by Maeve Binchy
'So we trade over this, okay? No speakeasy, no corned beef.'
'It's a done deal,' said Harry.
Sara called quite unexpectedly, and did an inspection of the house. Eyes watched as she opened the refrigerator, the washing machine, looked at the food shelves and checked the laundry in the airing cupboard.
'Maud and Simon, can I ask you to go out into the garden and practise your tennis for a little bit? I see you have a net set up out there; you could get ready for your next lesson.'
'We don't have lessons now,' Simon said.
'They were too dear,' Maud explained.
'And I think the tennis teacher went away, didn't she?' Kenneth Mitchell said.
'No, just for a weekend,' Maud explained.
Sara's mouth was in a hard line. 'All the more reason to practise then,' she said, in such a falsely cheerful voice that the twins recognised the hidden threat it involved to everyone and scurried out into the garden. Sara called out after them. 'When I'm finished here, I'll come out and play each of you separately. We'll do the best of seven points. Do me good to have a little exercise. Okay?'
They thought that sounded great, and in the silence of the house Kay and Kenneth Mitchell sat and listened to the children laughing and groaning over shots missed and shots achieved, and to the pit-pat of the tennis ball on the dry, uncared-for lawn.
'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think anyone invited you to play tennis with my children in my house,' Kenneth Mitchell said, deciding to attack first.
'Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem to have the remotest idea of how serious your position is, and how you are both on the verge of losing your children. If the fears that I have about their welfare form a substantial part of my report and are accepted, they could be out of your hands by the end of the month.
'
'Can we dance at all three parties, do you think?' Simon asked Muttie back at St Jarlath's Crescent later that day.
'I have nothing to do with the arrangements, son; as you get older you learn to stay out of all that side of things. It's a kind of thing men do.'
'We'd have to have separate dances for each one—it might be very hard. But I wouldn't want to let them down, the Americans.'
'It's probably the kind of thing Cathy would know about,'Muttie said thoughtfully.
'Sure.Muttie, do you know why we got to come here to St Jarlath's Crescent as often as we like?'
'I don't, and I tell you that another thing I never do is question anything at all that turns out better than you expect. Remember that day last week when I lost my concentration down at the office, and I put an each-way instead of a win? I was so disappointed, and I'd nearly thrown away the ticket, when didn't one of my associates down at the office remind me I'd done it for a place as well? I couldn't believe it but I never questioned it; I think that's usually the best way to go.'
Simon thought about it. 'You're probably right,Muttie; it's just that if you knew why people do things, you'd be in a better position to make them do them again. You see, Father suddenly changed his mind about everything. I'd love to know what it was that Sara said which made everything different.'
'We never know half the things that go on in the world.'Muttie shook his head.
'But honestly,Muttie, Father brought a tray with lemonade out to the tennis court for us and Sara, and Mrs Barry is back again, so she must have been paid, and the tennis lessons are on, and we are in charge of washing our own clothes in the machine but Mrs Barry irons them, and Mother gets up and gets dressed. And we can come here on the bus whenever we want, like whenever you're free, I mean, and Maud and I think we must have done something right to make it all good, but we can't think what it could have been.'
Shona came into the Haywards kitchen long before the store opened officially.
'You're spying on me and trying to steal trade secrets.'
'Lord no, little microwave meals for one, that's me.'
'I doubt it.' He concentrated on his work as he talked. Pour us a coffee, will you, Shona?' he called.
They talked companionably about a lot of things. But neither of them asked the question they wanted to ask. Tom didn't enquire whether Marcella still worked in the nail salon, or if she had already gone across the water to start working on this new modelling contract that she had earned herself. She had left one more note before moving her things from the flat in Stoneyfield. Marcella had left behind her a watch, a bracelet and a leather-bound book of love poems. Her note was short.
'I still love you, and I cannot believe that you will let four years of our life end without a discussion. But then I cannot keep asking you the same question every day. If you want to tell me why we can't talk… then we both work at the moment in the same store. You might be able to tell me there, if not here. You owe me that much. Just one conversation.'
But it wouldn't be a conversation, it would only be two people sitting there, one saying that something mattered and one saying that something didn't. As the days went by Tom had steeled himself not to call the salon and discover whether she was there or not. It had become a matter of pride with him that he must not enquire. Shona for her part wanted to ask Tom to tell her every single thing he could about Mr James Byrne, retired chartered accountant and present-day part-time bookkeeper to Scarlet Feather. She would like to have asked was he a cheerful person or very intense, did he love music and go to concerts? Did he have many friends, or was he alone? Had they ever been in his apartment? Did he live alone or with anyone else? But she had kept her own counsel for so long it was hard to ask anyone else about such private things. Even someone as open and approachable as that Tom Feather, who was obviously broken-hearted over his silly girlfriend Marcella.
'What are you going to wear at the wedding?' asked Geraldine.
'A huge maternity tent with a white collar and flat shoes,' Cathy said.
'No, be serious; and talking of being serious, when are you going to tell your mother that she's going to be a granny again?'
'Soon, soon, just let her get the wedding out of her hair first,' Cathy pleaded. 'And let me get through that too, as it happens. We have so much work on nowadays, you just wouldn't believe it. I'm afraid to leave Tom out of my sight in case he takes on another booking.'
'He's desperately anxious to make up the money, isn't he,' Geraldine was sympathetic.
'Yes, and to work himself into the ground so that he doesn't have to think about Marcella,' Cathy added.
'No change of heart there?'
'He never says a word. He's not sleeping at the premises any more, so I gather she's moved out of the flat.'
'Silly little girl in many ways,' Geraldine said.
'Yes, but he adored her; still does, I think. Who knows anything about men and what they feel.'
'Who does?' Geraldine was slightly clipped.
Cathy opened her mouth and closed it again. They had been in touch with Freddie Flynn about another Villa Abroad reception: the Spanish and Italian ones had been such a hit, and he wanted something in the same style only different, of course. Cathy had asked should they liaise through her aunt as before; there had been a pause, and then he had said it would be simpler to deal with him directly. Geraldine hadn't mentioned it; she was still wearing her watch. Cathy would say nothing until she was told. As she had so often said to Maud and Simon, it was all part of being grown-up.
'Are Mother and Father being invited to the wedding?' Simon asked Maud.
'No, and don't ask why,' Maud warned.
'Why?' asked Simon.
'There, you asked,' Maud cried.
'I was only asking why must I not ask why?'
'Oh, it's got to do with Muttie's wife Lizzie. She's afraid of Aunt Hannah, and they couldn't ask one without the other.'
'It's very complicated,' Simon said disapprovingly. 'Is Walter coming?'
'No, we're going to be the only Mitchells apart from Neil.' Maud was very well informed. 'And we're going to all three parties, but we're only dancing a
t the actual wedding day one to make that special for them.'
I'd say we should bring our shoes to the recovery party in the big apartment where Lizzie's sister lives. In case they ask for an encore.'
Maud considered it. 'I think you're right,' she said.
James Byrne went in and out of his basement a lot, trying to see it through the eyes of a visitor coming here for the first time. It was very difficult to know what she would make of it. But it was important because it would also affect the way she was going to think about him. If she saw the place as severe and cold, that would confirm a lot of her opinions; alternatively, if she found it fumbling and overcrowded and messy, that would make her think that this is how he was, which was almost as bad. For the first time James Byrne realised why there were so many magazine articles and television programmes about decor. It was when you came to think of it, more important than a lot of people ever believed.
'Will there be no Mitchells except us?' Simon wondered.
'Well, Neil will be there, of course,' Cathy replied.
'What about his sister, hasn't he a sister in America? Why isn't she coming over for a family wedding?'
'It's Canada she lives in, not the United States, and it's not exactly a family wedding for the Mitchells, you see…'
'Is she nice?'
'Yes, she's okay; she sent us a lovely wedding present,' Cathy said. For a moment she felt a wild urge to tell the twins about their cousin Amanda, to let them know she lived a happily gay life in Toronto with a woman called Susan. She would love to know exactly how much damage they could do with a piece of information like that. She smiled to herself.
'It's always dangerous when Cathy laughs to herself,'Muttie commented.
'What happens?' Simon asked anxiously.
'Anything could happen,'Muttie said.
'She could buy another building, a new van, take on more staff…'
The mobile phone rang. It was Tom. He had crashed into the back of some fool who had stopped without warning.
'Are you hurt?'
'No, but the bloody birthday cake I'm meant to be delivering is. I'm hopeless with cakes. Cathy, it looks like a bloody mess and I have to stay at the scene of the accident.'
'I'll get a taxi there. What should I bring with me?'
'Whatever you can lay your hands on: trays, cloths, icing sugar, cream, anything.'
'What! I'm meant to do all this, start from scratch in a taxi? Are you mad?'
'Well what am I to do, Cathy? It's running all over the van.'
'God,' said Cathy. 'Tell me where you are.'
They watched as she ran around her mother's kitchen, seizing this and that.
'Da, have you any very reliable associate who drives a cab, anyone who would like an exciting job for the afternoon?'
'Can we come? Please,' begged the twins when they heard what it was.
'Why not?' Cathy thought they couldn't make it any worse than it was.
They drove with Kentucky Jim, one of Muttie's very sound friends. He said he didn't believe that people got paid real money driving birthday cakes round to other people. It showed there was one born every minute.
'One what?' Simon wanted to know.
'A fool. They say there's a fool born every minute.'
'I wonder is there?' Maud said.
Cathy decided that she would never tell them that the philosopher Kentucky Jim had once owned a thriving business but his interest in Sandy Keane's betting shop had managed to reduce his circumstances to having a quarter share in a mini cab. It was doubtful if his views on fools being born every minute were necessarily very sound.
Tom was helpless when they found him.
'God, but you're a terrible driver, I've always said so,' she said, putting out a cloth and removing the silver paper-covered plinth and wiping it so she could reassemble the cake.
'Can you do it?'
'I'll have to do it, eejit. I brought the forcing bag so I could write the name again. Just as well, looking at what's left. Is this "Jackie"?'
'Yes, Jackie, that's right.'
'With an "ie" or a "y"?'
'Jesus, I don't know!'
'It's on the form, the order book, look it up!' Cathy cried as she glued back the crushed sides of the cake with a chocolate paste.
'You could ice in the two versions and eat one off when you find the right one,' Simon suggested helpfully.
'Shut up, Simon,' Tom and Cathy said together at exactly the same time.
'You're not turning my basement into a speakeasy after all?' Ricky said next day, and was disappointed. He had been looking forward to it.
'No, and Rick, be a mate and don't mention that little idea, will you? Real lead balloon that turned out to be.'
'Oh, dear,' Ricky said.
'Anyway, it's all calmed down now.'
'Which is more than you have, apparently,' Ricky smiled at him.
'Not quite sure what you mean.' Tom was too nonchalant, he knew exactly what Ricky meant.
'Just, they all tell me you and Marcella haven't been seen together since her show. I just happen to think it's a pity, that's all.'
Tom said, 'Yes, well.'
'And if I am in touch with her, Tom, do you want me to say anything to her?'
'No thanks, Ricky, it's all been said.'
Ricky left it. He shook his head because he had heard in three different weeping fits from Marcella that nothing had been said, nothing at all.
Cathy saw James Byrne carrying parcels in Rathgar and tooted the horn of the van.
'Do you want a lift? Are you going home, James?'
'Ah, how nice to see you, Cathy. Yes, I'd love a lift.'
When they got to the elegant house he turned to her. 'Can I ask you something very personal?' he began.
Oh, please God may it not be that he too had guessed she was pregnant. 'Anything you like,' she said wearily.
'Will you just come in the door with me, just walk in and tell me what you see?' he asked.
Cathy's heart sank. All they needed now was for their sane, calm accountant to lose all his marbles and go mad. 'And what do you think I might see, James?' she asked fearfully.
'I don't know, Cathy, but you will be honest, won't you. 'I'll do my very best, James,' said poor Cathy, dragging herself out of the van.
Tom was expecting Cathy back at the premises, so he just buzzed the door without looking up.
Someone stood at the door.
It was odd, Cathy usually rushed in through their front room and into the kitchen. Hoping nothing was wrong, he came out to investigate.
Standing with her back to the light was Marcella. The cloud of dark hair surrounded her like a halo; her face was anxious and upset. She began to speak immediately.
'It's not fair to tell Ricky that we've talked it all out; we've done nothing of the sort.'
'That didn't take long to get back,' he said.
'Do you hate me, Tom?'
'Of course not, of course I don't hate you.' His voice was gentle.
'But what you said to Ricky…'
He felt terribly weary, suddenly. 'No, Marcella, I didn't tell Ricky that we'd talked it all out, I said that it had all been said, that's quite different… I meant there was nothing more to say.'
'But I wouldn't have walked out on you without saying why.'
'You know why.'
'It was just a stupid party.'
'Yes.'
'You don't want to know about it, it was just messing. I told you it would be like that. You don't want to know about it.'
'You're right, I don't want to know all about it, and why you didn't come home that night.'
'I told you, Tom, in advance that it was all meaningless. Unimportant.'
'To you, Marcella, and I told you in advance that it was hugely important to me.'
'But you knew there was a party, and that I had to go.' She was weeping now. He stood there, his hands by his sides. I was so honest, I really was. You're never going to meet anyone as honest as
I am as long as you live.'
'No, Marcella, you weren't honest. People who are honest wouldn't do that to each other.'
I told you the truth,' she sobbed.
'That's not the same at all,' said Tom.
'I'll go in first, put these things away and then come and open the door for you when you ring it,' said James Byrne. Cathy sighed as she rang the bell. She made a mental note not to give anyone she knew a lift again for the next four years. James came to the door, and she entered the apartment where she had already given cookery lessons. 'Look everywhere. What do you see?' he asked.
'James, for heaven's sake, what am I meant to be looking for? Is this a game?' Her voice was short with him.
'What does it look like to you? Who would you think lives here?' His eyes were clouded, waiting for the answer.
'James, you'll have to forgive me but I've had a long day. I know who lives here. You live here.'
'No, I mean if you just came in the door… ?'
'Like a burglar, do you mean?'
'No, I mean like someone coming to dinner.' He was crestfallen now, and very vulnerable. The cool James Byrne was so ashamed of himself and his raw, nervous state.
'Oh, I see what you mean,' Cathy recovered. 'What you're trying to do is to see what someone's first impressions would be, is that it?'
'Exactly.'
'I'm sorry, I didn't quite understand.' She bought time looking around the dark, lifeless apartment with its lack of colour and spirit.
'No, I didn't explain properly,' he apologised.
'Listen, I don't want to be too inquisitive, but in order for me to answer this question properly I'd have to know what kind of a guest it is.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Well, like a businessman, or a lady you were inviting on a date, or a long-lost friend or something.'
'Why did you say long-lost friend?' he asked anxiously.
'Because if it was a regular friend, then he or she would know what the flat looked like already.' Cathy spoke as she would to Maud and Simon, very clearly but as if talking to an imbecile.
