Apartment 3B

by Patricia Scanlan

  It was Karen who had advised him to get an agent. If only she would stop pushing him to make a commitment he wasn’t yet ready to make. He hadn’t led her on; he’d been straight from the beginning. Why did she want to change the rules all of a sudden? He was a good partner: he shared responsibility for contraception, he always went to the Well Woman with her, and since she said she wanted to give up the pill, he had used condoms even though he hated the things. All their bills were shared and he did his own washing. Why did she suddenly want to go all respectable, hinting about getting married? This was the brave new world. She had as much control of her life as he had so why change the status quo?

  Hell! he’d better get a move on, he decided, catching sight of the time. His publishers had five interviews lined up for him in the Shelbourne. It would be strange having to answer the questions rather than asking them. He tried Karen’s number. It was engaged. He’d try again from the hotel. Hugh wondered if she was going to come to his launch. If she didn’t, it would probably be the end for them. Honestly, you’d think she’d be happy for him that he was starting to succeed instead of moaning about never seeing him. It wasn’t as if he expected her to stay in by the fire the nights he couldn’t meet her. He wouldn’t mind if she went out having fun with her friends. He wasn’t a dog in the manger. But when he tried to explain this to her, she got mad, really furious and accused him of not caring about her. You just couldn’t win with women, that was for sure. Sighing, he left his two-up two-down in Inchicore and headed for the city.

  CLAIRE

  Sunday 13 August 1967

  Claire Doyle knelt beside her mother at first mass in the small village church of Knockross. Molly, her mother, was deep in prayer, her rosary beads slipping silently through her fingers as she recited a decade during communion. Although it was early yet, only eight o’clock, it was clear that it was going to be a scorcher of a day. Rays of warm sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows of St Ibar’s Church, creating swirling patterns of light on the faces of the congregation as they went to receive.

  Claire knelt, observing them. There was Mrs O’Dea, the biggest hypocrite alive, devouring the statues, doing six rounds of the stations a day, and then reporting poor old Jim Casey to the tax people for doing a bit of painting and decorating on the side, while drawing the dole. What business was it of hers anyway, the nosy old bat! Poor Jim had an ailing wife, and a mother who wasn’t the full shilling to look after, God help him. No fear of Ma O’Dea being short of a penny, and her husband, the publican, raking it in. Claire hated O’Dea’s pub. Her father spent most of his life there and only she and her mother knew what they had to put up with. Her father was the village drunkard, although there were a few more who could claim the title. She turned her head and glanced down at the back of the church.

  There he was, Billy Doyle, florid, hung-over from last night, and thirsting for his first official drink of the day, although knowing him, he’d already had a nip from one of his numerous Baby Powers. He stood, flat cap in hand, with a crowd of men from the village. When mass was over, they would congregate outside Griffin’s shop, gossiping, smoking, commenting on the people going in and out, while they waited for the pub to open. Her father would be the first in. He was an alcoholic, that was for sure, but Claire could not bring herself to feel pity for him. A lifetime of rows and fearsome drunken rages and his abuse of her mother had made her hate and fear her father. She felt her mother’s eye upon her and turned again to face the altar. Rosie Lynch, a friend from school, was coming down the aisle, hands joined demurely together, head bowed, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She winked at Claire as she passed and Claire suppressed a grin. It was because of Rosie Lynch that she hadn’t ventured to receive holy communion herself. No doubt her mother would have something to say about that when they got home. She sighed deeply. She supposed she’d have to go to confession next Saturday. That meant being in a state of mortal sin for a week. She should have gone last night but she had just lost her nerve.

  What would she say? ‘Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s two weeks since my last confession, father. I back-answered my father, I told lies to the girls at school when they asked me where I got the bruise on my arm. And I . . . I . . . was guilty of oral sex, father.’ There! It was said. She could slip it in between the others and maybe he wouldn’t even notice. Oh he would! He would indeed; Father O’Toole was a holy terror. Once she had confessed to impure thoughts, and he had wanted to know if there had been actions with them. She didn’t know what he was on about. All she had done was imagine Paul Newman was kissing her and you’d think she’d gone and lost her virginity or something. ‘How many times?’ he had inquired sternly. Plucking a number out of her head, she had stuttered ‘E . . . eight, father,’ and he’d had a sharp intake of breath and told her to say five decades of the rosary! What would he do when he heard about the oral sex? She would possibly be refused communion! Could you imagine the shame of it, going up to the altar rails and being turned away in full view of the villagers. It just didn’t bear thinking about.

  If only Rosie hadn’t smuggled in that book to school. You could have left, she argued silently with herself. But she had been too fascinated, as indeed had the rest of the class, as Rosie sat on the teacher’s desk during their lunch hour and read aloud instructions about ‘how to do it’ from a book on the facts of life she had discovered on top of her parents’ wardrobe. A pin could be heard drop, as Rosie calmly instructed them on how to use a condom, a diaphragm, and something called KY Jelly. There had been lime jelly for sweet when she went home and she just couldn’t face it. Then Rosie had read out something about oral sex. It seemed that the Church did not approve of such practices, although the author felt that if both partners consented, it was all right.

  The arrival of Sister Regina had put a sudden stop to Rosie’s fascinating and informative lecture. But the damage was done. Claire and the rest of them, by listening to Rosie reading such a book about sex, had gone and indulged in it. It had to be oral sex, Claire had reasoned. Oral was the mouth, and sex was well . . . sex, and they had spent the entire lunch period discussing it, talking about it orally. So there it was. Oral sex. Obviously some people got very excited by talking about sex and that was why the church frowned on it. None of the others seemed too put out about being in a state of sin. A thought struck her. Rosie must have gone to confession and been absolved. She hadn’t been refused communion, so maybe it wasn’t quite as serious as Claire had thought. Giving another sigh, she leaned her head on her hands and waited for the priest to give the final blessing. They’d have to wait for a few minutes while her mother said her last few prayers and then mass was over for another week.

  It took her a few minutes to get accustomed to the bright sunlight after the subdued light of the church. Outside, people mingled, greeting each other cheerfully, exchanging little bits of news and gossip. Her mother, drawing off her lace mantilla, handed Claire a pound and told her to go and get the Sunday paper while she had a few words with Mrs Cassidy.

  Claire hated going into Griffin’s shop while all the men stood outside it. If only her mother would let her get a bra like the other girls in her class. After all she had turned fourteen and her breasts were unmistakably budding. Old Mickey Hayes was always staring at her with a dirty leer on his face. Once they had been at a sale of work in the school hall, and there had been a huge crowd around the wheel of fortune trying to get tickets before the next spin. Mickey Hayes had got behind her in the crush and started rubbing himself against her. She had actually felt his thing against her buttocks, the dirty old bastard. Even now she felt sick at the memory, her cheeks hot and flushed as she walked slowly across the churchyard. Why did men do things like that to girls? Why did they think they had a right to touch and feel, even complete strangers. Lena Murphy had been walking down a crowded street in town and a complete stranger had put his hand on her breast as he passed her by. Lena told the girls the next day at school that
she had almost puked right there and then on the spot. And she felt so dirty after it. Claire had known exactly how she felt, and she had told the others about Mickey at the wheel of fortune.

  And then Anita Morrissey had burst into tears and told them that her father came into her room at night and did dirty things to her. It was terrible. They didn’t know what to say and poor Anita had really howled as they tried to comfort her. Rosie, always calm, cool and collected, had tried to get Anita to tell Sister Anne, who was the kindest nun in the school. But Anita was adamant. Her father would kill her if she told and anyway she was going to run away to Dublin to her sister, who had left home to get away from her father. The only thing was he’d probably start on Sheila, her youngest sister, who was only ten. Maybe she’d try and get Sheila to come to Dublin as well. Anita had tried to tell her mother about what was going on, but her mother had told her not to be telling lies and that she was ashamed of her daughter for talking about such things. Poor Anita was in bits and they all felt so helpless.

  A while later, she had run away to Dublin, and there was a rumour going around that she was pregnant. Little Sheila, who had seemed to be a happy enough child, was now pale and anxious-looking, so he must have started doing dirty things to her. Rosie was so worried about it she went to Sister Anne and told her what Anita had told them. Father O’Toole went to see Mr Morrissey, who had chased him off the farm with a pitchfork, yelling blue murder at him. Sheila still seemed white-faced and tense and old man Morrissey still had the nerve to go to mass on Sundays.

  Claire hunched up her shoulders and folded her arms as she neared the shop. Her heart sank as she saw old Mickey Hayes, standing, pipe in his gob, hands in his pockets, grinning at her. ‘Fine girl ye are,’ he commented. The others, including her father, laughed. Claire ignored them, head down as she shoved her way into the crowded shop. If only she had the nerve to tell him to . . . to fuck off! God, if her mother ever heard her using that swearword she’d be disgusted. Still, she smiled briefly to herself as she took her place in the queue, he hadn’t got away scot-free. After Claire told her friends at school about her experience at the wheel of fortune, they decided he had to be punished. A few nights later, half-scared, half-elated, Claire climbed out of her bedroom window after dark to meet Rosie and a few of the others. Rosie carried a tin of bright red paint, purchased in Waterford that day after school. They had all contributed to the cost and Rosie had managed to sneak a paintbrush out of her father’s shed. The villagers of Knockross had woken up the next morning to find the ball alley and the gable end of Mickey Hayes’s house daubed in bright red paint.

  THIS IS A WARNING TO MICKEY HAYES! MICKEY HAYES IS A DISGUSTING OLD PERVERT! HE IS IN DANGER OF CASTRATION IF HE CONTINUES HIS DIRTY DEEDS! Signed NEMESIS.

  There had been uproar in the village. Griffin’s shop had been rife with wild rumours. The parish priest had spoken from the pulpit of wanton vandalism, and Mickey had gone on the batter but no-one had ever guessed who the culprits were.

  ‘What can I get you?’ Andy Griffin was interrupting her reverie.

  ‘Oh . . . the Sunday Press and the Independent, please,’ she responded, handing him the money. On the counter in front of her, a cat walked delicately across the cooked ham, sniffing curiously.

  ‘Get ta hell outta that,’ Andy swiped at the cat as he handed Claire the papers.

  ‘Are you going to the hop tonight?’ Mickey squinted at her as she made her way out of the shop. ‘Will ya save a dance for me? Yer a fine hoult of a girl.’

  Claire’s lips tightened furiously. God! She’d prefer to walk through a slurry pit than to have that yoke dancing with her. ‘Would you ever get lost!’ The words were out before she could stop them and it gave her immense satisfaction to see him nearly swallow his pipe. Head held high, she walked across the street to rejoin her mother, amazed at her bravery. It was a pity she hadn’t the nerve to add ‘pervert’ to the sentence, but still, ‘get lost’ was better than saying nothing.

  ‘Was there a big crowd in Griffin’s?’ Her mother was inquiring.

  ‘Just the usual.’ Claire smiled at her.

  ‘You didn’t receive this morning!’ Molly’s tone held the faintest hint of reproach.

  ‘I . . . I felt a bit faint. I think my period is coming,’ Claire explained, lying through her teeth.

  ‘Oh! Well, maybe you should lie down,’ Molly advised sympathetically. She knew her daughter suffered badly with her periods.

  ‘Maybe I will.’ Claire’s response was non-committal.

  ‘Well, come along anyway, I’m starving for my breakfast.’

  ‘Mmm, me too,’ her daughter agreed enthusiastically, forgetting momentarily that she was supposed to be stricken with pre-period pains.

  ‘I thought you weren’t feeling well!’

  ‘I’m not,’ Claire hastily assured her, ‘but I always feel better after eating something.’

  ‘Will you be able for a fry?’

  She nodded, wishing she had used some other excuse. If there was one thing she loved, it was Sunday breakfast.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Molly and she were ensconced in their small sunny kitchen partaking of rashers, sausages, eggs and pudding. It was a Sunday tradition, theirs alone, as Billy never came home after mass. Claire looked fondly at her mother, who was reading one of the papers. Grey-haired, careworn, Molly Doyle had known precious little happiness in the sixteen years of her marriage. At forty-two, she looked a decade older, thanks to her drunken tyrant of a husband. And yet she would never say a word against him, would never argue with him as he hurled abuse at her. And she would not let Claire criticize him either.

  ‘He’s your father, Claire,’ she would say quietly. ‘And as such, he’s due respect.’

  Respect! She wanted to shout, I’ve no respect for him, I hate him for what he does to you. But she never said it, because it would upset her mother. So she just buried all her hatred inside and vowed she would never marry a man who drank.

  ‘Isn’t it a shame about Vivien Leigh?’ Molly was saying. ‘She died last Tuesday. She was a beautiful woman, God rest her.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a pity!’ Claire was sorry to hear of the actress’s death. Scarlett O’Hara was one of her greatest heroines, so fiery and tempestuous, unlike her own timid self.

  ‘Do you remember we went into Waterford to see Gone With the Wind and we had a meal afterwards?’ her mother smiled.

  Claire smiled back. ‘That was a good day, wasn’t it?’

  They had had a rare day out. Molly had been putting a little bit aside for ages and fortunately Billy hadn’t managed to get his hands on the few pounds. ‘I enjoyed that day immensely, dear.’ Her mother’s face lit up at the memory and Claire vowed that as soon as she started working, she would bring her mother into Waterford every week to go to the pictures and maybe have tea in a café, if she could afford it. When she was working, her mother would never want for anything again, she’d never have to turn blouses and dresses and coats. She’d had that same old coat for the last ten years, although it was always kept immaculate. A surge of love flooded through her and she leaned over and kissed Molly’s faded cheek.

  ‘Oh! . . . Oh . . . what was that for?’ her mother said in a fluster, a pleased pink suffusing her cheeks. They were not as a rule a demonstrative family.

  ‘You’re a great mother,’ Claire said shyly.

  ‘And you’re a good caring daughter,’ Molly responded. ‘Now run out and pull a few carrots out of the garden for me, like a good girl. It’s time I got some work done.’ Claire did as she was bid, unaware that her mother was standing watching her from the kitchen window, great big tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Four hours later, the smell of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, steeped peas, carrots and roast potatoes, wafted through their small cottage. Claire was setting the dining-room table with her mother’s Sunday tablecloth, the lovely hand-embroidered one that she had done several winters ago. The table was set for three but Claire knew it
was pointless setting a place for her father. He’d come rolling in around three, after the pub closed. Her mother would have the dinner on the table at a quarter past one on the dot, but would end up tight-lipped and tense, unable to enjoy her own dinner, wondering what kind of humour her husband would arrive home in.

  Every Sunday it was the same. Wouldn’t her mother ever learn? Claire wouldn’t give him a dinner if she were in Molly’s shoes.

  At a quarter past one on the dot, Claire sat down with her mother to their dinner. Her father’s was keeping warm over a saucepan.

  They sat in silence, Molly giving an occasional look out of the window to see if there was any sign of her husband. Claire could see her getting more tense by the minute and her own food began to taste like sawdust. Even the delicious apple crumble that her mother served up for sweet didn’t taste any better. Damn him! Damn him! Damn him! she swore silently as she cleared away the dishes. She wanted to go out, to go for a cycle or call down to Rosie but she wouldn’t leave her mother alone to face him.

  At ten to three, Billy came stumbling through the gate. He was well-jarred. Claire’s heart began to beat a good deal faster and her throat closed up. ‘Get me me dinner,’ Billy ordered, falling into an armchair. Silently Molly obeyed. Billy stood up, swaying, and moved over to the table where his place was still set. Greedily he began to shove forkfuls of roast beef into his mouth, the grease dribbling down his chin. He was repulsive-looking, and Claire turned away to stare out the window.