A Letter From America
Page 17
“Oh,” Fiona said.
She came no further into the room, and instead leaned back against the doorpost as though prepared for a quick departure. She stood watching in silence as her mother took a deep drag on the cigarette. It was like watching a stranger, she thought. The way she pursed her mouth and narrowed her eyes as she casually blew the smoke out – as though she had been practised at it all these years. But, Fiona thought, there was more to the change in her mother than just the smoking. There was a difference about her. She couldn’t pin-point what it was exactly – it was something in her manner, in her whole demeanour.
As her mother continued to smoke, unperturbed by the silence between them, Fiona studied her closely. She noticed the greyish pallor from months of being indoors which was echoed by the thin streaks of grey in her hair. This was usually covered by a vibrant brunette rinse at the hairdresser’s every six weeks and then carefully styled. Tonight, her hair looked as it had in recent months, the parts that were not grey faded to a nondescript colour and caught back by a tortoiseshell clasp in a loose sort of pony-tail.
Fiona’s gaze moved to her mother’s dark-ringed eyes now, which were paler than usual and almost vacant-looking. The lines and wrinkles around them looked more pronounced than before. And yet, in a weird way, there was something easier and more relaxed about her tonight than there had been since after the funeral. Was it the cigarettes, she wondered? Surely they couldn’t have such an immediate effect on her.
There was a small creak as her mother shifted in the armchair as though trying to get more comfortable. “You’re very quiet, Fiona,” she said. “Especially after all the laughing and carry-on outside in the street.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maggie MacConnell and her friend – I heard you all coming up the road, and then I saw you from the window. I don’t know why you’re so surprised. If I heard you all, then half the street probably heard you too.”
“We weren’t that bad,” Fiona said, feeling as though she were a teenager being chastised. “We were only chatting.”
“Well, Maggie and her friend were doing more than only chatting, they were laughing and skitting out loud – and they both looked the worse for drink.” Nance sucked her breath in disapproval. “Don’t tell me they were down drinking in the pub with all the men?”
Fiona straightened her back against the door. “They were actually in the snug,” she said, a defensive note in her tone. “And they were quiet enough – they weren’t doing any harm.”
Her mother tutted and shook her head. “I don’t mind the farmers’ wives waiting in there for the men to bring them home after the market, but it’s only the low-class ones that go in at night. I’m surprised at Maggie. I’ve only ever seen her in there after a funeral or a wedding.”
“She had a friend with her and they came out for the last half an hour.”
“And what was her friend like? Was it somebody from the town?”
“No, she’s from Galway. Her name is Anne, and she’s a very nice girl.” Fiona was trying to keep her voice even and not rise to her mother’s critical tone. “She trained as a hairdresser with Maggie.”
“No doubt she will be used to a more modern way of life down in Galway,” her mother said disapprovingly. “The women go in and out of the pubs there quite freely. Well, certain types of women.”
“That’s not very nice, Mam – and it’s a bit old-fashioned to talk like that. Lots of women go into pubs now, and all the female students in Dublin go into the pubs for the music.”
“That’s Dublin, Fiona – not Tullamore. Things are still more dignified down here and people still talk. Anyone with an eye in their head could see those two were drunk.” She held her hand up. “And before you say anything, I’m not accusing you. I could see you trying to get them moving. I’m not putting you in the same class as them.”
“They were only laughing, Mam,” Fiona said. “It’s not a crime, you know. Just because we haven’t had much to laugh about recently doesn’t mean the whole world has to stop. Maggie and her friend actually came over to the pub to check on an American tourist who was looking for a room for the night. He couldn’t find anywhere else in Tullamore, and the girls directed him up to our place. So you should be thanking them for getting us a bit of business.”
Nance took another puff of her cigarette. “Well,” she said, “I suppose that’s different.”
There was a pause and Fiona wondered now if her mother was going to ask her all about Michael O’Sullivan, and she decided she did not want to get into a big discussion about him with her mother.
“And are all the rooms full tonight?” her mother asked.
“They are,” Fiona said. She thought of something to change the subject. “Oh, while I remember, Maggie said if you’re still not up to coming over to the salon, she’ll come over to the house and do your hair.”
“That’s good of her, but I don’t think I could face somebody touching my head just yet.” She paused. “Maybe in a few weeks.”
Fiona suddenly felt hopeful. Her mother was actually considering a suggestion she had made. It was only a visit to the hairdresser’s – a small thing by normal standards – but a big step for her mother. Was this, she wondered, the first sign that the future might return to something that resembled their past life?
“You seem a little bit better, Mam, and it’s good to see you up and about.”
“Well, the doctor says I can’t stay in the bed much longer, even though it’s the only place I feel fit for.” She gave a deep sigh. “Apart from joining your father...”
Fiona felt a cold hand on her heart. Surely their mother couldn’t feel that bad about things? “What do you mean?” she asked now.
“Well, there’s not much left for me here without him...”
“But there’s the shop and the bar and everything – and you’re not that old. You’re still young enough to enjoy your life.”
“I don’t feel young and I certainly don’t look it.” Her voice was flat and dry. “I can’t stand looking at myself in the mirror these days.”
A picture flew into Fiona’s head. A picture of her mother dressed up – for a wedding last year – in a peach suit, with bows for buttons down the jacket and long white gloves. How different the woman in front of her now looked.
“When you feel better,” Fiona said, “we can go out for a day shopping. It will do you good. A day in Dublin or maybe Galway.”
“Oh, Fiona! You’ve been very good and everything, but I’m not stupid.” Her mother spoke now with an ironic amusement, almost as though she was laughing. “I’m sure the last thing you want is to be tied down with me, taking me shopping and working with me every day in the shop. Especially when you should have been out enjoying your own life in New York.” She took a last drag on the cigarette now, and then moved out of the chair – stiffly, and as if it pained her – to stub it out on the top of the range, and then throw it on top of the turf in the big coir basket.
Fiona was surprised at the turn in the conversation. It was the first time that her mother had mentioned New York in weeks, and it wasn’t the way she had imagined they would discuss it. She had imagined her mother being well – back to her confident, capable self, with her hair dyed back to its usual dark colour, and wearing her fashionable clothes. In her mind they would have been in the sitting-room, with the sun streaming in the tall windows, chatting over a cup of tea and a cake that Mrs Mooney had baked.
Tonight was not at all the way things should have been. The woman in the worn dressing-gown in front of her now did not look like the mother she remembered. The way her mother was speaking made her feel guilty – as though, by having stayed at home and done her best, she had only added to the depression by making her mother feel guilty.
“There’s no rush about New York,” Fiona said. “I’m fine in the shop and bar for the time being, and Patrick is happy enough to keep things running. We’re doing okay until you’re back on your feet.”
As she slowly turned around Fiona noticed that her pale eyes had a kind of glazed look. It occurred to her that maybe she had been drinking. But then, she had seen her mother merry a few times before after weddings or Christmas, and she hadn’t appeared like this. Her eyes had been sparkly and lively, and she had been more animated and giggly. No, Fiona decided, it wasn’t drink. But something was wrong, and she was just not sure what it was.
“You’ll be better soon, Mam,” she said.
She wished now that when she came in she had started talking about Michael O’Sullivan and his travel plans. It would have been lighter and far removed from the depressing conversation they had just stumbled into.
“We should both go to bed now,” she said. “It’s late.”
Her mother nodded. “You should have a lie-in tomorrow.”
“I can’t. Mrs Mooney won’t be there in the morning – she has a doctor’s appointment.”
“So you’ll have to get up early to do the breakfasts?”
“I don’t mind, it’s not often I have to do it. You go on now – I’ll see to the fire and the lights. And I’ll bring you up a boiled egg and some tea and toast in the morning before I go down to work.”
Her mother went past her and when she got out into the hallway she slowly turned back. “I’m sorry, Fiona. This isn’t how I imagined things would turn out.”
“Things will improve, Mam.”
“I’m not so sure. We can’t turn the clock back.”
“Other people recover from things.” Fiona said. She thought of Michael O’Sullivan. “Life can sometimes surprise us.”
Chapter 23
Fiona woke to the sound of something banging into her window. She sat up in bed, startled, and when she realised it was probably the bird, whose nest was under the roof awning, she quickly moved out of bed to pull her curtains and check whether the bird was okay. The September sunshine blinded her for a few moments, then she shielded her eyes with her hand, trying to see if it was lying stunned on the windowsill, but there was no sign of it. Her heart dropped a little – she hoped it hadn’t been killed.
She wondered what time it was. It couldn’t be that late, she thought, as the alarm, set for half past seven, hadn’t gone off yet. She went back over to the bed to check and discovered that it was only ten to seven. She shivered, and then decided to get back into the warm bed for a few minutes, to wake properly and run through all she had to do for the morning.
Before she got around to thinking of her chores, her mind flitted briefly to her mother and the odd feeling she had about her last night. Looking back, at least her mother was moving around the house which was definitely a step forward. And whilst it was strange to see her smoking, it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Plenty of women smoked – she sold them cigarettes every day in the shop. She decided she would not start the day off worrying about that.
Instead, she closed her eyes and somehow her mind found its way back to the previous night in the bar when she was talking to Michael O’Sullivan. She found herself going over the conversation they had about the cottage he was going to look at in Connemara, and then the conversation they had when he told her about him being an architect. Some things she remembered quite clearly and other things were more difficult to recall and seemed a little blurred. She didn’t think she had drunk that much, but she supposed she had drunk more than normal, which might account for it. Their conversation had also been halted at certain times, as she didn’t want to be rude to the others, and she supposed they never returned to every point they had been discussing at the time.
There were so many more things she wanted to know about him. She found him intriguing and interesting. She liked his voice, his smile, his hair and she had liked sitting beside him. She liked the warm, almost exciting feeling that she got from being near him.
She had felt something very like it when she was with Paul Moore, but what she felt with this American stranger was much more intense. Now, as she lay in bed, even just the memory of him brought the same tug in the pit of her stomach and a warm glow to her neck and face. She found herself smiling as she remembered the way he had looked at her, and she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow to stop herself from laughing aloud.
She would see him in an hour’s time in the snug where they served the guests breakfast, and she wondered whether they would act like polite strangers or whether they would just resume talking in the same easy and relaxed way they had last night. Even the unpredictability of it all, Fiona thought, seemed exciting to her. She needed something different from the boring routine she had lived these last few months. She needed something more.
Later, when she was up and washed, she pulled on a pair of navy slacks and a soft blue sweater which she loved and always felt good in. She went downstairs quietly so as not to wake her mother, and went into the kitchen to rake the ashes in the range until there was only glowing turf embers left. As she gave a final rattle to the iron bars, the noise suddenly reminded her of her father, as it was he who had started the fire off most mornings before the housekeeper came in. He made sure the heavier jobs were done so the women didn’t have to do them, like emptying the ashes and lifting in buckets of turf or coal.
The memory sent little waves of sorrow through her – over and over again. Blinded by tears, she found herself moving away from fire, back towards her father’s old chair, where she sat with her head in her hands until the sadness drained away.
If only, she thought, she might go to sleep for a while in the chair and wake up to find it was all a bad dream, and that her father was only upstairs shaving or having his morning wash. Or maybe that he had left the house early to walk down to the shop, to slip an Irish Independent out of the big tied bundle left at the shop door, and bring it back to read over his breakfast.
But she knew that it was no dream. Her mother was upstairs in bed and still needed her as much now as when her father died. And the house and the shop and the bar needed her too. There was nothing else to be done but to get moving and get on with things.
She went back to finish raking the ashes and then went out of the kitchen door to empty them in the bin outside. The sky was dark as though it might rain, and there was a growing breeze which made the young silver birch trees her father had planted at the bottom of the garden last autumn sway. Then, as she poured the ash into the bin a stronger gust sent half of them scattering into the air and down around her. She swore out loud, glad her mother wasn’t there to hear her. She stood there, sighing and muttering to herself as she brushed the ash off her clothes – and then, as she went to go back inside, she suddenly remembered the bird. Swinging the empty ash can in her hand, she walked around the front of the house to check. There was no sign of it, which meant it had survived. She didn’t know why, but for some reason it meant something to her that it had.
Smiling now, she went back inside and finished off cleaning the range and then got the fire blazing again with half a dozen turf briquettes. She boiled the kettle, and then she switched on the radio and heard Joe Dolan’s cheery voice singing ‘Make Me an Island’. It was a song her father loved, and he always turned the radio up when it came on. She now remembered him laughing and smiling. She remembered him joking and teasing her and her sisters. She stood for a few minutes, remembering those good times, which is what she knew her father would have wanted.
Feeling lighter, she moved around quickly, brushing floors, wiping the top of the range, humming along with the radio as she did the other morning chores that Mary Ellen Mooney would normally see to. Half an hour later she took a boiled egg and toast and a cup of tea up to her mother.
There was no sou
nd as she went along the corridor, and when she reached the door she gave it a firm tap, and said, “Are you awake, Mam?” Then she went in, and saw her mother was moving to sit up.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Twenty to eight.”
“You’re early. Have you been up long?”
“Nearly an hour.” She went over and put the tray down on the bedside table. “I wanted to make sure you had something to eat before I go. I told the commercial travellers I would have breakfast ready for around half eight.”
Her mother looked vaguely at her. “Isn’t Mary Ellen doing it?”
“No, she’s at the doctor’s this morning.” Her brow furrowed. “Don’t you remember? I told you last night, and I’m sure Mary Ellen told you as well.”
Nance nodded her head, and said, “Oh right...” as if just remembering.
When she was sitting up straight in the bed, Fiona lifted the tray onto her lap. “You’ll feel a bit brighter when you’ve drunk your tea and had something to eat. I’ll finish off downstairs and come back up for the tray before I go.”
“What time will Mrs Mooney be back?”
“I think around dinnertime.”
“And will you be back home for a while after cooking the breakfast for the men? You don’t need to open the shop before half nine.”
Fiona thought about Michael O’Sullivan. He wouldn’t be rushing away like the other men. She wasn’t sure what his plans were, but she wasn’t going to tie herself into having to come home for a short while.
“Sure, it’s not worth coming back up,” she said. “I’ll get something to eat down there, and then just go straight into the shop. There are always people looking for the newspapers.”
The disappointed look on her mother’s face told her she was lonely. Fiona supposed it was no wonder, being at home all day.
She paused at the room door on her way out. “You look tired. Did you sleep okay?”