A Letter From America

by Geraldine O'Neill

  “Fine,” Fiona said. “I’ll just have a couple of hours at home with my mother and I’ll be back.”

  Mary Ellen, dressed as usual in her apron, was in the kitchen when Fiona arrived home, and had a plate with two lamb chops, boiled potatoes and peas waiting for her over a pan of hot water. When their father was alive, they had always eaten their main meal around one o’clock, but lately they had taken to having it in the evening, in the hope that Nance’s appetite might be better at a later time.

  “I took the same up to your mother,” Mary Ellen said, as she stood washing up at the sink, “and she managed one of the chops and three small potatoes. She had a small glass of milk too. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than she’s been eating recently.”

  “It’s good that she’s managing more,” Fiona said. “And thanks for encouraging her to eat.” She looked at the solitary place the housekeeper had set for her at the wooden kitchen table, and for a few moments she remembered her father and how he used to sit at the top of the table every evening with her mother on one side and herself on the other. She thought back to the way her mother was this time last year – fit, well and happy enough around the house. How different things were now.

  The housekeeper finished drying the colander she had used for draining the vegetables. She put it back in the cupboard where it was kept, and then she turned around. “Are you all right, Fiona?”

  “I’m grand,” she said quietly. “And thanks again, Mrs Mooney, for everything. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  “Doesn’t it give me something to do?” Mary Ellen said, smiling. “Sure, I’d only be up there on me own looking at the four walls and worrying about the family, how they’re all getting on over in England and up in Dublin. Am I not better keeping busy?” She took her coat from the back of the door. “Keeping busy is what keeps us going whether we’re young or old. You’re lucky you have the shop and the bar down there. It would be hard for you being stuck here in the house all day the way things are...”

  Fiona looked at her. “It is,” she admitted. “I never expected Mam to go down sick so soon after Daddy died.”

  “It’s the shock,” Mrs Mooney said. “I’ve seen it happen to countless people over the years when they’ve lost someone. And shingles is one of the worst things, it’s treacherous – it can hang on for a long time after the rash goes. A brother of mine had it and it lasted for over two years. He was washed out and tired all the time.”

  “Oh, God!” Fiona gasped. “Two years? That long?”

  Mrs Mooney’s hand came up to her mouth. “I’m sorry now, Fiona, I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It usually goes in a few months, but it depends on the person’s system.” She lifted the tea towel now and began to dry cutlery. “Your mother is very low, Fiona, because she’s still grieving for your father. And I’d say she’s feeling depressed, because her whole life has suddenly changed. She’s finding everything hard without your father there. He was a man you could rely on to see to things and sort situations out. He did everything so quietly and so nicely that you didn’t realise half of what he did.” She looked directly at Fiona now. “And she’s not just missing him for all the practical things in the house and the shop and bar – she’s missing him as her husband too. The one person she could talk to about things. The person she went to sleep with and the person she woke up with for twenty-odd years. It’s a lot to lose.”

  Mrs Mooney’s words cut through all the muddled feelings Fiona had about her mother. She looked at the housekeeper through tear-filled eyes. “I’ll try harder to be more understanding.”

  “You’re doing as well as anyone can do under the circumstances. And don’t think I don’t know that you’ve lost a lot yourself – a father you were very close to, and now you’ve lost your own independence.” She halted. “But it will all sort out eventually. Your mother will get well again and life will get back to normal.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, things have a way of working themselves out.” The housekeeper put her hand on Fiona’s shoulder. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Fiona. People around here admire the way you and Patrick have kept things running between the shop and the pub.” Then, she went over to the cooker. “Now, I’ve left some rice in a pot there that you might heat up for your mother later before you go back out. She likes it with a couple of spoonfuls of strawberry jam. There’s enough there for you as well.”

  “That’s great,” Fiona said. “When I’ve finished my own meal I’ll take it up to her.”

  “You know I’m not in tomorrow morning?” Mrs Mooney reminded her. “I have a hospital appointment in Dublin, but I’ll be back in the afternoon to get the tea ready.”

  “That’s fine.” Fiona looked at her. “I hope it’s nothing serious?”

  “No, no – just a bit of women’s trouble that the doctor wants checking out.”

  “Good luck with it anyway.”

  The older woman smiled and shook her head. “A waste of time queuing in a hospital when there’s nothing wrong with me.” She lifted her coat and scarf. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, so.”

  She went out and closed the door behind her.

  Fiona finished her meal and then sat for a while at the kitchen table looking through an American magazine which Elizabeth had sent her every month since she went out to New York. She loved looking at the clothes and the advertisements for the big shops, although she no longer allowed herself to imagine being out there and actually going into the shops that her friend had described. There was an article about a florist who did flowers for the White House, and it showed photographs of her displays in one of the big hotels in Park Avenue, which Fiona knew must be close to the big apartment where Elizabeth worked.

  She sat back in her chair thinking and wondering, and then eventually she looked at the clock and moved to warm the rice to take up to her mother.

  Chapter 20

  Fiona was surprised how busy the bar was when she came back down at eight o’clock that evening. Through the greyish-blue haze of pipe and cigarette smoke she could see that it was filled not only with local people, but a lot of the commercial travellers who stopped off in the town, plus a few strangers. It was an unusual mix of young and older – most formally dressed. The sort of mix of men her mother would have approved of.

  She caught Patrick’s eye and gestured that she was hanging her jacket up in the kitchen, and a few minutes later she stepped in behind the bar to help out. It was so busy she didn’t have a chance to talk to the barman as an impatient-looking Dublin man pushed forward and gave her an order for four pints of Guinness. She smiled and took his money and after she had rung it up, gave him his change.

  As she was waiting for the pints to settle, she moved over to Patrick. “What on earth is on tonight?” she asked, feeling guilty that he had been left on his own with such a crowd. “If I’d known I would have been down earlier.”

  “I think there’s a farmers’ meeting in Hayes Hotel but there’s a big funeral in the morning as well,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know him myself. It’s some commercial traveller fellow from Dublin who was living somewhere out the Clara Road the last ten years. Seemingly he was married to a woman from the town. He was only in his early forties.”

  “Oh God, I’m sorry to hear that.” Fiona did not ask what had happened to the man and, whether he knew it or not, Patrick offered no explanation. The memory of her father dying was still too close for both of them. “You should have phoned down for me earlier. You must have been run off your feet here on your own.”

  “Ah, it’s been okay. They’re a grand crowd. They just waited their turn.”

  The door opened and another group came in, so they both went straight to them to take their orders, and it was nearly twenty minutes later before the bar quietened down and Patrick got a chance to tell her that two of the bedrooms were taken for the night.

  “Two of the travellers asked me about an hour ago, and I sai
d as far as I knew it would be all right and that I’d check with you as soon as you came in.”

  “That’s perfect.” Her father had always been delighted to let the room, as it was always great to get a few more pounds in, especially midweek. “The rooms are fine, aren’t they? Mary Ellen changed the beds yesterday.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m sure she’ll probably have done everything, but I’ll go upstairs and check the bathrooms for towels and soap when I get a minute.”

  When she came back down, happy that the housekeeper had left everything in order, Patrick came towards her, a serious look on his face.

  “God, Fiona,” he said, looking worried, “I’ve just remembered that Mary Ellen said she had an appointment at the hospital in the morning, so she won’t be around to do the breakfast.”

  “That’s okay, I can do it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s no trouble. We have fresh sausages and rashers that were delivered to the shop this morning. And there’s plenty of black and white pudding in the fridge. I can fry them some of yesterday’s soda bread as well, so we’ll be grand.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “I can see to her before I leave.” She shrugged. “She only has tea and toast, so ten minutes will sort that.”

  “I’ll check what time they want it for,” he said. “Probably around nine if they’re going to the funeral at eleven – that would give them time for the hour fast before Communion.” He indicated the right corner of the bar where around half a dozen men dressed in suits were standing chatting. “That’s the fellows over there. They said there might be another fellow coming down from Dublin tonight, but they couldn’t be sure. He might just drive down in the morning. I’ll go and have a word with them.”

  Fiona looked over to the corner Patrick had made for, and saw him talking to two young men around her own age whom she didn’t recognise. She wondered where they were from and how they knew the deceased man, and then she wondered whether they were single. She caught herself. God, she thought, I’m getting as bad as my mother. Then, the main door at the side of the bar opened and she moved her gaze towards it to check if it was someone who might be coming back from the Gents or someone who might want to be served.

  The figure stopped at the side of the bar, just inside the door. It was the one quiet space as the rest of the bar was occupied by people sitting on high stools or leaning against it.

  “Hello, Fiona, are you well? I haven’t seen you in a while.” Paul Moore’s voice was low and his face serious.

  Fiona felt her face flush. “Hello, Paul. I’m grand, thanks. And yourself?” He looked well, she thought, and smartly dressed.

  “Oh, I’m ticking over,” he replied, tapping his fingertips on the bar. “I said I’d meet a few lads I know from Kildare after the church tonight. They’re here for the funeral in the morning.”

  Patrick came back behind the bar now, carrying a tray of empty glasses and beer bottles. When he saw who Fiona was chatting to, he nodded to Paul and then diplomatically went to the far end of the bar.

  “Did you know the poor man?” Fiona asked now. It was a safe and normal question under the circumstances.

  “I did. He was one of my insurance customers. His family have a farm out near Durrow. He was a nice man, and very young to go so soon.” His face changed, and he moved in closer to the bar and closer to her. “How are all the family doing since your own loss?”

  Fiona felt a pang at the sudden reminder. Her gaze moved to the curtained window behind him. “It’s been hard on everyone,” she said, “especially my mother.”

  “I would imagine that,” he said. “I’ve heard when something like that happens suddenly, it makes it all the harder. I hope as time goes on that it gets easier for you all.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s a pity that all your travel plans have gone by the wayside. You were serious about going to New York, weren’t you?”

  Her head jerked up now, and she looked at him. Something about his tone made her think he was questioning whether she had really planned to go there – or whether she had just said it as an excuse to break the romance off with him. His face gave nothing away.

  “Well,” she said, “it was serious enough for me to have organised a job and somewhere to live, but then everything suddenly changed at home when my father died and I was needed.” Most Irishmen knew the responsibilities that death could bequeath to certain family members.

  “Of course...of course...” His voice was lower and softer. “And it’s all credit to you that you did the decent thing in spite of all your plans.” He paused. “No doubt it was a bad situation for you, Fiona – the timing and everything. I suppose it would have been worse if you had just gone and then had to come back home.”

  “It would.”

  A silence fell between them which made her feel awkward, and she wondered what was going through his head. Was he genuinely sorry for what had happened to her or was he gloating – thinking he was now better suited to Claire Ryan than he had been to her?

  She lifted a bar towel, trying to look busy. “Can I get you anything?”

  His face creased in thought, as though he had not considered what he might drink. “I suppose I’ll have a pint of Guinness, please.”

  She turned to the beer pump and took a clean glass from the gantry.

  She had never imagined him just turning up in the bar like this. She had not spoken to him since the morning of the funeral when he came up to offer his condolences to her and her mother and her sisters. And afterwards, during all the weeks and months since they buried her father, she had only seen him from a distance – once at Mass in Tullamore church when he went to Communion, and on a few occasions she had seen him drive past the shop in his car. He had never been a regular in Tracey’s bar, and had only come in to see her when she was working and to stand chatting to her with a pint at the bar. She had not been to any dances or the local cinema where she might see him since it happened. It was too soon after a death in the family.

  In the meantime, he had got in with Claire Ryan and, from what she had heard, he might be ready to settle down with her. Thankfully, she had never met them together, but her friends kept her up to date on sightings of them. So much so, that recently she had made a point of saying that she had no interest in hearing what Paul Moore got up to and who he was with. He was a chapter in her life that was over and done with.

  “If I had really been keen on him,” she had told them, “I would never have thought of going to New York.”

  But, at close quarters with him now, she was not quite so certain how she felt about him, and was glad none of her friends were there to witness them meeting up.

  As she stood behind the pump filling his glass, she looked at the commercial travellers in the corner – and compared Paul to the two she knew would be staying overnight. Looks-wise, he had the advantage; the other two were average-looking at best. She also knew his good points whereas she knew nothing of the well-dressed strangers. He was local and from a good family, a steady worker. He had not been mean – which would have been a major drawback. She had grown up with a generous father who dropped off potatoes and meat to families in need and, on occasion, quietly handed over bottles of beer that he knew would never be paid for.

  Paul, she felt, would have those same kind qualities. The only real concern she had about him was that he was inclined to be serious and predictable in his ways. On the occasions when they had ventured out of Tullamore on the train to Galway and Dublin, it was she who had suggested it. He had seemed to enjoy wandering around the cities with her arm through his – around Stephen’s Green in Dublin and around the small streets in Galway when they walked down to Spanish Arch. But she would have enjoyed it more if he had been a bit more adventurous and occasionally came up with an idea for them.

  When she mentioned her reservations about this to her parents one evening, her father had laughed and said that the man she was looking for didn’t exist
in Ireland. Her mother had said that there was a lot to be said for a safe and steady man.

  Shortly after this, she began receiving letters from Elizabeth telling her about the different kinds of people she had met in New York. The thought occurred that her father might just have hit the nail on the head. That she might be casting her net too close to home. She had started to wonder about Paul, and wonder whether she would feel stifled living in a small country town and married to someone who did not mind it. Then, the idea of New York had come up.

  As she stood beside him now, it all seemed longer than just last Christmas.

  Two customers came to the bar now and she left Paul’s pint to settle while she served one and Patrick served the other. She was quick with her order for three glasses of Tullamore Dew whiskey, and when she gave the man his change she turned back to Paul’s glass to add the creamy head.

  “How are your sisters?” he asked when the bar was quiet again.

  “They’re grand. They were home just recently and have both gone back.”

  “Hard to believe that Bridget will be a nun one of these days,” he said, smiling now. “She’s a lovely girl and has a great way with people, not like some of the nuns we all know. I’d say she will do well out in the community working with people.”

  “She will,” Fiona agreed. “And she’s very dedicated to the religious life. She’s up for Mass every morning here when she’s at home, but at least it’s not as early as she has to get up in the convent.”

  She hadn’t expected him to be so chatty or so personal. She thought that there was a change in him, that he seemed more forthcoming and confident. Then, she wondered if Claire Ryan would be happy if she knew that he had been in the bar, talking so familiarly with his ex-girlfriend. A group of men came to be served and she and Patrick were kept busy again. At one point Paul caught her eye and nodded, and she felt relieved when he went off to join a table at the far end of the room.