by Maeve Binchy
She wasn’t able to eat the meringues which her mother had filled so carefully with a coffee flavoured cream to impress Fergal and Kate. She asked to be excused for a few minutes because she had remembered there was something she had to give Celia Ryan down in the pub.
‘Won’t it do later?’ her mother had asked.
‘No, she wants it now.’ Dee was standing up.
‘Will I come down with you and have a pint?’ She shooed Fergal away. ‘What a thought, after all this lovely meal Mummy’s got for you. No, I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘What does Celia want at this time of night?’ her father asked mildly. ‘Won’t she be pulling pints and trying to help that poor mother of hers to cope?’
‘See you,’ Dee called.
She ran up to her room for her handbag and swung down the road.
‘Can you give me a pound of change for the phone, Celia?’ she asked.
‘God you’re a great customer, if we had more like you we could open a singing lounge and have a cabaret on the profits,’ Celia laughed.
‘Piss off, Celia. I’ll have a brandy in a minute, I just want to make a call to Dublin.’
Celia’s level glance never changed, she never enquired whether the Burke phone was out of order, she just gave her the money.
‘Could I get a call back in that box?’ Dee wanted to know.
‘Yes, I’ll give you the number but I don’t put it up – I don’t want other people to know.’
‘You’re a pal,’ Dee said.
‘Barry residence,’ said the Canadian voice she hadn’t heard since the one and only time she met its owner at that rugby party which was only a year and a half ago but felt like a lifetime.
‘May I speak to Mr Sam Barry, please.’
‘Well, it’s a little awkward just at this very minute. Who is this please?’
‘It’s Miss Morris, his receptionist.’
‘Oh Miss Morris, I didn’t recognise your voice. I am sorry. Sam is just getting the barbecue going, it’s a very delicate moment.’ There was a little laugh. ‘Once the thing has taken we can all relax. Can I ask him to call you, Miss Morris, I assume it’s urgent?’
‘I’m afraid it is, Mrs Barry.’ She sounded apologetic. ‘It’s just a short message, but I should speak to him. It won’t take a moment.’
‘Well, listen, I know he says that you are a rock of stability in a changing world, can I have him call you?’
‘In the next half hour, if he could.’ Dee gave the number that Celia had written down.
‘Rathdoon, what a pretty name!’ Mrs Barry was determined to be charming to the rock of stability. Or else she was so happy about the anniversary barbecue she was at peace with the world. Dee didn’t wait to find out.
‘Very pretty. Bye, Mrs Barry.’ She hung up; she was shaking. She sat on a stool at the bar. Celia made it a large brandy but charged only for a small one. Dee made a move to protest.
‘Nonsense, you’re always buying me drinks.’
‘Thanks.’ She held the glass with both hands. Celia must have noticed the shake.
‘They tell me your Fergal’s engaged,’ Celia said.
‘Lord, that didn’t take long,’ Dee grinned.
‘Oh, it’s stale news, I heard last night when I came off the bus.’
‘So did I: the parents are over the moon.’
‘Well, they don’t have to pay for the wedding,’ Celia laughed.
‘Celia, stop that, you sound like Nancy Morris.’
The phone rang. Celia refilled her glass wordlessly and Dee slipped into the booth.
‘Hallo,’ she said.
‘A call for you,’ exchange said.
‘Miss Morris?’ Sam asked.
‘No, Miss Burke,’ Dee said.
‘What?’
‘Miss Burke speaking, can I help you?’
He wasn’t sure. ‘I’m sorry, I was asked to ring a Miss Morris at this number . . .’
‘No, you weren’t, you were asked to come in from the barbecue and talk to your mistress Miss Dee Burke. That was the message I gave your wife.’
‘DEE. DEE.’ He was horrified. There was actual fear in his voice.
‘Oh, she was very nice about it, she got a pencil from her purse and wrote down the number. She said Rathdoon sounded a pretty place.’
‘Dee, what are you doing?’ His voice was a whisper.
‘I’m at home for the weekend, like I told you I would be. The question is, what are YOU doing. Did they cancel the conference? Let’s see, you were leaving the airport about four thirty – gosh, did they tell you at London airport or did you have to get into town?’
‘Dee, I can explain exactly what happened but not here and now; what did you really say to Candy?’
‘Oh just that, and she really did say that Rathdoon sounded pretty – ask her.’
‘You didn’t . . . but why?’
‘Because I felt it was all so confusing, all this business of lies and saying one thing and everyone knowing it wasn’t true. Everyone. I thought it would be easier not having to pretend so much.’
‘But . . .’
‘I mean she knows, Candy does, that you’ll be spending Monday night with me, and so now you don’t have to lie to her about that, and I know that you and Candy are having a marvellous tenth anniversary barbecue and that Mr Charles is there and Mr White and all your friends and they were all watching you start up the fire. She told me all that, so there’s no more pretending: it will be much easier from now on.’
‘You didn’t, Dee. You didn’t really say those things to Candy.’
Her voice was very hard now. Very hard. ‘You’ll have to find out now, won’t you.’
‘But she said it was Miss Morris on the phone.’
‘Oh, I told her to say that.’ Dee sounded as if she were explaining things to a child. ‘Much simpler for your guests; I mean I don’t know what you want to tell other people, but we’ll talk about it all on Monday, won’t we?’
‘Dee, please don’t go, you’ve got to explain.’
‘I have explained.’
‘I’ll ring you back.’
‘Ring all you like, this is a pub.’
‘Where are you going now?’
‘I see the real Miss Morris over here in a corner. I think I’ll buy her a gin and orange and tell her all about us. That will make it easier for me to ring you at work; you see, I couldn’t before because she knew me, but now with all this new honesty . . .’
‘What new honesty?’
‘What Candy and I have been talking about.’
‘You’re a bitch, you told Candy nothing; this is a game, some vicious little game.’
‘Hush hush, don’t let them hear you.’
‘Where will you be tomorrow?’
‘I’ll see you on Monday night, as arranged: come any time, straight from work if you like now that there’s no need to hide things any more.’
‘I beg you, tell me what you told Candy.’
‘No, YOU must ask Candy that.’
‘But if you told her nothing then . . .’
‘That’s right, you’ll have walked yourself into it.’
‘Dee.’
‘Monday.’
‘I’m not going to be blackmailed into coming round to you on Monday.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ll be at home then, if I don’t get called away or anything.’ She hung up.
‘If he rings again, Celia, will you say you never heard of me and I haven’t been in all night?’
‘Sure,’ said Celia.
She went back to the house. Fergal was explaining that there came a time in your life when you couldn’t play any more – you had to face up to things.
‘Jesus Mary and Joseph, Fergal, you should have been a philosopher!’ Dee said admiringly.
‘Did you have a drink with Celia Ryan?’
‘I had two large brandies, mother dear,’ Dee said.
‘How much was that?’ Fergal the man saving for a mortgage
was interested now in the cost of fun.
‘I don’t know, I only paid for one small one when I come to think of it.’ There were sudden tears in her eyes.
‘Dee, why don’t you and I go for a walk for a bit and let the wedding talk go on to a crescendo here?’ Dr Burke had his blackthorn stick in his hand.
They walked in silence. Down past the chip shop and over the bridge and on to the fork in the road.
It was only coming back that there was any chat.
‘I’ll be all right, Dad,’ she said.
‘Sure I know you will, aren’t you a great big girl and won’t you be a solicitor one day, a fierce terror making them all shake in the district court?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Of course you will, and all this other stuff will sort itself out.’
‘Do you know about him?’ She was genuinely surprised.
‘This is Ireland, child. I’m a doctor, he’s a doctor, well a sort of one – when they get to that level it’s hard to know.’
‘How did you hear?’
‘Somebody saw you and thought I should know, I think, a long time ago.’
‘It’s over now.’
‘It may be for a while . . .’
‘Oh no it is, tonight.’
‘Why so suddenly?’
‘He’s a liar and nothing else; he lied to her and to me – why do people do that?’
‘Because they see themselves as having lost out and they want some of everything, and society doesn’t let us have that so we have to tell lies. And in a funny way the secrecy keeps it all going and makes it more exciting at the start.’
‘You know what it’s like all right; I don’t know how you could.’
‘Oh, the same way as your fellow does.’
‘DADDY. No, not you. I don’t believe it.’
‘Oh years and years ago. You were only a toddler.’
‘Did Mummy know?’
‘I don’t think so. I hope not. But she never said anyway.’
‘And what happened to the girl?’
‘Oh she’s fine; she hated me for a bit, that was the worst part – if she had been just a little bit understanding. Just a small bit.’
‘But why should she?’ Dee was indignant.
‘Why, because she was young and lovely like you are and she had the world before her, and I had made my way and it was nice but a bit, you know . . . a bit samey.’
‘She should have shook your hand like a chap and said, “No hard feelings, Johnny Burke, you’ll be a treasured memory”,’ Dee was scathing.
‘Something like that,’ her father laughed.
‘Maybe she should have.’ Dee linked her father companionably. ‘Because you’re a much nicer man than Sam Barry will ever be. I think he deserves a bit of roasting, actually.’
‘Ah well, roast away,’ her father said good-naturedly. ‘You’ve never listened to me up to now – there’s no reason why you should now.’
Dee sat in her room and looked down at the town. She thought she saw Nancy Morris sitting on the wall near the chip shop, but decided that it couldn’t be. Nancy . . . pay for a whole portion of chips . . . ridiculous.
MIKEY
Mikey always said that you couldn’t come across a nicer crowd of girls than the ones who worked in the bank. The men were grand fellows too but they were often busy with their careers and they wouldn’t have all that time to talk. And one of the men, a young buck who’d be some kind of a high manager before he was thirty had taken it upon himself to say to Mikey that it would be appreciated if he watched his sense of humour since the bank ladies had found it rather coarse on occasions. Mikey had been very embarrassed and had said nothing all day. So silent was he that the nice Anna Kelly who was pure gold asked him if he felt all right. He had told her what the young buck said, and Anna Kelly had said that banks were stuffy old places and maybe the buck had a point: jokes were fine with friends, but God the bank, it wouldn’t know how to laugh if you were tickling its funny bone for a year.
So he understood now and he never uttered a pleasantry within the bank walls again. If he met them on the street that was different; he could pass a remark or make a joke like anyone then because they were all on neutral ground. And he used to tell the girls about his family in Rathdoon, well, about the family that Billy and Mary had really. The twins with the red hairs and the freckles and then Gretta with the pigtails and the baby, a big roll of butter with a laugh you could hear half a mile away. He told Anna Kelly that sometimes on the summer evenings when it would be very bright the twins wouldn’t have gone to bed, and they’d be sitting at their window waiting till the Lilac Bus turned into the street and Uncle Mikey would get off. They collected stamps and badges, any kind of badges, and he had them all on the lookout for anything of that order so as he never went home empty-handed.
He was the only one of the bank porters who came from the country. The rest were all Dubliners: they used to laugh at him and say there’d have to be an official inquiry as to how he got the job. But they were a very good-natured lot, and there was great chat all day as they manned the doors, or wheeled the big boxes on trolleys where and when more money was needed or had to be put away. They delivered letters and documents up and down the street. They knew a lot of the customers by name and they got great Christmas presents altogether.
The Lilac Bus had started just when Mikey had needed it. His father was getting senile now, and it was hard on poor Billy and Mary to have the whole business of looking after him. But it would have been a long way to come back without Tom Fitzgerald and the little minibus that dropped you at the door. Imagine having to get yourself to the town by a crowded train, packed on a Friday night and maybe not a seat, and then after that to try and organise the seventeen miles home. It would take all day and all night and you’d be exhausted.
His old father was pleased to see him sometimes, but other times the old man didn’t seem to know who he was. Mikey would take his turn spooning the food, and combing the matted hair. He would play the Souza marches his father liked on the record player, and put the dirty clothes in the big buckets of Dettol and water out in the back. Mary, who was Billy’s wife and a sort of a saint, said that there was no problem to it if you thought of it all as children’s nappies. Into a bucket of disinfectant for a while, throw that out, into a bucket of water a while and throw that out and then wash them. Weren’t they lucky to have space out the back and a tap and a drain and all. It would be desperate altogether for people who lived in a flat, say.
And the nurse came twice a week and she was very good too. She even said once to Mikey that he needn’t come back every weekend, it was above the call of duty. But Mikey had said he couldn’t leave it all to Billy and Mary, it wasn’t fair. ‘But they’d be getting the house: what would Mikey be getting?’ the nurse had pointed out. Mikey said that sort of thing didn’t come into it. And anyway, wasn’t it a grand thing to come back to your own place.
The twins told Mikey that there was never any fighting when he came home and Mikey was surprised.
‘Why would there be fighting in this house?’ he asked.
The twins shrugged. Phil and Paddy were afraid of being disloyal.
‘Sure you couldn’t be fighting with your poor old grandfather, he would never harm the hair of your heads,’ Mikey said.
The twins agreed and the matter was dropped.
They loved Mikey around the house and he had a fund of jokes for them. Not risky ones of course, but ones they could tell anyone. Gretta even wrote them down sometimes so that she’d remember them to tell them in class. Mikey never told the same one twice; they told him he should be on the television telling them one after another with a studio audience. Mikey loved the notion of it. He had once hoped that he might be asked to do a turn for the bank’s revue but nobody had suggested it, and when he had whispered it to that nice Anna Kelly, she said she had heard that you had to be a member of the union to be invited, that only members of the IBOA were allowed to perfor
m. He had been pleased to know that, because otherwise he would have felt they were passing him over.
He had his doubts about the Lilac Bus when he arrived the very first Friday. Tom Fitzgerald had asked them to be sure not to wave any money at him, because the legalities of the whole thing were what you might call a grey area. He did have the proper insurance and everything, and the Lilac Bus had a passenger service vehicle licence, but there was no point in courting disaster. Let them all give him the money when they were home in Rathdoon where it would be nice and calm. None of them had understood the ins and outs of it but they all agreed. Mikey wondered if people like Dr Burke’s daughter and Mr Green’s son Rupert would fancy sharing a journey home with Mikey Burns the bank porter and the son of poor Joey Burns who before he lost his wits had been a great man for standing waiting till Ryan’s pub opened and nothing much else. But Dee and Rupert were the salt of the earth, it turned out. There wasn’t an ounce of snobbery between the pair of them. And Mrs Hickey, she was a lady too but she always seemed pleased to see him. Nancy Morris was the same as she always had been since she was a schoolgirl, awkward and self-conscious. Nothing would get her out of that, she’d be an old maid yet. Celia Ryan was another fish altogether: it was a mystery she hadn’t married someone by now. She always looked as if her mind was far away, yet she was meant to be a powerful nurse. He knew a man who’d been in Celia’s ward, and he couldn’t speak highly enough of her. He said she was like a legend in the hospital.
