Scarlet Feather

by Maeve Binchy

  It was a big house, back from the road, with a well-kept gravelled space for cars. The house was probably in four large apartments. James Byrne had said to ring the Garden Flat bell. It was a basement with iron bars on the window. Fairly typical of his cautious behaviour. Assume the worst. Be prepared for burglars, clients with laundered money, random tax inspections, people clamping your car, stolen credit cards. James Byrne was someone who did not automatically believe the best of people.

  He opened the door to them and smiled his usual grave smile. Dressed formally—no sweater and sloppy corduroys for James Byrne at home. They carried in their bags of ingredients though a dark narrow hall. On the right was a sitting room, on the left a kitchen and straight ahead what must have been a bedroom and bathroom. It was mainly a dark muddy-brown colour, and even with the April sunset peeping through the dark curtains there was nowhere that the light seemed to land on a cheerful corner. The kitchen had various storage cupboards, all of different heights, and an awkward table, an old-fashioned oven, a sink that was impossible to reach and a fridge that took up a great amount of room, and which held a bottle of water, a carton of orange juice, half a litre of milk and a packet of butter. Cathy ached to get it all torn out. A phone call could have had two of JT Feather's men round in half an hour, then they could order fittings. She and Tom knew places who would deliver and install in a day. But this was not going to happen. This man would live with these hopeless, outdated appliances for ever. How old was he now? About sixty-something. He had never said if he was single, married, divorced or widowed. His flat gave absolutely no sign of any lifestyle. You would not know what chair he sat in in the evening to watch television. Or if he ever did watch it. A small set stood at an inconvenient angle. A low table had a pile of neatly stacked newspapers and magazines on it. Were they waiting to be read, waiting to have things clipped from them, or just pausing before going to a waste-paper bank? Pictures on the walls were of mountains and lakes. Dull prints, no life in any of them. Old, inexpensive frames. Just two shelves of old books. They looked pretty undisturbed. A desk with some papers on it and an old-fashioned blotter, although nobody had written with ink for years. A plastic mug held all James Byrne's ballpoint pens. Cathy saw that Tom was looking around him, probably making similar judgements. She shook herself.

  'Right. The lesson starts here, James: put on your pinny.'

  'I don't think I have one…' he began.

  'I didn't think so either, so I brought you one of ours!'

  Triumphantly she produced a Scarlet Feather apron with its big red logo around the edge. He seemed bashful as he tied its strings around his waist.

  'That was very nice of her, wasn't it, Tom?' he said. 'Trust a woman to have a nice little touch.'

  'Not a bit of it, James; don't ever let the females think they have a monopoly on little touches. Look what I brought you, a great big oven glove so that you won't burn your arm to a crisp like some people I know.'

  He was very pleased with this and tried it on, flexing his arm up and down. 'Looks as if it's all going to be much more intensive, not to say more dangerous, than I thought,' he said.

  The conversation sounded so normal. Why did they feel they couldn't ask him why he was paying them all this money to learn how to make a meal? Who was he going to serve it to and why? But they knew that this was not a question that could be asked, nor would be answered.

  They did a smoked mackerel starter in little ramekins. Cathy flaked the fish expertly and added the thinly sliced mushrooms and cream.

  'The cheese for the top is nicer if freshly grated,' she said, 'but you could use a shake from the packet of Parmesan.'

  James Byrne looked doubtful.

  'I always use the packet myself for small things like this,' Tom lied.

  'Oh, you do?' Cathy said, laughing.

  'Indeed I do. Saves you that little bit of time just when you need it, I always say.'

  'It seems a very easy thing to make.' James Byrne was suspicious.

  'It tastes as if it were very difficult to make, I assure you.' Cathy patted him down.

  'I've had it in restaurants, and you know I thought there was an awful lot of cooking in it, and now it's only tearing up a cold smoked fish and pouring cream on it.' He shook his head in wonder.

  'Wait till we deconstruct chicken tarragon for you, James,' Tom laughed. 'You'll never trust a cook again.'

  They sat and ate together, the three of them. Cathy had written out everything step by step. James said it was all quite delicious, and what's more, he thought he could do it on his own. They talked easily about the theatre, how Cathy and Tom had once seen every play that was on every stage in Dublin, and now they never made time to go at all.

  'Do you go to the theatre much?' Cathy asked.

  It turned out that James did, almost every week. Why did neither of them feel able to ask if he went with a group of friends or on his own or with a companion? They touched on a lot of subjecIs: politics, prisons, drugs and eventually opera. James said he used to go a lot to the opera when he was a student, but somehow since then… His voice trailed away. Neither of them asked why he couldn't go now. Or indeed, in the years in between.

  'Do you listen to it here at home?' Cathy indicated the rather old-fashioned music centre.

  'No, not for a long while. You have to be in the mood to set it all up.'

  'No, James, of course you don't, you just put it on… it creates its own mood. I put it on doing the washing-up if I'm alone. Let's put on something when we're doing the washing-up here tonight.'

  'No, please, I don't have anything suitable,' he said a little anxiously.

  She drew back. 'Sure,' she said easily.

  She had seen tapes of operas piled high in his sitting room, but he obviously didn't want to play them.

  'Come on then, let's do the washing-up without an aria.'

  'No, no, you must not feel…' he began.

  'Rule one. Never refuse an offer of washing-up. Right, Tom?'

  'Absolutely, and be quite sure to let your guest help do the washing-up if she offers,' Tom added.

  'Why do you think it's a she?' James asked.

  'Because a mere man wouldn't care what he was being offered if he came round to dinner, and probably wouldn't notice. Believe me, I've cooked for them, I know,' said Tom, cursing himself for being so tactless.

  Cathy looked at him admiringly. 'Too true,' she said. 'No, James, the first thing is to have a dish of hot soapy water to stick the cutlery into after each course, and a place to scrape away the leavings. Then it will take two minutes.'

  'I don't have a dishwasher, you know,' he said anxiously, in case there had been any misunderstanding.

  Cathy looked around the kitchen that had no electric beater, liquidiser or proper chopping board. Of course the man wouldn't have a dishwasher. 'No need for one, hands are just as good. Take us five minutes at the outside, what do you say, Tom?'

  'Six if we do it thoroughly,' Tom said, starting on the frying pan.

  Joe rang at the door of Fatima. He carried a bottle of sweet sherry and a tin of fancy biscuits. He could hear his mother grumbling as she came to the door. 'It's all right, JT, I'm going to get it, whoever it is at this time of night.' It was seven o'clock on an April evening, hardly the middle of the night. He must not allow himself to become annoyed.

  'How are you, Ma?' he said with false good humour.

  His mother looked him up and down. She looked old and tired now, not like she had in January when he had seen her briefly at Tom and Cathy's launch party. Then she had worn a green tweed suit and a white blouse with a green cameo brooch at the neck. Tonight she wore a faded pinafore and shabby slippers. Her hair was flat, grey and limp. When he saw what women her age could do with themselves, Joe's heart felt heavy. Maura Feather must be fifty-eight at the very most. She looked as if she were well over seventy.

  'And what brings you here?' his mother asked.

  'I came to see you both, and to know how Da isgetting
along.' He kept the smile on his face.

  'You know how he'sgetting along. We sent you a note to thank you for that basket of fruit.' His mother's face was hard.

  'Yes, yes, indeed. It was a very nice letter.' Joe knew that Tom had written it, typed it, made it up for them. Anything to keep a lifeline open between them all.

  'Anyway, now that I'm here, Ma…' He began to take a step over the doorstep.

  'Who asked you to come in, Joe?'

  'Well you're never going to send me away?' He held his head on one side, the way of pleading that rarely failed. But he was at Fatima now.

  'What makes you think you're welcome in this house? You often come to Dublin, and never come to see us. I saw you one day myself out of a bus, laughing on the corner of a street. Why should we welcome you here?'

  'I suppose any man who wants to see how well his father has recovered from a heart attack is welcome in his old home,' Joe said.

  The legendary Joe Feather charm was not finding its mark with his mother.

  'I've had to live with the results of your selfishness year after year, your father having no one to lift a hand to help him at his work.'

  'Ma, I was never going to work in Dad's business, you know that.'

  'I do not know it, and a fine example you were to your brother, too…'

  'Tom was never going to work in it either, Ma

  'Not good enough for you, only good enough to pay your school fees and buy you clothes and football boots and a bicycle, but not good enough—'

  'Could I see Da, do you think?' Joe cut across her.

  'What makes you think you can walk in here after all this time, and that your father will be pleased to see you?'

  'I had hoped that you both would,' he said.

  There was a tic in his forehead. Why was he doing this? One more refusal and he would leave, but he just had to see the old man before he went. He moved gently but firmly past his mother to the room where his father sat in the chair, straining to hear every word. The man looked white and papery. But there was a welcoming light in his face that Joe hadn't seen in his mother's.

  'Joe, good to see you, lad.'

  'And you, Da, I know it's been a day or two but I wanted to make sure that you were as good as they say.'

  'They?' His mother sniffed from the door.

  'Well, Tom for one, Cathy Scarlet for another, Ned in the yard for a third. People who care about you.'

  'Huh,' said Maura Feather.

  'Look, I'm so glad to see you well, and you looking fine too, Ma. I'm just rushing through Dublin and I haven't been back here since you were in hospital, so I thought it would be good for us to meet just for a few minutes.'

  'It is indeed, Joe.' His father reached out for Joe's hand.

  Joe pretended not to see the gesture because he could sense his mother's hostility towards any hand-grasping.

  'I brought us a quick small drink and a sweet biscuit, and maybe the next time I come Ma would make us a cup of tea and a scone…'

  He didn't look at her, instead he opened the sherry and found glasses on the sideboard.

  'I hope the next time will be soon. If you knew how tough it is over in London…'

  'I can't remember anyone forcing you to go there.' Maura Feather was not won over yet.

  'I liked it when I was young and foolish, Ma, everyone likes a big bad place then… But people aren't really happy there, like they're not in any big city.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Well, you know yourself. You can see it in Dublin too, though of course London's much bigger. People are restless. They're looking for something to explain what it's all about…'

  They looked at him blankly.

  'You know, when I went to London first the churches were empty… Today there are people going into them at lunchtime, in the evenings looking up, everyone looking for answers.'

  'How would you know?' Maura Feather asked.

  'I know because I go sometimes, and into a temple or a mosque or a synagogue… There's not just one God, Mam, not like there was when we were young.'

  'There's only one true God,' she snapped.

  'I know, I know, but honestly nowadays it's much better than it used to be, isn't it, people respecting everyone's beliefs.'

  'It's very little belief you respected, Joe Feather, when we last saw you.'

  At least she had used his name. It was an advance. He poured the sherry and smiled at them. His professional smile. He didn't care for them himself—they were strangers, a weak man, a bitter woman. True, he had felt a tug of pity when he heard that his father had been fighting for breath in the hospital. Joe's own inclination would have been to continue sending the occasional long-distance gift. But he had promised Tom he would make the effort. And somehow he owed Tom.

  Tom had been right, he hadn't helped the business of being a son of Fatima. He had been of little help in sharing what he saw as the burden of elderly and tiresome parents. He would keep smiling and talking about searching for more meaning in life and pouring sherry. He saw that his mother had relaxed and his father was touchingly pleased at his efforts. Joe thought he had put much, much more work than this into selling a line of coordinated tops and shorts to a tough Northern businessman. He would stay another half an hour.

  The photo shoot was endless. Tom just could not believe that grown-up people spent such huge amounts of time doing something so trivial. Marcella had taken two days off work and arrived home with a selection of Haywards garments for both of them. The sweater and jacket she had chosen for him were astronomically expensive.

  'It's all with Shona's blessing… It's as good as an unpaid advertisement for them. And you are so gorgeous to look at I'm going to have trouble beating them all off you, the make-up artists' the hairstylists, the lighting people… And that's only the men,' she laughed excitedly.

  It was beginning to happen for her. The work dream coming true, as it had for him earlier this year. Tom would do his utmost to smile and look rugged, or whatever they wanted that would help Marcella's career.

  The man who was meant to know the timescale of everything hadn't known it, according to Neil. It was a new posting, it was all up in the air, it was not fixed to any date. There was plenty of time to talk.

  'Good,' Cathy said.

  Muttie and Lizzie whispered in the dark bedroom. 'They'll be gone at the end of the week,' she said. 'I know, and I was just getting to like them,'Muttie said.

  Neil said that Kenneth and Kay Mitchell were now installed, and everything was in place; they were ready and waiting.

  'I told the social worker that it would be a bit hard on the kids to go straight back in, and she agrees entirely. She's very nice, by the way, you'll like her; her name is Sara. Anyway, Sara says that we should bring them to visit their parents once or twice before leaving them there. She'll come with us.'

  Cathy felt an unreasonable twinge of jealousy. This was her call, hers and her kind parents, who had put themselves out for the children when nobody wanted them. Now it seemed that everyone wanted them—mad, runaway fathers, mad, drunken mothers, bossy social workers called Sara.

  'Okay, I'll fix a time to take them over to the House of Horrors,' she said.

  'Don't even whisper that name in front of those two. You know the way they pick up on everything,' he warned.

  'You're right. I'll see when I can snatch an hour and take them.'

  'Well, we'll have to coordinate when you're free, Sara's free and I'm free.'

  'But Neil, that could be next year. This isn't a conference call that we're setting up, it's my taking those kids back to where they're going to be living from now on without frightening them to death. It's about putting some kind of mad appearance of normality on it, not about checking everyone's diaries.'

  'Hon, I know what you're saying, but in these kind of things it's best to do it by the book, keep the social worker on board, then if anything goes wrong we're all in the clear.'

  'But we know exactly what will go wrong…
Eventually Kenneth will hear the sounds of distant excitement in far-off lands and Kay will smell a vodka bottle and we're back to where we were.

  Tom had never seen Ricky at work before. He had only seen him as the relaxed man who watched everything and knew everyone. He had no idea of the preparation that went into taking what would result in five or six photographs in a magazine. Tom's face was a picture. He felt sure there had been some mistake, and that this was a multimillion-dollar movie that was being made in the small apartment in Stoneyfield. What he could not begin to understand was Marcella's sense of calm throughout all of this. She served endless coffee and ice-cold mineral water. When asked to smile, she did so with a radiance he could hardly believe. It didn't matter how many times she had to do it, the same smile was delivered as fresh as if it had come from the heart. She sat motionless as they applied yet more make-up, touched up the lip gloss and lacquered her already perfect hair. Tom, on the other hand, made jokes, clowned around, felt awkward, knocked things over and apologised again and again. He thought the day would never end. No night working in a noisy pub, no back-aching hauling of food up flights of stairs, no squeezing through tiny narrow corridors without upsetting trays of food had ever been half as exhausting as this. When they were finally alone in jeans and T-shirts, with all today's finery at the dry-cleaner's and tomorrow's hung up in readiness, Tom lay down on the sofa with his head on her lap. She stroked his brow. Still fresh as a daisy, and her eyes dancing with the pleasure of it all.

  'Thank you, dear, dear Tom. I know you hated it,' she said softly.

  'I didn't hate it, exactly, but it was very stressful. I was hopeless, I'm afraid.'