Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  “Well, I never — such impertinence!”

  “Your mother thinks it a shame we broke up,” Christy says. He fiddles with the sugar bowl, lifts a spoon of sugar into the air, tilts the spoon, and pours the sugar back into the bowl.

  Ellen snatches the spoon and pushes the bowl away from him. “Best thing ever happened to us,” she snaps. “We were miserable together.”

  “Ellen,” her mother says brokenly. “Ellen. How can you say such a thing? Christy’s a lovely man.” Ellen has to admire the intensity of her delivery. She has often thought that Kitty missed a career as an actress.

  “You don’t know what a marriage is like unless you’re in it, Mum.” Ellen looks at her watch and jumps to her feet. “Time marches on. Do you need to freshen up?” she says.

  Kitty fixes her with a resentful glare. “I’ll call you Kitty all afternoon if you keep your face out of my business,” Ellen says sweetly.

  Kitty sighs heavily twice, and then pulls herself together. She composes her face. “Thank you, darling. I’ll just nip upstairs and leave you two to talk.” She jumps to her feet and glides away. Her footsteps tap lightly on the bare boards of the stairs.

  Ellen begins to clear the table. She picks up the last sandwich and eats it at the sink.

  Christy clears his throat a few times. Then he coughs. She had forgotten his little coughs. “I wonder did we do the right thing by splitting up?” he says.

  Ellen ignores this.

  “Have you ever thought about it? Maybe we were too hasty?”

  “Christy!” she warns. “You were the one who wanted out.”

  “Maybe I was too rash?”

  She walks toward him, rests her hands heavily on the table, and looks into his eyes. “Wild horses, all the tea in China, or gold in the world — nothing could make me want to get back with you, Christy. I don’t care if I never see you again. Geddit?”

  He’s silent, his face inscrutable. Then he spreads his hands, palms up in a gesture of surrender, and smiles his engaging smile. “Got you! Don’t worry, pet. I’ve no designs on you. It was worth a try to see your reaction.”

  She doesn’t believe him for a moment. “You’re a dreadful twit, Christy, did I ever mention it?”

  He grins wickedly and eventually forces her to smile. “We don’t have to be enemies,” he says.

  “No, we don’t have to be enemies.” We’ll just never be friends, she thinks.

  In the pub later on, she’s horrified to see Christy talking to Eugene. She stands beside them, but it’s as if she’s not there. She tries to interject a few times but they don’t draw breath. They’re talking about sport, arguing the toss on whether the commercialization of sport has reduced soccer and rugby to mere businesses. She leaves them for a while, but when she comes back they have become absorbed in the analysis of goals, great saves, great tries, superb feats of athleticism, deciding how to classify or categorize them. Again, she moves away, and when she thinks they must have exhausted the topic, she discovers them discussing drug taking and cheating. She cannot believe the intensity of their contributions. They toss in arguments, kick them around, find something to disagree about and pitch points at each other. It’s like a competition from which everybody else is excluded. Christy’s thoroughly engrossed in the conversation. At one point, Eugene catches her eye and smiles, but he keeps talking. She wants to separate them but she’s helpless in the face of their indifference.

  The crowd around Matt has thinned a little. She spots Stephen — it’s only in the last few months that they’ve come across each other again — nursing a pint. Tall, lean, and good-looking, he takes after Matt. Colum, shorter, balding and slightly plump, is engrossed in conversation with old school friends in a corner. His wife and children are sitting at a table with Beatrice.

  Kitty beckons her over. “Get me a top-up, darling,” she says, holding up her glass. She’s on her second or third drink and chatting to Brenda Finnegan, who’s pumping her for information. Kitty’s the mistress of giving nothing away while seeming to be expansive.

  Ellen passes Matt on her way to the bar. He’s in good form, stimulated by the occasion. He squeezes her elbow as she passes. She waves at Stephen, who calls her over. “Is your mother staying on for a couple of days?” he asks.

  “Oh no, she’s heading straight back. She intended to leave much earlier but then she relaxed into the moment.”

  “By the look of it, you may have to put her and Christy up tonight.”

  “I agree. They look as if they’ve no intention of moving. I’m getting Mum a drink. It’s kind of weird how convivial funerals are.”

  “I’ve met more of my schoolmates here in the last hour than in the last ten years, plus been introduced to scores more people. Feels as if the family has just expanded. Let me get these. What’s the order?”

  “Not at all. We got our drink.”

  “Let me buy, for God’s sake. Another lager for you. What’s your Mum’s poison?”

  “Pernod and ice, half a lager for me. If I don’t eat soon I’ll be stupid with drink.”

  “There’s plenty of food.”

  Eugene approaches her on her way back from the table and steals a cocktail sausage from her plate. “Hello there,” he says. She looks askance at him. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “What’s up? You have the nerve to ask me what’s up! I don’t get it. I’ve hardly seen you of late and then you decide to monopolize Christy.”

  “I couldn’t let the opportunity of talking to him pass.”

  “And had you lots to say to each other?” she asks. Her drink catches in her throat and she’s overcome by a coughing fit.

  He pats her back solicitously. “Oh yes, we had a great chat. He seems a sociable fellow.”

  She feels that he wants to nettle her. “The man you spoke to wasn’t the man I had to live with. How did you get talking to him?”

  “Your Uncle Matt introduced us. I had a chat with Kitty, too. She’s wearing well. Think it might be genetic?”

  “Who cares? Think you know it all now, do you?” She’s aware that she sounds cantankerous but she can’t keep the sharpness out of her voice.

  “You never said much about Christy, although you did mention your marriage.”

  “He’s not going to be my husband for much longer,” she snaps. “I didn’t ask about your history, did I?”

  “I seem to remember it being mentioned.”

  “Shit, you’re right. I just didn’t like to see the two of you talking. He shouldn’t be here, but Kitty brought him.”

  “It’s kind of interesting though, isn’t it? What makes a couple? What attracts people to each other? It can be difficult for outsiders to understand.”

  “It’s even difficult for the people in the relationship. It’s not surprising that people split up. What’s surprising is when they stay together.”

  He laughs. She’s still cross with him, so when Stephen appears at her side and says, “Your Mum is looking for you,” she replies, “Come and talk to her, Stephen. She’s susceptible to handsome young men,” and springs away from Eugene. He doesn’t follow, and perversely she’s disappointed when she looks back to see him talking to Beatrice.

  Christy is sitting on a bar stool in front of her mother’s table. As Ellen and Stephen approach, he stands up. “About time we hit the road, don’t you think?” he says to Kitty.

  “Oh. Stephen, were you coming to talk to me?” wails Kitty. “I think we’re going to go.”

  “We’ll find another opportunity,” Stephen says smoothly. “Thanks very much for traveling down, Kitty. You too, Christy.”

  “Are you fit to drive?” Ellen asks Christy.

  He grimaces. “I kept it down to a pint and ate loads. Food makes a difference.”

  Her mother pulls a face, stretches her arms, and yawns. “He’s a man, Ellen. Of course he’ll manage. I think I’ll sleep all the way home. I’m so glad we made the funeral,” she says to Stephen with a coy look.

  Stephen
hands her the Pernod.

  “Drink up,” Christy urges.

  “I’ll have to leave it,” Kitty says, putting the drink aside. “What a waste. Last thing I want now is to face the drive to Dublin.”

  “Stretch out in the back seat if you want,” Christy says.

  She shakes her head. “I’ll just pop on my sunglasses and lean back against the headrest. You won’t know if I’m awake or asleep.”

  “Except for when you snore,” Ellen says.

  “Don’t be unkind. You know I don’t snore.” Kitty rises to her feet. “It’s been lovely to see what fine young men Matt’s boys have become,” she says to Stephen. She kisses him on the cheek and turns to Ellen. “Remember, dear. Come up to Dublin and call in to see your poor old mother sometime. You were out and about a lot at Christmas.”

  “Of course I’ll visit, Kitty. Let me see you to the car.”

  “You’re not running away, are you?” Matt asks Ellen as Kitty makes her protracted goodbyes, extracting kisses from Matt and Colum.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Christy and Kitty are in a great hurry suddenly. “We’ve a good distance to go and we don’t want to get caught in rush hour traffic,” Christy says, pointing to his watch as if it’s to blame for their delay. Ellen allows her mother to kiss her cheek but repulses Christy with a fierce glare. “Well, I’m done with this village,” Kitty says as she sits into the passenger seat, “unless you’re going to invite me down for a visit, Ellen.”

  “Certainly, I’ll invite you down.” She glances at Christy. “Unaccompanied, I mean.” He makes her an ironic little bow before he sits in behind the steering wheel.

  The engine bursts into life, tinted electric windows whirring open as Kitty waves and then shutting as the car glides away. Ellen can see Kitty and Christy only as silhouettes. She waves them off. It’s one of those surreal moments, as if she dreamed it.

  As she goes to re-enter the pub, she finds the entrance porch blocked by Mona, deep in conversation with another woman. Her “excuse me” and clearing of throat is ignored as they hunch into each other like penguins with outstretched flippers. They’re oblivious to her.

  “It was awful beyond imagining, Sadie,” Mona says. “At first, we couldn’t manage the bloody wig. It’s shapeless when it’s not on somebody’s head. We had the hairdresser up twice and she fixed it, but when she was gone it took ages to get it right. Then she took against it and refused to wear it — the perversity of it — but equally refused to be seen with a bald head.”

  “Still, you can understand it in a way. You can see why,” Sadie says as they move toward Mona’s car.

  “But it meant no visitors, Sadie. That didn’t seem right. It was a nightmare.”

  “Wouldn’t she tie a scarf around her head or wear a cap?”

  “You might as well have asked her to go to the moon, Sadie. There was no way.”

  “You had to respect her wishes, Mona. You had no choice.”

  “It was heart-scalding.”

  “But she wore the wig in the coffin?”

  “I made sure of that,” Mona says grimly. “He was indifferent. Typical man.”

  Mona suddenly sees Ellen and acknowledges her with a cool nod. She doesn’t seem to realize that she’s in the way.

  “Are you off, Mona?” Ellen asks. “Sorry, excuse me while I get by.”

  Belatedly, Mona and Sadie shuffle out into the street. “I’ve had enough of this funeral. They’re all in great humor in there. It’s more like a get-together,” Mona says bitterly.

  “It’s always the way,” Ellen says weakly as she squeezes by.

  Mona and Sadie resume their huddled conversation, their hatted heads arching low.

  Back in Hegarty’s, Stephen accosts Ellen and says, “Most people run away from the countryside. What makes you the exception?”

  “It’s a long boring story, Stephen. When Christy and I split up, it wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to stay in the city, but for ages I didn’t know what to do. When it came to the crunch, all my history, all my associations with Ballindoon, really counted for something. I used to be so happy here. Suddenly, this seemed the only place to be.”

  He laughs. “Can’t see how myself. I know you and Christy aren’t together. But wasn’t coming here a bit extreme?”

  “Ah, Stephen,” she says lightly. “When there’s a crisis, it’s surprising how your mind works. You have to think outside the box to solve it.”

  “And think inside another one?”

  It’s her turn to laugh. “That’s one way of putting it. I thought archaeology, not psychology, was your forté!”

  “We’re going back to the house now, Ellen. Are you coming?” Matt calls.

  She hesitates. “You will,” says Stephen. “No arguing. It’ll give you a chance to talk to Colum and Úna. You’ll like them. We’ll make a pot of coffee and we can make inroads into the sandwiches. We’ve enough to feed an army.”

  As they leave the pub Ellen spots Eugene in deep conversation with an attractive, tanned, skimpily dressed teenager. His face is animated, totally focused on the girl, who welcomes the attention, unfurling her body, thrusting out her chest, and leaning toward him.

  “There’s your kitchen man,” Matt says. “Looks like he’s doing some cradle snatching. He has a bit of a reputation, you know.”

  “Really?” Suddenly she feels sick.

  Nine

  THE MORNING AFTER Julia’s burial, on Ellen’s return to work, she doesn’t expect and isn’t offered expressions of sympathy, such as, “Sorry to hear about your aunt,” or the more standard “Sorry for your trouble” from colleagues. Nora, the principal, says, “Eddie told me there was a death in the family.”

  “Yes,” confirms Ellen, clipping the word.

  “Sorry to hear the news about your aunt,” Joyce O’Dea says in the car park at lunchtime.

  Ellen nods. “Thanks,” she says bleakly.

  “How’s Matt?” Eddie asks that afternoon when they meet on a school corridor. “He’s had a hard time the last few months.” To Ellen’s amazement, Eddie put in an appearance at Julia’s removal, came and shook her hand afterward, muttered platitudes, and offered his condolences, especially to Matt who, when nudged by Ellen, appeared to recognize him but later claimed that he hadn’t a clue who he was.

  “He talks as if he knows you,” Ellen prompted. “Mentioned you the first time I met him.”

  “Probably served on some committee I was on. I understand who he is, but we don’t know each other,” Matt said.

  “Thanks for turning up,” she says to Eddie.

  “Least I could do. I live out your direction,” he replies, and passes on.

  However, a week or so after Julia’s funeral — did it prick their consciences? — as if by pre-arranged signal, other colleagues begin to acknowledge Ellen. Oh yes, now they all know her name, where she lives, and how she came to be in the school. They chat as if they’ve always chatted to her, smile as if that’s always how they behaved, make common ground about the weather, query her opinions on items of news, and ask her professional advice. At last she occupies space, and now she has mass and momentum. She can’t fathom why she has finally impinged on their consciousness, but welcomes rather than resents the attention, relieved not to be endlessly embattled.

  She’s well aware of how little in common individuals on the staff have with her and that she’s unlikely to strike up any friendships. However, civility and surface friendliness will do well enough.

  She hasn’t — what was the point? — committed a directory of teacher identities to memory. Now, suddenly, she has to remember a glut of names. It’s a while before she adjusts to the strangeness of the Hiya, Ellen or Good morning, Ellen or How’s it goin’? or Want to come to the Riverbank for lunch? invitations.

  Matt said that Eugene has a reputation. Does he? Could he be a dissembler? She’s reconfiguring him, revisiting her feelings, and weighing everything between them. She senses that Eugene is a person o
f integrity but how can she be sure? She’s no expert on men and her track record isn’t good.

  However, in his presence, her powers of discernment don’t work. Her only weapons against him are words and there she is vulnerable. She doesn’t have full control over what she says.

  “Can’t you get shut of those copybooks?” he asks in uncharacteristically bad-tempered tones during a visit one night.

  “You’ve no idea of how much stress I’m under.”

  “A lot of it looks self-inflicted. Ellen, you have to have down time, time off, your own time, time for me. What’s the problem?”

  But she can’t bring herself to say “irrational jealousy” because she knows how repellent that is.

  “This job, the atmosphere in the school,” she says. “It’s suffocating, really getting to me.”

  “I thought things had improved. Give it up if it’s so awful.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He recoils from her snappiness. “Sorry, sorry,” she says.

  “Hey, Ellen,” he says, pulling her to him. “Poor Ellen.”

  She frees herself from his embrace. “I’m all on edge,” she explains. “I could snap, like a twig.”

  He could snap me in two and discard me, she thinks. She remembers those tenuous teenage years when she fancied the boy who collected the pools from her mother’s house every Friday night. Then her mortification, when a verbal slip betrayed her infatuation to the hostile cohort of pretty girls in her class, and it was relayed back to her that he knew she was besotted with him and found it amusing, if somewhat pathetic. And the care those girls took to ensure that she knew precisely in what terms he had dismissed her — in all its grubby, and no doubt enhanced and distorted, detail.

  Then the agony of knowing that she would have to face him at the door the following Friday night. But she carried it off, handed the money over with aplomb, took the sheet from him, cracked a joke (cracked a joke!), and closed the door firmly in his face. From then on she had engineered being out on a Friday night and encountered him only once again, at one of those hideous discos that, occasionally, her mother forced her to attend with Teresa (whatever happened to Teresa, her fellow sufferer?). When he approached and asked her to dance, she turned away.