“Coffee so.”
Eugene comes in the back door and Matt stares at him. “You do gardens now, do you?” he asks.
“He’s helping out,” Ellen says.
Matt sits at the table. “This is an unusual little gathering,” he says and looks about. “I haven’t seen the house in a good while. It looks finished.”
The last time he was in Ellen’s house was weeks before, the night she consummated her affair with Eugene. By the time she got home from work the following day, he was gone. They met at young Denis Scope’s funeral, but he avoided her eyes and discouraged any conversation.
Today he looks more like the old Matt, freshly shaved, hair washed, skin and clothes clean. “Didn’t expect to find you in this neck of the woods, Beatrice,” he says.
“I get about, Matt. Don’t let the grass grow under my feet. I must say you’re looking very spruce.”
“Stephen’s coming tomorrow. He’s very particular about how I look — as bad as any woman!”
“It’s great he can come so often,” Ellen says.
“How do you know how often he’s been about?”
“I ran into him last week in Killdingle. We had coffee,” she says, a touch defensively.
“How did you persuade Eugene to knuckle down to work in the garden?” says Matt.
“Ah, sure, love is a great incentive,” Beatrice says, and smiles.
“What’s that? I’m sure I misheard you,” Matt says.
“Not at all, Matt. Spring is in the air.”
Eugene notices Ellen’s tense stance and moves to be close to her.
“Are you telling me that these two are — whatever it’s called now — going out with each other?”
“I most certainly am.”
“Eugene and I are good friends,” Ellen mumbles.
“Very close friends,” Beatrice says.
“Is this true, Ellen?” asks Matt flatly.
She shrugs. “It is and it isn’t.”
Eugene makes a sharp movement. “It is, Ellen. Don’t deny it.”
“Well, it has to be one thing or the other, doesn’t it?” Matt says crossly. “Let me get this straight. You’re separated, on your way to a divorce. Right?”
“Yes.” She wants to shut him up but can’t think how.
“In the meantime you’ve taken up with this fellow?”
She nods.
He points at Eugene. “He goes through women like — you’re just one in a long line. Do you know that?”
“What?”
“He’s one of those serial — what d’you mecall ’ems?… One at a time, but he always moves on. I warned you, but it seems you didn’t listen.”
Eugene glowers at Matt. “Take that back!” he says. “Take it back!”
“Why would I take it back when it’s true?”
“The gloss you put on it, but there’s no truth in it. None whatsoever. I’ve heard of pig-ignorant people but this beats all. You’re out of order, Matt!”
Matt looks at Ellen. “That’s not as I heard. He’s had numerous women. You must know that.”
“Stop this, Matt!” snaps Ellen. “Just stop it!”
“Matt, I haven’t heard any of this,” Beatrice says. “Where did you get hold of it?”
“It’s well known.”
“Whenever I hear that something’s ‘well known,’ I know nobody has a clue what’s going on,” Eugene says crossly. “Tell us about the swath I’m supposed to have cut through the womenfolk here!”
“You came here with a woman. Then you were living with another. There was a third, I think. I don’t want you adding my niece to your list of conquests.”
“Why not check your facts before making wild accusations, you ignorant bastard. I’ll make allowances, because I assume that you’re acting from the best of motives —”
“You’re the bastard!” Matt says.
“Matt, that’s enough now,” Beatrice says. “Hush.”
“God help me, I’m trying to answer him civilly instead of beating him down on the ground but I could lose the run of myself here,” Eugene says.
Matt stands up. “Try me, and you’ll get more than you bargained for.”
Ellen rushes between them. “None of this macho stuff,” she orders. “This behavior is ridiculous.”
“Ellen’s right. Would the two of you back off? You’re like stags in the rutting season,” exclaims Beatrice. “It’s between these two, Matt. Sit down, for God’s sake!”
“Thanks, Beatrice,” Eugene says. “For your information, Matt, I followed the first woman here —”
“You don’t have to explain,” interrupts Ellen. “Don’t say anything, Eugene.”
“It’s all right, Ellen. He has some false idea of me — I don’t know how he picked it up — but because he’s your uncle, I’m anxious to dispel it. I had one girlfriend, Matt, and you’ve misinterpreted the other situations. I’ve told Ellen everything. She knows all about me.”
“Well, she knows your version of the story. But what about Ellen, Eugene? You can’t run a cart and four through her. What are your intentions there?” Matt barks.
“Matt!” Ellen says, mortified. “He has no right to ask,” she mutters to Eugene.
“I don’t mind at all,” Eugene says. He looks at Beatrice, who’s squirming on her seat. “How’re you doing there, Beatrice?”
“If I could disappear now, I would,” she says with feeling.
“Good woman. Hang in there.” Eugene turns to Matt. “My intentions toward your niece are honorable.”
“So you’re not sleeping with her?”
Ellen gasps loudly. She rounds on Matt. “Next you’ll be talking about fallen women and damaged goods. I must be dreaming. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“I’m trying to look out for you, Ellen. That’s all. I don’t want you shacking up with some lowlife who’ll toss you aside like a —”
“Like a used teabag — is that it?”
Matt gives a snort of laughter. “Not the way I’d phrase it, but it’ll do.”
“It’s a different world,” Beatrice says in an exasperated tone. “Times have changed.”
“Exactly,” agrees Ellen.
“You like Eugene, don’t you, Beatrice? That’s why you’re sticking up for him,” Matt says.
“Well, I do. I’ve always liked him. And I think Ellen’s well able to take care of herself.”
Matt laughs. “So ye all think I’m an interfering old git, is that it?”
“In a nutshell,” Ellen says. “Although I know what’s behind it.”
“It’s to the forefront, Ellen. Life’s not as uncomplicated as you’d like.”
“No, I know it isn’t, Matt. I understand that. But this isn’t your call.”
“If you mess my niece about, Eugene, I’ll knock your block off. Do you understand?”
Eugene squares up to him. “Perfectly.”
“Could we change the topic of conversation, please?” begs Ellen. “You haven’t heard Beatrice’s news, have you, Matt?” She realizes her gaffe when she sees a horrified expression on Beatrice’s face.
“Shush, Ellen! Remember what I said?” hisses Beatrice.
Ellen puts her hands to her head. “I’m desperately sorry, Beatrice. I didn’t think you’d mind me saying it in front of Eugene or Matt. But I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. Forget anything I said, everybody.”
“It was meant to be confidential,” Beatrice says crossly.
“Is it about Andy? Is that it? Have you heard from him?” Matt guesses.
For the first time in — it must be decades — Beatrice feels that he is tuned in to her wavelength and really sees her. She shrugs. “Nothing solid, Matt. Paula ran into him in London, that’s all. Don’t know how it’s going to turn out.”
“I’d go for that any day,” Matt says. “It’s better than a slap on the face from a wet fish.”
“Will you all promise not to breathe a word? Nothing may come of it.
”
“Quiet as the grave,” promises Matt.
“If either of the two of us opens our gobs, Beatrice, we’ll have Matt to contend with,” Eugene says.
“Watch it, Eugene,” Matt says, but the hostility has gone out of his voice.
Twelve
BEATRICE IS WATCHING the late night news from an armchair, feet propped up on a footstool, a supper tray wedged in on the small table beside her. She sips coffee into which she dunks her own homemade gingernut biscuits.
Behind the chair, close to the range, Shep dreams. His nose quivers, his paws twitch, and he emits an occasional whine. The phone rings and he barks. “Shush, Shep,” she orders as she lifts the receiver. “Hello.” There’s a silence at the other end. Wrong number, she thinks, and is about to put it down when a voice says, “Hi there, Mom. It’s Andy.”
The biscuit hits the floor and she nearly drops the phone. “Andy!” Her voice is hardly recognizable to her. Another silence follows. “How are you?” she asks, afraid he’ll hang up.
“I’m okay.”
“Where are you ringing from?”
“The States.”
“I believe you’re living there now,” she says politely. How odd to be talking to him as if he’s a stranger.
“That’s right.” She recognizes an American intonation in his voice.
“How are things?”
“Okay.”
“It’s great to hear your voice again. I’m told you got married.”
“Yeah, we’re living in New York.”
“And you have a son?”
“Correct.”
His voice is unengaged, neutral. He sounds vaguely bored. Talking to him is like wrestling with a shadow. It’s perplexing that he acts so distant when he has gone to the trouble of phoning.
“What did you call him, your son?”
“Scott.”
“Scott?” Scott Furlong. Too American, she thinks.
“Yeah, Scott… after Kerry’s dad.”
“That’s nice. Kerry’s your wife?”
“Yeah, she’s a New Yorker. We met in the Big Apple.” Beatrice suspects that somebody — Kerry? — is beside him, egging him on. She imagines a whippet-thin woman with dark long hair, an expressive face, and lively brown eyes, dressed in jeans, plaid shirt, and clean sneakers, a pretty woman probably. Andy always had an eye for the pretty ones. She imagines this woman convincing him to ring his mother. Andy, you gotta make the first move. You made the break. She’s probably full of therapy-speak and sees her shrink on a regular basis. No, no, not fair, she could be perfectly normal, a rock of common sense.
“Paula told me about meeting you in the underground.”
“Yeah, we had a long talk. It was good.” The American drawl makes him sound like a stranger. “Hey, I was over in London last week and I called in on them, stayed over. She has a big house and the kids are great.”
“Paula never breathed a word,” Beatrice says indignantly.
“She was on at me to ring you, but I made her promise not to let the cat out of the bag until I got in touch. She said she gave you my number, so I kinda expected you to call me,” he continues.
His matter-of-fact tone nettles her. He presumes so much! Seconds tick by, a minute perhaps, before she finds her voice. “Well, I didn’t know what to do, Andy. I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me. To be honest, I was in two minds about what was best.”
“Hey, Mom,” — sounding so like a Yank — “all that stuff was to do with Dad. It was never you.”
Then why didn’t he make contact in all those years? A letter, a postcard, either would have made the world of difference. Better not ask. No reproaches.
“What age is Scott?”
“Five going on six.”
“And who’s he like? Does he resemble anyone on our side of the family?”
He laughs. “There you go, all that stuff about likenesses. Typical. He’s like himself, Mom, like himself.” For the first time he sounds warm.
“Just trying to get a picture of him in my mind. I’d love to see a photo.”
“I’ll post you one. I guess you don’t have e-mail.”
“Well, I have a computer but I haven’t hooked up the e-mail. Paula is always on at me about getting into it.”
“Jeez, there must be some changes about the old place if you’ve got a computer!”
“I use it for the accounts. There’s a very handy program, speeds up the whole thing.”
“I thought you’d be pressing me to visit, Mom.”
“Well, would you come?”
“Sure. Kerry’s been working on me to vacation in Ireland. She thinks it strange that we’re not in touch. She wants to see the place I’m from.”
Beatrice can’t imagine this daughter-in-law. She’s even hard put to construct an image of Andy. Has his appearance changed as dramatically as his accent? “Well, you know you’re always welcome. I’d love to see you.”
“We might come in a month or so. We’re due some time off. How would that be?”
A month? Such a turnabout, from nothing to everything in the space of a few minutes. His directness is new. It must come from living in the States. She imagines this wife, who has suddenly metamorphosed into a brash, blond woman with blood-red talons for nails, saying, It’d be great for Scott to see where you grew up. I just love the idea of going to Ireland.
“You’d be more than welcome,” she says, casting her eye about the room, which suddenly looks shabby. “A month. Did you say a month? Around Easter you mean?”
“Yeah, Easter time. April. I kinda thought it would be good, before the fares go up.”
Alarm swamps her. Little or no time to… well, to… she is bolt upright in the chair. “Of course, whenever suits.” Her voice sounds like the squeak of a rusty gate.
“That’s good. We’ll ring with dates when we’ve booked flights.”
Too fast, this is moving way too fast. “How long do you plan to stay?”
“I guess about three weeks, but we’ll travel around a bit. I want to show Kerry the sights.”
“With a name like that, you’ll have to show her the Lakes of Killarney and Dingle Bay.”
He laughs. “Hey, Mom, you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” He talks to somebody. “You wanna talk to Kerry, Mom?”
“Em — I suppose.” She hears the phone being handed over. “Hello,” she says. Her throat tickles ominously and she feels a strong urge to cough. What is it about nervousness and coughing? There’s nothing from the other end. “Hello?” she tries again.
“Hi, Mrs. Furlong,” comes a fresh voice. It’s soft, high, and hesitant. Beatrice thinks of Jackie Kennedy Onassis and reactivates the more sympathetic image of this woman.
“Hello, Kerry. Nice to hear from you. My name is Beatrice.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Well, I know next to nothing about you, except that you’re a New Yorker —”
“I’m originally from New Jersey. I live in New York.”
“Lots of Irish people in New Jersey. Lots in New York too. Have you any Irish connections?”
“No Irish in the mix. My mom liked the name. That’s all. I guess I’m just your average American.”
“You should get Andy to post me a picture of you when he’s sending Scott’s photo.”
“Sure.” Kerry sounds deflated. It’s difficult to manufacture phone talk with a perfect stranger.
“Well, I’m looking forward to meeting you in the flesh.”
“Me too, Mrs. Furlong, me too.”
“None of this formality, please. Call me Beatrice, Kerry. Everyone does.”
“Okay then, Beatrice. Talk to you soon.”
There’s a click and the phone goes dead. She holds the receiver in her hand. What if that’s it? Say she doesn’t hear from him again? She glances up at the clock. Half past eleven. It’s half past six — six-thirty — evening time in New York.
Before she realizes what she’s doing she h
as phoned Paula. She gets her husband. “Barry, I know it’s very late but could I speak to Paula?”
“She’s in bed, Beatrice. She’s asleep. I’ll get her to ring you tomorrow.”
It’s too late to ring Lily Traynor. She’s like the birds, early to bed and early to rise. Her fingers type out Ellen’s number but she cancels the call when Eugene answers. Is Eugene living with Ellen now, she wonders?
She’s still in a stupor when Simon arrives. The dog greets him with an ingratiating whine. “I must have dozed off,” she says. “Did that cow calve?”
“Eventually. No problem in the end,” he says pleasantly. “At least I don’t have to stay above tonight. It’s been hot and heavy the last week.”
“The most grueling time of the year.”
“The sleep deprivation’s the worst. I’m going to make myself a cuppa before I turn in. You want some?”
“No, thanks. I don’t know how you keep these late nights and still get up first thing in the morning. You must have the constitution of an ox.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“Give me the stamina of youth,” she says, getting to her feet. “I’m away, Simon. Goodnight. Will you lock Shep in the shed?”
“Sure thing. ’Night, Beatrice.”
Ellen tilts the tube of the pregnancy testing kit to read the result. Negative. Her shoulders slump and her stomach settles. It’s a strange moment, like relaxing after a high-altitude ride on a fairground attraction and savoring the relief of not having to view the world from a peculiar angle anymore.
Were she to examine her life and draw up a list of regrets, missing out on being a parent wouldn’t get a rating. She believes that divine intervention saw to it that Christy and she never had any children. What a mess that would have been. Would she now be a single mother? Or, miracle of miracles, would Christy have taken care of them?
She remembers comments from the early days of her marriage, “Any news?” inquiries, and pointed looks at her stubbornly unexpanded stomach. Even Kitty got in on the act, although she would have been hard-pressed to cope with the idea of being a grandmother, involving as it must an acknowledgment of the aging process. “I’ll never agree to being called ‘Granny,’” she had said. “I’ll be known as Kitty.” Of course, as years went by, interest in the hypothetical child waned and finally atrophied.
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