by Maeve Binchy
‘Look, I’ll go down on my knees to you.’
Dermot had never liked Ruth’s younger sister. A know-all, a moraliser and worst of all a contemporary of his daughter Anna’s when they were at UCD.
‘No, I swore I would reveal nothing. Ruth only told me just in case there was any real crisis, about the gallery, you know.’
‘There’s a very big crisis. I can’t tell you how big.’
‘Honestly, Dermot, be fair. Play it by the rules. Just leave her alone, can’t you? It’s only a couple of weeks.’
‘Listen here, smarty pants,’ Dermot had lost any veneer of manners by now. ‘Go into Ruth’s flat, where there will be a letter with a Dublin Four postmark addressed to her. Open it and read it. If you think then that it’s serious enough perhaps you could ring your sister and ask her to ring me. That’s all.’ He stood up to leave the travel agency where she worked.
‘Wait. It’s not some awful sordid thing … some scandal, is it?’ The girl’s lip wrinkled with disgust.
‘It’s only a dinner invitation, but she might want to ring me about it.’
He nearly took the door off the hinges as he left.
* * *
Dermot telephoned his office.
‘Oh there you are, Mr Murray,’ the girl on the switch said with relief. ‘It’s not like you to be late. I didn’t know what to do with your calls. We’ve had …’
‘I’m not feeling well today, Margaret. Kindly inform the manager, and ask Miss O’Neill to put someone else on the Foreign Exchange and move her own things to my desk.’
‘But Mr Murray …’
‘I’ll call back later, Margaret. The important thing is that Miss O’Neill sits at my desk. Put any calls for me through to her, she will know how to deal with them.’
‘When will you …?’
‘As I said, I’ll call back later, Margaret. The bank is not going to grind to a halt just because for once the manager isn’t well.’
He hung up and regretted it immediately. The child on the switch didn’t care whether the bank ground to a halt or not. Probably hoped it would if the truth was known. Why had he been so snappy, she was bound to gossip about it too. If only he had just taken thirty more seconds to be soothing and reassuring then it would have passed unnoticed in the minutiae of the day … poor Mr Murray’s not well, must have that bug, oh well, Miss O’Neill’s looking after his work … and that would be that. Now the girl on the switch would be full of indignation … bit my nose off, snapped at me over nothing, all I was doing was asking, what do I bloody care where he is, what he does, he can take a running jump at himself.
Why couldn’t he have had the patience to exchange just two more conventional remarks? He had been so patient, so very patient about everything so far. Why couldn’t he have kept his temper this morning? He frowned at his reflection in the car mirror when he got back into the driving seat. He didn’t like the middle-aged tense man that looked back at him. In his mind’s eye he didn’t see himself that way; in his mind’s eye he saw himself as Ruth’s man, her strong support, the one she ran to when she was exhausted with her work, when she was full of doubts. To the little girl on the switch back at the bank, he was probably middle-aged Mr Murray, and if she knew about Ruth (which she might well in this village that they called a city) then she would think he was pathetic with his bit on the side, or a louse cheating on his wife.
Dermot didn’t feel like driving anywhere. He got out of the car again and walked until he reached the canal. It was a nice crisp morning. Other people were still in their cars choking with fumes. These must be big executives, the top men, if they could come in to work as late as ten to ten, or was that right? If they were top men maybe they should have been at their desks since seven-thirty? Maybe they were the kind of men who had inherited a family business and who didn’t have to work hard because they were the bosses’ sons. Funny how you saw different sides of society when you stepped off your own little treadmill for a bit.
Two women passed him on the canal path, bright laughing women in headscarfs. One was carrying a huge plastic bag and the other a large stuffed pillowcase; they were on their way to the launderette. They were the kind of women that Carmel would describe as nice poor things. And yet they weren’t nearly as poor as poor Carmel. They were carting their families’ washing off without a look of resentment about them. Carmel might be bending over the controls of a washing machine in her own kitchen but more likely she would just sit and stare out into the back garden. He had looked at her in off-guard moments over the last few months and this was how she was when in repose. Her face was empty as if she had left it and gone somewhere else.
He had hoped she would find interests, but he realised more and more that this was a vain hope. She had no interests. She had nothing whatsoever that would lift her out of that sad pose. When Anna and James had had the first baby Dermot thought that this would absorb Carmel’s time, a grandchild out in Sandycove. He was certain she would be out there every second day, or encouraging Anna to leave the child in Donnybrook while she went about her business. But Dermot hadn’t understood about modern young mothers like Anna. Cilian first, and then Orla, had just become part of her own life as if they were adults. They were constantly being strapped and unstrapped into car seats. They moved with a battery of educational toys, they were quite self-sufficient wherever they went. Doting grandmothers did not come into the picture at all.
And then of course that strap Bernadette shacked up with that Frank; ‘my flat mate,’ no less, she called him. She hadn’t been much help or support for her mother, had she? Dermot muttered to himself about her. A lot of use it had been paying for her at the College of Art, quite happy to help friends out, to step in and sell things for someone who was stuck.
And friends? Carmel was a great one for talking about the Girls. Where were the girls now when they were needed? That Sheila, the schoolmistress rushing into the convent this morning as if her life depended on it. Great friend she’d be if anyone needed one; ‘I don’t talk, I don’t listen, I don’t know things …’ marvellous! And who else was there? There was Ethel … she and Carmel had got on quite well at one stage. But there as well as anywhere else Carmel hadn’t been able to cope. She had talked and talked about not returning David and Ethel’s hospitality, and not accepting any more of it. Why hadn’t she just said ‘Come around to supper,’ the way Ruth did, the way anyone did … anyone except Carmel.
It was fooling himself really to think she would be happier without him, fooling himself to say she wouldn’t really notice if he left. She would not be able to cope. She couldn’t even muster the politics of solidarity and hate, like that woman they had heard of in Ballsbridge, the wife of the man in the public relations agency. She had been so outraged when he left that she had aligned dozens of women on her side. You could hardly mention the man’s name now without hearing a sibilant hiss, so blackened had it become. No, Carmel would do nothing like that.
Dermot stopped suddenly. Carmel would do nothing. And that was why he could never leave her. She would do nothing at all. For the rest of his life he would come home, tell lies, make up excuses, invent conferences, be telephoned by mythical clients who had to be seen after hours. And Ruth would do nothing. Ruth would not make a scene, demand that he choose between them, Ruth would confront nobody, insist on no showdowns. This had been the way things were for two whole years … everyone secure in the knowledge that nobody else would do anything; Ruth knowing she would never have to make her mind up about him fully, Carmel knowing that she would never lose him utterly and he knowing that he need never be forced to say ‘I’ll take this one’ or ‘I’ll take that.’
He laughed wryly to himself. It was most people’s idea of a married man’s dream: an unquestioning wife and an unquestioning mistress. But it was a bad dream, he could write a book on what a bad dream it was. You were happy in neither place, you were guilty in both places. The very fact that nobody was making any move made it all the more insolub
le. If Carmel had threatened and pleaded, perhaps, if Ruth had issued ultimatums, perhaps. Perhaps it might have been better. But nothing ever happened. Until now. Until Ruth had been invited to dinner.
* * *
Carmel must know, he said to himself for the five hundredth time. She must know. And yet the memory of last night had been like a vivid movie running through over and over.
‘Tell me, why have you decided to ask Ruth O’Donnell whom we hardly know, whom you only met twice, to dinner? Carmel, what are you playing at?’
‘I’m not playing at anything except being a better homemaker. She’s nice. Everyone says so.’
‘But why? Tell me, what made you think of a dinner? Why a month away?’
‘To give me time to prepare to get ready. I’m not like all these marvellous women you admire so much who can have the entire golf game round for a six-course meal with no notice. I like to take my time.’
She had looked at him with a round innocent face. She had prattled on about Sheila having called in, about Anna and James driving off to the cottage, about how she wished she could get the Christmas presents months ahead in September when the shops were nice and empty.
Four times he asked her in a roundabout way, four times she had answered him with a level look. She just liked the idea of having people to dinner; why was he finding fault with it? And he never answered that question, not even with a lie.
* * *
They went to Mass at eleven o’clock in Donnybrook church and bought the papers outside.
‘Do you need anything from the shops?’ Dermot asked. ‘Ice cream? A pudding?’
‘No, I’m on a diet, but you get some if you like,’ she said pleasantly. He had looked at her face as she prayed; he had watched her come back from Communion with her head down. She never asked him why he didn’t go to Communion, she never asked him anything.
* * *
Anna and James were happy. It had been a glorious day and they had had their lunch out in the open. Twelve of them had sat and looked out over the bay and said that this was the life and they must all be mad to live in Dublin. Anna had arranged that a local woman make fresh soda bread and they had had this with their pâté. Everyone had raved about it. Cilian and Orla played at a distance with the three visiting children. Some of their friends had been staying at an hotel, others had rented a cottage … they all looked with open envy at the ease and comfort which James and Anna had built for themselves. This was balm to Anna and James. They stood and waved in the evening as the last guests drove off, they had cups of tea to get rid of the sleepiness the white wine had spread, and they looked at the clock. James had an iron rule: on the road back at seven. This meant an hour to wash up and tidy and pack the children and themselves – plenty of time.
They moved around the cottage gathering the bagful of educational toys. They plunged their twelve plates, twelve glasses, twelve forks and twelve knives into the hot soapy water. A rubbish sack was collected, carefully tied up and put in the boot as well. There were no dustmen in this part of heaven, they laughed to each other. Cilian and Orla, sleepy from the day in the sun, were strapped in, the cassette of James Last was at the ready and they faced the road across the country.
They spent much of it congratulating each other on the cottage. Although they would never have admitted it, even to each other, there were times when they thought it was becoming a bit much for them. But on a day like today when they could see the admiration and the jealousy of the people who sat around in the sunshine, then it was all worth it a hundred times over. They forgot the weekends they had arrived to find pipes burst, roof leaking, ants walking the kitchen floor in their thousands, mice making nests in the window boxes … all that was as nothing. The strings of the Last orchestra thudded and swept in the background.
James said: ‘Do you know that your father’s having an affair with Ruth O’Donnell, the artist?’
‘Dad? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘He is though, I heard it before. I heard it from someone who met them in London, of all places. Wouldn’t you think you’d be safe having it away in London, ten million people, but no, spotted in flagrante.’
Anna looked around almost automatically to see if the children were asleep. If their grandfather’s adultery was going to be discussed it would not be devant these enfants, she thought.
‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘Honestly, sweetheart, Frances and Tim were talking about it this afternoon. They didn’t like to mention it in front of you.’
‘So that’s what you were wittering on about. I thought it was business.’
‘No, they tell me they see him often coming out of Ruth’s apartment block, you know.’
‘The new one … yes … heavens above.’
‘Are you upset, are you upset that I told you?’
‘I don’t believe it, not Dad. I mean, he fancies her maybe and goes in and has the odd little drink. But not an affair, not sleeping with her, not Dad.’
‘Um.’
‘Well, don’t you agree?’
‘I don’t know, I only tell you what I hear.’
‘You think it’s possible that Dad would have a real affair?’
‘That’s what is said.’
‘But why would she? I mean she’s young and well known and got her own life … she could have anyone or no one if she wanted. What on earth would she want with Dad?’
‘Who knows? People want extraordinary people.’
‘Yes.’
‘You are upset. I shouldn’t have told you like that straight out. It’s just … well, it was on my mind.’
‘I’m not upset. I don’t know why. I suppose when I was young like everyone I was always terrified if they had a row that they were going to part. But they didn’t, nobody ever did. Things just go along drifting. That’s what happened to marriages in those days.’
‘And in these days, it would appear.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, they say that your Papa and Ms O’Donnell have been constant companions for two to three years.’
‘Never!’
‘Apparently.’
‘Imagine at Christmas, and the year before and the year before … all the family party … and all the time … I don’t believe it.’
‘Do you think Grandmama knows?’
‘I’m certain she doesn’t. Poor Mother. How odd, I don’t know why I’m not all crying and thinking it’s the end of everything. I suppose I just haven’t accepted it.’
‘I don’t know why I told you.’ James looked worried. ‘It’s only making you sad, but it seemed a big secret to keep from you … we don’t have secrets.’
‘No.’
‘And you’re so practical, I thought you’d want to know about it in case there’s anything you wanted to do.’
‘Like what, frighten her off? Please leave my Daddy alone?’
‘No, but you do know her sister, don’t you, Deirdre?’
‘Yes, Deirdre O’Donnell, she was in college with me. God.’
‘So there we are.’
‘There we are all right. Are you shocked?’
‘I’m a bit stunned, like you. I can’t see my father-in-law in the role, but I think I’m mainly sorry for poor Grandmama. I thought that’s what you’d feel most.’
‘No. Mother will survive. She’s very rarely living in the real world anyway. She seems a bit stoned to me a lot of the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if that doctor has her on valium most of the time. That’s why he’s such a success with all that generation, he just prescribes it by the ton … takes the edge off life, that’s his motto.’
‘Yes, well, it looks as if your mother’s going to need her supply.’
‘Yes, but in a way why should she? I mean if it’s been going on for years, nothing’s going to change.’
‘I suppose not. Check the mileage, will you, I’m turning in here for petrol.’
Anna got out the little leather covered book and wrote i
n 11,878 under mileage, Tralee under place, and then sat with her pencil poised until she could fill in the remaining two columns, gallons and price.
* * *
‘I’m not going to spend a month going in and out playing cat and mouse with them. I’m not going to do it,’ Sheila said on Sunday evening. She had the dining-room table covered with books that she was marking for tomorrow’s class.
‘I suppose you could just be there, you know, if she needed you, that would be a help,’ said Martin. He was doing the crossword while Sheila corrected her exercises.
‘That’s not the point. It’s unforgiveable being drawn into other peoples’ rows and scenes and disasters. I’ll never forgive him for accosting me like that and forcing me to take sides and attitudes. People shouldn’t drag you into their unhappinesses, it’s not fair.’ She looked very cross and bit on the end of her pencil in annoyance.
‘No, stop being tolerant and forgiving, Martin. It’s a fact. We never drag people into our marriage, now do we?’
‘No,’ said Martin thoughtfully. ‘But then we’re very lucky we don’t have any problems in our marriage.’
‘No,’ said Sheila sharply, going back to the exercise books. She had resolved long ago that if she was going to be the breadwinner, she wasn’t going to complain and ruin it all by being a martyr. The only thing that made the whole bloody business worthwhile was that Martin had no idea how tired she was and how much she hated going in to that school each day. She thought of Carmel for a moment, and a great wave of impatience flooded over her. Carmel could get up at any time she liked, she had nothing more pressing in her day than to decide which clothes she should send to the St Vincent de Paul. Carmel’s children were married. Well, Bernadette was as good as married. They weren’t pounding home with huge appetites for meals which had to be prepared and shopped for. Sheila tried to give the appearance of being in charge of the kitchen so that Martin’s sons should not think him a sissy. They still said ‘Thanks, Mum’ when they found their clean clothes in their bedrooms, though as often as not it was their father who had done them.
