Lantern Slides Page 11
They had hired a car, and this time it was not the local pup, who showed up whenever it suited him, but an older man who rarely drove a hackney. Although he would charge them more, he was, in a sense, doing them a favour, as her father said. The price was agreed. Her father had told her mother the amount and he had it ready in one pocket, with some change in the other pocket in case they stopped to have coffee or lemonade or had to give an offering for a Mass. The most wonderful thing about the day was that they would not be on their own. They were not just mother, father, and daughter Meg, with father likely to throw a tantrum at any minute and tell the driver to stop the car at a public house and go in, not for a coffee but for a few whiskeys, and commence on a batter that would last for weeks and would be perfidious. No, they were to have a visitor, a very important woman, the most suave and dashing woman in the whole town—the doctor’s wife. She had a dark fur coat with lighter stripes in it, and matching gloves. She had a very thin, sallow face and gold bracelets that had slipped up above her elbow and could not be wedged down, so that she wore them even in bed under her nightie. She was called Kitty, and indeed had not always been friendly with them; in fact, she had snubbed them for years, but, as Meg’s mother said, age mellows people. Her mother was thrilled. For all those years she had tried to effect a friendship, sending gifts of cakes and eggs, and once she compromised herself seriously. It was with Kitty’s eldest daughter, who was also called Kitty, and who took to making jaunts to their house on her bicycle, befriending them for an entire summer.
Meg’s mother had three pieces of silk, each one being the length of a summer dress; she had had them for years. She would hold them up against the children, not actually promising them anything, because she felt that these pieces of silk were too special. And then it so happened that young Kitty came along, was given powdered lemonade and cake while sitting on a card chair in front of the house—sitting in a niche between two walls of jutting stone, where the sun, if it ever shone, was likely to light on her. Kitty had such a way of attracting attention that everyone was mesmerized by her. One day when she was there, rattling on about some happy thing she had done, Meg’s mother rose from her stool all of a sudden, dashed through the vestibule, went up the stairs, obviously intent on something important. She was back in a short time, holding one of those pieces of material in her two hands the way she might hold a rosary. Kitty gasped with delight, said, “What a gorgeous color. Golden. Or is it apricot?”
“Have it!” Meg’s mother said, and added, “It will make you think of us.”
Kitty took and smelled it, and made such a show of gratitude that the mother was ecstatic. First Kitty held it up to herself, letting the bottom half trail on the gravel, which unnerved Meg’s mother; then she gathered it all up and wrapped it around her, sari-like, and then she wore it as a shawl, covering her brown hair and letting it fall over her shoulders in bright golden cascades. It was yellow stuff with gooseberries and cowslips of paler yellow spattered throughout. Kitty’s gratitude was so great that it was like a moment not out of normal life but out of a play. She kissed the material, she embraced the mother, she complimented her on having the best taste of any woman in the parish, including her own mother; she discussed possible styles and wondered if there was enough for a coatee; then again she said she did not think she could take it, and contradicted herself by holding on to it with both hands, as if someone were snatching it from her.
For a moment, the mother forgot that she had given something very precious away. Most likely she thought that the friendship was now indestructible, and that in the future she might look out of the window at any moment and say, “Kitty’s mother is coming!” But, far more than that, Meg’s mother hoped that she would be asked to their house. She would walk up the street one Sunday evening in her best costume and the shoes that crippled her, and be the one to knock on their knocker, which the maid polished religiously Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She had never been inside that house; no local person had, because Kitty’s mother found the local people uncouth, she having come from the city. It was said they had beautiful furniture, a hall stand, Spanish chests where they kept their linen, and a clock that could be heard chiming on the days when the front door was open while the maid was polishing the knocker. They had had parties, but these parties were for people from the city and even abroad.
Kitty took the dress material home in a rush basket, and was not to be seen for the rest of the week. It was, of course, not long before the mother repented her impulse, because now that Kitty had got something out of her she did not call again. A few weeks later, she even came close to snubbing the family, simply by darting back into her own house as they passed by for the evening Rosary. It would have been the perfect opportunity for an informal visit, for Kitty to say, “Take us as we are,” to call her mother from the kitchen or the bedroom or wherever she was and usher them into the front room to sit them on the high velvet sofa that swayed, it was said, like a hammock and was the colour of bulrushes. Even Meg imagined them going in. She imagined that Kitty only closed the door for a second, having got such a shock, but that, after an interval, the door would open again and they would step into the hall, and either Kitty or her mother would say, “My my, to think you’d never been here before! I thought you had!” And then they would go into that carpeted precinct, and after another decent interval, the cupboard with the green lattice front would be opened, and bottles and tinted glasses would be taken out, and Kitty’s mother would say, “What’s your poison? Will you have the hard stuff or cordials?” It was not to be. Their hall door, painted a dark oxblood red, was pushed to as her mother and she passed by. It was done very pointedly, and Meg’s mother quickened her pace, and said that the last thing she ever wanted was for them to think that she begged or wished for their hospitality.
“They even count the number of potatoes before they put them in the pot!” the mother said, a way of denouncing them. She was hurt. She was so hurt that she never prayed during the Rosary, and on the way home she kept saying cutting things about people in general—how people had no heart, how people would take from you and then close the door on you—but the little girl knew whom she meant. The friendship was made up much later, at a funeral. A mutual friend had died young, and death, as the mother said sorrowfully, binds all, each household harkening to it. They sat together at the wake and whispered.
* * *
THE CAR WAS DUE at eleven, but it was now one o’clock and it had not come. The harmony of the morning was going somewhat askew, as Meg could hear from the arguing within. Her father was saying God blast it, that he couldn’t rely on anyone, and where in the name of blazes was the bloke? And her mother was saying that instead of getting on his high horse it would be far more sensible to go over to the town and find the man.
“Tramp over there in my good clothes?” the father said.
“Change your clothes!” she said.
And in protest he took off his tie, and then they resumed looking through the window. Soon the little girl was called in to have a slice of bread, which she didn’t want, and she saw tears in her mother’s eyes, and her mother said that whenever she looked forward to anything it was always botched, and that she had lived for this day and that the doctor’s wife would be on edge too, probably in the hallway with her coat on, pacing and wondering. Meg’s father threatened not to go at all, to which her mother said that if the driver didn’t come soon there would be no point in any of them going. Because first they had to go north to one county, spend some time there, and then retrace their steps and go west to another county. She estimated the mileage while the father made himself a mug of tea that was dark as treacle. Their spirits lifted once when the dog barked, but it was a false alarm. Finally it was decided that they would go to the gate and wait there, to save a few minutes, or, as the child thought, to forestall her father from going up to bed in a sulk. At the gate they met a farmer, whom they asked to call on the hackney driver, to tell him to “buck up.”
“Ape,” her mother said, as the man geed up his horse. He had given Meg a penny, very new and shiny, with the lines of the harp so clear and sharp they looked like pieces of slanted thread. She squeezed it in her palm, hoping that it could get green from the copper—to be one with it.
“Jaysus, I couldn’t help it. I was under her for an hour,” the driver said as the black, bulky car came to a standstill along the kerb. Meg’s father rushed forward to open the door and give James, the driver, a pasting. The doctor’s wife, Kitty, sat in the back, looking a little quiet and irked, and then the mother got in beside her and apologized. Meg sat at Kitty’s other side, and the two men in front, where the prevailing mood was soon alleviated when they lit up cigarettes. The car got hot, the windows foggy in the cold, and she felt as if she were in some house or buggy going far, far away from their own place, and that in this big travelling room with the mahogany dashboard and tartan rugs they all cleaved together, chatting and cracking jokes. Her father was making jokes about the car now, and about James being “under her” for half the morning. Whenever there were people with them, they were much livelier and happier, so if they could be with James and the doctor’s wife forever that would be the solution. The doctor’s wife had thawed a bit also, and was smiling, and when the mother leaned over and touched Meg’s wrist and said, “We were very put out!” the doctor’s wife gave the child a little smile, and it was as if one of the saints, out of the rich assortment of holy pictures in her prayer book, had smiled at her or given her recognition.
“We even made a novena,” her mother said, and laughed; it was really to get the doctor’s wife to laugh that she did it. Meg was annoyed that her mother should reveal a secret of hers, especially a secret about promises made to God. Yes, she had offered to make a sacrifice if the car came, which she now regretted. She would not eat apple tart, she would also decline lemonade if it was offered her, and that night, when they got home, she would get out of bed at least ten times to say several Our Fathers, Hail Marys, and Glorias.
They passed a few strange towns, where people looked at them with a certain curiosity. Meg’s father knew some of the people in these towns, because he had drunk in them, and although this was a scourge to her mother and a source of tribulation, she now made jokes about her husband’s popularity and said that he ought to stand for Parliament, he knew so many people.
“That’s the thruth,” the driver said, and Meg’s father laughed. Good humour reigned. They would drive forever—forget her brother, forget her sister, go to no monastery, no convent, but rather to some undestined place. She loved her sister, yes. But there was a “but”; it was a terrible “but.” She had seen her sister and a man over by the public house. They stood very close together, side by side, but her sister’s gabardine was up at the back, and the man’s hand groping under it, and they were breathing in a funny way, the two of them. That was a bad thing, a very bad thing. Something told her so, even though she did not know exactly what was going on, and her sister was sick now—dying, maybe. No wonder.
The doctor’s wife was engaging them with talk about a film she had seen with her husband and another couple. They had driven to Limerick and had first had supper in a very nice restaurant, and the trouble was that none of them felt inclined to leave the table, forgo the wine and cigarettes and so forth, to see slush—as the doctor referred to it. She always called her husband “the doctor,” even to his face. He was quite abrupt, but the locals liked him, said he was good at diagnosing, and very thorough. It was said that he kissed nurses, but no one accused him of it, knowing that they would want him in their hour of need. The film they went to had a mixed reception among them—the women liking it, the men not.
“Too romantic,” Kitty said, and made a face. She sucked her cheeks in, maybe to resemble the heroine of the film. The child thought that beneath the sleeves of Kitty’s fur coat and the nice fuzzy pink dress she was wearing for the occasion were the bracelets, grazing her skin.
* * *
THEY ARRIVED LATE at the monastery. The monk had to explain that lunch was officially over but he had kept soup and bread. It was a green soup made of nettles, and Meg was afraid that it would sting her. Her mother said wasn’t it marvellous to use something as useless as nettles, then asked the monk in a quiet voice if perhaps she could have the recipe. The bread was nutty, and while they were eating, two monks sat with them and talked agriculture with Meg’s father. The doctor’s wife wasn’t eating at all, and at one point whispered to the mother, “I could do with a gin,” and the mother said that on their way over to the convent they would stop at Portumna.
The son was called out from his class, and as they stood on the refectory steps with the wind whipping around them, making the gravel shiver, he told his parents that he had decided upon a profession—he wanted to be a doctor. Their eyes filled up with tears, although later, in the car, Meg’s mother said, “How in the name of God are we going to afford it? University fees, digs in Dublin, train fare, then books for his study, and so on and on, not to mention his outfits!” Meg’s father said to leave it to him, and her mother raised her eyes.
The visit had been very short because of having to go to the next place before the nuns went to bed; the nuns went to bed at nine. It was dark now, and what Meg saw along the road were fields that stretched to the sky, with here and there a star to light the immensity of the gloom. It seemed to her those few stars shone deliberately to give voyagers, such as them, a ray of hope. She thought of the Magi.
They stopped at a hotel in Portumna, and Meg’s mother went to great trouble to get the drink for the doctor’s wife. It had, of course, to be in secret. She left Kitty in the hall and found a young porter with a brass-buttoned uniform and asked him to “fetch it up.” She stationed herself on the landing, the money in her hand, but, as it turned out, not enough money, because there had to be a tonic with the gin. The little girl had to cough up the extra sixpence, but she was proud to do it and only hoped that the doctor’s wife would learn of it, so that she would get a smile of gratitude. Kitty drank it up quickly and with evident pleasure and said that it was such a boost. It was clear that she wanted another, so Meg’s mother said, “Don’t budge!” and, in secret, she borrowed all the money the little girl had, then ran off, returning with a second drink under her scarf. Her happiness was immense, as well as her pride in being able to please this woman whom for years she had sought to know. She had been hurt, of course, but all was forgiven, and they planned on a day out to Limerick together, with no man to addle them. They were friends for life now—their little conspiracy had bound them.
Afterwards, they joined the men in the lounge downstairs, where they had tea and biscuits. Meg’s mother marvelled at a mirror, a big overmantel in a gold frame with gold roses and garlands of ivy encircling it. A crack in the surface of the mirror had been camouflaged with flowers that zigzagged, like a river. The mother said that to her dying day she would never forget the ingenuity of that. The little girl broke her pledge and ate biscuits and knew even as she was doing it that bad luck would befall her before the day was out. They were coconut biscuits, and as much as she loved them and gorged on the white shreds she also hated them, because she had defected from her resolve. Her father dipped his biscuit in the tea and sucked it. The driver ate the sandwiches. They left in such a hurry that she forgot her coat—a navy nap coat with seamed leather buttons. Her mother was so furious with her in the car that she thumped her and said, “What demon got into you, to come away without your best coat?” Meg cried, and said “Sorry” a number of times, and her father said that they would get the coat. He knew the owner of the hotel; they’d telephone the next day, and it could be put on the bus.
“All that bother!” her mother said, and thumped the child again, and she cried so loud that the doctor’s wife leaned across and lent her a hankie; it was a silk hankie
with lace edging, and it had Souvenir of Paris embroidered on it. Her mother finally forgave her as they neared the convent.
* * *
THEY HAD GONE ASTRAY, which caused them to lose an hour; the driver had taken the wrong road and was heading towards home when he said “Jaysus!” and reversed to a crossroads where there was a batch of signs. He got out to read them and came back and told of his error.
“It could happen to a bishop,” Meg’s father said, but her mother was not pleased. The convent shut at nine, and there was no way they could drive again the next day to fetch their daughter. Not much sympathy was evinced for the daughter’s illness, at least not yet. She was a willful girl, and had often filched her mother’s dance dresses and fal-lals, and when she came home on holiday she slept late, then got up, had a big breakfast, and went off gallivanting. She was not a homebody.
The gatekeeper grumbled, said he had been looking out for them all night and that most of the nuns had gone up to bed, except for two. They were very cheerful nuns, who gripped the hands of their visitors and said they must be perished, and ushered them into a parlour where there was tea laid out on a trolley—tea and spongecake. The tea was in a flask and the spongecake was like a jewel—dusted over with fine sugar, the jam oozing out at the sides and trickling down over the yellow tier. They sat on big carved chairs and waited while one of the nuns went to fetch Meg’s sister, Nancy. She came in with the nun, a blanket wrapped all around her, looking very listless. She kissed her parents, kissed the doctor’s wife, and then sat and coughed. Her father asked her if she was all right, and one of the nuns said that she would be when she got home and had good dinners of bacon and cabbage, and plenty of fresh air, and she repeated the proverb that there was no place like home. She said that Nancy was the brightest girl in all of Ireland and could sweep the country in examinations, and that she must get well and strong in order to make her mark. The driver had not come in, because although they had been chummy with him in the hotel they thought it was bad form to have him in a convent parlour, seeing nuns at that hour of the night. The cake was so delicious that Meg had two pieces, and her mother touched her tummy and said that if she ate any more she would be like a little barrel. The funny thing was that when the blanket slipped off once and she caught a look at her sister, her tummy was like a little barrel. She thought it odd for a sick girl to have such a corporation.