Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  She has always been verbally dexterous with teenagers and her penchant for the dramatic is a bonus. The students are good-humored. They do their work and answer her questions. It all seems under control, but she anticipates a confrontation. Minor or major, it will happen.

  But they’re gentle. They rib her about her accent. She mimics theirs. They decide that she comes from Foxrock. Anybody with what they term a “posh” Dublin accent has to come from Foxrock. They rubbish her suggestion that they ought to think of her as a local. “My father was from this neck of the woods. My uncle lives near here,” she tells them.

  “You weren’t born here” is their response.

  “Next best thing,” she hits back.

  Sometimes she overhears them taking her off as she comes into the class. They quote back some of her phrases to her. At the end of her first week a student stands up and strolls to the wastepaper bin to pare a pencil. “No, no. Always ask,” she says, shooing him back to his desk. “This isn’t primary school. You use a pen, not a pencil, in my class.” She stands over his desk. “That is, unless you have a problem with pencils. Maybe it’s a compulsion, this thing about pencils. You should worry if you need to pare one in every class.” Her voice drops to a mock-whisper. “I have an issue with pencils. It’s wrecking my life.” She smiles. “There are people who can help with a problem like that. Don’t lose hope. There is a cure.” The class laughs, the boy grins and takes out a pen.

  The effort she puts into the job exacts a toll. Monday to Friday, she’s in bed early every night. Except for essential sorties into the outer world, she buries herself in her house at weekends.

  “Well, this is a real improvement,” Beatrice says to Ellen. “Shows what a bit of design can do. I can’t get over it. If you saw what passes for a kitchen in my place, you’d pity me — doors hanging off hinges, drawers sticking, everything lopsided, and the whole thing rammed into a corner beside the kitchen door.”

  “Eugene’s prices are very reasonable.”

  Beatrice runs her hand along the worktop. “So neat, and no door into the kitchen opening in your face while you’re working, or anybody getting in your way if they come in. If I even had half the cupboard space you have. It’s more the layout of the thing really. Never mind, it’s sinful to want things. What I have will see me out.”

  “Some people change their kitchens every ten years.”

  Beatrice smiles. “Looking to throw some business Eugene O’Brien’s way? Can’t say I’m not tempted, but no. I’ll make the best of what I’ve got.”

  “Sit down and take the weight off your feet. I’ll make tea.”

  “I called a few times but missed you, and then I just put it on the long finger. The days merge into each other. I can’t believe that Christmas is so close. Will you be here for it?”

  “No, no. I always spend Christmas with Mum.”

  “That must be nice.”

  Ellen grimaces. This year Kitty has demanded a week from Ellen’s holidays. “Christmas forces you to be with family.”

  “Ah, go on. It can’t be all that bad. I enjoy every bit of that fuss. Usually, one of the girls comes home, and I love to see the grandchildren. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “That’s because you have a nice family.” Ellen sets the teapot on the table. “You know,” she confesses, “when I first saw you, I hadn’t a notion who you were, but then something twigged. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve had conversations with people without knowing who I’m talking to. Terry helps me out, matching descriptions to names, although I’m not always precise enough for her.”

  “Oh, Terry has all the news. But, sure, how would you remember me? We haven’t seen each other in — what is it? Twenty years? I’m trying to remember why we didn’t meet at Sarah’s funeral. Oh, I was away. That’s why. I can still see you as a child, Ellen. Remember when you and Paula used to go swimming? And I have a memory, as if it were yesterday, of me driving the two of you into the pictures in Killdingle.”

  “Great times. I’m thrilled to see you, Mrs. Furlong.”

  “Beatrice. Call me Beatrice. I’m glad that all that old formality is out of the way. I approve of people being on first-name terms. There are some around here who take a dim view of that, but I see nothing wrong with it.”

  “Imagine Paula having kids. It seems like yesterday when we were tearing about the countryside. How is she these days? Where’s she living? What about Niamh? It was Niamh, wasn’t it?”

  “Niamh’s a doctor now, married with a son. She’s living in Hull. Loves it. Paula’s in London, married with a son and daughter. They live in Richmond, big house and all that. She has a long commute to work. We were on the phone last night and I told her I was coming to see you. She sends her regards.”

  “I wonder if we’d recognize each other. I remember John and — was it Andrew or Andy?”

  “Andy. Andy’s in the States now.” Beatrice swallows the last of her tea. “Well, I’d best be off. This was just a quick visit to set the ball rolling. You’ll have to call up to me some evening.”

  “I don’t get many visitors,” Ellen says at the door. “It’s nice when someone calls.”

  “No point in expecting invitations around here. You’d be left waiting. They’re funny like that. I go into town on market day, Wednesday. Otherwise I’m generally about. Give me a ring. I’m in the book.”

  “I’m always afraid people will send me away with a flea in my ear.”

  “Well, that reflects more on them than you, doesn’t it?” Beatrice kisses her cheek. “This is great, Ellen. You’ll be a huge addition to the village. It’s a pity Sarah isn’t around to see what you’ve done with her house. She’d be tickled pink. She was always the one with a bit of style.”

  “Yes, Sarah would have approved. Remember to give my best to Paula.”

  “I certainly will. There’s just one thing, Ellen.” Her voice has changed, and something in her demeanor makes Ellen afraid.

  “What’s that?”

  “Our John is dead.”

  “John? Oh, my God!”

  “He — took his own life in January of last year, a few weeks before the start of the foot-and-mouth restrictions.”

  “Dear God, Beatrice, I had no idea. Nobody mentioned it. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t worry. Nobody does.” Beatrice takes her hand. “I wanted to put you in the picture. Don’t let it upset you too much.”

  “Oh, Beatrice, I — can’t — it’s just so awful.”

  “It’s okay, Ellen. I keep thinking it’s a year ago but it’ll be two years after Christmas. I’ve had time to get used to the idea, and time’s supposed to be the great healer. I wish I weren’t the one to have to tell you…”

  “I’m so glad you did. Stopped me putting my foot in it…”

  “Don’t dwell on it, Ellen. By the way, you could hire out Jimmy Joe O’Dwyer to clear the back garden. He’s the man for all that sort of work.”

  “Matt mentioned that name.”

  “Try Jimmy Joe. He can turn his hand to anything, and he charges a very reasonable daily rate. Remember now, don’t be a stranger. I’ll expect you soon.”

  Ellen’s mind is a blur of images. She remembers John as a young boy kicking a ball in one of the farmyards, dodging close about her, whooping loudly, a rush of air past her ear and a thud against a wall behind her as she passes. Once she and Paula went to a hurling match to watch him play on the local team. He had transformed into a reserved teenager, not much given to talking, his attitude toward her changing, growing less friendly, more combative — always angling to tease her, keen to catch her out, laughingly saying, “I bested you,” and crowing and hooting if she believed some tall story he’d made up. He must have been seventeen or eighteen the last time she came across him in the village, and he had cut her as if he didn’t know her.

  Another ring from the bell brings her back to the present. She opens the door and finds Eugene, his right arm thrown across the doo
rjamb, his body stooped and leaning forward so that, unusually, she finds herself on a level with his head. His eyes gleam as he registers her holding her stance.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she says.

  “Oh, yourself. I hope you’re not disappointed. Remember I promised to show you that furniture place? Would now be a good time?”

  “Now? Come in,” she says distractedly.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s nothing really. I’ve just heard some news and it upset me a bit.” She stumbles over the rug in the hallway.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Beatrice Furlong has just left. She told me about John, about her son’s death. I don’t know what to think. It’s just the shock. I’m still…” She gestures with her hands. “But I’ll be all right.”

  He rubs his hands together as if trying to warm them. “That was a sad business. It can’t have been easy for Beatrice but she kept going. Look,” he says uneasily, “do you want to leave the outing for another day? Maybe you’re not in the humor?”

  She shakes her head emphatically. “No, it’s exactly what I need. It’ll take me out of myself. I’ll only brood if I stay in the house. I drove round in circles when I tried to find that furniture place. There aren’t any signposts. You should have drawn me a map.”

  “It’s complicated. You need to know the lay of the land.”

  “Beats me how they ever sell anything if they don’t advertise.”

  “It’s only Dublin jackeens like you can’t find them,” he says glibly.

  Later that afternoon he parks the jeep outside a pub and suggests that they go in for soup and a glass of something to celebrate her purchases. “You’re very preoccupied,” he says after the barman has taken their order.

  “Oh, you know, thinking about John and what happened. It’s not as if I knew him that well, but I can’t put the idea of him not being alive out of my head. I’m remembering various things, but what sticks in my mind is a particular day. We were playing some game — I can’t remember why Paula wasn’t there — and he told me to tie him up with a length of rope as tight as I could, bet me he could get out of it. So I tied him up and, sure enough, he got free pretty soon. And then he insisted that he would tie me up, even though I wasn’t keen and — of course — he secured the knots so well that I was shouting for hours to get free. He left me in one of the sheds, well away from the house. Paula came home eventually, heard my shouts, and freed me. Beatrice was furious and gave him an earful, but he was completely unrepentant. He was grand as a young fellow, but he went off me. When he reached adolescence, from about thirteen onwards, he just shut down. I think it was mostly because of where I came from. A lot of his bravado was the country fellow showing the city madam who was boss.”

  He hands her a tissue. “Wipe your tears,” he says.

  “Tears? Isn’t that stupid? And it isn’t just wounded vanity. Afterward he was always hostile. It hurt that he disliked me so much.” She pats the tears dry, blows her nose, and sits up straight. “Are my eyes red?” she asks, striving for a lightness of tone.

  “No, no. Nothing obvious. You’d have to be up close to notice.” The barman sets down their drinks. “I hardly knew John,” he continues. “He wasn’t a good mixer, kept himself at a distance, and was next to impossible to talk to. He’d ignore you or mutter. I always thought he had a chip on his shoulder, and he was drinking pretty heavily toward the end. Of course, afterward it seemed as if we should all have known what was coming — there were incidents, a good few things really — but somehow people never realized.”

  “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know any of that.”

  “Sorry.”

  On the way out to the jeep, he puts an arm about her shoulders, pulls her close, and kisses the tip of her nose and then her mouth. There’s the pressure of his tongue, his hand at the back of her head, and a peculiar shivery feeling at the top of her spine.

  At the back of her mind is an agitation, like shock. She has imagined such a moment, even hankered after it, but now that it has happened it feels as if her body has shut down. Something within her hesitates — she’s frightened of slipping into a dangerous place.

  When he pulls away, the two of them are breathing heavily. He stares at her. “You didn’t like that,” he says in a flat tone of voice.

  “It’s… it isn’t that,” she stammers. “I wasn’t expecting it. Don’t you have somebody? Aren’t you involved? I heard you were.”

  “You think I’m spoken for?”

  “So I was told.”

  “I’m unattached. What you were told about broke up over a year ago.”

  “Right,” she says. “Though I can’t see why you’d be interested in me. I’m just out of a bad marriage. You could have your pick of lots of uncomplicated women.”

  “So uncomplicated that I learn everything there is to know more or less immediately? No, thanks. I find it easy to be keen on somebody who cries over the death of a boy who disliked her, someone who isn’t obsessed with her own image. It’s great the way you enjoy your own company but take fright whenever the spotlight is on you.” He traces his finger along the outline of her neck. “Have I got it wrong? I feel a connection. But maybe you’re not interested? Tell me if that’s the case.”

  Emphatically not, she thinks. She opens her mouth to mention the age gap, but he’s more or less forbidden that. She’s dumb with confusion. How can she know what he’s really like? She doesn’t want to become enmeshed in another disastrous liaison. On the other hand, if she doesn’t act, this moment will slip away. She has to gamble on instinct. She turns to kiss him, but her jaw hits his chin.

  “Hey! Ouch!” he says with a grin, and rubs his face.

  Her face flames red. “I was trying to — eh, seeing if…”

  “Know what? I’ve never met anybody quite like you.”

  She can’t meet his gaze. “That could mean anything.”

  “You’re like a deer or something. A sudden movement and you bolt!”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not any good at this.”

  “It’s not easy. There’s so much potential for embarrassment.”

  She smiles. “Especially if one’s gaffe-prone.”

  Later, when he’s driving her home, he says, “I’m not doing so well with you, am I?”

  Her head feels as if air has leaked into it. “Depends on how much patience you have.”

  “I have some.”

  Maybe not enough, she thinks. She wishes she could open up the way other people do. She desperately wants to.

  “Sure, isn’t everything a challenge or an opportunity these days?” he jokes. “There’s no such thing as failure or defeat.”

  He carries her purchases into the house. Before he goes he ducks his head and she finds herself locked into her second embrace of the day. Her brain detonates panic buttons, but she manages to lean into him and even puts her arms around his neck.

  “Much better,” he comments and steps back. “Practice makes perfect.”

  “Perfection’s a long way off then.”

  “You know what they say about perfection?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Trifles make perfection, but perfection is no trifle. Michelangelo’s supposed to have said that.”

  “Sure.” She laughs.

  “He did,” he declares. “And he was a very sensuous man.” He grins. “Though not the way we’d understand it. Still…” He touches her hair. “You’ve nice hair. I like your hair.” He gathers the ends into his right hand, bends his head, and reaches around to kiss the nape of her neck where her hairline ends. She shivers. “Very nice,” he murmurs.

  She’s giddy with sensation. “What?” he asks.

  “Just that spot. I must be very sensitive there.”

  He laughs. “So I’m getting it right?”

  “Very much.”

  “You’re a dreadful distraction,” he chides. “I’m entering my busiest season, jammed up with orders. I made t
ime today, but I’m going to be ferociously busy between this and Christmas.”

  “That’s okay. I’m under lots of pressure with this job. It’s naught to a hundred every day in terms of energy, and it takes a while to charge up. My first year teaching full-time, I was in bed every school day by nine o’clock.”

  “And I’ll be working the production line. We’ll still see each other, won’t we?”

  “We can keep it ticking over.”

  “Or tickling over,” he jokes, kissing her neck on that receptive spot.

  When he’s gone, she’s overcome by skittishness and dances about the room. “Tarumtidum. Tarumtidum,” she sings and, finding herself in the hall, comes to a halt in front of a mirror. She examines her hair. “Shameful,” she mutters. She scrutinizes her head from this and that angle. “What absolute nonsense,” she says to the air.

  Seven

  IF, AT MORNING break time, Ellen flops down into a chair in the staff room and says “I’m bushed,” or “whew!” she doesn’t expect a response. Hardly anybody answers any of her overtures. A grunt is the best that can be expected.

  Before coming to work in St. Philomena’s, she had anticipated new colleagues being curious about her, welcoming her, volunteering to show her the ropes, offering an apposite word to the wise now and again, and displaying, if not empathy, well, then, consideration for her situation. For the most part none of this has been forthcoming. She’s as good as invisible.

  The prohibition on talking to her is selective. It’s in the realm of inconsequential day-to-day exchanges and interactions that she is excluded. If, at lunchtime or during a free period, two or three others are chatting together, they act as if she isn’t there. She sits at a table, corrects copybooks, avoids all eye contact, and suffers from a diffidence that is strange to her. However, if she makes a work-related inquiry, she will be answered. If she needs to be informed of a meeting or a problem with a student, somebody will mention it to her.