I do hope that you will do me the honour of replying to my humble letter. And I do wish as a result we can meet.
Yours most sincerely and respectfully,
Frank Xavier McPrunty
My word! thought Lydia, returning the letter to the envelope; educated certainly, but a bit of a show-off. Let’s see what number three has to offer.
She ran her silver sword letter-opener—a thank-you present from Emily Bingham on the occasion of passing her eleven-plus examination—along the crease and unfolded the single blue page. She was glad it was short and to the point. She began reading, but had barely finished the first sentence when she saw the doorknob turn. She tensed, stuffed the letters under the pillow and sat up on the edge of the bed.
“What were you doing there just now?”
Mrs. Devine stood in the doorway, pointing her malacca cane at Lydia’s pillow.
“Mother, really! How dare you barge into my bedroom without knocking?”
“I don’t need to knock on doors in my own home.”
“Well, believe it or not, it’s called manners and having respect for other people’s privacy.” Lydia stood up, her anger rising. “Even if that other person is only your daughter. Now I’d be grateful if you’d go back to Green Acres and leave me in peace. I was resting.”
“I’m finished watching it. That idiot Kimball appeared.”
“I thought as much!” Lydia snapped.
“Anyway, you weren’t resting.” Elizabeth eyed her daughter suspiciously, her knotty fingers gripping the panther head of the cane. “You’re up to something. I can always tell, you know.”
“I was not up to anything.” She put a hand to her brow and sighed. “Good Lord, it’s like living with a child!”
“If it’s nothing, why’s your face all red?” demanded Elizabeth.
“Let’s have a cup of tea and a slice of Beattie’s chocolate sponge, shall we?” Lydia said the first thing that came to her, hoping it would distract her mother from the pillow.
“What chocolate sponge? Beattie never gave me a sponge.”
“Oh, but she did!” She took her mother’s arm and led her out the door. “It must have slipped your mind. If we don’t eat it soon, the birds will get it.”
“Is that so?” said Elizabeth, confused, the pillow already forgotten.
Before retiring for the night, Jamie stood in his bedroom, angling the broken piece of mirror, taking a critical look at his full-bellied self. The letter had been sent. In fact, the anonymous lady would probably have already read it, and with a bit of luck, might be wanting to take a look at him very soon. Jamie realized that drastic measures would need to be taken to make himself appear more presentable. After all, Rose had said that a good suit and shirt could take a man anywhere. But be that as it may, he felt a lot more was needed to improve his chances of winning a wife.
As he stood now in the fading light, he was none too pleased with the image the glass threw back. He did appreciate that wearing bedraggled long Johns with a pair of grubby bare feet poking out of them did little to enhance his appearance. Nonetheless, the fact remained that he was a bit overweight, prematurely bald, and had a face like a seed potato left too long in the pit. But what could a man do about it?
He set the broken mirror on the windowsill and stepped back to obtain a more accurate reading. He turned from side to side, inhaled deeply, pulled in his stomach, straightened his posture—and was immediately struck by the difference the simple exercise made. But what of it? He could hardly turn up to meet this woman holding his breath and belly in, and clenching his buttocks, for an indefinite period of time. Jamie winced at the very thought, sighed and let his shoulders drop to their habitual comfortable, slouched position. He stared at himself dejectedly.
He was a man of forty-one who, because of his lifestyle and outlook, was going on sixty-one. There was nothing he could do—or was there? He remembered Dr. Brewster advising him on several occasions to lose some weight.
“Your blood pressure is far too high, James, which puts undue stress on your heart, and you don’t want to come down with a stroke or heart attack at your age. Cut down on the fries and cigarettes; that’s my advice.”
But how could he? Jamie thought of his frying pan: the weighty iron-bottomed pan that had been passed down the generations; thought of how he loved to see the sausages and bacon shrivel to a curl in the sizzling lard. He was unaware, however, of how many spluttering, fat-soaked feasts had been served up from that very utensil, or indeed of how many lives it had claimed. A whole line of male McCloones with furred arteries and slowed hearts had fallen into early graves with strokes and aneurisms, oblivious to the fact that the humble pan had put them there.
Dr. Brewster had passed a paper across to him. “Here’s a diet sheet and some guidelines. Three weeks on that and you’ll be a new man.”
Jamie had taken the diet sheet but not the advice it contained. Sure a man who had nothing much in his life didn’t have much incentive for prolonging it. And if you took away the fries and the smokes and the wee drop of drink, sure what would be the point of getting outta the bed of a morning atall, atall?
“Ah, but now there is a point,” a little voice whispered in Jamie’s ear. “Your whole life could change for the better. But it’s up to you.”
At that moment he regretted not having taken the good doctor’s counsel. But maybe there was still time.
Inspired, he rushed to the drawer of the glass case in the kitchen and unearthed the diet sheet from beneath a pile of bills, coupons, tax returns, parish bulletins and St. Brigid’s Church monthly stipend envelopes. He lit the oil lamp and proceeded to read through the formidable list.
Breakfast
One boiled egg, two slices of toast lightly buttered, one cup of tea with milk and one spoonful of sugar (if you must).
Lunch
Chicken, fish or red meat, preferably grilled, boiled or steamed with fresh vegetables. One potato (no butter). No pudding.
Dinner
As lunch, followed by fresh fruit. Alcohol in severe moderation.
No buns, biscuits, cakes or items of a sugary nature.
Follow for three weeks and lose a stone or a stone and a half depending on your dedication and depth of commitment.
And Dr. Brewster had added, humorously, in his own hand:
Only the weak, lazy and flabby-minded person could not stick to this diet and succeed. So ask yourself: Am I a man / woman or a mouse? (delete as appropriate)
Jamie turned out the lamp, lay down on his bed and thought: Well, no man is gonna call me a mouse. Not even Dr. Brewster—and there and then he decided to change himself.
That night, as he drifted into sleep, this desire for betterment took an almighty hold and began burning in him with a passionate force, as a banked fire, suddenly poked, might glow red and flame under the sucking roar of a violent chimney updraft. Yes, he’d cut down on the fries, give up the drink—or maybe take a wee drop less—take more exercise, ride his bicycle more vigorously and often into town.
And he could see the new man emerging in that new suit from Harvey’s Fashions. Saw himself in a pair of knife-crease trousers that did not require suspenders, held in place by a belt of fine leather that did not demand an extra hole or two punched with the aid of a hammer and a six-inch nail. Under the suit, he saw a shirt of some whiteness, its stiff-rimmed collar making his neck feel important. To set it off, a paisley print tie in shiny red, and on his feet a pair of glossy shoes, polished to a conker’s gleam.
And ultimately he envisaged himself meeting his future wife; he, James Kevin Barry Michael McCloone, a man of fine standards and high morals. A proud man with a flat-enough middle and a straight-enough back.
Chapter twelve
Lydia and Daphne studied their menus. They had met for lunch at the Golden Gate café, a place that believed in frying, frittering, and battering most of the ingredients that were delivered at its kitchen door. Of late, however, Lydia had noticed one or tw
o healthier options nosing their way onto the menu. For this small concession she was grateful.
The friends sat opposite each other in a booth appointed with vinyl upholstery, a table laid with green-patterned oilcloth between them. All about, on walls of simulated knotty pine, hung prints of Killoran in a gentler, sepia-tinted, age.
The café was not busy. A group of youths were consuming cola and fries in a corner. At another table a lone farmer shoveled away at a fry-up, halting every so often to snorkel from a mug of tea. He ate with all the gusto of a porker at the trough. Lydia quietly noted that the place had gone down terribly, and vowed that she and Daphne would seek a more genteel establishment next time. Although she thought that this might prove difficult in Killoran.
Daphne was glad of the break from the library, and Lydia was glad to have time away from her mother. She had dropped her off at Beatrice Bohilly’s home. Beatrice had finished her paint-by-numbers picture, Horse and Foal by Lake, and wished to have her friend’s opinion and praise. Lydia knew that when the two ladies got together, time became stretched and lost in a great labyrinth of reminiscing gossip. For this Lydia was thankful. She could spend as much time as she liked with Daphne and her mother wouldn’t notice.
A young waitress approached them, bearing a notepad, a pen, a dishcloth, and an expression of terminal boredom.
“Are yous getting, are yous?”
“The quiche and salad for me, thanks,” Lydia said. “And you, Daphne?”
“I think I’ll try the scampi and French fries. I know I shouldn’t, but oh to have your willpower, Lydia.”
The glum waitress was jotting on the notepad.
“Nonsense, eat what you enjoy,” Lydia said. “Life’s too short. I mean to say, I’d—”
“D’yous want anything to drink with that?” the waitress interrupted.
“A pot of tea for two would be nice, please.” Daphne said. “But y’know I’ve been very lazy about my walking,” she continued to Lydia. “In the evenings I seem to have no energy and just want to collapse on the sofa with a book.”
The girl stuck the pen behind her ear, tore the duplicate page from the pad and shoved it under the salt shaker. She then slapped the dishcloth down on the table and circled the surface lethargically three times. “Right ye be,” she said, and slunk off in the direction of the swing kitchen doors.
“Well, you have more energy than that one.” Lydia’s eyes followed the girl, “and she’s probably half your age. Terrible to give up and stop making an effort when one is so young. I blame the parents.”
But Daphne was more concerned about Lydia’s replies to her advertisement. “The letters, Lydia,” she said impatiently. “I’m just dying to see them.”
Her friend reached into her faux-crocodile purse. “Now, have a read of each and tell me what you think.” She got up. “I’ll just nip to the ladies if you don’t mind.”
When she returned, Daphne was immersed in the contents of McPrunty’s envelope. She looked over her spectacles, a smile developing.
“‘Frank the Fixer.’ My word, he sounds the racy sort!”
“You know, I don’t know what to make of him. But what about this one?” Lydia tapped a single page. It was the letter written so painstakingly by Jamie McCloone.
“Well now, he sounds terribly solid. Although…”
Daphne was looking across at the farmer who, having consumed his meal, sat picking his dentures. The table before him was littered with stray fries and scattered peas. It looked as though he’d been having a food fight instead of a meal. His eyes were locked fixedly on the ketchup bottle as if he were witnessing an apparition of the Virgin Mary put on just for him.
“Now personally, I’ve nothing against farmers. Goodness me, I’ve been going out with one for over a decade, but they can be very—”
Two plates of food were thumped down in front of them without ceremony.
“Will yous be wantin’ brown sauce or ketchup or whatever with that?” the waitress demanded.
Daphne shook her head. “I will say this, though,” she said to Lydia, “they can be terribly untidy. I think it comes from working with livestock and being out of doors most of the time.” She speared a fry.
“Yes, I do see what you mean.” Her companion began to saw at the quiche. The pastry case seemed as resilient as the bark of a gum tree; she gave up and scooped up some filling with her fork.
“But Daphne, I’m not intending to marry one of these men, just take him to Heather’s wedding for the day. By the way, did you get your invitation?”
“I did, but wouldn’t it be great if you met someone nice?” Daphne wistfully considered her friend, imagining how a future husband would “complete” her.
The pot of tea arrived, and two cups and saucers were rattled into place beside their plates.
“So which one d’you think I should meet?”
“Well, why don’t you cover all eventualities and meet both? Wouldn’t do any harm.”
“I suppose not. But I’m not really ready to meet them just yet. I need more information.”
“I agree. I would write back to them both and ask some pertinent questions.”
“Like what, for instance?”
Daphne picked up Mr. McPrunty’s letter again. “Well, this one says he’s retired, but he doesn’t give his age—rather suspect, so he could be anywhere between sixty-five and ninety. Also ask if he’s been married before. And our Mr. McCloone says he likes reading, so ask what he reads. And cooking; would be interesting to find out what he cooks.” She pulled a face. “Because if I’m any judge, ‘cooking’ in bachelor-farmer speak means the ‘fend-for-myself fry-up’ for breakfast, dinner and supper.”
The farmer in the corner rose to go, and broke wind most audibly in the process. The ladies glared at him in disgust, but he appeared unaware of the social indiscretion.
“How utterly rude!” Daphne said aloud, hoping she might be heard. Lydia flapped a hand under her nose and reached into her purse for a handkerchief.
“Gosh, I sincerely hope Mr. McCloone has more decorum than him.” Daphne sat back in her seat. “Now where was I?” She referred to the letters. “Yes, now I remember: inquire as to what they look for in a woman. That should throw up some interesting insights, don’t you think?”
Just then, across the square, a car horn blared. They looked out, to see an Austin Princess limousine, bedecked in ribbons, pull up outside the church.
“A wedding! How fitting, Lydia. I think that’s a sign, don’t you?”
“Yes, quite.” Lydia’s voice was laden with skepticism.
The work-shy waitress had run to the window and was gazing raptly out at the commotion. All three watched the bride, radiant on her father’s arm, ascend the steps, yards of nylon tulle spilling out behind her. When they reached the church porch they turned and smiled for an array of popping flashbulbs.
“Oh, isn’t she lovely!” enthused Lydia.
“I think all brides are lovely,” said Daphne, swept up, like her friend, in the romance of the occasion. Because, deep down, both looked on the marriage bond as the ultimate prize for a woman’s endeavor. If only for the acceptance to be gained in the eyes of society. For Daphne and Lydia the gold wedding band was a badge of honor, desired as much by their mature selves as by the young waitress who stood beside them, her girlish dreams reflected in her look of entrancement.
In Daphne’s case, that longing for attachment had made her look on men as superior beings, no matter how flawed; it was an idea that corroded her judgment and rendered her infinitely flexible and tolerant. She had endured ten years of courtship by a man who showed little interest in marriage, who used his mother as an excuse for not committing. Daphne went along with this unhappy situation because to return to the manless state was unthinkable. Better to be attached and unhappy than unattached and sad—like Lydia.
Poor Lydia, she mused, because if she were honest, she did pity her friend. Poor Lydia; she rarely could think of her without
that negative prefix. Her connection with the weak-willed John had given her a head start in the race that Poor Lydia hadn’t even entered yet. How things had changed from their schooldays! Back then it was Clever Lydia, always ahead of her in every subject, the bright one who sailed through exams to claim an exalted place at teacher training college, while she, Daphne, hampered by an unhealthy home life—alcoholic father, overworked mother—had struggled with rejections and examination re-sits.
Where once Daphne had looked up to Lydia, the balance of power had shifted, and now it was Lydia who admired and wanted a little of what Daphne had. She often mused on this reversal of roles with a satisfaction not befitting the confidante and friend she gave herself out to be.
As she lost herself in the wedding taking place opposite, she reflected with a smug kind of certainty that one day she’d climb those same steps, dressed all in white, but did not think that her friend ever would.
Soon the bride and her father had disappeared into the church, followed by a multicolored retinue of guests, the ladies in flimsy frocks and wide-brimmed hats, the men suffering in suits, forced to observe decorum in spite of the warm weather. With a sigh, the waitress returned to her chores and the ladies turned back to their plates.
“I do love weddings.” Daphne poured more tea. “I’m really looking forward to Heather’s, aren’t you?”
“Well, I’d feel happier about it if I knew who I was going with.” Lydia held up the two letters. “Right: questions. What did you say I should ask?”
“Oh, yes. Let me see.” She took the pages from Lydia and scanned them again. “Yes, now I know. Mr. McPrunty: ask his age, if he’s been married before and…and Mr. McCloone, what he reads and cooks.”
The Misremembered Man Page 9
