‘Paddy or JJ?’ the grey-haired man asked Elmer, and Elmer said JJ without knowing why. She’d take off the little green jacket first, he supposed, and he wondered whether it would be the blouse or the skirt next. He looked at her. Her hair wasn’t tidy after the walk they’d taken, and she’d gone a bit red in the face due to the stuff she was drinking. The sister wasn’t as good-looking, no doubt about that.
‘May the twenty-seventh,’ Mr Mulholland said. ‘Glasnevin, and the skies opened.’
Mary Louise had lost track of the conversation. She was puzzled for a moment, then realized Mr Mulholland was still talking about his wedding. The grey-haired man put a fresh glass of cherry brandy into her hand and took away the empty one.
‘The wife’s a Glasnevin woman,’ Mr Mulholland said.
‘Is that in Dublin?’
‘We live there to this day. 21, St Patrick’s Avenue.’
The conversation about scaffolding resumed, the bald man having returned. Then Mary Louise heard her husband talking about his shop, and a moment later she heard him saying, ‘We’re Protestants,’ and heard the grey-haired man saying he’d guessed it.
‘The same house she was married from,’ Mr Mulholland said.
‘I see.’
‘We brought up seven there. When her father died she got the property, though the mother had a right to an upstairs room. They didn’t get on, himself and the mother.’
‘I don’t know Dublin well.’
‘You’d always be welcome in Glasnevin, Kitty.’
‘Thanks very much.’
Mr Mulholland lowered his voice. His wife was having the change of life, he said. ‘You’d understand that, Kitty? An upsetting period for her.’
‘My name’s not Kitty, actually.’
‘I thought he called you Kitty.’
‘My name’s Mary Louise.’
‘Welcome to the married state, Mary Louise.’
Mary Louise laughed. Mr Mulholland was funny, the way Letty’s friend Gargan had been funny. Gargan did an imitation of a Chinaman, and told endless stories about the Englishman, the Irishman and the Scotsman. He also did imitations of Charlie Chaplin.
‘There was a fellow opposite the shop one time,’ Elmer was saying, ‘dismantling a scaffold. He was up at the top of it throwing down the metal joints, and didn’t one go through the roof of a van!’
‘Some of those fellows are dangerous all right,’ the grey-haired man agreed.
‘A few years ago it was,’ Elmer said. ‘One of Joe Claddy’s men.’
As she sipped more of her drink, Mary Louise felt glad they had come to the bar. Elmer was more loquacious than he’d been all day. It seemed to her now that she’d been silly to want him to take the carnation out of his buttonhole. If she’d asked him to he’d probably have said it would be a waste of a good carnation, and of course he’d have been right. Reminded of it by Elmer’s recollection of the scaffolding joint going through the roof of a van, she told Mr Mulholland about the woman who’d given the family a bottle of cherry brandy because she’d backed into the Hillman.
‘It’s why I have a taste for it,’ she said.
‘The wife likes a medium sherry,’ Mr Mulholland said.
The bald man recalled an occasion when he was driving along the Cork road outside Mitchelstown and a ladder fell off the lorry in front of him. He described the damage to the car’s radiator and one of the headlights.
‘Tell them about the Hillman,’ Mr Mulholland urged Mary Louise, and when she’d done so Elmer said he’d never heard that before.
‘She got a taste for the brandy that time,’ Mr Mulholland said.
They all laughed. Mr Mulholland put his arm around Mary Louise’s waist and squeezed it. She had never been in a public house before and had often wondered what one was like. All she’d had were Letty’s descriptions because Letty had often gone into MacDermott’s or the lounge of Hogan’s Hotel with Gargan. Letty used to smoke in those days. She used to come into the bedroom at night smelling of cigarettes and sometimes of drink. She never smoked in the farmhouse itself, though, it being purely a social thing with her.
‘Excuse me a minute,’ the bald man said, and again went away, repeating that he had to see a man about a dog.
Mary Louise told Mr Mulholland about the farm, answering questions he put to her. She heard Elmer saying it was difficult for a draper’s shop to move with the times, that self-service wasn’t always suitable.
‘Oh, definitely,’ the grey-haired man agreed.
She found herself telling Mr Mulholland about cycling from Culleen to school every day with Letty and James. She described Miss Mullover’s schoolroom, with the map of Ireland that showed the rivers and the mountains and the other one that showed the counties in different colours. They would all crouch round the stove on a very cold day, permitted to leave their desks by Miss Mullover. Twelve or thirteen pupils there were, sometimes a few more, sometimes less, depending.
‘What’ll you have?’
The bald man had rejoined them. He had a Woolworth’s bladder, he said, and Mr Mulholland reprimanded him. Mr Mulholland put his arm round Mary Louise’s waist again, as if to protect her from such observations. She said she’d like another cherry brandy.
One of the boys in the corner began to sing, softly beating time on the surface of the table with his fingers. Mary Louise could feel the palm of Mr Mulholland’s hand massaging her hip-bone, but she knew he meant no harm. She remembered the safety-pin she’d brought to the Electric the first time she’d gone there with Elmer. She smiled. Ridiculous it seemed now; ridiculous of Letty to suggest it.
‘Sorry about that reference I made,’ the bald man apologized, handing her another drink. They’d find the place they were staying to their liking, he predicted. Family run. He hadn’t made a complaint in twenty-two years.
‘It seems nice,’ Mary Louise agreed.
Mr Mulholland had moved away and was telling Elmer about the different kinds of stationery he travelled in: receipt books, account books, notepapers, occasion cards, mass cards, printed vouchers, printed invoices, envelopes of all descriptions. It wouldn’t be as bad as she thought, having to share the big bed; the things Letty said were silly. Elmer had stopped saying sir to the men; he kept nodding and wagging his head while he listened to Mr Mulholland. ‘Elmer Quarry’s always polite to you,’ her father had commented the Sunday evening after Elmer had told him he’d proposed marriage. A shopkeeper had to be, Letty had icily interjected. Politeness made money for shopkeepers.
‘I keep the books in Traynor’s,’ the bald man said. He didn’t reveal what Traynor’s was, but from subsequent remarks Mary Louise was left with the impression that it had to do with animal foodstuffs.
‘I see,’ she said.
Listening to Mr Mulholland, Elmer privately reflected that he’d never drunk so much whiskey in a single day. No drink was kept in the house, and never had been, but sometimes at the funeral of a customer he felt he should accept what he was offered, and on Christmas Eve Renehan from the hardware next door always came in about half-past four and invited him to walk down the street to Hogan’s lounge. He had a mineral then, while Renehan took gin and hot water. Renehan usually fell in with other men in Hogan’s, and Elmer left them to it. Counting the glass of whiskey after the wedding ceremony, he’d had three already that day, and he wondered what Rose and Matilda would say if they could see him standing in a bar with his young wife and three strangers. Probably they’d be too astonished to say anything.
‘I know what you mean,’ he acknowledged Mr Mulholland’s revelations concerning the necessity in any business for clearly printed up-market stationery. In a moment he’d buy a round himself, and then the grey-haired man would buy a round, and that would be that. Naturally you’d have a drink when you were on a holiday, naturally you wouldn’t behave the way you would if you were still at home. Sixty-six pounds it would cost at the Strand.
Elmer turned to the bar to order the drinks. He remembered go
ing by the Fahys’ back-yard one time when the big double doors were open and seeing Mrs Fahy’s clothes hanging on the line with her husband’s. He’d stopped to look at them, fourteen or fifteen he’d been. Afterwards he’d thought about them, Mrs Fahy folding them after she’d taken them off, salmon-coloured some of the garments were. Remembering now, a jitter of excitement disturbed Elmer’s stomach, like a breeze passing through it. He turned to glance down at the calves of Mary Louise’s legs, but they were difficult to discern in the gloom. Sometimes he would glance out of the accounting-office window and see one of the counters spread over with suspender-belts and roll-ons, and some woman making up her mind, fingering the material or the elastic.
‘You did right well with this one,’ the bald man murmured out of the side of his mouth when Elmer gave him his drink. ‘A lovely girl, Mr Quarry.’
Elmer didn’t respond. He felt embarrassed by what had been said, although he wasn’t sure why. Mr Mulholland raised his glass and proposed a toast to the happy couple.
‘Was I out of turn?’ The bald man’s surreptitious murmur continued. ‘I think I forgot myself there.’
Elmer realized a compliment was intended. He denied that offence had been given with a dismissive shake of his head.
‘What’s the news, what’s the news, O my bold chevalier?’ sang the boys at the corner table. ‘With your long-barrelled gun of the sea…’
While listening to details of the book-keeping conventions at Traynor’s, it had occurred to Mary Louise that her husband might leave all the drink-buying to the men. Mean as an old crab, James had said he was. But if he had erred in that way, it would more likely have been because he didn’t know about correct behaviour in a public house since she had never, herself, detected signs of meanness in him. And anyway there he was, handing out glasses just like the others had.
‘Thanks, Elmer.’ She smiled at him when he gave her hers.
He wondered what she was wearing under the two-piece. For all he knew, it was stuff she’d bought from Rose or Matilda in the shop. It was his sisters who said you must call it a two-piece these days, not a costume any more, which was what their mother had called it. The first day he served behind the counter a woman had come in and asked to see stockings, thirty denier. She’d run her hand down into one, and ever since he had enjoyed watching a woman doing that.
‘I wouldn’t like to offend your lord and master,’ the bald man confided to Mary Louise. Bewildered, she frowned.
‘I said to him you were a lovely girl. A bridegroom could take a remark the like of that the wrong way.’
Mary Louise laughed, and soon afterwards they all left the bar. Mr Mulholland and the grey-haired man went in one direction; Elmer, Mary Louise and the bald man returned to the Strand Hotel. The landlady had removed the headscarf and the curlers from her hair, which now – henna-shaded – displayed evidence of her earlier attentions. The bald man shook hands with Elmer and Mary Louise in the hall. He took cocoa at night, he confided, pursuing the landlady to the inner depths of the hotel.
When he’d stepped out into the fresh air Elmer had been aware of a sensation of floating in his head. The houses across the street, one pink, the other blue, were vivid in the gathering gloom. The pavement kept slanting away from him as he walked on it, first one way, then the other. In the Strand Hotel he held the banister-rail firmly as he climbed the stairs.
Mary Louise went in search of the bathroom and lavatory. She, too, was experiencing a degree of disturbance, a general muzziness she did not find unpleasant. When she returned to the bedroom she found her husband sitting on the edge of the bed with his jacket off and his tie loosened. His eyes kept closing.
Mary Louise put her nightdress over her petticoat and then slipped off the petticoat and the rest of her underclothes, and her stockings. She didn’t like undressing even when it was only Letty in the room, unless the light was out or Letty averted her eyes. Letty was quite good about things like that. They both agreed without ever having talked about it.
Elmer tried to watch, but his efforts at concentration caused a visual confusion he had not experienced before. A second image of his bride floated out of the first, precisely the same outline, hands and head, the white nightdress picked up from the bed, the body bent, then turned away from him while some sort of groping took place, stockings in her hands. He wanted to tell her she was great, but when he tried to his voice wouldn’t work properly. In the hall, when the man had begun about his cocoa, he’d attempted to compliment the landlady on her jam, but the same thing had occurred. He’d tried to say he liked thick jam, but he couldn’t manage to get the words right.
‘Will I help you?’ she was saying, and he screwed his eyes up to see her properly. ‘Will I put the light out?’ she said, and a moment later she did so. He leaned back, turning himself round, finding a pillow for his head. At the Tate School the housekeeper could be seen putting on her vest, her reflection in the glass of the window that swung outwards. He shouldn’t be falling asleep, Elmer said to himself, but nevertheless did so.
5
‘Your Ovaltine, dear.’
Miss Foye places a tray containing a mug on the bedside table. The night-time tray is always the same one – made of tin, round and with a lip, blue flowers on a green ground. She asked about the flowers once and Miss Foye said she thought they were hydrangeas, a nice bunch of hydrangeas.
‘Be a good girl now, don’t let it get cold.’
‘What’s it all about, Miss Foye?’
In the dormitory the other women are obediently sipping their Ovaltine. Miss Foye always waits until all of them have finished, then collects the mugs on the tray and turns the light out. There are seven women in the dormitory: ‘Miss Foye’s best girls’ she calls them because they are able to sleep together without disturbing one another. Each night the last one to receive her Ovaltine receives the tray as well. Fairness is important in the house.
‘You know, dear, what it’s all about. I saw you listening to him.’
‘I didn’t understand.’
‘Drink up, love. Please now. Miss Foye is tired.’
‘I don’t want to leave the house.’
‘It’s not for us to say a thing like that. They know better.’
‘Who knows?’
‘The medicals, dear.’
‘They don’t know better where you’d want to be.’
‘Drink your drink, dear. Please now.’
Miss Foye moves away. She collects the empty mugs from the other bedside tables, one between each bed. She bids the women good-night, and each replies. She calls them Miss Foye’s best girls.
‘I remember the day I came to the house,’ the woman who is giving her trouble tonight remarks. ‘A Thursday afternoon.’
‘Good girl now. Finish up. Of course you do.’
‘ “You’ll be happier here, ” you said.’
‘You would say that in those days. Don’t cry, dear. Miss Foye is tired.’
But the woman does cry. She finishes her drink and hands back the mug, and when Miss Foye has turned the light out she sobs beneath the bedclothes so that the others cannot hear her.
6
Mary Louise served in the shop, instructed by Matilda and Rose. They showed her where everything was, and how to make out a bill, and how to roll and unroll the bolts of material. She heard them muttering to one another about her, Rose saying she was slow to pick things up.
In the kitchen she was allocated certain tasks, specifically to lay the table in the dining-room before each meal and to carry in the plates and dishes when the food was ready, afterwards to wash them while Matilda dried. Rose liked using the vacuum cleaner on the stairs and in the dining-room and the front room, the bedrooms and landings. Matilda dusted and attended to the front-room fire in winter; all the cooking was done by Rose. Mary Louise made the bed she shared with her husband, Matilda and Rose each made her own.
When she’d been a member of the household for a few months Mary Louise explored a n
arrow staircase behind a door on the upper landing. There were two attics when she reached the top of it. The toys that had belonged to Elmer and his sisters were neatly arranged on the deep shelves of a cupboard, toys that by the look of them might have belonged to an earlier generation of Quarrys also. Framed pictures were stacked against a wall, books piled against another. Outmoded display dummies stood like statues, some of them shrouded with sheets. An old sewing-machine, replaced by the one Matilda used in the dining-room, had been kept. So had sofas and chairs in need of re-upholstering, and a rocking-horse. A tea-chest contained unidentified objects wrapped in yellowing newspaper – china, Mary Louise presumed. In the steeply pitched roof there was a single window in each of the two rooms. There was a stillness up there and the fusty airlessness was somehow comforting. With the door at the bottom of the staircase closed behind her, Mary Louise sensed the only real privacy she was offered, and on occasions when she knew where everyone was she took to quietly slipping up the steep uncarpeted stairs, taking her shoes off so that her footsteps wouldn’t echo through the house. She sat in an armchair, sinking down into its depths. She closed her eyes and thought about things, about how she missed the farmhouse and the fields at Culleen, and riding her bicycle along the familiar roads. She enjoyed serving in the shop, and she knew Rose was wrong to say she was slow. She was quicker than either of the sisters at grasping a customer’s needs. She could already gauge precisely the amount of brown paper required to wrap whatever had been purchased, and her parcels were tidier than theirs, the string looped so that they might easily be carried. When discount was mentioned by a customer she knew better than to quote a figure without consulting Elmer first, but she also knew that soon the day would come when she’d be able to anticipate his wishes down to the last ha’penny. As second-best to Dodd’s Medical Hall, the drapery was interesting enough. It was when the shop closed that melancholy set in.
Two Lives Page 5
