by Laura Elliot
Havenstone, where Mrs Wallace and her son lived, was a large house set in its own grounds with a back view over the estuary. Beth imagined Marina in her high boots and leather trousers strutting through the rooms and smiled to herself. She suspected that Marina’s escapades mostly happened in her head. But untangling the lies from the truth was a tedious task so she stayed silent and listened to fantastic stories that ended abruptly in the Sweat Pit when Peter danced the slow numbers with Sharon from quality control. Later, reported Marina’s best friend, they were seen outside, kissing each other against the wall.
‘She’s a bike,’ Marina sneered. ‘Cheap peroxide slut.’ She was going to move to London and become a proper model on a catwalk instead of a canvas. Oldport was the tomb of the living dead.
‘I have my eyes set on higher things,’ she said when Beth found her in the bedroom wiping mascara from her eyes. ‘Peter Wallace can stay down on his bended knees forever but he won’t make me change my mind.’ She blew her nose and applied a heavy layer of panstick make-up, demanding to know why Beth was staring. Peter Wallace was nothing but a swollen ego and a tiny prick. She hated his guts. Beth left her weeping into the bolster.
A week later Marina left for London, armed with her portfolio of photographs and a letter of introduction to a modelling agency from Della Wallace.
The sales manager’s secretary duly became pregnant on her honeymoon and Beth moved smoothly into her place. Andy O’Toole, the sales manager, filled the office with cigar smoke and refused to allow windows to be opened because he suffered from draughts. She discovered a bottle of vodka in the filing cabinet and understood why his wife rang in so often with excuses about his ill health. His bullying became a ritual part of every day. She quickly realised that no matter how hard she worked she would never please him.
‘What a diligent young lady you are,’ said Mrs Wallace, coming upon her one night when everyone had gone home. ‘It’s the third time this week you’ve stayed on. Don’t you have time to do those invoices during the day?’
‘I didn’t get them until late,’ replied Beth. ‘And Mr O’Toole wants them on his desk first thing in the morning.’
‘Does your boyfriend mind you working such long hours?’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend so there’s no problem.’
‘At your age I would see that as quite a problem.’
Beth was surprised at the personal direction the conversation had taken, especially when Mrs Wallace smiled, a rare occurrence that softened the tough lines around her mouth. Not knowing how to reply, she stayed silent, knowing that her employer understood this need to work compulsively, even if she pretended otherwise.
The Wallace money came from spinning – three generations of tweeds and worsteds making the family fortunes. But Mrs Wallace’s childhood had been far removed from the graciousness of Havenstone. Connie, her childhood friend and neighbour, liked to remember those humble beginnings: one room on the top floor of a tenement; a dismal block of flats in the centre of the city where the walls wept in winter and rats froze to death in the outside toilets.
‘Such hard times, Beth,’ she would sigh, remembering, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. ‘But Della always vowed that one day she would wear pearls and live in a mansion higher than the highest tenement.’
Mrs Wallace was fourteen when she set up her first factory, making overalls for a local businessman in a cramped back room of the same tenement block. Her second factory, a ramshackle building that was always damp- and rat-infested, burned mysteriously to the ground. Beth asked if Mrs Wallace had organised the fire to collect the insurance money. This question made Connie shake her head so vehemently that Beth knew it was true. By the time they moved to a custom-built factory in Oldport, Della Wallace had her pearls, many strings of them, and Connie was still by her side, still supervising.
Bradley Wallace was sixty years old when he married the young Della. She was in debt to his textile company and wrote it off by signing her name on their marriage certificate. He gave her security and she gave him a son whom she never had time to love. Connie shook her head sadly.
‘She could have married many times before Bradley waved his chequebook in her direction but a man was only of use to Della if he could balance her books or run an efficient production line. Poor Peter – he has everything and nothing.’
One evening, shortly after their late-night chat, Beth’s employer brought her to the stockroom where rolls of fabric were stacked on shelves. Mrs Wallace unrolled a thick bale of tweed that had been delivered that afternoon and asked her opinion.
‘There’s nothing different about it.’ Beth rubbed her hand over the rough texture, imagining the heathery flecked coats being assembled piece by piece along the production line and, finally, draped on the shoulders of mannequins in department stores. ‘It’ll make up into the same coat style we’ve been manufacturing since I started working here.’
‘What’s wrong with that, may I ask?’ her employer demanded. ‘It’s proved to be a very successful design for this company.’
‘But it’s so old-fashioned. People want modern styles, not something their grannies wear to Mass on Sunday.’
Della Wallace seemed startled by her blunt reply. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.
‘Sixteen.’
‘Aren’t you rather young to be so opinionated?’
‘You asked my opinion so I assumed you wanted the truth.’
‘That’s not Mr O’Toole’s opinion and he’s the one who brings in the orders. I haven’t noticed any decline in our customer base – have you?’
‘But there’s no growth either. Young people don’t even know the label exists.’
‘We’re not in the business of pleasing young people. Perhaps that’s just as well if they’re all as outspoken as you. Are you as honest when my son asks your opinions on his paintings?’
‘Yes,’ Beth replied. ‘But Peter only pays attention to his own opinions.’
She wondered if she would be fired for her outspoken views. If so, she would emigrate to London and live with Marina, who wrote occasionally, boasting about her success on the catwalks and offering Beth a bed if she ever decided to leave the tomb of the living dead. She could do worse, Beth supposed. Like lying down on a bed of nails. She could endure Andy O’Toole and his small-minded meanness. When he finally took the bottle of vodka from the filing cabinet she would be ready to take over his job.
At first she had refused to visit Havenstone. The thought of entering her employer’s home intimidated her. It looked so big and grand with its tree-shaded walls and high wrought-iron gates but Stewart had finally persuaded her to come with him.
‘You never go anywhere,’ he argued. ‘Come on. Peter’s a big mouth but he won’t bite you. All we ever do is listen to music.’
To her surprise she had enjoyed the evening, which turned out to be the first of many. Peter led them up a curving wooden staircase into his studio, a large L-shaped room, south-facing and filled with natural light. He was in his third year at art college and planned to study in Italy when he graduated. The studio was filled with what looked like rubbish: pieces of driftwood, broken glass, jagged bits of steel, all marked with ‘Hands Off – Artist at Work’ warnings in case his mother threw anything out. The only nude Beth saw was a self-portrait of Peter hanging from the moon in chains of barbed wire. He looked mortified when he realised it was among the canvases she was examining.
‘It’s a protest against the Apollo moon landings,’ he explained, quickly turning the painting to face the wall. He believed that man had desecrated the moon by trespassing on its surface. She did not agree. Neil Armstrong was right: the moon landing had been a giant leap for mankind.
Stewart joined in the argument, insisting that technology was the new religion. One day the world would be ruled by robots with human brains. This suggestion then triggered another discussion about the integrity of the human psyche. They listened to Michael Jackson and David Bowie, lolling on bean b
ags as the music pounded around them.
‘That was good, wasn’t it?’ Stewart said on the way home. ‘Aren’t you glad you came?’
‘Very glad.’ A full moon reflected on the estuary. A melon moon pitted with craters, desert landscapes, a vast empty space – but all she could see was the long slim body of Peter Wallace filling it.
On Saturday afternoons they drank mugs of coffee and listened to music. Peter talked about artists who had influenced him, Cézanne and Picasso, and his favourite artist, Paul Klee, who had painted a famous golden fish with a flower instead of an eye. He said Beth had incredible eyes. He wanted to paint them. Cats’ eyes. The mirrors of the soul. She was the perfect Muse for his Cat-astrophic Collection.
‘Cat-astrophic,’ he would chant. ‘Cat-apult, Cat-aclysmic, Cat-walk, Cat-atonic, Cat-erpillar, Cat-holic, Cat-hedral.’
She sometimes wondered if he was mad. Mad in a harmless way that translated itself into crazy paintings of cats, destructive, dangerous cats, sometimes so distorted that they resembled nothing she could recognise, apart from their eyes – familiar eyes that she saw every time she stared in the mirror.
In his first completed painting – which he called ‘Cat-apult’ – a cat figure with a grotesquely large head and elongated body hurtled through stars; a flaming comet hell-bent on destruction. In his Cater-pillar painting, he painted the bank in Oldport, recognisable by the ornate pillars at the entrance. A cat with blazing eyes arched against one of the pillars, an almost playful pose until it became obvious that the building was buckling beneath the force of the animal’s fury.
‘Have you ever wanted to destroy something and obliterate it from the face of the earth?’ he asked when he was doing ‘Cat-walk’.
‘Yes,’ she said and, just for an instant, the past rushed back and threatened to overwhelm her. She focused on the painting he was holding up for her inspection. A monstrous misshapen cat that looked more like a bulldozer, it crouched in the centre of a green shady space that would soon become a building site. Beth’s eyes were the headlights, glowing vengefully.
Afterwards, away from the studio, she was uneasy, aware that she was being manipulated. He painted such emotion into her eyes, as if they were indeed the mirrors of her soul. She felt like a vessel, his voice pouring into her, opening her up with words that touched her fears, the anger she tried to suppress. The loneliness that swept over her when she allowed herself to remember. Yet she went back each Saturday, drawn by the growing intimacy between them, the sense of being part of something they were both creating. There were layers to his paintings that were not always apparent. She suspected the completed collection would contain a lot more of herself than she, or even he, realised.
At the end of each session he drove her home in a red low-slung two-seater that always attracted attention when he drove too fast through Oldport. Flared denims sat low on his hips, his sallow skin showing between the hip band and his paint-streaked T-shirt. His hair hung to his shoulders, scraggy, uncombed. A true artist at work.
‘Artist, my arse!’ hooted Connie, soon after the painting sessions began. ‘That brat couldn’t whitewash a wall if I stood over him with a whip. If he touches one hair on your pretty head I’ll tear his heart out. There’s no need to look so shocked, Beth Tyrell. All that painting nonsense and the two of you alone up there in his bedroom for hours on end – it’ll come to no good.’
‘It’s his studio, Connie.’
‘Oh, so that’s what he’s calling it now?’
‘Yes, Connie. I’ve never been inside his bedroom.’
‘Well, there’s many a girl in Della Designs can’t say the same thing,’ warned Connie. ‘Not to mention my poor Marina with her broken heart. Drinking, dancing and double-dating – that’s all that fellow wants from life.’
She wondered what Connie would say if she knew about the hash. Peter said it was a winding-down smoke and Beth wouldn’t be so uptight all the time if she shared an occasional joint with him. It annoyed her that he saw her like that, especially when he painted her in so many different images, none of them human, some not even animate.
‘You mind what I’m saying, Beth Tyrell,’ Connie warned. ‘Peter Wallace has a tongue that would charm snakes from a basket. But easy words are soon forgotten.’
Forgotten by whom, Beth wondered. She never forgot anything he said to her. Every casual compliment was branded on her mind. Words as airy as thistledown, blown carelessly in her direction, floating light, without substance.
Della Wallace also disapproved of their Saturday sessions. She usually found some excuse to enter the studio, cold with Beth for encouraging her son, sarcastic when she looked at his work. Her attempts to undermine his confidence infuriated Peter. Her presence was a constant reminder of the future she planned for him. The thought of working in the factory filled him with dread.
Beth was unsympathetic when he complained. ‘It’s your own fault. This studio, the way you live. It’s all laid on for you. Maybe you should move out and let your mother know you’re serious – that’s if you are serious.’
‘Of course I’m serious. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.’ She had annoyed him and it pleased her that she could reach beyond the charm and confidence he displayed so effortlessly.
Every Saturday afternoon Beth wrote to Jess and Sara. Only Jess replied.
Dear Jess,
I was sorry to hear you only achieved three honours in your Leaving Cert, especially as you made three novenas to St Jude. An honour per novena is an extremely poor return on your investment. If God intends on making you his bride he should do a better job of looking after your interests.
Dad’s been unwell. Something to do with his breathing. He’s not playing his tin whistle so much now. Connie bossed him into going to the doctor and he ended up in hospital for tests. He’s fine again but my mother didn’t want to know when I phoned. She wouldn’t even let Sara come to Dublin to visit him. He’s home again and back at work. Says he’s as fit as a fiddle but he misses Sara something awful. If you see her, tell her she’s to write back to me.
And now for my confession. Will you still be my friend if I tell you I’ve lost my faith? When you hear God’s voice in the wind (how those words haunt me) I hear silence. But that’s all right. It doesn’t make me sad or anything. I’m an atheist now. I debated between becoming atheist or agnostic but I chose the former because I don’t want any uncertainties in my life. It’s strange, not believing in anything, but it makes me feel free.
However, I still believe that our friendship is stronger than faith.
Write soon with all the news.
Beth, your very best friend
Dear Beth,
Your loss of faith saddens me but I agree – our friendship is indeed stronger than faith or, as in your case, the lack of it. With your permission I will pray for your conversion back to the one true religion. My novitiate begins in September. I’m coming to Dublin with Mammy to buy everything. You should see the list of things I need! Glamour personified.
Latest news flash from Anaskeagh.
1. Your mother has opened a boutique on River Mall. It’s called First Fashion; a most appropriate name since it’s the first time fashion ever got its nose inside Anaskeagh.
2. Your uncle has become a county councillor. Big party in Cherry Vale. All the nobs went.
3. His creepy son Conor, he of The Thousand Chinese Burns, is studying law in University College Dublin. God help the criminals, that’s all I have to say on that subject.
4. Saw Sara on Anaskeagh Head last week taking photographs with the camera you sent her for her birthday. I asked her to reply to your letters but she told me to mind my own business. Sorry, Beth.
5. Best news last – I’ve persuaded Mammy to book us into the Oldport Grand when we come to Dublin on our shopping spree. I want you to spend every spare minute with me. Imagine – four years since we’ve seen each other. A lifetime ago.
Counting the minutes until I see you.
Love you forever xxxxx
Jess
Chapter 9
Catherine O’Donovan no longer had time to read books or study stars. The farm was losing money and when she took off her wellingtons in the evenings it was to change into the flat white shoes she wore on her night shift at the Anaskeagh Regional Hospital. She looked tired when she arrived in Oldport. Beth wondered if she ever felt lonely. Jess was her second child to leave home. Her oldest daughter sold second-hand clothes from a market stall in London. In Beth’s opinion, bartering from a second-hand junk stall was a far more civilised existence than getting up in the small hours of the morning to chant at a non-existent God.
‘Will you miss Jess when she goes into the convent?’ she asked Catherine.
‘Of course I will,’ Catherine replied. ‘But I’d have more chance of stopping a tornado in its tracks then making that young lady change her mind.’
She enjoyed being back in the hospital where she had originally trained but she had to keep on her toes to understand the changes that had taken place, particularly the drugs. She shivered just looking at the labels.
‘I did my training with your Aunty May,’ she said. ‘The pair of us were great pals in those days.’
‘I didn’t know you were friends with May.’ Beth was surprised.
‘Not any more.’ Catherine smiled ruefully. ‘May’s been cutting a lot of old ties since she became a councillor’s wife.’
Beth’s mouth clenched. Her pleasure in hearing about Anaskeagh was always marred by the mention of him. Even after four years, his name still had the power to terrify her.
Catherine lifted the heavy fringe from Beth’s eyes.
‘Don’t cover them up, honeybun. They’re beautiful. Are you happy since you left Anaskeagh?’
‘Very happy.’
