by Liz Nugent
My mother thought it unreasonable that I was going away for two nights.
‘Two? In Athlone? What will you do there?’
‘I don’t know, Mum, but it would be rude to just arrive on Friday night and leave on Saturday.’
‘I’ve never been to Athlone.’
‘You’ve never been anywhere.’
She huffed a bit. ‘All you have to do is post the letter. Get the early bus back on Sunday?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Bring an extra sweater. It’s always cold down the country.’ It was July. I suppose she must have been outside Dublin at some stage.
We set off for Athlone on the bus on Friday after work, together with all the other rural immigrants along that route to the midlands and further west to Galway, making their weekly pilgrimage home with bags of laundry over their shoulders. I had the letter in my inside pocket, ready to be posted at the first opportunity. Bridget had prepared sandwiches and bought sweets for our two-hour journey, and there was a scheduled toilet stop in Kinnegad. Her camera clicked away as we rolled out of the city, and she chattered excitedly.
‘You know that outside Dublin, dinner is called tea and lunch is called dinner? And you drink tea with every meal and between meals and before bed? Josephine is fourteen and very nosy, but you don’t have to answer any of her questions, and Maureen is fanatical about reading, so she’ll have her head in the books all weekend. Dad won’t say much, but Mam is very religious and will want to know who your parish priest is and all that.’
Mum and I had stopped going to Mass after Dad died. We had always disliked going. Our parish priest had visited and asked us to return, and we swore we would but had somehow never quite managed it.
‘Oh well, don’t tell my mam that! She’d have a heart attack.’
When we disembarked in Athlone, a creature appeared out of the crowd at the station, wearing a headscarf and a buttoned-up-to-the-neck raincoat with a handbag (plastic) dangling over the crook of her elbow. She grabbed Bridget fiercely by the shoulders and hugged her close, then turned to me.
‘You must be Laurence. We’re delighted to have you, delighted, only delighted! I said to Bridget’s father this morning, I said, isn’t this only fabulous, getting to meet Bridget’s young man at last? After all, you’ve been going steady for a good while now, a good while, I said to Bridget’s father.’
She was nervous. I guessed that normally, in these situations, the young man in my position would have been the one on trial, but in this case she clearly felt she was the one being judged. Any nerves I had disappeared.
‘It’s very nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.’ This was probably true, though I only remembered what Bridget had told me on the bus journey.
Mrs Gough apologized that it was a ten-minute walk to the house and whooped with admiration when I offered to carry Bridget’s bag as well as my own. ‘A real gentleman, that’s what you are now, a real gentleman so you are.’
The house was a grey one in the middle of a terrace of other grey ones on a narrow street. A wooden front door stood sentry beside a single window, while two windows above looked down on us. Net curtains fronted every window, despite the fact there was nothing about the house that would make one curious enough to look inside.
The interior of Bridget’s house did not improve my impression of the place. Drab, ordinary, colourless and cramped. I always knew I lived in a big house, but I didn’t expect small houses to feel so, well, small. From the front door, I could see the back wall of the house. There was a front room and a back kitchen and a narrow stairway to the right. Bridget’s photos were everywhere, framed in the sitting room, Sellotaped to the fridge door in the kitchen, tucked into the frame of the mirror on the wall. We left our bags at the foot of the stairs and were ushered into the kitchen, where the overwhelming smell of boiled cabbage threatened the egg sandwich that had been idling in my upper intestine since lunchtime. ‘Get in there out of the cold, the kettle’s not long boiled, you’ll have a cup of tea.’ It was a statement rather than an offer. I was compelled to sit in a straight-backed stained armchair beside an old range. It was clearly ‘Father’s chair’.
Two plain girls, Bridget’s sisters, were sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. Mr Gough was in Slaney’s bar but would be home for his ‘tea’ at seven thirty. Tea was being delayed for our arrival.
The youngest sister took one look at me and said accusingly to Bridget, ‘But he’s quite good-looking. You said he was really fat!’ Whereupon she was kicked in the ankle by Maureen. ‘Josie! That’s rude.’
‘I used to be very fat,’ I said to deflate the bubble of panic that had arisen.
‘Yeah, you’re a bit fat but not massive. I thought you’d be huge,’ said Josie.
‘Josie!’ in chorus from Bridget, Maureen and Mrs Gough.
‘I’m only saying what Bridget told us. She said he was very fat and very posh.’
Bridget looked mortified.
‘You girls can go up and clean your room,’ their mother said. They trooped off, complaining it was too cold upstairs to clean. ‘Put on a jumper!’ called Mrs Gough after them.
Bridget and I sat in the sauna of cabbage steam while Mrs Gough made conversation.
‘So, Laurence, Bridget tells me you’re very good at your job?’
I answered her questions courteously but a heat was rising within me. It seems that even though Bridget had never directly mentioned it, she too had defined me by my weight. She was supposed to care for me. She acted like she was in love with me. Yes, I had been obese when she first met me, but it was the primary thing her family knew about me. I felt shame. And also malice. Bridget was no oil painting. She was no Karen.
When Mr Gough came home at seven thirty on the dot, the meal was served. This was a traditional home. Mr Gough looked me up and down, shook my hand vigorously, then stared at his shoes and said very little. A white tablecloth now covered the kitchen table.
‘We only have tablecloths at Christmas!’ exclaimed Josie, and then ‘Oww!’ as she was kicked under the table.
For the first time in months, I was absolutely ravenous. I ate everything that was offered. When I was offered second helpings I ate those too, and third and fourth helpings. Mr Gough paid attention now as the last scoop of mashed potato was dolloped on to my plate and Mrs Gough got up to fry me an extra cod fillet. I pretended not to notice their astonishment. For dessert, I ate half a chocolate Swiss roll while the family shared the other half, and after all the plates were cleared away and tea was offered again, I enquired if there were any biscuits. Maureen was sent to the shop to buy some. Even Josie was shocked into silence. Now Bridget could talk about her fat boyfriend.
The chatter was inane. What did I like to watch on television, which newspaper did I read, which sport did I follow or play? All my answers were at odds with the family. The visit was not going well. The television was turned on to the Nine O’Clock News to avoid further embarrassing conversation. Certain parts of Ulster were still saying no to the Anglo-Irish Agreement. Prince Andrew had married a fat girl in England, and Chris de Burgh’s ‘Lady in Red’ had broken some records. ‘And some record players,’ I laughed, but they looked baffled and didn’t get the joke. After the news, Mrs Gough indicated that it was time for the rosary and the whole family got to their knees, clutching sets of rosary beads. Not wanting me to feel left out, Mr Gough handed me a ‘spare’ set made of dark wood. I mumbled the prayers along with the rest of the family, but I made it obvious that I was not accustomed to this ritual. Even when my father was alive, there had been no religiosity in our family outside of Sunday Mass. Ironically, I had no recollection of my father ever having gone to Confession. He, who had the most to confess.
In that moment, reminded of my dad, I compared my murdering, dishonest family to Bridget’s, and instead of feeling superior I realized they were sweet and innocent, this family who prayed on their knees together, who welcomed a stranger into their home. I felt bad fo
r how I had behaved, how little effort I had made. Bridget caught my eye and I flashed her a genuine smile.
When everyone retired to bed, we were left alone momentarily. ‘Don’t be long, now!’ called Mrs Gough from the stairs, obviously terrified of what we might get up to if left unsupervised.
Bridget threw another sod of turf into the fireplace.
‘Laurence, why … why were you like that with them? Why couldn’t you just play along? Don’t you want them to like you?’
‘Bridget –’
‘No, stop, why did you eat like that? I’ve never seen you eat that much before. Why did you do that? Didn’t you see that there wasn’t enough food left for my dad? I don’t understand.’ She was tearful now.
How could I explain this meanness that was inside me? That I had taken revenge on her for saying that I had been fat, for having a normal family, for not being Karen? Why was I so spiteful towards this girl who had done nothing bad to me, had been nothing but kind?
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I … I love you. I wanted them to love you too.’
Poor Bridget. She loved me. Her good eye pierced me. I reached out and smoothed her hair and kissed her on the mouth.
‘Tomorrow, I’ll try harder. I promise.’
I did not sleep well that night in Bridget’s childhood bedroom. I worried about when I would get to slip away and post the letter by myself. My stomach was queasy and the eiderdown was lumpy in places. Maureen had since occupied the room, but it was clear that this was a family who had never known privilege or wealth. The furnishings were cheap and the new curtains thin. Everything in the room was functional, no room for decoration apart from a solitary snow globe atop a bookshelf, a gift from some Christmas past perhaps, and a few obligatory holy pictures. There were no radiators in this room, but it was directly above the front room so the residual heat from the fireplace downstairs took the bite from the chilled air, and Mrs Gough had thoughtfully provided a hot-water bottle. They had done everything to make me feel comfortable. I resolved to be a better boyfriend the next day.
Saturday started well. Mrs Gough piled my plate high with bacon and sausages for breakfast, but I quelled my appetite with two pints of water and didn’t gorge myself like I had the previous evening. Bridget chatted about her new friend Karen and showed her mother some of the photos she had taken of her.
‘Well, isn’t she just a smashing-looking girl? That’s good enough for a magazine, isn’t it, Maureen?’
Indeed it was. It hadn’t even been one of the posed shots, but it was the best of them. It was a close-up shot of Karen sitting on the blanket in Stephen’s Green, unscrewing the cap of the flask. She had been laughing at something I’d said. Her beautiful hair contrasted with the spring green of the trees behind her, and she looked entirely natural and without blemish. It had been just before the detective’s interruption. Bridget thought that she had lost one of the prints a week or two earlier. It was in a hole in the wall behind my writing desk at Avalon.
Mr Gough asked politely what our plans were for the day. Bridget said we were going to watch Josie play a camogie match and then visit her grandfather in a nursing home on the outskirts of town. I smiled broadly, as if there were nothing I would rather do. I could feel them all warming to me. It didn’t take much. They were inclined to be generous and forgiving, but I realized that I wouldn’t easily get a chance to run to a postbox on my own.
On the sidelines of a camogie pitch in the drizzle, I struggled to keep warm. The game was, as all sports are to me, unremarkable. Sweaty, red-faced, aggressive teenagers wielding sticks and running around in the mud. Afterwards, we took Josie to a café.
‘You were the best, wasn’t she, Laurence?’
‘You were,’ I agreed.
‘Are you going to eat that much again tonight, because Mam has to go to the shops again if you do?’
‘Josie!’
‘I’m only asking.’
‘No, I don’t know what happened to me last night. I have a metabolism disorder, I think.’
‘Meta … what?’
‘Josie, now please leave Laurence alone.’
I made up some semi-truthful story about my body being unable to process quantities, which meant that sometimes I was ravenously hungry, but assured her that it didn’t happen often.
‘God, you must be mortified that it happened on your first night here. Don’t worry, I’ll explain it to Mam later. She was just worried that the housekeeping money wouldn’t last the week.’
‘I really am sorry about that.’
Bridget was grateful.
Later, she and I walked half an hour out towards the Roscommon road to see her granddad, passing two postboxes on the way. I dared not stop. It was a grim place, a state-owned nursing home. Bridget’s grandfather sat in a high-backed chair among all the other shells who had once been people. Bridget took photos of the liver spots on his hand and of the adjacent tea trolley. Granddad didn’t know who Bridget was, but Bridget talked patiently to him, answering his endlessly repeated questions: ‘Are you Peter? Where’s Daddy? Are we going home now? Where’s Peter?’
Bridget introduced me. ‘Granddad, this is Laurence, my boyfriend.’
But Granddad never even turned his head to look at me until we were leaving and then, out of nowhere, he turned towards me, stared for a few seconds and then looked back at Bridget. ‘I don’t like him. There’s something wrong with him.’ A pause and then, ‘Where’s Peter? Are we going home now?’
Bridget laughed it off. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’ Actually, he did.
Afterwards, I suggested taking a short tour of the town myself, but Bridget insisted that her dad was going to give me the tour next morning, and slipped her arm through mine. There was no getting away.
That evening, at tea, or dinner, I chatted cordially and was careful about how much I ate. Everybody tried hard to hide their relief. They were relaxed enough to start asking more personal questions.
‘Exactly how long have you been going out together?’ asked Maureen.
‘It’ll be two years in September.’ I was surprised when Bridget said that. Had it really been that long?
Josie started to hum ‘Here Comes the Bride’. This time, everyone ignored her. Mr Gough went to the pub for his two routine Saturday-night pints and a game of darts, and the rest of us settled down to watch television with tea and biscuits. I restrained myself once again.
The next morning, we were woken early to go to Mass. This was treated like a big occasion. The girls had been up early doing their hair, and Mrs Gough was polishing all the shoes, including mine. She tried to hide her disappointment that I hadn’t brought my suit, but I placated her by wearing one of Mr Gough’s nylon ties. According to tradition, we weren’t allowed to eat before Mass. By the time we got to church at 10.30 a.m., I was starving. And the journey to and from the church had been a group one. My mood deteriorated.
On the way home, the women of the family rushed off together and I was left with the taciturn Mr Gough, who offered to show me around the town. I could hardly refuse, but felt ambushed. We walked up and down the grey streets and across the Shannon while he pointed to things in between long silences. ‘That’s the library … that’s the castle.’ Mr Gough was not a natural conversationalist.
Having pointed out his local pub on the riverbank, he said, ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like to ask me?’
‘Sorry?’
He sighed heavily. ‘Is there anything you want to ask me about Bridget?’
With horror, the realization dawned on me that he was expecting me to ask for Bridget’s hand in marriage. They all were. I dissembled. ‘When did you say the barracks was built?’
He ignored my feigned ignorance. ‘Mrs Gough and I were married at your age.’
I never found out their first names. They consistently referred to each other as Mam and Dad or formally as Mr and Mrs.
‘But I’m only twenty-three.
’
‘Still, if you find the right girl, you needn’t hang about.’
Unsure how to answer, I opted to say nothing. We were standing by the lock gate at the weir. He kicked at the ground with both shoes for no apparent reason, scuffing the toes. I recall thinking that Mrs Gough’s earnest shoe-polishing had been for nought.
‘Bridget is an unusual-looking girl, and she’s not the brightest, but she has a kind heart and a sweet nature. And she’s my daughter. If you don’t want to marry her, you should let her go, so she can find someone who will.’
He was surprisingly eloquent. I could feel his embarrassment as it stretched invisibly from his reddened face to my crimson one.
‘I don’t mean to hurt her, Mr Gough –’ but he strode ahead. He had said what he was primed to say, and the ‘chat’ and tour of the town were over. That would have been my opportunity to go off and post the letter, but I was so blindsided by what had just happened that I scurried after him.
The atmosphere at dinner was awful. It was obvious that the women had been primed for celebration on our return. An ashen-faced Bridget claimed a headache and went upstairs to lie down. She didn’t join us for food. Mr Gough was completely mute. I was starving and ate everything put in front of me. When Mrs Gough offered more, I took it, until there was nothing left. If nobody had been looking, I would have licked all of the plates.
‘There’s something wrong with his metasism,’ said Josie helpfully.
Mrs Gough kept up the banter. ‘Did you see Una Crawley at Mass? Wasn’t her hair lovely? Though I don’t like the way she goes up to the front pew. It’s far from the front pew she was reared, and she only married into that family six months. They always thought they were better than they were. She’ll want to be having a baby soon, the Farrells will be wanting a son to carry on the name in the town …’
Maureen interjected occasionally to point out how old-fashioned her mother’s attitudes were, and Josie stared at my plate, nudging her sister every time I reloaded it.
