The Misremembered Man

by Christina McKenna

  For she dressed elegantly, and although a bit on the plump side, remedied this by wearing well-sculpted undergarments and retaining a haughty carriage; she held herself as erect and regally as the reigning monarch. In fact, H.R.H. Queen Elizabeth was her role model; consequently, Gladys was a firm believer in the value of a well-positioned brooch and a many-stringed set of pearls to lift an outfit and add that important finishing touch.

  As she sat at her beige, laminated dressing table with its griffin feet and gilt-edged mirror, Gladys was aware that, on this occasion, she must make a special effort with her appearance. Her sister and niece were arriving later in the day.

  She had not seen Elizabeth for well over a year and was ever conscious of the competition that still existed between them regarding dress and appearance. Elizabeth could be uncommonly forthright in her opinions, and Gladys knew from experience that the best way to silence her—or indeed lessen the impact of her jibes—was to present her with few causes for criticism in the first place.

  For this reason she was careful that morning to apply her makeup with a judicious hand, opting for the discreet Delicate Dawn foundation, instead of her usual Café Gold, going easy with the kohl pencil on eyelids and brows, and finishing with just a touch of Pink Frost on her full, sensuous mouth. Her sister was wont to say that make-up was “for the harlots of Rome,” an opinion fostered by her impossible late husband, the Reverend Perseus Cuthbert, whom Gladys had had little time for in life, and resented even more now that he’d passed over. Her sister, God help her, felt it necessary to keep his frightful spirit alive by rehearsing his tedious, chauvinistic mantras.

  Her makeup completed, she swept her auburn hair into an elaborate French chignon and anchored it in place with several pins. Outside, the seagulls wheeled and dived in a blue sky above the metronomic push and pull of the Atlantic waves. Portaluce was a graceful place to live, its calm, natural beauty drawing the heart and eye to peaceful conclusions, notwithstanding the stresses of one’s life.

  Gladys registered few of those delights, however, as she fastened herself into a shirtdress of pistachio silk, and slipped on her stilettos. The scene from the mansard window, like the elegant, pale fabric on her walls, had become a commonplace, admired from time to time but rarely dwelt on.

  Her final touch was a set of diamanté stud earrings—a birthday gift from the doting Dr. Humphrey Brewster—and a matching brooch pinned in place over her opulent bosom. She stepped back from the mirror, well satisfied. Now she felt eager and ready to face the day, her staff and her fractious sister, when she arrived.

  The fifty-mile journey from Killoran to Portaluce had been a lengthy one, not least because Lydia did not believe in driving her Fiat 850 faster simply because the distance was longer. The speedometer needle had rarely crept beyond 40 mph. Her caution in this regard, together with frequent rests for tea at various hostelries, and the fact that Elizabeth’s hemorrhoid cushion tended, for whatever reason, to leak air every half hour, and had to be inflated with the bicycle pump which Lydia kept in the trunk especially for that purpose, meant that the ladies did not arrive at the Ocean Spray until well after 4 P.M.

  Gladys was already on the doorstep when Lydia pulled her car into the reserved bay facing the guesthouse. On seeing her glamorous sister, Elizabeth felt moved to make the first of many caustic comments.

  “Has she nothing better to do but stand there,” she said icily, “showing off her lungs in a dress like that? It’s far too tight for a woman of her age. You know I think Freddie was lucky to get away, and if you ask me, she was probably glad to be rid of him!”

  “Mother, no one is asking you anything, and I’m warning you: If you start annoying Auntie Gladys, I’ll have a good mind to drive straight back home if the mood takes me.”

  Elizabeth had no time to respond, for already Gladys was sweeping down on the arrivals like a great seagull, anxious to aid her sister, and air-kissing her with a shower of exclamatory greetings.

  “Good to see you too, Gladys dear!” Elizabeth batted the hand away. “Now there’s no need for that. I’m not an invalid, you know.”

  Gladys sniffed and dived toward the niece.

  “And little Lily! How good of you to come.” She clasped Lydia in a heady embrace of clanking bracelets and wafting Opium scent. “And you look so well,” she lied. “A bit thin perhaps, but we’ll soon build you up. Now let’s all have tea. I’m sure you must be famished after that long journey.”

  Elizabeth held fast to her malacca cane, wobbling on her patent Gabor heels as Gladys took them by the arm and steered them toward her great achievement: the Romanesque, wedding cake of an establishment that was her commercial enterprise and home.

  “Oh, business is hectic as usual. Well, it is the season, I suppose, so one can’t complain.”

  Gladys sat back on the cream damask sofa, one hand on her fine bosom, and crossed her shapely legs. She was conscious that between her and her two guests—the dowdy, cantankerous sister and the plain, flat-chested niece—there was no competition at all. She felt a flush of triumph and a stab of pity as she considered them both.

  She was also aware that since her guests would be staying with her and taking up valuable rooms at no charge, the pair was at a considerable disadvantage. They’d be under an obligation to do her bidding and agree with most of what she said. Gladys liked to be in control of things and refused to have her authority eroded by either sibling or friend.

  “But you know I do not have the luxury of delegating,” she went on, “simply because I just can’t trust anyone, and one simply can’t get the help these days. They have to be trained up first. You would not believe how ill-prepared some of these young women are for the domestic demands of life. Heaven help the poor unsuspecting men who find themselves married to suchlike, is what I say…”

  A gentle tapping on the door had brought Gladys’s galloping discourse to a canter.

  “Yes, come in, Sinéad,” she said without missing a step. A young maid entered bearing a massive, silver tray. “Good. At last, the tea.”

  Gladys tapped a lacquered fingernail on the glass coffee table. “Just leave it here, please.”

  The thin, ginger-haired girl, no more than seventeen, peppered in freckles and nervous as a rabbit, set the tray down very carefully, and straightened.

  “Is that all yous will be wantin’, Miss Gladys?”

  “Now, Sinéad, how many times have I said that ‘ewes’ are female sheep one finds in the field?” Gladys raised an Ava Gardner eyebrow. “They are not the plural pronoun one finds in a proper sentence.”

  The girl’s face turned the hue of a boiled beetroot as she stood twisting her hands, as though wringing an invisible dishcloth.

  “Sorry, I meant ‘ye,’ Miss.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Er, I mean ‘you,’ Miss.”

  “I should hope so. ‘Ye,’ indeed!”

  Gladys lifted the silver teapot and proceeded to pour, whilst Elizabeth looked on perplexed and Lydia felt a searing embarrassment for the young woman, reduced now to a cringing mouse by her employer.

  “Now, could we try it again?”

  The girl coughed. “Is that all you will be wanting, Miss Gladys?”

  “Good, that’s better! And no, this looks fine for the moment.” Gladys scanned the tray for stray sugar grains, finger-marked spoons, blemished napkins or slopped milk, and seemed disappointed to find everything in order on this occasion. “Thank you, Sinéad. You may go now.”

  The maid departed quickly and pulled the door quietly behind her.

  “Do you see what I mean? Badly brought up. I not only have to teach them how to prepare food and make envelope-cornered beds, I also have to deal with poor grammar.” She handed Elizabeth a cup and saucer—gold-trimmed turquoise Denby, expensive, trendy, so unlike her sister’s nasty, old-fashioned Royal Doulton china. “But then I suppose, Lily dear, you would know all about that, having to deal with your pupils all day long.” She flashed a
perfect, pretend smile at her niece.

  “Well I think, Gladys, if children don’t read—”

  “Now, how are you ladies going to spend your time?” Gladys asked, slicing across Lydia with the skill of a master swordsman. “Portaluce has really opened up since you were here last. We have our very own theater now: The Tudor Rose. So we could take in a play one evening, if you like.”

  “Never had much time for plays,” said Elizabeth. “Perseus Cuthbert always said they brought the coarseness of life to the fore, and why should anyone want to celebrate such follies and put them on a stage for us to laugh and weep at anyway?”

  She bit into her cucumber and Brie sandwich, pleased that she’d made her point so lucidly.

  “Gosh, Elizabeth! If Perseus Cuthbert had had his way he would have outlawed entertainment altogether. Fun was a perversion in his eyes.”

  Elizabeth noted the combative glint in her sister’s eye and opted, on this occasion, to ignore the insult to her dear husband’s memory. Lydia, watching the proceedings, saw the beginnings of a verbal tennis match, full of acerbic backhanders and searing rallies, hotting up between the two. She was in no mood to play ballgirl at that moment. She had a headache from the long drive, and Gladys’s perfume was making her nauseous; she wished to be released from the stifling room and from the clutches of her overbearing aunt. She got up.

  “I think I really fancy a nice walk and some sea air. How about you, Mother?”

  Elizabeth, to Gladys’s annoyance, acquiesced all too readily to her daughter’s proposal and returned her cup and saucer to the tray.

  “But you haven’t finished your tea yet,” Gladys protested, thrusting upright on the sofa, her great bosom pushing out like the plumage of some exotic feathered creature.

  Elizabeth, already on her feet, noted the abundant cleavage and thought if Perseus Cuthbert were present, he’d be throwing a blanket round her and exhorting her to “conduct” herself. She was dismayed that her sister seemed to get flightier the older she got, and wondered if there was a man on the scene. And, if there were, heaven help him!

  “Why don’t you come with us too, Gladys?” Lydia said, trying to sound enthusiastic as she headed for the door.

  “I have work to do, Lily dear.” Gladys rose from the sofa, miffed, and smoothed down her dress.

  “Her name is Lydia, not Lily!” Elizabeth parried, determining after all to lock swords. She held her sister with a glacial, unblinking stare. There was a taut silence.

  Lydia looked from the one to the other. She had rarely seen her mother so forbidding. “Look, I don’t really care what I’m called, really.”

  “No, Lydia; you don’t, but I do. Shall we go?”

  As the older sister made to depart, Gladys tried to soften the injury with a conciliatory comment.

  “Chef has to prepare dinner for fifteen this evening and I must be on hand to oversee things,” she said. Lydia nodded but her mother ignored her.

  And on that sour note they parted, Lydia wondering why her Christian name should have caused such enmity between the sisters. Perhaps this break in Portaluce, she thought, which her mother had so looked forward to, might not have been such a good idea after all.

  Chapter nineteen

  Jamie had given scant attention to his preparations for the sojourn on the coast. The letter had already been written and sent to Miss Devine, and his mind dwelt on not much else but the thought of meeting her. When he pictured Lydia, the image of his long-lost mother would merge with that of his dear Aunt Alice, to create the perfect woman, as radiant as a sunburst in heaven. He saw a smooth oval face, eyes as blue as robin’s eggs and a dazzling, Hollywood smile.

  In two hours’ time Paddy would collect him and ferry him to the station in Killoran to catch the two o’clock bus. He had already fed the animals and himself; still conscious of his diet, he’d swapped the fry-up for tea and toast. Now, he reminded himself, he had to pack a case, because that’s what most people did before going on vacation. His last vacation had been some fifteen years before. He and his uncle had spent a couple of days in Portaluce with Mick’s sister Violet, who’d had a lovely house overlooking the promenade. But sadly she was now at her eternal rest, and her house had been turned into an ice-cream parlor called The Snowy Cone.

  Back then, however, Uncle Mick had known what to do concerning the packing and suchlike. But now Jamie was at a loss as to know what to include in his case or bag (or whatever it was a body carried on these expeditions). He sat in the armchair nursing his mug of tea, smoking the end of a Woodbine and wondering whether he should mount the stairs and take along that case of Aunt Alice’s that was under Mick’s bed. But on second thoughts it was a bit big, and what would he need to be taking with him anyway?

  He’d given himself a good scrub down the night before in the tin bath by the fire. After such a rare event, he could get a fortnight—if not a good month—out of his underwear. So Rose McFadden’s bag of clean inner garments, which sat on top of the glass case, would not be needed for a while yet. He looked down at his feet, and thought: Maybe a change of socks, because he’d be walking a lot, not having access to his bicycle.

  He went to his bedroom in search of a pair. He knew they were in another bag somewhere; he rummaged in the chest of drawers, found a decent looking black pair and sat them on the bed. He took his black suit from the closet—it was the only decent outfit he had—and laid it on the bed alongside the socks. The suit was a cast-off of Mick’s, a bit short in the leg maybe and a wee bit tight about the armpits, his uncle having been more low-set and much thinner than himself. But sure he only ever wore it for the hour of a Sunday at Mass. Two days by the ocean was maybe a different matter, he thought now. But he’d cross that river—or bridge or road or whatever—when he came to it, as Rose McFadden might say.

  The black socks would match the suit right enough, but what about the shoes? His best pair was a custard yellow, bought in Harvey’s sale at tremendous discount, due to their color and unusual style. The toes were pointed, and curved up like bananas, but Mr. Harvey had insisted they were the new Western style and that they were “the whole go in America.” Jamie had bought them with the intention of dyeing them black, but like Procrastination’s brother—“Och, I’ll not bother now; time enough with that”—had never got round to it. He sighed at this small setback, but he had no time (or dye) to be footering with them now, so they would have to do. He placed them on the bed beside the socks and the suit.

  His shirts were lapped on three hangers on the closet door. The white one looked decent enough; since he hadn’t been to Mass for three weeks, it had suffered no wear and tear from Rose’s last wash.

  Jamie looked at his watch and decided to dress. It took longer than expected; he had to dig for a belt and root for a tie, two items he rarely had cause to wear in the day-to-day run of things.

  When he’d finished he paused, and realized that he was standing up in everything he was taking with him. So what need had a body to pack a bag atall, atall? But then there was his comb, his Brylcreem, his shaving things, and that extra pair of socks and maybe the toothbrush and toothpaste—used only of a Sunday morning—which sat curled up in a cracked mug by the kitchen sink.

  He was wandering about the house, checking if there was anything else he might need to take, when his eye fell on the two books on the table. Maybe he would have time to read a bit. Of the two, Riders of the Purple Sage looked the least battered; its spine was still intact, even if the corners were bent back a bit.

  He noticed also, on the windowsill, a half-full bottle of Blue Adonis aftershave. It was Mick’s and had been sitting on the sill for about a year. Now and again Jamie had considered throwing it out, but thought maybe it would come in useful at some stage. And wasn’t he glad he hadn’t dumped it, for now that stage had come. He wiped the cobwebs off it with the lining of his jacket.

  He pitched all of these items into a Scully’s Around-a-Pound shopping bag and checked himself in the broken mirror
on the bureau. It only afforded him a view from the waist up, which was probably just as well. He studied his reflection, knew there was something not quite right, until it suddenly dawned on him that he was still wearing his cap. He had already ordered his Sandy Brown toupee from Rose’s Exchange & Mart, but unfortunately it had not arrived in time for this particular expedition.

  A man could hardly keep an oul’ cap on with the good suit, he told himself. Jamie sighed at the mirror, quickly arranged his comb-over with the Brylcreem, his comb and a practiced hand, tossed the cap into the shopping bag and considered himself to be all set and ready for action. No sooner had he done so when he heard the guttural rasping of Paddy’s Morris Minor as it labored up the hill.

  Jamie instructed Paddy on the various jobs he had to do: fodder and milk the Ayrshires, feed the pig and the hens, collect any eggs, and give a scrap or two to Shep. Paddy understood, being a farmer himself; he nodded patiently and assured Jamie that all would be taken care of. He handed him a crumpled paper bag.

  “Rose sent you down a couple a them…a couple a them rock buns for the bus.”

  “God, she’s awful good, Paddy! Tell her thanks very much.”

  Jamie stole a quick look into the bag, and his eyes welled up at the thought of Rose and all the help she’d given him so far. He appreciated the deep significance of this heartfelt gesture; it was only a wee bag of buns, he told himself, but at the same time he was touched. Someone was thinking of him; someone cared. This small kindness meant so much; he’d had such rare flashes of affection in his early life.

  “Time’s going on, Jamie,” Paddy said then, interrupting his thoughts. “Maybe…maybe we should make a…make a…”