Make Yourself at Home

by Ciara Geraghty

  Behind the table, sitting on a plastic chair, was a solidly built woman with a tight, grey perm, pearl earrings embedded in a pair of long, loose ear lobes and enormous, thick-framed glasses, the same beige as her face, shielding magnified, unimpressed eyes with which she sized them up.

  Rita’s nostrils flared. Marianne made her way to the front.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said in her best audit voice.

  ‘If you don’t have tickets, I’m afraid I can’t let you in,’ the woman said in a voice high with self-righteous authority. ‘The event is fully subscribed.’

  ‘Really?’ said Rita, her eyes bulging in disbelief.

  ‘We are here to see Ethel Abelforth,’ said Marianne, briskly.

  ‘Why?’ The woman narrowed her eyes, looked at Marianne with blatant suspicion.

  ‘I am not at liberty to divulge that information,’ said Marianne.

  ‘Are you her … next of kin?’ asked the woman.

  ‘She’s not dead,’ piped up Bartholomew.

  ‘We’re her friends,’ said Marianne. The others, flanking her, nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Why do all of you need to go in?’ the woman asked. It was a reasonable question, Marianne felt.

  There was a sudden draught behind them and the woman shifted in her chair, craned her neck. ‘Ah, Hugh, I didn’t know you were coming tonight?’ She patted her rigid curls.

  ‘Olwen, lovely to see you,’ said Hugh, closing the door behind him. He swept his eyes around the foyer and Marianne could see him sizing up the situation. ‘I’m loving the navy twinset,’ he said, advancing on the woman behind the table. ‘It’s very elegant.’

  ‘Oh, this old rag,’ said Olwen, her face cracking into a smile. ‘I’ve had it years.’

  Marianne could see Bartholomew nodding, although he managed to stay quiet.

  ‘I was just telling Olwen here,’ Marianne smiled at the woman, ‘that we need to get inside to check on Ethel.’

  Olwen drew herself up as high as she could manage. ‘And I was just saying …’

  Hugh spread his hands on the table, leaned towards Olwen, lowered his voice. ‘You know, I think I am free to do that haircare workshop at your next Ladies Who Lunch committee meeting after all,’ he said. ‘So long as you promise to be my guinea pig,’ he added, with a wink.

  ‘I prefer to think of myself as your muse, Hugh,’ said Olwen, in an outrageously coquettish tone.

  Marianne cleared her throat so hard, it hurt. Hugh looked up, as if he had only just noticed that there were other people in the foyer.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Hugh, frowning now. ‘Olwen, is there any chance …?’

  Olwen stood up, put her hand on Hugh’s arm. ‘Leave it with me, Hugh,’ she said in a throaty, conspiratorial voice. She dragged her eyes away from his face and disappeared behind the curtains, into the hall.

  ‘I feel filthy after that,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘I thought you were magnificent,’ breathed Freddy, beaming up at Hugh.

  ‘You’re like a sex toy for the aged,’ said Shirley, shuddering.

  ‘Olwen isn’t that old,’ said Rita, tartly. ‘She’s only about my age.’

  ‘We haven’t actually gotten in yet,’ Marianne reminded them, just as the curtains parted and Olwen reappeared, looking triumphant. ‘I got them to set up a table for you beside Ethel’s,’ she said, gazing at Hugh as if he was the only other person in the room. ‘You’re too late for dinner but I’ll see if I can rustle up some dessert.’ She beamed at him. ‘Even though you’re sweet enough.’ She tittered at her joke. Shirley made a dry-retching sound, which Marianne covered up with a loud cough. Olwen snatched her head towards them but Bartholomew distracted her with a peck on the cheek and Rita pulled the curtain back. ‘Once more, unto the breach,’ she roared as she ushered them into the hall. Olwen looked at her, stricken. ‘You will … behave with the decorum the event warrants, I assume?’ she said. There was a plaintive note in her voice.

  ‘Where would be the fun in that?’ Rita said, with an enormous wink. She stepped into the hall and yanked the curtains across the gap, leaving Olwen and her worried face on the other side.

  The Committee had done their best to cheer up the damp and draughty hall, with streamers, balloons, and banners sellotaped to walls and windows, and handfuls of glitter strewn across each table. The venue was further enhanced by the significant number of people inside, the heat of their bodies giving the room a warm, if slightly meaty, aroma. The stage area at the top of the room was edged with candles, which, Marianne felt sure, would be counter to health and safety regulations. Two musicians – a pianist and violinist – stood on the stage playing a waltz, the violinist swaying as she played so that the full skirt of her black acrylic dress billowed alarmingly close to the line of candles. Marianne couldn’t look. Instead, she scanned the crowd for Ethel.

  ‘There she is,’ said Bartholomew, pointing through the sea of tables.

  ‘Ethel! Darling!’ shouted Rita, charging across the dance floor so that the couples waltzing around the floor had to one-two-three out of her way.

  Ethel was sitting alone at a table for two. Her baked Alaska was untouched and slumped, melting, in the bowl in front of her. They reached her and formed a perimeter around her. She looked even smaller and frailer than usual. Marianne put it down to her dress. It was a pale pink taffeta affair, all ruffles and bows. But the bodice was baggy on her now, her arms poking out of the puff sleeves, skinny as reeds.

  ‘You all came,’ she said in a choked voice.

  ‘Of course we came,’ said Rita, sitting in the chair opposite Ethel.

  Ethel shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t have bothered you. I should have just gone home when Stanley didn’t show up.’

  ‘You could never bother us, Ethel,’ Rita said, picking up one of Ethel’s delicate hands. ‘Right, everyone?’ She looked around at Bartholomew, Freddy, Shirley, Hugh, and Marianne. They all nodded and said, ‘Right,’ like a chorus line.

  Ethel squeezed Rita’s hand. ‘You must think me a foolish old woman,’ she said.

  ‘We would never think that,’ said Rita, while the rest of them shook their heads in unison. ‘We love you. And so does Stanley.’

  ‘But why hasn’t he sent me a sign?’ said Ethel. ‘And, believe me, I know I sound like a mentally retarded person and …’ She stopped then, looked at Shirley. ‘Oh dear, am I allowed say mentally retarded?’ she asked.

  Shirley shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘And don’t say crazy, mad, demented or insane either.’

  Ethel took a breath. ‘I know I sound … like I’m losing my mental faculties …’ She paused and looked sideways at Shirley who nodded. ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that Stanley sends me a sign. Every single year, without fail. Why not this year?’ Her eyes became glassy with tears and she looked so alone and lost, in her oversized dress, her thin hand still clasped in Rita’s and her tiny feet in a pair of sparkly red shoes with a kitten heel.

  Marianne was horrified to feel a lump at the back of her throat. If Ethel cried, here, in this shabby hall masquerading as a ballroom, there was every chance that Marainne would too. She would wail like a baby.

  Two babies.

  Twins.

  ‘The night is but a wean,’ said Hugh, hunkering down beside Ethel and placing his hand gently on her boisterous purple curls so that her head seemed to suddenly shrink.

  ‘He means the night is young,’ said Freddy, glancing around at everyone.

  ‘We managed to work that out for ourselves,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘But he always sends me a sign before dessert,’ said Ethel. ‘Last year, it was the starters themselves. Prawn cocktail. That was Stanley’s favourite starter even though prawns tend to repeat on him.’

  The musicians began to play ‘Chanson de Matin’ and couples surged onto the dance floor. Ethel watched them with melancholic eyes. ‘There’s no one like Elgar for romance,’ she said, in a sort of long-ago and faraway voice.

&nb
sp; Hugh stood up and held out his hand to Ethel. ‘Would you do me the honour of dancing this dance with me?’ he said.

  Ethel shook her head. ‘I’m much too old for dancing now, Hugh.’

  ‘Well, I’m not too old for dancing and I’m older than you, Ethel,’ declared Rita, who had never, as far as Marianne knew, owned to being older than anyone.

  ‘What?’ said Rita, looking around at the Get-Well-Sooners, all of whom seemed to be in the same state of disbelief as Marianne.

  ‘Very well then, Hugh,’ said Ethel, getting unsteadily to her feet. ‘I shall do you the honour of dancing this dance with you.’ She took his hand. ‘I hope you’ll be able to keep up with me.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Hugh, grinning so broadly that his eyes did their disappearing act. He led her away.

  The others took their seats at the table beside Ethel’s. There were paper hats at each place setting and Rita insisted they put them on, to get them in the mood.

  Bartholomew looked longingly at Ethel’s table. ‘Do you think Ethel is going to eat that Baked Alaska?’

  ‘You need some distraction, Bartholomew,’ said Rita, standing up and stretching out her hand. ‘Dance with me.’

  ‘Certainly, my lady love,’ said Bartholomew, standing up and performing a flamboyant bow. ‘But be warned, my dance moves are, I’m going to say, advanced.’ He swivelled, fast, on his heel, doing a complete 360-degree turn, then lunged forward and lowered himself to the floor on one bended knee. ‘See?’

  ‘That is impressive, darling,’ Rita told him. ‘Now, come on. Get up.’

  ‘I will,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It’s just … I seem to be ever so slightly stuck.’

  ‘Oh for Pete’s sake,’ said Freddy, gripping Bartholomew’s hands and hauling him to his feet so fast that Bartholomew ended up in the circle of Freddy’s arms. After a moment, Freddy stepped backwards. ‘Sorry, I …’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Bartholomew, two high spots of colour blooming on his face. ‘I didn’t realise you were quite so … strong.’

  Now it was Freddy’s turn to flush. Marianne could see him doing his best to look away but he couldn’t quite manage it.

  ‘Are you coming, Bartholomew?’ called Rita from the edge of the dance floor.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, dragging his eyes away from Freddy’s and waving at Rita. ‘Yes, my love, I’ll be right there.’

  Freddy slumped back into his seat.

  ‘I’m glad I’m not in love,’ Shirley said, patting Freddy’s hand. ‘It looks way too much like hard work.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Freddy said primly.

  ‘I’m bored,’ declared Shirley. ‘Do you want to dance with me?’ She glared at Freddy, who sighed a defeated sort of sigh.

  ‘Fine then,’ he said.

  ‘Correct answer,’ Shirley told him, standing up.

  They set off.

  Now it was just Marianne at the table. She was glad of some alone time. From her vantage point, she watched Hugh dance with Ethel. He was oddly graceful for such a big man. He danced like someone who had taken a ballroom dancing class. It would be just like him. All that making up for lost time business that he was so keen on. He swept Ethel around the floor, the two of them turning and turning. Marianne could see Ethel mouthing the rhythm – one, two, one, two – over and over. Hugh said something then and Ethel laughed her girlish giggle. It was infectious and Marianne couldn’t help laughing too. The people at a nearby table turned to look at her. Marianne stopped laughing and smiled at them. They smiled back. That was the great thing about churchy people, Marianne thought. They were polite. They couldn’t help themselves.

  The tune ended and Hugh and Ethel arrived back, Ethel a little out of breath and her face flushed pink.

  ‘He’s nearly as good as Stanley,’ she told Marianne as she sat down. ‘You’ll have to have a go.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Marianne, shaking her head. ‘I can’t dance.’

  ‘Everybody can dance,’ said Hugh, shaking his hips to the music so that his kilt swung around his knees.

  ‘And you look so beautiful tonight, my dear,’ said Ethel. ‘It would be a shame to waste it.’

  ‘I really can’t, Ethel,’ said Marianne. ‘I never have.’

  Ethel cupped her ear with her hand. ‘I’m sorry, dear, it’s terribly noisy. What did you say?’

  ‘She said she’d love to dance,’ said Hugh, stepping forward and reaching for Marianne’s hand.

  Ethel clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, how lovely,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I think you two make such a dashing couple. Don’t they?’ She looked past Marianne at Rita and Bartholomew, who had returned from the dance floor, Bartholomew massaging his shoulder, which he claimed to have sprained when Rita insisted that he lower her to the floor in his arms at the end of the dance.

  Marianne felt the tug of Hugh’s hand in hers and she felt herself shift from the chair and trail along after him towards the dance floor, as if she were somebody else. Someone who would casually approach a dance floor with a man in a kilt. Someone who had every intention of dancing with abandon.

  She had no intention of dancing and certainly not with abandon. She would tell him so when he stopped walking, which he eventually did, right in the middle of the floor where there was a circle of empty space, as if he had ordered it especially for them. He turned and smiled at her and, before she could say a word, he placed her left hand on his shoulder, slipped his right hand behind her, rested it on her shoulder blade, then picked up her free hand and held it in his so delicately, as if it were something precious and breakable, that Marianne forgot to voice her objections before they began to move and then it was too late. They were moving.

  Dancing.

  It wasn’t as difficult as Marianne had envisaged. Maybe because the musicians were playing ‘Moon River’ now and it was such a beautiful piece of music. So familiar. Like she’d danced to its soft strains before.

  Which she had not.

  One-two-three, one-two-three.

  It was maths really.

  ‘You dance well for someone who can’t dance,’ said Hugh.

  ‘It’s just walking, really,’ she said. ‘In circles.’

  What was difficult was Hugh himself. There was no getting away from him. He had a solid, undeniable presence that Marianne found difficult to negotiate past. She had never been more keenly aware of anyone. It was an uncomfortable sensation. The feel of his fingers along her hand and the heat of his hand against her back, his leg taut against hers as they stepped forward, back, to the side.

  One-two-three, one-two-three.

  After a while, she stopped looking at her feet. Instead she looked straight ahead. Now her eyes were level with the top button of Hugh’s silver-grey cotton shirt. The button was a small silver one, tethered to the fabric with pale grey thread, which was not something Marianne would ordinarily notice. She decided she liked this small attention to detail. It reminded her of the tiny flowers that grew in the crevices of the limestone of the Burren, ones you could only see if you stopped and looked in the gaps between the rock. The hair sprouting from the top of the shirt was thick and gold. It looked like it would be soft to touch.

  ‘You’re very serious there, Marianne,’ said Hugh as they turned once more. Now they were near the stage. The yellow flame from the dangerous candles blurred on the edge of Marianne’s peripheral vision.

  One-two-three, one-two-three.

  ‘I’m concentrating,’ said Marianne.

  They danced on.

  Hugh cleared his throat and Marianne looked up. This close, she could see his eyes were a paler green than she’d thought, darkening to sage around the black pools of his pupils in which she could see her pale, worried face. Marianne concentrated on her feet. One-two, three, one-two-three.

  ‘I …’ Hugh looked uncomfortable now, as if he too was counting in his head. ‘I was … there’s a classics literary festival at the theatre in Rush next month.’

  ‘O
h,’ said Marianne.

  One-two-three, one-two-three.

  ‘And I wondered … I thought you might be interested.’

  ‘In going?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘That was the idea, yeah.’

  ‘Would it be a date?’

  ‘Well … I suppose it would be.’

  Marianne shook her head. ‘I don’t go on dates. I never have.’

  ‘Well, you said you never dance and here you are,’ said Hugh, and she could hear the grin, back in his voice.

  The song ended then. Marianne stilled and lifted her hand from his shoulder, from his hand. In her chest she could feel her heart beating faster and louder than it probably should and she felt hot. Sort of feverish. She did not like it. It was uncomfortable. Hugh was looking at her, waiting for her to say something. She drew herself up to her highest height and nodded at him briskly. ‘Thank you for dancing with me,’ she said, ‘but the truth is, I meant it when I said that I don’t dance. And I don’t go on dates. I’m … better on my own and that’s … that’s it, really. But, thanks. For the dance.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he told her, with a small nod of his head.

  They walked back to the others and Marianne was relieved that they’d had that conversation. There could be no misunderstanding, no miscommunication, no crossing of lines. She had drawn the line along her boundaries as surely as the line she had drawn all those years ago down the middle of the bedroom at Ancaire. And Hugh had understood. She was sure he had. He had seen the line she had drawn and he would not cross it.

  Back at the table, there was still no sign of a sign. Ethel was rallying well, mostly because she wasn’t given much time to dwell on it. Everybody danced with her, even Shirley (‘You’re sprightly enough for an old dear. No offence’).

  Bartholomew continued to eye up Ethel’s now almost completely melted dessert and was enormously cheered when Olwen arrived bearing a tray of Baked Alaskas for all of them. Marianne noticed she saved the biggest slice for Hugh, but neither Bartholomew nor Freddy noticed as they sat beside each other and discussed the best way to tackle it.