by Maeve Binchy
Sometimes people shook their heads with amazement and said wasn’t it extraordinary that Lionel Donelly of all people would have had the foresight to build a dance hall, to borrow the money and build a big monstrosity that everyone said would be a white elephant. Now there were people driving to it from far and wide. Lionel, who never passed an exam in his life, had gone to England to learn the building trade and learned that people were building dance halls.
Clare went back to the dance floor. She thought she saw David Power coming toward her, but before he was near enough Gerry Doyle reached out his hand for her. It was a slow smoochy dance and he didn’t bother holding her at arm’s length for a few bars, he put his arms around her at once and she laid her cheek against his. They were the same height. She had worn her flat shoes.
The lights were dimmer for this number, the sparkles of the glittering globe cast a thousand little shines on people. “Once I had a secret love,” sang the girl in the miles of net dress at the microphone. People sang the words softly to each other, oddly assorted people like David Power who sang them into Josie’s ear because he hadn’t got to Clare O’Brien before Romeo. James Nolan sang them into Bernie Conway’s ear, because when he saw Gerry Doyle dancing with her, he thought she must be something special. Dick Dillon and Angela didn’t sing them at all because they were concentrating on the curly bits and side chassis. Gerry didn’t sing them because he didn’t need to, and Clare had her eyes tightly closed.
At the last dance Josie was happy because finally James had seen her and flung her into a spirited version of “California, Here I Come”; and a great many other people were happy too. The Committee had made a great deal of money, the dance had been a social success, and all the people who had given spot prizes were pleased with the advertising.
“I have a caravan,” Gerry Doyle told Clare. They had danced together three times, almost enough to be considered a lifetime commitment for Gerry.
“A what?”
“A caravan. All of my own. I’m looking after it for people. They only come at the weekend.”
“Really, that’s nice,” Clare said innocently.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Will we go there? You and me?”
“Now?” she asked, her heart beginning to beat faster.
“Sure.”
There was a pause. He was looking straight at her. She must say yes or no. She was not going to make any blustering excuses.
“No,” she said. “Thanks all the same.”
His eyes showed nothing, there wasn’t a hint of persuading her to change her mind.
“Right,” he said. “Good night, sweetheart.”
Before her eyes, he went over to Caroline Nolan. She heard him sound surprised to see her, as if he hadn’t known she was in the dance hall all night.
Clare watched Caroline smiling delightedly as Gerry suggested something. It was too far away to hear, but when he put his arm around Caroline’s shoulder and they walked off together, she knew it had to do with his having a caravan.
Dr. Power said he would give Angela a lift in to collect her mother. He never made that journey into the town without driving people in one direction or the other; he was the kindest man that ever lived.
“I saw you leaping about in great style with Dick Dillon,” he teased her.
“Well, would you have believed it? The man could have medals for it. I never got such a surprise.”
“He’s a very nice fellow, Dick. Never got a proper chance in that hotel. The old mother always preferred his brother. Still, he consoled himself fairly spectacularly during his day.”
Angela smiled. That was one way of describing a man who had been as heavy a drinker as her own father. Of course, Dick Dillon had been able to have the money to do it in comfort, and the trips to Dublin to be dried out, and now he had stopped. He had seen her home and come in after the dance; she had made tea and bacon sandwiches, and they had talked long into the night.
“What he needs is a steadying hand, Angela,” Dr. Power said.
“Am I going to be hearing this for the rest of my life?”
“Probably. They’ll say you could do worse. He’s not a bad catch, sensible too nowadays, all the wild oats sown. Oh, they’ll say that.”
“But it’s not a question of catching—sure it’s not? I always thought that if it happened it would be two people suddenly discovering they were more interested in each other than anything else. Not a catch.”
“It should be like that,” Dr. Power said, negotiating a herd of cows and the boy who was halfheartedly moving them along the road.
“How about you?” She felt impertinent, but he could always laugh it off if he didn’t want to answer.
“I met Molly at a dance in Dublin on my twenty-fifth birthday. She had a red dress on and she had her head back laughing and I thought to myself that I’d love her to be laughing like that at things I said. And that was it, I suppose. I went after her relentlessly. It was nothing to do with her being a catch, or me being one.”
“And she did go on laughing, didn’t she?”
“Yes, mainly. Sometimes it’s a bit quiet and dull here in the winter, and I wish she had more people to meet that would entertain her. Or that we had more children. If you have only one you concentrate on him too much. I’m always thinking about his medical studies and Molly’s always wondering about his meals and damp clothes and what he does with himself in Dublin. If we had half a dozen it would be more spread out.”
“But David’s sensible, isn’t he? And he’s as bright as paint.”
“He is, and we’ve managed to move very successfully from the notion of you and Dick Dillon.”
“He’s an old man, with nothing on his mind except his long-lost days of drinking and sometimes the thought of an olde-tyme waltz.”
“He’s not ten years older than you. He’s a fine man and he’s lonely. Don’t throw the idea aside too easily, Angela, girl.”
He was being serious. She decided not to make any more jokes.
“It was funny Fiona Doyle going off to London in the middle of the busy season to do that photography course.”
“It was bad timing, but I suppose she had to go when the opportunity came up.” Dr. Power looked straight ahead of him at the road and the small white houses which broke the monotony of the hedges as they went along. Sometimes it was hard to be a country doctor and to hold the heartbeats and consciences of everyone in the parish. He knew only too well what bad timing it was for Fiona Doyle to have to go to London.
There had been a haze over the sea when Clare got up at six-thirty. It would be another hot day. A scorcher. Well, that was what they all wanted: eighty hot days with a little rain at night just to keep the farmers happy. Clare picked up all the litter from the corner of the shop which they had cleared for people to stand around having lemonades and fizzy orange, ham sandwiches and chocolate biscuits after the dance. It was good business: there was nowhere else to go except the chip van. But it was wearying clearing up in the morning. She put the returnable bottles all together in a crate, and stuffed the others into the rubbish bin. She opened the doors to let the fresh air in and glanced up the street with its white and colored houses all still asleep. The winter painting done in Castlebay always looked at its best on an early summer morning; the town looked so clean, like sugared almonds. The pink of Conway’s post office and the lime-green walls of Miss O’Flaherty’s looked just right.
Clare went back to put on the kettle; her mother would be up soon, and not long after that her father would be down moving boxes, worrying over supplies and only just remembering to pause and shave before the early morning caravan people came in looking for their breakfast materials.
The kettle was boiling as Agnes came downstairs. Before she could reach for her shop coat which hung on the back of the kitchen door, Clare saw with a start how thin she had grown, and how tired.
“Why don’t you have a bit of a rest today? I can cope with it.�
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“Rest? On a day like today—it’s going to be one of the busiest yet. Are you mad?” her mother wanted to know.
“You look very tired, that’s all.”
“Of course, I look tired, and Tommy Craig looks tired up in the bar and Young Mrs. Dillon looks tired. Lord God, Clare, when would we not look tired if not in the middle of the season?”
“Shush shush, I’m not attacking you, Mam. I wanted to know if you could have a couple of hours more rest that’s all.”
Agnes softened. “No, I’ll be all right when I’ve had a cup of tea. Nobody looks anything until they’ve had a cup of tea.” Her thin face smiled a bit, but she wouldn’t even sit down to drink it. She was hurrying into the shop and sure enough as soon as she was behind the counter the door pinged and the first customer arrived.
It was nonstop all day. A lot of people seemed to take advantage of the clear blue skies to plan picnics, and Clare was busy cutting sandwiches and wrapping up ice creams in several layers of newspapers.
Caroline Nolan was early. She ran in from her little Morris Minor, which spluttered and made noises outside.
“Picnic things,” she said to Clare, barely politely.
“For how many?” Clare asked.
“I don’t know. Can I take things and if we don’t need them bring them back?”
“No,” Clare said.
“What?”
“I said you can’t. Suppose you brought back tomatoes or bananas that had been out in the sun all day—who else would want them?”
“I meant tins, or things that wouldn’t spoil.”
“Why don’t you just work out how many might be going?” Clare was impatient with this glowing girl, all fresh and summery in a white dress with big red spots; she looked so clean and awake and lively compared to Clare in her faded dress and her tired thin mother in the yellow shop coat.
“Maybe you can help me?” Caroline had decided to be charming. “You see, a friend suggested we take a drive out to this place where you see seals, and I’m to provide a picnic. He, my friend, would bring a bottle of wine. And I’m not sure whether he meant us plural, like my brother and David, or whether he meant us singular, just me. You see my problem?”
“No,” said Clare. “Ask him. Ask him did he mean you singular or you plural, then you’ll know.”
Caroline left the shop.
Half an hour later she was back. “He said he meant you plural,” she announced.
“Bad luck,” Clare said, and without being asked made a selection of the freshly made ham sandwiches and cheese sandwiches, apples, bananas, oranges, a packet of chocolate biscuits and four bottles of fizzy orange.
Caroline took it in silence and packed it into the boot of her car.
Gerry came in for cigarettes a bit later.
“I thought you’d be off on your picnic,” Clare said.
“I’m going to join them later. I gave them directions to get to the seals. Why don’t you come with us?”
“How can I? I have to work here. Anyway, I’m not asked.”
“You are. I’m asking you.”
Clare laughed. “No, thanks. How can any of us take a day like today off? How can you take today off, come to think of it?”
“Why do I pay someone to take pictures for me, if it’s not to give me a day off. Come on, be a devil.”
“Stop it. You know I can’t.” She was annoyed now, she wished he’d go.
“One day out of the summer? One sunny day?” He wasn’t joking.
“Go away, Gerry, go away.” Clare was laughing but her voice had a steely ring. “We are going to take care of our business, even if others we wouldn’t mention are letting theirs go down the plug-hole.” And anyway, Clare told herself, there was no point in going out with that gang without the proper ammunition. Clare had no crisp cotton dress with big red dots on it, Clare had no golden suntan, she had a faded mauve dress and long white legs in old-fashioned sandals. Hell, she wasn’t going to compete with Caroline unless she had a chance of winning, and if she wanted the attentions of Gerry Doyle she wouldn’t look for them now.
The good spell was set to last. In the days after the picnic, Clare decided that she hated sunshine. For other people it meant that the holiday dream was coming true, it meant a healthy out-of-doors life. For the young couples in their tents it was pure magic, for the Nolans and their friends just more long days lost in sandhills on seal beaches, on golf courses, and racing in and out of the waves. For children it meant rushing into the shop asking for a bottle of fizzy orange, open please and with three straws. But for Clare the sun just meant it was time to take the cakes and things that might melt from the window, and to make sure the stocks of ice cream were ready for Jim and Ben to cope with.
Gerry came in. “I’ve a message for you. Come on, up to the post office, now! Old Ma Conway said there was a phone message. They’re going to ring again in fifteen minutes—well, ten now. Come on.”
Clare’s heart was thumping as she ran up Church Street with Gerry. The hotel and the chemist and the dancehall and the hardware shop passed in a blur. And then they were in Conway’s.
“Oh you found her?” Mrs. Conway looked disapprovingly over her glasses.
Please may it not be about Tommy. Oh, please, God, I’ll say the thirty days prayer. Please, Our Lady, I’ll begin the thirty days prayer today if it’s not some awful thing about Tommy.
“You must be very nervous,” Gerry said sympathetically.
Her heart gave another jump. “How do you know—I mean, what do you mean?”
“Your results,” he said simply. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”
It was. It was the convent, incoherent with delight—in all their years they had never been so proud. Clare had done nine subjects on her Leaving Certificate and she had got honors in all of them except mathematics; but of course she had passed that safely. And now wasn’t there every chance that she would be called for the Murray Prize interview? Three of the sisters were starting a special novena today and Clare could be assured that the whole Community would remember her every day at Mass. She could hardly see Mrs. Conway’s pinched face, forcing itself to be congratulatory, having heard every word. Gerry lifted her off her feet and swung her round three times.
“Eight honors, eight honors, hell’s bells and spiders’ ankles!” he shouted.
“Eight honors!” Clare screamed. “Eight!”
“Well, I must say I think congratulations are in order . . .” Mrs. Conway said, her face pursed at the horseplay.
“I must tell Miss O’Hara, now,” Clare said. “Now, this minute.”
“I’ll drive you up in the van.”
She hesitated for a moment.
“I won’t come in. I know you want to tell her on your own.”
Angela was out in front of the cottage, watering the scarlet geraniums. The sun shone in her eyes and she had to put up her hand to shield them as the van screeched to a halt. Clare tumbled out the door before it had properly stopped.
“Eight, Miss O’Hara, eight!” she shouted excitedly, and Angela put down the water jug and ran toward her. She clutched the thin body—trembling with excitement—to her in a big awkward hug of delight.
They had both forgotten Gerry, who sat motionless in his van watching them with his dark handsome eyes.
The whole town knew by evening. Josie had been so excited when she heard that she put the lid on her typewriter and said she was taking some time off to celebrate. Agnes and Tom O’Brien were bewildered with pleasure and worn out shaking people’s hands across the counter and taking praise on behalf of their bright, hard-working daughter. Dr. Power was going past on his way to the caravan site and stopped to pay his respects. Sergeant McCormack had got wind of it, and it wasn’t long before Father O’Dwyer’s little car stopped outside O’Brien’s as well. It was a miracle that anything was bought or sold, or money taken or change given in that shop all day with the comings and goings.
“Will you come to the dan
ce to celebrate tonight?” Gerry said.
“Ah, there’d be too much of a crowd there, all the Caroline Nolans and all,” she said, smiling at him.
“We could go somewhere where there wouldn’t be.” He grinned back.
“I don’t think so. Don’t change any of your own plans.”
“There are eighty nights in the summer,” Gerry said. “If you don’t come tonight you’ll come another night.”
She had a lovely night. She had a drink with Dick Dillon, who taught her how to make a drink called a Pussyfoot, which had no alcohol in it but sort of fooled you into thinking it had. Josie gave her a yellow blouse and a yellow ribbon to match it for her hair—she had been saving it as a surprise. Josie had a date with James Nolan and was in seventh heaven herself: they were going to the pictures and he had said he would meet her in the queue. She swore to tell Clare everything that happened and had worn a dress with a high collar in case he might start to fumble and she would have to decide whether to let him or not.
Clare walked down the Cliff Road. It was sunset and people could be seen indoors, finishing their supper or just sitting around with the dishes still on the table before heading off for the night’s entertainment. It had been so long in arriving, this day. She was going to savor every minute of it.
It was getting dark now and she shivered a little in her new yellow blouse. Josie and James Nolan were well into the Main Feature and who knew what else at the cinema. Chrissie and Mogsy Byrne had gone down the sandhills, she knew that because she had seen Chrissie changing her slip and getting out her good knickers, the ones with lace on them. Gerry Doyle was in his caravan. No, she was not going to the caravan park. She would go up to the amusements and have two rides on the bumpers and then if she didn’t meet anyone she would come home and pitch Chrissie’s things to the other side of the room and go to bed. She would not go to the caravan park tonight.
