Semi-Sweet

by Roisin Meaney

  Vivienne reached an arm across and turned over the front page of the sheet music.

  “Was that you?” he asked, determined to have some kind of conversation as he twisted the pieces of his instrument together. “Were you playing the piano earlier?”

  “No,” she murmured, her eyes on his hands. “That was a pupil.”

  “Oh? You teach piano, too?”

  “I only teach piano,” she said, the color rising in her face again.

  “You only teach piano?” Adam stared at her. “But you’re teaching me the clarinet.”

  She lifted her eyes and met his for an instant. “I said no,” she reminded him, her voice holding a hint of impatience now, her gaze dropping back to his hands. “I tried to say no. You kept asking.” She was clearly ill at ease, her hands pressed between her knees, her shoulders hunched.

  “Sorry,” Adam said. “It’s just that…er, I’ve always wanted to play the clarinet, and I assumed, since you played it…”

  She only taught piano. She only taught piano to children. He tried to feel remorseful—he’d badgered her into it, hadn’t allowed her to refuse him—but his delight at being so close to her, at having her all to himself, didn’t allow for remorse.

  “Sorry,” he repeated. “And thanks again for taking me. I’ll behave, I promise. I’ll be a model student.”

  She didn’t smile, but her expression relaxed slightly as she gave him a tiny nod before turning to look at the sheet music again. He wondered how many lessons it would take for her to be at ease in his company.

  “We’ll begin with the scales,” she said, “and move on to this simple tune”—indicating the page—“which you can practice at home for the next time.”

  The next time. She was almost close enough for him to reach out and touch her face, to take off her glasses and unpin her hair. He smelled flowers, and the musty animal scent. Her face was covered with pale freckles that blended into one another.

  “What’s the cat’s name?”

  “Pumpkin,” Vivienne answered, looking pointedly at the sheet music. “So we’ll start with the positioning of your fingers.”

  “Mine’s Adam,” he told her as he raised the clarinet. “My name, I mean. I don’t think I mentioned it before.”

  Another tiny nod. Clearly, the name of her only adult pupil wasn’t of great interest to Vivienne O’Toole.

  “The memorial Mass is on Sunday,” Alice said. “I’m going.”

  She hadn’t mentioned the funeral to Tom; she’d slipped out of the house that morning and said nothing. She’d walked to the church, still afraid to get behind the wheel of a car, any car, and Geraldine had ended up driving her home, such a state she’d been in. No comment had been made regarding her red eyes at the dinner table later that evening, which had been a relief.

  But now she was annoyed at his lack of involvement. How could he just detach himself when he’d been the cause of it all? “I think you should go,” Alice said. “It would be the right thing to do, to go to the Mass.”

  He made no response, and Alice felt her anger rising. “You can’t avoid people forever,” she said sharply. “You can’t just stop everything because of what happened.”

  Tom put down his knife and fork. “I can’t go to that Mass,” he said. “I just can’t. You can’t expect me to.”

  “You have to face up to things,” Alice persisted. “You have to move on, like I’m trying to do.”

  “How can I move on,” he said, “when I don’t know if I’m going to jail or not? You’re expecting too much of me.”

  “Well, I know one thing,” she said, the irritation scratching inside her. “Drink isn’t going to help. Drink is what caused all this.”

  He pushed his chair back abruptly and walked toward the door.

  “Oh, finish your dinner anyway,” Alice said impatiently. A sausage and a half and two bits of white pudding, still lay on his plate. “You can eat your dinner without anyone seeing you.”

  He made no response as he left the room, and she listened to his steps on the stairs. She laid her cutlery down and put her head into her hands. After a while she took the two plates and scraped what food was left on them into the bin.

  At nine o’clock precisely, as Adam was still trying to grasp the concept of breathing from his abdomen—which made no sense to him, when everyone knew your breath went in and out of your lungs—the door was pushed open and Vivienne’s mother, whom he hadn’t noticed leaving the garden, walked in with a small tray that held a glass of milk and a plate of biscuits.

  “Break,” Vivienne said, taking the tray. No attempt at introductions was made. The older woman didn’t look in his direction.

  Adam got to his feet and put out his hand as the woman turned to go. “Adam O’Connor,” he said clearly. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. O’Toole.”

  For a second he thought she was going to ignore him and keep going, but after the briefest of pauses she offered him her hand. “We’re not used to catering for adults,” she said flatly. “I only have Jammie Dodgers.”

  “They’ll do fine,” Adam assured her, trying to remember the last time he’d been presented with a plate of childrens’ biscuits. “I wasn’t expecting anything at all.”

  She looked scandalized. “We always do a break,” she told him. “The children find the hour too long.”

  “I can understand that,” Adam said gravely. “Thanks very much.”

  She left the room without another word. Adam turned back to Vivienne, who had set the tray on the windowsill. She held the glass of milk out to him. He took it and accepted a Jammie Dodger when it was offered. “Thanks.”

  He never drank milk, apart from a drop in tea or coffee—it affected his sinuses—but he suspected that a refusal would cause more discomfiture. He wondered if he could find a way to give it to the cat, who was watching the proceedings intently from above. Vivienne hadn’t taken a biscuit; it looked as if the three Jammie Dodgers were all his.

  He decided to give conversation another try. “Have you been teaching music for long?”

  “Eight years,” she answered. “You’ll need to practice your abdominal breathing at home, every morning and evening. It’ll take the strain out of playing the notes.” As usual she didn’t meet his eyes; her gaze seemed to be focused now on his left ear.

  “I will,” he promised. “And how long have you been playing the piano yourself?”

  She shifted on her bench. Personal questions were clearly a problem. “Eighteen years,” she said, examining a speck on her cardigan sleeve.

  “Wow, that’s—”

  “Twelve years the clarinet and oboe,” she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Eleven years the violin. Six years the saxophone.”

  Adam looked at her in amazement. “You play all those instruments?”

  Vivienne nodded and looked pointedly at his glass, and Adam drained it—no hope at all of palming it off—and finished his biscuit.

  “Now,” she said, turning back to the music stand, and Adam brushed Jammie Dodger crumbs from his shirt and lifted the clarinet again.

  “Mam?”

  “Hello, dear. Everything all right?”

  Hannah smiled. Her mother’s first question whenever she phoned her, maybe every mother’s first question.

  “Everything’s fine…I just thought you might like to know that I met John Wyatt for coffee the other day.”

  Foolhardy, really, putting her mother in the picture so soon. Nothing might come of it; she might be ringing again in a few weeks to say it was all over. But Geraldine needed some good news. They all needed something positive to focus on.

  “Oh, love, I’m delighted to hear that, I really am—he seemed so nice that day in the shop. So he called back?”

  “He did.” No need to go into the details, the roundabout route they’d taken.

  “And how did it go? Did you get on well?”

  “Very well—he’s actually in a band in his spare time. He plays the saxophone.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, a musician—that’s wonderful.” Her mother’s voice bubbled with enthusiasm. “Oh, I just knew there was someone much better waiting for you.”

  Hannah smiled. Geraldine had her walking down the aisle with him, at the very least. But listen to how upbeat she sounded.

  “So when are you meeting him again?”

  “Saturday night—he plays in the new wine bar by the river.”

  “Yes, I know it—at least, I know of it. I’m sure it’s full of young ones. Can you imagine me and your father turning up?”

  Hannah grinned. “Actually you’d love the music—they play all the old songs. But yes, the crowd would be a bit younger.”

  “We’ll stick to Dillon’s,” Geraldine said. “But I’m delighted with your news.”

  “Of course it’s early days.”

  “Early days, of course.”

  Hannah glanced at the wall clock. “I should go,” she said. “It’s nearly time to tidy up.”

  “Let me know how Saturday night goes,” Geraldine said. “I presume I can tell your father.”

  “You can.”

  She hung up and slipped her phone back into her pocket. Saturday night, two nights away. She began planning what to wear.

  Take me to a hotel, Nora had said. I want to do it on a king-size bed. So he had.

  It hadn’t been hard to organize. Nora had booked the hotel room in Galway for one night in her name, paying in advance with Patrick’s company card. In the morning she’d called in sick and taken the bus to Galway. She’d booked in at noon and gone upstairs.

  He’d arrived at one and walked past the reception desk, briefcase in hand, business-suited, attracting no attention at all when he’d taken the lift to the third floor and knocked on the door of Room 324.

  They’d ordered a room-service lunch. They’d run a bath and made full use of the generously proportioned bed before and after. They’d left at five and driven the hour back to Clongarvin.

  We must do it again, she’d said, squeezing his thigh in the car when he stopped to let her out on a side street, well away from prying eyes. You’re full of energy.

  You’re not so bad yourself, he’d said, glancing around before slipping a hand under her skirt.

  Next time she might bring him to Adam’s flat, make him pass within three blocks of Indulgence to get there. Nothing like a bit of danger to keep things interesting.

  “But you’re playing in the wine bar,” Hannah said.

  “I’m not on till nine,” he pointed out. “We could get an early bird—which, of course, would suit a cheap Scotsman perfectly. Would seven o’clock give you enough time to get home from work and out again?”

  “I suppose it would,” she said, a slow smile blooming on her face.

  “How do you feel about Indian?”

  He made her laugh. He listened when she spoke; he wasn’t only waiting for her to finish so he could say something else. He smelled of soap, nothing fancy. She liked the clothes he wore. She liked his shoes.

  After she hung up, Hannah wiped her hands on her apron and walked through to the sitting room, where Kirby was curled in his awful charity-shop chair. She stood for a minute, listening.

  “What do you think, Kirby?” she asked. “Is our boy showing promise?”

  The dog lifted his head and thumped his tail against the side of the chair as the first two lines of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” floated down from upstairs for the umpteenth time.

  Hannah settled on the couch and reached for the remote control, humming along. Half an hour later, as the closing credits of Coronation Street were rolling, Adam walked in.

  “I heard you practicing,” she said, switching off the television. “Very promising.”

  “Do you know how to breathe through your abdomen?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I have to do, apparently. Look.” He placed the flat of his hand below his waistline. “You have to feel the breath coming from down here.” He inhaled. “I think I’m getting it.”

  Hannah smiled. “That’s good. Your teacher and her mother will be so proud. Have you discovered yet if she’s single?”

  “Not exactly—I couldn’t very well come out and ask her—but there’s no sign of a man around the place.”

  “Sounds promising.” She let a beat pass, and then said, “I’m going out to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “I thought you were going to Vintage.”

  “I am, but I’m going to dinner first. With John,” she added. “We’re getting an early bird.”

  “Good for you—I’ll see you at the bar afterwards, then.” He picked up the remote control and sat next to her. “I might ask Nora along.”

  “Fine,” Hannah replied.

  Adam scanned the Aertel screen, humming as he checked that night’s program schedule. After a few seconds, Hannah recognized an out-of-tune version of “I’ve Got a Crush on You.”

  Alice hadn’t planned to go to the cemetery after the memorial Mass. She sat a few rows back from the front of the church and recited the prayers, and stood and knelt when everyone else did. She watched the parents and their families standing and kneeling in front of her, the father’s head bent, the mother’s blond hair tied in a low ponytail.

  She stayed in her seat while people came up to them afterward.

  She waited until they filed down the aisle past her pew, the father’s hand cradling the mother’s elbow. So thin, she looked, the mother. So pale and empty.

  Outside the church Alice got into the car and drove to the cemetery, having made no conscious decision to do so. She walked along the rows of headstones until she found them. Ten of them stood around the grave. Four older people, one of the men in a wheelchair. The grandparents, she guessed. The mother’s sister there, too, dressed today in a gray jacket and a denim skirt. A youth with a shaved head, two other teenage girls.

  A small-enough family, the newest member wiped out now.

  Alice stood three graves away and kept her eyes on the headstone in front of her in case they turned around. There was a murmur from them that she couldn’t make out. It didn’t sound regular enough to be praying, but she couldn’t be sure.

  They left eventually, walking past the spot where Alice stood. When they were out of sight, she approached the grave.

  He was buried in a family plot, the granite headstone already covered with O’Brien names dating back to 1939. A small wooden cross had been stuck into the ground just in front of the headstone, flanked by two fat, creamy-white candles burning in glass jars. A photo in an oval brass frame was attached to the top of the cross, and a little metal plaque underneath read simply JASON O’BRIEN 2006–2010.

  Alice said an Our Father and a Hail Mary and a Glory Be, her eyes on the photo. His smile was wide. His teeth were tiny and perfect. He had a chubby, baby face. She said an Act of Contrition, her lips moving silently.

  Back home she stuffed a chicken, roasted potatoes with garlic and rosemary, and mashed carrots and parsnips. At dinner Tom didn’t ask about the Mass, and she didn’t mention it, or her trip to the cemetery.

  “I’m going to have to reduce Geraldine’s hours,” she said. “Just temporarily, till things pick up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tom answered. “I didn’t realize things were that bad.” He was still on full pay from the clinic—“extended leave,” they were calling it—but that couldn’t go on much longer.

  “I’d like you to think about going back to work,” she said. “It’s not good to be staying out so long. You’re only making it harder for yourself in the long run.”

  He chewed his chicken, and she waited for his response, and it was quite a few seconds before it became clear to her that none was coming.

  They met at the restaurant. He’d offered to pick her up, but Hannah had refused. It’s only a ten-minute walk, she’d said. I need the exercise.

  The weather was fair. The warming air smelled like the beginning of summer. Hannah sprayed on a citrus scent and chose a gray dress w
ith tiny pale blue polka dots whose folds played down her curves. She realized she was happy. She smiled at people who came toward her, and most returned her smile.

  “You look sunny,” John said. He was waiting outside, leaning against the restaurant wall, hands in the pockets of the chinos he wore when he was performing.

  Hannah laughed. “I think that sounds like a compliment.” She looked at the gray sky, streaked here and there with washed-out blue. “D’you think we’ve any hope of a summer this year?”

  “Absolutely.” He held the door open, and she walked ahead of him. “By September we’ll be wishing for a drop of rain.”

  They weren’t the only early-bird diners. Waiters scurried around, depositing baskets of pappadams and dishes of chutney, uncorking bottles of wine, whisking away the remains of meals. As they were shown to a table, Hannah was suddenly reminded of her last meal out, the night Patrick had dropped his bombshell and she’d taken a taxi alone to the restaurant. Trying her best, as each course was set before her, not to bury her face in her hands and howl. And here she was with someone new, who she didn’t think would sleep with another woman behind her back.

  “Tell me about the band,” she said as they sat, determined to push all negative thoughts away tonight. “The man who plays the double bass doesn’t look Irish.”

  “No—he’s Portuguese, but he married an Irish girl.”

  “I see. And I assume,” she went on, thinking of Adam, “that Wally is with the clarinet player.”

  John smiled. “No—they’re brother and sister. Both single, in fact.”

  “Oh—my mistake.” Adam would be pleased.

  “Fancy some wine?” John was scanning the list.

  Hannah reached for her menu. “Why not? You choose—I’m not fussy.”

  He was good company, as she’d known he would be. He described the village where he’d grown up, and she saw the narrow shingle beach, the whitewashed houses cradling the shoreline, the fishing boats moored along the pier, the lobster pots bobbing on the water. He told her about his parents, his fisherman father battling arthritis as fiercely as he battled the elements, his volunteer meals-on-wheels driver mother. “Her apple jelly wins first prize at the village fete every year—I’m sure the others are fit to throttle her.”