by Nesta Tuomey
‘You certainly do get around,’ Moira said, not quite approvingly, when Felicity had at last run dry of anecdote. She shook herself free of the spell to fling a load of dirty nappies on to wash. Jim came in from the yard lugging a scuttle of anthracite and began stoking the Aga.
‘Don’t you two ever relax?’ Felicity asked, watching them with a faint smile, a freshly lit cigarette between her fingers. At home at this time of night she and Frank watched television or went to the pub for a drink.
Jim heard her with a bleak smile. ‘Ah, it’s easily seen you have no children. Wait until you have,’ he said portentously, ‘and your life won’t be your own.’ And that will be the end of your cosy twosomes, his expression seemed to say, your endless gadding about.
Felicity shivered. What a dreadful picture he painted. She caught Moira’s eye and half smiled. Surely it didn’t have to be quite so grim.
‘It’s twelve o’clock,’ Jim said with officious exactness, ‘Time we were all in bed.’ He glanced pointedly at his wife then looked away.
‘Oh, go on up, Jim,’ Moira said, impatiently. ‘I’ll be up in a minute. I’ll have plenty of early nights when Felicity is gone.’
Felicity looked in surprise at her sister. Could it be she was rebelling at long last, she thought with some amusement. Not that it would avail her much in the end. From certain things her sister had revealed in the past she knew that Jim had a nasty habit of getting his own back on her for any little show of independence, however short-lived. They heard his footsteps climbing the stairs but each of them knew from previous experience that he would not sleep until Moira went up. If she were long in coming, he would only stand out on the stairs calling to her at five minute intervals until she gave in and joined him.
‘Let me make us a cup of tea,’ Felicity suggested tactfully, ‘and then if you don’t mind I think I’ll go up to bed too. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’ The prospect of a sulky Jim keeping vigil on the stairs outside did not encourage her to stay up. Her sister nodded, relieved that she was not called upon to put Jim to the test.
In the bathroom Felicity removed her make-up and listened to the monotonous murmur of their voices through the adjoining wall. Funny how marriage altered some people, she thought, making them into joyless martyrs in the cause of child rearing. She could not bear the thought of ever becoming like her sister. Poor Moira. How could she have married such a man. Thank heavens she at least had the good fortune to choose a man similar in age and temperament to her own. Frank, like all men, might have his moments but he no hang-ups about enjoying himself. Thinking of her husband Felicity was reminded to take her pill.
Afterwards she rolled the telltale fragment of foil between her fingers and placed it carefully back in her handbag. No sense in giving Moira anything to ponder over, she thought.
The next day when her brother-in-law had departed with the older children to do the weekend shopping, Felicity joined her sister in the kitchen. They sat opposite each other with Moira facing the window, the baby lying on his stomach across her lap. At thirty-four and without make-up, her sister’s plump face in the afternoon light was unlined, still fresh and youthful despite hardships and childbearing. Felicity drank coffee and smoked more than her usual quota of cigarettes. Somehow since her arrival at ‘Stella Maris’ she had felt the need of them in a way she seldom did at home. Her bag lay collapsed on the floor beside her chair and every so often she dipped into it to pull out a letter or a photograph which she passed to Moira.
Near to her the child next in age to the baby – Conor, was it – pushed a toy lorry across the floor and whenever it came close to her, she pushed it back with the toe of her sandal, smiling vaguely at the same time.
‘This one was taken at a wedding,’ she said, handing her sister another photograph. ‘What a wedding!’ Her expression took on a faraway look as she remembered an incident which had taken place. Mischievously, she began to relate it.
‘But who?’ her sister asked puzzled, ‘Who was it?’
‘The best man and the bride,’ Felicity said, unable to stop giggling, ‘When the groom found them together he went ballistic.’
Her sister stared at her obviously not believing a word. ‘You certainly do have some peculiar friends,’ she said. She glanced down with a worried air at the children as though young as they were, they might be corrupted.
‘Sweeties, Mama,’ Conor said guiltily, as his mother’s eye fell upon him, and he held up a packet he was tearing at. Moira leaned urgently towards him, nearly squashing the baby in her lap.
‘Where did you get that?’ she shrilled in alarm.
Felicity looked down at the contents of her bag strewn all over the floor, then at what the child was holding. She could have strangled him. ‘That’s mine,’ she said sharply, recognising the foil pack. ‘Give it to me.’ She stretched out her hand but her sister had snatched it from him and was examining it curiously.
‘What kind of tablets are these?’ Moira said in a wondering voice. She glanced at Felicity then back at the packet. Felicity sat tensed on the edge of her chair waiting for her to get to get to the small print.
‘But this is the Pill,’ Moira said, in the same way she might have said The Plague. ‘You’re taking the Pill,’ she said, incredulously.
Felicity stood up, her face burning. ‘What if I am, ‘ she said. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘But how can you?’ Moira’s tone scandalized, ‘You know it’s not allowed.’
‘You’re denying God his subjects,’ she added, in prim, awful imitation of an elderly, despised aunt.
Felicity squirmed inwardly. It was all turning out worse, far worse than she had feared. So this is what she got for feeling sorry for Moira and giving up a precious weekend when she had so few to spare. Suddenly she longed to be miles away, sitting with Frank on the little balcony that got the sun right through the afternoon, sipping gins and tonics with an evening of pleasure ahead of them.
At the moment the sound of Jim’s returning car was heard scattering the gravel on the driveway outside. Car doors banged and the older children ran ahead into the kitchen with Jim following more slowly behind.
Moira stood up and walked out of the kitchen calling Jim to follow her. She pulled the door shut behind them. As she did so Felicity heard her sister say, ‘Jim, come into the dining room. I have something to tell you.’
‘Something to tell,’ could mean only one thing. That Moira was going to tell all to Jim. The traitor, Felicity thought. She could at least have waited until she was out of the house. She stared at the door of the serving hatch which separated the kitchen from the dining-room. It stood slightly ajar. Angrily she went to close the hatch but stopped to listen.
‘The deceit of it,’ Moira was saying, ‘That’s what I can’t get over’.
Felicity heard Jim say in a hard voice. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. She was always a selfish little madam. And that’s the kind of woman you’d have as godmother to our child.’
Felicity did not wait to hear anymore. She stubbed out her cigarette and went upstairs to pack her case. When she came out of her bedroom Moira was standing on the landing.
‘What are you doing? You’re not going,’ Moira said, visibly upset, ‘But you were staying until tomorrow. You mustn’t go. I have a chocolate cake baked for your tea.’
Felicity hesitated but then she remembered Jim’s censorious ‘that’s the kind of woman.’ She had a feeling that was half reluctance and half fear of staying on in an atmosphere that had turned unfriendly, even hostile.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, refusing to feel guilty about the chocolate cake. (Why did Moira always try to blackmail her with food), ‘You’ve gone to so much trouble.’ In an awkward silence they descended the stairs and walked out to the car.
‘So long, Moira,’ Felicity said. She didn’t attempt to kiss her sister. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ She climbed into the car and with a brief little wave through the closed window she shot forward over the gravel.
Moira stood, a hand shading her eyes from the sun, milk stains on the front of her blouse.
It was only when Felicity had left the hedge-banked roads behind her and had turned on to the main highway that she realized she had left the pills behind her. She saw them now in her mind’s eye, lying beside the ashtray where Moira had contemptuously abandoned them at the height of the argument. She bit her lip in annoyance, how could she have been so stupid as to forget them. Her foot still maintaining the car at high speed, she debated whether or not to go back. Back to that shrine of virtue and decency, she thought in horror. Oh, no, she could not. Oh, hell! she sighed, what a thing to happen. And tomorrow was Sunday; the chemist shops would be closed.
Then the funny aspect of it struck her and she began to laugh, her shoulders shaking under the light cloth of her jacket, her fingers tightening convulsively on the wheel. Well, she would just have to hope that Frank hadn’t missed her too much, wouldn’t she. Fat chance, she thought a moment later contentedly, knowing how even one night away from her gave an added thrust to his lovemaking. Now she no longer laughed and her mouth curved in a secretive, remembering pout. Her eyes, fixed and slightly glazed, centred steadfastly on the road ahead but her thoughts wandered freely and unchecked, dwelling on her husband and the manner in which they would celebrate her early homecoming. The miles fell back under her rushing wheels ever widening the distance between herself and her sister.
Letting Go
Lily was glad of her scarf as she hurried down the road to visit her mother. She had meant to drop in on her earlier in the day but with all the rush of Christmas had been prevented until now. ‘Mammy doesn’t half mind herself,’ she had said to Niall when young Niall had finished his tea and gone to watch television. ‘Out at the front fence without her coat when I called over last and she with a chest on her you could hear a mile off.’
A worry hung over Lily now with regard to her mother. It was a worry exacerbated by feelings of guilt at having left it so long to call and see the old thing. She would be making hurtful remarks like, ‘Ah, if only I had a son to look after me in me old age. A son never forgets his Ma,’ the way she always went on when feeling neglected. Imagining herself neglected, thought Lily.
Normally she prided herself on never letting more than a few days pass without dropping in to pick up her mother’s washing or get her the few groceries from the corner shop. But this month she had hardly seen her at all. Lily blamed Christmas. Up to my flipping tonsils, she thought tiredly. Getting this thing for the tree, that for the table, and no one to lift a finger but herself. Not that Niall wasn’t good about bringing young Niall to Santa, she thought, but that was about all he did. Oh, yes the enjoyable things, Lily thought, feeling a stab of resentment. More than ready then he was but everything else he left to her, the baking, the presents, the tree and decorations. It was enough to wear anyone out.
She walked along whipping her resentment until it was a satisfactory blend of righteousness and justification. Going up the overgrown path she told herself it was all very well for men. Niall just didn’t have her pressures. But she knew she was just making excuses to salve her conscience at neglecting Ginny. What it came down to was she should have made time to visit her. After all a week was a long while to be on your own at nearly eighty, especially in the festive season. Ah but if it was only a week, Lily thought contritely. Two weeks more like.
As she let herself in with her latchkey she felt a slight dread at what she might find. Shutting the door, she went sure-footedly up the dark hall, forcing herself to call out cheerily, ‘It’s only me, Mammy, not Santy.’
Usually at this hour Ginny was to be found in her sitting-room watching the news on television. But when Lily looked in she was confronted by a blank screen and there was an unlived in air about the darkened room as though it had not been occupied all day. She hurried to the kitchen but it had the same deserted air. The kettle was gone from the stove, she noticed, and felt a sudden pitying insight into the dwindling resources of the elderly. Only six o’clock and in bed already.
‘Mammy,’ she called, running up the stairs, concerned to see no light anywhere. Dangerous, that’s what it was. Only inviting burglars. She pushed open the bedroom door with a briskness which belied her unease.
Her mother was in bed, or rather lying on it, wearing the moth-eaten fur coat she habitually wore indoors and out. Her skin had an unhealthy yellowish tinge and only the eyes in the ancient vellum moved as with a cry Lily ran towards her.
‘Mammy, what is it?’ She dropped down beside the bed and took hold of her mother’s hand. It lay inert between both of hers like a dead fish.
‘Just a touch of the bronchials,’ Ginny whispered, the effort setting up a wheezing in her chest, not unlike the bellows of an old church organ. Lily had never heard it so bad.
‘How long have you been lying here?’ she asked, easing the quilt out from under her mother’s stiff body and tucking it firmly about her.
‘Don’t know,’ Ginny closed her eyes. ‘Shouldn’t have hung about watching that cat,’ she said bewilderingly. ‘That’s what done it. I was always weak in the chest, so Ma said. Didn’t think she’d ever rear me. That young wan will never see twenty, the doctor said.’
Whichever doctor had predicted Ginny’s early demise had been clearly proven wrong but, all the same, Lily was upset to hear her mother speaking in that way.
‘The perishing cold,’ Ginny sighed.
At once Lily went to fill a hot water bottle. She put it close to her mother’s cold legs and went downstairs again to telephone the doctor. Bloody Christmas, she thought savagely, remembering the hours rushing about in useless shopping while all the time poor old Ginny lay at death’s door with no one to help her.
Ginny took little gasps of air, baring bloodless gums. Her face had a caved-in look for Lily had removed her false teeth earlier. She was raging hot where she had been icy before and the sallow, ochreous look had been replaced by a hectic flush.
‘Bronchial pneumonia,’ the doctor diagnosed, stepping back from the bedside. He was a young man with a mane of black hair curling over his collar. He was not Ginny’s own doctor but his stand-in over the Christmas period. Lily had finally tracked him down at a pre-Christmas drinks party and he was irritated at being taken away from what was really quite an enjoyable affair.
‘Of course, she’s an old woman,’ he said critically, as though Lily need not expect the same efforts exerted on her mother’s behalf as on someone younger. He did not advise moving the old woman to hospital. The wards were already packed with similar cases, he said. In this he was not being strictly truthful, Lily suspected, but was protecting his colleagues who were hoping to empty, not fill, the wards over the festive time.
When he was gone Lily sat beside her mother’s bed and watched her fight for breath. The noisy rattling in Ginny’s throat frightened her and from time to time she glanced uneasily about the shadowy room as if fearing someone or something might step out from behind the towering wardrobe. What ugly old furniture, she thought with a shiver. So different from her own nice modern presses. Earlier, Lily had gone back home to collect her night things and to inform Niall of her mother’s condition. She had not waited to eat but hastily cut herself a few spiced beef sandwiches for later. Nibbling them, she congratulated herself on her forethought in cooking the joint early. It was hours since she had eaten for she had been on-the-go all day, taken up with shopping and baking before ever she reached her mother’s house. Lucky she’d come when she did, Lily thought. If she had left it one more day, the doctor said, it was unlikely her mother would have been alive to greet her.
‘Mick,’ Ginny cried, rising up off the pillow. ‘Put that down or I’ll give you one to remember me by.’ At least that’s what it sounded like to Lily. She sighed and huddled a blanket more closely about the thin shoulders. Ginny had been shouting out names and threats in rapid succession this past hour. Now she dropped into a doze for which her daughter was thankful. There was some
thing eerie sitting by the sickbed, all on her own in the gloomy old house.
Later, Lily settled herself down to sleep in an armchair rather than leave the old woman on her own. It was not too uncomfortable for the chair was padded and afforded reasonable support. She was still troubled by fears of something nasty lurking in the shadows but she was becoming more used to it and no longer started in fright when the plumbing gurgled or the boards creaked. All the same Lily hated old houses. Old horrors, she thought. Give her a new house any day. She wondered how Ginny had stuck it through the years on her own, why she hadn’t sold up and moved into one of those nice new bungalows at the back of the Coombe. Much cheerier and with just as much going on in and around them as the road, she thought, acknowledging her mother’s need to keep abreast with her neighbours’ movements.
Lily dozed and woke and dozed again, her mother’s rasping in the darkened room like the snores that had kept her awake through the dividing wall when she was a child, a harsh accompaniment to her own more sonorous breathing. Towards dawn Ginny stirred and flung a thin arm back on the pillow. She opened her parched lips and tried to suck up another agonising breath as she felt herself slipping away into darkness. ‘Lily,’ she tried to say, but no sound came from her mouth.
Stretched in the chair Lily dreamed she was chasing young Niall up the lane. He waited until she was almost up to him, then laughed in a bold cheeky way and ran on again. ‘Come back, you little devil,’ she called. But he paid no heed.
