by Maeve Binchy
Amy had looked out the car window as they went through towns and over rivers and passed ruined castles on the way home.
“What are you thinking?” he asked her.
“I was wondering do those two old people still have sex?” she said.
And Peter found the image so unsettling he resolved never to ask Amy or anyone else what they were thinking. It was never good to know …
As he watched Amy go off to get a job, he had no idea what was in her mind. Was she full of regret that she hadn't studied properly? Or resentment that she had no mother, only a crusty, mean-spirited father who didn't understand her need to go and get drunk for fifteen days in Cyprus? He wondered who would employ Amy, and as what?
He wished that he had a batty old friend like Ruby, someone he could speak openly with about Amy. But there was nobody.
Just at that moment, Clara Casey from the heart clinic came in.
“Peter, I've come with my begging bowl,” she began straightaway.
“Right, what good cause is it this time?” He put on a mock-martyred look.
“Now, I never asked you for any money for any cause before, did I? No, it's your time, not your money.” She explained that they were going to have a series of lectures at the clinic for patients and their families as well as the general public. It was all part of trying to get a wider understanding of how the heart functioned. She would love it if he, as the local pharmacist, would come in and talk about the different kinds of medication: beta-blockers, ACEI medicines. If he could do it in layperson's terms it would be much more satisfactory than doctors blinding them with science and long names. People trusted their chemists, they had faith in their pharmacists, Clara said flatteringly. It would come better from the man they saw in his white coat every time they went into the shop.
Peter was pleased that she thought so well of him. “You've never heard me speak in public. I'm not one of the world's great orators,” he confessed.
“You're the person they'll be meeting, Peter; in fact, you may even get more customers if you make yourself sound appealing and attractive and easy to approach.”
“Oh, well, if it's a matter of drumming up business, then I have to go,” he said with a smile.
They fixed the date and the time and Peter said that he'd love to know more about the whole project. Possibly Clara might have dinner with him one evening? She paused for a moment and then said that would be lovely. But it was her hobbyhorse and she could talk for Ireland on the subject—so if he promised to insist on other topics as well, then she'd be delighted.
“Where would you like us to go?” she asked.
He was going to say the café in the precinct, but that was more a snack-and-burgers place, not dinner as such.
“Quentins?” he heard himself suggest.
She smiled a big broad smile. “Now, that would be a lovely treat,” she said. So they fixed a date for that too and Clara went off to work.
Peter smiled to himself. The day had started well after all.
“Did you get a job?” he asked Amy that night.
“Yup, thanks,” Amy said.
“Could I ask what it is?” He knew he sounded lofty and superior and not like he should if he was trying to win her confidence.
“A bit like yours. I'm working in a shop.”
“I own my shop, Amy,” he said.
“Yup, and I may own a shop someday too.”
“And you'll be selling what, exactly?”
“Fishnet tights and stiletto heels.”
“And there are enough women out there to buy these things?”
“Who said anything about women, Dad? It's a drag shop. It's for TVs and fancy dress and the like.”
“Of course,” Peter Barry said, feeling slightly faint.
• • •
Clara was surprised that Peter suggested they should meet at Quentins around six-thirty. It seemed very early. She would have preferred to come home to shower and dress before going out. It had been a long time since she had had a real dinner date. But he seemed to think that this was the right time, so she agreed. Probably he had to be home early as he had a young daughter; anyway she would take a change of outfit to the clinic and be ready to go when work was over.
During the day she wondered why she had said yes. Her usual response was to say that she had such an exhausting job she went to bed early or to imply that there was a shadowy figure somewhere in her background that prevented her from accepting dates. But Peter had been easygoing, natural. And what the hell, a nice dinner at Quentins was just what she needed on a cool spring evening.
Brenda Brennan showed them to their table. There were a few tables occupied, and it was gracious and elegant. Clara took a look at her surroundings. She had been here twice before. Once with Alan shortly before she had found out about Cinta. He had left the table four times to make urgent phone calls. Clara had seen nothing unusual about it at the time.
Then she had come here with her friend Dervla on the night after Dervla's father, the wise Professor of Medicine, had died. Dervla had said that there would never be anything spontaneous and unexpected in her life again and Clara had suggested a posh dinner out. It had been very healing and well worth the cost.
Peter Barry had not been to Quentins before. He was still stunned at the thought that he had suggested such a top-of-the-range restaurant. There was something elegant and cool about Clara, something that called out for a place like this. He noticed immediately that she had dressed up in a smart brocade jacket and a black silk dress. She was enthusiastic about the menu, and settled on fresh sardines followed by lamb.
Their conversation was easy from the start.
He told her about growing up in a chemist's shop in a small town. About his father's late-life romance, about how everything had changed. Not always for the better. His father had four chairs in the chemist's shop. Older people always liked to sit down. Today in his pharmacy he had one chair, and that was just in case someone felt unwell.
He told her that his mother had been kind and self-effacing; she would be amazed if she had lived to see how many women pharmacists there were now. In her day it would have been highly unusual for a woman to qualify as a chemist.
“Lord, how nice it would have been, to have a self-effacing mother,” Clara said wistfully. “Mine knew she was right about everything and still knows it.”
“And was she?” Peter asked.
“Not remotely” Clara laughed. “But then I think I'm right with my daughters too, and they don't take the slightest notice of me.” They talked easily about daughters and their difficulties.
Peter told how Amy had gone to work in a drag shop selling amazing red satin corsets and pointy shoes. Clara said that she wished her Linda would be as adventurous, or at any rate get a job: she seemed to think the world owed her a living. They talked about the heart clinic and how it had to be supported by a proper health education program. About how pharmacies nowadays often depended on cosmetics for their profits. Peter said he hadn't studied long hours so that he could advise some mother about red velvet hairbands for her twelve-year-old's party.
Clara agreed and said it had been a long journey to where she was, and now that she had got there she spent an inordinate amount of time talking to Frank the Crank in hospital administration, who spent his working day trying to thwart them at every turn.
“He is so penny-pinching, so desperately the-letter-of-the-law rather than the spirit of it that we spend our time trying to think up equally petty ways to deal with him.” She laughed. “Ania and Hilary and I have a ten-minute session every morning to fight him over who pays for the toilet paper or the tea bags. I don't care—it's so juvenile—I just want to get on with it.” He looked at her admiringly: she was full of passion and enthusiasm. Just then he noticed that most of the people were leaving and the waitress was approaching their table.
“Would you like to have your coffees in the bar?” she asked politely.
“No, we're fine her
e,” Clara said before Peter had time to answer. “Aren't we?” She looked at Peter for confirmation. But it wasn't there.
“The bar would be nice, I think,” he said.
“Whatever you say.” She seemed surprised.
“You see, I booked an Early Bird dinner, so they will need our table for the next sitting.”
“Oh, of course,” she said hastily.
“I mean, it makes sense. It's almost half the normal menu price,” he said defensively, and somehow some of the light went out of the evening.
“Dervla, is it too late?”
“Of course not, Clara, it's only nine-thirty. I thought you were going out on a date.”
“I was and I did but I'm back home again.”
“That sounds like speed dating,” Dervla said.
“Yes, it does.”
“So—did you enjoy it?”
“I did actually—until the end when I realized he had taken the Early Bird option in Quentins just because it was cheaper.”
“Oh, Clara—that's not like you, judging people by what they spend. And anyway he'd have had to spend a fair whack in Quentins no matter which menu it was.”
“I don't know … I just felt it was a bit… I just don't know …”
“You didn't like him. Did he grope your knee?”
“No, I did like him, and there was no groping. I had been thinking of inviting him to Sunday lunch; the girls are rarely around at the weekends.”
“And did you ask him?” Dervla wanted to know every detail.
“No, I didn't. I thought I'd let it wait a while.”
“Just because he bought you a bargain meal?”
“I know it sounds idiotic, that's why I rang you.”
“Oh, invite him. Tomorrow. First thing.”
“Why exactly?”
“Because we always regret what we don't do, rarely what we do do.”
“Who said that?”
“I can't remember. Was it Mark Twain?”
“Shouldn't I get out now, quit when I'm winning?”
“But you're not winning, Clara, that's the point.”
“Oh, Lord, Dervla, what would I do without you?”
“You might work yourself to death,” Dervla said and hung up.
“Was it a good evening?” Ania asked next day.
“It was very nice, Ania, very nice, beautiful food and very elegant …”
“But?” Ania said.
“That's just it—he was very charming, very polite. I'm just being silly.”
“It was that handsome Mr. Barry from the pharmacy, you said?”
“Yes, do you think he's handsome? Really?”
“Yes—he is like a film actor, I think.”
“Yes …maybe.”
“And will you see Mr. Barry again, do you think?”
“I think so—I am going to ask him to lunch on Sunday.”
“Oh, good …”
“Why do you think it's good?”
“Because romance is always good,” Ania said simply. She thought about Carl and smiled to herself.
Clara reached for the phone before she could change her mind. “Peter, thank you so much for last night.”
“Oh, good, Clara. I enjoyed it too, greatly.”
“Would you like to come to lunch with me in my house on Sunday? I could cook for you …”
“That's very nice of you—and will your daughters be there?”
“With any luck they won't. I'll e-mail you my address. Is one o'clock okay?”
“Thank you so much, Clara,” he said, and his voice was warm.
Dervla had of course been right. Now she was pleased to be seeing him again, instead of just sitting here grumbling about a date that had turned out to be slightly less than perfect.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Amy?” He was pleased that she had telephoned.
“You know the way you always complain when I don't tell you things?” She would ring, of course, when he had three people waiting for prescriptions.
“Yes, well, what are we talking about here?”
“I'm going away for the weekend.”
“We could talk about this later.”
“There is no later, Dad. I'm going today. Back late on Sunday night.”
“Where exactly?”
“To London. They want me to see some of the shows that shops like ours do so that I could organize evenings like that in Dublin.”
“And who are you going with?” he asked weakly.
She never answered. “See you Sunday night.” And she hung up with the air of one who had solved everything and was now free to head off to England and explore the world of bizarre sex and fetishes.
• • •
Adi and her boyfriend, Gerry, were going on a protest march over the weekend, something about preserving trees, so they wouldn't be around. All Clara had to do was to find out Lindas plans.
Linda said she wasn't sure of her plans. Nothing was firmed up.
“Well, can you firm them up now, please?” Clara asked.
“Why?” Linda sensed that she was being got rid of. She might settle for a posh lunch out if Clara were to finance it. It had worked with her father. “I thought I might just stay here,” she said, testing the ground.
“Well, then, whatever you buy for yourself perhaps you could have it in your bedroom,” Clara suggested.
“Buy for myself ?” Linda was horrified.
“Well, yes, Linda, you haven't paid anything towards this household for two weeks despite our arrangement. I know you will get a part-time job and contribute very soon, but in the meantime you won't expect me to cook for you.”
“No, but if I don't have a job how can I buy food?” To Linda it was a mystery.
“Ah, yes, that's the trouble. It will sort of concentrate your mind,” Clara agreed.
“What arejyou doing on Sunday?” Linda said mulishly.
“I'm having a friend to lunch here.”
“As if I'd want to hear you and some other fuss-fuss old woman talking about the heart clinic.”
“Good—we'll take it that your plans have firmed up, then, Linda.”
“All right, Mam, and by the way, there's no need to strip the fridge bare in case I drink your milk or eat your bacon …”
“I always think it's better to avoid any gray areas,” Clara said cheerfully.
Peter arrived with a bottle of wine.
“That's nice of you. Will you open it for us?” Clara handed him the corkscrew.
“I'm afraid it's a screw-top. They're on sale at the off-license, but I gather they're very drinkable,” he said.
“Sure. Personally I think all wine should be screw-top,” Clara said as she laid out some smoked salmon on brown bread.
“I think there's a lot of nonsense in the wine business,” Peter said. “People buy just according to price; if it's dear it must be good. That's like the Emperor's New Clothes, really. Some wines like this are very good and they're half the price of some of the so-called good wines.”
She wished he would stop talking about money. They were middle-aged, middle-class people. She was a doctor, he was a pharmacist, they owned their houses—they could afford a bottle of wine, for God's sake. But she knew she must beat down this small irritation.
Again the conversation was easy. He admired her home: it was bright and airy, and the garden was secluded and full of color. She told him that the trick in gardens was to have big, colorful bushes that did all the work for you and needed no care. They took their glasses of wine and strolled around the small garden as she pointed out this plant and that.
“Do you grow them from seed?” he asked.
“No, I haven't got a greenhouse or cloche frames or anything. You'd need to be in the whole of your health to get into that kind of thing.”
“But isn't it a fraction of the price?” he asked.
“Not if you had to buy a greenhouse and spend all day and all night pricking out seeds,” Clara said with spirit.
“If you come here again during the summer we could sit out and have our lunch in this corner,” she said.
“I hope we'll still be friends in the summer,” he said simply.
They had steak and kidney pie for lunch and cheese afterward. Clara opened a bottle of red wine. When he asked her where she had got it and how much it had cost, she lied and said she didn't know, it had been a gift. She couldn't bear to tell him that she had gone into a wine shop and asked for something full-bodied and classy, a Burgundy perhaps, and had paid accordingly. Peter would have found that a great sin, not a generous, hospitable gesture.
He talked about the reps from the drug companies who came to sell their wares. Clara told him that it was very encouraging to see people living so well with heart failure. Patients who had come in a few short months ago in a panic, seeing the clinic as some kind of anteroom to the next world, were now confident and able to manage on their own. He told her that they had had a drug addict in his pharmacy during the week. A boy totally out of his mind, demanding to be given access to morphine and antidepressants. He carried the leg of a chair as a weapon; he was thin and covered with scabs. Peter had brought him into the back and shown him the safe and the locked drawers. He had told the boy that they needed three keys to open them and one of the staff was on lunch break.
“What did he do?”
“He believed me. He began to cry and shake. I knew the others had called the Guards, so all I had to do was keep him there. I gave him a couple of tranquilizers and talked to him. He thought we were waiting for someone to come back from lunch—then the Guards came. It was very upsetting.”
“He's somebody's son, you mean?” Clara asked.
“Yes, someone had great hopes for him, gave him the full-cream milk at the top of the bottle. And look at him now …” He seemed genuinely concerned.
“I know, but we can't play God. I had a man in the other day, dizzy spells and irregular heartbeat, so Declan and I decided he needed to wear a Holter monitor for twenty-four hours, to check on his heart rhythms. So we strapped him up and told him to come back the next day. When we printed out the report, we could see it had been turned off just before midnight. ‘Well, why did you turn it off?’ I asked him. ‘I got lucky, Doctor. I picked up a fine dame and went home with her. You couldn't expect me to wear that bloody thing. She'd think I was a weirdo …
