Sarah finally settled down on a garden chair with a large glass of wine, barefooted, as Evie pleaded to open the rest of her presents.
There was a new Ballet Barbie, Barbie outfits, two DVDs, a book of fairies, a painting set, a jewellery set which involved about a million tiny beads and book and CD tokens.
When Evie opened her present Anna suddenly wished she had been more adventurous.
‘Books!’ blurted out her niece. ‘And a Barbie Fairy Princess and Wand!’ she screamed excitedly, racing over to hug her.
Anna thanked heaven that her mum had tipped her off to add a Barbie to the two rare first-edition children’s books that she had managed to buy for Evie.
Grace had bought her an Avoca pink skirt and a frilly wrap-over cardigan and Granny had brought her a big inflatable paddling pool and new swimming togs and a towel.
‘Your mum and aunties had a paddling pool like this when they were small.’
Sarah and Grace yelped with pleasure, remembering the fun and craziness of summers in the back garden, jumping in and out of the little pool, and drowning their toys in it, and having races.
‘Do you remember the water fights we used to have?’
‘You used to get soaked,’ Anna remembered.
Evie jumped up on her grandmother’s lap. ‘This was my best birthday party ever . . . ever, Granny!’
‘I know it was, pet. That’s because everyone loves you.’
Sarah’s eyes welled with tears and unconsciously Anna squeezed her hand. Pulling herself together, Sarah announced, ‘Now that the kids are gone, I think we should finish off all the food.’ She disappeared off to the kitchen with Angus in tow.
‘Any word from you know who?’ whispered Grace.
‘Not a beep,’ replied their mother angrily.
They all held their tongues, watching as Sarah emerged with a tray of cakes and buns, laughing as Angus gingerly carried a dish of well-cooked cocktail sausages with the aid of an oven glove.
‘He’s nice,’ whispered Grace.
‘Perfect,’ said their mother.
‘Mum! He’s got a girlfriend,’ Anna reminded her, wondering what the heck her mother was up to.
‘A girlfriend,’ Maggie whispered, ‘who seems to spend all her time in Scotland while he spends most of his here in Dublin!’
‘He works in Dublin,’ Anna pointed out, ‘and usually goes back home at the weekends.’
‘It’s Saturday and he’s here at Evie’s party,’ Maggie retorted with a smile, passing around some paper napkins and plates.
‘They’re friends,’ she protested. Honestly, her mother was like someone out of a John B. Keane play, a country matchmaker trying to find romance where there was none.
However, watching Angus sitting on the garden bench chatting easily with Oscar and Sarah, Anna did have to admit that perhaps her mother was right; how many men would give up their Saturday afternoon to go to a kids’ party, let alone a fairy-themed one! Angus just fitted in and was mad about Evie.
An hour later Anna said her goodbyes, resisting the temptation to spend the rest of the evening on a garden chair basking in the sun drinking wine. She headed into town to the opening night of Philip Flynn’s new play.
Chapter Twenty-three
Anna made it just in time to Trinity’s Beckett Theatre and, tossing her wavy hair back off her face, grabbed a space in one of the front rows in an effort to make the place look fuller. Philip was floating around, as well as Simon Fleming who had done the lighting and a girl called Gina who was studying drama and had come to some of her English lectures. Philip nodded over at her and she tried to give him a reassuring smile. His aquiline features looked tauter than ever as he surveyed the rows of empty seats. She settled down pretending to read the programme, hoping that by some miracle a hundred people would suddenly manifest themselves and create a lively, enthusiastic audience. Philip had sweated blood and guts over this production over the past eight weeks and the least he deserved was some kind of audience. Most of the staff from the English and Drama Departments had been invited and it would be a poor show if a few more didn’t happen along. Besides, there was a drinks reception after the play for invited guests which was usually enough to lure a few stalwarts. Mona Royston, a colleague from American Literature, suddenly appeared, her large frame squashing into the seat beside her, her breasts jiggling alarmingly under a jewelled turquoise top, blond hair cascading down her shoulders.
‘Good to see you here, Anna. At least there are two of us to console Philip.’
‘Console?’
‘Well, you know what I mean. Being a playwright sucks. It’s all so public – the humiliation.’
‘The play is meant to be very good; Philip thinks it’s his best so far.’
‘Exactly what I mean,’ Mona laughed, offering her a wine gum from a packet in her handbag.
Watching the trickle of people take their seats, Anna doubted that she would ever have the stomach for such an endeavour as having her words performed on stage. It took a rare kind of courage and ego, a kind which she definitely didn’t possess. She continued to chat to Mona while watching Philip surreptitiously. He was checking things, going back and forth between front of house and backstage. A number of students from the Drama course were involved – acting, doing sets and so on – and they were all bound to be nervous. No doubt, behind the scenes Philip was soothing them. She heaved a sigh of relief as a group of about twenty students ambled in and filled in the rest of the front two rows. After a delay of about another ten minutes when only an elderly couple came in and plonked themselves in the back row, Philip finally gave the nod, the theatre darkened and light filled the stage.
Anna held her breath. This was the minute – well, first few minutes – when the audience made up their minds no matter who the playwright was. The lead actor came forward and began to speak, his face hidden behind a gold mask. Philip had explained months ago to her about the symbolism of the gold masks in his work. She racked her brain trying to remember. After ten minutes of actor after actor repeating the opening mantra in similar masks she still hadn’t made any sense of it. The soul and society were somehow main themes but it was unclear what was happening on stage.
Mona opened her handbag loudly and offered her another wine gum. ‘Pity it’s not the real thing.’
Anna, despite her best efforts to concentrate, found herself drifting off and thinking about a pile of essays she had to mark. Twenty-five minutes in, the elderly couple at the back made a lot of noise lifting bags and jackets, muttering as they left the theatre.
The torture continued as a tall thin girl in a black mask, in the role of some kind of muse, did a tribal dance to the pounding of a bodhran drum played by one of the other actors. Anna sat up in her seat and tried to focus on the performance. There was a brief ten-minute interval and she raced to the bathroom. Hopefully things would improve in the second half. Mona had disappeared outside for a quick cigarette. There was no sign of Philip, and Anna admitted to a slight sense of relief that she hadn’t had to give her view of the performance so far.
The second half of the play saw the stage bathed in light and the lead actor appear again, only this time there was no mask and his handsome young face displayed all his emotions. Within minutes all the other actors reappeared and repeated their initial words and actions but this time full face to the audience. Everyone was leaning forward now to see what they were saying, far more engaged than previously. The play still rambled on for far too long but at least there was something more interesting to look at on stage and the final scene with the distraught muse dancing to the drumming resonated around the theatre.
The audience clapped loyally, the actors deserved that, and clapped again politely when Philip came out and took a stiff little bow holding Ashling, the actress’s, hand.
‘Dear Lord, thank heaven that’s over!’ remarked Mona. ‘I don’t think Philip need worry about giving up the day job, do you?’
Anna held her tongue. She hadn’t realized tha
t Mona had such a sarcastic streak in her.
‘Come on and we’ll get ourselves a glass of wine. God knows we deserve it.’
A small crowd milled around the waitress serving wine and Anna had to admit she was glad of the reviving Sauvignon Blanc.
‘Phew,’ remarked Gina, coming over to join them. ‘What a performance. Such emotion! Utterly draining, don’t you think?’
‘Where’s Philip?’
‘Backstage. He’ll be out in a moment.’
Anna sipped at her wine wondering what she could possibly say that would be positive and construed as helpful. She knew from lecturing and correcting work how badly students took criticism of their writing, often taking it as a personal affront. Despite his massive ego Philip was a sensitive soul and this was his work they were talking about.
‘Here he comes.’ Gina grinned and gave him a hug.
‘Well done!’ said Mona obliquely, tipping her glass to him, much as you would congratulate a marathon runner for finally crossing the line, in recognition of his endurance. Philip looked rather shell-shocked but his eyes found Anna’s as she kissed him lightly.
‘Do you think it needs more rehearsal?’
‘Definitely.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps in our eagerness we rushed the production.’
Anna felt a qualm of pity for him. ‘I preferred the second half.’
‘Sans masques?’
‘Definitely. It was much better to let Terence and that girl Ashling express themselves totally and for us the audience to appreciate the contrast.’
Philip smiled tremulously, his tall frame leaning down towards her, concentrating on every word.
Anna thanked heaven for her experience in dealing with students and the art of the careful let-down.
‘We bare our souls continually; that’s what I endeavoured to interpret: the condition of man.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Art must constantly strive to reflect this.’
Mona cast her eyes up to heaven and grabbed another wine glass from a passing waitress.
Anna, determined not to say another word, hugged Philip, relishing the smell of his expensive aftershave.
Three final-year drama students were loitering a yard away from them and Anna could see Philip’s eyes light up as they congratulated him and chatted to him in a tight huddle.
‘Always lick up to your professor,’ remarked Mona. ‘Makes exams a whole lot easier.’
‘Mona!’
A small cheer broke out as the actors made their appearance, blinking in the harsh lights of the auditorium, like creatures that have suddenly appeared from the underworld.
‘Well done,’ said Anna, smiling as she recognized a boy who was one of her final-year English students.
‘Hey, we’re all going to go for a curry at the Madras House,’ interrupted Gina.
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ agreed Philip, who had definitely rallied.
Anna disguised her disappointment. She had hoped that they could have sloped off for a quiet dinner for two instead of indulging in a post-mortem, which would no doubt reflect its rather dismal reception. Mona joined the hungry throng as they headed over towards Dame Street.
‘God, I’m starving,’ added the American.
‘Everyone is.’ Anna was suddenly aware of her own stomach growling as she dodged the traffic and crossed over to the Indian restaurant. The main evening rush was over and they managed to get a table for sixteen near the front of the restaurant. Philip sat between his two lead actors whilst Anna found herself between Simon and her English student, making small talk about the state of Irish theatre, post-grad student bursary schemes and the music of U2. Across the table she could see Philip was in his element talking animatedly. Gina and Mona were having some kind of argument which Anna decided to ignore, as she most definitely caught a whiff of the words ‘unfair marking’ . . .
The chat around the table was good-humoured with most avoiding talking about the play. With any luck it wouldn’t get any reviews and would disappear; in time Philip might just mark it down as one of his unremarkable works. Anna washed down her spicy chicken cooked in the stone oven with some chilled Tiger beer.
‘Film is the way to go,’ insisted Simon, who had worked on some short experimental film that his flatmate was making. ‘Lighting is such an important element and the DOP has such an influence on the production.’
Give me patience, thought Anna.
At midnight half the party departed and she found herself sitting beside Philip who was boasting loudly about the next play he was going to try and produce, which combined elements of Synge’s Playboy of the Western World.
‘Maybe we should go,’ she hinted discreetly. ‘You must be tired.’ She didn’t want the students to see him making an ass of himself at this hour of the night.
‘Another glass of wine, then I’ll go.’
Anna sighed. He was gifted and talented and intelligent and handsome but when he got drunk he was an absolute shit.
‘Philip, I have an early-morning lecture, and a paper to have ready for Hibernian Magazine. I really can’t stay out any later.’
He just ignored her, his arm snaking around her shoulder. She had two options, she could flounce out of here and let him find his own way home or she could stay put and get a taxi whenever he decided to call it a night. She decided to stay, finding herself involved in a conversation about acting and the lack of theatre work in the city.
An hour later she felt she could neither eat nor drink nor converse any more and realized that Philip Flynn, now busy quoting Synge, was drunk. She had to go home and get some sleep as she had a huge workload and an outline of her project to finish over the next few days.
‘Philip.’
He just ignored her. Well, she’d had enough. Picking up her bag, she got up from her seat, saying goodbye to the remaining few.
‘I’m leaving, Philip.’
Outside on the street, she hailed a taxi, wondering why he always had to be so bloody difficult. Glancing back through the restaurant window, it was clear that Philip hadn’t even noticed that she had left.
Gina had taken her seat, and his arm now rested heavily on her shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-four
Five cups of coffee, a bowl of cornflakes, a packet of jelly teddy bears and hunks of cheese fuelled Anna as she worked all through the night putting together her proposal for Stanford’s exchange programme. The opportunity to get out of Dublin for two semesters and work in one of America’s most prestigious colleges, living in San Francisco, was certainly very appealing. After Philip’s shabby treatment of her the other night and the whispered rumour that he had ended up at Gina’s place, it was abundantly clear that there was nothing or no one to hold her here. With any luck she would find someone to rent her cottage on Dodder Row for a few months. ‘California, here I come,’ she sang under her breath as she hammered away at her laptop.
Martin Johnston, the visiting American professor, had given her the low-down on what his college were looking for each semester, and she had broken down a proposed lecture schedule accordingly. Synge, Joyce, Behan, O’Casey, Beckett, Keane, Friel, McGahern, O’Brien and Heaney: she covered them all, the great and the good of Irish writing with Yeats as her core. William Butler Yeats would not let her down. In Stanford she would be able to carry on with her research and might even have access to college funding or a research grant for her work on the great influence of women on W. B. Yeats’s poetry.
The printer was acting up and she almost attacked it when a page got stuck and she had to take the back off to release it. Anna fed it like a baby watching the pages appear. Everything had to look perfect: Martin had warned her sloppiness would mean automatic rejection. She had a meeting with him first thing in the morning where she had to give a fifteen-minute verbal presentation of her academic proposal. She was exhausted and her shoulders and back ached but she was determined to finish the task at hand. There’d be plenty
of time for sleep later. She worked till five a.m. and had fallen asleep at her computer, her head touching the keyboard. Thank heavens she hadn’t deleted anything.
At eight a.m. Anna Ryan was woken by the sound of the city traffic moving in the street outside her door, and in a panic showered and dressed, grabbing a simple black skirt and T-shirt and a pair of sexy black high heels, pulling her contrary hair back neatly as she slipped her arms into her velvet jacket and downed a glass of orange juice before racing to the meeting.
Passing Philip on the corridor she barely had time to say hello to him as she ran into the Dean’s office and began her pitch.
Phew! She had pulled it together. She could see Brendan, the head of the English Department, and Martin were both reacting positively during her presentation.
‘We are very keen this year to have an Irish person lecture on Irish Literature, bring their own cadence and style to it,’ Martin said smiling.
‘How long before I know?’ she blurted out, sounding madly over-enthusiastic.
‘The Stanford College authorities and the heads of the English Department will make their decision quickly.’
Finishing the interview she was conscious of the fact that Martin had quite a few envelopes of résumés and proposals already under his arm as he said his goodbyes. She watched his short fat legs and stocky body propelling him across the hallowed cobblestones towards the waiting car.
‘Safe journey,’ she whispered.
Consulting the day’s timetable, she saw she had a lecture at three and a tutorial mid-morning. Anna felt incoherent with exhaustion. She’d cancel the tutorial; no doubt her twenty students would be relieved to discover they had a free period. But the lecture in the afternoon she would give, there was no point upsetting her own head of department when she might be looking for a sabbatical next year. Anna yawned; she’d go home and sleep for a few hours, then she’d be right as rain.
Ten days later it was Mona who told her the news.
‘Can you believe that schmuck Philip getting to go to Stanford for the year?’ she exclaimed as they queued together in the canteen for lunch.
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