by Anne Doughty
‘Shall I put my foot down?’ he asked as the traffic cleared ahead of us.
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I said wryly. ‘I’ll have quite enough of Maisie before Colin and William John get back.’
‘You look tired,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m absolutely whacked but I didn’t cry, did I?’
‘No, Jenny, you didn’t. Nor did you get drawn in and lose your temper. That’s never the way with your mother. You were grand, just grand. And I’m delighted you’ve decided about the job. It’s great news.’ He turned towards me as we stopped at the traffic lights on the Grosvenor Road. ‘Was Colin pleased?’
The question was put so easily and was so natural, I nearly said, ‘Oh, yes, of course, he’s delighted,’ before I’d even thought about it. Then, as the full realisation struck me of exactly how things stood between Colin and me, all I could do was stare at the redbrick terraces of Divis Street and wonder what I could say. It even occurred to me that Daddy might have been checking out what Colin’s actual reaction was.
‘We didn’t get much chance to discuss it, the way things worked out,’ I said quickly. ‘William John seems to have kept him on the hop from the moment they landed,’ I added with a little laugh. Then I paused and chose my words carefully as much for my own sake as for my father’s. ‘Actually, I decided it was something I should make my own mind up about. I’m sure he’ll be pleased when I tell him.’
But once I heard my own words, I knew how hollow they were. No, Colin would not be pleased. But the pretence had to go on for a little while longer. A time for Thompson’s Law if ever there was one. This was neither the time nor the place to say anything to my father about how I now saw the disaster of my marriage.
‘I gather the directorship is on the cards for this weekend,’ he went on as we drove off again.
‘Oh yes. Posh dinner on Saturday night and all that. He rang me before he left at six, but I was at Val and Bob’s after, so I haven’t heard the actual outcome,’ I replied as cheerfully as I could manage. ‘As you have gathered, I was entertaining a “gentleman friend”,’ I added lightly. ‘He asked about you, by the way, and sent his best regards.’
He turned towards me and grinned. ‘I was wondering who the lucky man might be. Bob Dawson?’
‘No, but you’re not far wrong,’ I said, laughing.
I told him about Alan’s unexpected appearance, the reason he’d turned down the offer from Patterson’s, the nature of the new job and his decision to buy the cottage. He listened intently when I told him exactly where it was, how we’d gone to see it and how so many of the things I’d seen there reminded me of childhood visits to Granny McTaggart and Aunt Mary and the various elderly relatives we had gone on visiting long after my mother had refused to go anywhere near them.
‘You’ll have to come and see it, Daddy. You’d love the outlook. Besides, there’s a rose on the south side like nothing I’ve ever seen, stems as thick as my arm. Val’s going to help him paint the place, but I’m going to be horticultural adviser.’
He nodded to himself and seemed suddenly very thoughtful. He said he’d get me an electric pruning saw from Bertie’s new hire department and then asked me more about Alan’s plans. He smiled when I went on to tell him about Val and Bob’s as well, about their move and the baby, and how Val planned to cope with being a mother.
‘You’ve got some good friends there, Jenny. It sounds like Alan’s found his feet at last. Bob’s a nice man and a very good architect. He’ll do well whatever he puts his hand to.’ He paused and then said something that really surprised me. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a more unpleasant man than Alan’s late father, though one doesn’t want to speak ill of the dead. How he could pack that lad off to England after his mother died and split up those two children when they were so bereft is more than I can understand. And then he marries that sour-looking woman from the school and just about ignores the pair of them. All credit to Alan for the way he stuck by Val, till she met Bob. I don’t know where that girl would have ended up, Jenny, if she hadn’t had you for a friend and a brother like Alan. He sounds a lot happier than he used to be and I’m glad to hear it.’
He broke off as we came to a halt at the junction of Townsend Street and Peter’s Hill. A policeman stood in the road, his back to us, his hand raised, while a crowd of people spilled off the pavements and onto the road in front of us. From somewhere a long way off, I caught the sound of a pipe band. My father smiled ruefully as he put on the handbrake and switched off.
‘And I had a gentleman asking for you, too, the other day,’ he went on as he settled himself more comfortably behind the wheel. ‘Another of your admirers. Can you guess who?’
I named a couple of the old farmers we used to visit together, the ones who still left boxes of apples or bags of potatoes at the showroom for me. But each time he shook his head.
‘I give up,’ I said, smiling.
‘Your Uncle Harry,’ he said triumphantly.
For a moment I couldn’t think what to say. Harry Morton is a lovely man and one of Daddy’s oldest friends. But he is also his solicitor, and the last time we met was in the intensive care unit at the hospital, when Daddy sent for him to come and make an emergency arrangement about the business in the event of his death.
He turned towards me and caught the look on my face. ‘Just routine, Jenny. Just routine,’ he said reassuringly. ‘There are still some bits and pieces to tie up from selling the business. Wills can be a great source of contention, you know. Think of all the good stories we’ve read. What would Agatha Christie have done without wills?’
He seemed so relaxed about it that I was able to push away the painful memory and ask about Uncle Harry. But I could see there was something he wanted to tell me.
‘There’s a bit of land, Jenny, I bought thirty years ago,’ he began. ‘To tell you the truth, I’d half forgotten it. I had the idea that when I retired I’d build a bungalow and a couple of greenhouses, one for fuchsias, one for chrysanths,’ he added with a smile. ‘But a few months back, a builder contacted me and made me an offer. Gave me a bit of a surprise, the amount he offered. I won’t be able to move from Belfast now but one day you might like that bit of land. That’s why I went to Harry. Your mentioning Drinsallagh reminded me I hadn’t told you. It’s not that far from there. Do you ever remember that road we used to take to Ballyhalbert?’
‘The one that goes over Windmill Hill?’
‘The very one,’ he said, nodding and looking pleased. ‘It’s a long time now since we’ve been there,’ he said wistfully.
‘Don’t laugh, Daddy, but I was there last night.’
‘Were you now?’
‘Yes,’ I nodded vigorously. ‘When we went down to see the cottage, I recognised that old tree stump we used to watch for and I asked Alan to stop. I was saying to him that it was such a long time since I’d been on that road.’
As I spoke, I felt a great sadness come over me. Without any warning whatsoever my mind filled with memories of all those drives we had done together and now did no longer.
‘I do so miss the countryside, Daddy. Especially I miss those drives we used to do.’
He looked at me sharply, and I realised there were tears in my eyes. I blinked them away and stared out through the windscreen. Between the scatter of people in front of us, I could see a tall figure in a hard hat striding down the empty road, a silver-tipped staff in his hand. The pipe band struck up ‘The Sash My Father Wore’ and the plangent notes echoed back from the shabby buildings all around us, making conversation impossible till it moved away.
When the band had passed, my father took up our conversation again as we watched the long procession of Orangemen pour down from the Shankill Road, Lodge by Lodge, behind a succession of gaudy banners that gleamed in the afternoon sun. He explained that this piece of land was to be mine, in addition to my half of his estate and all his books. My mother was provided for, he said, for her lifetime, and as she and Harvey
had cars, I was to have his, and he’d got Harry to write it into the will. ‘You may not want anything as big as this Rover, dear, but Rovers hold their value well. You could trade it in for something smaller.’
The last of the Orangemen passed by and the policeman waved us forward. I was so grateful. There was no way I could think of saying thank you for gifts that would only come to me by the death of someone I loved so dearly.
‘Are you very disappointed you can’t build on your land, Daddy?’ I managed at last as we moved slowly through Carlisle Circus and headed up the Antrim Road.
‘Disappointed?’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘No, Jenny dear, far from it.’
And then he began to tell me about when he was a wee lad going to the village school. The story seemed familiar, but I couldn’t have heard it for years. He said it had suddenly come into his head on Friday afternoon when he was half asleep by the fire.
Once, he remembered, he met a lad he knew, riding on horseback. It was only a working farm horse, but the lad’s family was well-off by my father’s standards and he confessed he envied him. There my father stood, barefoot, a common enough thing in the 1910s, he said, with the backside out of his trousers, and he looked up at the lad and thought, One day I’ll have a horse and a pair of good boots and a farm of land.
His eyes were twinkling with laughter as he turned to me. ‘What fools we mortals are, Jenny. How we try to predict the future. I’d have been a lousy farmer. And I don’t even like big horses. But I didn’t do so bad, Jenny. If a gipsy had told me then my daughter would be a graduate of Queen’s and Head of Department in a city grammar school, and I’d be driving her up the Antrim Road in a Rover, and I’d have a bit of land to leave her, I’d have laughed in her face. Life is full of surprises, Jenny, and some of them are great,’ he ended.
He swung the car neatly off the main road and into the quiet avenue, beyond the end of which the McKinstry house stood, up a steep driveway.
‘Would it help if I came in, d’you think?’ he asked as he switched off the engine at the bottom of the drive.
I shook my head sadly. I’d have been so grateful for his company, but I knew only too well his presence might make matters worse. Maisie was quite capable of being unpleasant towards my father because of his tolerant way with things in general and Catholics in particular.
‘Will you be going in to work this week, Daddy?’ I asked, still reluctant to go, my hand on the door.
‘Oh yes, all being well. Tuesday and Thursday. Bertie and I are still putting information onto this computer of his. I’d never have believed how much you can have in your head till he started asking me things,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Why d’you ask? Can you call in?’
‘Yes. I know I haven’t been down for ages, but I’ve just got my early afternoon again on a Tuesday, because Carol’s come back from having her baby. Any chance of a cup of tea about three?’
‘Indeed there is,’ he said warmly. ‘And Mrs Huey and Bertie will be glad to see you too. I’ll ask Mrs Huey to get us a bun for our tea, shall I?’
I leaned over and kissed him and thanked him for driving me up. ‘I’ll let you know about Keith, Daddy, as soon as I can, and I’ll see you on Tuesday. We can have a good chat then.’
‘Good girl, that’ll be great. Good luck with Maisie.’
He laughed, as I raised my eyes heavenward. I waved and watched him turn and drive off, still smiling.
When I turned away, I saw the front door of Myrtlefield House was already open. The thin, angular figure of my mother-in-law stood watching me, her eyes screwed up against the light, a gin glass in one hand, tension radiating from every part of her elegantly dressed and coiffed person. There was nothing for it but to take a deep breath, hurry up the short, steep driveway, and look as if I was pleased to see her.
Chapter 16
‘Hello, Maisie,’ I said as I reached the broad, shallow steps to the front door.
She poked out a cheek and I kissed it dutifully, but there was no smile or greeting in return. I followed her into the hall.
‘Have you had any more news? I’m terribly sorry about Keith.’
‘Sorry about Keith. Sorry about Keith,’ she repeated in a voice full of bitterness. She took another swig of her gin as she tottered down the hall. ‘More like it, Jennifer, if ye saved yer simpithy fer Willyum John and Colin. Wastin’ it on that blighter. Sorry fer him? Huh. It’s not him’ll suffer if thisis all over the papers,’ she began, her accent thick and harsh.
Out of the frying pan, Jenny, I said to myself as I followed her into the vast, empty lounge.
After the scene with my mother and the effort I’d made not to let my anger break through, I felt absolutely shattered. I had no sense of success to bear me up, for my departure from Rathmore Drive had been so hasty it wasn’t clear at all whether I’d made any real impression or not. She hadn’t said goodbye, but that was nothing new. In fact, as I listened with half an ear to Maisie who continued to pour out her fury at Keith, I remembered that it was only Mavis and Susie who had said goodbye to me.
Janet and Peter had disappeared indoors to play a game that needed the dining-room table. I’d waved to them as I stepped out onto the terrace, but they’d been so absorbed, they hadn’t seen me. Susie had hugged me fiercely as I explained that I had to go because Uncle Keith had been hurt and his Mummy was worried about him. Mavis stood by, listening, a small, woolly garment in her hands.
‘I hope you’ll find things better when you get there, Aunty Jenny,’ she said steadily. ‘Susie and I were hoping you could come up for Peter’s birthday next month, weren’t we, Susie?’
‘Yes, I’d love to come, Mavis. Thank you,’ I said, looking at her over Susie’s blonde curls. ‘I’ll see you again then, Susie,’ I reassured her, as she looked up at me, reluctant to let me go. ‘Only three weeks, Susie. Not long,’ I said, as I disentangled the small, cold arms, gave her a kiss and hurried off to where Daddy was waiting, the engine running.
‘An’ poo-or Colin, poo-or Colin, workin’ so hard to build up the bizniss. It’s yer own husban’ ye shud be thinkin’ off an’ not the same Mister Keith. An’ don’ ye ferget that.’
As she spat out ‘Mister Keith’ in the harsh accent that made it clear exactly which part of Belfast she had been born and brought up in, I suddenly realised where my mother had picked up the phrase.
My mother is never original. You only have to wait long enough and you’ll find out where her new expressions come from, a sitcom she’s been watching, some presenter on television, a visiting preacher, or an acquaintance she’s been talking to. In this case, a day spent with Maisie, assisted by Karen Baird, having a go at ‘Mister Keith’, and then a go at me. I wondered what label they had given to me.
Fury swept over me as I thought of the pair of them, like the Witch of the West and the Witch of the East, crouched over their morning coffee, then over their very good lunch, and then, no doubt, over their afternoon tea. However different they might be from each other, in age, background and experience, and however much they actually disliked each other, there was no doubt that when it was a matter of misdeeds, and especially Keith’s or mine, there was nothing but solidarity between them.
I took a deep breath, held on to my anger and followed her across the room to sit down in one of the huge black leather armchairs.
‘I’m not one bit sorry for ‘im, Jennifer, no more shud ye be. He only gat whit he desurves. He’s a rale troublemaker. Tha’s all he is. No respect for onywon or onythin’. Jus’ walks over us. Trippin’ off with that Cathlick bitch.’
So we were back to ‘walking over’, were we? I watched her drain her glass and bang it down on a side table scattered with discarded Sunday papers and the empty foils from a large box of expensive chocolates. Maisie is a size 10, shorter than I am, and despite her appetite for sweet things, skinny to the point of emaciation. Not yet fifty, she has a horror of looking old and compensates for the fact by choosing clothes which she thinks will make her look yo
unger. She’s never very successful, and even I have to admit that my mother’s ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ is, if coarse, nevertheless accurate.
Today Maisie was wearing a cherry-coloured jersey wool dress with a broad, patent leather belt embossed with gold studs, and matching black stilettos. The dress, attractive enough in itself, clashed violently with her hair which, since it’s gone grey, Maisie herself dyes to an unpleasant gingery colour, described on the box as Autumn Morning.
I’ve never liked Maisie very much but I have tried to see her good side. At times I’ve managed to find a lot of sympathy for the life she had before William John started making his money. But today, looking at Maisie, full of gin and self-righteousness, I could find little to mitigate my sense of loathing.
‘I dunno what Willyum John is gonna say whin he gits here,’ she went on. ‘He’s goin’ ta go beserk. After all the work he’s done . . . and that blighter . . .’
Words failed her and before she could begin again, I asked when she expected them to arrive.
‘Oh, I dunno. Colin said they’d git the firss plane they cud. I know he’ll do his best. If anythin’s to be done, Colin’ll do it. My poo-or Colin,’ she lamented, as she jumped to her feet and marched across to the bar to refill her glass. ‘An’ yer not much comfort, Jennifer. All ye can ask about is Keith. Pur Keith, indeed.’
I stared out through the huge plate-glass window while she put together her drink. I heard her throw an empty tin of tonic fiercely into the waste bin. All the time, she kept up her flow of talk. She alternated between attacking Keith for his very existence, crooning over Colin and how wonderful he had been, and lamenting her own luckless fate that this should have happened to her after all her hard work. And just when things were working out so well.
I wondered if things really were working out so well for Maisie. On the face of it, she had everything money could buy, as my mother continually pointed out, but it often seemed to me that Maisie had little joy of all her possessions. She looked to me like a very lonely person. She saw little of William John, less of Colin, and now nothing at all of Keith. She had no hobbies except shopping, and no friends I had ever heard of except the wives of William John’s cronies, who came to dinner and invited her to fund-raising events for their various charities and nothing more.
