by Maeve Binchy
She had forgotten about minding her own business.
A Winter’s Tale
Miss McCarthy always wanted to fall in love in winter. Not in spring, like everyone else.
It had started long ago when she used to be on the hockey team and they would cross the city after a match, steaming with energy and health, carrying bursting sports bags, and waving hockey sticks as weapons. She used to look around hopefully in case she might catch the eye of some young lounging fellow and have a bit of repartee.
And then, when she was in the secretarial college, it was the same. She never felt wistful about those who went off to court in the Dublin mountains on long sunny evenings, or who wandered hand in hand along a strand in the sunset. But she was filled with envy when she saw a little winter love. When she saw a couple buying the ring on Christmas Eve in the cold crisp air with all the excitement about the place. Or when she saw well-wrapped-up young lovers heading off on a freezing Saturday to some match.
Her pangs were sharpest when she thought of love by a dancing fire, full of warm burning briquettes where lovers sat on the rug and talked of the future.
Miss McCarthy’s section in the service all seemed to get engaged with great regularity. Girls who had been talking about Sean one month, and Donal the next, produced small diamonds in unusual settings given to them by Michael the next.
Miss McCarthy had oohed and aahed over more rings in ten years than she would ever have believed possible. Young girls tossing their heads: “We’ll have the deposit for the house in two years, we can live with his mother until then.” Other girls: “Well, it’s hard to explain, but it really is like something out of a book, we’re so happy.” More girls: “And it’s going to be an evening wedding, much nicer really, there can be dancing and everything.”
Mr. Blake used to admire Miss McCarthy a lot. She was so patient with these silly girls, she just had the right touch—a little enthusiasm, a bit of excitement over their nonsensical romancing and telling what they did last night and whether they would be in when the fella rang next—and then back to work.
Miss McCarthy never told them to stop wasting time; instead, she looked at the clock and gasped guiltily, as if it were she who had been distracting everyone. It worked every time. Peace and activity settled back in their accustomed hum, and Mr. Blake was full of admiration for that.
He was not a leader of people himself, and he saw a kind of authority in Miss McCarthy. She was a bit like a nun he knew back home, firm but never harsh.
She was a fine-looking woman too. Tall and slim with nice lacy blouses and soft cardigans, pink and blue and gray. He liked those nice brooches she wore at the neck of her blouse too. She was what would have been called a very nice girl, a superior kind of girl, back at home. Even his mother, who was fairly critical of almost anyone, would find it hard to say anything against Miss McCarthy.
It was when he started to wonder what his mother’s view of Miss McCarthy might be that Mr. Blake realized, for the first time in six years of working in the same section, that he was actually thinking of Miss McCarthy as a woman, and what’s more, as a woman for him. He was startled and not altogether pleased by this realization.
Mr. Blake’s life was very well organized and it didn’t need any complications. He lived in a grand house in Clonskeagh with a distant cousin of his. He paid for his room and breakfast there, and had been settled there for six years, since he came to Dublin.
His room was big enough for him to have a friend in for a chat, or a game of cards, and there was even an armchair in it to encourage the fiction that Mr. Blake had a bedsitter.
Miss McCarthy thought Mr. Blake a very nice man but that he was a bit put upon by everyone. Extra work was always arriving in his tray. Knotty, boring, endless problems were always given to him, the kind of thing there was actually no solution to. Then other people would sigh because Mr. Blake had found no solution.
He was a late entrant into the service. She heard that he had worked in the family business in Cork somewhere and there had been a row. He lived now in some cousin’s place, and, from all she could ever gather, he hadn’t much of a life. He never volunteered much but she thought that he had seen a lot of the television programs that they talked about in the office and none of the plays or the films.
Maybe he sat in every night and watched the television in a darkened room with his cousin and her two school-going children. The cousin was a deserted wife, Miss McCarthy had heard in some whisper, and it was nice for her to have the money coming in.
Mr. Blake wondered idly what Miss McCarthy did in the evenings. She was always businesslike and bustling about going home, not wedded to a desk like some of the lonely older women who were really sorry to leave the comforting life of the office at the end of the day. He knew she lived with her mother in Rathmines.
He knew that she must be about thirty, four years younger than himself. He knew she had no regular boyfriend, no love life. It would have been hard to hide a love life in that section. He knew that she always found him pleasant and agreeable, so he decided that he would ask her out for a meal. What Mr. Blake didn’t know was how hungry Miss McCarthy was feeling for a little winter love.
It was a wet February evening and they felt awkward walking together down the street instead of separating with a wave as they normally did at six. Mr. Blake had suggested a drink first, since it wouldn’t be worth their while going home just to come into town again.
Miss McCarthy had worn a dress and jacket to work instead of her normal blouse and skirt with a pastel cardigan over her shoulders.
When six o’clock came she put on more lipstick, a pair of earrings, and a cream chiffon scarf. She looked dressed up to go out.
They walked companionably past all the shops selling Valentine cards and into a lounge where there was music and thick carpets. Mr. Blake had two half pints of a fancy draft lager, Miss McCarthy had two glasses of white wine.
They talked about the office and about the likely changes and about the man in the section who was a troublemaker and about how they had spent Christmas. Mr. Blake had decided to stay in Dublin to avoid all the traveling, he said—which meant that Mr. Blake had been on such poor terms with his family over whatever it was that he didn’t even go home to wherever it was in Cork for Christmas.
Miss McCarthy had said she and her mother had a lovely quiet time, very peaceful, which meant that she and her mother had had nowhere to go and, even more sadly, had had few people to ask in. But the loneliness that hung over both of them didn’t seem sad. In the buzz and burr of a warm city pub in early evening it seemed companionable.
But they didn’t admit anything even to themselves, and by no glance did they let the other know that this was something possible, something warm and nice that they might hold on to, and it might become big and developing and look after them. They were treading very delicately in case it would go away.
And it went away. It went away because it was blown away.
It blew away as they went to the restaurant. Mr. Blake had suggested one place and Miss McCarthy thought it sounded very nice. When they got there it had candlelit tables and red tablecloths. There was a pianist playing softly at the back. There would be no worry about how much it cost since the menu was on the door, but suddenly Mr. Blake’s neck seemed to bristle about it.
He turned to Miss McCarthy, who was looking inside with her pale eyes shining and her head filled with two unaccustomed glasses of white wine and a wish to look after Mr. Blake and make sure he wasn’t put upon too much by the world.
“I don’t think this is the kind of place…do you?” he said hesitantly.
“What? I beg your pardon?” Miss McCarthy was taken away from her vision, the windows wet and studded with raindrops, the warm, soft place with loving people inside. Every table seemed to have a couple at it.
“What?” she said again.
Mr. Blake looked around without any pleasure.
“I don’t know about you, Miss McCar
thy,” he said, “but I like a place where you can see what you’re eating, where you can get the hang of what’s going on. A grill bar or something?” He looked at her, waiting for her quick, eager agreement, her pleasant easing of situations.
But she was not giving any.
“Whatever you say,” she said in a clipped sort of voice.
Mr. Blake thought her face looked a little sharp and pinched, like that nun he remembered back at home.
HOLIDAYS
The Dream Holiday
They never missed a Saturday lunchtime, all four of them coming from different places and taking the corner table in Kriti, the Greek restaurant. They were well-established regulars now: Yanni would run up with the basket of bread and the dish of olives, and dust down the chairs for them.
They were nice people, he told his wife: two couples, longtime friends, easy to please, telling each other news, always happy.
Julie came from her shift in the florist’s. It was a part-time job, just on Saturday mornings. Five hours, eight to one, nice extra cash, and at least it kept her out of the other shops, she would laugh. She liked it there, opening up the shop, waiting for the flowers to come in from the market. In a way she would have liked a full-time job there instead of at the cash desk in the butcher’s shop. Everyone was in a hurry there, and there wasn’t the same feel about taking money for fillet steak or lamb chops as there was for ten white carnations laid against ferns, or giving advice about how to keep a little cyclamen from flopping immediately.
But they didn’t need her full-time, they said. There really wasn’t the work. They had hoped that the new office block nearby would fill up and then there would be loads of customers. But it had been slow. It had been a fairly tough area once and businesspeople hadn’t wanted to relocate to an area without a good name.
But because of supermarket shopping and hairdressers in the area they could offer her Saturday work—there were always lots of orders to fill on a Saturday morning. They came with messages saying “Thank you” and “I love you” as well as “Happy Birthday” or “Congratulations.”
Once there had been a huge bouquet with just a one-word message: Sorry. Julie had told the others and they spent the whole lunchtime wondering what anyone could have done that warranted fifty pounds’ worth of roses.
Julie’s husband, Bob, went to see Flora, his daughter from his first marriage. There was a problem every single Saturday morning. Either Flora’s mother would call and say the girl hadn’t got up yet, or Flora would arrive herself, in tears over something. It always upset Bob, and Flora had to be consoled by a visit to the shopping mall to buy a new CD.
It would take Bob an hour or so to unwind when he got to Kriti. He looked pale and tired. Julie’s heart went out to him but she would pat his hand and say it would all be all right. It always was, anyway. Neither would she tell him that Flora was as devious a sixteen-year-old as anyone was ever likely to meet, who knew exactly how to manipulate her father. No, it was better that they should be with Brian and Carol, where nothing would be said but all would be understood. And soon Bob would be smiling again.
Carol came to Kriti direct from work. She ran a recruitment agency with two other women. Saturday was one of their busier days. Women who were working Monday to Friday but who wanted to change jobs liked to come in on a Saturday and see what else was on offer. Carol’s two partners were women with small children and they often found it hard to work on Saturdays. Of course, Carol and Brian had small children too, but then Carol was a genius at getting people to look after them. She had such a support system organized that you would have to look at her with awe.
They all said that Carol could run the universe—and she agreed. Or she said she could have a fair shot at it anyway.
Brian’s mother lived in a granny flat in their house. Well, that was the theory, but in reality she lived with them. Not a happy camper, Brian’s mum. Every Saturday morning she liked to be taken out to the hairdresser, or the chemist, for a little look around the shops and for a coffee with two other old ladies. Then Brian would drive her home, serve her lunch, and head out for Kriti, where he would be more than ready for the one treat of the week which could not be interrupted by the sound of his mother’s stick knocking on a wall.
—
The two young girls at the next table had a selection of holiday brochures and were debating where they should go.
“Doesn’t it make you feel old?” Julie said. She wasn’t remotely old, only mid-thirties, in fact. She had been to France on a grape-picking holiday once. And she had gone with her mother on a four-day coach tour of Belgium. But she had never really traveled for sheer pleasure, not like those two kids were planning. She had never got onto a charter flight for two weeks in the sun without a care in the world.
When she and Bob married, they went on a honeymoon to Cornwall, which was lovely; but they had to be back for Saturday so that Flora would know that she hadn’t lost her daddy permanently just because he was married to someone else.
“I don’t think I’d like that kind of holiday, even if we did have the time,” Carol said. “You know, screaming teenagers, discos, wet T-shirt competitions…”
“I don’t know—wet T-shirts…” Brian made a feeble joke. “Doesn’t sound all that bad to me.”
“It wouldn’t have to be a big, high-rise place,” Julie said. “It could be small and quiet, a villa near the sea maybe.”
“A nice walk in the evening into some bar by a harbor and dinner in the open air,” said Bob, who had just recovered after this morning’s onslaught from Flora.
“And our own balconies to snooze on,” Carol said thoughtfully. “With no sound of telephones ringing anywhere for miles!”
“And we could have a little bit of culture as well,” Brian suggested.
“Just a little,” the others agreed, and realized that they were actually planning their first holiday together. They had an extra bottle of wine to celebrate the decision. Yanni asked them what was the occasion.
“A holiday abroad,” Julie explained. “I know it doesn’t seem such a big thing—millions of people are setting out on them every day—but somehow we four didn’t manage to.” They were quiet for a moment looking back on all the years when they hadn’t headed off for the airport like everyone else. And the reasons why. But that was behind them now. They knew this, and there was a great sense of excitement.
“And where will you go?” Yanni asked.
They had no idea.
“I hope very much that you go to my country. Greece is a beautiful place.” He pointed to the pictures on the restaurant wall, pictures that now had a new significance. A ruined palace, a fishing village, white buildings covered with flowers. Anything was possible. They agreed to have the brochures next week and they went home in high good spirits.
Julie unpacked her shopping and stacked it in the kitchen; in the little basket where they put receipts she saw one from Bob’s credit card. It was to a boutique for forty-nine pounds, seventy pence. She sat down on the kitchen stool to get over the shock.
More than she had earned all morning, standing in a drafty flower shop where the door was open letting in an east wind. Nearly fifty pounds he had spent on that monstrous girl. And judging from Bob’s strained face when he had arrived in the restaurant, Flora had obviously not been sufficiently grateful even for this huge generosity. So her husband had bought something that cost fifty pounds in a shop where Julie would not even dare to walk in on account of the prices.
Could she really let them go on like this? Father and daughter caught in a love-hate trap that was bleeding their savings account dry, without bringing any happiness to either of them. Surely someone should put a halt to this before it drove everyone insane. But then, was she the right person to do it? Was it worth all the drama and confrontation that would be involved? Perhaps a wise woman would stay out of it.
Julie felt her hands shaking as she stored the detergent in its place on a shelf. She had walked to a dis
count store further away to save pennies on this packet—pennies, while her husband had spent fifty pounds to placate a selfish teenager whom nothing would please, not even the return of her father to be a full part of her life. Flora only wanted Bob on Saturday mornings, she just needed to make him feel guilty the rest of the time. This ceaseless attempt to buy her affection must stop.
Yet Julie was loath to bring the subject up. Bob worked so hard in that television center, with the house calls, and lugging huge boxes up and down stairs. She really wanted him to have some breathing space before going back to work on Monday morning. But then suppose that he gave Flora so much money there wouldn’t be enough left for their holiday?
Julie picked up a fifty-pence coin and spun it. Heads she’d tackle him about the purchase. Tails she would let it pass.
Bob came into the kitchen, smiling at her warmly.
“You’re a very good girl, Julie,” he said. “Did I ever tell you how easy it is to live with you?”
“What brought this on?” she asked.
“Just to come in and see you spinning a coin like a child—I don’t know, it’s very endearing.”
She let the coin fall and didn’t look at which side was up. Instead, she put her arms around his neck.
“It’s dead easy being married to you too, my love,” she said. And they went upstairs together.
Later on that evening, when she was getting the supper, Julie found the coin; it had landed head side up. Fate had meant her to confront him, tell him that these payments to his disaffected daughter must go on no longer. But then fate can come at us in different ways. Bob had just walked into the kitchen at that moment and said that he loved her. They had spent the afternoon in bed. Wasn’t that much better than any confrontation? Julie was sure that it was.
