Two Lives

In the past, in the days when Mary Louise had been a modest customer herself, Matilda and Rose had always been agreeable. She remembered buying hooks and eyes and other necessities in Quarry’s, and groceries in Foley’s during her years at Miss Mullover’s schoolroom. She remembered a time when she could only just see over the counter in Quarry’s, being in the shop with her mother and being lifted on to a round-bottomed chair that was still there. Matilda had once asked her what age she was. Rose had run into the back and returned with a sweet oatcake. Now they were like two other people.

  Her mother, in whom she confided during one of her Sunday visits to Culleen, said it maybe wasn’t easy for them, having a newcomer about the place, their long-established routine shaken up. It wasn’t easy for her either, Mary Louise began to reply, but her mother just shook her head. ‘You’re looking well,’ she observed in the silence that developed, implying that that, too, was important.

  There were other matters, which Mary Louise did not discuss with her mother, nor with anyone. She would have with Tessa Enright, but Tessa Enright had gone to Dublin to train as a physiotherapist and only returned to the town at Christmas. No correspondence had developed between the two girls, except that Mary Louise had found out her friend’s address and had written to invite her to the wedding. She hadn’t been able to come.

  There were other girls, still in the neighbourhood, whom Mary Louise had known well at school, but none had been as close as Tessa Enright, and certainly none would have been a candidate for the confidences Mary Louise felt she couldn’t share with her mother. Nor could she have shared them with Letty, and when she thought about it she wondered about Tessa Enright: even if she had never gone away and their friendship had continued to thrive, this particular subject might have been easier to raise with a girl who was married herself.

  So Mary Louise kept to herself an awkwardness that had arisen in the bedroom she shared with her husband. But as the year came to an end, and the spring and summer of the following year passed by, she was increasingly aware of the interest taken in her person by people who came into the shop. As soon as they’d requested whatever it was they needed, women would glance down her body, the movement of their eyes briefly halting when it reached her stomach, then swiftly retracted. She knew what was in their minds. On Sundays she was also aware of it in her mother’s mind, and in Letty’s. ‘You’re looking well’: the repeated observation of her mother’s acquired an edgy significance, seeming now to be a question almost. In the bedroom the matter was not discussed, either: Elmer said nothing, and never had. He watched her brushing her hair, seated in front of the dressing-table mirror, and she could see him also, already in his pyjamas, a vagueness in his eyes that had not been there in the past. At first she smiled into the mirror at him, but she stopped because he didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘No need to bang that door, Mary Louise,’ Rose reprimanded her one morning when she closed the dining-room door because there was a draught. She had pushed at it with her shoulder because her hands were carrying a tray that contained four plates of porridge. It wasn’t her fault that the door caught in the draught and banged. ‘Close the door after you, Mary Louise,’ Rose had commanded a week before.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, passing round the plates of porridge. Any one of the three of them might have risen and closed the door, since it was clear that it had been difficult for her to do so. ‘Sorry,’ she had said on the earlier occasion, not voicing her thoughts then either.

  She didn’t like Rose’s food, the fatty chops, the bits of steak fried too hard and too long, the swedes and watery cabbage. Rose only enjoyed making cakes and sweet things and was more successful with them. There was always a cake on the table at the meal they sat down to at six o’clock in the evening, but the brown bread and soda bread were heavy and seemed to Mary Louise not to be baked all the way through. She offended Rose by buying a loaf now and again, and by making toast for breakfast. ‘Her Ladyship,’ she heard Rose saying to her sister, and it occurred to Mary Louise that whenever one of them said something she was apparently not meant to hear it was always said when she was just within earshot.

  In the autumn of 1956, when the marriage was just over a year old, Mary Louise awoke one morning in the bleak hour before dawn to find tears on her cheeks. She hadn’t been dreaming; for no specific reason the tears continued to slip out, soundlessly, without sobbing. What she had imagined before her marriage had not come about. Being looked up to in the town, with money to spare for the clothes she wanted, pleasantly going from shop to shop without having to hesitate over the cost, as her mother did: all this had not replaced the long days at Culleen, with nothing to do when the kitchen work was over except to wash the eggs. Vaguely, she had imagined that as Elmer’s wife the house would be hers and that in time she would be deferred to in the shop. On Sunday mornings, since Elmer didn’t accompany her to church, she sat with her family, as if the marriage hadn’t taken place, then stopped going altogether. On Sunday afternoons she continued to cycle out to the farmhouse – a weekly routine that took the place of the Sunday walk she and Elmer had become accustomed to. It was when she found herself so eagerly looking forward to those visits that she realized she missed both the farmhouse and the companionship of her family more than she could ever have believed.

  Waking in the very early morning and finding herself melancholy became, after the first time, a familiar repetition. She lay beside her sleeping husband, dwelling on her own stupidity and what she recognized now as her simplicity, her stubbornness in not perceiving a reality that was apparent. Before her marriage the Reverend Harrington had made her call to see him at the rectory. It was a joke among the Protestants of the neighbourhood that he always gave a parishioner raspberry cordial with hot water in it when he wished to be serious, and this he duly did, offering biscuits as well. ‘Do you love Elmer?’ he asked bluntly, a month before the marriage. ‘Please don’t be shy with me, Mary Louise.’ She wasn’t shy; no one ever was with the Reverend Harrington. It was easy to tell him a lie, easy to smile and say she did love Elmer Quarry, since she didn’t want to have a conversation like the ones she had with Letty. When she was fourteen she’d thought she was in love with her delicate cousin, and later with James Stewart. But all that was silly when she looked back on it. It was far more real, going for walks with Elmer Quarry and having him tucking her arm into his. It was far more real to think of herself in the shop on a winter’s evening, when the lights were lit and the radiators were warm, and to see herself the mistress of the house above it. There would be card parties in the huge front room, with its marble fireplace and grey flowered wallpaper. There would be music and even dancing, and a great spread on the dining table, the doors between the two rooms spread wide. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this chat,’ the Reverend Harrington had said.

  All those memories and imaginings came back to Mary Louise in her sleepless hours. She had cut photographs of James Stewart out of Letty’s Picturegoer and framed them with passe-partout. The cousin she’d thought she’d been in love with hadn’t been healthy enough in the end to continue coming to the schoolroom every day. Grown up now but still thin and weak-looking, suffering from something that couldn’t be cured, he’d been in the church on the wedding day but not at the farmhouse afterwards. While she lay there in the mornings Mary Louise recalled the benign countenance of the clergyman, his good-natured smile, the glass of pink cordial held out to her, the Everyday biscuits. Why had no one told her that it was a terrible thing she was doing? Only Letty had done that and Letty had rampaged and raved like a mad girl so that you couldn’t listen. Her mother had not said a word, her father only asking her if she was sure. Miss Mullover had congratulated her in a most profuse way. Would Tessa Enright have protested, Tessa who wasn’t easily taken in? If she would, why hadn’t she written a letter? Why hadn’t she sent a wire, or come down on the bus, as any friend might? What was the use of the clergyman only asking if you loved him, nothing more? If his sisters didn’t like her why hadn’t
they come up to her and said so? Why hadn’t they warned her of their unpleasant intentions? Why hadn’t she herself noticed how tedious it was when he told her yet again that a draper’s shop couldn’t move with the times? On their Sunday walks he had explained that certain haberdashery lines were being carried these days by the supermarkets and that this would increase. Why had she so foolishly listened instead of walking away?

  On their walks she had heard about the shop in the past, about the time the overcoats had been sent to Mrs O’Keefe on approval, when a puppy had torn the fur off four of them. She had heard about bad debts, and the rules there were about the acceptance of cheques from strangers, and how some elderly woman came in from the hills every August and bought an outfit of clothes for a son who’d gone to England in 1941 and hadn’t been back since. She had heard of her fiancé’s astonishment that the YMCA billiard-room was not more frequented. She had apparently listened without it ever occurring to her that the repetition of these conversational subjects would one day grate on her nerves. Letty hadn’t warned her about that; if only Letty knew that what she’d kept on about was the least of anyone’s worries.

  ‘There’s something dried on to this plate,’ Rose complained one evening in the dining-room. ‘Cabbage it looks like.’

  Rose had just eaten sausages and bacon from the plate. About to run a piece of bread over it in order to soak up the tasty fat that remained, she noticed that a shred of cabbage leaf had remained since the last time it was used.

  ‘It’s greens all right,’ Rose said. She passed the plate to her sister, who scrutinized it in turn. It was definitely the remains of greens, Matilda said.

  Elmer took no notice. Often at mealtimes he was lost in the depths of mathematical calculations that had originated in the accounting office.

  ‘Take a look at that,’ Matilda invited, and handed Mary Louise the plate, on which the well-peppered grease that Rose had been about to consume was now congealing. The offending piece of cabbage was stuck to the rim, its presence made more permanent by the heating of the plate in the oven. Probably it was cabbage, Mary Louise agreed, since cabbage had been the vegetable at the midday meal.

  ‘I always took the mop to them when I washed the plates,’ Matilda said. ‘I used always to hold them up to see if there was anything like that left.’

  ‘I could have eaten it,’ Rose said.

  ‘You would have shifted it wiping with the bread,’ her sister agreed. ‘You’d have eaten it then definitely.’

  ‘Someone else’s leavings.’

  Mary Louise rose from the table and began to clear the supper dishes away. It could happen to anyone that a speck would be left behind on a plate. It wasn’t as though it were poisonous.

  ‘I wonder you didn’t see it when you were drying,’ she said to Matilda.

  ‘When you’re drying you take everything to be clean. You take it for granted.’

  ‘Use a mop in future.’ Rose’s tone was peremptory, and Matilda glanced at Elmer, wondering if he’d heard. It was clear from the excitement in Matilda’s face that she considered Rose had been more than a little daring to issue so direct an order, as to a child or a servant.

  Mary Louise left the dining-room without replying but a few minutes later, when she returned from the kitchen with a tray, she heard raised voices before she opened the door.

  ‘No more than a pigsty,’ Rose was saying.

  Elmer mumbled something. Matilda said:

  ‘The cheek of the creature, saying you’d see it when you were drying.’

  ‘Knee-deep in manure that yard was! With people attending a wedding reception!’

  Again there was a mumble from Elmer, interrupted by sudden shrillness from Rose.

  ‘What the sister got up to with Gargan was the talk of the town. It’s a wonder you didn’t marry a tinker and have done with it.’

  ‘Now look here,’ Elmer protested, and Mary Louise heard his chair being pushed back. His voice, too, had become loud.

  ‘Look nowhere,’ shrieked Rose. ‘We have her under our feet morning, noon and night.’

  ‘Your own sister could have eaten the dirt on that plate,’ Matilda reminded him. ‘We could be killed dead as we sit here.’

  ‘Arrah, don’t be talking nonsense,’ Elmer exclaimed crossly. ‘What harm would a bit of cabbage do anyone?’

  ‘Washed in soap it could do you harm,’ Matilda insisted. ‘And God knows what you’d find on your plate the next time.’

  ‘The brother’s a half-wit,’ Rose said.

  Elmer didn’t reply to that. Matilda said that you might make a rice pudding in a dish that wallpaper paste had been mixed in. If the dish wasn’t washed properly you’d be eating wallpaper paste. She suggested that Elmer should make inquiries as to whether or not wallpaper paste could kill you dead.

  ‘She sucks up to the customers,’ Rose said. ‘Palavering all over them. D’you want a slice of cake, Elmer?’

  There was a rattle of cups on saucers, and the sound of tea being poured.

  ‘Is it cherry?’ Elmer said.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’ll take a slice so.’

  There was silence then: the interlude was over. Mary Louise did not enter the dining-room, but returned to the kitchen. She was at the sink when the sisters came in ten minutes later with more of the suppertime dishes. They were quite nice to her, not mentioning the shred of cabbage. Rose offered her a slice of cherry cake but Mary Louise shook her head, not turning round from the sink because she didn’t want them to see she’d been crying.

  Elmer went out to the YMCA billiard-room that evening and when he returned Mary Louise was already in bed, with the light out, pretending to be asleep. They’d known she’d be coming back to the dining-room just at that moment. They’d known she’d pause outside the door, arrested by the cross voices. Her tears oozed from the corners of her eyes and ran into her hair, damping her ears and her neck. It hurt her most that they had called her brother a half-wit.

  The following afternoon, when Rose and Matilda were engaged in the shop and Elmer was in the accounting office, Mary Louise ascended the bare stairs to the attics. There it was possible to weep noisily, sobbing and panting. She clenched her hands and beat the sides of her thighs with them, punishing her foolishness.

  7

  She dreams they are eight again, she and Tessa Enright. ‘Once a month you have it,’ Tessa Enright says on a road near Culleen, both of them sent out to look for a ewe that has strayed. ‘You stop it with rags.’

  It’s the bane of a girl’s life, Letty says. In the kitchen her mother says to be careful, picking the wedding date. The day she arrives in Miss Foye’s house she has it. ‘Don’t leave me, please,’ she begs that day, but he says he has to.

  When they find the sheep it is dead beside a stone. She walks alone out of a wood and there Miss Foye’s house is. ‘You’ll be well off there,’ he says, and she puts her arms around his neck because he is right. He has never been unkind to her.

  8

  On Christmas Eve 1956 Elmer accompanied Renehan, the hardware merchant from the premises next door, to Hogan’s Hotel. It was half-past four in the afternoon, as it always was when the two made their way along Bridge Street on Christmas Eve. A street musician who only appeared in the town at this time of year was playing a melodeon. The pavements were lively with people from the poor part of the town who left what shopping they could afford to the last couple of hours on Christmas Eve, hoping for bargains. A drunken man lurched in the street, talking to anyone who would listen.

  ‘A poor year,’ Renehan remarked as they turned into the side entrance that led to the hotel’s bar. It was what the two men talked about on this Christmas occasion: the fluctuations of business during the previous twelve months, difficulties with suppliers in their two different fields of trade, profit and loss. Renehan was an older man, thin and trimly dressed, with a well-kept moustache and a reputation for personal vanity.

  ‘Shocking,’ Elmer agreed.

>   The hotel bar was crowded, as festive as the street outside. People like Elmer, not normally seen there, were standing in groups, talking loudly. Paper decorations were strung diagonally across the ceiling.

  ‘You’ll take the usual intoxicant, Elmer?’ Renehan was known for his ornate, and in this case inaccurate, way of putting things. In his business life he cultivated a joky manner, believing that it attracted customers.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Elmer said, ‘I’ll take a small one.’

  Renehan glanced amusedly at his companion. In all the years of this rendezvous the draper had never requested whiskey, not even the year he’d had a cold that should have kept him in bed. Renehan raised his eyebrows the way he’d once seen an actor doing all through a film.

  ‘That’s married life for you!’ he suggested and gently touched Elmer’s chest with his elbow.

  Elmer didn’t reply; you didn’t have to with Renehan. He remained at the back of the bar while the hardware merchant pushed his way through the crowd. He hadn’t drunk whiskey since the night of his honeymoon; last Christmas he’d had a mineral as usual. It might indeed be married life, he reflected as he stood there. Maybe there was more to Renehan’s facetiousness than the man realized.

  Noticing his presence, other men saluted Elmer across the bar, other shopkeepers for the most part, a couple of bank officials, Hanlon the solicitor. He wondered what they thought, or if they thought anything at all. Fifteen months he’d been married.

  ‘Compliments of the season!’ Renehan raised his glass and Elmer slightly raised his. The last thing he remembered of that Saturday night was the barman insisting that he wanted to close. The walk back to the Strand Hotel, the hall and the stairs, any parting words: none of that had remained with him. The next thing he could recollect after the barman said he had a home to go to himself was waking up with his clothes still on him.

  Renehan offered him a cigarette, as if presuming that since Elmer was drinking whiskey he would have taken up tobacco as well. Elmer shook his head. He’d never smoked a cigarette in his life, he said, and didn’t intend to.