by Colm Toibin
You must go back home. She became emphatic. I listened to her because I thought she was being serious. I told her I was going to stay in Dublin for the moment. For the moment, for the moment, she said it several times. You have no money and you must find a home. Make Richard find you a home. The long, bony fingers of her hand grasped the chair. I suppose the boy from the town has no money. I did not reply. Are you going to marry him? she asked and repeated the question several times. I did not answer her. You must go home, if only to see. She went back to her book and I went into the water and stayed there for as long as I could.
At night from the window we can look down at the townspeople having their stroll. There is a café just on the waterside where they sit to look at the passers-by. Even at night there’s a haze of heat over everything. I am reading The Ambassadors, which my mother has just finished. She is asleep now, sound asleep, and will not wake until morning. I am like Chad, still starry-eyed at the sight of the new. I am like Chad who wants the opportunity to see more, to do more. I do not want everything to be over with me. There is more. There is more.
Michael, we have to be good and generous to each other. I will write again when there is more to say. You know I wish you were here. I wish we were all here.
All my love to you,
Katherine
HOME
I will be wearing a grey suit and the first thing you notice about me will be my eyes which tend to fix on things and stare at them. My hair is grey.
Maybe that part of the letter had been too strident; she must be gentler, her son would be nervous of her. It was a cold afternoon in late October: she kept her tweed coat wrapped around her knees. The ticket collector came and punched her ticket.
“Will we arrive in Enniscorthy on time?”
“We’ll be a few minutes late, ma’am.”
“It’s cold, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is, ma’am.”
After Wicklow the journey did not interest her. She could no longer watch the steely light on the sea. There were fields, a few ugly towns and a sense of order in the countryside, a sense of well-tilled soil. She did not open the book that Michael Graves had given her to read: there was too much to think about.
What did she want? Money, that much was certain. Quite a lot of money, every week, every month, every year, however it suited them. She owned at least three or four hundred acres of the farm. It would be easier if they offered—easier for them and easier for her. She had not mentioned money in the letter. Nor had she told them that she had been living in Dublin for almost six years. In her first letter she had introduced herself, announced that she was in Ireland and said that she would like to see Richard. In her second she had accepted Richard’s invitation to come and stay.
What else did she want? She wanted to take a look at her son, once, maybe more. She knew nothing of his wife, nothing, not even a name. And then there was Richard’s daughter. But more than anything, she wanted to take stock of the place. She wanted to be there for a while, in the house her father built near the river, some miles from the town.
Outside Gorey the train pulled up and was delayed for some time. She imagined Tom at the station, too fastidious to ask if the train was going to be late. She imagined her son standing there exactly where his father would have stood with the same reserved, distant air. Ungainly. She hoped Richard had left his wife and child at home.
When the train jolted and began to move slowly towards Enniscorthy she realised how much she dreaded what was in store, as though she were in a waiting room with the promise of certain pain. She thought about Richard, and what he would be like. She didn’t even know where Tom was buried. She did not know Tom had died until she received a sanctimonious letter from the local clergyman about the good life Tom had led and how he had gone to a better one.
Her train ticket allowed her four days in Enniscorthy; she had packed clothes for four days. She would not raise the matter of money this time. It was not urgent. This time she would simply be a visitor. She would try and make herself agreeable. In the suitcase she had a teddy bear for her granddaughter.
When she saw the river she knew that they were only minutes away from Enniscorthy. She closed her eyes in dread. She should not have done this. It was a mistake. She should have met him in Dublin first. It was asking too much from both of them.
* * *
The ticket collector took her case from the rack and put it out on the platform. She had seen Richard from the window as the train stopped. He was much darker and younger-looking than she had imagined. He did not come towards her but stood waiting, looking at her. She waved and he smiled hesitantly. As soon as she lifted the small suitcase he moved towards her. He shook hands with her and led her out into the square where the car was.
“What sort of car do you have? I wondered about that.”
“It’s an old Opel. Deirdre’s using the other one.”
“Deirdre,” she interrupted. “That’s your wife.”
“Did I not mention her name in my letter?” he asked.
“What’s your little girl called?”
“Clare,” he said. “Clare Proctor. It goes well.”
He started the car in the Railway Square and nosed around slowly towards the bottom of the Shannon.
“It all looks really different,” she said. “I know that’s an obvious thing to say, but there’s something missing.”
“There was a fire here, the whole place went up,” he said.
“When? I don’t remember it.”
“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t, but it was a big fire. There was a lot of damage done.”
As they crossed the bridge she saw the castle up above them and the two spires of the Protestant and Catholic churches. As he turned towards the Dublin road, she stopped him.
“Can you stop? Can we go somewhere first?” she asked.
“What do you mean, go somewhere?” He seemed disturbed.
“I mean have coffee and talk for a few minutes, or have a drink.”
“We have something ready for you at home.”
“No, I mean just for a few minutes. Could we go back to Bennett’s Hotel?”
“Is that what you’d like?”
“You wouldn’t mind turning back?”
“Not at all. I’ll just stop here for some petrol first.”
He parked the car at the back of the hotel and they went in.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” she said.
When he sat down he looked at her as though he had a speech prepared.
“I’m sorry if I appeared dramatic. I just didn’t want to drive straight there,” Katherine said.
“I don’t know whether I should ask you questions or not,” he said and then looked down. She had not thought that he would be shy.
“I don’t know either. But I’ll start. Where is your wife from?”
“Oh, she’s from the town.”
“Here? Enniscorthy, you mean. What’s her name?”
“Murphy,” he said.
“Is she one of the Murphys . . . ?”
“No,” he interrupted her. “You don’t know the family. I suppose I should tell you that she’s RC.”
“Oh, is she? I hadn’t thought of that. I’m such a fool,” she stopped for a minute. “So you married a girl from the town, an RC,” she laughed.
“Please don’t laugh,” he said.
“No, I’m not laughing at you, Richard. I promise I’m not laughing at you.” He remained silent for a while.
“What should I call you?”
“Well, I call my mother Mother even though she left home when I was about six. She is not well, by the way.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t think I told you.”
“No, we’ve been in correspondence with her.”
“My mother wrote to you?”
“Yes, we’ve had several long letters. She wrote about London and quite a lot about you.”
“My mother tells lies, you know that?”
she said suddenly.
“That’s hardly fair,” he said.
“I wish she hadn’t written to you about me.”
While they had been talking she had noticed that they were being carefully observed by a man who was sitting at the bar. After a time he approached them and shook her hand.
“You’re very welcome home. I’m delighted to see you,” he smiled at her. He had a glass in his hand.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “We’re just going.”
“Just have one,” he said.
“No, we won’t, thank you. We’re just going,” she said.
“The young man will have one,” the man persisted.
“No, really, thank you. I’m driving,” Richard said.
“But you’ve just had one. Another one won’t bother you.”
“Really, we were just having a conversation and we’re going now,” Katherine said.
“Well it’s great to see you anyway. I’d say that you’ll notice a few changes around Enniscorthy. And many of them for the good.” He stood back for a moment as though he was going to go. “Well, you’re looking well now. Will you be staying long?”
“No, we’re going just now,” she said.
“I mean will you be staying long in the area?”
“We must be going now,” she said and stood up. “See you again.”
The man went back to the bar and put his drink down. He watched them as they walked out. She had no idea who he was.
“I wonder if my mother has written to him as well,” Katherine said as they went across the bridge.
“He’s harmless, don’t worry about him.”
“What did my mother tell you?”
“That you were in love with a man in Spain and he died.”
“What else?”
“That you had a daughter in Spain.” He stopped. “Look, it’s not fair to ask me what she said.”
“Tell me what else she said.”
“That you have no money.”
“Stop the car.”
They were beyond Blackstoops and nearing Scarawalsh. He paid no attention to her.
“Richard, stop the car.”
“Look this is my fault. I shouldn’t have told you any of this. You see, I didn’t know anything about you.”
“Did she write to you before I did?”
“Yes.”
“So you expected my letter?”
“Sort of.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“She told me that the man in Spain killed himself.”
“That’s not true. It’s a lie.”
The river was now in view. It was full and muddy.
“She should not have written to you.”
“I wrote to her first,” he said.
“You wrote to her?”
He stopped the car and turned off the engine.
“Yes. I didn’t know if she was still alive, but I had an address and I wrote to her just after Christmas. She wrote back and then I asked her to let me know about you, about where you were and what you were doing. You see Clare was learning to talk and she asked because she sees a lot of Deirdre’s parents. I told her my father was dead and she understood that but when I told her my mother was in Spain she was fascinated. She talked about you all the time. You see, I thought you might never contact us ever and I wanted to make some connection, I wanted to know something. When my father died I could not contact you.”
“Did she tell you anything else?”
“Well, there were a lot of things. She said you had a friend, a man.”
“Did she tell you his name?”
“Yes, she said he was from the town. She said he was RC.”
“So you know all about me.”
“Deirdre recognised his name, your friend, some of his family still live in the town.”
He started the car again. It was now almost dark. He switched the headlights on.
“I want to talk to you soon about my leaving. I don’t want it to be something we can’t talk about. I mean my leaving you all those years ago and not coming back until now.”
“I should like to know about it,” he said.
“Did my mother not tell you why I left?”
“She said you hated Ireland.”
“That’s rubbish. She is the one who hates Ireland—or thinks she does. I have never hated Ireland.”
“Did you hate my father?”
“No, I certainly didn’t hate your father.”
When they reached Clohamon he crossed the bridge.
“Why are we going the long way around?” she asked.
“Because we want to talk.”
“I am really upset about my mother giving such a false picture of me.”
He did not reply.
“What is Deirdre like?” she asked.
“How can I answer? She’s nice.”
“Does she mind my arriving suddenly like this?”
“She’s a bit puzzled I suppose. She certainly doesn’t mind.”
“Does she like the house?”
“Yes, yes, she does.”
“Has she made many changes?”
“Yes, she has. She’s done a lot. The house had become a bit shabby with just two men living in it for so long.”
“Were you lonely there?”
“No, it was all right.”
“Did your father ever talk about me after I left?” she asked.
“He did for a while. He said you’d gone away and you’d be back, but then he went to Dublin one day and came home and told me that you’d not be back, that you had left, and that was that. I don’t think your name came up again. We both thought about you, of course. And I saw your name in the paper once to do with an art show in Dublin, but my father would not pay any attention when I showed it to him.” He looked at her. “We’re nearly there. Is it okay if we just go straight in? They’ll be expecting us.”
“Let’s go in.”
* * *
“Come in the back way,” Richard said as he took her case from the car. His wife and daughter were at the kitchen table. The size of the kitchen shocked her, and she stood back for a moment, until the little girl came running towards her. “I did a drawing for you. Look, I did a drawing for you.” Then her daughter-in-law came towards her and kissed her on the cheek.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said.
Katherine looked about the room. The range was still where it had been, but the room was twice the size. As she spoke to Deirdre she realised that the dividing wall between the kitchen and the pantry had been knocked down.
Deirdre was tall and thin and her hair was cut closely around her face. Her eyes were blue and her mouth was small.
“Maybe you’d like to go upstairs,” she said to Katherine.
“Yes, maybe Clare will show me where to go.” The child had been sitting staring at her grandmother. “I have a present for you.”
“Yes, Clare, you know where your grandmother is sleeping, don’t you? Why don’t you take her up there now?”
There were fitted carpets everywhere, all the old rugs were gone. The walls of the hall and the stairs were painted crimson, hung with pictures of foxes and hounds. She would not have recognised the house: a considerable amount of money had been spent on redecoration and, she felt, it had been done with a certain taste.
“We thought you might be used to continental food,” Deirdre said when she came down, “so I have been practising my lasagne all week.” There was a bottle of red wine on the table and a salad. “Your mother said you had a great time in Portugal in the summer. We could all do with a holiday like that.”
Katherine smiled. “Yes, everybody made a great fuss of her. She enjoys that. But she’s not well at the moment.”
After dinner they went into the sitting room. Clare kissed everybody goodnight and went to bed. They opened another bottle of wine and talked for a while, about Dublin, the weather, Enniscorthy, neighbours.
The room was painted yellow. Huge plants in tubs all over made it look smaller. The best of the old rugs were on the floor which had been sanded and varnished. There was a colour television in the corner of the room. It took Katherine a while to realise that there were radiators in the room as well as the fire. A lot of the furniture in the room was made of cane. She had the feeling that the room had been decorated with the help of a book or a glossy woman’s magazine.
She lay in bed that night for a long time before she turned off the light. It was hard to believe that Michael Graves had seen her off on the train at only one o’clock that day.
* * *
She had not drawn the curtains. She woke to a flood of light. She put on the dressing-gown hanging on the back of the door and sat by the window. The house was as solid and splendid as ever. Her father used to say that he was glad when the old house burnt down—he was then able to build the house he always wanted. Her bedroom window looked out over the lawn which stretched to the river. The boathouse was still there. Perhaps it would be a good day to take out a boat and row for a while. She was restless, it was like being in a familiar hotel—eventually she would have to brave the staircase and be nice to someone.
Her first visitor was Clare, still in her nightdress and carrying her new teddy bear.
“Mummy says I can call him Rupert if I want to.”
“That’s all right with me, although I thought you might call him Pedro.”
“I want to call him Rupert.”
“Then call him Rupert. We’ll all call him Rupert. You’d better decide because he will only answer to one name.”
“Bears can’t talk.”
“No, but they can understand.”
“You’re silly.”
“You’re silly.”
“Mummy wants to know if you want tea or coffee.”
“Tell her I’m getting dressed and I’ll be down.”
“Why are you getting dressed?”
“Because it’s time to get dressed. Are you going to come out for a walk with me today?”
