Be Careful What You Wish For, page 19
‘School teachers don’t have the luxury of a lunch break long enough to pay restaurant visits,’ snapped her sister. ‘I’m in no position to drop everything on a weekday and gallivant with you.’
Don’t allow her to rile you. Big breaths, Helen advised herself. The hackneyed Carry On joke, ‘Yeth, and I’m only thickthteen’, sprang to mind. A chuckle bubbled out and the giddy burst of euphoria that lacquered it empowered her to handle her prickly sister.
‘So how about if I meet you when school’s out, say four o’clock? We can have afternoon tea somewhere. Lady Grey tea – is that still your favourite? Lady Grey tea and scones with cream. Sounds an idyllic way to spend a Thursday afternoon to me.’
It struck a chord with Geraldine too, who sniffed but issued precise directions about where to park and which table to choose in the Carleton if Helen arrived there ahead of her. Helen had every intention of doing precisely that because Geraldine became rigid with hostility if she were kept waiting. And there was no sense in driving to Galway to rekindle a relationship with a sister whose antagonism was stoked by the time she arrived.
Helen decided to skip dinner. Her energy levels were drooping; all she craved now was to crawl between the starched white sheets already turned down by a hotel employee, and sleep until it was time to drive again. She was too tired to find a nightdress and slid under the duvet in her pants. Her brain switched to oblivion as soon she was horizontal but shortly after 1 a.m. something woke her. It may have been the sound of the people in the room next door, knocking over furniture as they fumbled for the light. Or it could have been the dream that left her tingling with desire so insistent she was propelled back into consciousness. She lay there, acutely attuned to her body, and the dream bloated her senses.
Patrick tracks her down to Sligo after all; he arrives at the hotel and persuades the receptionist he’s her husband. He is supplied with a key and lets himself into the room. Then, without disturbing her, eases himself into bed beside her.
When Helen awoke the sensation of his mouth trailing kisses from instep to calf was vivid. As was the wasteland within her when she realised she was alone in the bed. A thread of sweat trickled between her breasts, needlepoint raw on her bare skin. Helen threw off the duvet and snatched a T-shirt from her overnight bag to cover herself. Then she lifted the book on her bedside locker, the Nora Barnacle biography Molly had given her for Christmas. Dawn was breaking before her eyelids slanted downwards again.
Helen sat in the Carleton within view of the entrance. Geraldine’s face as she swooped through the swinging door tangled with a spot in Helen’s diaphragm and winded her, just as it always did. It was their father’s face turned feminine. Same Slavic cheekbones, same thin nose with flaring nostrils, same high forehead, same scantily defined eyebrows above the palest of blue eyes, same shoulder blades that sloped too steeply away from the elongated neck. Smaller versions, granted, a simulacrum none the less. Patrick and Helen resembled their mother – both darker-haired than Geraldine, with creamy skin that didn’t take readily to the sun, unlike her tanned complexion.
The sisters kissed awkwardly, bumping chins.
‘Mademoiselle Sharkey,’ said Helen. She sometimes called Geraldine that since she qualified as a French teacher – an attempt at an affectionate nickname. ‘I brought you these.’ She pushed a beribboned package towards Geraldine containing crystal stud earrings which reflected rainbows of light. She’d bought them that morning on a final stroll around Sligo.
‘It’s not my birthday,’ countered Geraldine.
‘I know. I liked them, I hoped you might too.’
Geraldine lifted one of the glass studs from its box and held it against her left ear. ‘What’s the verdict?’
‘Dazzling. They show off your Turkish tan. Did you have a good holiday?’
‘No such thing as a bad one. Not compared with the alternative.’
The waitress arrived and Geraldine looked enquiringly at Helen.
‘I haven’t ordered yet, I was waiting for you,’ said Helen. ‘Why don’t you choose for both of us?’
This pleased Geraldine, who liked to take charge. She fired off a volley of instructions to the waitress and then deposited her new earrings in her handbag. It was a Prada; Geraldine was partial to logos.
They chatted about her job in an all-girls’ school, about Auntie Maureen’s funeral, about Geraldine’s plans to do Italy thoroughly from boot toe to knee during her summer holiday, about the criminal house prices in Dublin, and sure Galway wasn’t much better. Geraldine set the agenda. Helen tuned in and out until a remark from her sister poached her full attention.
‘His lordship was flying back to London today. He couldn’t manage to squeeze me in before he left despite being home for days on end. Family means nothing to that fellow.’
‘Do you mean Patrick?’
‘Certainly I mean Patrick.’ Geraldine dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a canary-yellow serviette. ‘I intimated I might be willing to take a run up to Dublin this weekend. I could have called by the Alliance Française and met up with him afterwards but he wasn’t having any of it. Pleaded some excuse about this Miriam woman leaning on him and the work piling up. What do you know about Miriam, anyway? You’d imagine he’d make some effort to introduce her to his sisters.’
Helen shrugged. ‘She’s a nurse, they live together, he met her through a former work colleague who’s her brother – that’s the height of it.’
Geraldine sniffed. ‘Little enough. Is she Irish?’
‘Not a drop of Irish blood in her veins to the best of my knowledge.’
Geraldine sniffed again; Helen contemplated offering her a tissue but decided that would be construed as provocative.
‘Rare enough in London,’ said Geraldine. ‘Is she Catholic at least?’
‘Geraldine, I couldn’t care less if she’s Hindu and neither, I suspect, could Patrick.’ Helen allowed irritation to streak her voice but the other woman was unconcerned.
‘These things acquire an importance where children are involved.’
Helen crushed and frayed her serviette, tussling with her exasperation. ‘Not in London they don’t, nor in Dublin, for that matter. I doubt if it makes a blind bit of difference in Galway. This isn’t Fethard on Sea, you know, and Fethard on Sea probably isn’t Fethard on Sea any more either. And don’t even think about using a ridiculous expression such as “mixed marriages”. Patrick and his fiancée –’ Helen stumbled over the word – ‘are planning to live in London and for all I know they may not be intending to have children. In any event, it’s hardly relevant at the moment. They haven’t even set a date.’
‘It’s a pity Mammy and Daddy aren’t here to see him wed,’ said Geraldine. ‘Although they’d have preferred it to take place in Kilkenny instead of England. Still, I suppose it’s traditional to go to the bride’s home.’
Their parents were both dead. Their apoplectic father had keeled over with a heart attack five years previously. Their mother had found him slumped face down on a slice of toast and honey, a wasp gorging alongside his left nostril, when she returned to the kitchen from pegging out washing. Shortly afterwards she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’d touched the contours of a lump some years previously but hadn’t liked to make a fuss and no one was told until the disease had a noosehold; she’d simply withered away. The family home had been sold, with the proceeds split three ways. Helen had used the money as a deposit on an apartment, which she’d later sold to buy her house. She suspected Geraldine had bought property also from an incautious reference to a flat she rented out to students to supplement her income – how else could she afford so many foreign holidays? But Helen didn’t choose to pry and Geraldine was tightfisted with personal information, particularly of a financial nature. As for Patrick, he’d splashed out on a Corvette Stingray and driven it into the ground.
Helen, always circumspect around Geraldine, became cautious with the subject of Patrick’s wedding. She’d exhorted him to marry but now that it was being discussed as common currency she felt overwhelmed by the prospect of losing him. Once his life was inextricably enmeshed with another woman’s, Helen’s place in his universe would shrivel. Of course that was healthy and positive … but it stung.
Geraldine perked up. ‘How about if we take a trip to London for Easter and meet this mysterious Miriam whose surname no one seems to know?’
Helen was aghast. She preferred Miriam insubstantial. And she certainly didn’t want to see her with Patrick – touching his arm, proprietary, calling him darling in that confident English way. Would you freshen my drink, darling; could you answer the doorbell, darling; can we ram our coupledom down a few more throats, darling? Only English people talked about freshening drinks; it always made Helen think of someone squirting an air purifier into the glass.
‘I don’t think they have a spare bedroom,’ she objected. ‘Patrick was complaining about how small their flat is.’
‘We can find a bed and breakfast. It’ll only be for a night or two.’ Geraldine was not to be deterred.
‘Besides I’m not due any more holiday time – it’s all used up,’ continued Helen.
‘There’s a four-day weekend at Easter, you won’t need to dip into your holiday time. I feel we owe it to Mammy and Daddy to do this. Patrick may be an important London actuary but he’s still the baby of the family. Imagine if he’s taken up with someone totally unsuitable – we can’t exactly shout halt as she approaches the altar rails.’
‘We can’t exactly shout halt now. He’s a grown man; he doesn’t need our seal of approval. Anyway, if she’s good enough for Patrick she’s fine by me. I’m simply astonished he feels able to commit to marriage – that he thinks he’s found one woman who’ll supply all his emotional, physical and intellectual needs and that she’ll go on doing it for the next fifty years.’ Astringency crept into Helen’s voice and she made no effort to mask it. ‘It’s a leap of faith I could never make. The entire business seems woefully unfeasible.’
Helen knew she was being inconsistent – hadn’t she urged Patrick to marriage? – but she couldn’t stem the feelings of betrayal. He was back in Miriam’s arms right now and she was making small talk with Geraldine, who’d end up as shrivelled and unloved as herself.
Geraldine was nonplussed. She’d never heard that acidic note in the determinedly serene Helen’s voice before. She checked herself; actually she had, but it had been many years ago when they were both children, perhaps thirteen and fourteen – when she’d pledged to escape from under their parents’ roof and never return after one of her father’s … Geraldine hesitated over the word beatings. That was too strong. Chastisements. Sometimes he disciplined Helen for her own good because she was headstrong and needed to be checked.
Geraldine couldn’t imagine why Patrick’s marriage was touching an exposed nerve in Helen. She examined the face a few feet away. People occasionally told her it was lovely but she couldn’t make a judgement call, for it was almost as familiar as her own. But now she noticed purple-grey shadows under the eyes and the collarbone protruding at a more prominent angle, suggesting weight loss. Perhaps Helen was overworked and spent physically – that could be what was denting her composure. In which case, surmised Geraldine, a weekend break in London was the perfect tonic.
Ignoring Helen’s remonstrations as blithely as she disregarded the chorus of ‘Oh, miss’ when she announced an exam to one of her classes, Geraldine deliberated aloud.
‘If we book now we can probably swing cheap seats – maybe one of those two-for-the-price-of-one deals. We’d certainly need to get moving and confirm times and dates because Easter is always manic for flights. Do you prefer flying into Stansted or Gatwick? I’ll come up to Dublin the night before and stay with you, then we can share a taxi to the airport. Or better still, catch the airport bus. Those Dublin taxi-drivers must imagine people are made of money.’
Helen considered pouring the dregs in her teacup over her sister but drank them instead. They were cold and trailed sourly in her mouth. She had two options: she could lose her temper or she could conserve it. She forced herself to speak evenly. ‘Geraldine, go to London if you like but count me out. I have other plans for Easter.’
‘What sort of plans?’
Helen improvised. ‘I promised Molly I’d go to Derry with her. Her mother’s expecting us. She’s forever inviting me, I’ve run out of excuses. Anyway, I’ve never walked the city walls. I’m told there’s a bird’s-eye view of the Bogside murals: Bernadette Devlin in her student days, all long-haired and fiery, and ready to topple the Establishment single-handed, with the other civil rights protesters ranged behind her. I’m ashamed of myself, Geraldine. I’ll gladly rattle over unapproved roads and tramp through fields to examine megalithic rock art if the guide book recommends it, but I’ve never troubled myself to look at a wall daubed with living history a couple of hundred miles up the road.’
Actually she’d seen the murals already with Molly as her personal guide, but Geraldine didn’t know that. As for Easter in Derry … she could always claim that Mrs Molloy cancelled nearer the time.
‘I might still go to London on my own.’ Geraldine exuded scratchiness. She resented it when her plans were thwarted.
‘Grand.’ Helen stroked the tumescent body of the teapot.
‘Some people might put family first.’
‘Molly is family to me.’
Geraldine slumped moodily. Helen knew she wouldn’t risk a visit to Patrick alone, she’d be too uncertain of her welcome. Geraldine and Patrick were never intimate as children, for she resented his preferential treatment as the only son and he bucked against her imperious elder sister stance. Nowadays they behaved towards each other with polite reserve – and Geraldine continued to use Helen as a conduit to Patrick, much as she had when they were children.
Geraldine fidgeted, poking her nails beneath the logo on her bag. Helen warmed to her in her discomfort. It was pointless driving to Galway especially to see Geraldine and then making her miserable. Say something to change the subject.
‘What age groups are you teaching this year?’
‘Thirteen to sixteen.’ Geraldine – she was never Ger or Gerry – continued to fuss with her bag.
Helen signalled for fresh tea and watched Geraldine for evidence of a thaw. ‘Difficult age, all those free-floating hormones. I was a demon myself at that stage. I suppose they give the teachers lip, don’t take to discipline at all – there’s none in the home so they react like little madams when they come up short against it in school.’
Geraldine abandoned her logo. ‘You’ve no idea.’ Animation warmed her tapered features. ‘They all have mobile phones and boyfriends and they’re let gallivant the country at weekends. The sixteen-year-olds believe oral sex is no big deal. When I was their age I thought oral sex meant talking about it.’ Helen laughed dutifully. ‘They’ve nothing to learn, these girls. The only way I can keep a check on them is by confiscating their phones – that’s the one punishment to hit them where it hurts.’
The teapot arrived and Geraldine paused in her assessment of thirteen-to-sixteen-year-olds to request clean cups, insinuating the optimum amount of arsenic into her tone to prompt the harassed waitress to break into a trot. ‘Something happens to them when they hit their teens, I’m convinced of it,’ she went on. ‘You can have the prettiest, most obliging little twelve-year-old in your class and wham! she turns thirteen and you may as well write her off for the next four years.’
‘So they revert to sweetpeas around seventeen?’ suggested Helen.
Geraldine reluctantly admitted something of an improvement and stacked the discarded cups and saucers.
Helen racked her brain to give Geraldine another opportunity for a rant to restore her equanimity. Inspiration dallied but then made a belated appearance.
‘Are you still involved with amateur dramatics?’
Geraldine, it transpired, was virtually single-handedly staging a production of Philadelphia, Here I Come. About the only role she wasn’t taking on was an acting one but everything else from costumes to sponsorship was her responsibility. She had contemplated updating the play but her cohorts prohibited her from writing to Brian Friel for permission to send Gar to Hong Kong instead of Philadelphia, plus a few other liberties she had in mind. Such as recasting him as a banker so that she could approach the Allied Irish Bank for a donation. Helen shuddered but Geraldine was too engrossed to notice.
Public Gar and Private Gar were both wooing her, she confided in Helen, but she was irresolute about which to bestow her favours on. Public Gar was witty but sported a dodgy bandito moustache; Private Gar had a boat he could take her sailing in and beguiling dimples when he grinned but he only reached up to her chin.
‘Which would you choose, Helen?’
‘The one with the biggest mickey.’ Helen’s hand flew over her mouth as the words escaped. She’d never said anything like it to her sister before and expected a prudish response. ‘That wasn’t me, that was my evil twin,’ she gasped, but Geraldine was already in knots of laughter and suggesting a certain amount of auditioning might be required. They indulged in badinage along the lines of go for it and I’ll keep you posted and a letter would take too long, email me instead – and all the time Helen marvelled that she could have a Molly conversation with her own sister; it must be a first.
After they’d exhausted the two Gars’ possibilities and contemplated the director as an outside contender should the others prove disappointing, Geraldine returned to Auntie Maureen’s funeral. Their aunt was their mother’s sister and had no children of her own so she’d always been particularly attentive to the three Sharkeys. Geraldine considered she hadn’t dissected her penultimate pain-drenched weeks or the funeral arrangements in adequate detail and Helen humoured her. It was ironic, commented Geraldine, that their childless aunt died from ovarian cancer. Helen was taken aback by her sister’s lateral viewpoint but conceded there was a certain paradox inherent in the situation.
