Scéalta Page 8

  The two of them stayed there so long in my sights, and illuminated, I would say – yes, illuminated – in the light coming from the new blossoms above, they were lost so deep in each other, I was able to take them in from head to toe. Her hair, shiny and dark but overgrown made me think of Extresses, I remember, and set up in me a complex of emotions, some good, some bad, as they go after such an experience. He was tall, his hair tan-coloured and inclined to be frizzy. We didn’t do males in Extresses so I was no way affected on his account. Her eyes dark, round like chocolate drops, his lightsome like a cool sparkly drink I never tasted but could imagine …

  What else is there to say? Regarded separately as units they were like anybody else. ‘Common as they come’, as mother would say. It was their combination that made them stand out, like two ordinary little scraps of wire that spark up when they’re brought together. Their dog was a striking fellow. A large and bulky animal, its coat grey with white spots regularly spaced out along the length of his back. As if it had been designed with a lot of planning beforehand. The dog took them away from me, yanking them onwards on a sudden whim, and the murmur of their talk, like the babbling of a stream in the country somewhere, fell away as they moved out of view.

  For a good while I was able to watch them every day, at the one time or the other. As I would see the fat blonde girl with the twin buggy going up and down from the shops at noon. And the business-type man with his briefcase going past at five forty or five forty-five, five minutes give or take on either side. And the Asian lad in his bow tie heading down to his night job in the Blue Orchid. I know all about him because my fiancé insisted on eating out in the Blue Orchid a few times and I was able to pin him down there which was definitely a compensation for having to leave my couch. Lots more, many I’ve forgotten. I had all my regulars. It was only when my couple with the dog stopped coming by that I grew desolate and lost my interest in the others and was confined to looking out always for them.

  And then at last, after my long vigil, they came back. At least he came back, on his own, leading the dog. I should say I could be certain it was him, only because of the dog, who was such a striking dog. It had to be the same dog, no question. But the young man was changed. I saw at once, being trained to hair, that his had lost its curl and had deepened in colour. And he was leaner in his clothes, slender even – yes, slender. And shorter – though I’m prepared to admit that could be a trick of his leaner outline, the proportions altered. Naturally, without her, he would be changed. But the strange thing was he did not seem lonely, his step was brisk as if he had something to do, or to go to, somewhere later on.

  Well, she was away, I concluded. Yes, she would be in the country, visiting her family. A family member had taken sick. Something pressing had called her away, something unavoidable. For he was all her pleasure and all her thoughts …

  But I never was to see her again. Only him, and he always brisk and always cheerful. I had no explanation for it.

  ‘Has he her under the floorboards?’ said my fiancé with a laugh.

  I watched him, the young man I mean, with increasing anxiety after that. Nothing to do with the floorboards remark, of course, I didn’t take that seriously. My fiancé was watching too much television and starving his imagination with its boring plots. No, because of the conviction that was forming in my mind.

  Day by day it was plainer to me. The alterations in his appearance that made him so different to his former self and yet made him so weirdly familiar. Once recognised such insights cannot be put aside again. The fact was, you see, he had come to resemble her. Yes, my realisation was that he had become his girlfriend. While remaining also himself.

  Oh my god, I almost missed him there, thinking too much and not keeping my eye on the street … Here he comes now, that inward but cheerful expression on his girlish – yes, girlish – face. As if absorbed in a self-communing, carrying on a harmonious conversation with himself. And the dog comes to a halt at the railings as it generally does and pulls him towards me so I can see him full on. Though there’s no way he can see me of course, through the perfectly-adjusted slatted blinds. I couldn’t bear for him to think himself watched and adopt another route, I couldn’t bear it. I’ve taken every precaution.

  Already I’ve absorbed the burgundy-striped jeans he’s wearing that used to be hers. But of what significance are the jeans I tell myself firmly. I do not jump easily to conclusions. Anyone can pull on a pair of jeans that happen to be lying on the floor, they are only material – and then I see the really significant thing. Calm, unseeing, his gaze meets mine. And I see that his eyes are no longer pellucid, nor pale. Yes, they are muddied water, tan as milky tea when the cup is half empty and gone too cold …

  That was some time ago. It seems so long ago. Once more he – or they, to be exact – departed my sight. Day by day I watched, waited, four to five. Evening after evening, seven to eight … Watching with a luxuriant frankness and in better comfort since my fiancé is rarely at home these days. His work, the pub, the match, any old excuse will do – he’s fallen into all those distractions, like so many men before him. I’m beginning to fear that avenue is closing off to me. He’s a disappointment. But I do miss the varying expressions of his face.

  Yesterday he came in to pick up something or other he wanted but unfortunately it was at a time when I have to be at my keenest. He went off again without as much as a word. Some of it my fault? A kind of infidelity? I can see he could say that.

  Twenty after four now. It’s a relief, I must say, not to have to think about his tea and to be able to wait in peace. The couch is really perfectly placed since I got the bay window in. I have a much finer view to the right and the left. I get the full panorama now, both ways. The last straw, my fiancé called it. ‘This is the last straw.’ Anger overcame the wary in him. But the bay is worth it.

  The leaves on the cherry tree falling, swirling to left and right as they are carried on the wind. Can they be falling, and so soon? Another year falling, winding – yes, wind-ing down – and again nothing decided, once more nothing accomplished … Another year closer to the final separation, the final solitude. But I won’t give up hope. Hang on, oh, ohmygod can you believe it … He’s coming – they’re coming …

  I tell you, just turned the corner, walking fast, too fast. Nearly a trot. But wait, it can’t be, where’s the dog? And yet it has to be. But the dog not with them, what can that mean? The gait, the swinging hair, as familiar to me as … Is that only the wind catching it, the chilly beams of sunlight, illuminating … No, no, it’s definitely greyed, the hair is greying … It’s like … yes, it’s the dog’s coat … brindled, spotted. Weird designer kind of hair. He’s coming closer, stopping …

  Watches … peers at the ground … and then dashes on, like, like … And he’s snacking away from a packet he holds in his hands. Short stubby hands. Funny, I never thought of them eating, never thought of them doing anything boring like domestic … And he’s right by the railings, comes to a sudden halt … tugs at a biscuit. It’s a Jacob’s Cracker. Throws it between his teeth, fine big teeth … He’s peering in, eager … You could swear he’s looking directly at … Despite myself I shrink back, he shouldn’t see, I should not let him know … But oh, I want him to know, want them …

  Two bites and he has the biscuit swallowed. I watch his face, see it’s plumping up, rounding out … And there he is off again, oh, too soon, swinging down the street as if he’s sniffing the air, cheerful and brisk and eager as … as … I never thought they could, I never imagined … Three in one. Oh, I never thought …

  MARY O’DONNELL

  A Genuine Woman

  The evening before our lives were almost destroyed with shock I went into the garden and leant over the limestone wall. I must have been quite still for some minutes, my thoughts drifting, for quite suddenly the fox appeared. From the corner of my eye I glimpsed it. Then I turned and all I got was an aftermath of orange, rust, the streak of his foxiness left imprinte
d on the eye.

  It’s strange the things you remember. Not the event itself that connected us to the war. That doesn’t come first, although it should, God knows it should. Often, it’s the fox I see when I think of that day, because I also glimpsed one at daybreak, only two days later, as I stood at the landing window with Sean’s old copybook in my hand, as I read and re-read his records: Bag for Season 1939–40. It’s the fox I still see when I try to keep hold of myself after what happened, to keep the thing in my heart. It’s not as if Mike doesn’t know. I believe he does, that he tolerates it, tolerates my struggle with my own heart.

  On Sundays Sean would sometimes take his gun out. He showed me his log-book the day before he died, and for some reason which I cannot recall left it behind him in the kitchen, everything written up in his square handwriting, a month by month and season by season account, dated and totted up to show the total bag for any season. For example, I know that in the first week of February that year he shot seven rabbits, two pigeons, two duck, five teal and four snipe. His total bag for that month came to thirty-three.

  ‘Ah Kate, sure it’s me you should’ve married!’ Sean would tease me.

  ‘You must be joking, boy!’ I’d scoff, smiling in spite of myself, knowing what would come next.

  ‘I might not be much, I know that …’

  That bit always upset me. Maybe he was smart, running himself down like that, or maybe he was truly humble. I think he was humble, quite different from Mike, who, when I thought about it, had had everything at his beck and call.

  Mike was always coddled. Adored by all, his mother and father, and the aunt and uncle that reared him. Loaned at the age of two to the aunt for a few weeks, sent the few miles down the road to their farm, before long he had them charmed. Just like he charmed me later on. His parents, who had children of their own, left him there. An act of compassion, you might say. Whatever way they loved him, it filled him with ideas and plans and interests. Now he is the creamery manager at the Shelburne Co-Operative Society, Campile, and I am his wife. The aunt frowned on me. Still does. Not good enough. A dairymaid that spent her days whacking butter after the churning, shaping and squaring the pound and half-pound with the butter-clappers till it fitted the waxy paper. The ridges of the clappers had to be scrubbed till they were sterile.

  ‘Sterility is everything! Everything!’ Mike would roar at us girls, terrified of bacteria.

  But he was a gentleman, I’ll say that for him. That continued after the wedding too. When first I began to notice his interest in me, I was struck by his nervousness. He was almost cold. Almost. He can look very strict when he’s not sure of his ground. Fear makes him himself more erect than ever, the shoulders stiffen and his face is like a mask, the long hollows below his cheekbones full of shadows and the darkness which hints at where he shaves.

  But then he began to consult me about things that were unnecessary and obvious to anyone but an imbecile. He would point out different aspects of the new machinery in the dairy, running his hand over the tinned copper piping, or along the side of the great vats. Everything in our working lives was milky. The smell of it, the froth of it as it rose in the vats when the farmers delivered, then the other smell that came when it was heated, for separation, to one hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit. When the cream came off, it in turn was pasteurised to one hundred and ninety degrees Fahrenheit. The slops, the skim went back to the farmers for whatever use they wished. The dairy had a biscuity, safe odour, almost of the breast, except nicer and sweeter, and there was maybe a thousand gallons of the stuff.

  I wore a new suit for our wedding, dark green wool with a black velvet collar and velvet trimming along the edges. The buttons were in a lighter green, some kind of glassy stuff. He insisted on going to Dublin to choose the best he could afford. The wedding was reported in the local newspaper, ending with the words: The happy couple are spending their honeymoon touring the West of Ireland. We stayed in The Old Ground Hotel, Ennis, then we visited the Burren. A strange place, compared to what we were used to. I could not feel safe on those great plains of stone, no matter what unusual flowers and weeds grow there. The Cliffs of Moher terrified me. Mike became impatient with me, because I refused to stand up in the huge gales that blew that day. If the truth be told, I often felt lonely on my honeymoon. The only place I warmed to was a coral strand in Connamara, one evening as the sun turned the restless waters of the Atlantic to floating fires, and the mountains behind us were foxlike in colour.

  Afterwards, Mike thought of everything. He never wanted me to be worn out having children year after year, like his own mother before him. Ours were never to be reared with an aunt or uncle, no matter how kindly. So children we had. Two sons. Then no more children. He saw to that on his one and only trip to London. On his return, they didn’t check his luggage at Customs. It is one of those things that still fills me with mirth, to think of those grim-faced customs officers watching out for dirty books and pictures and preventatives of any kind. The things he took home to Campile proved useful enough, once we understood how to use them. The book, which was written by a woman called Mrs Marie Stopes, explained everything. These items I kept in the mahogany tallboy, in a special drawer with a lock on it, for my woman’s things, (where I also keep Sean’s copybook now). Mike thought that the best thing, that I would have recourse to the preventatives when and as I thought necessary. He was not, in spite of the care that he took to provide the things that helped us in matters of love, a great initiator. That was left up to me. Still and all, Mr DeValera up in Dublin city was well and truly foxed, hell mend him!

  When the boys were six and four, Sean Flynn began to bring our milk up the road to the house in a bucket, the froth still on the top and it still warm from the cow. I pasteurised it my own way, by boiling it first, then leaving it to cool. When it had cooled, the crinkled skin, which we all hated, could be scooped off.

  I was nicely settled in my married life, no worries of a material kind. On Sundays Mike’s mother and aunt would sometimes visit us, bringing flowers for me and sweets for the children. I hated those afternoons, stifling they were, with lots of talk about who was sick and who had just died. Of course, the old people, being nearer to death than most of us, liked to dwell on it. It wasn’t so bad when Mike’s uncle came too. He had an eye for the women, it was said. Either way, he liked me, and he liked the tea I made, strong and black. He would hug me longer than necessary when he arrived and when he went. He meant no harm. I did not receive such a lot of hugs when I was a child, and took what affections he gave. Sometimes Mike and I and the boys would take a drive in the motorcar, in and around the Black Stairs Mountains, uphill and down dale, always with our camera at the ready.

  During the week when Sean called, he and I would get to talking, and could we laugh! That’s part of the trouble between men and women. As soon as you can laugh together, there’s a chance you’ll grow close. At that time, it was no more than laughter. He’d tell me funny stories about the ones down in the dairy, or how Mike wouldn’t let Pat the Wheels, one of the Wheels Lynches, on account of all the cartwheels lying around their farm, deliver milk until he learnt how to scald his churns properly. Mike was a devil, he was like something possessed when he started on that. But Sean made it sound a hoot, and even though I was laughing at Mike, we both were, we didn’t mean it unkindly. ‘You can’t imagine what class of craytures would be in that milk, Pat,’ Sean would imitate Mike, pulling himself up to his full height, ‘Craytures that could kill us all and have the creamery shut down by the men in Dublin,’ he’d carry on, ‘things that’d have you rolling on the floor with the pain in your gut. Then where’d we be at all, at all? Peritonitis is it? Is that what we want?’

  Sean was small, yet somehow he could do Mike to a T, and I’d be falling around the place with laughter, burying my face in my apron.

  ‘And then,’ says Sean, gripping my forearm to hold my attention even more, ‘and then Pat, he says like, all stammery, “Ye mean … ye mean …
enough to kill a man?” and your good husband he says nothin’ at all, just stands there tellin’ it with his eyes, by gob but you should see him Kate!’

  Sometimes I stopped the laughing game before it ran its full course. If the children were up the fields Sean could spend half the morning with me. I’d carry on as usual, doing everything I would normally do – bread in the oven, eggs gathered – the only difference being that I was aware of Sean. Sometimes he brought a couple of rabbits, shot earlier in the day, and we’d skin them together. Eventually, I let him do it himself. Skinning creatures has never appealed to me, even though, properly done, it peels off like a little grey jumper. Sometimes he helped me scrub the bedsheets, up and down with the brush on the washboard.

  ‘That’s enough now Sean,’ I’d say, doing my best to be sensible.

  ‘Ah go on would you Kate, sure what harm? Can’t I give you a hand now and then?’

  ‘No harm. But still.’

  ‘Still what?’

  I could never answer that. I did not want to say the words. But then, one day I did.

  ‘You’re a single man.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ he said, smiling slowly at me then.

  ‘You know how I’m fixed,’ I said, expecting him to take notice.

  ‘Not a one cares. Sure they think I’m a featherhead. An aul fella with one aul gun and no thoughts of an’thin’ beyond his station.’

  I turned my back then. I did not want him to see me blush. I was suddenly happy, a bit afraid too, but mostly happy. Perhaps something happens to us in spring. That spring I was like a mad thing, full of the happiness that came from talking to Sean. His eyes were bright blue, with a dark scar above one eyebrow where he fell on glass as a child. He had a headful of curly hair, very little grey for his age, all his own teeth too. I used to watch as he moved around the kitchen, talking away about this one and that one. The hair curled lightly on his forearms, down to the backs of his hands, which were very long and strong. A lifetime’s labouring had shaped them.