‘Yeh have to. Jesus, Trevor, that’s beautiful, I nearly feel like riding yeh meself!’ The two young men laughed, but as soon as the laughter died down Rory returned to the attack.
‘I’m serious, Trevor, you have to take that girl - Maria is it? - you have to take her aside and tell her how you feel. I can’t tell you how many of my gay friends, before they came out, were in love with people and didn’t tell them and every single one of them regrets it to this day. Some of them are still depressed about it years later. For God’s sake don’t let this chance go by.’
‘So what do I do, Rory? I just walk up and say I love yeh?’
Rory thought for a moment. ‘No, Trevor. After all you’ve done so far all you have to do is give her this picture yourself! Yeh don’t have to say anythin’. Yeh don’t have to tell her yeh love her, just walk up to her and give her this last picture yourself. I swear to God, Trevor, that’ll do the job. If it doesn’t she’s a hard-hearted bitch and you’re better off without her anyway.’ Again the two men laughed.
‘I’ll do it,’ Trevor announced. ‘I will, I’ll walk up to her and I’ll give her the picture. Jesus, thanks Rory, that’s all I needed, yeh know, somebody to tell me that I have to do it. And I do, I have to do it.’
The two brothers hugged each other, and Trevor looked forward to the following day. He slept well and dreamed about handing his picture to the beautiful Maria Nicholson. The next day was Friday and Trevor shared the bus into town with Dermot and Buster who were both going to collect their dole money from the unemployment exchange.
Chapter 5
THE THIRTEEN TINY FRAMED WORKS OF ART stood in a row right across the top of the polished grand piano. The initial letter of each name on the copies spelt out M A-R-I-A N-I-G-H-O-L-S-O-. Maria sat on the arm of the couch engrossed in the parade of tiny masterpieces. She held her mug of scalding tea in her cupped hands and every now and then she took a sip without taking her eyes from the pictures. When Maria’s mother Edith had buttered and applied marmalade to the toast, she made her way to the drawing room where she knew her daughter would be. She also knew exactly what she would be doing. She came to Maria’s side and handed her the plate. She too looked at the miniature paintings.
‘You’re due an “N” any day now, aren’t you, honey?’ Edith asked her daughter.
Maria nodded several times before speaking. ‘Yes.’
‘Still no idea who it is?’
Maria snapped out of her trance at her mother’s second question.
‘No, not a clue, Mum. I’ve looked at virtually everybody’s work and nothing compares to these. I’ve also studied all the likely candidates and none of them, that I can tell, would have the depth of feeling that it took to even conceive this,’ she swept her hand across the room indicating the pictures, ‘let alone to sit down and paint them. But he’s in that college somewhere.’
Edith took the plate and mug from her daughter and, pointing to the clock, exclaimed, ‘And so should you be, Miss, go on, off you go.’
Maria put on her coat while her mother watched her fondly. ‘Maybe he’ll be here at the party tomorrow night?’
Maria spun around and giggled. ‘Isn’t it just like ‘Cinderella, Mum?’
Edith gave her daughter a hug. ‘Darling, when you’re young every love affair should make you feel like Cinderella.’
The tiny painting was burning a hole in Trevor’s pocket. Every minute that he did not see Maria Nicholson, the little picture felt heavier, and he became more terrified. The psychological weight of the picture became so great that Trevor even began to limp, as if he were carrying a huge object in his pocket.
He had hoped to catch her eye in the corridor some time between the first two classes. The first two attempts didn’t go well. After the first class she was nowhere to be seen. After his second class he saw her but as he made his way towards her she slipped up a couple of flights of stairs to a classroom. Eventually lunchtime came and Trevor made his way down to the canteen where he knew for sure Maria Nicholson would be dining. Entering the canteen he saw her sitting at a table with six other girls. He very nearly walked straight over and placed the picture down in front of her, but instinct told him to wait, and instead he went to the self-service counter where he got himself a mug of coffee and a chocolate éclair. He paid for his goodies and made his way to a table where he sat with a few guys who shared some classes with him. All of the time his eyes were on Maria Nicholson. One of the boys noticed his stare and nudged him.
‘Nice, isn’t she?’ he said.
‘What? Eh yeh, I suppose, yeh she is - beautiful.’ Trevor blushed.
‘Where are we all going to meet before the party?’ one of the others enquired.
‘What party?’ Trevor asked.
It was Noel King who answered. ‘Tomorrow night, at Maria Nicholson’s house. Her party, didn’t you get an invitation?’
Trevor quietly answered, ‘No.’
‘Of course, you only have two classes a week with her! She probably doesn’t even know you. She’s invited all the lads. Come on, I’ll introduce you,’ Noel stood up.
Trevor panicked. ‘No, no, I’m grand - no, you’re all right - I have met her, no, it’s okay, thanks.’ He got up from the table and hurried out of the canteen, leaving half a cup of coffee and an untouched chocolate éclair.
‘I can’t just gate-crash somebody’s party!’ Trevor threw his arms in the air in frustration and walked away from Dino and Rory who were sitting in two empty stylist’s chairs in an empty Wash & Blow hairdressing salon. The shop had been closed for an hour.
‘I would!’ Dino Doyle exclaimed.
Trevor spun round. ‘Well of course you would. You don’t give a shite what people think about yeh - oh I don’t mean that in the wrong way, Dino. Yeh know what I mean, you’ve got lots of confidence.’
‘I’m not takin’ it the wrong way, Trevor. I don’t give a shite what people think about me. But that’s not the point here. I guarantee you that if this girl knew that you were the one that had painted those pictures you would be top of the invitation list. Am I right, Rory?’
‘You’re dead right, Dino. He’s right, Trevor. Yeh have to gate-crash the party.’
Rory and Dino stared at Trevor. After a few moments hesitation, Trevor dug his hands into his pockets and asked, ‘Okay, so how do I do it?’
Rory and Dino were delighted, and Rory squealed, ‘Oooh, come on, Dino, let’s make a plan!’
The plan, as it turned out, was very simple. Trevor would simply arrive the following night at the Nicholson house on Belgrave Square. He would knock at the door while the party was in full swing. Whoever opened the door would simply accept that he was one of the students and allow him in. Immediately on entering, Dino and Rory insisted, Trevor was to find Maria Nicholson, no matter where she was, walk straight up to her, hand her the unwrapped picture, and say, ‘Add this to your collection, Maria.’
Dino and Rory made Trevor rehearse it in the mirror. At first he sounded like John Wayne trying to feign a tough-guy image. Rory and Dino said that although they found it attractive they thought it a little shallow. After a few more attempts Trevor eventually sounded like Trevor, and Rory and Dino were satisfied.
Saturday-morning breakfast in the Browne house was always a big attraction. It was the morning when Mammy cooked her famous fry. Each member of the family would sit down to a red-hot plate of black pudding, white pudding, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, Haffner’s sausages, and narrow back rashers. They would have a choice of toast or fried bread and copious amounts of scalding hot, strong leaf tea - none of that tea-bag stuff for our Agnes.
Now, Rory Browne was a great brother. He was also a wonderful friend and lover, as Dino could testify. But he had one flaw, and it was his mother who always pointed it out: Rory couldn’t ‘hold his piss’. This was Agnes’s euphemism for not being able to keep a secret. Trevor nearly died of embarrassment when Rory announced, ‘Tonight’s a big night for our Trevor!’
&nb
sp; Knives were slowly put down. Mugs were settled and one or two cigarettes were lit up in the silence that followed Rory’s announcement. Agnes was the one who asked the question on everybody’s lips: ‘Why, what’s on tonight, Trevor?’
Trevor’s face turned so red it seemed he was fit to burst. Grinding his teeth together; he mumbled the words, ‘Fuck yeh, Rory.’ Rory, sensing Trevor’s inability to explain to the family what the big occasion was, took it upon himself to fill the entire family in on the state of Trevor’s love affair or, as he would point out, non-love affair. Everyone was delighted for Trevor and there were various pats on the back or little thumps from well-wishing brothers, and a hug and a kiss from Cathy. Trevor was embarrassed by all this at first, but actually took some strength from the support offered by his family and now relished the thought of delivering into Maria Nicholson’s hand the last of his works of art.
That day dragged on for Trevor. Every minute seemed to last an eternity, but eventually eight o‘clock came and, dressed in his newest black Levi’s, a grandfather shirt, and black leather jacket, Trevor looked every inch the cool art-college student. Rory and Dermot gave their approval, and Trevor headed for Maria Nicholson’s party.
Belgrave Square was beautiful, an expansive square of Victorian houses which surrounded a railed recreation area known as the Parish Priest’s Park. There were five entrances into the park, one midway along each row of railings at opposite sides of the park and one on the comer that faced the city centre. Trevor stood half-hidden by a bush inside the gateway on the western side of the square. He was now across the street and three houses away from Maria Nicholson’s home. From where he stood he could hear the rhythmic beat of Desmond Decker hammering out ‘The Israelites’, a song Trevor always loved but never understood a word of. Every so often a car would drive up, a young man or a young woman would get out and go in to the party. He recognised most of them. From where he stood in the gateway he was about two hundred yards from a green postbox on the same side of the road. This post box was two houses past Maria’s house. He had walked to and from the postbox ten times so far, all of the time mumbling to himself, ‘Add this to your collection.’
Trevor’s shirt collar button was now open and he was sweating. His hands were dug deep into his pockets and he shuffled his feet. Suddenly he said aloud, ‘I can’t do it,’ and walked away. As he rounded the comer from Belgrave Square into Victoria Street he came upon a lighted ’phone box. He went in and dialled his mother’s number. Rory answered.
‘Rory? It’s me, Trevor.’
‘Trevor? Well, how’s the party goin’?’
‘It’s goin’ great, the music is brilliant.’
‘What’s the food like?’
‘Eh ... I don’t know, I don’t know.’
‘Did yeh not eat any?’
There was now a pause during which Rory twigged.
‘Ah Trevor, don’t tell me yeh didn’t fuckin’ go in?’
‘I can’t do it, Rory.’
“Course yeh can, Trevor, yeh have to!’
‘But ... but I seen loads of people go in, Rory, I know them all - what if she starts laughing?’
‘Trevor Browne, I don’t know where that ‘phone box you’re in is, but you get your arse back to that door now and you go in and give that girl that paintin’ or I swear I’ll never talk to yeh again. I mean it!’
It was Rory who terminated the call. Trevor stood for a couple of moments with the whining earpiece against his ear. Slowly he replaced the handset, left the ‘phone box and began to stroll. Before he realised it he was standing at the bottom of steps outside Maria Nicholson’s house. He took his hands from his pockets, closed his shirt button, stuck his chin out and, murmuring ‘Ah fuck it’ made his way up the steps and rapped on the door. The man who opened it was about six inches taller then Trevor. He was wearing a white shirt and white bow tie, over which he wore a red coat of tails. Ever so grandly the man said, ‘Good evening, sir, may I see your invitation please?’
Rory, Dino, Dermot and Agnes were sitting around the kitchen table having their late night cup of tea and a chat when they heard the front door opening. Agnes looked up at the kitchen clock, it was two thirty in the morning. Rory smiled and winked at her. All four were looking at the doorway long before Trevor’s frame filled it. He was drunk, very drunk. His hair was tossed, there was a brownish dribble coming down the right-hand side of his mouth and his eyes were glazed. Everybody wanted to, but nobody dared ask the question. Trevor took four unsteady steps to the kitchen table. He plunged his hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew the tiny little painting. The eyes of all four at the table were riveted on it. Trevor simply tossed it on the table, turned and went to bed. Nobody said a word. No words were necessary.
Trevor Browne’s usual routine on a Sunday morning was to have an early-morning breakfast, after which he would pack his bag with his sketch pad and pencils and bus his way to some locale where he would sketch for most of the day. Even after the previous night’s events this Sunday was to be no different, except this Sunday he had his breakfast in silence. As Agnes went to pour him his second cup of tea, Trevor simply held his hand up indicating that he wasn’t about to have one. Instead he stood up, took his plate, cup and saucer, one on top of the other, to the sink and placed them on the draining board. Agnes picked up the tiny painting off the kitchen window ledge where she had put it and handed it to Trevor without a word. Trevor looked at the painting and then looked at his mother’s face. He smiled and said, ‘I don’t want it, Mammy, you keep it!’ Then he left for his day’s sketching.
Agnes was disappointed and upset for her son and her heart was heavy for most of the day. However, it lightened as tea time came, for she had arranged to go to Mark and Betty’s for tea, after which Mark and Betty were going out and Agnes would have baby Aaron all to herself. He was such a good child, a real joy to look after. When Mark and Betty had dressed and left to meet their friends, Agnes cleaned up the kitchen and tidied around the sitting room a little. She then heated Aaron’s bottle to body temperature, fed him and changed his nappy, but instead of putting him back down in his cot she turned on the Sunday night movie and lay on the couch with baby Aaron lying on her chest. She looked down at the tiny little face, his eyes fluttering now and then. Nothing, she thought, could replace the sweet smell of a baby’s breath as it slept.
Mark and Betty returned at a respectable hour and the car was still nice and warm when Agnes got into it for the journey home. It had been a lovely evening for Agnes, quiet and peaceful and in the company of her grandson, so lovely in fact that by the time she rose the next morning she had almost forgotten about Trevor’s disappointment. Almost, that is, until she saw the picture on the window ledge as she was putting the kettle on.
Her sadness was short-lived. Trevor entered the kitchen with determination in his walk. He made his way straight to the kitchen sink and plucked the painting from the ledge. Agnes stared into his face. There was a fire in his eyes and his chin was set in grim determination. Trevor simply said, ‘Maria Nicholson is getting this picture whether she fuckin’ likes it or not, Mammy,’ and he left the house.
By tea time that evening Agnes had related Trevor’s entrance and exit to the entire family. They sat at the tea table awaiting his return. Dermot had even forgone a date with Mary Carter in anticipation of the celebrations to come. They all knew as soon as he entered that whatever had happened that day it wasn’t what Trevor had expected to happen. Trevor sat at the only empty chair around the table and, as his mother poured him out a cup of tea, he said, ‘Before any of you ask, no, I didn’t give the picture to Maria Nicholson, but wait, it’s not because I didn’t want to or I wasn’t goin’ to -’ Trevor began to tell them the story.
It hadn’t even dawned on Trevor to wonder why Maria Nicholson should be having a party. Was it her birthday? He didn’t know - he didn’t want to know, because all that was on his mind on that Saturday evening was how he was going to give her his picture. Whe
n he got to college that Monday he went from classroom to classroom looking for Maria Nicholson. He didn’t find her and when he enquired at the reception desk they said they hadn’t seen her come in that morning. It was Noel King who told him what the story was. Maria’s father had received a contract from an Irish-based company, but to do a job on a bridge in New Zealand. The party was a going-away party. After college that day Trevor made his way to Belgrave Square. The house was empty. Maria Nicholson was gone.
The family listened to Trevor’s story in complete silence. Trevor hadn’t told it in a frustrated manner, nor in an angry manner, he told it in a manner which made you believe that this is what he had expected to happen. When he had finished his story and his tea, Trevor went to his own bedroom. He removed the frame from the picture, and carefully took the staples from the canvas. He then placed the tiny canvas flat in his wallet, where it would remain to remind him that if love ever came knocking on his door again he should indeed grasp it with both hands.
Chapter 6
AGNES BROWNE’S SIX LIVING CHILDREN were now all adults. It seems incredible that in their adulthood five of the six should still be living at home. However, this is not unusual for an Irish mother. Agnes didn’t complain; the fact was, she loved it. She would gladly have allowed them to stay forever. She had always known that Mark would be the first to marry and leave the nest, but she hadn’t expected that Cathy’s marriage would begin the exodus it did.
The marriage ceremony of Cathy Browne to Mick O‘Leary took place in St Canice’s Church in Finglas village on the twenty-fourth of August, Cathy’s twenty-third birthday. The O’Leary family travelled up from Bishops-town in Cork, and within hours of arriving in Dublin, felt like they had known the Browne family all their lives. Mick’s father Thomas, a former policeman himself, eyed Dermot and Buster suspiciously, but other than that settled in well. Agnes didn’t really take to him. He was a very rigid man. He always spoke very loudly, unlike his wife Florie, who seemed quiet and retiring. The only boy of the O‘Leary household, Mick had four sisters, all of whom could be recognised by their one common physical feature, a mouthful of teeth so crooked they looked like badly kept grave-yards. Dermot christened them ‘Gums and Bullets’.
The Granny Page 4
