarrassed to have been so obvious. I meant the food. It’s really outrageous to charge Ricky for this. Whatever he paid he was robbed.’

‘Sure you were talking about the food,’ Shona said.

‘Would you like to dance?’ he said.

‘No, Tom, I’m not going to be any part of this. Go and get Marcella.’

But by the time he came over, another man had asked her to dance and the man with the big face and the big hands watched her approvingly from the sidelines. Tom went off to have another glass of the unspeakable wine.

Walter arrived at eight-thirty, when there were ten guests already installed in the sitting room of Oaklands. He came in cheerfully kissing his aunt on both cheeks.

‘Now let me give you a hand, Aunt Hannah,’ he said with a broad smile.

‘Such a nice boy, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Ryan to Cathy.

‘Indeed,’ Cathy managed to say.

Mrs Ryan and her husband had been the first guests to arrive. She was totally unlike Hannah Mitchell; a humble woman, who was full of admiration for the canapes and had plenty of small talk for Cathy.

‘My husband will be annoyed that we were here first,’ she confided.

‘Somebody has to be first. I think it’s nice to be one of the early arrivals.’

Cathy wasn’t concentrating. She was looking at Walter, small and handsome like all the Mitchells, and she was trying hard to keep her temper under control. He was being praised and feted by people like her mother-in-law and stupid guests for having turned up one whole hour late. She was barely listening to what the apologetic Mrs Ryan was saying about being a poor cook herself.

‘One thing they always wanted was apple strudels, and I just wouldn’t know where to begin.’

Cathy brought her mind back. The woman was having some business friends of her husband to coffee and cake next week. Was it possible for Cathy to deliver something to the house and not stay to serve them?

Cathy looked carefully as her mother-in-law left the room, then she took down Mrs Ryan’s phone number.

It will be our little secret,’ she promised.

It was their first booking. Not even nine o’clock, and she had got a job already.

‘Do you intend to stop dancing with strangers at all tonight?’ Tom asked Marcella.

‘Tom. At last,’ she said, excusing herself with a smile from a man in a black leather jacket and sunglasses.

‘But maybe I’m not good enough to dance with,’ he said.

‘Don’t be such a fool, put your arms around me,’ she said.

‘Is that what you say to all the lads?’ he asked.

‘Why are you being like this?’ She was hurt and upset. ‘What have I done?’

‘You’ve lurched around half naked with half of Dublin,’ he said.

‘That’s not fair,’ Marcella was stung.

‘Well haven’t you?’

‘It’s a party, people ask other people to dance, that’s what it’s about.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘What’s wrong, Tom?’ She kept glancing over his shoulder at the dance floor.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell me.’

I don’t
know
, Marcella. I realise that I’m a spoilsport, but would you come home?’

‘Come
home?’
she was astounded. ‘We’ve only just got here.’

‘No, of course. Of course.’

‘And we want to meet people, be seen a bit.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he said glumly.

‘Do you not feel well?’ she asked.

‘No. I drank too much very cheap wine too quickly and ate five strange things that tasted like cement.’

‘Well, will you sit down until it passes over.’ Marcella had no intention of leaving. She had dressed up for this; looked forward to it.

I might go home a bit before you,’ he said.

‘Don’t do that; see the new year in here, with all our friends,’ she begged.

‘They’re not really our friends, they’re only strangers,’ said Tom Feather sadly.

‘Tom, have another cement sandwich and cheer up,’ she said to him, laughing.

Cathy tried to show Walter how to make the champagne cocktails. He barely watched her.

‘Sure, sure, I know,’ he said.

‘And once they have started to drink the red and white with the supper, can you collect all the champagne flutes and get them into the kitchen. They need to be washed because champagne will be served again at midnight.’

‘Who washes them?’ he asked.

‘You do, Walter. I’ll be serving the supper… I’ve left trays out here ready for—’

‘I’m paid to help pass things around, not to be a washer-up,’ he said.

‘You’re being paid to help me for four hours to do whatever I ask you to do.’ Cathy heard the tremble in her voice.

‘Five hours,’ he said.

‘Four,’ she said, looking him in the eye. ‘You got here an hour late.’

‘I think you’ll find…’

‘When Neil comes, I think you’ll find that we’ll discuss it with him. Meanwhile, please take this tray out to your uncle’s guests.’

Cathy lifted the trays of food from the oven. This night would end, sometime.

Shona Burke watched Tom Feather standing moodily in a corner. She knew she wasn’t the only woman in the room looking at him. But the place might as well have been empty for all that he saw of them.

I think I’ll go home,’ he said aloud to himself. Then he realised that was exactly what he was going to do.

‘Will you tell Marcella, if she notices, that I’ve gone home,’ he said to Ricky.

‘Not a lovers’ quarrel on New Year’s Eve, please.’ Ricky always put on a slightly camp accent. It was part of the way he went on. Tonight it irritated Tom greatly.

‘No, not at all: I ate five things that disagreed with me,’ Tom said.

‘What were they?’ Ricky asked.

‘Search me, Ricky, sandwiches or something.’

Ricky decided not to be offended. ‘How will Marcella get home?’

‘I don’t know. Shona might give her a lift – that’s if the man with his two big shovels of hands which he has all over her doesn’t take her.’

‘Tom, come on. It’s under an hour to midnight.’

I’m in no form for it, Ricky. I’m only bringing other people down. My face would stop a clock.’

‘I’ll see she gets back to you safely,’ Ricky said.

‘Thanks, mate.’ And he was gone, out into the wet, windy streets of Dublin where revellers were moving from one pub to another, or looking vainly for taxis; where closed curtains showed chinks of light from the parties behind them. From time to time he halted and  wondered was he being silly, but he couldn’t go back. Everything about the party annoyed him; all his insecurity that he wasn’t good enough for Marcella would keep bubbling back to the surface. No: he must walk and walk and clear his head.

Eventually Neil got away from his meeting. He and Jonathan drove through the New Year’s Eve streets of Dublin and out onto the leafy road where Oaklands stood, all lit up like a Christmas tree, he saw that Cathy had tidied her big white van as far out of sight as possible. He parked the Volvo and ran in the back door. Cathy was surrounded by plates and glasses. How could anyone do this for a living and stay sane…

‘Cathy, I’m sorry things took longer, this is Jonathan. Jonathan, this is Cathy.’

She shook hands with the tall Nigerian with the tired face and polite smile.

‘I hope I’m not causing you additional problems by coming here,’ he said.

‘No, heavens no, Jonathan,’ Cathy protested, wondering what her mother-in-law’s reaction would be. ‘You’re most welcome and I hope you have a good evening. I’m glad you both got here, I thought I’d be singing Auld Lang Syne to myself.’

‘Happy New Year, hon.’ Neil put his arms around her.

She felt very tired suddenly. ‘Will we survive, Neil, tell me?’

‘Of course we will, we’ve covered all the options, they’re not going to move on New Year’s Day, are they Jonathan?’

‘I hope not, you’ve given up so much time for this,’ the young man smiled gratefully.

Cathy realised Neil thought she had been talking about the extradition. Still, he was here, that was the main thing.