A Few of the Girls

by Maeve Binchy

  “Yes, well, it’s great to talk to you and of course I’d ring you…but…”

  Clare waited.

  “I wonder if I could ask you to babysit tonight, it’s a last-minute thing.”

  “Not tonight. Sorry, Cathy.”

  “But why? She can be left, you often leave her.”

  “No, it’s got nothing to do with Mother.”

  “Well, if it’s Michael, can’t you ask him to come round here—have a bottle of wine and a cuddle or whatever it is you do by the fire.”

  “No, it’s not Michael, I don’t see Michael anymore.”

  “Well, then?” Cathy asked.

  Clare couldn’t believe it. This was her friend. Her best friend. She had told Cathy she loved Michael, Cathy knew everything and all she could say was “Well, then?”

  Cathy had not even taken time to notice Clare had said those terrible words “I don’t see Michael anymore.”

  She had not cried out in disbelief, demanded to know what had happened, rushed to give reassurance as Clare had done so many times over Martin. She did not try to hold a friend’s hand over the phone, she did not want to know every heartbeat. All she had said was “Well, then?”

  Clare stood in the hall of the house she cleaned for a mother who appreciated neither her nor the cleaning. It was her twenty-fourth birthday and this was all she had to show for her life. She held the phone a little way away from her and could hear Cathy’s voice pleading. Some long tale about Martin saying she was never free to go out anymore and about Cathy’s mother refusing on some kind of principle.

  “I know you’ll do it, Clare,” Cathy begged. “We’ve been through so much together and my life is falling apart.”

  “Only because you are allowing it to,” Clare said.

  Her voice sounded alien in her own ears. But what she said was true. Clare went upstairs slowly and opened the door of her mother’s room. Despite her best attempts to clean it, the room smelled stale and close. Her mother knew immediately something had changed. Fearful eyes looked up at Clare from the low chair where she lay slumped most of the day.

  “Do you think you understand me, Mother? Because I’m going to say something quite important. I’ll say it twice today and twice tomorrow and I’ll write it down but I’d like you to know how serious I am.”

  Her mother began to bluster in the usual way, but, when Clare’s voice cut across her, it had a steely ring. Her mother stopped midsentence to listen. Without any anger or recrimination, Clare explained there were three choices open to her mother. She could try a rehabilitation program in which Clare would support her every step of the way. She could be admitted and possibly committed to a psychiatric home on the grounds that she was unable to look after herself, or she could stay here on her own for the few short weeks it would take for the neighbors to report the unsanitary conditions and the risk to health and safety.

  Clare’s voice was steady and unwavering; there was affection and concern, but no beseeching. It was clear that, whatever her mother’s decision, she would go along with it. She sat calmly while her mother ranted and attacked her and came up with a list of reasons why nothing was her fault, that it was all Clare’s. Then, when there was finally silence, Clare, as she had promised, repeated the options clearly and without any hint of Last Chance Saloon.

  “Why are you saying all this?” her mother wept.

  “Because it’s my birthday. You gave birth to me this day twenty-four years ago and you didn’t remember.”

  Clare closed the door quietly behind her and left the house. She arrived at Michael’s flat some twenty minutes later. He came to the door and stood there, surprised to see her. Pleased to see her too, she decided, a little watchful, but pleased.

  “You were right,” she said simply.

  “About what?” He was definitely cautious.

  “My life doesn’t need to fall apart. Do you still love me?”

  He opened the door wide.

  “Are you coming in…just for a bit?” he asked. He did love her still. She closed the door behind her.

  Clare was coming in for the night…and she hoped for a great deal longer.

  Picnic at St. Paul’s

  Once, a long time ago, ten years ago, Catherine had spent a week in Suzi’s smart Washington apartment. About four times a year for ten years she had reason to regret this, even though it had been pleasant enough at the time. But every three months or so, she got phone calls from Americans sent to torment her by Suzi.

  “Hi, Catherine, I’m Mitzi Bernbach. I’m a friend of Suzi’s. She said I mustn’t come to London without calling to say hi. Suzi’s sent you a little gift. When can we meet so I can give it to you?”

  Suzi’s little gifts ranged from totally unusable, absurd toys like an elephant that held a pencil in its trunk to a map of some walk that Catherine had taken by the Potomac River in the distant past. She had to put on a show of enthusiasm for whoever had transported the gift, but always ended up feeling resentful, buying some ridiculous souvenir of London in return, and feeling under an ungracious obligation to entertain whatever wandering American had landed friendless in London. More than once she considered changing her address, but it seemed ridiculous to be hunted out of where she was happy by a vague threat from across the Atlantic.

  Through all these penniless Mitzis and Jerrys and Chucks she had learned the course of Suzi’s life. Suzi was still an ambitious young Washington host, for the younger set. She gathered people who were not yet successful but who had potential. She no longer ran her flower shop; instead she ran a contract flower hire service. Apparently, she visited the homes of rich people and advised them on what flowers to buy or rent for occasions: she then got commission from various florists for the orders that were put in. Only Suzi could have seen the potential in using the same set of expensive cut flowers for three separate occasions in a single day. She had been known to arrive in her van after a christening at one house to collect the flowers and rearrange them for someone else’s bar mitzvah party, and taken them on to a twenty-first all on the same day. Everybody paid slightly less for the flowers; everybody was happy.

  But Catherine, though she admired Suzi’s well-organized mind from afar, did wish that one day Suzi would lose her address where Catherine was filed under “Contact, useful, Britain.” The last visitor had been a real pain. He had telephoned from the airport with some terrible tale about his friends not being there to meet him and Suzi having said that he must call Catherine if he was in any trouble. He had slept on Catherine’s sofa for four nights. He never seemed to change his socks and her house smelled of feet for a week after he left; he had no money, no interests, and no charm. He had even eaten the thoughtful gift of a jar of ginger that Suzi had sent Catherine this time.

  So it was with a heavy heart that she greeted the voice on the phone, which told her yet again that Suzi had asked it to call. It called at midnight, just after she had gone to sleep. She thought it was morning and was bitterly disappointed to find that it wasn’t. Catherine hadn’t been sleeping well and she now regarded getting off to sleep as a kind of achievement. This new Suzi person had committed a great crime.

  “I think I ought to tell you,” Catherine said with tears in her voice, “I really don’t know Suzi Dane at all well. Ten years ago—yes, ten whole years ago—I spent six nights in her apartment in Washington, while you were still at school. I knew her only because of a complete accident. I found her purse at a telephone kiosk and returned it to her. She invited me to stay for a week. I am not, as she claims, a lifelong friend. I have no room for anyone to stay. I have no time to take you to the Changing of the Guard, or to the Tower of London. I do not want to hear what Suzi is doing now, and how rich and successful she has become. I’m sorry, I know I’m taking it out on you, but really, I’ve had quite enough of Suzi’s friends, and I think it’s better to tell you that straight out. Besides, I’d just got to sleep, and I haven’t slept properly for weeks. Now I’ll never get back to sleep.”
>
  To her horror she burst into tears.

  There was a kind of silence interrupted by a few soothing noises at the other end of the phone. Catherine could hear them as she put down the receiver and went to hunt for some tissues. Twice, as she blew her nose hard, she made a move to hang up—she had been so rude, there was no saving the conversation now. Twice she didn’t in case she thought of some way of rescuing it.

  After a final blow, she picked up the receiver cautiously.

  “Are you still there?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” said the voice, which didn’t sound hurt, sulky, or even surprised.

  “Well, as you can gather you caught me at rather a bad time,” she said. “Perhaps I should ask you to ring again. Tomorrow lunchtime, maybe? I’ll be fine by then. I’m very sorry for getting upset. I must have still been half asleep.”

  “That’s okay. I shouldn’t have called so late.”

  He didn’t sound like Suzi’s usual friends. He hadn’t said yet how broke he was, how he had nowhere to stay, how he had carried over this little gift. Also to his credit, he didn’t sound apologetic. Catherine couldn’t have borne him to be sorry; it was, in fact, her fault: five past midnight wasn’t too late to call someone.

  “What was your name again? I’ll telephone you when I’m awake,” she said, trying to be cheerful.

  “It’s no use trying to go back to sleep if you’ve got insomnia,” he said calmly. “The damage is done now. You must get up, have a shower, get dressed, and pretend it’s day. Do whatever you’d do during the day. Vacuum the house, write letters, cook a meal, go for a walk, listen to the radio, read a book, but don’t go back to bed, no matter how tired you feel.”

  “And how will I feel tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Rotten, but you’ll feel rotten anyway so why not get something done instead of lying there trying to go to sleep?”

  “But we need sleep,” said Catherine with interest.

  “Not nearly as much as we think. In two or three days, you’ll just drop off somewhere and sleep soundly. Listen, I’ll leave you to get on with it all, and call in a few days.”

  “Get on with what?” asked Catherine in amazement.

  “Whatever you’re going to do,” he said and hung up.

  Startled at her own obedience, Catherine got up, washed, and dressed. Then she made scrambled eggs and had a cigarette. She certainly felt more relaxed than she had at eleven o’clock, when she had been worrying whether she would get to sleep that night. She took out all her old silver and polished it and she put on some Strauss waltzes, which she liked but which Alec had said were impossible to listen to. She had pretended to Alec that she only kept them because they belonged to someone else.

  When the silver was shining at her and reflecting her busy face bent over it, she decided that she’d put it out on a shelf rather than hide it in the back of a cupboard. Alec had thought it was vulgar to exhibit silver; the cottage mentality, he called it. He also said it was an invitation to burglars. Catherine put the silver on shelves around the room and stood back to admire it. Each piece had a story. The teapot was the first thing her parents had bought when they got married; they had hardly enough coal to light a fire but they thought you weren’t properly married without a nice silver teapot. The silver rose vase was a gift from the office where she had worked happily for six years but which Alec said was a nonjob. She had left it a year ago, but often wondered why she was no longer there. It had been happy, so it had been cheerful going to work on Mondays. Most people didn’t have that at work. She certainly didn’t have that now.

  The silver napkin ring had been a present from her sister Margie. Margie had saved for a year, putting a pound a week aside to get something in solid silver. Margie was innocent and simple. Alec thought she was very sweet and wondered whether she had had brain damage as a child. He thought that they should get her to see a specialist. Catherine knew that Margie was just slow and loved working in a hotel kitchen where they fed her, looked after her, and tucked her up at night in return for days scouring and scrubbing and washing up. Catherine thought that people should be left where they were if they were happy. She went to see Margie every week. It was two bus journeys and a taxi at the other end, and took up most of Sunday. Sometimes that irritated Alec if he wanted to spend the day with her. He only went once to the hotel. He had stayed an hour.

  It was nearly three o’clock, Catherine realized, when she glanced at the digital watch Alec had given her for Christmas. She had never got used to the way the figures changed on it; secretly she would have preferred a watch with hands. Where had the hours gone? No wonder she felt so tired! Perhaps she should go to bed now—she would definitely sleep. But that odd Yank on the phone had sounded so certain that he was right in his plan, she didn’t like to disobey him. She made more tea, found a program on the World Service, and started some knitting, which she hadn’t taken out for weeks. It was to be a big chunky sweater for Margie, red and white. It would make her look very fat, but it was the color scheme she wanted. Several Sundays now Margie had asked how it was getting on. Peacefully until dawn Catherine sat there knitting, finishing the sweater, and then she had a stretch, took a walk down the quiet streets and then back home to finish the sweater. She felt tired but, as the American had said, no more tired than she normally felt after a night of little snatches of sleep and long periods of looking at the patterns on the ceiling made by the light that came through the windows.

  She began to wonder about this American, what she would do when he called. She half wished that he would ring now; she felt able to go out and wander around London in the sun on a Saturday morning. She wouldn’t resent having to do her unpaid London guide act today. In fact, she would take him to the Albert Memorial. Tourists loved that, and they could walk around the park for a bit. Of course he would want to go to Harrods; even penniless Americans liked to tour the great store, which they seemed to regard as a sight to be seen rather than a shop where you bought things. Perhaps she would take him to St. Paul’s. Yes, she’d like that, and they could walk for a bit along the Embankment; they might even take a boat trip, but mainly they would walk around St. Paul’s. Catherine liked St. Paul’s; it wasn’t as fussy as the Abbey, and it seemed to have a confident life of its own.

  The flat was clean and shining after her work through the night and the sweater was wrapped up and ready to take tomorrow to Margie. Had Saturdays always been a bit empty since she and Alec split up or was it just today? Outside the world was waking up, and she wanted to be a part of it. She would like to put on her nice leather jacket and her good tartan skirt and walk with someone who didn’t know London. Why didn’t this friend of Suzi’s ring? She hadn’t been that rude to him, had she? The morning dragged and she couldn’t think of anyone she wanted to telephone or to meet. Three years of Alec had cut her off from a lot of friends, and Catherine was too proud or too something to ring everybody up and ask if could she join the party again just because the affair was over.

  In the afternoon she went to the cinema and felt sleepy on the bus coming home. The phone was ringing as she let herself into the flat, but stopped before she got there. Tired as she was, she felt furious, because she was sure it had been the American.

  He was beginning to assume quite extraordinary proportions in her mind. It had something to do with sounding cool and unruffled. Unlike any of Suzi’s other friends, he appeared to be able to look after himself, and to give advice to hysterical strangers on the phone. Catherine planned a night program for herself. She would stick all her photos into albums, she would make herself an autumn skirt in nice autumn colors, she would methodically remove from her vision anything that reminded her of Alec, and she would restore the things she had liked before he came along because the sight of the silver cheered her up. By four a.m. she was too exhausted to do any more, but she refused to go to bed. Out into the silent streets, and a long, long walk, but not nervous. London was her city, she was never nervous here. Right u
p to the steps of St. Paul’s.

  She wished they left churches open at night; many people might like to wander around them when they couldn’t sleep. Of course, many more who had nowhere to sleep might use the pews as beds. But would that matter? If it was meant to be the house of a loving God, then surely he would like that sort of thing? As she sat on the steps she remembered a day when she and Alec had come here. A military band was playing and the tourists had loved it. Alec had said it was a form of prostitution to change your city to make it appeal to tourists so that they would spend their money there.

  She must clear her mind of Alec in the same way that she had cleared her flat of memories. He was no good for her, he had never loved her—he had never loved anyone—he had made her feel inferior, he had brought little laughter into her life. Why had she loved him? Chemistry, perhaps, if that wasn’t too ridiculous an idea.

  She walked home, tired, legs dragging, but her mind awake.

  At eleven o’clock, when she was just leaving the flat on the first stage of her journey to Margie’s, the phone rang.

  “Am I talking with Catherine?” he asked.

  “I’m glad you rang. You know, I didn’t even get your name the other night,” she said breathlessly.

  “I’m Bob,” he said. “Look, I was wondering, could I take you to lunch somewhere today? You must be feeling a bit too tired to fix yourself lunch, and you’ll probably want to sleep tonight.”

  Catherine was surprised that he seemed to assume she had followed his advice. Today was bad, she explained. She had to go and see her sister miles away. Could they make it one evening during the week, when she’d be happy to cook him a meal? Maybe they could meet on Tuesday; she could leave work early, they might stroll up to St. Paul’s, if he hadn’t already seen it, and then she’d be happy, really happy, to make dinner for them.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll be gone by Tuesday. Would your sister like it if I took you both to lunch?”