Through Streets Broad and Narrow

by Gabriel Fielding

  They would go off to the Anatomy room together, Groarke producing the small Conyngham in which he had been at work the night before with red ink. John used to borrow this book to see whether Groarke had a good brain or not, whether he had underlined the print intelligently. When he found that the red scoring was scanty and never at the obvious places, he respected Groarke intensely and decided to go on working with him and supplying him with comforts and money.

  They drove each other on all through the first term and passed the Pre-Registration very easily at the end of it.

  He took this news home with him for the Christmas holiday and was made much of by everyone except Mary, whose George had just ploughed Finals part II for the third time.

  The family had no real idea what Pre-Registration meant and neither had John himself, but despite this he made good play with it, suggesting that he was now registered with the Irish Government or even the British Medical Association as a serious student of Medicine. Very soon he heard Mother telling people that he was doing “brilliantly” in Dublin and was satisfied.

  For the first time in his life he found the holiday at home long enough and left the send-off party in such high spirits on the quayside at Holyhead that he inadvertently kissed his sister’s artistic boy friend, the Primitive, on the beard in mistake for his sister, Melanie.

  During the new term he met Dymphna again for the first time since the original meeting at Porth Newydd. He had arranged to take a girl called Oonagh Kenney out to coffee after lectures on Saturday morning. Theresa was on duty at her hospital and so could not have come in any case, the point being that even if she had been free he would not have asked her to the Mitchell’s coffee party. He pretended to himself that she was too common and Irish for such a gathering, but the real reason was that he wanted to find a corrective to the pain of his lust for her. He argued that, in the main, one could only feel poetry for one girl at a time and that since the satisfaction of the lust was necessary in order to subdue the poetry it would be helpful to start lusting after someone else who might possibly give a point or two instead of freezing up at every physical advance. To this end he had been working on Oonagh very consistently. Though she was more expensive than Theresa it was worth it, quite apart from the primary motive. For one thing it delighted him to believe that he despised Theresa in some sense, even if only a social one; it was a form of revenge. For another, Oonagh, though Catholic, lived in England and was easier to talk to.

  He was surprised when Dymphna, whom he had first met in Anglesey a year or two earlier, appeared as well. It was not that he had forgotten her at all, it was only that he had put her away somewhere in a mental place not far removed from that in which the moors and the murder lay buried. He had thought, I do not want to meet her again until I am more definitely whatever I am going to be. He had even persuaded himself that, far from really living in Ireland and liable to be met or encountered in a real street or house at some time, she was forever at Port Newydd; a person by moonlight; an inclusion in the whole watery dream of Victoria which had gone as his childhood and schooldays had gone where they were safe. He had cultivated this propensity most carefully. When anyone got so far to the edge of his care that he had to risk “that” in order to reach them, he let them fall over and disappear.

  He would do it with Theresa if it became necessary and with anyone else. There was a pit at the brink of feeling into which he could let them fall soundlessly whenever and if ever the time came that they threatened Victoria; or if not Victoria, then himself. His soul, he thought it might be.

  So when Dymphna and Oonagh came walking up to the Front Gate that morning he allowed himself only one moment of recognition; remembering, as he pronounced to himself the syllables of her name, the precise circumstances of their previous meeting nearly two years earlier. As she approached him he was imaginatively again in conversation with Horab Greenbloom by the edge of Admiral Bodorgan’s lake, telling him of the events which had followed Victoria’s death and of their most secret effects on him.

  He sensed afresh in that instant of her approach, the disturbance the Irish girl had caused him when he saw her resemblance to Victoria, recalled his longing to tell her of it in their later conversation and their promises both to write to one another and to meet again as soon as he arrived in Dublin. Then, just as swiftly, at the very moment of their introduction, he banished all these memories from his mind and recorded her as a stranger. He looked at her politely, with no hesitation and saw that she was leggy and not, after all, particularly pale or desirable. He said to himself, She is a tall girl, her hair is very short. Why doesn’t she keep still? Her hands are too big.

  “But I know you,” she said. “Why, don’t you remember, Oonagh? This is John Blaydon; I met him in Anglesey, I was telling you—”

  “Of course,” he said. “You wrote to me once.”

  “Did I?”

  “I think I answered it; I’m not sure. You asked about Green-bloom, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right, that Jew man at Porth Newydd that night. Whatever happened to him, did he go back to France?”

  “Yes, he’s got a villa somewhere. I don’t know what he’s doing but sometimes he sends me books of French poetry published by Gallimard.”

  “But how extraordinary,” she said. “I’d no idea you were in Dublin; how long have you been here?”

  “This is my second term.”

  “Oh.”

  Oonagh said, “Who’s Greenbloom?”

  Dymphna said, “Oh, he was great crack.”

  John thought, She uses slang.

  “Wasn’t he?” she said to him.

  “Yes.”

  “He had a Bentley and wore that most fascinating shirts, little flowers all over them and talked a hundred to the dozen. I don’t think he liked me, did he?” she asked.

  “Come on, let’s go and have some coffee,” John said. “I’ll walk in the middle.”

  It doesn’t matter whether he liked her or not, he thought. Why should I answer a question like that for her? Thank God she means nothing to me; it’s pleasant to be bored by a pretty girl, especially when she could not possibly expect it.

  He said to Oonagh, “Did you get my letter?”

  “Yes, didn’t you get my answer?”

  “I haven’t read it yet.”

  Dymphna asked, “Do you two write to each other?”

  And Oonagh said nothing, neither did John.

  “In the holidays?” Dymphna persisted.

  “Yes.”

  “But they were over two weeks ago.”

  “We write in the term as well,” he said, “Every day.”

  “Good heavens. What on earth do you find to write about?”

  “Oh, anything. It’s amusing; a game, really.”

  Then they were all silent until they got into Mitchell’s, when Dymphna made a great splash, waving prettily to the third year and the rugger team gang, talking to the Boat Club and their girls, but making very sure that she came back to John and Oonagh at the end of it, who were saying things like, “But I did mean it,” or, “No, you misread it, I meant that I think of you differently.” Dymphna said to Oonagh, “Are you and John going to the Gresham tonight?”

  And John leaned back and pretended he hadn’t heard what she said; that therefore, by his abstraction, he was on a very much more intimate footing with Oonagh than was really the case. He looked up at Dymphna as though he had forgotten her and noticed that her hands moved more restlessly than ever.

  “I can’t tonight,” he said in the end. “I’m working. We’ve got a terminal in six weeks’ time. Oonagh’s going with Bill Collins, I think.”

  “Bill Collins,” said Dymphna ardently. “He’s tremendous.”

  “I didn’t know you knew Bill.”

  “I don’t,” said John. “He’s fourth year.”

  “No, I meant Oonagh.”

  “Oh he’s all right,” Oonagh said, “but he dances like an elephant.”

  “But he
’s great crack,” said Dymphna.

  And John thought, I wish she’d stop that rot; it means nothing. Thank God I don’t care for her.

  He got up as though he were late for something and said, “I’ve got to go now, I’m meeting Michael Groarke for lunch in the Buffet.”

  “You won’t be coming to the match in the park, then?” Oonagh asked.

  “I can’t, I’m afraid, we’re going to get down to the Chemistry. Groarke’s managed to get hold of the key to the lab or bribed someone—”

  Dymphna said, “Well, it was extraordinary meeting you again like that. Where are your rooms? Are you living ‘in’ or in digs?”

  “In Glasnevin,” he said, “but we’re sure to meet again. We come here nearly every Saturday and in any case I’m taking Oonagh to the Boat Club Dance next week; so if not before—”

  Dymphna interrupted, “Oh, yes, everyone goes to that. By the way, who’s this Michael Groarke you were talking about? I don’t know the name.”

  “He lives in Kingstown, I believe.”

  “Kingstown?”

  “Somewhere like that.” He was deliberately vague because this habit of Dubliners’ thinking they could place everyone immediately had begun to annoy him. “Or Foxrock; I can’t remember.”

  Oonagh was looking distrait, the look he imagined her having when she was writing one of her letters to him. The mood became her and he decided that if ever he did succeed with her she would never look vague again, or hurt; she would just look desperate with knowing what she wanted. Perhaps after that he would fall in love with her; but he doubted it because he was still in love with Theresa.

  He paid the bill and left them sitting there, purposely going slowly so that he might hear what Dymphna said, and she said, “John’s changed enormously since I met him in Anglesey.”

  It was the impression he had wished to give and, greatly elated, he went off to the Chete’s rooms where he was due to meet Groarke.

  When he reached Mahaffey Buildings the Chete was pulling the fuzz out of his pockets so that his nails might remain clean. He evaginated all the linings one after the other, removed the dust and fluff, then clipped his nails carefully and scrubbed them in the bedroom.

  They played the gramophone and John looked at the photograph of the Chete’s fiancée on the mantelpiece. Her name was Claire and she lived in Eastbourne in Sussex. The Chete’s strange affair with her had been going on for months. When he was sober he would described their love-making in great detail and when he was drunk he would ring her up long distance and be without money for a week afterwards. His mother was either dead or divorced, no one was sure which, and his father ran a golf club and drank in a respectable way, never getting more than drunk.

  In some manner the Chete assumed that he was very much older than the rest of the first year and they were inclined to concede him this affectation. It was partly because his father drank so carefully and partly because the Chete was really engaged and had been so several times; but in addition to this the consent was also given in view of his social aura. The fact, for instance, that he had a mature way of polishing his shoes and a man-about-town set of dicta concerning dress, contraceptives and whiskey.

  He was very hospitable. People could wander into his rooms at any old time, crank up the gramophone, make a cup of tea, or ask him about his rowing or his sex life.

  That evening, for example, the Chete left him the key of his room and said that if he and Groarke wanted to make tea later on, then for God’s sake to empty the cups and ashtrays after them.

  He did not return until about six o’clock, very drunk and wanting to change into evening dress for a private dinner and dance somewhere between Dublin and Glendalough. Fitzgerald, whom the Chete had met at Epsom or Aldenham, and who had Dublin relations of the Right kind, was with him. Fitzgerald was fairly sober, he was too good-looking ever to get really drunk, but he enjoyed seeing the Chete drunk and the three of them had an amusing time giving him cold towels, strong coffee and a bucket to be sick into. They managed to get him into a dinner jacket in his bedroom, made sure that he had his cuff-links and silver cigarette case and then sent him off singing happily beside Fitzgerald in Fitzgerald’s M.G.

  Groarke said, “Where does he get it all from?”

  “His father,” John said.

  “Poor bastard.”

  “His father?” John asked.

  “Both of them,” Groarke said, “it’s so boring.”

  They played a bit more gramophone and then talked Physics and Chemistry. It was an idea of Groarke’s to discuss everything in terms of the subject in hand, whether they were talking about food, sex, psychology or books. In this instance, all metaphors and similes had to be relevant physical or chemical concepts or analogues. In this way a subject became a part of you. You lived in it, you saw everything in terms of it, yourself included; so that even when you were not actually working you were still mentally engaged and thus could not fail to progress faster than anyone else.

  After about an hour of it Groarke suddenly became colder-looking and said he was going back to Kingstown. He said he would see John at Fallon’s Biochemistry lecture on Monday morning and went out very quickly without saying goodnight.

  When he had gone John had another look at Claire’s photograph and thought about the Chete’s love-making.

  “You get nowhere until you get engaged to them,” the Chete had said. On the other hand Groarke said, “Until you’ve got money or you’re close to qualification, which is the same thing, you’ll get nowhere until you’ve frightened them.”

  “Theresa wouldn’t become engaged to me even if I asked her because she doesn’t know whether she’s in love with me,” John had told the Chete.

  “She won’t let me have her because she’s not engaged to me,” he had told Groarke.

  “Well, for God’s sake find someone else,” they had said, to which Groarke had added, “Get a mackintosh.”

  “But I’m in love with her.”

  “Oh Christ!”

  “———”

  “People do fall in love,” John had insisted. “Look, when I go out with Oonagh, anyone else but Theresa, I’m thinking about her all the time. I think about her in the middle of Fallon’s lectures, in my bath, at night; when I ring her up my knees start knocking and my mouth goes dry.”

  The Chete sang a snatch of, “Was it tears that fell or was it rain?” and Groarke went cold on them. He got a notebook out as though he were in a bitter wind, strapping it down on his knee and muttering chemical formulae to himself with great urgency.

  Response of this sort never stopped John from consulting them but he found it better to get them alone since he suspected that when they were together they were vying with one another and not in the least accessible to what they really thought or felt about Theresa or Love.

  He counted his money; there was five and threepence and a farthing that had got attached to him several weeks ago and which he was always mistaking for a sixpence in his pocket. It would have to be a careful evening. He would have to walk to Cork Street now or all the way back to Glasnevin when it was over.

  He washed up the Chete’s cups and threw the farthing into the waste bucket, then took the tram to the Clynches’. Theresa would lend him the Glasnevin fare when it was over.

  She had made herself a two-piece out of some buff-coloured cotton and piped it with darker brown to match the buttons. The bridge party had knocked off for bacon, eggs and tea with all the family in the downstairs sitting-room, old Clynche included. Perhaps it was having them all in the room that made her so encouraging. She was swinging a little evening bag which toned with her hat and looked really dreadful from the point of view of clothes. But her face was so beautiful that even sitting down in one of the battered armchairs he felt his knees shaking inside his trouser legs; the dry bursting feeling settled down in his chest and started struggling to get its wings out so that he found it difficult to breathe. It was somebody’s birthday again: Britta’s or
James’, and the Clynches were passing round the awful presents: an electric razor so new that it looked cheap against all the shabbiness, and a selection of striped silk ties.

  Theresa suddenly came and sat on the end of John’s knees and made a little rumba movement of gaiety, saying he should have brought a present. This was exactly what he was thinking himself and like a fool he said he’d already got it but that it was back in his rooms at Glasnevin; a new Kodak.

  “New” was the word; it had been his own only for a matter of six or eight weeks, his eldest brother David’s Christmas present to him and scarcely used; merely looked at practically every night in bed before he put the light out. He wasn’t even sure how to work it yet, but that was half the fun because you could be sure of getting results in the end—with a machine.

  If they’d known that it was that minute rumba she’d given him which had made it impossible for him not to give the Kodak to James or Kevin, they’d have thought he was mad. He wondered himself. He should have given it to Theresa if he’d been going to give it to anyone but it was against his rules to give her anything expensive.

  As it was, they made a tremendous fuss of him. Brigid pinned her hair back and started talking about exams; she rattled off the course the R.C. lodgers were racing through at the National University and then said that Aileen’s husband had just been promoted in the R.A.F. Medical Branch for passing an Eye diploma. Aileen would soon be able to live in Baghdad where she would have a seven-room house and servants she could summon by clapping her hands and hissing.

  Brittas said you hissed in Malaya and clapped in Siam, but Brigid said what did it matter? She’d willingly do both together for a hand with the coals. James said it was “onnatural” anyway and that free men weren’t made to be servants to the bloody British Raj in India or anywhere else.

  John asked him what the Irish would do if it weren’t for the British Empire and James said they’d settle for the Six Counties as a beginning and wanted nothing from England except a back view.

  Somebody went out for a half-dozen of porter while old Clynche heated up the poker to warm them with, and Theresa and John left for Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire at the Theatre Royal.