Wise Follies

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  Our wedding – dear God – what a very strange thought.

  I always thought that if I got married Dad would be there to ‘give me away’. That he’d be standing beside me smiling protectively, as he so often did through the years. ‘The kind of man you need to find, Alice, is one who will appreciate you,’ he often said. This was nice because it implied I had virtues that required recognition.

  When I reached thirty my father never implied that I should grab the first half-decent man who would have me. An option some of my female relatives only half- jokingly suggested. ‘Marry marriage, Alice,’ Uncle Sean would sometimes add. ‘People change but the institution itself can be quite desirable.’ He always smiled knowingly when he said this while Aunt Phoeb looked like she’d like to take a good swing at him with a sand iron. Even my mother, who had once been extremely finicky about men on my behalf, reached the point when race, creed, colour and even love didn’t seem to matter that much. ‘Company, Alice,’ she’d say. ‘Company. There’s a lot to be said for it.’ I suppose you could say they worried about me, and their worries became my own.

  Over and over again marriage was offered to me as a solution, though the problem it might solve was never clearly stated. ‘Marriage is about compromise, Alice,’ Aunt Phoeb often said and Mum looked at her in warm agreement. For by then my single state seemed to be regarded as just plain stubbornness. They were growing old. It really wasn’t fair of me to keep them waiting.

  Dad didn’t take part in these conversations, but he talked when I needed him to. All through my childhood he had been encouraging. For example, he tended to say ‘very good’ about samples of artwork I showed him – even drawings that I myself was not entirely satisfied with. Because of this I began to suspect that he was without discernment. A harsh judgement which I saw later was unfair, because he believed people need encouragement. Even now when I paint huge, unlikely landscapes, I draw some comfort from the knowledge that Dad, at least, would have liked them. He was on my side long before I was. Long before I even knew I had a side to be on. If he was here now what advice would he give me about Eamon? I so wish I knew.

  Talking of advice, Mrs Peabody’s handyman, Willy, has told her that she should find a mate for Cyril. ‘He’s lonely,’ he told her authoritatively the other day. ‘Budgerigars are gregarious creatures.’

  Mrs Peabody has become determined to find a partner for Cyril, and has asked me to help her. In fact, I am now in a pet shop with her and am scrutinizing Cyril’s potential Significant Others conscientiously while she fidgets eagerly by my side.

  ‘What are they like? Oh, I do so wish I could see them better,’ she keeps saying. ‘Old age is such a bugger.’

  Mrs Peabody is not known for her expletives. I register a mild surprise and continue my inspection. ‘I think Cyril would like a cheery mate, don’t you, Mrs Peabody? A bird who’d take him out of himself.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What about her?’ I look in at a yellow and green beauty who is darting us coy glances. Mrs Peabody squints into the cage.

  ‘She is definitely a she, isn’t she?’ she asks the assistant.

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘Does she talk?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m sure she will, given time,’ he replies. ‘She’s got an affectionate temperament. Good breeder too I’d bet.’

  ‘What do you think of her, Alice?’ Mrs Peabody is peering at me earnestly.

  ‘Well, Mrs Peabody,’ I reply, ‘she’s definitely the most alluring budgie here.’

  ‘We’ll take her,’ Mrs Peabody announces. As she snaps open her purse I begin to mooch around the shop. I do not go over to the tropical fish, though I feel drawn in their direction. Instead I look at the huge array of doggie gifts, and this reminds me of Berty the Yorkshire terrier and his sad adoration of Aunt Phoeb. How the mystery of the cupboard to the left of the back door enthralled him. For it was there that all the love gifts for him were stored. He often stared at this, his secular shrine, most thoughtfully. Sometimes he even barked at it, hoping perhaps that it would dispense its goodies direct and he could thus dispense with Aunt Phoeb’s perplexing intervention. Berty looked at that cupboard the way we humans often look for God.

  ‘Feck the terrapins.’ This announcement comes from a gruff female voice behind me and somehow does not sound unfamiliar. ‘I’ve told you to get rid of them. I’ll flush them down the boghole. I really will.’

  I turn slowly. Warily. A man with blond hair and a tattoo is leaning over a large tank and Laren MacDermott, that is Laren Brassière, is scowling furiously beside him.

  ‘One more terrapin and I’m leaving.’ Laren’s voice has turned into a growl. ‘I really will leave you this time, Malcolm. I mean it.’

  ‘You always say that, honey,’ Malcolm drawls. ‘Now shut the feck up.’

  ‘You shut the feck up yourself, dickhead!’

  Mrs Peabody is staring, gobsmacked, in the direction of this interchange. ‘Don’t listen to them,’ she’s telling Cyril’s prospective mate. ‘I don’t want you picking up rude words.’

  As the assistant transfers Cyril’s partner into the small cage we’ve brought with us I dart wary, excited glances at my old schoolmate. She’s grown quiet, thoughts of departure evidently themselves now gone. She looks rather resigned and bored as Malcolm lifts the small creature he’s selected and its legs thrash the air desperately. Then they both suddenly turn towards the counter and I find myself facing them.

  ‘Hello, Alice!’ Laren beams. She looks astonished but genuinely pleased to see me.

  ‘Hello, Laren,’ I smile back. What on earth am I going to say to her?

  ‘How strange that we should meet each other here, in a pet shop,’ she announces, as though the location somehow pleases her.

  ‘Indeed,’ I agree politely.

  ‘Remember how you used to love my aquarium?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ I reply. I don’t know why I added ‘absolutely’. It’s a word that’s frequently used in the office lately. It implies such complete agreement that people change the subject, which is probably what one wanted.

  ‘So, Alice, what are you doing now?’ Laren asks.

  ‘I’m a journalist.’

  ‘That sounds interesting.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ I reply.

  ‘I’m a singer.’

  ‘Yes. So I’ve heard.’ I look at her guardedly and wonder if I should tell her I’ve been to one of her concerts. No. It would be best not to mention it. She might wonder why I hadn’t spoken to her afterwards.

  ‘I’ve often thought of you, Alice,’ Laren smiles at me most warmly. ‘We haven’t seen each other in so long. When was the last time we met up?’

  ‘In Bewley’s on Grafton Street,’ I reply. ‘You were about to go to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course,’ she says. ‘We shared a plate of chips.

  The blond man, Malcolm, seems to be growing rather restive as he listens to our conversation. Laren notices this and sighs. She looks at the struggling terrapin and then at him.

  ‘This is Malcolm, my husband,’ she says wearily. Malcolm holds out his free hand and I shake it.

  Silence. The terrapin squirms. I stare at it. In normal circumstances it would seem an obvious subject of conversation. I remember the budgie. ‘I – that is my neighbour and I – have just bought a budgerigar.’

  ‘Really.’ Laren looks at me, somewhat bemused.

  Malcolm is talking to the assistant now and Mrs Peabody is waiting for me by the doorway. Laren and I don’t seem to have anything further to say to each other. I wonder how I can acknowledge this without appearing rude. ‘Just coming,’ I call out to Mrs Peabody, adding, ‘Well, it’s been lovely meeting you again, Laren.’

  Laren is not listening. She has started to scribble something on to a scrap of paper. She thrusts the grubby note, which I see bears her address and phone number, into my hand. ‘Give me a call, Alice, soon,’ she says. ‘Let’s have a proper chat.’ />
  ‘Yes. Yes, I will,’ I reply, though what this ‘proper chat’ might entail is a complete mystery. There is no doubt that some people can recede from you. Locating the intimacy Laren and I once shared would now require binoculars. As Laren and Malcolm leave I stare at the grubby note fearfully. And Mrs Peabody’s new budgie chooses this moment to squawk her first word.

  Which sadly sounds remarkably like ‘feck’.

  Chapter 16

  I’ve been wondering if I should phone Laren, but I don’t think I will. I think having a ‘proper chat’ with her would be most uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want to talk about Eamon and his proposal either. I wouldn’t want to tell her that I am feeling most bewildered, though I probably would. She was far more bewildered than me when we were at school together. She used to look up to me in a way, but I don’t think she would any more. She’s the one who’s found her answers now, however odd they may seem. There is a possibility that she might gloat a bit about this, and I really couldn’t bear that. I’d prefer her to keep her illusions about me so I’ve conveniently ‘lost’ her telephone number.

  But I haven’t lost James Mitchel’s.

  Yes, I have obtained James Mitchel’s telephone number. I rather wish I hadn’t, but I have. It happened when I was in a drapery store hunting for some net curtains for the kitchen window. I was doing this because sometimes, when I gaze out into the garden, I notice Liam, my new neighbour, looking at me from an upstairs room. Our eyes meet for a moment and then we both look away quickly. It’s most unsettling. Net curtains are definitely called for. In fact, I was just buying them when I bumped into Mildred, the pottery class snooper.

  ‘Hello, Alice!’ she said. ‘Been doing any pottery lately?’

  ‘No, I haven’t actually,’ I replied.

  ‘It’s such a pity James had to move to West Cork like that, isn’t it?’ Mildred eyed me meaningfully.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I agreed. ‘Has he opened his studio there yet?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear,’ she replied. ‘But the young man he’s sharing his cottage with – Sean, I think he’s called – is going to be holding a yoga weekend soon.’

  ‘What?’ I frowned at her.

  ‘Mo, the man who runs the craft shop, told me about it just now. He and James know each other quite well. Sean will be giving the yoga instruction and James will be doing the vegetarian catering. Apparently he’s an excellent cook.’

  ‘Oh, is he?’ I replied dully. I was trying not to be impressed.

  ‘Have you done any yoga, Alice?’

  ‘Yes, I have attended some classes.’

  ‘You might enjoy that yoga weekend then. It would be nice to get away to West Cork for a break, wouldn’t it? And it’s quite reasonable.’ Mildred delved into her bag and produced a leaflet. ‘I told Mo I’d pass these round,’ she said. ‘They give all the details.’ She handed the leaflet to me. James Mitchel’s home address and telephone number were in big bold letters at the top.

  ‘No, I don’t think I’ll bother with it,’ I said, handing the leaflet briskly back to her.

  ‘Oh, keep it anyway,’ she said, popping it into my bag. She’s a very persistent kind of person.

  I look at that leaflet sometimes. It both disquiets and comforts me. I have wondered at great length whether I should go on the yoga weekend, but I’ve decided not to. It’s high time I gave up on James Mitchel. He’s far too wonderful for me. It’s becoming plain that I’ll probably settle for Eamon, my Mr Mediocre. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, they say, and frankly I’ve spent quite enough time hunting for James in the shrubbery. Even so, not phoning him has made me feel a little sad and I’ve decided to seek distraction like Mira. I’ve been doing some freelance articles for the local newspaper. They especially liked the one I wrote about the South Seas Club and have asked me to do other assignments. It’s great. I’ve done freelance features for local newspapers before but I’d forgotten how cheering they can be. A reminder that behind the muted tones of the suburban savannah, some people are daubing their lives purposefully with great colourful dashes. On occasion one even meets someone who is authentically eccentric.

  I tend to do my reports for the newspaper at weekends, but today I took a day off ‘in lieu’ from the magazine and interviewed some rather intriguing people. One of them was a woman who saved frogs. Earlier this year four hundred of them reached adulthood in her back garden. Now most of them have hopped off elsewhere for a while before returning to her pond to breed. But she still has four American bullfrogs as year-round residents, plus the fifty newts.

  ‘I just love frogs,’ she told me, as if I might somehow have remained ignorant of this fact. She lives alone and looked very happy. A good deal happier than many married women I know. She must have had many, many handsome amphibians in her life, and she’d obviously never had the temerity to kiss them. ‘Princes may be fine for other people,’ she commented when I alluded to this fact. ‘But frogs are just fine for me.’ I don’t know why but there was something in the tilt of her head when she said this that reminded me of Princess Diana.

  After the frog lady I interviewed a man who was very keen on Esperanto. And then I went to talk to the owners of a cat called Floribunda Flossie – a local Siamese who had won the Best Siamese Kitten prize at the Siamese and All Breeds Cat Club’s recent show. Floribunda was curled up in her basket with a hot-water bottle, thermal blanket and a catnip mouse.

  The pièce de résistance of the day was meeting a man who’s in charge of a university botanical garden. As I wandered around the huge glasshouse which, amongst other things, boasted bananas, mangoes, sugar cane and lemon trees, I wondered whether Mira might be allowed to hold one of her beach parties there. I was enthusiastically learning about the conservation of rare plant species when I guiltily remembered that Sarah was expecting me to have my ‘Supermarket Singles’ article ready the next day and I had done absolutely no research for it. So I reluctantly had to finish my blissful botanical discussion and race off to my local shopping centre, which is where I am now.

  It is, thankfully, Thursday – the evening of the week when complete strangers are encouraged to approach each other, perhaps under the guise of a shared interest in tortellini. I am glad I have an assignment as I pick up my shopping basket because I often get a bit lonely in supermarkets. In fact, if I marry Eamon I think one of the things I’d savour would be shared strolls through the aisles. I’d love to have someone to discuss the merits of various brands with. Someone to buy special titbits for, to linger with by the delicatessen. Eamon would want to buy good wine and I’d listen in as he talked to the assistant about Zinfandels and Cabernets and Sauvignons. I’d enjoy his knowledge, though I’m not sure I’d be so keen on drinking his chosen vintages with his friends later on. I don’t seem to have much in common with them. They’re mostly men and they talk a lot about cars, business, politics and sport. They love their wives and children, if they have them, but they don’t seem to crop up in conversations that often. When they do one sometimes gets disquieting glimpses into their domestic arrangements. As I head towards the supermarket’s toiletries section, I recall a rather sobering conversation with a man called Doug. It occurred when I and some of Eamon’s friends were having drinks together in a pub. ‘Goodness, I must get home,’ Doug had announced suddenly. ‘I said I’d let Judy out this evening.’

  Normally I would let a remark like that slide by as a colloquialism, but I’d just covered a feminist conference and was in a feisty mood. ‘What do you mean “let Judy out”, Doug?’ I asked. ‘You sound like you’re referring to the cat.’

  Eamon glowered at me and I glowered back while Doug smiled tolerantly. ‘I said I’d look after the kids,’ he explained. ‘She wants to go off to a film with some friends.’

  ‘Ah, that’s nice,’ I said, giving him a muted smile. At least he was prepared to babysit.

  ‘Have a quick pint before you leave,’ a man called Alan suggested. Eamon’s friends seem to say that ki
nd of thing a lot.

  Doug glanced at his watch. ‘Make it half a pint,’ he replied. ‘I’ll have half a pint and then I’ll go.’

  ‘I think you should go now, Doug,’ I commented. ‘The film will probably be starting around eight. You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry.’ By this stage Alan had left the table to order Doug’s drink and the others were shifting uncomfortably in their seats. They seemed to be trying to ignore what I’d said. It was as though I’d farted.

  Eamon leaned towards me. ‘Look, Alice,’ he said somewhat embarrassedly. ‘I’m sure Doug has every intention of being home on time. Calm down, will you? Just let him have his drink in peace.’

  Alan brought the drink to the table and Doug stared at it. I did too. ‘What film is Judy going to see?’ I enquired.

  ‘Mmmm – gosh, I’m not sure.’ He lifted the glass to his lips. It left a creamy moustache as he pondered. ‘I think it’s something to do with eternal sunshine.’

  ‘Really!’ said Eamon. ‘Sounds interesting. Is it something to do with global warming?’

  ‘It must be Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,’ I said. ‘Yes. That’s a good choice. That will cheer her up.’

  Doug looked at me strangely. He did not linger over his half pint. He drank it quickly. He reached into his pocket for his car keys and jingled them. ‘See you then,’ he called out. Then he was gone.

  Will Eamon become the kind of husband who’ll say, ‘Gosh, I’d better get home, I’ve got to let Alice out?’ and if he did could I bear it? That’s what I’m thinking as I approach a neat row of perfumed body sprays. I pick up a container of Impulse and look at it. The ads for it often feature a man running after a woman with flowers in his hands. Though she’s a stranger, he sniffed her as she passed and couldn’t let her get away. They laugh gaily. They may even be falling in love. I frown and put the can back on to its shelf and as I do so Charles Aznavour starts to sing on the supermarket sound system about ‘Feelinks’. I sigh and look around. This aisle is almost empty. Maybe I should try the oriental section as Sarah suggested. I head off towards it and as I do so a man with a very large baguette sticking out of his basket smiles at me rather warmly. I walk past him briskly and reach the corner of the next aisle, where a man in a navy blue jumper is explaining the merits of freshly ground coffee to his small, precocious daughter. She has pigtails and is doing ballet steps as she listens. ‘Mummy says we mustn’t forget the Sharwood’s Plum Sauce,’ she informs him and he nods gratefully. They are obviously quite a team. They belong to each other. I get a sudden wave of yearning as I walk away from them. Suddenly I wish I could just leave this supermarket and go home.