Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  “So she was like that even then. And Ellen?” asks Simon.

  “She used to come —”

  “I know, spend the summer holidays here. Terry told me.”

  “Ellen was lovely, the grandest little girl. Everyone knew that she was a favorite of Matt’s. He’d bring her some little treat whenever he called to the Hamilton’s. She’d come up here to play with Paula and Niamh. Never a bit of bother. Did you say she’s on her own?”

  “So I heard.”

  “I thought she married. I wonder what happened? Anyway, I’ll redouble my efforts and make a point of calling to see her.”

  “Mostly she keeps herself to herself. Supposedly, she’s a great woman for going on long walks. No problem to her,” Simon says.

  Beatrice sits down and pours tea. “I used to think nothing of walking miles. There are wonderful routes around here, some she probably doesn’t know about.”

  The novelty of the house wears off. Ellen tires of staring down at the overrun garden from the conservatory. She has visited numerous furniture stores and seen nothing that pleases her. She has toured garden centers and come away empty-handed.

  A cloud of inertia descends on her. She’s restless and contrary. She has hit a trough, a rough of anticlimax. It manifests itself as an ache and resides in the general area of her stomach.

  The days seem endless. The nights are long. She craves company but she doesn’t want to see anybody. Julia’s situation has deteriorated and Matt can’t escape so easily from the farm at night. On his now infrequent visits, he’s often taciturn or preoccupied. He hunches his shoulders a lot and loses track of conversation. When he speaks, he hints at doctors, nurses, and other presences in Julia’s sickroom. Ellen offers to call up at the farm but he always says something like, “Probably not at the moment” or “Don’t bother, there’s no point” or “Wait to see how it pans out.” She offers to help in practical ways. She could cook meals, do laundry, ease his and Mona’s plight. He shakes his head, turns away, and doesn’t reply.

  Ellen is bewildered by his determination to distance her from the source of his distress. She knows that hardly anybody manages to see Julia, who seems to have remarkably few friends. Visitors are turned away or given the runabout, informed that Julia is tired or resting or weak.

  “Let’s not talk about it,” Matt says. “I get a bellyful of it all day long.”

  Ellen feels disconnected from herself. The ghost of her past, of being one-half of a couple, haunts her. Christy may have been a peculiar husband but he took her places and loved social occasions. He was constantly on the go, gathering and scattering all before him, with a special knack for drumming up a crowd. He always had tickets for this or that event and a wide circle of interesting acquaintances. Ellen enjoyed attending events he organized and looking out for photographs in the following day’s papers. She liked to meet people who were well known publicly, even if such moments were fleeting. The stimulation of these proceedings served to disguise the vacuuming silence at the core of their relationship. The private Christy turned himself off and shut down all conversation.

  Why does she stir this pot every so often? She knows how miserable she was when she was with him and shudders at the memory of their grim intimacies. Nevertheless, she’s suffering withdrawal symptoms, as if she’s lost a limb. The space this hypothetical limb occupied aches and tingles until the sensation becomes almost unbearable. Did she stay in that relationship because the alternative of being alone was too threatening? The best thing she ever did was to give him the boot when she discovered his girlfriend. The thrill of autonomy gave her a real rush. So, why this sudden faltering?

  During the day she can trot off to the grocery shop, visit the post office, call into Terry’s store, browse in the chemist’s, finger knickknacks in O’Hara’s hardware, purchase petrol at the garage, visit the health clinic, walk out from the village in any of three directions or, should she so wish, drive into Killdingle and browse through a greater array of stores.

  Most of the village shops close at six. Terry stays open until half past seven, nine on Thursdays. James O’Flaherty takes an old-fashioned half-day on Wednesdays. Occasionally, Ellen approaches the group of sullen young people that lurks outside the takeaway, asks them to move aside, and waits to push past while they shuffle out of her way with practiced slowness.

  In Dublin she was never stuck for a place to socialize at night, meeting up with friends for a drink or a meal, going to the cinema or theater, accompanying Christy on one of his lunches or dinners, looking in on exhibitions or turning up at various launches, and either hosting dinner parties or attending them as guests. She had to start a diary to keep track of it all. It wasn’t necessary to survey life from a distance, so to speak, as is the case in Ballindoon. Now she has to face this void.

  Her boredom threshold is low. She turns on the TV. Her finger works the remote as if it’s the trigger of a gun, blipping and killing anything that displeases her. She flicks from station to station and sighs in exasperation. The channels are strident with “reality” television or game shows. What happened to the sorts of programs she used to watch? Has television changed, or has she? Has she simply outgrown it?

  She unpacks books, leaves them on the floor of the conservatory, hesitates over them, extracts a few from the tumbled bundles, flicks through the pages, and drops them back on the floor.

  Now and again her restlessness at night becomes so acute that it drives her out to Hegarty’s pub. She’s been there with Matt but she has to brace herself before she enters. She opens the door, makes her way in, inhales the fumes of alcohol, feels the heat of the room, and notes the scattered groups. Invariably, teenagers are playing a game of pool in the back room.

  Heads turn. Eyes scan her. Sometimes she acknowledges what may be mumbled greetings with a vague nod and brief smile. She slinks toward the bar, orders a drink, avoids eye contact, sees where she can sit on her own, sinks into a seat, huddles into herself and opens a newspaper or book with studied calm. She forces herself to read — usually the same extract over and over — but rarely lasts longer than the first uncomfortable drink. With a quick nod in the direction of the barman, she exits. It’s as if none of her adolescent insecurities actually ever went away, merely lurked about, in anticipation of another opportunity to ambush her.

  It’s all nonsense, of course. The bar staff knows her. Why does she imagine eyes following her? Why does she flinch if she overhears laughter from a group? It’s her silly brain, hard-wired into attitudes and expectations from her childhood, the origins of which can be traced back to fault-finding attentions from her mother — for whom so little of what Ellen represented was right — and the equally restrictive adulation of Sarah, Mollie, and Peg, who looked for perfect behavior, and who were wounded — not too strong a word — by hearing any adverse reports on the minor deity they had cultivated. Enviously, Ellen notes how young girls swagger about, confident, fearless, and almost arrogant. She’s the one who’s inhibited, who’s lost courage, stupidly trying to second-guess others’ opinions of her, expecting at any moment to hear a repressed snigger behind her, ready to turn and find… what?

  A man, any man, can walk in unencumbered, sit at the bar, and consume numerous drinks with little scrutiny. A woman’s right to this freedom is qualified. It could look as if she has a problem with alcohol, or she might be judged to be sexually needy, slipping into a pub in the hopes of nabbing a man to trot up a dark lane with for a quick coupling. She doesn’t make the rules, merely operates within their confines. Useless for her to deny that she’s “asking for it” or “mad for it,” and that she merely wishes to sit in the company of others. She must be cognizant of all the implications and interpretations of her behavior. She longs for an uncalculated, incalculable freedom — primarily from herself.

  One Saturday afternoon Ellen is returning from a walk to a local lake when the temperature suddenly drops, the wind rises, black clouds whoosh in and darken the sky, and the heavens open as
if somebody unlocked the sluice gates of a reservoir. The torrent is relentless and she’s buffeted by a sharp-edged wind. She’s dressed for rain but within a few minutes her feet are squelching in her boots. Her jeans are soaked. Even her standard rain gear can’t hold out against this intensity. She struggles to tighten the cords of her hood, to stop the wind from battering it back and peeling it away from the buttons on the collar of her jacket.

  Her world is reduced to the feel and sound of rainfall and the desire to escape the deluge. She senses something behind her on the road, dips her head and angles it in order to squint back. A dark high vehicle is traveling slowly toward her, headlights flickering against the waves of rain. It’s a jeep, but she can’t make out its color in the gloom. Somebody’s beeping a horn. It stops and the driver leans across to open the passenger door. She recognizes Eugene. “Hop in,” he says. Without thinking, she hauls herself up into the passenger seat.

  “I’ve never been so delighted to see anyone in my life. Thanks,” she says, leaning against the headrest.

  “Lucky I spotted you. Actually I didn’t know it was you, just saw the outline of some poor mutt caught in the downpour and thought I’d rescue them. What are you doing out in this? You’re a glutton for punishment.” He grins and shakes his head in amusement.

  She throws off her hood and runs her fingers through her damp hair. “Obviously, I’d never have come out if I’d known. The forecast was for showers, not torrential rain.”

  The air is full of moisture. Everything in the jeep smells clammy. She’s aware of her clothes steaming in the seat. They reek of damp. She hears the roar of water cascading through the ditches at the edge of the road. The rain lashes the jeep’s bonnet and condensation mists the insides of the windows. The wipers exhale like asthmatic bellows, slapping the surface of the glass and beating out a slithery rhythm.

  Visibility is atrocious. She longs to be cocooned in her own house, wishes she could be transported there by magic, to huddle in fresh dry clothes in front of a blazing fire in the living room. Instead her body shakes with cold from head to toe. “Could you drop me off at the village?” she shouts.

  He shakes his head. “Can’t. It’s three miles away, and there’s a lot of surface water on the roads. I’m afraid of flash floods.”

  “Then where are we going? Where are you taking me?” she asks.

  He glances at her and mouths, “What?”

  They turn up a steep narrow side road. She can hear the slush of mud against the wheels, the rush of water on the surface of the road, and feel the pull and dip of uneven terrain against the vehicle. The landscape is a gloomy blur. If they come off the road, they’ll get bogged down in a ditch. She doesn’t know how he can possibly see where he’s going. He has to be driving by instinct and memory.

  “God, it’s very remote. Is this where you live?”

  “What?”

  “You’re miles from anything,” she shouts.

  “I thought you knew where I lived.” He doesn’t look. His concentration is given to navigation.

  “Obviously not.”

  All pretense of a road peters out when the jeep mounts a track. The wheels strain to keep their grip on the shifting surface. The engine whinnies and gives an oily cough. She can imagine it spluttering out. Every moment she’s sure they’ll get stuck, but the jeep keeps going.

  Suddenly she has the impression of being close to an edge that falls away steeply. Her horror of heights kicks in. Instinctively she leans into him.

  “Scary, eh?” His left hand grips the steering wheel, while the other wipes the windscreen with a cloth. His face is pressed up against the glass, and he peers through a small clear opening that is always on the point of fogging up again. The heating is on full but they can’t open windows to clear the condensation, so he has to wipe the glass continuously to see. And so on, again and again. His arms must ache.

  The vehicle lurches and they appear to stop. “What’s wrong?” she cries. She has a vision of them having to abandon the jeep and trying to make it on foot. She imagines the deluge buffeting her, sweeping her over the edge of the mud into a treacherous bog that will gulp her down greedily.

  “Luckily, I know what I’m doing,” Eugene says, and she realizes that the jeep is moving, albeit at a crawling pace. She vows never again to complain about anything if they get out of this.

  “It must be impossible here in the winter.”

  “Never had to contend with the likes of this before. I’m getting the whole track gritted and tarred next month.”

  “I can see you really need a jeep in these con—” The track dips down sharply, the vehicle lurches and she fears it will tip over. Her hands shoot out involuntarily and she finds that she has latched onto his arm.

  “Easy, easy,” he says, undoing her grip. “It’s not as bad as you imagine.”

  “Sorry. Lost my nerve. I thought we were going to topple over.”

  “Not a chance. It’s okay,” he says and grins. He looks to be almost enjoying her fear. “Hold on to me all you like.”

  Then they’re arriving in what’s probably a yard. Relief washes over her. They park outside a wooden building and he turns off the engine. It’s possible to discern the outline of another structure to the side of them. “There,” he says. “Ordeal over. We’re here.”

  She bows her head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to grab you that time. It was —”

  “I know, the pressure of the moment. It’s okay. Relax, would you? Don’t be so jumpy,” he says, almost tenderly. The rain pelts down relentlessly. “I’ll make a dash for it. You follow,” he says, and darts out, slamming the door behind him. She watches him race toward a building and unlock a door.

  She sees her breath in front of her. Everything is in shades of gray. The air is thick with clouds. There’s something odd about the composition of earth and sky. She reminds herself that the ground is elevated.

  She jumps from a height and lands in mud. Unwieldy clothes weigh her down. The passenger door hangs open. She turns to slam it shut. Her boots skid from under her and squish ominously, but she rights herself and dashes toward the building.

  Then he’s at her side, supporting her arm and elbow, and steadying her as he hurries her along. He propels her into a room. “In, go in,” he says.

  Her breathing is all gulps. He’s leaning against the closed door. “I’m glad to be out of that,” she manages finally.

  “They could do a small feature about that on the telly, don’t you think? Just the ticket for a nice little human interest story. Wonder how much damage the storm is doing? It’s a bruiser.”

  She surprises herself by laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks. “You were terrified.”

  “Sometimes it’s exciting being scared. It’s…”

  “Exhilarating?”

  “Yeah. Knowing the odds are against you — we could have been badly stuck — but holding off the panic.”

  “Humph.” The look he throws her is dismissive.

  “Mr. ‘I know it all,’ is it? Were you as calm as a mountain?” she challenges.

  He grins. “I was too caught up to worry about it.”

  Picture windows overlook a swirling, darkening void. A dervish has been unleashed. Here in this room it’s strangely calm. She’s conscious of pale wood on the floors and walls. There’s a sense of spaciousness and light, even with the roof windows blurred and the rain reverberating on their surfaces. She takes a sodden step forward. It’s like trying to maneuver in a space suit. She’s walking like RoboCop — thud, thud, thud. She shivers.

  “You’d better change out of those clothes,” he says.

  “I’m okay. I’m fine. Just let me sit down somewhere.”

  “You have to get shut of those clothes.” With the long-suffering air of a parent burdened with a difficult child, he steers her out a door and down a corridor into a bathroom. She has a brief impression of tiled floor and walls, a sink, a radiator, and a high window. He switches on the light
. The bulb flickers. “Don’t want you catching your death. Have a shower. Quick, in case there’s a power cut.” He opens an adjacent door. “Dryer’s in here. Pop the wet stuff in. Just press the on switch.”

  “Sorry to put you to all this trouble.”

  He laughs. “Think of it as an adventure. I’ll go get my sister’s clothes. She’s about your size.”

  She begins the struggle against obstinate buttons and zips.

  Half an hour later she reappears, self-consciously tugging at a short skirt. Her skin is makeup free and slightly blotchy. She shakes out her hair to hide her face.

  “Sit over by the fire,” he orders. “Get a bit of heat into you.” She huddles on the edge of a chair and leans in toward the blaze. The flames crackle against wood and briquettes. The warmth of the fire begins to penetrate her body and she unfurls.

  “Soup’s up. It’s on the table.” He gestures at her to take a seat to one side of him, pulls back a chair, and slides it in under her. “Now, get stuck into that,” he says, putting a slice of buttered bread onto her plate. “Pity you’re not here on a good day,” he says. “There’s a pretty spectacular view.”

  “Lovely homemade brown bread,” she says. She tastes the soup. “Brilliant.”

  “Eat up. I hope you’re not on one of these accursed diets.”

  “I keep on the move to stay trim.” He laughs. Color creeps into her neck and face, prickling her skin with heat. She’s annoyed with herself. Who blushes these days? She’s always finding herself in situations with Eugene where she can’t show the face she tries to present to the world.

  He’s a neat eater, genteel, doesn’t slurp his soup or chew with his mouth open.

  “House trained” her mother would call him.

  “So what’s on your mind when you’re out on one of those walks of yours?”

  “I just pound along and get everything out of my system. It’s a great way of getting rid of tension. I always feel better when I reach home.”