Three Wise Men, page 33
Gloria reflects: ‘Not a bit of it.’
‘Well then, just mark the days off your calendar. Won’t your mother be down soon?’
‘Not until a fortnight before my due date, there’s no point in having her hanging around indefinitely. And they say first-timers often go well over on their dates. Cruel, isn’t it?’
‘Monstrous, Glo.’
Kate’s decided it’s as well to agree with Gloria these days, she’s apt to burst into tears if you say anything controversial – ‘I see the slugs have been at your peonies’ or ‘They’ve postponed Fair City, there’s a football match on.’ Cue waterworks.
‘He’s kicking again now, would you like to feel?’ Gloria invites Kate.
‘No,’ she shudders, ‘that’s too much like nature in the raw. Why’s he kicking, anyhow?’
‘To remind us he’s here. As though there’s any danger of me forgetting. Are you still game to be present at the birth?’
‘Absolutely,’ Kate promises her.
After all, she thinks, she’s going to end up as this child’s godmother – Gloria has to ask her, who else is there?
‘Provided,’ adds Kate, ‘there’s no screeching, no blood, and you can guarantee the doctor delivering you will look like George Clooney out of ER.’
‘No problem, it’ll be a dawdle. You can chat up my medic while I quietly give birth in a corner of the room, doing my best not to interrupt the pair of you.’
‘As long as that’s settled. Jack been prowling around lately?’
‘No sign of him, Kate,’ admits Gloria. ‘Perhaps he’s finally got the message.’
‘Nah. He’s busy doing a crash course in gynaecology so he can deliver the baby for you. He probably thinks you won’t recognise him behind his surgical mask.’
‘Not funny.’ She looks at Kate reprovingly.
‘Sorry,’ she apologises, in case Gloria’s hormones decide to take an interest in their conversation. ‘Thought about the christening yet?’
‘I’ve been giving it a great deal of thought,’ she admits. ‘They don’t actually expect me to do any work at school these days, it’s enough that I turn up, so I’ve been making lists.’
‘Is that so? Obviously a woman who means business.’
‘I’m going to spend my few remaining paltry punts and throw a party – let’s face it, this is probably the only baby I’ll have so I may as well mark his arrival in style. I’m going to round up all the distant cousins, book caterers, have a chocolate cake in the shape of a crib and buy myself a new frock. James Spencer Mallon is going to have a christening day to remember, even if he won’t. Remember it, I mean.’
‘Spencer? So you weren’t kidding your mother?’
‘I was at the time but the name grew on me. My father was a big fan of Spencer Tracy’s. He liked Henry Fonda too but I can’t bring myself to call the blob Henry, not even for a second name. What if he grew up to have six wives?’
‘At least he won’t be allowed to decapitate them these days,’ Kate comforts Gloria. ‘So we’re to prepare ourselves for the mother of all parties, sounds good to me.’
Gloria regards her defiantly. ‘And I’m inviting Eimear.’
Kate is taken aback. ‘Are you sure about that? I mean, I think it’s a splendid idea but what if she wrecks the occasion, what if she’s determined to cause a scene in front of your family and friends? It could be awkward.’
‘Eimear’s not a scene-causer. A scene-stealer, yes, but she’d never throw a wobbler in front of witnesses,’ says Gloria. ‘It’s up to her if she accepts the invitation, I can only extend the olive branch.’
Kate examines her scheme for flaws. ‘You’ve nothing to lose and a friend to gain, it’s worth a try. Just so long as you don’t rub salt in her wounds by inviting Jack too.’
‘I’d sooner ask Mick,’ she shudders. ‘Now he IS someone who’d probably turn up specifically to cause maximum embarrassment.’
‘Poor Mick,’ murmurs Kate.
‘I know,’ Gloria’s regretful. ‘Where did it all go wrong.’
‘Now, now.’ Kate’s determined to avoid the threatened mood swing. ‘Back to the party. You can’t have it too soon, you must lose some of the flab first.’
‘This isn’t fat, it’s all baby,’ she insists.
‘Of course it is, and I’m Sinead O’Connor.’
‘Well, give us a song then, how about “I Wish I Were A Maid Again”?’
‘Too late for that,’ Kate tells her. ‘You’ll have to go on a diet after the boy wonder arrives – there’s a price to pay for all those winegums.’
‘I’d better enjoy them while I can then.’ Gloria opens a new bag. ‘Anyway I’ve come up with a way of making sure Eimear comes to the christening.’
‘What’s that?’ Kate asks, liberating a yellow winegum.
‘I’m going to ask her to be godmother.’
CHAPTER 39
A woman who wishes to conceive should walk naked in her vegetable patch on Midsummer Eve.
That’s one way to do it, Gloria supposes. She wishes she’d known this years ago, a fortune could have been saved at the fertility clinic. She’s propped up in bed reading the invaluable advice from Paganism: A Beginner’s Guide, bought in a discount shop.
Pagan christenings are all the go, she’s seen photographs of them: fellows who kit themselves out as druids and conduct open-air ceremonies, where the infant is held aloft and blessings invited from the four elements.
‘What do you think?’ Gloria addresses her bulge. ‘Will it be a windswept hilltop or the Church of the Holy Name? I think so too, indoor services are infinitely more civilised.’
No more work, she stretches languorously. Just her and James, no noisy pupils, no homework to mark, no queuing for lunchtime sandwiches. No one to talk to though, she decides to give Kate a call.
‘Ms McGlade is in a meeting right now, can I take a message?’
It’s Bridie, her relentlessly efficient secretary. Is Kate really in a meeting or is Bridie shielding her from time-wasters? Gloria can’t leave the message she wants to, that she’s baking a ginger cake in the afternoon and she’ll save her a slice. It sounds far too trivial.
‘Just tell her Gloria called, nothing urgent, I wanted to ask her to drop by later if she’s free.’
The day stretches endlessly. Gloria wanders into the kitchen and peers into the cupboard, half-hoping she’s out of flour. No such luck. Nine months is a gargantuan gestation period, you should be allowed time off for good behaviour. Mind you, she wouldn’t be entitled to any remission – she blotted her copybook on the day of conception.
James Spencer Mallon’s conception. Gloria is reminded of Jack, part of him was there at the conception, after all. Against her will, Kate’s story about a five-year-old boy dangling from a tree, aching for his father, resurfaces. Such a pathetic scene, the expectant child on sentry duty day after day. It doesn’t excuse him for the way he is but it certainly goes a long way towards explaining it. She sets flour, treacle and ginger on the worktop and extracts margarine from the fridge.
‘This is useless, you have to be in the mood to bake cakes and I only fancy eating them,’ she says.
Gloria wanders out to the garden, deadheading a few late tulips. ‘Trollops from Amsterdam,’ she sings to entertain herself, but it doesn’t work. She could bring a deckchair out and sit in the sun, except the rays aren’t warm enough for basking – you have to keep walking to drain any benefit from them.
‘I’m lonely,’ she complains to some dying daffodil stalks.
She’ll be obliged to ask her mother to stay, she’s desperate for company. Her mother’s probably lonely herself and missing Daddy. A pang of guilt pierces Gloria: she hasn’t been particularly attentive since her father died, she assumed Rudy and his wife would take care of her since they live so close.
‘I’ve been preoccupied with my own life,’ she scolds herself.
Plus – and maybe she’s being hyper-sensitive here – she can’t help feeling that her mother watches Gloria with puzzled eyes, wondering how her life has taken such an unexpected hairpin bend. They’ve had long phone conversations, Gloria’s been up for a couple of weekends, but she hasn’t had her mother to Dublin to stay with her and that’s selfish. She’d have loved a wander along Grafton Street and a cup of coffee in the Shelbourne. She’s hardly a demanding house-guest.
‘I’ll make it up to her,’ Gloria promises the daffodil stalks, before retreating into the house. ‘Suppose I may as well get dressed.’ She’s still wearing her bathrobe and it’s nearly lunchtime. ‘Can’t let my standards slip.’
Two o’clock and still nothing to do. She’s washed, dressed, lunched, and only an hour and a bit has been used up. She tries reading her Thomas Hardy but it’s so depressing, you need to be feeling positively ebullient before tackling Jude the Obscure. She replaces the marker in the book just one page further along and wills the phone into life.
‘Ring,’ she orders, with her most determined thought waves. It stays remorselessly silent.
Wouldn’t you think that Kate might have phoned her back. She checks the connection in case it’s off the hook, it isn’t.
‘I bet Bridie didn’t give her the message in case it diverted her from work. That’s the trouble with Kate when she’s between men, she hurls herself into the job. If Bridie had her way she’d never look sideways at a fellow again.’ She decides to give Jude another chance to be less obscure.
Gloria wonders if Jack is better than no father at all. She knows he has a track record that stinks when it comes to women but that doesn’t mean he’s hopeless with babies.
Uh-oh, she thinks, I know where this train of thought is leading.
She takes a deep breath. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’
He did give her the sperm to make this baby, though, she couldn’t have managed it without him. And what if he’s right, what if she does see his face every day reflected in her son’s? And what if the baby grows up resenting his lack of a father or imagining he’s unlovable, the way Jack did?
Gloria lifts the Golden Pages down from the shelf, looks up the number for Trinity College and dials.
‘Professor O’Brien is giving a lecture, would you care to leave a message?’
Would she? Gloria is dubious. In fact, she’s unsure why she’s calling his office.
‘Caller – would you care to leave a message?’
‘It’s Gloria Mallon, he has my number.’
She rings off, feeling like she’s run a marathon. She hopes she doesn’t regret this.
Gloria switches on the television set as the opening titles of Pillow Talk flash up. Her spirits lift – Rock Hudson and Doris Day, just what she needs. It’s extremely suggestive, in an innocent sort of way. Rock’s a womaniser and Doris is disgusted by his philandering.
‘If there’s one thing worse than a woman living alone, it’s a woman who says she likes living alone,’ says Doris Day’s daily help.
Gloria stores that gem away to contemplate later. In the meantime she’s fascinated by Rock’s bachelor pad; if that apartment was a dog it would have to be spayed.
The phone shrills, just as Rock and Doris are in a nightclub and he’s rescuing her from the clutches of a drunken admirer.
‘Gloria? It’s Jack, I’ve just been handed your message.’
Why did she leave her name, it was boredom – she’ll fob him off.
‘It was nothing important,’ she begins but he interrupts, concern pitching his voice higher than usual.
‘Is everything all right with the baby?’
The baby, that’s all he cares about. She could be on a life-support machine but as long as the baby was growing safely inside her it wouldn’t take a fidget out of him.
‘MY baby is perfectly well, thank you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. How are you managing on your own – do you feel like company? I’m finished for the afternoon, why don’t I stop by and see you? Just for a few minutes. I could bring you some groceries if there’s anything you need.’
‘Well …’
She’s tempted. She’s out of winegums, milk and fresh fruit. Gloria’s been delaying an expedition to the shop, she can’t muster the energy even to go the length of Centra on the Ranelagh Road. He detects her hesitation and pounces.
‘I’m on my way, tell me what you need.’
Gloria watches Rock escort Doris home (he takes her key to open the door for her – now why don’t men do that for us any more) and considers pulling a comb through her hair. But she feels too lethargic; besides, he’s coming to inspect the bump, she could be a shop mannequin for all he cares. The doorbell rings; the man must have broken land speed records getting here. She struggles from the sofa with the grace of a walrus and in comes Jack, arms full of shopping.
‘I thought I’d cook you a meal if you’ll let me,’ he smiles in a way she’d have called bashful if she didn’t know him better. ‘I’m renowned for my peppered steak.’
‘I can’t manage spicy food, the baby objects,’ Gloria says with ill grace.
‘Then you’ll be even more enamoured of my steak in mushroom sauce.’ He hands her the Colossus of Rhodes masquerading as a bag of winegums and makes for the kitchen. ‘Go back to the television and put your feet up, I’ll bring you through a cup of tea.’
‘Thanks for permission to do what I want in my own home,’ she mutters.
Tea with fresh scones and raspberry jam are on a tray on her lap minutes later. They watch the film in companionable silence.
‘I had such a crush on her when I was a kid,’ remarks Jack.
‘Me too.’
Part of her is thinking, ‘This is beyond weird, Mallon,’ and part of her is thinking, ‘It’s lovely to have a man about the house.’ Don’t think, just watch the box.
Long before Doris and Rock – what a name, he’d never get away with it today; just imagine, Rock Stallone or Rock Willis – long before Doris and Rock have melted into the inevitable clinch. Jack lifts the tray and heads purposefully for the cooker. Chopping noises and sizzling smells drift up the corridor and the radio plays softly in the background. She closes her eyes and drifts away.
‘I thought we’d eat in the kitchen.’
She opens her eyes, startled. God oh God oh God, she must’ve looked like a trout with her mouth open, snoring away.
‘Fine by me.’ Gloria attempts to rise and fails miserably because her left leg thinks the rest of her body is still asleep.
Jack bends to lift her but thinks better of it. She chuckles, although the joke’s on her.
‘I wouldn’t try any gallant gestures unless you want to rupture something, just lend me an arm to lean on.’
He guides her towards the kitchen, illuminated by a pair of candles flickering on the table and the light above the cooker – it’s still daylight but she recalls Jack’s penchant for candlelight from her visit to his Trinity rooms.
Gloria raises an eyebrow. ‘Surely you’re not setting the scene for a seduction?’ she asks, rather bravely considering. But an eight-month bump lends courage.
‘Old habits die hard,’ he shrugs. ‘I thought it looked more inviting this way.’
‘So it does,’ she agrees, although by far the best sight is the plate heaped with steak, mushrooms, mashed potatoes and broccoli. There’s an uncorked bottle of red wine on the table and two glasses.
His eyes follow hers to the wine.
‘I didn’t know if you’d be able for half a glass, maybe diluted with water?’
‘Heavens above, I’m pregnant.’ Contrition sets in when she sees his wounded expression. ‘Doctors say there’s nothing wrong with the odd glass of wine but I don’t care to take any chances, I want to give this baby the best start I can. I’m probably being over-protective but it just seems the right course of action.’
‘Of course it is.’ He guides her to the seat furthest away from the oven, one padded with cushions from the living room. The man’s a saint. A reformed sinner anyway.
They chat over dinner – not about pregnancy, or Eimear, or Kate, but about current affairs (she has so much time on her hands she reads the newspaper from cover to cover instead of just turning to the television guide). He clears the dishes and produces a trifle.
‘Did you rustle this up too while I was sleeping?’ Gloria pushes straggling hairs behind her ears.
‘Shop bought,’ he confesses. ‘But I whipped the cream myself.’
‘That counts as home made.’ She accepts a huge helping. ‘Eimear never told me what a dab hand in the kitchen you are.’
‘That’s because I wasn’t around her, to my shame,’ he refills his wineglass.
The wine is black-red, Gloria watches a drop splash on the pine table and spread out in a spiky pattern.
‘She’s so capable in the kitchen, as she is in all areas of her life, that I simply didn’t bother. When I tried to cook a meal it wasn’t a treat for her, she worried about whether I was burning the saucepan or making too much sauce.’
‘You poor dear, how you’ve suffered. No wonder you were driven to affairs,’ Gloria snarls.
He’s taken aback. ‘You certainly have mood swings. But you’re right, I can’t use her as an excuse for my behaviour.’
He lifts his glass nervously and half-empties it. Can this be the same man who had her on tenterhooks at his flat, feeling like a lamb who’s trotted off for a quick gambol in the meadow, taken a wrong turn and ended up in the slaughter-house?
‘And what excuse do you use for hitting women?’ She’s relentless.
The glass is lifted, drained and refilled before he answers. ‘No excuse at all. I’ve never done it before, I’ll never do it again. I’m bitterly ashamed, I don’t know how to make it up to Kate so I haven’t even tried – which is cowardly of me but there you have it. I waste my time impressing nineteen-year-old girls and embarrassing nineteen-year-old boys so the girls will be even more dazzled by me. I’m verging on forty, living in rooms at the university and spending my evenings showing off at poetry readings in return for some fawning admiration and a couple of free drinks.’
He gulps and continues: ‘The joke of it is, I haven’t written a line in six months – for all I know there may be no poetry left inside me. I may be just another of those poets with a promising career that fizzles out. Not even a war to enlist in, so I can die a hero’s death and have people say of me, “What early talent he showed …”’
