Three Wise Men, page 38
Perhaps she could write to one of those problem pages. She lifts a pen from the china pot by the telephone and starts scribbling on a notepad. But she can’t decide which agony aunt to unburden herself to. She seems to remember there’s a newspaper where they only print one problem but you get three different experts responding to it, that might be the one to opt for.
‘Time for tea,’ she rouses herself. ‘I’ll think about this later, too much introspection is bad for the health.’
As she passes the phone she realises it’s off the hook and replaces the handset. It rings as she’s plugging in the kettle; it’s Christy and he sounds aggrieved.
‘Whoever you’ve been talking to it must have been an interesting conversation, I’ve been trying to get through to you for ages.’
Eimear smothers a laugh – she can hardly admit she was pouring her money into a psychic hotline in the hopes of a message from the cosmos about their relationship.
‘I was just having a chat with a friend,’ she says.
‘Which friend?’
What is this, the third degree? Christy’s possessiveness is becoming monotonous.
‘Nuala Ryan – you don’t know her, she works with me at the library,’ she lies, annoyed with herself for pandering to him. She should just tell him it’s none of his business – she pays her own phone bill.
‘Was there something you wanted, Christy?’
‘A fine welcome that is. As a matter of fact there is something. I’ll call over later to talk about it, it’s an answer to the question I asked you.’
‘I don’t have an answer, Christy,’ she objects. ‘You’ll be the first to know when I do. You promised you’d leave me in peace to think it over.’
‘You’ve had four days, that’s long enough. It’s not rocket science, you’re turning it into a huge issue, a simple yes or no is all you have to come up with.’
‘There’s nothing simple about yes and no in this context. The words mean the end of a relationship or the beginning of a new type of relationship. You’re bullying me for a quicker response than I feel ready to make.’
‘I’m only trying to find out where I stand. I have strong feelings for you which don’t seem to be reciprocated and I need to know if there’s any chance they will be in the future.’
‘Harassing me to move in with you isn’t the best way to go about it, Christy. I’m only just settled here in the cottage, you’re asking me to uproot myself all over again and move to another part of the city to share your home.’
‘Not necessarily. I’m willing to move in with you if that’s what you want or I’m equally happy for us both to rent out our houses and to find a new place together, in fact that might be the best solution. But I’m leaving it up to you – all I want is a guarantee that you believe we have a future together.’
‘There are no guarantees,’ she snaps. ‘This is life, not an electrical appliances repair shop. Even if you marry someone there’s no assurances that you’ll be together for life. Hope, yes; good intentions, yes; a certificate from an underwriter, no.’
‘Eimear, I’m not going to continue this conversation on the phone. I finish work in twenty minutes, I’ll be straight over.’
‘But it’s after 11 p.m., I have work tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be with you by midnight.’ He hangs up.
Eimear doesn’t want to jettison Christy – he’s kind to her, he brings her potted plants and makes her feel confident about herself.
‘You can buy your own foliage,’ she tells herself. ‘You can work on your own self-assurance – there are classes you can attend, books you can buy.’
She remembers the boiling kettle and heads for the kitchen. Reaching into the fridge for milk, she sees a half-empty bottle of white wine and decides she needs a glass of it more than a cup of tea.
‘You’re not half-empty, you’re half-full,’ she observes to the bottle, as she pours.
She recently made a resolution to be more optimistic about life and this is an ideal opportunity to put it into action. The bottle is rapidly quarter-full, although the wine hadn’t been resealed properly and is starting to turn sour. Eimear drinks it anyway – ‘it’s alcoholic, isn’t it,’ she tells the kettle.
She carries the bottle and glass through to the living room and riffles her CD rack for music. She discovers a Wet Wet Wet single Kate bought her to commemorate a particularly damp holiday and sings along. She’s waiting for the part they used to love, ever since Kate heard one of her nephews get the words wrong.
‘It’s written on the window,’ Eimear shrieks, ‘it’s everywhere I go.’
But it’s not the same on her own. The doorbell peals da-da-da-dum and she makes her millionth mental note to change it. The previous owner had a misplaced sense of drama.
Naturally it’s her own dear Christy on the step, who else; she giggles as she sees through the glass that he has his camera over his neck, he obviously doesn’t trust the neighbours not to break into his car. The idea of him coming a-calling with the tools of his trade dangling from his neck strikes her as so ludicrous the chuckle turns into a belly laugh. The wine is making her giddy, that’s what she gets for skipping dinner.
‘Christopher Troy,’ exclaims Eimear. ‘My very own Troy Boy, as Kate describes you. Step in. Won’t you step inside my parlour said the spider to the fly, it’s quite the nicest parlour that you did ever spy.’
‘That has a familiar ring to it,’ he smiles. ‘If you try and pass it off as yours you’ll be had up for plagiarism.’
‘Drat. Another poem bites the dust. Come into my lair anyway.’
‘You’re in better form than you were on the phone. Anything left in the bottle for me?’ He drops a kiss on top of her head as he squeezes past.
‘I wouldn’t recommend it, it’ll leave a sour taste in your mouth. I forgot to use my gadget for sucking out the air when I put the cap on.’
‘Never mind, I’ll have a coffee instead.’
He walks into the kitchen and turns the kettle on.
Eimear returns to the sitting room and pours the last of the wine into her glass. It’s definitely empty now, no amount of optimism can change that. The wine rack’s empty too, she’s been buying as she consumes instead of lining up bottles to take the bare look off the rack. It’s called real life – not having the spare cash to buy wine for decorative purposes.
‘Eimear,’ says Christy, as he carries his mug into the room and collapses on the sofa beside her. She notices he’s hunted about in the cupboard and discovered a chocolate bar too. It’s a tiny bit irksome the way he feels comfortable enough to help himself but she decides the emotion is ungracious and suffocates it.
‘Yes, Christy.’ She empties her glass and prepares to face the music.
‘I heard something on my way out of the office you might like to know. It’s about Gloria and her baby. Shall I tell you?’
Feck, feck, feck. He’s going to tell her she’s had Jack’s child. ‘No, don’t.’
He runs a hand across his jawline, five o’clock shadow bristling.
‘I really think you ought to hear – it’s bad news. I’m sure you’d want to know.’
‘Good news, bad news, who knows,’ Eimear mutters automatically, as her heartbeat slows to a snail’s pace. Gloria’s dead, she thinks. Her heartbeat hovers, waiting for a reason to start pumping again.
He ignores the interruption.
‘Her baby was stillborn – a problem with the umbilical cord, it’s being buried in Omagh tomorrow.’
Her heart begins to operate again but this time it’s sounding too quickly, it’s careering all over her chest.
‘Of course you won’t want to go to the funeral,’ he adds. ‘But I thought you might like me to organise some flowers from you.’
‘Yes,’ Eimear agrees dully. ‘I’ll have to send a wreath. Is the baby really dead – there’s no chance it could be a mistake?’
‘No mistake,’ he bites into the chocolate. ‘No mistake and no baby. I expect you’re relieved.’
CHAPTER 45
Kate realises their voices are rising as the discussion becomes heated – Gloria will hear them and she wants to avoid upsetting her.
‘Wait here,’ she tells him. ‘You can’t walk in unannounced, I need to prepare her.’
‘I’ll stay in the corridor,’ he says.
‘You won’t,’ she contradicts him. ‘You’ll go to the café and wait there, I’ll come and find you if – repeat, if – she’s willing.’
He shuffles off begrudgingly and Kate taps on Gloria’s door. She’s sitting with her back to it, staring out of the window. Kate can’t see what there is to gaze at, apart from a nondescript tree. Her dressing gown is open and she ties the belt for her.
‘Don’t want you catching cold, Glo.’
‘No chance of that in a hospital, it’s like the Sahara Desert in here.’
‘There’s someone who’d like to see you.’
‘That’s nice,’ Gloria mutters listlessly.
‘It’s someone I’m afraid might upset you.’
‘I’m beyond that,’ she shrugs. ‘Besides, the doctor says I’m better now, I’m allowed to go home tomorrow.’ Her eyes roam the hospital room. ‘Back to Ranelagh and work and the real world. Normal service resumed.’
‘You needn’t go back to work for a while – I thought we’d take a holiday.’
‘A paperbacks and palm trees holiday like the three of us used to go on?’ Misery clouds her eyes to olive green.
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘We could toast ourselves on the beach, drink ourselves into a stupor and go sharking for your Beautiful Boys.’ Gloria’s tone is conversational. ‘Moroccan ones maybe.’
‘Maybe,’ Kate says guardedly, unsure where this conversation is headed, for there’s a barbed edge to Gloria’s voice.
‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Kate, you’ve never grown up. You still want to behave the way we did at twenty, you even fancy the same boys we did at twenty. Life is all about flirting and pulling and then dumping fellows when you’re tired of them.’
A pink spot flares on each cheek as Gloria looks scornfully at her friend. ‘Even Jack O’Brien is further along the evolutionary scale than you. He was prepared to acknowledge paternity of my baby, despite being more interested in his gas bill than in me. Shame on you, Kate, you’re nothing but a lad.’
Kate strides from the room and leans against the corridor wall, brain whirring. The attack is so vehement she’s reeling under it. She can’t defend herself, how can you shine the quid pro quo home truths’ beam back on someone who’s been through what Gloria has? She’s lashing out blindly. But just because Kate doesn’t want marriage and babies doesn’t make her deviant. She’s different to Gloria, that’s all.
Kate takes a deep breath and tells herself: ‘She must be hurting like sin to turn on me so unexpectedly.’ Then she opens the door and walks back in.
Gloria is still staring out of the window, her robe yawning open again. She turns her eyes to Kate and mute agony gapes from their depths. Kate puts her arms around her shoulders and rests her cheek on top of the dark head.
‘Would you like me to wash your hair?’ she suggests later.
Gloria nods.
‘I always feel better when my hair is washed,’ chatters Kate, leading her to the basin. ‘There’s nothing like lank hair for making you feel low. Where’s your sponge bag – no shampoo. Rats, foiled in my efforts to test-drive a career change. Wait, the hospital shop is sure to sell some, I’ll run down. Good job we didn’t wet your hair before we checked, otherwise you’d be sitting here like a mermaid in all your dripping glory.’
Kate lifts her purse and sprints off. Alongside the shampoos are some scented soaps – she chooses a bar marked Roses of Tralee, Gloria must be weary of the squeaky clean smell from hospital issue – and gallops back with her purchases. Kate doesn’t want her sinking into depression again while she’s gone.
Mick’s in the room when she returns.
‘I told you to wait in the café,’ she snaps.
‘I did wait,’ he complains. ‘You took your time about collecting me so I decided to behave like a big boy and make my own way here. I’m not a parcel that needs delivering.’
She turns to Gloria. ‘Is he bothering you?’
‘No,’ she whispers.
‘Shall I ask him to leave?’
Her ‘no’ is barely audible.
‘Right then,’ says Mick triumphantly, ‘if you’ll excuse us, I have some matters to discuss with my wife.’
‘Ex-wife,’ Kate corrects him. ‘You were married in the North, you don’t have to wait years for a divorce.’
‘Wife,’ he repeats. ‘The decree nisi hasn’t come through yet, never mind the decree absolute. Close the door on your way out.’
Kate bends over Gloria. ‘Do you want me to leave, angel?’
Her hand snakes out with unexpected speed and grips Kate’s wrist. ‘Stay,’ she croaks.
‘Gloria,’ pleads Mick, ‘I have personal business that I want to talk to you about. I’ve taken a day off work to come and see you, I drove all the way down from Omagh this morning. It really would be better to do this in private.’
She shakes her head.
He frowns and paces the floor, hands thrust into his pockets. He’s wearing one of his pin-striped bank suits, as though at a business meeting. His hair is greyer than Kate remembers it; maybe life with the Mammy isn’t as blissful as he anticipated.
‘Have it your own way,’ sighs Mick. ‘Kate, would you at least go over there and sit on the bed so Gloria and I can make some semblance at discussing this one on one, without you stuck in the middle.’
Mick removes his jacket, plucks at his tie and pulls another chair next to Gloria. He brings his face parallel with hers and there’s genuine affection in his expression.
‘Glo, there’s no denying episodes we’re both ashamed of but we go back a long way and I’ve been married to you for too long to give you up without a fight. I want us to get back together again, leave the past in the past and concentrate on the present. Let’s put the house on the market and find a new home together in Omagh – that’s where we were happiest, when we first met, were married and planned our life together.’
Her hands are clasped as in prayer. He covers both with his fists and continues:
‘No more fertility treatment, we’ll raise a child the best way we can if one is sent to us, and if not we’ll accept it. We’ll each have the other, where’s the point in railing against fate.’
Mick pauses, waiting for her to speak, and when she doesn’t he lifts her chin. She makes contact with his eyes briefly before lowering her lids.
‘Let’s start again, Gloria. You and I will rub along together again well enough when all this madness is behind us, we managed well enough in the past.’
He’s sweating by the end of his speech, dark pools spreading from below his armpits and staining the pink of his shirt.
Gloria disengages her hands from his. She pulls herself to her feet with difficulty, holding on to the chair for support.
‘Goodbye, Mick, drive carefully.’
His mouth droops.
‘You’re turning me down?’ he gasps.
‘I am,’ she admits, almost cheerfully.
‘You’ll regret it.’
‘Every day of my life,’ she assures him.
‘You don’t deserve a second chance.’
‘You’re too good for me, Mick.’
‘I won’t be back.’
‘I suspected as much.’
‘I was only being charitable and look where it gets me.’
‘Sure you’re wasted on me,’ she agrees, with increasing high humour.
‘You’re mentally defective, that’s your problem.’ He’s on his feet now and tugging on his jacket. ‘My mother says all you Mallons have a want, it’s in the blood.’ He searches his vocabulary, face empurpled, and plucks ‘deranged trollop’ from its contents as he reaches the door.
‘You always were a sweet talker, Michael,’ she smiles, presenting her back to him.
Gloria slumps into the chair and directs a triumphant look at Kate. ‘What about that shampoo you promised me?’
‘I thought he’d have you in tears, I was poised to run out for the hospital security staff,’ says Kate. ‘Weren’t you tempted to go along with him?’
‘He’s a Mammy’s boy, Kate, he wanted someone else to fetch and carry for him. Did you hear the word “love” mentioned anywhere in that winsome invitation to pack up and move to Omagh with him? Me neither. I’ve wasted enough years of my life with that man, I’m going to grow old and crabby on my own.’
‘Not on your own,’ Kate protests, ‘we can grow wrinkly and crotchety together. We’ll buy a house with brocade wallpaper and a grandfather clock, fill it with cats, and we’ll have eccentric habits and tea parties.’
‘Sounds idyllic.’
‘And we’ll employ a young lad from the neighbourhood to come and cut the grass and tend to our flowerbeds and do our odd jobs.’
‘Hold it right there, McGlade,’ Gloria checks her. ‘This house will be a Beautiful Boy no-go zone. Men are verboten, got it?’
‘Have it your own way. But the garden will go to rack and ruin.’
‘Girls are just as capable of pushing a lawnmower and changing light bulbs,’ Gloria points out. ‘We can take on an odd-job woman.’
Kate starts giggling and after a moment’s hesitation, Gloria joins in.
‘Why are we laughing?’ she asks, when they finally draw breath.
‘We’re arguing over who’ll cut our grass when we’re too decrepit to do it ourselves,’ Kate explains. ‘We’re both thirty-three.’
‘What did I ever see in him?’ she wonders, when Kate is combing out her newly washed hair.
‘He knew the names of everyone in Roxy Music,’ Kate reminds her.
‘There must have been more to it than that.’
Kate reflects. ‘He could snog for five minutes without coming up for air.’
