“Have you said anything to your family about me?” she had asked, and was disconcerted when he said, “Of course I have. They’re dying to meet you.”
She’d laughed. “Ha, ha, ha,” she’d said.
“Wait and see,” he’d answered with a grin. “My regards to your mother.”
Ellen’s mobile screeches out arrival of a text message from Eugene: “miss u,” it reads.
“What’s that, darling? Who’s sending you messages?”
“Just one of my friends wondering if we could meet up.”
“Well, you know I’ve never stopped you doing anything you want, darling. I don’t stand in your way. Are you going to meet this person?”
“No. I was hoping to see Maureen, but she’s away this weekend. It’ll do me good to have a quiet night in.”
“But we’re going to the Gate, darling. I have tickets for that new production.”
“But you said —”
“What did I say, dear? I’m sure I didn’t mean it. Nearly forgot about the tickets. I was lucky to get them. It’s completely sold out, and the reviews are very positive. If we pre-book drinks, we won’t have to queue at the interval. Pierce O’Hagan is in it. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you? Another Irish actor made good. And the cast mingles with the audience in the bar afterward. It’s a lovely night out.”
“You’re a demon for springing surprises.”
“Tush. I forgot. That’s all. And I went to such trouble to get them. Wouldn’t it be a tragedy if I’d forgotten completely and we missed it? It makes me weak to think of it.”
This is Kitty at her animated best. Ellen has always appreciated the aspirational and artistic side to her mother but can never admit it, for fear of providing her mother with more of an entrée into her life.
Ellen thinks her features have softened and plumped up under the influence of love. Her complexion has cleared itself of blemishes. People tell her she’s “blooming” or “looking particularly well.” Her body feels reinvigorated. It’s all to do with attention, the giving and receiving of it, being alive to somebody and knowing she’s alive to them.
Eugene has an affectionate way of touching her hair, cheek, or throat. Sometimes she catches a surprising tender expression on his face.
They have almost finished work on the garden. Eugene’s dense planting of shrubs on the terraces subverts the previous cottage-style flowers, but Ellen thinks that Sarah would find lots to please her.
Sarah’s is the spirit behind Ellen’s house. Neither Mollie nor Peg appreciated the beauty of the site. Peg, in particular, like many of her contemporaries, hated anything old, associating it with poverty. The sisters fretted that their house wasn’t “modern.” They dreamed about low-ceilinged rooms with brick fireplaces and central heating. They slavered over brown and orange color schemes. They ached for a smart new fitted kitchen. They lusted over 1960s and 1970s bungalows — cramped and small by the standards of today.
However, the sisters could never persuade Sarah to sell the house in the village. “What’d I want with cleaning out septic tanks?” was her unvarying response. “This is a grand house. It has character. We’re hooked into the water and sewerage system. The shops are within walking distance. We have our little oasis of a back garden. All we have to do is maintain the place. It’ll see us out.” Minor skirmishes were waged over modernizing fireplaces, doors, and windows, installing beauty-board panels on the walls or buying a Formica-topped table, but Peg and Mollie lost each and every tussle. They fumed and sulked and fantasized about what they would do when Sarah, the eldest, was gone, but in 1985 Mollie suddenly succumbed to a rampaging cancer that she hadn’t complained about until it was too late, and Peg failed to wake up on Christmas morning in 1991. Sarah pronounced herself willing to die in 1995 and was duly dispatched in March of that year.
Ellen knows about those battles of long ago because she and Sarah corresponded until Sarah’s hand became too unsteady to hold a pen. Today, a dry day in late March, she and Eugene are trimming the hedge close to the river. Eugene has sandblasted the old stone steps and they’ve come up remarkably well.
Matt suddenly appears at the top of the steps. “Hello there!” he shouts down, funneling his voice through his hands.
Ellen hears the call and waves up. “I’ll put on the kettle,” she yells, but Matt puts a hand to his ear and shakes his head. “We’re due a break,” she says to Eugene.
“Are you going to the meeting tonight?” Matt asks when she joins him.
“What meeting?”
“About the motorway.”
“Motorway?” She stops, puzzled.
“Don’t you ever get out? There’s a meeting about the proposed route.”
“Well, how does that affect us?” she asks as she removes her coat.
“Affects everyone. You’ll maybe have to drive all the way to Butler’s Pass to get to it, if the access roads aren’t sorted out properly. Farmers are worried they’ll lose land or have it divided up. There are all sorts of issues.”
“This is news to me.”
“Living in a dream world, are we?”
“Do you know about this motorway?” she asks Eugene when he comes in.
“Yeah. There are three proposed routes. One could pass very close to the old Protestant graveyard, depending on which direction the Killdingle bypass takes.”
“But that’s within walking distance. A motorway would never be let run so near to the village.”
“That’s progress for you. It leaves nothing untouched,” Matt says.
She sits down. “I’m shocked, you know. Thoroughly shocked.”
“It’s easy to shock you,” Matt sneers.
“As long as we don’t end up as a commuter town,” she says. “Can you imagine?”
“No avoiding that sort of thing. Housing estates are springing up in every two-bit town near a main thoroughfare. Villages are being swamped. You hear of it everywhere.”
“But not here, surely? We’re off the beaten track.”
“Not as much as you’d like. Remember there’s a big city just forty miles away, and it’s expanding all the time. You’ll have to go to live in Leitrim if it’s isolation you want,” Eugene says.
“Is this a setup?” she asks suddenly, eager for them to be playing a trick. She’s met by silence. “It won’t come that close, will it?”
“Could come to within a mile of us,” Matt says.
“You’re joking.”
“That’s the worst-case scenario. Better turn up at the meeting tonight and find out.”
“They’re testing out reaction to the various routes. We’ll have to hope we don’t get a bad deal,” Eugene says.
“He who shouts loudest is heard longest,” Matt says. “If we don’t like what we hear, we’ll have to raise a racket.”
“Will it really affect us?” Ellen asks.
“Don’t tell me you’re lamenting the decline of old ways,” Matt teases. “Prosperity comes at a price.”
“But you’re just as unhappy about it.”
“I can live with it once it passes clear of my land. They’ll be handing out maps tonight.”
“How did this suddenly come out of nowhere?”
“You just haven’t been aware of it. This is change. No avoiding it.”
“Don’t look so distressed,” Eugene says. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“The end of the world as I know it. It threatens all the things I like about here.”
Eugene takes her hand. “You’re such a sentimentalist,” he says.
“Well, I am,” she wails.
“Come on, you like all those trendy shopping places in Killdingle. You love that new walkway by the river. You’re delighted that there are Chinese, Italian, and Indian restaurants there. You want all your mod cons. This is the next step. We just have to protect our territory as best we can, try to ensure it isn’t messed up too much.”
“Everything happens so quickly now,” she complains. “W
hy can’t they leave things alone?”
“That’s the only thing I envy the Brits,” Matt volunteers. “They know how to plan for change. They have systems that work. They don’t make a dog’s dinner of it the way we do in this country.”
“Bloody county councilors lining their pockets, assisting this and that developer,” Eugene says.
“I don’t think that happens anymore,” Matt says.
“Dream on,” Eugene says crossly.
Matt falls silent. “Matt’s right,” Ellen says. “That sort of corruption doesn’t happen now.”
“Nonsense!” Eugene says.
There’s an incendiary feel to the moment. Ellen wishes Eugene hadn’t stated his views so uncompromisingly. Matt was once a county councilor.
Matt sucks his lower lip and stares at the floor. Suddenly he lifts his head. “Word has it that Beatrice is getting a new kitchen,” he says.
“That’s right. It’s going in next week,” Eugene says.
“All in honor of Andy’s arrival,” Ellen says.
“Nothing wrong with the kitchen she had,” Matt declares.
“You can’t have seen it recently. It’s over thirty years old and falling apart,” Ellen says.
“Sure, if she does up one part, it’ll be laughing at the rest of the house,” says Matt. “She should leave well enough alone.”
“She hasn’t gone mad,” Ellen says. “Just replacement cupboards and a new tiled floor.”
“It’s going to cost her.”
“No,” Eugene says. “It covers a small area. She’s not getting a solid wood kitchen. We rejigged it a bit with one or two additions.”
“Have you no shame?” Matt says to Ellen. “Touting for business for your new boyfriend.”
“It had nothing to do with me.”
“Baloney. You fed her the envy potion. I saw it myself.”
“That’s rubbish, Matt. If you’re suggesting —”
“He’s winding you up,” Eugene interrupts.
“Falls for it every time,” Matt says.
She sits back against the seat. “You’re a terrible tease.”
“You’re such a good subject, I can’t resist.” He stands up. “Will I see yez tonight?”
“Wild horses wouldn’t keep us from it,” Eugene says.
Ellen stands to walk Matt to the door. “No, don’t anybody see me out. I know the way.”
She places the mugs in the sink and washes them. Eugene stands behind her, encircles her waist with his arms, and drops a kiss on her neck.
“I thought Matt was going to lose the rag with you,” she says.
“Yeah, there was a moment when I felt I’d overstepped the mark.”
Thirteen
YOU’RE VERY COY about Simon,” Brenda Finnegan says to Beatrice on the way out of Mass one weekday morning. “How’s that, Brenda?”
“All that talk about him and the Callow girl.”
“This is all news to me.”
“I hear it’s very serious.”
“Who’s this girl? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“You know, Celia Callow. Her people have land out Glenfee direction. Her father was left a farm by his uncle a while back.”
“In the next valley?”
“Yes. Your Simon is supposed to be great with her. There’s talk of wedding bells.”
“Beats me, Brenda. I can’t enlighten you.”
“Word is that’s why he dumped Angie Fitzsimons. He’s on the make with the Callow one.”
“I don’t think I know her.”
“You do. Plain with glasses. Very quiet. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”
“She must have some pulling power.”
“They say he’s after the farm. She’s an only child. He’s steeped.”
“It’s a small farm, isn’t it?”
“Forty acres.”
“That doesn’t make sense. He’d be a part-time farmer. Simon’s a good lad, Brenda. I can’t see him doing that.”
“That’s the word. The girl thinks her ship has come in.”
“Brenda, listen, nobody wants a farm nowadays.” As she speaks she realizes that, of course, Simon would want a farm, or the association with one. “Are you sure that this isn’t one of those mad rumors that do the rounds every so often? They’re very good at totaling two and two as five around here.”
“Supposedly they’ve agreed to sign the farm over to him.”
“Now that’s nonsense, Brenda, pure unadulterated spin. They wouldn’t sign, seal, and deliver so quickly. It’s a risky business handing over farms nowadays, what with divorce and the danger of breaking up a property if a marriage fails. The family would hedge their bets.”
“But this is the clincher, Beatrice, she’s a nurse. See, ideal. Her salary will keep the farm afloat. He’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity.”
Their paths divide at this point. “I’d nearly bet this is one of those tall stories, Brenda.”
“If you’re so certain, why don’t you ask him?” Brenda throws back as she turns down the lane to her house.
Beatrice ponders Brenda’s words all the way home. Simon’s talking to the vet at the back door when she reaches the house.
“God, you’re looking fit, Beatrice,” Bob McGovern calls out. “Why is a perfectly good car sitting in your garage?” Bob is pale and plump with mottled red cheeks and blond curls that give him the incongruous appearance of an overgrown baby. He’s a kind man, a reformed alcoholic, but reputedly foul-mouthed when dealing with recalcitrant animals.
“Need the exercise, Bob. This is my fitness regime.”
“Masochistic is what I’d call it. You shouldn’t let that incident in Killdingle put you off. We all have bumps and near misses.”
“I hit the child, Bob. Didn’t see her.”
“You did feck all harm, Beatrice. The car was almost stationary. She had just a few bruises and was a bit shocked.”
“Still, it gave me a fright.”
“Time to bury that now, Beatrice. Nothing too wrong with your calf. She’s feeding and I’ve given her a shot. You’re doing well. You haven’t lost any so far.”
“A good run. I hope it keeps up. Anybody for a cup of tea?” she asks dutifully.
“I’d best be off to my next port of call,” Bob says. “The weather is great these days, good and dry, but there’s still an edge to that wind.” He climbs into his jeep. “So long,” he says, and drives off.
Simon follows Beatrice into the kitchen. “Did you bring back anything nice?” he asks.
“Some of those doughnuts you like.”
“Good woman.”
“Brenda Finnegan was full of rumors about you this morning.”
“Not my star turn at the karaoke night in Killdingle, was it? You shouldn’t believe any of that stuff. It’s all malicious. I can sing in key.”
“Much more intriguing, Simon.”
He laughs and sits down. “There’s always some story. What have they concocted this time? I suppose Nan Brogan was in on the act too?”
“No, Nan’s at home with a cold.”
“Ah, there is a god!” There’s a challenging, almost angry expression on his face. “Well, what was it? What were they on about?”
“Speculation about your love life. You’re supposed to be taking the matrimonial plunge. They’ve even lined up a prospective bride.”
“I’ll keep you posted if there’s any news, Beatrice. Don’t you worry,” he says grimly. Suddenly he gets up. “Save my doughnut for later,” he says, and hurries away.
Afterward Beatrice can’t get Brenda’s words out of her mind. The more she rehashes them, the more she’s inclined to believe there’s something in what she said. There’s an unknowable part to Simon. He’s full of guarded concealment. His secretiveness rankles with her, and yet she has no right to resent it. Life charges on. One can’t slow down time or stop the clocks.
She tries to dodge her thoughts but they catch her anyway. It’s ridiculous to
jump to conclusions on the say-so of an unreliable dirt-raker, but she can’t help wondering what it would mean were Simon to marry this girl. How would it affect her? It’s obvious. He’d move away. She would lose him, and her dreary old life would come back. The vigor would go out of her days.
Simon’s very affable. The rhythm of their lives is deeply agreeable. He’s so reliable that she can trust him with any aspect of the farm. She’s come to depend on him, on his being about, has become fond of him and would miss him terribly. She shivers as if she’s caught a chill. The chill lies in the chambers of her heart.
Still her mind races. Neither she nor Angie can offer Simon what he hankers after. Beatrice’s farm gives employment: he can never own it. She knows that his family isn’t well off, and Angie comes from a poor background. Their collective income would hardly finance the purchase of one of the new semidetached houses on the outskirts of Killdingle. She doubts that they would be able to buy a site — the days of cheap sites are long gone — and fund the building of a house. Probably their only option would be to look for a county council house. Beatrice can see how Simon could be tempted by the prospect of marrying into the Callow family. Sheer economic self-interest would make it an attractive option.
She can see it all, recognize the dreadful logic, and her heart surges painfully. Her feet are cold, and she rubs them vigorously to warm them. When she stamps them on the ground they hurt. She closes her eyes and feels dampness on her hands. Her eyes start open. Shep is licking her hand. “Off you go, Shep,” she says, and shoos him out into the yard.
When she comes to again, she’s sitting at the kitchen table. She has no memory of getting there. She stays without moving for a long while. Eventually she gets up and walks about but she can’t settle to any task.
Simon will look out for himself. He won’t consider her situation. Why would he? When there’s something to say he’ll tell her. He said so. She can hope that the romance, if there is one, will fizzle out. She can wish for that, and pray that she’ll have him on loan for a little longer. She’ll bite her tongue and bide her time.
She smiles. Isn’t she, in her own way, as conniving as she suspects Simon of being, and as attentive to her own degrees of comfort? We’re all at it, she thinks, putting ourselves first.
Civil & Strange Page 24
