by Maeve Binchy
‘Like what, dear?’
‘Like that time when you did get upset.’
‘Oh no, dear, of course I’m not. That was when I had the trouble with my sleep patterns, they got out of kilter … No, that’s all totally cured, thank God, now. You know that, Bernadette dear. I sleep like a log these nights. No no, that’s not come back at all, thank heavens.’
Bernadette sounded troubled.
‘No, well, good. You have to look after yourself, Mummy. You know the way you fuss about silly things, I don’t want you fussing about this party …’
‘You don’t understand, child, I’m looking forward to it.’
‘Good, oh and we’ll come and see you soon, it’s been ages.’
‘Whenever you can, dear. Ring first though, I’ll be out a lot in the next few weeks …’
‘Will you, Mummy? Where?’
‘Here and there, dear. Anyway, it will be great to see you. How’s Frank?’
‘He’s fine, Mummy. Take care of yourself, won’t you?’
‘Yes, Bernadette. Thank you, dear.’
* * *
Dermot thought that Carmel was a hundred miles away that morning. Twice he had said that he might be late and not to worry if he dropped into the golf club on the way home. He had to have a few chats and that was the best place to have them. Twice she had nodded amiably and distantly as if she hadn’t really heard or understood.
‘Will you be all right? What are you going to do today?’ he had asked, uncharacteristically.
She had smiled. ‘Funny you should ask that. I was just thinking that I hadn’t anything to do all day so I was going to stroll down town and look at the shops. I was thinking that it was almost a sinful thing to do … just idling away the day …’
Dermot had smiled back. ‘You’re entitled to be that sinful, enjoy yourself. And as I said, if I’m late I won’t want anything to eat. We might go and have a steak … you know. Don’t fuss, don’t go to any trouble.’
‘No, that’s fine,’ she had said.
As he sat in the traffic on Morehampton Road listening to the fool on RTE telling him exactly what he knew, that Morehampton Road was blocked solid, Dermot had a vague sense of unease about Carmel. But he shook himself and decided to put it out of his mind.
‘I’m becoming quite neurotic,’ he told himself. ‘If she does hound me about my movements and tell me detail by detail the trivia of her day I become annoyed. Now I’m uneasy because she doesn’t. Impossible to please me.’ He decided that everyone was being too bright on Radio Eireann and turned to the BBC where they were more solemn and in keeping with a man’s thoughts in the morning as he drove in to his office.
* * *
Ruth O’Donnell hadn’t got her invitation because she was away. She had gone to a farmhouse in Wales for a complete rest. She could have gone to an Irish farmhouse, but she wanted to be sure that she didn’t meet anyone she knew. It wouldn’t be a complete rest if she met people. She wanted to be absolutely on her own.
* * *
Carmel waited until the end of the Gay Byrne show. During the Living Word she put on her coat and took out her shopping basket on wheels. She never liked to miss Gay; once she had been able to give him a small cooker for a one-parent family. She hadn’t spoken to him himself but the girl on the show had been very nice, and they had sent a nice girl to collect it, or else she was from the organisation which had asked for it. It had never been made quite clear. Carmel had sent in one or two entries for the mystery voice competition too, but she had never been called on to guess it. She didn’t like to leave the house before the Living Word. It seemed rude to God, to walk out just when the few short minutes of religion were on.
She knew she should really listen to programmes like Day by Day which followed it, they would make her informed, but somehow she always felt her mind wandering and she never quite understood why people got so hot under the collar about things. Once she had said to Sheila that it would be nice to have someone sitting beside you to tell you what was going on in life, and Sheila told her to shut up, otherwise everyone would say they had learned nothing after all those years with the Loreto nuns … She thought that Sheila had been upset that day but she couldn’t be sure.
It was bright and sunny out, a nice autumn day. She pushed her tartan shopping bag on wheels in front of her, remembering when it had been a pram that she pushed. She used to know many more people in those days. She was always stopping and talking to people, wasn’t she? Or was that memory playing tricks, like thinking that the summers were always hot when she was young and that they had spent their whole time on Killiney beach? That wasn’t true, her younger brother Charlie said that they only went twice or three times a summer; perhaps the other memory wasn’t true either. Perhaps she didn’t stop at the bottom of Eglinton Road when she pointed out to the girls where the buses went to sleep in the bus home, perhaps there had been nobody much around then either.
She looked at the prices of wine in the off-licence and wrote down the names of some of them so that she could make her list and selection later on. She then spent a happy hour looking at books in the big book shop. She copied down recipe after recipe in her little jotter. From time to time she got a look from one of the assistants, but she looked respectable and was causing no trouble so nobody said anything. Seared in her mind was a remark that Ethel had once made about a house where she had dined. ‘The woman has no imagination. I can’t understand why you ask people round for prawn cocktail and roast beef … I mean, why not tell them to eat at home and come round later for drinks?’ Carmel loved prawn cocktail, and had little glass dishes which it would look very well in. They used to have trifle in them when she was young. She had kept them after things had been divided up between herself and Charlie but she had never used them. They stood gathering dust, eight of them, at the back of the cupboard in the scullery. She would make another kind of starter, not prawn cocktail, and she would use those selfsame glasses for it, whatever it was. She rejected grapefruit segments and worked it out methodically. You couldn’t have pâté, that would have to be on a plate, or soup, that couldn’t be in a glass, or any kind of fish of course … no, it had to be something cold you ate with a spoon.
She would find it eventually, she had all day, she had twenty-nine more days … there was no rush. She must not get fussed. She found it. Orange Vinaigrette. Ethel couldn’t say that that was unimaginative … you cut up oranges and black olives and onions and fresh mint … sounded terrific, you poured a vinaigrette sauce over it … it would be perfect. Carmel smiled happily. She knew that she was doing the right thing. All she had to do was go at it slowly.
She would go home now and rest; tomorrow she would come out and find a main course, and then a dessert. She had work to do at home too. Joe had said that if he was going to come and help her he would need co-operation. She mustn’t have turned into a dowdy middle-aged old frump, she must look smart and glamorous and well-turned-out. She had thirty afternoons to organise that.
* * *
Sheila dropped in on her way home from school. She seemed relieved to find Carmel there, and there was a look of worry on her face.
‘I was a little alarmed, Martin told me you had sent us a letter.’
‘It was only an invitation,’ Carmel smiled. ‘Come on in and we’ll have a coffee. I was in the middle of tidying out some cupboards … I’ve a lot of clothes that should go to the Vincent de Paul … but you know what always happens, you’re ashamed to give them the way they are, so you get them cleaned first. Then when they come back from the cleaners they’re better than anything else you have in the press so you never give them at all.’ Carmel laughed happily as they went into the kitchen and put on the kettle.
‘It just seemed so funny to write, when I talk to you nearly every day …’
‘Did it? Oh, I don’t know, I’m such a bad hostess I thought you have to write things down as invitations or people didn’t believe you. I suppose that’s why I wrote. I’d have told you anyway.’
‘But you didn’t tell me yesterday.’
‘No, I must have forgotten.’
‘There’s nothing wrong, is there, Carmel? You are all right?’
Carmel had her back to Sheila. She deliberately relaxed her shoulders and refused to clench her fists. Nobody was going to see just how annoyed she became when people asked her in that concerned tone whether she was all right.
‘Sure I am, why wouldn’t I be, a lady of leisure? It’s you who must be exhausted coping with all that noise and those demons all day. I think you should be canonised.’
‘Tell me about the dinner party,’ Sheila said.
‘Oh, it’s not for a month yet,’ Carmel laughed.
‘I know.’ Sheila’s patience seemed strained. ‘I know it’s not for a month, but you actually put pen to paper and wrote so I thought it was a big thing.’
‘No no, just eight of us, I said it in the letter.’
‘Yes, Martin told me, I wasn’t at home when it arrived.’
‘He rang you? Oh, isn’t he good. There was no need to. I mean you could have told me any time.’
‘Yes, and you could have told me any time.’ Sheila looked worried.
‘Yes, of course. Heavens, we are both making a production of it! When you think how many parties Ethel goes to, and indeed gives …’
‘Yes, well, Ethel is Ethel.’
‘And you, I mean you and Martin often have people round, don’t you? I often hear you say you had people in.’
‘Yes, but that’s very casual.’
‘Oh, this will be too. Mainly people we all know well.’
‘But Ruth … Ruth O’Donnell … we don’t know her all that well, and honestly, do you know, I think that’s the night that her exhibition opens – in fact I’m sure of it.’
‘Yes, I know it is, I said that in the letter. Didn’t Martin tell you? So I know we’ll all be going to it … but it’s at four o’clock … it will be well over by six, and even if people go to have a drink afterwards … well, they’re not invited here until eight, for half past.’
‘Yes, but don’t you think on the night of her own exhibition she might want to go out with her own friends?’
‘But we’re her friends, in a way.’
‘Not really, are we? I mean, are you? She doesn’t normally come here?’
‘No, I don’t think she’s ever been here. I thought it would be nice for her … and she doesn’t live far away, in that new block of flats, so she won’t have far to go to change.’
Sheila put down her mug of coffee.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. We don’t know her. Why ask someone we don’t know very well to a dinner? Let’s just have the six of us … it would be more friendly.’
‘No, I’ve asked her anyway, and I can’t think what you say that for. You’re the one who tells me to go out and meet more people.’
‘I didn’t tell you to go out and invite well-known artists to dinner,’ muttered Sheila.
‘Don’t lecture me,’ Carmel said with a laugh, and Sheila had to admit to herself that Carmel did look more cheerful and like herself than she had in the last while. She looked a bit more like the Carmel of the old days.
‘All right, I won’t. Let me see your cupboard cleaning. Maybe you could give something to me instead of the Vincent de Paul. I could do with it. A teacher doesn’t get paid much, God help us, when you consider how we put our lives at risk.’
‘How’s Martin feeling?’
‘Oh, he’s fine. He’s great, you know, he never complains. I’m sure he’s fed up but he never complains.’ Martin had been made redundant two years ago when two firms had merged. He had got a golden handshake. He was still only fifty-two and he expected to get another job, then he expected to write a book. Everybody else thought he was writing a book, but Sheila never lied to Carmel. To Carmel she admitted that Martin was doing the hoovering and the shopping. They pretended that Sheila loved being back in the classroom. Not many people knew how much she hated it. Her children didn’t know, not even Martin really knew. Carmel sometimes suspected, but Carmel was a long-time friend. It didn’t matter what she knew. It was just a bit worrying sometimes the things she did. Like inviting that woman to dinner. Was there a possibility that Carmel’s nerves were bad again? She sounded so well, and she looked fine. But it was the act of a madwoman.
‘Hey, you are doing a thorough job. You’ve taken everything out. Which is the good pile and which is the bad pile?’
‘I don’t know, they all seem the same. They’re like mouse clothes, aren’t they? Do you remember when we went to pantomimes years and years ago? People were dressed in mouse outfits and rat outfits … that’s what these are like!’
‘Carmel, you are preposterous! Of course your clothes aren’t like that, they’re smashing. Have you two of these blue cardigans?’
‘I think I’ve three of them. Whenever I go to a shop I can never think of anything to buy except grey skirts and blue cardigans. Have one of each.’
‘I mean it. Quite, quite preposterous.’
Carmel smiled happily. Other people said ‘Don’t be silly’; Sheila said she was preposterous. It was much, much nicer.
* * *
‘Well?’ Martin wanted to know.
‘I think she’s all right. It’s hard to know.’
‘You mean it was a joke about the invitation?’
‘No, she means it. She’s having the party, she just doesn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Then she’s not all right.’
‘I know, but she seems normal. She gave me a skirt and a cardigan.’
‘That makes her normal?’
‘No, you know what I mean. She was talking about ordinary things. She hadn’t gone off on any flight of fancy or anything …’
‘So did you talk her out of it?’ Martin wanted to know.
‘I couldn’t, she wouldn’t talk about it at all. I told you.’
‘Oh great,’ he sighed. ‘That’s all we need. You’re her friend, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Martin, I’ve had a bad day. Not just a bit of a bad day – every single bit of it was bad. I don’t want to talk about it any more. I did my best to talk to Carmel, she wouldn’t talk back, that’s all. Can’t you leave me alone!’
‘Yes, I know I should have had a drink ready and the fire lighting and tried to soothe away your cares … like a proper housewife. I’m sorry I’m bad at it. You don’t have to tell me.’
‘Jesus, Martin, if this is the night you’ve picked to do a wretched “I’m not a good provider” act, then you’ve picked the wrong night. Will you shut up and sit down. I love you, I don’t want you to fart around pandering to me just because my outfit didn’t close down … do you hear me?’
He was contrite.
‘I’m sorry. I really am. I’m just worried, that’s all.’
‘So am I.’
‘Do you think she knows about Ruth? Do you think she heard anything … ?’
‘How could she have heard anything? Who does she meet? Where does she go? Unless it was on the Gay Byrne Hour or in the Evening Press ‘Diary’ she’d not have heard.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
* * *
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ called David. ‘The traffic was bloody terrible. There’s no point in taking a car in these days, I’ve said it over and over.’
‘So have I, the number ten would take you to your door.’
‘I can’t travel on the number ten. It never comes, or it’s full when it does.’
‘Anyway, why buy a big car and not show it off?’
‘What?’ David sounded bad-tempered in the hall.
‘Nothing. You said you’re sorry you’re late, get a move on then, if you want to change or wash or anything …’
‘For what?’ David sounded even crosser. ‘Oh God, I’d forgotten. Do we have to? Can’t we … ?’
‘We do have to and we can’t ring an
d say we’re tied up. We accepted two weeks ago.’
‘It’s all very well for you.’ David was pounding up the stairs crossly. ‘You have nothing to do all day but get yourself ready … titivate … titivate.’
‘Thank you,’ Ethel said icily.
She sat at the dressing table in their bedroom. The door to the bathroom was open and he could see the thick coloured towels piled up on the chest of drawers. He knew he would feel much better when he had a bath, he knew it was unfair to blame her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
He kissed her at the dressing table. She smelled whiskey.
‘Do they serve cocktails in traffic jams?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘You’ve caught me out. I dropped into the club.’ He looked contrite.
‘Which is of course on the route home.’ She was still cold.
‘No, of course it wasn’t, but I took the lower road. Oh hell, I only had two, but do you know who was there? You’ll never guess what happened.’
She was interested. He rarely told tales of interest from the outer world; she had to prod and pry and ferret to find out anything that might be happening. She followed him into the bathroom. He flung off his coat and struggled with his shirt.
‘I met Dermot, Dermot Murray.’
‘Oh yes?’ She was as sharp as a hawk now, pique forgotten. ‘What did he say?’
‘Well, it’s amazing, it’s quite amazing.’
‘Yes? Yes?’
‘He was sitting talking to some fellows, I don’t know who they were. I’ve seen one of them, perfectly respectable, in the property business, I think, out the Northside … anyway, he was in that corner place with them.’
‘Yes … what did he say?’
‘Wait, wait, I’m telling you.’ David had run the bath as he was speaking. The water gushed with powerful pressure from each tap, the room had steamed up in under a minute.
‘I said to him, “How are you, Dermot?”’
David stood in his underpants tantalising his wife by the meticulous way he was repeating the trivia of the conversation. She decided not to be drawn.
