Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  Ellen knows that she can’t spend the time locked in eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation with Isabel, so she says, “Start us off, would you, Isabel? Read the first verse from the Hopkins poem.” Isabel looks mutinous, and Ellen anticipates a delay and some shape throwing. At last, with a cough, an irritated look, and much throat clearing, the girl begins to read. “I caught this morning morning’s minion, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding…”

  “Very nice. Good articulation,” Ellen says when she finishes, and is rewarded by a look of scorching hatred. She turns to another student. “Pick up the next verse, would you, Dermot? — ‘Brute beauty and valour…’”

  After the final class of the day, she finds Eddie waiting, leaning against the corridor wall, arms folded. “God, you’re persistent,” she grumbles.

  “Think about what I said.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “It’s that old thing. You can get away with anything once you pretend to be playing by the rules. The appearance of the thing, how it’s perceived, is what matters. It doesn’t have to be right but it must look right. That’s always been the way. The most important thing is not to get caught. You’ve broken the cardinal rule. No discretion, Ellen. No discretion.”

  “This wouldn’t be an issue if I were living in Dublin.”

  “Of course it wouldn’t. But you don’t have the anonymity of the crowd here.”

  “I don’t want to sneak around hiding things.” Suddenly she feels weary. “Does this matter, Eddie? Maybe it won’t matter to all the people you think it will. Ireland has changed.”

  “Not as much as you’d like, Ellen. You’re in a vulnerable position.”

  Ellen has discussed the matter of being groomed for this hypothetical job with Matt. “No point Eddie harping on about it all the time” was Matt’s comment. “They say he’s the real power in the school, but it’s not in his give.”

  “I suppose he thinks he can influence the decision,” Ellen had hazarded.

  Matt looked dubious. “Perhaps. Come to it, I know some of the people who sit on those interview panels. But he’s right about agendas. The interviewers will have worked out priorities. Often it won’t matter who’s the best candidate. It’ll be a question of who conforms most.”

  A part of Ellen is in cahoots with Eddie’s plans to fast-track her into a teaching position in the school, but today she’s fed up with all his fussing, all this prying into her business. She says, “My job’s waiting for me back in Dublin, Eddie.”

  “I got the impression you were anxious to put down roots here.”

  “Nothing is settled, Eddie.”

  “My interest is purely professional,” he says at the front door of the school. “In any given area, there’s a small pool of teaching talent. Not everybody can impart knowledge, but you can.”

  She has a headache from listening to him. “You’re a tonic, Eddie,” she says with feeling. “If ever I need my ego bolstered, I’ll come to you.”

  Ellen is switching off lights and on the point of making an early night of it when the doorbell rings. She debates carrying on as if she hadn’t heard the bell but decides she’d better open up in case Eugene or Matt decided to call.

  She opens the door to find herself looking at Eugene’s mother. “I expected you to be back in Enniscorthy by now,” she says.

  Mel proffers a box of chocolates. “Cora came down with a bug so we’ve put off going till tomorrow. No,” she says, when she notices Ellen looking beyond her, “there’s no Eugene. He’s keeping his sister company.”

  “Well, come on in.”

  Mel smiles. “You’re wondering why I called?”

  “You could say that. Would you like a drink?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Make it a small one. I’m driving so I’d better be careful. You know, I never got a chance to see your place. Eugene said it was worth a visit and sent me down to have a look.”

  “That’s nice,” Ellen says, but she suspects that Mel may take the opportunity to air some of her concerns about her son’s liaison with Ellen. So far, Mel has been remarkably sanguine about their relationship, but good breeding and even better manners have probably placed constraints on her tongue. Ellen wonders if the charm will break down, and if she’s about to experience the deadly thrust of a few sharp observations. For the moment Mel seems content to walk through rooms and express appreciation of the décor. When they come back into the hall, she says, “I have the dinkiest mirror I think would go beautifully here. I’ll send it back with Eugene next time he’s home, and you can decide if you like it.”

  Ellen still suspects that the woman’s friendliness is superficial or artificial, so she decides to plunge in. “I expect you’re here to discuss your reservations about Eugene and me.”

  Mel dazzles her with a smile and shakes her head. “Not at all. I’m very happy with the way things are turning out. You’re such a relief after the last ‘friend’ he had. We were worried about that liaison.”

  “But aren’t you worried about the age thing? Isn’t that the problem?”

  “Oh, there isn’t a problem as such, Ellen. I’ve long given up trying to influence Eugene. There’s no gainsaying him. He’s the only boy and he’s always been single-minded. His sisters are all academic high flyers, but he hated school with a passion and refused, absolutely refused, to consider third level. He has brains to burn, though he was never bookish, but he was determined to do carpentry. At the time his father was very unhappy about it, but it’s all turned out for the best. Of course, we lent him the capital to set himself up. That’s how he managed it so young. Still, I’ve learned to let him go his own way. He doesn’t take direction.”

  “Is that it?”

  Mel purses her lips and Ellen braces herself. “It isn’t my business, Ellen. You and Eugene are going to have to work it out between you. You’re in the early stages of a relationship. If the gloss hasn’t worn off in the next year or two, I expect you’ve as good a chance as most of making a go of it. I know all about your separation and divorce. It’d be very convenient if everything in life was tidy, but that’s not the way it happens.”

  “And that’s all you have to say?” Ellen asks.

  “No.” Mel lays a hand on Ellen’s arm, and Ellen wonders if what she’s been expecting is finally going to come out. “Actually, I came to invite you to visit us in Enniscorthy. Come along with Eugene next time he’s due.”

  “God, you’re a very tolerant woman, Mel. That’s the last thing I expected to hear.”

  “I know my son, Ellen. He’s really keen on you, and it’s a relief to know you’re not going to make him miserable. Do you expect me to map out Eugene’s life for him? Give me some credit. I’m his mother, not his warden. And if I did really object to you, do you think he’d pay the slightest attention? No, he’s my heedless, head-strong son, and that’s the way I like him.” Mel looks about. “This really is a grand little house. You did a fantastic job on it.”

  “If it weren’t dark I could show you the garden. Eugene was a great help.”

  “So I hear. This house has a charm all its own. I like the mix of old-world and modern.”

  Later, over a cup of coffee, Mel says, “He’s no angel, of course, my Eugene. He has a temper. I can see from your expression that you haven’t had the pleasure of him going off the deep end, but he will. It blows over very quickly, fortunately. Then he’s so pernickety about things, always tidying up after people.”

  “That I know about. Stacking newspapers and cleaning surfaces. He says I’m slovenly about the house. But I say he can’t complain. It’s the only thing I’m relaxed about!”

  “There’s an upside. Your house will always be clean!”

  “You’ve taken a load off my mind, Mel. You don’t know how much I appreciate it. It’s been so nice meeting you,” Ellen says as they make their goodbyes.

  “Likewise. So, stop worrying. I’ll do my best to remember that mirror. Send it back if you
don’t like it.”

  “Safe journey,” Ellen calls out.

  It’s only as she’s getting into bed that Ellen realizes that Mel and Cora’s visit has not only regularized and legitimized her relationship with Eugene, but has probably catapulted awareness of it in Ballindoon into the stratosphere. Poor Eddie’s concerns about respectability and containment lie tattered and in ruins.

  Fourteen

  BEATRICE ADDS finishing touches to Andy and Kerry’s bedroom. Their flight is scheduled to land in Shannon in the afternoon, and Simon has gone to collect them. The freshly painted room with its laundered curtains and new bed-clothes is transformed. Finally she satisfies herself that there’s nothing other than fiddling and rearranging to do. This is now the best room in the house.

  Her eyes range over the hallway and calm deserts her. Cleaning and painting can do only so much. The furniture is shabby and the carpet threadbare. The sitting room is somewhat better. It too has been painted. She replaced the broken lamp, steam-cleaned the carpet, and laid a rug to disguise a frayed piece in the middle. The westerly sun breaks through the bay window, warming the mahogany of the tables and tipping the gilt of the picture frames. The piano will be fine once nobody tries to play it. She hopes that the house exudes a dignified if dilapidated grandeur.

  What if Andy disapproves of the changes she’s made to the kitchen? What if he’s possessive about the old things? He was never sentimental but maybe he has become so.

  She moves through the house in a trance. All morning she had been dreading the phone call to say that they’ve decided not to come. Even now, it wouldn’t surprise her if Simon returned empty-handed, saying they weren’t on the flight. She has to trust that it will turn out right. Should she have been there to greet them when they got through customs? But no, she had decided it was best to stay at home, stoke the fire, and keep an eye on the dinner.

  She lifts lids on pots, adjusts the temperature settings, checks the roast, and counts the parboiled potatoes. They go in the oven the minute the guests arrive. Gravy can be made later.

  The clock taunts her with its sluggishness. Every moment is an agony. She goes to the kitchen window to see if she can spot the car coming. How can the minutes have such a stretch in them? Time feels taut, quivering and paused. She, by way of contrast, feels speeded up. She has stymied herself by leaving nothing to chance. It will be another while before there’s a hope of anybody arriving.

  She pours a sherry and gulps it down. It fails to relax her, feels as if it’s having no effect, as though she metabolized it instantaneously. Fool! She should have strung that out, slow sip by slow sip. She’s wound too tight. Can’t have another. Could lead to a succession of… well, could lead to her being found on the floor! She’s heard of that happening, people getting drunk through nervousness and making a show of themselves.

  She finds a packet of mints, tears it open, and swallows one. She doesn’t want them to get a whiff of alcohol from her. Still, she could do with something — a tranquilizer, a sleeping tablet — anything to slow her down.

  Ellen, Matt, and Eugene know that Andy is coming and she’s sworn them to secrecy. It’s difficult to believe that she will soon be able to see and touch Andy, and that he will sleep in this house tonight. For nine years she tried to make him dead to her and stored him in a seldom-opened compartment in her mind. This was easier than continually tormenting herself as to why he continued to cut himself off.

  If there is a hell, it will be a place of waiting. The house is confining, closing in on her. It’s suffocating. Unbearable. She makes for the back door, heads out, and takes off up the yard. The day is good, windy, sunny, and slightly cold. Shep follows, slinking and weaving in and out behind and in front of her, body low to the ground as if he’s working the cows, tail wagging furiously to show he’s off duty. She throws a stick to give him something to fetch, but she tires of the game. The yard is immaculately tidy. She wanders about the outbuildings, poking at this and that, but there’s nothing to do. The calves have been watered and fed. Everything is in plumb order. She strolls across to a gate and leans against it. The cows are grazing in the lower field. They pay her no attention. The mountains look far away, a sign of continuing dryness, their purples and blues hazed and muted in the sunshine.

  It’s chillier than she thought, too cold for standing around. She should have worn a jacket. She hurries back down to the house. No sign of Simon’s car. Where can they be? She returns to the sitting room, puts another log on the fire, feeds it with coal, and warms her hands. She turns on the telly and searches for flight details on teletext, the way Simon showed her. The plane has landed. Something else has delayed them, road works, diversions, an accident — no, not an accident — slow clearing through customs, problems with luggage, that sort of thing.

  She searches the phone book to see if she’s written in Simon’s mobile number, hears the car engine, shoves the book back, and rams the drawer shut. She listens for voices, frozen like a novice actress.

  This has to go well. How could it not? Jack’s no longer about, tense and touchy, ready to fly off the handle at the merest perceived slight. She won’t have to referee the occasion and salvage it. But part of her is sorry that Jack won’t be present to witness Andy’s return, to meet his wife and child, to rejoice in Andy’s success and maybe — because Jack had moments of generosity — to write off the treacherous debt, the wretched university fees. “We’ll say no more about that, son.” Glossing over the pseudo-row and wrong-footing Andy. A pause while Andy digested the implications of his father’s expansiveness. And then? A reciprocal graciousness on Andy’s part? That might have happened.

  But in her heart she’s afraid, scared that the visit will end on a sour note. It isn’t just Andy she has to think about. There are the unknown entities of his wife and child. A lot depends on what they’re like. She replaces the guard on the fire and makes her way to the kitchen.

  The kitchen is empty, not a sign of anybody. Voices drift past the side of the house. She makes for the porch and follows the sounds outside. Where are they off to? She hurries to the upper yard but they’re not there, listens again for voices. This time she gets it right. They’ve headed for the garden. She can make out forms beneath the apple trees. They’ve stopped to look at one of the views. Andy — is it Andy? — is pointing out the flowerbed he made for her when he was fifteen.

  She wipes her palms on her apron, unties it, and folds it into a neat shape in her hand. Simon and Andy are talking. Andy turns. His hair has darkened to a light brown. He’s filled out. He’s taller than she remembers, a good bit taller than Simon. She’d hardly know him. She’d pass him on the street.

  He sees her. “Mam!” he says. He catches her and swings her about. “Whee!” he says. She laughs at the silliness of it and settles a little dizzily on the ground, holding on to his arm when he lets go. Purple and green spots blind her. Of course they don’t kiss. That famous old-style Irish reserve about kissing. She’s one of the worst offenders.

  “You don’t look a day older!” he declares.

  “Get away out of that.”

  His arm rests lightly on her shoulder. He pushes her toward somebody. “Meet Kerry, Mam. She’s heard all about you.”

  “Hope it wasn’t all bad,” she says lightly, and shakes hands with a shadow.

  The woman laughs. “Hi, Beatrice,” she says, and Beatrice’s eyes begin to adjust. This daughter-in-law is whippet-thin but considerably shorter than Andy. Hair — what’s the color of the hair? Light brown? Fair? Blond? She’s not sure. The features of the face catch the light but she couldn’t say what Kerry looks like. It’s too much to take in.

  Then she can see again. The little boy — the sun catches his strawberry-blond hair — hangs back, clinging to his mother’s leg, hiding his face. “Scott, this is Granny Beatrice,” Kerry says. Scott’s small for his age. “Say hello to Granny Beatrice. Scott, come say hello!”

  He stands like a floppy straw doll, shaking his head. He h
as the face of an elf with a little pointy chin.

  “Scott!” Andy sounds annoyed.

  “He’s shy!” exclaims Beatrice. “Take no notice of him. He’s probably tired after his big long journey. We’ll let him calm down.” Then, because she can’t take in much more, she says, “Welcome, welcome” to them all, and Andy links her back to the house. “I had spots in front of my eyes,” she says. “Couldn’t see a thing.”

  “You don’t miss much,” he says.

  Simon has fetched the suitcases. He places them on the floor in front of the range. “Will I bring them upstairs?” he asks. He squirms in his jacket, his big brown hands emerging like canoe paddles from the cuffs of his shirt.

  “That’d be great, Simon. Thanks. We’ll all have a drink when you come down.”

  “I’d better change into my working clothes and round the cows up for milking.”

  “I’d forgotten about the milking. Is that the time? It’s later than I thought. That’s a shame, Simon. I’ll keep your dinner for you.”

  “Does he eat with you?” the woman asks, as if she doesn’t approve, when Simon is gone.

  “Simon’s like one of the family,” Beatrice says.

  Kerry grimaces and all goes quiet. “Why not sit down for refreshments,” Beatrice suggests.

  “The kitchen looks different,” Andy comments. “It’s not the way I remember.”

  “The old kitchen? That whole thing was falling apart. I had to replace it.”

  “Yes, but you’ve moved things. The sink used to be over by the wall.”

  “It’s much better where it is now. What’ll you have to drink, Kerry?”

  “She’ll take a sherry,” Andy says.

  “Do you have white wine?” Kerry asks, ignoring Andy, who casts a reproachful look at her.

  “There’s wine in the fridge. Sauvignon Blanc okay, Kerry?” Beatrice cuts in. She’s bought enough alcohol to stock a mini-bar.

  “Thanks.”

  “This is a bit late for dinner. It’s usually in the middle of the day here,” Andy says to his wife as they sit at the kitchen table.