Maria pulled her sock up to meet the trouser leg. “Just a trick of the light.”
“I wouldn’t like to have to report you to my Wimmin’s Anti-Depilatory Committee for cruelty to poor dumb hairs.”
“I’m a, what is the word, a postfeminist,” Maria told her, pouting. “I can shave any part of my body I choose.”
“You’re not choosing, you’re conforming to male expectations.”
“Ruth, the nearest male is about two hundred feet away across a pond and can’t even see my ankles. Now, piss off and let me sunbathe.”
She clung to the central pole as the bus chugged its way up the avenue. From time to time, overhanging horse chestnuts rapped their jewelled fingers against the roof. A heavy-jowled labrador cantered alongside, barking irritably.
Yvonne licked the edge of her pink-glossed lip. “Is something bothering you?”
“I’m all right.” Maria pulled her head round slowly. “Apart from having spent the morning being humiliated by a personnel manager called Eugene.”
“Oh, the job interview? I forgot all about it. How did it go?”
“It was my fault entirely. I put ‘typing skills’ on the bottom of my resumé, just to fill up a line, really, and the bastard gave me a test on his computer.”
Yvonne let out a small moan.
“It’s only filing and reshelving they want library assistants for, so I fail to see what the test was for.”
“But you told me you could type.”
“Yeah, but I learned on the manual at school and had a few goes on the electric in my uncle’s office.” Maria leaned her heavy head against the pole. “This monster in the library has all sorts of strange buttons, and the keys go into spasm as soon as you put your fingers on them. Do you know, I managed to type system with five S’s.”
Yvonne pursed her lips. “Did the Eugene guy tear stripes out of you?”
“No, he was horribly chummy. Breathed down my neck while I was struggling with the delete button, then stopped me halfway and murmured, “That’s fine now, Maria, we’ll let you know.’ The bus jolted, cracking her head against the pole, and she straightened up. “I hate authority figures who keep calling you by your first name and pronouncing it wrong.”
“Oh, stuff him,” said Yvonne. “Don’t see why you’re letting a silly job interview get you down.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re not the one who needs a job.”
They lapsed into a stiff silence. After a minute, Yvonne ducked to peer out the window and sketched a cross on her scarf. “At least the traffic’s not too heavy. We’re past the church already.”
“Which church?”
“A tall one. Tell me, Maria, do you still go to mass?”
Maria stooped toward the window, then reached above her for the bell. “We should have got off two stops ago, I’m sorry, it’s not my day.” They squeezed toward the side door, then realised that the driver was going to open only the front one and thrashed through the double line of bodies. “Bugger Irish busmen,” Maria muttered, “they never bloody well open the bloody exit door.”
Her stride gradually slowed and shortened as they neared Beldam Square. “Tantrum’s over,” she announced, turning. “Though why you’d still want to visit me I do not know.”
“Christian duty,” Yvonne told her with a theatrical sigh. “But listen, about mass. Do you still go?”
“Of course. I mean, yes,” she went on more warily. She dipped to pick up a squashed can.
“No, I just wondered, because so many people seem to stop as soon as they get to college.”
Maria found an overflowing bin and tucked the can into a corner, while she considered. “Do you go?”
“God, yes, but then, I’m living at home,” said Yvonne defensively. “My mother would have a coronary on the spot if I refused.”
“I sort of like it, especially if there’s a good folk choir. It’s peaceful.”
“Yeah, but are you very into the religious part of it? Do you actually believe in, what’s the T word, the bread turning into his body?”
“Transubstantiation?”
“That’s the one. I never could spell it.”
“I suppose I do.” Maria’s voice was suddenly uncertain. “Nobody’s asked me that since I was seven and wearing my First Holy Communion veil.”
Yvonne nodded. “I made sixty-three pounds off my relations that day. And Mum let me use her clear nail varnish.”
“I sicked up carrots on my dress.”
“Oh, Maria, you make up these gross little stories for effect.”
“It’s god’s truth. Come home with me some weekend, and I’ll show you the stain.”
Yvonne shoved her into a bristly hedge.
As she was brushing the tiny leaves off her jumper, she sobered. “I’m still not sure about the believing business. I suppose if you believe any of it, you might as well swallow the lot.”
“Like Madonna,” said Yvonne, nodding.
“Is it?”
“You see, I don’t actually like all her songs, only the fast ones. But it makes it simpler to have all the albums and be able to sing along to all the lyrics and be known as someone who likes Madonna. Guys remember, you know? They tease me about it.”
Maria gave her a wondering look. “It does sound very like Catholicism. But it’ll be gone in two generations, you know,” she added grimly.
“What, transubstantiation?”
“The whole caboodle. Most of our generation aren’t bothering with it, are they?”
Yvonne counted the damp cracks on the pavement.
“Don’t worry about it, I could be wrong. Come on, let me buy you an ice cream.”
“But it’s winter,” Yvonne protested, following her into the corner shop. “And it’s about to rain.”
“So the ice cream will feel warm by comparison,” said Maria, and asked for two large cones.
They strolled through Beldam Square, their tongues keeping the overflowing cones just under control. On the grass a toddler was hitting something repeatedly with a yellow spade; the shivering mother sat on the edge of a nearby park bench, the collar of her raincoat turned up.
“I’m getting to like Dublin,” said Maria. “All greys and dark greens, and so much grittier than suburbia.”
The blustering wind slapped a bleached curl into Yvonne’s eyes. She cast a dubious glance upward and said, “I felt a drop. At least in suburbia we have umbrellas.”
“Probably just birdshit.”
“Maria, for interest’s sake, where’s the nearest way out?”
“Over there, by the bust of Saint Oliver Plunkett.”
“Because I get the impression it’s about to—”
The skies split. They raced for the wrought iron gate but found it locked; Maria let out a roar of laughter, tossed her ice cream cone into a wire basket, and led Yvonne off down the path. The woman jogged in the other direction, her protesting child hoisted over her shoulder. They found the entrance gate at last, its spikes silvery with rainfall. They rounded the perimeter in short bursts, snatching shelter under bulging hedges.
“Slow down,” panted Yvonne. “I’d rather drown than suffocate.” She peered between dripping lashes at the front door, reading the number on the streaked fanlight.
“Not that way, it’s a brothel.” Maria beckoned her round the side.
Hanging on to the bannister, Yvonne heaved a breath. “Did you say what I thought you said?”
“Well, it’s a probable brothel.”
“I don’t think I want to know. Come on, I’d kill for a cup of tea and a mirror.”
As they marked the last flight of stairs with their muddy shoes, Yvonne asked hoarsely, “Do I get to meet your wonderful flatmates?”
“They mightn’t be in.” Maria struggled with the key. “Yoohoo?” She collected an envelope from the radiator and headed for the kettle while Yvonne collapsed into the rocking chair.
“I feel old.”
“Wunderbar!”
“Sorry?”
“It’s a check, my grant’s come in.” Maria kissed the page. “Oh, glory be. I’ll be able to pay my fees and buy one and a half protractors now.”
“Are you on a grant? That’s nice. How much do you get, if it’s not rude to ask?”
Maria tossed over the letter and pulled two red mugs off their hooks.
“Is this per term?”
“No, twice a year.”
Yvonne slid it back into the jagged envelope. “Not very much, is it?”
“You’re damn right it’s not. If my folks’ grocery shop wasn’t paying my rent, I wouldn’t be here.”
“The government should do something,” said Yvonne. She fingered her mascara for signs of damage. “Grocery, did you say? That must be nice. Fresh fruit and all.”
“It’s not like the Southside supermarkets, if that’s what you’re imagining. No gleaming pyramids of nectarines.”
Yvonne stuck out her tongue and asked for the bathroom. By the time she emerged, makeup restored, Maria had wetted the tea.
“That’s a strange picture.”
“Which, the one over the fireplace? It’s just two women.” Maria held the jug and sugar bowl in one hand, the two mugs in the other; she hissed as her fingers began to scald.
“Were they somebody famous’s sisters or something?”
“No idea,” said Maria, setting the mugs down by the hearth and sucking her hand. “Ruth found it in a market in Marseilles.”
Yvonne rocked herself gently. “Ghastly rug, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Jael calls it the hide of the malnourished mammoth. Nice on bare feet, though.”
After a few sips of tea, Yvonne leapt up. “If the film’s not till ten past five, I’ve time for a full tour.”
“Well, here we have the common-or-garden hall.”
“Whose room is this?” said Yvonne, her fingers on the door handle.
“Theirs.”
“Could I take a peek?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Maria awkwardly. “I mean, as they’re not here. They’re, we’re quite into privacy.”
“OK, sure.” Yvonne folded her arms. “I just had the impression that you were all one happy family.”
“We are when it’s communal space. But bedrooms are different.”
“Tell that to my mother,” said Yvonne, lightening her tone. “If she walks in on me and Pete snogging one more time—”
“She doesn’t!”
“She does it deliberately. Vicarious thrills for the menopause, that’s my theory.”
Maria opened her door. “And this is my room; better shade your eyes against the stripes. I have tried to dull the impact with posters.”
Yvonne rotated, examining the faces. “Bogie’s rather hung over. Is this Garbo? She looks so different when she’s smiling.
“Don’t we all?”
Smirking at herself in the mirror, she picked up a green eye shadow. “I’ve never seen you in this.”
“Haven’t got around to wearing it yet.” Maria sat on the edge of her bed and let her back go limp.
“So tell me, how’s the little Yank?”
“You never give up, do you?”
“Well, you did say you’ve been exchanging poetry,” murmured Yvonne as she smoothed olive green below her eyebrow.
“He needed to borrow The Complete W. B. Yeats for an essay.”
“Sounds like a lame excuse to me.”
“Galway can’t afford to buy books.”
“Ah, da poor wee diddums,” Yvonne muttered under her breath as she shaded the other eye.
Maria lined up the hangers in her wardrobe with a clang. “Look, he’s not trying to worm his way into my affections. He’s a nice guy, and the most unsexual person I’ve ever met.”
Yvonne tutted as she put the cap back on the eye shadow. “Don’t be bitchy. He’d be quite cute if he put on some weight and spruced up a little.”
“I don’t care whether he’s cute or not, he’s just a friend.”
“I don’t think women and men can be friends.” Her tone had flattened, as she stared out the window across the slates.
“Why not?”
“I can only speak from personal experience, but it certainly never works for me. Either I fall for them or they fancy me or we just never get closer than the first friendliness. There’s so much stuff I’d never tell a guy.”
Maria joined her at the windowsill and drew a wave in its thin layer of dust. “How are they ever going to understand us if we don’t tell them stuff?”
“Dunno.” Glancing at her watch, Yvonne remarked, “You know, we should head. There might be a queue, it’s got Robert Redford in it. Don’t you just melt when he walks onscreen?”
“Does nothing for me.” Maria carried the mugs back to the sink.
“Blasphemy! That’s nice, on the kitchen window. Is it an eagle?”
“No, an axe. From ancient Crete, no less; Ruth painted it on.”
“My mother would like that. She’s a bit of a culture vulture,” commented Yvonne, shaking the raindrops off her coat and slipping it on. “Personally I’ve never seen the thrill in old things.”
“Then why are you in art history?”
“Beats me,” said Yvonne, following Maria out the front door. “I should have done physics, the male-to-female ratio is out of this world.”
Having nothing else to do on Tuesday evening, Maria let Ruth drag her along to the women’s group.
She felt almost conservative in her neat grey jeans and Aran jumper, since the first two women in the door were wearing layers of tie-dye over black leggings, topped off with homemade jewelry. Maria decided that it was a feminist uniform and was disconcerted when a junior lecturer turned up in a grey suit. After the kettle had boiled and somebody’s bag of late windfalls had been shared out, a woman in faded jeans and brown braids wheeled in. Maria had seen her around in the maths corridor. She smiled briefly, then dropped her eyes, in case the woman stared back without recognition.
“Hey, Pat,” said Ruth softly. She unwrapped a plastic bag and handed round wedges of banana bread, still warm.
Maria filled her mouth with its sweetness, so no one could expect her to talk. The scaly apple rested in her lap like a cannonball. She wanted to sit at the back, but she was drawn into the circle of chairs and shaky desks.
They began with a round of names and reasons for coming along; the first three were imaginative, then came a chorus of “I just wondered what it would be like” and “I agree with, sorry can’t remember your name, the woman with the plaits.” When the circle was completed, Maria took an unobtrusive bite of banana bread.
A bronzed woman from the States—Maria’s mind had dropped her name already—got the ball rolling by announcing that her sociology professor wasn’t exactly harassing her, but he did make funny remarks whenever she asked a question in class.
“Funny how?”
“Sort of suggestive. I can’t describe it, but I bet he wouldn’t look at a male student that way.”
“Would if he was gay,” Pat mumbled through her ploughman’s.
“That’s hardly the same power differential.”
Nods all round. They swapped gossip on which tutors to avoid, which deans were worth complaining to. Was it fair to scrawl unsubstantiated rumours on toilet walls? The talk drifted to the ethics of tearing down the Feed the World Society’s Fundraising Ball posters, which featured a Kenyan girl wearing only a grass skirt. “So what if it’s an authentic tribal costume,” Ruth broke in, “they’re selling black breasts to white boys all over again.” Her agitated hand swept a crust off the desk. Maria looked away, oddly embarrassed, and bit into her apple. It was old and sharp, grainy under the tongue. An Australian asked whether it was true the university had no support group for incest survivors, and would anyone like to help her set one up?
Maria leaned out of her corner of the fractured circle and tucked the apple behind a chair leg. She had nothing to repor
t, and if she had, she wouldn’t know the right words. Perhaps if she kept her face attentive, like in history class with old Sister Michael, no one would notice her. The debate heated up over the issue of abortion information in the Students’ Union handbook, when Pat, her braids scattering, started referring to knock-kneed liberals and a red-haired Belfaster said that personally, when she called herself a feminist, that didn’t mean she was into killing unborn babies.
Ten minutes later they had grudgingly agreed to disagree, and the others shifted the talk to relationships and how arrogant men (in general but of course not inevitably) were. Maria noticed Ruth drawing her knees up under her chin and listening in silence to an English woman’s saga of bad communication and good sex. She considered the small, dark-curled head, sunk into the billows of a cream jumper. Maybe Ruth was too dedicated to her studies for any of that?
A porter put his greying head in the door to comment that they’d have to be out in five minutes, girls, this room was booked for the Archeologists’ Cheese ‘n’ Wine.
“Got to run,” said Pat, deftly reversing her wheelchair down a zigzag aisle between desks.
The flame-haired woman from the North turned back into the circle and surveyed it impatiently. “Maria. What does all this say to you?”
“Well,” she began, then trailed off. A ring of benevolent faces angled toward her. “I wouldn’t like to generalise.”
“But isn’t your own experience all you’ve got to go on?” asked a pale woman, pushing strands of hair behind her ears.
“I haven’t had much. Of that kind of experience that would be relevant.”
She was saved by the Northerner who broke in warmly: “Isn’t all experience relevant, Maria? I think the group should value the special insights of celibacy. In fact, why don’t we make that our discussion topic for next week?”
Shivering at the bus stop, Maria and Ruth kept quoting “the special insights of celibacy” in a Belfast accent and relapsing into mirth.
“I made such a fool of myself.”
“You did not, celibacy’s very trendy,” said Ruth.
“I just can’t stand having to talk and everybody watching me.”
Ruth leaned out into the wind, looking for any sign of a bus in the darkness. “Don’t worry, it’s always like that for the first few sessions. After a few good bust-ups, people relax.”
Stir-Fry Page 5
