The Glass Lake

  She read about her own son’s getting his tonsils out, and eating only jelly and ice cream, and how Rita had done her secretarial course but fortunately hadn’t left to go to Dublin and get a good job, she was working in the office of Sullivan’s garage across the road.

  Lena read of people she had disliked for thirteen years that she now found fascinating.

  The Hickeys weren’t speaking to each other, it appeared. If anyone went into the butcher’s and asked for three lamb chops Mrs. Hickey would repeat the phrase in the tones of a Christian martyr and then Mr. Hickey would go and chop them. The days when she would talk to the customers and shout in to her husband were gone. Kit wrote that it was better than going to a play just to go in and watch them. Sometimes she begged Rita to let her go and do the shopping just for the sheer fun of it.

  She read about Philip O’Brien’s being so nice, and his mother’s being so awful. How Clio was fighting with her mother too, and how Deirdre Hanley wasn’t in the door of Hanley’s Drapery before she and her mother had a row.

  “I sometimes think that if my mother had lived we would have had a fight too. Otherwise it wouldn’t be natural.”

  Lena’s hands shook as she read this. She wrote page after page about it. Your mother always spoke of you so lovingly, you were so strong, so full of courage. You would never have fought, you would have seen her for all she was, her weaknesses as well…

  Then she stopped and tore the pages up. She mustn’t give herself away. She had been so careful for these years she must not throw it all away now.

  RITA kept the accounts for Stevie Sullivan.

  His mother, a mournful woman, felt that there was something not entirely appropriate about this. There was that maid of the McMahons’ coming across the road and putting on airs as she did so. She decided she would set the relationship off on a correct footing.

  “I’m glad you’re going to be with us in the mornings, Rita.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  “And I thought maybe I’d leave a little ironing a couple of days a week…” Rita looked at her politely. But said nothing. “To do in your own time, of course.”

  “What was that you said, Mrs. Sullivan?”

  Kathleen knew when she was beaten. She began to retreat. “If there’s time, of course…”

  “That’s always the problem, isn’t it. Your son is paying me to work three hours a morning. I hope we’ll be able to get all his books and correspondence dealt with in that time. It’s certainly going to be a challenge, isn’t it?”

  “And then you’ll go back to domestic work across the road?” It was a barb.

  But Rita didn’t pretend to see it. “I’ve always felt McMahons’ was my home in many ways. I wouldn’t dream of leaving Mr. McMahon until his children are reared.”

  In Paddles’ bar Peter Kelly asked Martin about Rita’s job.

  “She seems to be doing very well.” Martin was proud of Rita. “She’s cleaned it up for a start.”

  “I know, didn’t I see it. Fresh paint, shelves, filing cabinets, in old Sullivan’s! Could you believe it?”

  “I’d say she has a hard time with Kathleen.”

  “Everyone has a hard time with Kathleen,” said Peter Kelly. “But on the other hand, she wasn’t dealt much of a hand herself, and she’s got a handful in those two boys.”

  “Stevie’s a bit of a lad, isn’t he?”

  “We’ll have to lock up our daughters, Martin. Stevie Sullivan knows a lot more than you and I knew when we were nineteen.”

  “And the young lad, Michael, a hooligan. Himself and young Wall were found drinking the dregs of empty bottles behind Shea’s the other night. Little pups.”

  But Peter Kelly was not as outraged as he might have sounded. He was very tolerant of what other people in Lough Glass regarded as the criminal side of young people. He couldn’t see that it was all that very bad for Clio to have gone out in her mother’s black satin slip to the pictures on a summer night, but Lilian still hadn’t recovered from the outrage.

  “It’s a great blessing that Maura comes down so regularly,” he confided to Martin. “Lilian would be at Clio’s throat a lot of the time if we didn’t have company to be pleasant in front of, so to speak…”

  Martin’s face brightened up. “She’s great company Maura. I’m surprised that she’s able to find so much time to visit, but it’s grand to see her.”

  Peter Kelly sipped his pint thoughtfully. He knew very well why Maura found so much time to come and visit. He wondered would Martin McMahon ever realize that he was the main attraction.

  Rita realized it, however. She spoke about it to Sister Madeleine.

  “I thought that might be the way the land was laying all right.”

  “How on earth would you know, Sister? You don’t go visiting…how do you know things?”

  “I just feel them.”

  Sister Madeleine knew that Kit mentioned how her father laughed when Clio’s aunt was around, and that the golf had become a regular feature of the weekends. When Emmet came to read his poetry with her, he sometimes mentioned Anna Kelly’s aunt. She liked poetry too, apparently, and had often asked him to read for her because she had forgotten her glasses.

  “And is she a kind woman?” Sister Madeleine asked.

  “Very, I’d say.”

  “Well, maybe he should ask her to supper, don’t you think?”

  “I was wondering about that, with the Kellys would you say?”

  “Oh, I’d say so, the first time anyway.”

  …and next week we’ve asked the Kellys and Clio’s aunt Maura to supper. It’s a mad idea really, but Rita said that Dad was getting too many meals up in their house, and not giving any in return. I said that Dad paid for meals in O’Brien’s Hotel or up at the golf club, but Rita said hadn’t he got his own home to entertain them in. So that’s it. Not us, mind you, not Emmet and me, or Clio and Anna or anything…just grown-ups. There’ll be soup and roast lamb and trifle. And wine. Dad’s delighted. I’m in two minds. You might think this is very silly but I feel it’s a bit disloyal. You see, when Mother was here she could have cooked a meal for the Kellys and their aunt Maura anytime she wanted to. Mother was such a terrific cook. It seems silly all of us struggling to make a dinner when she could have done it so easily. But she didn’t. Perhaps she didn’t like the Kellys. It’s so hard to know. I have this feeling that if she had liked them then she would have had this dinner…

  Lena felt her eyes mist over. How little escaped the quick mind of a child. She had neither liked nor disliked the Kellys; they represented all that was safe and dull about Lough Glass. She had deliberately held herself from confiding in them from a wish to stay separate and free, as if she knew Louis would come back one day and take her away.

  And now she had left the legacy of that indifference with this innocent girl who thought so well of her that even after her death she didn’t want to do anything to compromise her memory.

  Lena wrote immediately.

  I don’t know if you’re right about the Kelly family. Helen always spoke of them in her letters as people she liked. She said you and Clio had such a stormy friendship—sometimes it was till death do us part, other times worst enemies. I know she didn’t want to play golf with them, but she sometimes felt guilty about depriving your father of it. She used to urge him apparently, but he’d say no, not without her.

  So it’s good now that he does play. I hope the dinner party goes well. I’d love to be a fly on the wall.

  “What’ll happen if he marries again?” Ivy asked one day.

  “Who?”

  “Your ex. Martin.”

  “Oh, he won’t marry again.” Lena was surprised at the question.

  “From all you tell me I know these characters better than Mrs. Dale’s Diary…there’s this Maura appearing a lot.”

  “He wouldn’t marry Maura.” Lena smiled at the thought.

  “Well, why not? He thinks you’re dead, he thinks he’s free to marr
y. Wouldn’t it be sensible?”

  “Martin wasn’t sensible when it came to love. If he had been sensible he’d have married Maura in the first place and none of this mess would have happened.”

  “And Kit and Emmet would never have existed.”

  “It might have been better. They’re only existing for me in a limbo.”

  “What’s wrong, love?”

  “I don’t know, Ivy. I don’t know.”

  But Lena did know what was wrong.

  Louis had been restless. He had been nearly five years in one place. He felt it was time to move on. He said they should go somewhere warm, like the south of Spain.

  A lot more British people were going there these days. They could get a partnership there. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about the business. They could make a killing. Live in a proper climate.

  “What about my job?” Lena had asked.

  “It’s only a job, darling. You went in there the first day and stayed…”

  “So did you,” she countered. “But we both stayed because we got on, made something of the jobs…”

  “Lena, there are millions of jobs…”

  “They’re our jobs, they’re our careers. You practically run the Dryden, I practically run Millar’s.”

  “So? We’re not married to them,” Louis had said.

  “Nor to each other,” she had replied.

  It was a bit of a problem, the marriage business. Technically, Helen McMahon was dead. If she went to get a birth certificate, then a corresponding death certificate might be produced. Better not to risk it and unearth the Lord knew how many problems.

  That’s what they had said. But there was a part of Lena that thought Louis had taken the whole thing very calmly. If he had really loved her with the deep love he claimed, he would have made some more determined attempts to marry her.

  Jessie Park and Mr. Millar had a long romance. It was assisted throughout by the best efforts of Lena Gray. Often on a Saturday, Mr. Millar, Jessie, and Lena had lunch together. Then Lena would excuse herself early and leave them to chat.

  They made the big decisions about the business at these meetings. Lena would take notes and type them up on Mondays. Business at the agency was booming, they needed to take on someone else. Probably someone young, they thought. Young and glamorous-looking.

  “What about Dawn Jones?” Lena had suggested. “She’s between jobs. We couldn’t get much more glamorous than her.”

  “Would Dawn find us lively enough?” Jessie wondered. “She usually likes places with lots going on.”

  “Lots going on with us,” Mr. Millar said, missing the point.

  “I think Dawn’s a bit tired of getting pawed by people,” Lena said. “She might well be glad of a spell in a more responsible setting…”

  Dawn Jones had been one of their earliest success stories. She had arrived for an interview looking like a tart about to set out for Soho, heavy makeup, low-cut sweater, and nicotine-stained fingers. “None of my sisters ever had an office job, I’d love to say I worked in an office,” Dawn had begged.

  Her innocence and enthusiasm had appealed to Jessie and Lena. Tactfully they had advised her about dressing differently and she had been given a new hairdo in Grace West’s salon. Her typing speeds were adequate, it had not proved difficult to place the lovely Dawn in any office. The problem was that it had proved difficult to persuade many of her employers and colleagues to keep their hands off her. There was something about Dawn even in a neat navy twin set and pale blue skirt that suggested excitement and adventure.

  She had done a spell in the Dryden, in Mr. Williams’s office. Louis had said she was sweet but silly. Nothing you could put a finger on, but just not someone you’d trust to take a message or type up a report. Dawn had left the Dryden after three months, James Williams had got a pleasant middle-aged woman, motherly, efficient, much more what was needed. An excellent reference had been provided for Dawn, but everywhere it was the same story. She was too sexy to be taken seriously.

  Lena wondered if this might be to their advantage. Young girls loved someone to follow, a role model they could identify with. She and Jessie were too old and settled, if they saw Dawn in Millar’s they might think that secretarial work was much more glittering than they had believed.

  Jim Millar said yes, he saw the point, and Jessie said she thought Jim was absolutely right. So Dawn was approached.

  “I’m not sure, Mrs. Gray, really. I don’t know. Would I be right here, do you think?” Dawn looked doubtfully around the office.

  “We’re doing a face-lift, Dawn. And having journalists and photographers come in and everything.”

  Lena knew she had won the battle. She sent a press release to the local newspapers and to the trade magazines. And with it she sent a description of Dawn Jones who had left her job in a model agency to join Millar’s. The model agency had been a very brief interlude and one on which Dawn had not wanted to dwell. There were many definitions of modeling, it appeared. Still it gave her the necessary glamour to attract the interest of the press.

  And if they came and took pictures of Dawn then they had to mention Millar’s also, the agency where there was an emphasis on grooming and presentation as well as on typing and shorthand speeds. It was just the right approach and resulted in a great many inquiries for the agency.

  Jessie and Jim were delighted.

  “It’s going so well I can hardly believe it.” Jessie was breathless.

  “What would I do without my two girls?” said Jim Millar, looking at them both with pride.

  “Do you think he’s fond of me, Lena?” Jessie asked in a whisper when Mr. Millar had left.

  “Of course he is, of course he is.” Lena was reassuring.

  “I wish I knew what to do, I’m so inexperienced at all this sort of thing…you’d know, Lena?”

  “No, I’m pretty hopeless too,” Lena said. She felt she spoke the truth, until recently she had no idea how to produce the kind of passion that Louis had for her. She would have given anything on earth to know.

  “But you’re so…well, so terrific-looking and you’ve got such a gorgeous husband. I was wondering had you any hints or anything…?” Jessie’s big pale eyes were full of innocence and hope.

  “I think he’s a man who takes his time over things but makes the right decision in the end,” Lena said.

  “Suppose someone else comes along?” Jessica was biting her lower lip.

  “No, not for Mr. Millar, believe me.”

  And Jessie did because Lena looked so authoritative. If only she knew, Lena thought, if only she knew where she was asking advice about love and marriage.

  Dawn was delighted with all the publicity. “You’ve really done me a good turn, Mrs. Gray,” she said, “and I like working here with women actually. I didn’t think I would. They’re sort of more reasonable than men, aren’t they?”

  “Some of them are, I suppose.” Lena tried to hide her smile. Dawn was proving a wise choice. They had even included her name in the brochure they sent out, just in order to use her picture.

  Lena was proud of all they had achieved, she couldn’t help talking about it to Louis. He was still in poor form but at least he had stopped mentioning Spain.

  “You’re putting a lot of effort into that place,” Louis said to her.

  “So are you, in the Dryden…it’s the kind of people we are.” She sat on the floor with her head in his lap. She loved the evenings they had together, the shabby flat was in no way small and shabby to her.

  “What’s the point?” Louis said, waving around him. “Working our guts out to keep four walls in a kip like this?”

  “It isn’t a kip.” Lena was indignant.

  “Well, it’s hardly the Camino Real,” he said, his mouth turned down. He was playing with her hair as she spoke, idly twisting the strands around.

  Louis touched a lot, he wasn’t a man to sit in his own space and make statements across a table, he always had a hand on her arm or ne
ck, or was stroking her cheek.

  “What’s the Camino Real?” she asked.

  “It’s just a phrase, like the kind of names hotels would have, but in Spain…where we could easily work…” She was silent. “Easily,” he said again, his big dark eyes pleading at her.

  She felt a rising panic in her throat. She must keep the conversation away from Spain. Lena would have given up so much else, so much that was far more important. She could arrange for Kit to write to her anywhere, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that if Louis went to Spain he would go alone. She could not get a passport. Lena Gray did not exist.

  “DO you think we should get drunk?” Clio asked Kit.

  “Now?” They were walking up to school for the last frantic weeks of revision before the exams.

  “Well, not this minute but soonish…it’s an experience we haven’t yet had.”

  “How soonish? Should we turn round and go back to Paddles’ or maybe ask Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien to make us a few cocktails before class?”

  “You make a jeer out of everything,” Clio complained.

  “I do not.” Kit was indignant. “I’m prepared to do anything, you know I am. But I think it might be poor timing to get plastered just coming up to the exams. Suppose it took ahold of us like those old fellows with runny eyes and red noses waiting for Foley’s to open…”

  Clio giggled. Sometimes Kit could be very funny. But then sometimes for no reason she flared up and took offense. There were certain subjects that made her very touchy. Clio was dying to ask her whether she thought that Aunt Maura might be going to get engaged to Kit’s father, and if she would like the idea of having a stepmother and of their being cousins. But this was territory she mustn’t venture into.

  She would love to know whether Aunt Maura and Mr. McMahon…well…courted a bit. And if they got married would they do it properly in bed? Normally these were things you could talk about with a best friend, but with Kit McMahon there were so many areas that were off limits.

  “Have you ever been drunk, properly out-of-your-mind drunk?” Kit asked Stevie Sullivan.