Amongst Women

  In the car, leaning her head on his consenting but exasperated shoulder, she said, ‘We don’t have to be like the rest of the people round here. We don’t have to go out together for years. There’s nothing in the way of our getting married, and I love you, Michael,’

  ‘When do you want to get married?’

  ‘This year. Before the summer. If there was something in our way it would be different.’

  ‘There’s the children to consider.’

  ‘I’d not be in the way of the children. I could only be of help.’

  ‘When do you want to be married then?’

  ‘We have nothing to stop us before Lent.’

  ‘It’d be too rushed,’ he said. ‘It’ll have to be after Lent.’

  ‘The week after Easter then.’ She set the time and was too happy to notice that he was more like a man listening to a door close than one going towards his joy.

  ‘We’ll have the wedding breakfast in the Royal. There won’t be need to invite many,’ she proposed carefully some days later.

  ‘I don’t want anything in an hotel.’

  ‘We have to have some place for a reception,’ she argued.

  ‘Haven’t we two houses of our own?’

  ‘I don’t think they’d like that at home. As soon as I mentioned an Easter wedding they brought up the Royal.’

  ‘The Bradys don’t have that much money to scatter at the Royal Hotel.’

  ‘They don’t mind that. It’s just one day.’

  ‘There’ll be no hotels. We are too old and poor for that.’

  ‘It’ll be thought strange. Everybody does it.’

  ‘Because everybody goes and jumps in the river is no reason why we have to go and jump in the same river.’

  ‘I know that what you say makes sense, love,’ she placed her hand on his arm. ‘They’ll not like it at home. They’ll not understand. Can’t we go to the Royal for them?’

  ‘Let them start to understand,’ he said as he took her hand in a playful threat. ‘We can always have ham and tea and whiskey for anybody that wants it in our house. That way we’ll have less travelling to do afterwards.’

  As a play it was close to perfect. The honour of the reception always fell to the family of the bride. It would not do for it to take place in Moran’s house and Moran would not go to a hotel. The Bradys would have to agree to hold it in their house or not at all.

  Eventually Rose persuaded them to hold the reception in the house. They did not like it, argued against it – argued against the whole match – but she held firm. There would be fewer people to cope with that way, and she wasn’t young any longer.

  The night before the wedding the girls hardly slept at all and they did not chatter to one another as they usually did until they found sleep. In the morning their father would be married. Another woman would come back with him into the house. It did not matter that it was the Rose they had grown to like. The life they had come to know so well for so long as it slipped by changelessly would be irrevocably altered: it was like a death or a wounding and brought all the wonder and fear and awe of change. Each of their own lives would have to take up another uncertain beginning.

  Moran himself slept fitfully beside their brother. Now and again he would reach a hand over to the boy but he slept deeply through the night. It would be his last night of sleep in the room. The small boxroom with a single bed was already prepared. Tomorrow night Rose would lie in the boy’s place. When he did wake, Moran reached his hand across to the coarse shirt over the shoulder and gently began to knead the muscles.

  ‘It’s the last time we’ll wake in the morning together.’

  ‘The last time,’ the boy repeated uncertainly.

  ‘You know what day it is?’

  ‘Your wedding day.’

  ‘It’s the end of one life. The beginning of a different life. I believe it’s in the best interest of all the family. We can only pray and hope it’ll turn out for the best.’

  The boy was always more uncomfortable with these essays in tenderness than any sudden harshness. He sat up immediately in the bed to listen.

  ‘They’re up,’ he announced. ‘They’re all up. Do you want me to draw the curtain, Daddy?’

  ‘No. Not yet,’ Moran said but the boy had already drawn free from the kneading hand and was struggling into his clothes. He closed the door softly behind him and was gone without another word. Moran lay on in bed till very late. One of the girls had to come to the door to call him.

  ‘Your clothes is aired and ready, Daddy. It’s time to get up.’

  He came in in his old trousers and nightshirt. They were already dressed for the wedding, wearing little bits of borrowed fineries they were afraid he would notice. The boy was wearing his blue suit, shining black shoes, white shirt and blue tie and his fair hair was oiled. The kettle was boiling and Maggie poured the water into the basin in front of the shaving mirror. He failed to notice the borrowed things that the girls wore, looking around him instead in dumb bafflement: it was a wedding day, a shining moment in his life, and, except for the dressed children, it could be any ordinary day. His clothes were draped on the back of a chair in front of the fire. The clothes horse was drawn up. The steaming water was waiting in the basin before the mirror. He felt a low cry of frustration against the inadequacy of life break silently within, and ripple out. ‘What time is it?’ he demanded fiercely.

  ‘It’s just ten, Daddy. There’s only an hour till the Mass.’

  ‘I think I know it takes an hour to get from ten to eleven.’ The sarcasm seemed to relieve him a little and he took the black strop of leather from its nail and opened the razor. The blade flashed as it was drawn over the leather. He lathered and started to shave. They all fixed in a pure tenseness of watching as he shaved but he did not cut himself. He washed and towelled himself dry. ‘Your uncle didn’t put in an appearance yet?’

  ‘No, there’s no sign of him.’

  When he started to dress in front of the fire the two older girls turned away and when he looked for a collar stud the boy ran to attend. Once Maggie caught a glimpse of him in the shaving mirror, trouserless but with his shirt and socks on and in spite of her fear she was tempted to laugh. Trouserless men looked absurd in socks. He dressed with great care. He had refused to buy any new clothes for the wedding but the brown suit had been brushed and pressed. The white shirt was starched and the shoes shone. He went back to the shaving mirror to comb his hair and when he had finished he pushed a folded handkerchief into his sleeve with quiet satisfaction.

  ‘Of course, that uncle of yours didn’t have the manners to write, never mind the decency to come; but I’ve long learned never to expect anything from an ass but a kick.’ The increasing nervousness showed in his voice. ‘I don’t know why people can’t write a note.’

  They were all dressed. There was nothing to do but wait for their uncle. Moran had decided that they would go to the church in their uncle’s big old car. They hadn’t seen him in months. Moran had written to him and assumed that he would come. Several times Moran went to the front door to look towards the road. He changed his handkerchief from his left sleeve to his right.

  ‘I should have learned by now never to rely on anybody.’

  ‘He must have got a puncture,’ Michael offered.

  ‘You’d think he’d allow for that on a day the like of this.’

  ‘He might never have thought …’

  ‘You can rely on that. The man’s head was designed to keep his ears apart. Anyhow we can’t wait much longer.’

  He went out and started the small blue Ford, backed it out of the shed and left the engine running.

  ‘We better be going. We can’t wait about like this any longer. God, O God, did you ever see such people!’ They all crammed into the car. ‘You’d think people would have heed, but no heed, never any heed, no care for anybody else,’ he complained as he drove; but before the bridge he startled them by driving the car into the space in front of McCabe’s and ann
ouncing that they would walk the rest of the way through the village.

  ‘We’re early. This way we’ll meet the man on his bloody way if he’s coming.’

  Michael sniggered behind Moran as soon as they were on the road together but it drew such a quelling look from Maggie that he went quiet. All the girls were deeply ashamed. No one had ever seen a bride or groom walk to their wedding; even the very poor found a car for that day and in the old days they had gone by trap or sidecar. Fortunately the bridge was empty as was the long road of sycamores to the church in its dark evergreens. After crossing the bridge Moran checked his watch and to their infinite relief started to walk quickly. They wished their uncle would come and they could vanish into the huge car but no motor could be heard in the direction from which he would come. They walked on in silence. It had not rained for a week and the white dust of the road started to dull the shine of all the shoes. At the end of the long road Reynolds’ was the first house they had to pass and they started to cringe into themselves behind Moran even before they got to the little hedge of privet above the whitewashed stones. Mrs Reynolds was in the doorway, almost ready herself to go to the wedding – she never missed a wedding or a funeral – but seeing the procession that approached withdrew back into the shadows of the room to observe better the old cockerel go by followed by his dismayed pullets.

  ‘And the bloody madman is walking to his own wedding with all the children,’ she said, more in sympathy with the children than in laughter.

  Each step seemed to take an age as they passed the forge. Only the boy looked at the two men sledging a length of iron on the outside anvil. Then they had to brace themselves to pass the few people standing along the church wall. None of them looked up as they passed. Moran did not turn to speak. There were curious villagers waiting for the wedding to begin in the back seats of the church but they did not look to left or right. All the children blessed themselves from the fount and went straight up to the altar. It was like the beginning of healing to get into their seats and kneel beside Moran, no longer exposed. None of the bride’s party had come yet. The priest came through the sacristy door in soutane and surplice and Moran went up to the rails.

  ‘The best man hasn’t come. Would the boy do?’ Moran asked. They both looked towards Michael.

  ‘He’s a bit young,’ the priest said. ‘We can get one of the bride’s brothers to stand in.’

  Then a car was heard pulling up at the gate; either the bridal car or their uncle had come. All turned to look back at the door as the footsteps approached on the flagstones. The relief showed instantly on their faces as the small round figure of their uncle filled the doorway. He hurried up the aisle of the church, showing his palms by way of apology when he reached his place. There were dirt and grease stains on both palms with bits of grass stuck to the grease.

  ‘I thought you’d never get here,’ Moran said.

  ‘I got broke down,’ he whispered apologetically as he slipped in beside Moran, putting his oily hand on the head of one of the girls. From the altar the priest nodded a smile of recognition to the best man. Finally Rose’s family filed into the pew across the aisle and Rose came behind on her brother’s arm. There was no music. The priest beckoned Moran forward. He motioned to them when to kneel, to stand, to be seated, when to take the ring, the gold and silver, to ‘repeat these words after me’. A sister of Rose’s sobbed briefly. The girls’ eyes filled with tears. A man in the side-chapel took photos. The bride and groom returned together to the front seat for the nuptial Mass. Everybody except the best man went to the rails for Holy Communion. Outside, in the clear day, as the couple stood beneath the bell rope, a small box of confetti was thrown. They stood together, separately, and then in groups for photos that one of Rose’s sisters took, headstones and evergreens rising out of the background of thick laurel. The uncle’s car was an old Ford V8 with enormous fins and there was more than enough room for all of them in the back. The bride and bridegroom rode in front.

  ‘You gave us all a start,’ Rose said happily. ‘For a few minutes our hearts were in our mouths. We thought you weren’t coming but it’s wonderful you got here.’

  ‘I got this puncture. She just went flat,’ he turned his grease- stained hands upwards again on the wheel as he drove.

  ‘You’ll have hot water for them as soon as we get to the house.’

  ‘You must have left it very tight to get here so late,’ Moran said.

  ‘You never think you’ll get anything.’

  ‘Of course nobody ever thinks. That goes without saying.’

  ‘Everything is fine now. Their uncle got here and that is all that matters,’ Rose smoothed, turning to chat to the girls in the back.

  The car was too large for the lane so they walked in. The April Saturday was mild, with just the faintest threat of showers. Everywhere in the low briers and hedgerows was the clatter and singing of small birds. The little lake below the house was still ringed with its winter reeds, the colour of rained-on wheat. Everybody waited to eat until the priest arrived. He was the only one to risk his small car on the lane. He would have to leave early on a sick call, he said.

  There were no letters or telegrams to be read out. The priest, with folded hands and closed eyes, recited Grace, and the meal began: soup served by a daughter of the same sister of Rose’s who had been taking the photos; chicken and ham, with salad. The wedding cake was cut. The priest made a short speech praising the families and the outstanding simplicity of the wedding feast. There was too much emphasis nowadays on show, on Rolls-Royces and big hotels, wasteful, expensive display. It was pleasant to see people returning to the old ways, he said. There was wine and whiskey and beer for the toast. The best man said he wasn’t used to speeches, he nearly hadn’t arrived at all himself, but he just wanted to thank Father here for all he had done and the people of the bride here for this feast and all the trouble they had gone to, and then he proposed the toast. The brother who had given Rose away responded even more briefly and soon afterwards the priest left.

  Gradually the wedding breakfast was breaking up. One of Rose’s tall silent brothers went around the tables with a bottle of wine and a bottle of whiskey but they drank sparingly. When the best man cleared his throat and announced that he was going to fix the puncture he had before leaving, all Moran’s children followed him out to the road and stood around as he got levers and patches and solution. When he came back to the house he refused to take a chair or a drink.

  ‘I better be making a start. I have a run to do yet this evening.’

  ‘We might as well go with you so,’ Moran said and Rose got up eagerly. She had all her going-away things packed. The remaining things she could come back for any day. Her mother and sisters and brothers all embraced her but she showed no emotion. The whole household walked them out to the big Ford at the end of the lane. They embraced Rose a second time and everybody shook hands. At the bridge Moran and Rose changed to their own small blue car and the uncle drove the children home. He waited at the house until the bride and groom arrived but he could not be persuaded to enter the house.

  The whole of Rose’s family walked back down the lane to their house in silence. ‘She had many admirers,’ the old mother said as they neared the house in a tone of puzzlement and of mourning. ‘Many admirers … Many admirers …’

  ‘Nothing could stop her. She was determined on it. Now it’s her life,’ her married sister said gently.

  ‘I hope she’ll be lucky,’ the wife of one of the brothers said without any feeling.

  The four tall brothers walked in stooped silence but their wives chatted agreeably. A daughter held the mother’s hand in sympathy.

  When they entered the house one of the brothers reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured four large glasses for the first time that day. They were a very close family but in the years to come no gathering or wedding, not even simple gatherings, was ever held in any one of their houses. They went to big hotels as if determined never again to ex
perience anything like this house wedding in all their mortal lives. Neither Rose nor Moran ever attended any of the gatherings. They were never invited. They would not have gone if they were.

  ‘I don’t know about anybody else but I’d love a nice hot cup of tea,’ Rose said as soon as they were all in the house. At once she set a tone that would not be easily wrested from her. Moran watched in silence.

  All the girls helped her to get the fire going, spread the tablecloth, put out the cups and plates, laughing and whispering and bustling about as they showed her the places and secrets of the kitchen, the room that was now her room. There was a touch of hysteria in the frantic busyness. Their exaggeration of the small tasks betrayed that they were more involved with Moran than in what they were doing. Sometimes they would accidentally bring it to crisis by letting a plate or cup smash on the floor. As they showed her the house, Rose seemed to enter completely into the terrible awareness of Moran now sitting in the car chair meditatively rotating his thumbs about one another. On this his wedding day he seemed strangely at peace. It was as if he needed this quality of attention to be fixed upon him in order to be completely silent.

  During the entire day he felt a violent, dissatisfied feeling that his whole life was taking place in front of his eyes without anything at all taking place. Distances were walked. Words were said. Rings were exchanged. The party moved from church to house. All seemed a kind of mockery. It was as if nothing at all had happened. He was tired of wrestling with it, brooding about it, sometimes looking at his bride’s back with violent puzzlement; but now, surrounded by this covert attention, he was glad to let it go: he would take tea like a lord with his family.

  Was there milk enough or a little too much in his tea? They could add more tea once he had taken a few sips. He didn’t take sugar any more. Would he have the plain bread or the bread with the blackcurrant jam or a piece of the apple tart? ‘The tea was all right,’ he protested and they knew he was far from displeased. ‘It’ll do for the man it is for. I’ve already eaten enough today to do a man for a week. I’d explode if I was to put as much as one morsel more in my mouth.’