by Maeve Binchy
The prize was awarded on the strength of marks received in the leaving certificate together with a personal interview. Those candidates with a sizeable number of Honours Papers and who had already announced their participation would be called to appear before a committee. Even to be called to interview by the Murray committee was an honor. But it was an honor that wouldn’t happen until the end of August. The examination results had to come in first. Miss O’Hara had begged Clare to enjoy the summer, it might be her last summer of freedom. If she did get to university there would always be the need to study, and she would have to work for extra money—the Murray scholarship was not princely. If she did not get to university then she would be working during the rest of her summers, so there was even more reason to enjoy this last one. Have a bit of a fling, Miss O’Hara had advised her, and Miss O’Hara had said embarrassingly that Clare was turning into a fine-looking girl and she should make the most of it.
Clare looked at herself in the mirror. She wanted to lighten the color of her hair: she used Sta-Blonde shampoo, which claimed to bring out the blond highlights, but it didn’t or else there were no highlights to bring out. She would have used some peroxide in the rinsing water like some of the girls at school did but, really, one look at Chrissie’s peroxided fuzz would be enough to turn you against the stuff even if the smell of it didn’t. Clare had grown tall, all of a sudden, when she was fourteen. Nobody had expected it, least of all Clare, and it was highly irritating. School uniforms had to have false hems and be let down to the last possible thread. She wore her hair in a ponytail with one of those nice plastic clips. Chrissie had said it made her look like a horse, but Clare had taken no notice. The great thing about going away to school was meeting so many other people and being able to compare Chrissie with them. Now she no longer believed her elder sister and didn’t feel put down by the scathing insults heaped on her all the time.
Clare would like to have had blue eyes. Brown eyes were wrong in her face she thought, her complexion wasn’t right for them. If she were like Ava Gardner, or had a dark smoldering face, then big brown eyes would be good; but she thought they looked out of place with her light hair and fair skin. Still. There was nothing she could do about them. Josie told her they were fine, and what’s more they were unusual, so there. She should be delighted with them and stop complaining.
Josie was going from strength to strength these days. She was already in the office of the hotel, wearing a frilly white blouse and a cameo brooch. She had lost a great deal of weight in the two years she spent living in her aunt’s house while she went to the commercial college. Her aunt was the meanest woman in Ireland and the meals that were served were extremely sparse. But it was all to the good and Josie’s two sisters looked at her with shock each time they came home from their boarding school, and, eventually, the Hotel and Catering College. Slow, fat Josie could type letters like the wind, had understood bookkeeping and simple accountancy. She was helping Father and Uncle Dick and Mother with far more confidence than they seemed to be able to drum up. In fact Rose and Emily were quite jealous of the sister they used to call poor Josie. They even complained when they saw her change into whites and play tennis with that Clare O’Brien from the shop. But Josie was calm. She and Clare played tennis every morning from eight to nine; then they went to work, Josie in her family business, Clare in hers. They played again at seven in the evening. Rose and Emily had all day to play if they wanted to. It was unanswerable. Which was why Rose and Emily hated it; it was even further irritating to see that Josie and Clare played well and often played a mixed doubles with guests from the hotel.
Clare and Josie had more fun at the dance than Rose and Emily who thought, wrongly, that they would be exotic and a treat coming home as they had from Dublin. But the visitors didn’t know where they had come from and the locals all knew the two girls who were around all the time; they were never without a partner.
Leaning over the balcony and watching Josie rocking enthusiastically to “See You Later, Alligator,” Emily complained loudly one evening that the young ones had it very easy, didn’t they? Nice cushy job ready made for them in the hotel, no studying hotel management, all plain sailing and life one long holiday. Chrissie O’Brien, another wallflower, watched her younger sister with equal rage and said that there was no justice in life. Rose and Emily had to disassociate themselves. Annoyed they might be, but they weren’t going to ally themselves with terrible Chrissie O’Brien.
The Nolans still came to Castlebay; they were part and parcel of the place now. At least, Mr. and Mrs. Nolan did. Of James, there was no sign. Josie sighed.
“Maybe he’ll come down this summer, and you’ll dazzle him,” Clare said.
“No, I interrogated his mother. He’s in France picking grapes with David Power. Can you imagine anything more stupid, those two picking grapes? They don’t need the money. Why aren’t they here where they are needed?”
“It’s a funny time of year to be picking grapes,” Clare said thoughtfully. “I thought all that was much later on.”
“Maybe they’re up to no good. They could have French mistresses.” Josie was deliberately making herself miserable.
“They should be working for their exams,” Clare said primly. David Power was about Fourth Med by now. And James Nolan had a B.A. in economics, but he still had to do his Bar Final. Josie was right—they were much too grown-up and sophisticated to pick grapes or whatever in France, but they were much too grown-up and sophisticated to come to Castlebay as well.
Molly Power was delighted with the letter. It said she was to let the Nolans know too. David and James would be arriving next Thursday week. Things hadn’t worked out exactly as they had hoped in France, long explanations later, but meanwhile they thought they would come back to Castlebay. Waving the letter Molly ran out on to the drive as she heard her husband’s car on the gravel.
“Great news: David’s coming home next week.”
His face lit up with pleasure. “David’s coming back, Bones,” he said and the animal did three circuits of the car, barking delightedly.
Paddy Power took his wife’s arm and they sat on the garden seat, looking straight out to sea. On a day like this, it was paradise.
Nellie called from the kitchen window. “You look very comfortable out there, stay as you are. I’ll bring out your dinner.”
A polite protest.
“Sure, why don’t you act like the quality?” Nellie said and closed the window.
They smiled at each other, pleased greatly that their son was coming home.
“I arranged for old Mrs. O’Hara to go into the County Hospital for a couple of weeks today. Observation, I call it.”
“And what is it? What has she got?”
“Nothing, as far as I can see. Nothing she hasn’t had for years. But I want to give Angela a holiday—that’s what it’s really about. Angela hardly ever gets a break. I want her to enjoy a bit of this summer. Lord, she’s living in a place that half of Ireland and indeed half of England as well seems to be descending on . . . but she never gets out to enjoy it.”
“You’re very thoughtful.” Molly touched his knee affectionately.
“I’ve always liked her, always—she’s got such pluck, I know it’s a funny word, it’s not a word for people like us, but that’s it. Pluck. Do you know I often think young Clare O’Brien from the shop has it too. I always see her as sort of an echo of Angela O’Hara.”
“Do you?” Molly frowned.
“Same way of sticking their chins up and getting on with things, no matter what.” Dr. Power smiled at the thought.
“I don’t think so.” Molly was shaking her head. “Angela had spirit certainly, and it’s wonderful she got so far, considering . . .” She left unsaid the ripples of disapproval over Dinny O’Hara’s behavior, and her own remoteness toward the life looking after an old woman.
Dr. Power hid his impatience. He hated Molly in that grande dame mood. “Well, the child Clare O’Brien has nobody to
be apologizing for, just the fact that she was born poor and triumphed over it.”
“She was born sneaky, Paddy, you’re too kind, you don’t see these things. A woman would notice. She has deceitful eyes.”
“Molly.”
“Well, you say what you think. I say what I think.”
“But it’s silly. Silly, to say such a thing about a child.”
“To me some of the things you do and say are silly. I don’t pass remarks about them.”
“All right, Moll, all right. Life’s short. Let’s leave it.” The day seemed less shiny somehow for him.
Gerry Doyle arrived at the O’Haras’ cottage later in the afternoon. He was to give them a lift to the hospital. “Take as much time as you like,” he told them. “I’m in no hurry, so don’t be rushing.”
But they were ready: Mrs. O’Hara tremulous and afraid of a bumpy journey in that young tearaway’s van, Angela pale and anxious. The little suitcase had been packed.
“Well will we head off then?” Gerry was a great person to drive them. He didn’t care enough about Mrs. O’Hara to be making inquiries about how she felt, and he had plenty of good casual chat to keep Angela distracted. Dr. Power had said that since he went into the town every Tuesday to get equipment and supplies, he’d be the very man to give them a lift. Dr. Power had even gone and called on Doyle’s Photographies himself to save Angela the business of asking him for a lift.
He was kind and practical about getting the old woman into his van. “Tell me first what movements hurt you most, and I won’t drag you the wrong way,” he said.
Mrs. O’Hara had to pause and think. The worst bit was having to bend her legs. Right, that was easily organized, Gerry got a box for her to stand on, then she sat into the front seat of his van and Angela eased her legs in as straight as it was possible to do. Mrs. O’Hara settled in fairly cheerfully. Angela climbed into the back.
“You’re very agile for a woman of your age,” Gerry said, smiling at her in the driver’s mirror.
“Will you stop that nonsense? I could run rings round you. Your generation have no stamina.” She grinned back at him through the mirror. He was a handsome lad. She had always liked him. Much more than his sister, and she had often asked herself why she didn’t take to Fiona Doyle, without ever coming to a satisfactory conclusion.
They were good youngsters both of them. Since their father’s death, they had not only kept the business going, they had made it boom. The big increase in visitors had meant a huge demand for snaps. During the summer the Doyles hired another photographer to help out. They had smartened up their little booth on the cliff with bright paint, and they had been doing great business calling to the houses along the Cliff Road and the Far Cliff Road taking family pictures, which they enlarged and presented in a little cardboard frame. Nearly every family wanted to have a souvenir like that, something to show at home, the family in their own place. Messages used to be sent urgently to get young Jimmy back from the amusements, or call young Eddie up from the beach; Mother would change into her best dress and the milk bottle would be hidden away while the picture was being taken.
“I see your star pupil is home from school,” Gerry said.
“She is a star pupil,” Angela said proudly. “I have great hopes for her. I really do.”
“So do I,” said Gerry, smiling roguishly. “Great hopes altogether.”
“Stop sounding like the villain in a pantomime,” Angela said crossly. Please, she thought, don’t let Gerry Doyle distract Clare before the interview. Don’t let him get his hands on her until she’s won the Murray Prize.
They were very nice to Mrs. O’Hara in the hospital, and the change suited her. Everything was new and interesting: the Little Flower ward with the big statue of St. Theresa and the roses falling around the crucifix in her arms. Mrs. O’Hara had always had a great devotion to the Little Flower. The woman in the next bed was some distant relative by marriage so they spent hours tracing people long dead and lowering their voices about people whose careers had not been too glorious. Angela felt nothing but relief that her mother was being well looked after. Dr. Power had been right: the change would do Mam good. She spent the first few days after her mother left doing a kind of spring-clean. She never liked to paint the place while the housebound woman was there; the smell would be hard to bear. She pulled all the furniture into the middle of the floor and began to take down the books and ornaments. It was a much longer job than she would have believed but it was a very peaceful one. She sat on a ladder dusting books and reading them at the same time, polishing ornaments and remembering who had given them or where they had come from. It was days before she actually began to paint. She had gone in twice and been reassured that her mother was happy and well looked after. This was a good break for her, housepainting in the morning, a stroll down to the hotel, a sandwich sometimes with Dick Dillon, still mourning the fact that he had been put off drink and pushed sideways in the chain of command in the hotel. Then she would go down to the beach, and swim. She would know at least twenty people that she passed, pupils present and past, people from Castlebay sunning themselves. But usually she took a book and sat on the grassy cliff base. Then when it got very hot she would run down into the sea and battle with the breakers. Once she came across a small child who was being constantly buffeted by the waves and knocked down every time she got to her feet. Angela swooped her up and carried her out of the water. She was just the kind of child who could be one of Dr. Power’s casualties. The kind of thing he was always worrying about, visitors who didn’t know the pull of the current, the strength of the waves. She found herself telling the family tearfully that they must pay more attention to a child of that age or she would be swept out to sea. The child’s parents were grateful and startled, and she overheard them saying as she left that possibly she had a child that was drowned herself and that’s what had unsettled her so much. Angela didn’t feel unsettled. She felt fine. But she realized that it was the first summer she had ever got a tan, been to the pictures regularly and gone to the dance.
She hadn’t intended going to the dance. She thought women of thirty-five were pathetic in their summer dresses, their white cardigans and their newly lacquered hair queueing up at the ticket desk with the hope of a starry and glittery night ahead. Even when she heard that the Castlebay Committee were having a special dance to raise funds she didn’t think of going. The Committee was going to charge a big price for the ticket, but there were going to be enormous spot prizes. Every business in the place was giving something. Gerry Doyle was going to take a family or group portrait free, Mrs. Conway in the post office was offering a set of a dozen views of Castlebay on postcards with a small frame as well. Dwyers’ were giving a leg of lamb. Miss O’Flaherty was offering a writing case with pad and envelopes. The O’Briens were giving two big tins of Afternoon Tea assortment, the best biscuits there were. The money they raised would go to make the place look more attractive, to build a proper car park possibly and prevent the road being cluttered with cars making it impossible to get in or out of Castlebay. Or maybe plant a big flowerbed on the way into town where the three roads met. Some people wanted to put up fairy lights down Church Street, and others wanted to have public lavatories built on the beach. It would all be debated long and excitedly during the winter, and the money raised would sit in Mrs. Conway’s post office for ages. Angela, as a teacher and respected member of the community, had been on the Castlebay Committee but it never occurred to her that she was expected to go to the dance. Dick Dillon said that this is what always happened when you had a bunch of old meddlers and busybodies running things, now they were all nicely stuck and had to go to the wretched dance or their lives wouldn’t be worth living.
“Will you come as my partner?” he asked Angela in a voice filled with such doom he might as well have been asking her to leap off the cliff with him in a suicide mission.
“Certainly,” Angela said.
He looked at her suspiciously. “You can
collect me at the hotel then,” he said.
“No, Dick, a gentleman collects a lady at her house,” Angela said in a parody of every Doris Day film she had seen. If Dick had seen the films he didn’t recognize the parody.
“Very well,” he said. “Seeing as how I don’t drink anymore, I might as well get value out of the car by driving it.”
She hardly thought about the dance again, she was so busy painting the house. She decided that the only way to do it was to divide the big downstairs room into two halves, and when the first half was painted she would put back the books and knickknacks before starting the other side. It did look much brighter and more awake. She was standing in a paint-spattered smock and her hair in an old scarf admiring it, when a car stopped at the door. James Nolan and David Power had come to call. Better than that, they had brought a bottle of champagne cider.
She was delighted to see them. She had followed their careers with delight and when nobody else remembered what exams they were doing, Miss O’Hara always did. She used to know the names of their professors too and she never asked embarrassing questions like did they have girlfriends, did they spend much money on drink, and what exactly were they doing in France?
They picked chairs and stools out of the heap of furniture and sat happily telling her about everything. David was tall and fair-haired with a peeling nose, and James small and dark-looking like a little Italian, so tanned was he after whatever they had been up to in France. They were full of plans for the summer. It was going to be two hours’ work every morning and then free as the air all day and all night. They wanted to know was there any talent in town. Any gorgeous blondes or redheads with tiny waists and huge bosoms. Angela said she wouldn’t have noticed if the town was full of them, but they’d have to look sharp before Gerry Doyle grabbed everything that was going.
