by Colm Toibin
Nora nodded and smiled. It was hard to know what to say in reply. Mrs. Radford came with gin-and-tonics in tall glasses as her husband put a record on the turntable.
“I think this is one of the most frightening and saddest songs. It always sends a chill down my spine. It’s ‘Erlkönig.’”
For an hour or more Dr. Radford played German and French songs, some of them fast with thumping piano accompaniment, others slower and more melancholy. With each one he gave an introduction as though he was speaking on the radio. As he took each record from the turntable, his wife dutifully put it back in its sleeve and returned it to its place on the shelf. Mrs. Radford also replenished their glasses at intervals.
“Do you like Richard Strauss?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Nora said.
“Well, I thought we would listen to a few of his early songs which are very delicate and then we would be brave and end with the Four Last Songs. Of course, they weren’t always called that. You know, I think he was capable of creating a pitch of intensity better than any of them.”
What Nora sensed as the music played, music that meant nothing to her, that had too many swirling rises and falls and too little melody, was how lonely the Radfords were. Their children had grown up and gone. The Radfords were alone in a place where there were few people like them. In Dublin or London they might be happier. But more than anything, as Dr. Radford, animated by the gin, turned the sound up until it was too loud, she wondered what had happened to her that she found herself here in this house with these two people on a night when she could be at home. Why had she joined the Gramophone Society in the first place? If anyone she knew discovered that she had spent an evening with Trevor and Ali Radford, they would think that she had lost her mind.
When the songs were finished and Nora stood up to go, Dr. Radford asked her who was her favourite composer.
She hesitated, feeling more than slightly drunk.
“I suppose Beethoven,” she said.
“And any particular period?”
“Something quiet,” she said and looked at him pointedly.
“Oh, I know. The trios we got in that package from McCullough Pigott’s,” Mrs. Radford said.
“Yes, we haven’t played them yet. We keep the new recordings over here.”
When he found the record he showed the sleeve to Nora. It had a photograph of two young men and a woman. The woman was blond and faintly smiling, with a strength in her face. Nora discerned that the woman was the cellist and in that moment she had a thought that she would give anything to be the young woman on the album sleeve, to be her now with a cello beside her and someone taking her photograph. As Dr. Radford put the record on, she thought how easy it might have been to have been someone else, that having the boys at home waiting for her, and the bed and the lamp beside her bed, and her work in the morning, were all a sort of accident. They were somehow less solid than the clear notes of the cello that came through the speakers.
Nora concentrated on the low pleading sound. The energy in the playing was sad, and then it became more than sad, as if there was something there and all three players recognised it and were moving towards it. The melody rose more beautifully, and she was sure that someone had suffered, and moved away from suffering and then come back to it, let it linger and live within them.
When Nora looked up she saw that the Radfords were tired. Mrs. Radford began to rake the fire. Nora wanted to be away from them now, to walk home alone, cross the Mill Park Road and go up the lane to John Street and then along John Street towards home. When the first movement ended, she stood up.
“That was beautiful,” she said. “And they are so young, the players.”
“Why don’t you take the record home with you?” Dr. Radford said.
He put the record back in its sleeve and handed it to her. She knew that she could not say that she did not have a decent record player, but also she did not want to be the focus of their charity. If she took the record from them it would be harder to refuse their hospitality were it to be offered again.
“But you haven’t listened to it yourselves,” she said.
“Yes,” Dr. Radford said, “but we have many other records that we haven’t listened to yet, and it would be marvellous if you had it.”
In the hallway, they found her coat, and as he opened the door Dr. Radford said, “Let us know what you think of it when you have listened to it a few times.” Nora smiled and thanked both of them and then walked home, sobered up by the cold night air, with the record under her arm. Even if she could not listen to it, she thought, she could look at the sleeve and try to remember the notes she had heard. Maybe that would be enough for the moment.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She was afraid to spend money. When the cheque came with the back-dated increase, she lodged it carefully in the bank. It made a difference to her that it was there if she needed it but she lived on what she earned from Gibney’s, her pension and the money Fiona gave her.
She took an interest in Charlie Haughey, the minister for finance who had crafted these budgets. Una and Seamus disapproved of him strongly and Jim and Margaret continued to make clear how suspicious they were of him.
“Well, I think he’s a very good minister for finance and he deserves a break,” Nora said.
“We heard a story,” Margaret said, “about late-night drinking in Groome’s Hotel.”
“But there are always stories about politicians, especially good ones,” Nora said. “They used to say that de Valera and the wife didn’t speak to each other and that Seán Lemass had gambling debts.”
“Yes, but those stories weren’t true, Nora,” Margaret said. “These ones are.”
When Haughey was arrested for gun-running, Mick Sinnott came running into her office with the news, followed by Elizabeth. Since he had become head of the union, Mick Sinnott was to be seen much more.
“Thomas says he’s in the Bridewell,” Elizabeth said, “and he’s in handcuffs. He was importing arms, if you don’t mind.”
She did not, in her excitement, appear to realise that she had spoken to Mick Sinnott, to whom she would not normally speak, as well as to Nora.
“Arms for what?” Nora asked.
“To send to the North,” Mick Sinnott said.
“Oh, he’ll have us in a right stew then,” Elizabeth said.
Everyone in the office was talking about the arrest. Elizabeth called out to one of the office girls, asking her to go over to the house and fetch her transistor radio.
“Maybe the rest of them will see sense now,” Mick Sinnott said.
“Excuse me, Mr. Sinnott,” Elizabeth said. “Mrs. Webster and myself have work to do.”
“Oh, don’t let me interfere with work,” Mick Sinnott said and walked out of their office, leaving the door open.
Elizabeth shut the door.
“Thomas says there might be an election,” she said to Nora, “and Old William would be delighted to see the end of this government. And the cheek of that Mick Sinnott coming in here. It’s a pity someone doesn’t arrest him too.”
When Jim and Margaret came to visit, Nora noticed that Jim was in good humour; he moved with a quicker step and seemed almost younger.
“We were very shocked at first,” Margaret said. “I mean, it’s not a good thing for any country to have ministers arrested and on trial.”
“Anyway, the situation is dealt with now,” Jim said. “You know, some people didn’t think Jack Lynch had it in him to sack those ministers. But anyone who ever watched him on the hurling pitch would be in no doubt about him. He’s a gentleman until you push him and then he’s as tough as nails. He’s one man I wouldn’t cross.”
“Well, I can’t think of anything that he has ever done for anyone,” Nora said. “If I was in the North and someone came to my house to burn it down, I’d want guns.”
“Well, they can get their own guns,” Jim said. “We don’t want cabinet ministers in our part of the country running guns.”
“Haughey always had time for people who were in trouble,” Nora said.
“He was always hasty,” Jim said. “He was promoted too early, that was the thing. He needed more time on the back-benches. Too ambitious.”
“Jim never really trusted him,” Margaret said.
“Well, he looked after the widows when he needn’t have,” Nora said.
One evening Aunt Josie arrived without warning. She spoke to Fiona, going through the names of teachers she had worked with and her own early career when times were much harder and classes much bigger. When Fiona excused herself, Nora realised that she would not be returning.
The boys came in and spoke to Josie.
“They look much better now,” Josie said when they had gone. “You have really been marvellous, everyone thinks that.”
“It’s hard to know,” Nora said. “Donal’s stammer can be very bad.”
“But he looks happier,” Josie said. “I remember you and Catherine and Una after your father died, and it took you all much longer. It was a very sad house then, but children bounce back, that’s the great thing.”
“I don’t think they do. I never did,” Nora said. “You learn, no matter what age you are, to keep things to yourself. I wonder if I should take Donal to Dublin to a speech therapist.”
“Leave him for the moment. Leave well enough alone.”
Nora sighed.
“I wish I knew what to do with him.”
“What I really came in to tell you,” Josie said, “is that I have money invested. Not much now, but still. And I got the dividend last week and I thought I’d like to do something nice with the money, and I thought in a few months’ time at the end of the summer, when everything has calmed down, it would be lovely to go to Spain with you, and you need a break from all of them.”
“Spain? Oh, I’m not sure.”
“I’ve spoken to Una and she’s ready to look after the boys, and all you have to do is make sure you have the time off in Gibney’s.”
“I have been working full days when they’re busy but I’m not sure if I will be owed days off as well as my holidays. I’ll go to Curracloe or Rosslare with the boys for two weeks no matter what happens.”
“Will you think about it?”
“Well, it’s very generous of you.”
“A good holiday and plenty of sunshine, and you were always a great swimmer.”
“I’ve never been on a plane. I went to Wales with Maurice once, but we went by boat. I don’t even have a passport.”
In the morning when she woke, Nora did not think she would go. She would have to make too many arrangements, and she would be concerned about being so far away from the boys, who could still become upset by the smallest thing. Within a week she had a letter from Josie with potential dates. She delayed replying, and eventually, having confirmed at Gibney’s that she could have time off rather than extra pay, she was on the verge of writing back to Josie to agree to go to Sitges in Spain for the first two weeks of September. But she held back, thinking that two weeks at home, without having to go to work every day, would be better, and also bearing in mind that this was when the boys would be going back to school.
Over the next fortnight, Josie, Nora learned, contacted Una and Margaret and asked them to talk to her. When Margaret raised the subject, she said nothing, but when Una began to tell her that a holiday would do her good, she wondered if they all should be told to leave her alone.
“It’s the sort of thing you see on a television ad,” she said, “that a holiday in Spain would do you good. I’ve never seen any evidence of it.”
“You wake in the morning and you know there is sunshine all day,” Una said, “and the sea is warm and there’s someone else to cook for you.”
“What about the flight?”
“I fall asleep on flights,” Una said, “and I’m sure you will too.”
She wrote to Josie to say that she would like to go, but she tore the letter up. Sometimes at night she thought she would love to go, but in the mornings she felt that it would be too much effort. Only when she realised that her silence was rude, and that Josie would be offended, did she determine that, one way or another, she would write to Josie from work and post the letter on her way home. Even when she began to write the letter, she did not know what she would say. And, when she wrote to accept, she was not sure that she had done the right thing. But the following day she applied for a passport.
A few times when Margaret and Una and even Fiona spoke about how much good the holiday would do her, she became irritated. She knew, however, since Josie had already paid, that she could not cancel now. When the holiday in Curracloe with the boys was over, she went to Dublin one Saturday on her own and bought some light clothes for Spain but found herself, when Una asked her, not admitting that she had bought anything at all. Fiona seemed to realise that she did not want the trip mentioned and said nothing to her about it. When Josie sent her a list of things she must not forget, she came close to replying that she could look after her own arrangements.
Yet she did not mind the confined space of the plane and she enjoyed watching Josie saying prayers as the plane took off and landed and anytime there was a bump during the flight. What surprised her most was the heat when they arrived, even though it was night, and the strange fetid smell as though something was rotting. On the bus from the airport, Josie began to sigh and complain, but Nora found it almost soothing and wondered what the morning would be like.
That night, as she listened to Josie snoring in the bed beside her, she believed that she could not sleep because of the heat and the excitement. On the beach in the morning she slept for a while, woken only by Josie, who wanted to talk. Since Josie did not swim, she realised that she could get away from her by going into the sea and staying in the warm water for as long as she could. When she returned each time, Josie took up the conversation where she had left off.
On the fifth day as they walked from the beach, Nora in her mind went through each one of the four sleepless nights she had spent so far on their holiday. She listened with irritation as Josie talked about a priest who had not come to the house of someone who was dying but was seen that same day at a football match. Thinking about the nights one by one was Nora’s way of concentrating, thus keeping herself from lying down now, here on the busy street, or leaning against the wall of a shop, or curling up on the pavement, not caring that it was still daylight and the shops were still open. For a second, as Josie went on with her story, she could detect in her speaking voice a hint of the same sound she made when she snored, a cross between heavy breathing and bronchial groaning.
Nora thought it was Josie’s age that made the snoring so heavy and loud. Even when Nora had switched on the bedside lamp and gently set to turning her, or even firmly waking her, Josie had settled back swiftly into sleep. Nora had lain in the bed beside hers and waited, and each time it had begun again, her snoring rising and falling, sometimes becoming a set of hard rasping sounds, and continuing even as the dawn light peered in through the slats in the shutters. Nora lay there exhausted, exasperated, realising after the fourth night that she still had ten days and nights left with her aunt until their fortnight’s holiday in Sitges would be over.
As they veered into the shady street where their hotel was situated, Nora saw Carol, their tour guide, entering a shop. She had thought that Carol had gone back to Dublin, and wondered now if maybe she had done so and then returned.
If she had not been so tired, she would have instantly approached Carol. But by the time she thought of this she was already in the bedroom and Josie in the garden. She wondered if it would be wise to tell Carol what was wrong. In a few days, if Josie continued snoring through the night, Nora might have to feign illness in the hope she c
ould get an early flight home. Telling Carol the truth would prevent her doing that. She sensed that Carol would have a way of making clear to her that it was her own fault that she was a light sleeper, and hardly the travel company’s concern that her aunt was a heavy snorer. She knew that an additional single room, even if one was available, would cost much more than Josie had paid.
In the lobby of the hotel, when Josie was in the bar, Nora bumped into Carol.
“Are you all right?” Carol asked her.
Nora did not reply.
“I saw you on the street earlier,” Carol said.
“I can’t sleep,” Nora said.
“Is it the heat?”
“No, I like the heat.”
Carol nodded and then waited for her to say something more. Nora looked around her and then whispered.
“My aunt snores all night. It is like being in the room with a foghorn.”
“Did you say it to her?”
“I tried. I don’t think she knows what it sounds like. I haven’t slept a wink for four nights. I’m going demented.”
“We don’t have single rooms,” Carol said.
“Don’t worry then,” Nora replied. “Not to worry. I’ll just lie there all night until we go home.”
“I’m really sorry,” Carol said.
As they stood facing each other, Nora could hear the voice of her aunt and then sudden laughter as Josie approached. She seemed in high good humour.
“Oh, there you are, Carol,” she said. “Well, I just wanted to say that the room is lovely now, couldn’t be better, and I was just saying to a man at the bar that I don’t know how we are going to get used to making our own beds and cooking our own meals when we go home. But I won’t miss the heat. Oh I won’t miss the heat!”
Nora watched her coldly and saw that Carol was staring at her too. For a second, they caught each other’s eye. Josie was wearing a loose navy-blue dress that made her seem enormous, her hair was dishevelled and she was sweating profusely. She grinned at the two of them.
