by Maeve Binchy
Clare had said that for reasons she would explain later she didn’t want to be met by Gerry Doyle, but anyone else, and for reasons which she would also explain she would be the last person to leave the train, well after Mrs. Power had cleared the car park. Angela said she understood perfectly.
She felt sick when he went through the ticket barrier without a backward glance, as they had arranged.
She waited till a porter walked through the train picking up newspapers before she got out.
The ticket checker was surprised. “Well, now! I was off to my tea. Fall asleep on the train, did you?”
Clare smiled at him. Lucky man. Just his tea to worry about.
In the car park Dick stood, waving enthusiastically and coming forward to carry her bag.
Molly Power wore driving gloves. She had been told that they gave you a better grip on the wheel. She looked very well, David thought, her hair freshly done, a nice wool two-piece in a soft green—not the fussy, insecure over made-up woman he had met a few short months ago at the Nolans’ house.
She was calm and practical about his father too. She understood the nature of his attack and the need not to exert himself. There was no evidence of panic or anxiety. She spoke pleasantly of Dr. Mackey, the locum, of the great delight that David had returned home so quickly to discuss things, of the conversation she had held with Bumper Byrne about getting the Lodge fixed up.
David raked her face for clues of how she would react in a couple of hours when she knew she was going to have Clare O’Brien as a daughter-in-law.
Dick Dillon was easy to talk to. He talked about things, not people. She asked was it easy to learn to drive, and he said it was very easy. He showed her the pedals at his feet and said he’d have the theory of it taught to her by the time they got back to Castlebay. And indeed he had. A was accelerator, B was brakes and C was clutch.
She studied his big feet in their neatly laced, shiny brown shoes as he told her what he was doing each time. “I see, you have your foot heavy on C and lightly on A and as you release C you press A. I have it,” she said excitedly. “And now you’re pressing B because you want to slow down at the crossroads,” she said.
“I want to Stop at this crossroads, Madam. Because I see a big sign saying Stop.”
“That’s great. I have the hang of it. I’ll get a license as soon as I can.” She would need to know how to drive, and to drive far, if she were going to be living in Molly Power’s garden.
His father listened attentively. David said they had hoped to marry in a couple of year’s time and he had hoped to get further experience in Dublin hospitals. But now, since circumstances said otherwise, they were happy to come back and start both married life and practice all at the same time.
His father looked thoughtful. Weren’t they very, very young to settle down? Clare wasn’t twenty yet, well, only barely twenty. Still very young.
No. David was firm. Circumstances had changed so they would marry now. In a few week’s time in Dublin.
“So Clare is pregnant.”
“We’re very very pleased,” David said defiantly.
“You may well be. But is it the best start for a marriage, for a young girl like Clare, for the baby?”
“Dad, whether it is or not, it has started. We never thought for a moment of trying to unstart it.”
“No. No. I’m glad of that.”
“So, I suppose what I’m trying to say is, that once we’ve told Mum and once Clare has told her family, we’ll just get on with it.”
“Is Clare home?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t say . . . Molly didn’t say she was with you.”
“We thought it best to come separately from the station.”
Dr. Power gave a very deep sigh.
“I’m sorry to have to break it to you like this, Dad.”
“You’re very irresponsible, really, you know.”
“Well, we didn’t mean it to happen, obviously. But then, as you know, I’m sure only too well from all your years here, it just does happen.”
“I didn’t expect it to happen to my own son. You shouldn’t have taken advantage of her. It’s not fair. Just because you knew her from home, because you knew she was going to be timid.”
“There was no taking advantage of her. You don’t understand. In Dublin nobody thinks of Clare as poor little Clare O’Brien from the shop. That’s only here. And not everyone here. It’s Mother, and a few people. I didn’t think you’d be like that.”
“I’m not being like anything, boy. I realize you’re upset. I’m just saying it was a pity that this had to happen to you. You, with your whole life ahead of you.”
“Ahead of us now, Dad. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“She’s only a child, a child herself. She doesn’t know what she wants.”
“Oh, she does—she very much does. She’s going to finish her degree, you know. Her finals are a month before the baby is born. So we want to get married as soon as possible.”
“It won’t be soon enough for Castlebay.”
“Well, to hell with what they think.”
Dr. Power poured himself a very small brandy. “It’s medicinal. I prescribe it for myself now and then.”
“Are you going to drink my health? Our health?” David asked.
“Not immediately.”
“You’re not shocked, Dad.”
“Not in that sense. I don’t know. You’re very young, David. You’ve only got one life. You don’t have to marry Clare if you don’t want to. You can be very honorable and just without marrying her. You can acknowledge the child and give her maintenance. But there’s no shotgun at your head. Not today, not in 1960.”
“You’ve got it all out of proportion. The fact that Clare is pregnant is only part of a much bigger thing, which is that I love her. I love her desperately, Dad. I’ll never want anyone else in the world. I couldn’t contemplate anyone else marrying Clare. I didn’t explain that properly.”
“I think I’ll let you explain that to your mother. You’ll have to do a fair bit of explaining there, so there’s no point in doing it twice.”
“Do you think I could have a medicinal brandy?”
“No. I don’t. I think you can make your explanations without any stimulant.”
“If I’m to be your partner in this practice, then I can prescribe too. I prescribe myself a brandy twice the size of yours.”
Dr. Power laughed and poured it for him. “Go to it, son,” he said.
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
“No, I’m a man who mustn’t have too much excitement. I’m going into my study.”
Agnes O’Brien had noticed that the tourist trade was beginning to have a bit of a surge at Easter. More and more people who owned their own caravans up in the site thought they should get value from them by coming more than once a year. She wasn’t surprised to hear a ping on the door. She was very surprised to see Clare.
“What brings you back? You never said you were coming?”
“I got a chance, suddenly. So I came,” Clare said.
“You never wrote or anything.” Her mother was full of wonder. In her world people wrote letters announcing what they were going to do; then they did it.
“No. As I said, I just got the chance.” She must hide her impatience with her mother. “Will we have a cup of tea or anything?”
“What am I thinking of? I didn’t expect you, you see. Come on in. Give me your bag.”
“You look much better, Mam. How’s your leg?”
“Oh, that’s long forgotten. Now haven’t I enough to be worrying about without thinking of old ailments? No, thank God, I walk fine now, not even a bit of a limp.”
“That’s great, Mam.”
“Well come on in, and don’t stand there staring around as if you’d never seen the place before.”
“Where’s everybody?”
“Your father’s gone with Ben to get him a job, or we hope he will. The
re’s a new garage opening out at the crossroads. They want two young fellows to work there. They’ll have them trained by the summer, when the business will be great. Your father’s gone up there with Ben. Ben’s not great to give an account of himself.”
“When did they go?”
“They were to meet the man up there at six. Why?”
“I want to talk to you.”
Clare had put the Closed sign on the shop door. Agnes laid down the kettle without filling it.
“Mother of God, you’re pregnant,” she said.
It took time for her mother to stop crying. Clare had time to fill the kettle, boil it, make the tea, cut them two slices of fruitcake and find two paper table napkins for her mother to use as a handkerchief.
“How you can sit there, as bold as brass, and tell me this? How you can do it? It’s beyond belief!” Her mother wept.
“Mam, I’ve told you nothing. I just nodded when you asked me was I pregnant. Then you started to cry. Now let me tell you what I really came home to tell you. . . .”
“Oh! You weren’t going to bother with this then, were you? This isn’t news at all. This is something we were meant to expect, along with your high and mighty ways.”
“Please, Mam. Let me tell you. I’m getting married.”
“A bit late in the day for that, isn’t it?”
“No. Listen. I was going to get married anyway, and this just means we get married a bit sooner, that’s all. Honestly, that’s all. But it was the getting married bit I wanted to tell you about.”
“I’m not stopping you—tell me about it.” Agnes’s eyes were red; she hadn’t touched her tea and cake.
“It’s David, David Power. We’re getting married in a few weeks time in Dublin, and then he’s coming back here—I mean we’re both coming back here. His father hasn’t been well and . . .”
Agnes stood up. “David Power! You let David Power, the doctor’s son, make little of you, and get you into trouble? I don’t believe it. I can’t believe my own ears.”
She knew this was her mother’s vocabulary. In advance she had warned herself of words like disgrace and get into trouble. But it still didn’t make them easy to hear.
“I wish you wouldn’t put it that way. At this moment he’s up in his house telling his parents too. And whether this had happened or not we were going to get married anyway. So don’t talk about people making little of other people, or of him disgracing me. I was just as eager, all the time, as he was.”
“Don’t boast of it, you little tramp. Don’t stand there like a slut in my kitchen and tell me what you were eager for and what you weren’t. You’ve ruined us all in this family. We’ll be the laughingstock of the place—marrying into the Powers, no less. Do you think that Mrs. Power is going to let the likes of you cross her doorstep? Do you think that woman is going to let her son, with the fine education he has, marry a girl from a shop in Castlebay? A girl who is no better than she should be?” Agnes was laughing now, a twisted, ugly laugh. “Now, I never did even my Primary Certificate. I’m not college educated like you. And yet I can see with the two eyes in my head that there’ll be no marriage. There’ll be an explanation. David almighty Power will have to go abroad to finish his education—or some such excuse. Don’t be fooling yourself, girl. There’s going to be no wedding for you. Only disgrace and a child to bring up. And there’s going to be nothing for us but jeers.” Agnes started to cry again.
Clare found herself pitying the thin woman with the rolled-up table napkins crying at her kitchen table.
She spoke very gently. “Mam, listen to me. I know this is hard to believe. But it’s true. David is twenty-five years of age. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t have to ask their permission for anything. We’ve arranged the marriage, and the priest. It will happen. If his mother turns against him, let her turn. She’ll turn back eventually. You know the Lodge up in their garden near the cliff edge? Well, Bumper Byrne is going to get it done up and that’s where we’re going to live. Mam. And when Chrissie’s baby is born, she’ll wheel hers down to see you, Mam, and I’ll wheel mine along the Cliff Road. And there’s no disgrace. No jeers. It’s all grand. Don’t you understand?”
Her mother looked up with tearstained face. “It’s all very simple for you, Clare. But life isn’t like that.”
“It is, Mam. I’m as good as David. In every way. He knows that. And so do I.”
“If you think that you’ll be the only two in Castlebay who do,” her mother sniffed.
“Mam, drink your tea. Please, Mam.”
“When is it going to be born?” She looked at Clare’s stomach.
“End of October. Just after my exams.”
“You’re never going to go on with your exams.”
“But I have to. That’s what it was all about, the three years. I’ve got weeks in hand. They may have to cut a hole in the desk for me to fit into it, but still I’ll manage.”
“Don’t say things like that.” Her mother had sipped the tea; she was getting back to normal.
“So what I was going to suggest was this: that we say David and I are getting married in Dublin, not having a big fussy wedding because we’re both still studying, and then as soon as the house is done we’ll be back. No need to mention anything else at all, is there?”
“But people aren’t fools, Clare. They can count to nine like the rest of us. If someone gets married in April and has a baby in October, they’ll know.”
“But what will they know that matters?” Clare’s impatience was beginning to show.
Her mother sighed deeply. “You’ll never understand. And, Clare, child, if you believe they’ll let you be happy here, you’ll believe anything.”
David decided to say it quickly.
“Mother, I’ve just had a long chat with Dad and it’s all sorted out. I finish my internship, and come back here at the beginning of July.”
Her face brightened. “I knew there’d be no problems. Paddy kept saying it was a pity to call you home before your time, but I said you’d be happy to come.”
“You were right. And I love the idea of the Lodge. I’ll talk to Bumper Byrne myself tomorrow.”
“There’s no real hurry with the Lodge, is there? Your room is there . . .”
“Well . . . you see . . . I’ve other plans too, Mother. This is my big news. I’m getting married.”
“David! You can’t be serious. You’ve never told us a word. . . . We didn’t even know you were courting. Paddy, Paddy . . .”
“He’s gone to the study. I wanted to tell you myself.”
“But haven’t you told him . . . ?”
“Yes. He knows.”
She suspected trouble.
“I just thought I’d tell you myself, in my own way. I’m going to marry Clare O’Brien. Very soon. In four weeks time. In Dublin. And as soon as she has finished her degree she will come back here and we will live in the Lodge.”
The color had gone from Molly’s face. She was standing, she had jumped up in her first excitement. Now she swayed slightly, and held on to the back of the chair.
“We intended to get married later on, and live in Dublin. But, of course, now, with Dad needing me back at home that’s all changed.”
“Clare O’Brien.”
“So we’re not having any big wedding, or any fuss. But Father Flynn—do you remember him?—he’s going to be over again. He’s going to be based in Dublin now and he’s going to marry us . . .”
“I don’t believe it.”
He deliberately misunderstood her. “Oh, but he is. And he’s been very helpful about it all.”
“You know what I mean. I cannot believe that you are being forced to marry that girl. No matter what you may have done.”
“Not forced. We want to. I’ve explained that. We’ve planned this for a long time.”
“When you discovered she was up the pole.”
David swallowed. He had rehearsed with Clare how they would behave when their parents said the unfor
givable things, when the accusations started. Somehow he hadn’t thought his mother would use such a coarse expression. “That’s a vulgar way of describing it.”
“She’s a vulgar girl.”
He was very calm. “No, that’s not true. Clare isn’t in the least vulgar. She is gentle and sensitive. She is bright and well educated and considerate. I would never think of her as vulgar. Never. But she is poor. And her family are poor and uneducated. And her sister Chrissie is most definitely vulgar.” He spoke without any anger.
“David. You mustn’t do this.”
“I’m going to say this very carefully. So please listen to me. Just listen, and then talk later. It’s very important. Nothing you say, nothing, will make me change my mind. I love Clare. I will marry her. And we will be happy. And we will have a child in October. And any harsh words you say now will only make things difficult between us, always, so I’m going to beg you not to say anything until you’ve had some time to think. . . .”
She was without words. Looking at him.
He moved toward her. She stiffened as if forbidding him to touch her.
“I don’t know what to do, Mummy,” he said, using the form of address he hadn’t used for years. “I really don’t. You see I want to talk to you about it all now, and tell you about how happy I am and how much Clare means to me. But I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid you’ll say something so hurtful that I’d find it hard to forgive.”
She nodded mutely.
“So I’m going to go out with Bones for a bit. I’ll come back in at half-past eight. And then I’m going to meet Clare at nine in the hotel. She will have told her family then too.”
“David . . .” It was a sad cry.
He left the room and, pretending he didn’t see his father hovering at the study door, called for Bones. He looked back at the end of the drive, and he saw the two silhouettes in the window. He saw his father put his arms around his mother, who was obviously crying on his shoulder.
