Evening Class

by Maeve Binchy

  “Because she’s not fat, she’s sexy. A huge bum and big boobs, isn’t that what men just love?” said Grania.

  “And a very small waist in between,” Fiona added.

  “But very, very boring about bloody calories and zip fasteners,” Grania said with a laugh.

  “Easy to say when you’re like a brush handle.”

  “Boring and sexy, an unexpected combination,” Grania said.

  And Brigid was smiling a bit, she could see they meant it. “Right. Now Fiona,” Brigid said, visibly cheered.

  The sisters paused. It was easier to attack a member of your own family.

  “Let me have another drink to prepare for it,” Fiona said unexpectedly.

  “Too humble.”

  “Too apologetic.”

  “No views on things.”

  “Not able to make up her mind on anything.”

  “Never really grew up and realized we all have to make up our own minds.”

  “Probably going to remain a child all her life.”

  “Say that again,” Fiona interrupted.

  Grania and Brigid wondered had they got too carried away.

  “It’s just that you’re too nice to people and nobody really knows what you think,” Grania said.

  “Or if you think,” Brigid added darkly.

  “About being a child?” Fiona begged.

  “Well, I suppose I meant that we have to make decisions, don’t we. Otherwise other people make them for us and it’s like being a child. That’s all I meant,” Grania said, afraid that she had offended funny little Fiona.

  “That’s extraordinary. You’re the second person who’s said that to me. This girl, Suzi, she said it too when I asked her should I cut my hair. How amazing.”

  “So do you think you’ll do it?” Brigid asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Make up your own mind in time about things, sleep with your man, get your hair cut, have views?”

  “Will you stop bellyaching about calories?” Fiona said with spirit.

  “Yeah, I will if it’s that boring.”

  “Okay then,” said Fiona.

  Grania said she’d go out for a Chinese take-away if Fiona promised she wouldn’t dither about what she wanted and if Brigid didn’t say one word about things being deep-fried. They said that if Grania agreed to go and see her father next day, they would obey her rules.

  They opened another bottle of wine and laughed until the old man came home and said that at his age he had to have regular sleep so he would chase them away.

  But they knew by the way he was looking at Grania that he wasn’t thinking about regular sleep.

  “WELL, THAT WAS a great idea to go and see them.” Brigid thought it was her idea by the time they were on the bus home.

  “She seems very happy,” Fiona said.

  “He’s so old though, isn’t he?”

  “Well, he’s what she wants,” Fiona said firmly.

  To her surprise Brigid agreed with her vehemently. “That’s the point. It doesn’t matter if he’s from Mars with pointed ears if it’s what she wants. If more people had the guts to go after what they want, the world would be a better place.” She spoke very loudly, due perhaps to the wine.

  A lot of people on the bus heard her and laughed, some of them even clapped. Brigid glared at them ferociously.

  “Aw come on, sexy. Give us a smile,” one of the fellows shouted.

  “They called me sexy,” Brigid whispered, delighted, to Fiona.

  “What did we tell you?” Fiona said.

  She resolved that she would be a different person when Barry Healy asked her out again. As he undoubtedly would.

  THE TIME SEEMED very long, even though it was only a week. Then Barry turned up again.

  “Are things all right at home?” she asked.

  “No, not really. My mother has no interest in anything, she won’t even cook. And in the old days she’d have you demented baking this and that and wanting to force-feed you. Now I have to buy her instant meals in the supermarket or she’d eat nothing.”

  Fiona was sympathetic. “What do you think you’ll do?” she asked.

  “I’ve no idea, honestly I’m getting madder than she is herself. Listen, have you decided what you’d like to do when we go out?”

  And suddenly there and then Fiona decided. “I’d like to come and have tea in your house.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be a good idea,” he said, startled.

  “You did ask me what I’d like, that’s what it is. Your mother would have to stir herself to get something for me if you said you were bringing a girl to supper, and I could be nice and cheerful and talk about things normally.”

  “No, Fiona, not yet.”

  “But isn’t this the very time it would be a help? How’s she going to think that things will ever be normal if you don’t make it look as if they are?”

  “Well, I suppose you have a point,” he began doubtfully.

  “So what evening then?” With grave misgivings Barry fixed the date.

  He expected Fiona to dither and say that she’d like anything at all, and really it didn’t matter. But to his surprise she said that she’d be tired after a long day at work and she’d love something substantial like say spaghetti or maybe shepherd’s pie, something nice and comforting. Barry was amazed. But he delivered the message.

  “I wouldn’t be able to do anything like that,” Barry’s mother said.

  “Of course you would, Mam, aren’t you a great cook?”

  “Your father doesn’t think so,” she said. And Barry’s heart turned to lead again. It was going to take much more than Fiona coming to supper to make his mother turn the corner. He wished that he weren’t an only child, that he had six brothers and sisters to share this with. He wished that his father would just say the bloody things that his mother wanted to hear, that he loved her and that his heart was broken when she tried to take her own life. And that he would swear never to leave her for anyone else. After all his father was terribly old, nearly fifty for heaven’s sake, of course he wasn’t going to leave Mam for anyone else. Who would have him for a start? And why did he have to take this attitude that suicide attempts were blackmail and he wouldn’t give in to blackmail. His father had no firm opinions on anything else. When there was an election or a referendum, his father would sigh and go back to his evening paper rather than express a view. Why did he have to feel so strongly about this of all things? Couldn’t he say the words that would please her?

  This bright idea of Fiona’s wasn’t going to work. He could see that.

  “Well, all right, Mam, I suppose I could try to cook something myself. I’m not much good, but I’ll try. And I’ll pretend you made it. After all, I wouldn’t want her to think you weren’t welcoming her.”

  “I’ll cook it,” said his mother. “You couldn’t make a meal for Cascarino.” Cascarino was their big cat with only one eye. He had been called after Tony Cascarino, who played football for the Republic of Ireland, but was not as fleet of foot.

  Fiona brought a small box of chocolates for Barry’s mother.

  “Oh you shouldn’t have, they’ll only make me put on weight,” the woman said to her. She was pale-looking and had tired eyes. She wore a dull brown dress and her hair was flat and listless.

  But Fiona looked at her with admiration. “Oh Mrs. Healy, you’re not fat. You’ve got lovely cheekbones, that’s how you know if a person’s going to put on weight or not, the cheekbones,” she said.

  Barry saw his mother touch her face with some disbelief. “Is that right?” she said.

  “Oh it’s a fact, look at all the film stars who had good cheekbones…” Together they listed them happily. The Audrey Hepburns who never put on a pound, the Ava Gardners, the Meryl Streeps, then they examined the so-called pretty women whose cheekbones were not apparent.

  Barry hadn’t seen his mother so animated in weeks. Then he heard Fiona talk about Marilyn Monroe, who might not have stood the tes
t of time if she had allowed herself to grow older. He wished she hadn’t let the conversation get round to people who had committed suicide.

  His mother naturally took up the theme. “But that’s not why she killed herself, of course, not over her cheekbones.”

  Barry could see the color rising on Fiona’s face, but she fought back. “No, I suppose she did it because she thought she wasn’t loved enough. Lord it’s just as well the rest of us don’t do that, the world would be empty in no time.” She spoke so casually and lightly about it that Barry held his breath.

  But unexpectedly his mother answered in quite a normal voice. “Maybe she hoped she’d be found and whoever it was she loved would be sorry.”

  “I’d say he’d have been more pissed off with her than ever,” Fiona said cheerfully.

  Barry looked at Fiona with admiration. She had more spark about her today. It was hard to say what it was, but she didn’t seem to be waiting to take her cue from him all the time. It had been a very good idea to insist on coming to supper. And imagine Fiona, of all people, telling his mother she had good cheekbones.

  He felt it was a lot less disastrous than it might have been. He let himself relax a little and wondered what they would talk about next, now that they had been through the minefield of Marilyn Monroe’s suicide.

  Barry ran a list of conversational topics past himself, without success. He couldn’t say Fiona worked in the hospital, that would remind everyone of the stomach pumping and the stay there, he couldn’t suddenly start talking about the Italian class, the supermarket, or his motorbike because they would know he was trying to get on to other, less controversial subjects. He was going to tell his mother about Fiona’s T-shirts but he didn’t think she’d like that, and Fiona had dressed up in her good jacket and nice pink blouse for the meeting, so perhaps it would be letting her down.

  At that moment the cat came in and fixed his one good eye on Fiona.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Cascarino,” Barry said, never having loved the big angry cat so much in his life. Please may Cascarino not claw at Fiona’s new skirt, or pause to lick his nether regions in full view of everyone. But the cat laid his head on Fiona’s lap and began a purr that sounded like a light aircraft revving up.

  “Do you have a cat at home yourselves?” Barry’s mother asked.

  “No, I’d love one but my father says you never know what trouble they lead to.”

  “That’s a pity. I find them a great consolation. Cascarino may not look much, but for a male he’s very understanding.”

  “I know,” Fiona agreed with her. “Isn’t it funny the way men are so difficult. I honestly don’t think they mean to be, it’s just the way they’re made.”

  “They’re made without heart,” Mrs. Healy said, her eyes dangerously bright. “Oh, they have something in there all right beating away and sending the blood out, but it’s not a heart. Look at Barry’s father, he’s not even here this evening even though he knew Barry was having a friend to supper. He knew and he’s still not here.”

  This was worse than Barry could have believed possible. He had no idea that his mother would go in at the deep end in the first half hour.

  But to his amazement Fiona seemed to be able to cope with it quite easily.

  “That’s men for you. When I bring Barry home to my house to meet my family, my father will let me down too. Oh he’ll be there all right, he’s always there. But I bet you within five minutes he’ll tell Barry it’s dangerous to ride a motorbike, it’s dangerous to drive a supermarket van, it’s stupid to follow football. If he can think of anything wrong with learning Italian, he’ll say that. He only sees all the things that are wrong with everything, not the things that are right. It’s very depressing.”

  “And what does your mother say to all this?” Barry’s mother was interested in the situation; her own attack on her husband seemed to be put aside for the moment.

  “Well, I think over the years she started to agree with him. They’re old, you see, Mrs. Healy, much older than you and Barry’s father. I’m the youngest of a big family. They’re set in their ways, you won’t change them now.” She looked so eager with her glasses glinting and a big pink bow tying back her nice shiny hair. Any mother would be glad to have a warm girl like this for her son.

  Barry saw his mother beginning to relax.

  “Barry, like a good lad will you go into the kitchen and put the pie into the oven, and do what has to be done out there.”

  He left them and clattered around, then he crept back to the door to hear what was going on in the sitting room. They were speaking in low voices and he couldn’t make it out. Please God may Fiona not be saying anything stupid. And may his mother not be telling all the fantasies about Dad having another woman. He sighed and went back to the kitchen to set the table for the three of them. He felt annoyed with his father for not being there. It was after all an attempt at restoring the situation to normal. He could have made an effort. Did Dad not see he was only giving fuel to Mam’s suspicions by all this?

  Why couldn’t he just come in and act the part for an evening? But still, his mother had made a chicken pie and had made an apple tart for afterward. This was an advance.

  The supper went better than he dared hope. Fiona ate everything that was put in front of her and almost licked the plate. She said she’d love to know how to make pastry. She was no good at cooking, and then suddenly a thought struck her. “That’s what I could do, go to a cookery class,” she cried. “Barry was asking what I’d really like to learn, and now that I see this spread I know what I’d enjoy.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Barry said, delighted at the praise for his mother’s cooking.

  “You’d want to make sure that you got someone with a light hand to teach you pastry,” his mother said.

  Finding fault with the idea, of course. Barry fumed inside.

  But Fiona didn’t seem to mind. “Yes I know, and of course it would be the middle of the term and all. Listen…no, I couldn’t ask…but maybe…” She looked at Barry’s mother eagerly.

  “Go on, what is it?”

  “I don’t suppose on Tuesday or Thursday when Barry’s at his evening class, that you would show me, you know, give me a few hints?” The older woman was silent for a moment. Fiona rushed in. “I’m sorry, that’s typical of me, open my big mouth before I think what I’m going to say.”

  “I’d be delighted to teach you to cook, Fiona,” said Barry’s mother. “We’ll start next Tuesday, with bread and scones.”

  BRIGID DUNNE WAS very impressed. “Getting his mother to teach you cooking, now that’s a clever move,” she said admiringly.

  “Well it sort of came out naturally, I just said it.” Fiona was amazed at her own daring.

  “And you’re the one who says she’s no good with men. When are we going to meet this Barry?”

  “Soon, I don’t want to overpower him with all my friends, particularly sexy, overconfident ones like you.”

  “You have changed, Fiona,” Brigid said.

  “GRANIA? IT’S FIONA.”

  “Oh great, I thought it was Head Office. How are you? Have you done it yet?”

  “Done what?”

  “You know,” Grania said.

  “No, not yet, but soon. It’s all on course, I just rang to thank you.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “For saying I was a bit dopey.”

  “I never said that, Fiona.” Grania was stung.

  “No, but you told me to get my act together and it worked a dream. He’s mad about me, and his mother is. And it couldn’t be better.”

  “Well, I’m glad.” Grania sounded pleased.

  “I just rang to ask did you do your bit, go back to see your father?”

  “No. I tried, but I lost my nerve at the last moment.”

  “Grania!” Fiona sounded stern.

  “Hey, you of all people lecturing me.”

  “I know, but we did promise to keep each other up to all th
e things we said that evening.”

  “I know.”

  “And Brigid hasn’t talked about low-cal sweetener since then, and I’ve been as brave as a tiger about things. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Oh bloody hell, Fiona. I’ll go tonight,” said Grania.

  GRANIA TOOK A deep breath and knocked on the door. Her father answered. She couldn’t read his face.

  “You still have your key, you don’t have to have the door answered for you,” he said.

  “I didn’t like to waltz in as if I still lived here,” she said.

  “Nobody said you couldn’t live here.”

  “I know, Dad.” They still stood in the hall, an awkward silence all around them. “And where’s everybody else? Are they all at home?”

  “I don’t know,” her father said.

  “Come on, Dad. You must know.”

  “I don’t. Your mother may be in the kitchen reading, and Brigid may be upstairs. I was in my room.”

  “How’s it getting along?” she asked, to try to cover the loneliness. This wasn’t a big house, not big enough for the man not to know whether his wife and daughter were at home or not. And not to care.

  “It’s fine,” he said.

  “Will you show it to me?” Grania wondered was it going to be like this forever, making conversation with her father like drawing teeth.

  “Certainly.”

  He led her into the room, and she literally gasped in surprise. The evening sun came through the window, the yellow and gold colors all around the window seat picked up the light, and the curtains in purple and gold looked as if they were for a stage in a theater. His shelves were full of books and ornaments, and the little desk shone and glowed in the evening light.

  “Dad, it’s beautiful. I never knew you could make anything like this,” Grania said.

  “There’s a lot we never knew about each other,” he said.

  “Please, Dad, let me admire your lovely, lovely room, and look at those frescoes, they’re marvelous.”

  “Yes.”

  “And all those colors, Dad. It’s like a dream.”