The Country Girls Trilogy and Epilogue: The Country Girls / Girl with Green Eyes / Girls in Their Married Bliss

by Edna O'Brien

  We got ready quickly. I put on the black nylons very carefully so that none of the threads would get caught in my ring and then looked back to see if the seams were straight. They were bewitching. The stockings, not the seams. Baba hummed “Galway Bay” and tied a new gold chain around the waist of her blue tweed dress.

  I was still wearing my green pinafore dress and the white dancing blouse. They smelled of stale perfume, all the perfume I had poured on before going to dances. I wished I had something new.

  “I’m sick o’ this,” I said, pointing to my dress. “I think I won’t go.”

  So she got worried and loaned me a long necklace. I wound it round and round, until it almost choked me. The color was nice next to my skin. It was turquoise and the beads were made of glass.

  “My eyes are green tonight,” I said, looking into the mirror. They were a curious green, a bright, luminous green, like wet lichen.

  “Now mind—Baubra; and none of your Baba slop,” she warned me. She ignored the bit about my eyes. She was jealous. Mine were bigger than hers and the whites were a delicate blue, like the whites of a baby’s eyes.

  There was nobody in the house when we were leaving, so we put out the hall light and made sure that the door was locked. A gas meter two doors down had been raided and Joanna warned us about locking up.

  We linked and kept step with one another. There was a bus stop at the top of the avenue, but we walked on to the next stop. It was a penny cheaper from the next stop, to Nelson’s Pillar. We had plenty of money that night, but we walked out of habit.

  “What’ll I drink?” I asked, and distantly somewhere in my head I heard my mother’s voice accusing me, and I saw her shake her finger at me. There were tears in her eyes. Tears of reproach.

  “Gin,” Baba said. She talked very loudly. I could never get her to whisper, and people were always looking at us in the streets, as if we were wantons.

  “My earrings hurt,” I said.

  “Take them off and give your ears a rest,” she said. Still aloud.

  “But will there be a mirror?” I asked. I wanted to have them on when I got there. They were long giddy earrings, and I loved shaking my head so that they dangled and their little blue-glass stones caught the light.

  “Yeh, we’ll go into the cloaks first,” Baba said. I took them off and the pain in the lobes of my ears was worse. It was agony for a few minutes.

  We passed the shop where I worked; the blind was drawn, but there was a light inside. The blind wasn’t exactly the width of the window; there was an inch to spare at either side and you could see the light through that narrow space.

  “Guess what they’re doing in there,” Baba said. She knew all about them and was always plying me with questions—what they ate and what kind of nightgowns were on the clothesline and what he said to her when she said, “Darling, I’ll go up and make the bed now.”

  “They’re eating chocolates and counting the day’s money,” I said. I could taste the liqueur chocolates Mr. Gentleman had given me long ago.

  “No, they’re not. They’re taking a rasher off every half pound you’ve weighed before going up to confession,” she said, going over and trying to see through the slit at the corner. I saw a bus coming and we ran to the stop thirty or forty yards away.

  “You’re all dolled up,” the conductor said. He didn’t take our fares that night. We knew him from going in and out of town every other evening. We wished him a happy Easter.

  17

  The foyer of the hotel was brightly lit and there were palm plants in a huge vase over in one corner.

  We went into the cloakroom first and I put on my earrings. We washed our hands and dried them on a hot-air dryer and found this so funny that we washed them again and dried them a second time. We came out and I followed Baba through the foyer into the lounge. There were a lot of people sitting at the tables, people drinking and talking and flirting with one another. Under the pink, soothing lights, all of these people looked smooth and composed, and their faces were not at all like the faces of men who drank in Jack Holland’s public house. It would have been nice if we were coming in to drink by ourselves and to look at people and admire the jewelry that some of the women wore.

  Baba stood on her toes and I saw her wave airily over toward a corner table. I followed her across, a little unsteady on my high heels.

  Two middle-aged men stood up and she introduced me. I wasn’t sure which was which, but even under such kind lights both were obviously unattractive. They had already had a few drinks, and the empty glasses were on the table between them.

  “You’re at college, too, I hear,” the man with the gray hair said to me. The man with the black hair was complimenting Baba on how well she looked, so I took it that he was Reginald, and this was Harry who had just spoken to me.

  “Yes,” I said. I was sitting on the edge of my chair as if I were waiting for the chandelier over my head to fall on me. It was a nice chandelier, much nicer than the big one over in the center of the room.

  “What’s your subject?”

  “English,” I said quickly.

  “Oh, how interesting. I have more than a flair for English myself. As a matter of fact, I have a theory about Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

  Just then a boy came over to take our order.

  “Pink gin,” Baba said, imitating a little girl’s voice for Reginald.

  “I’ll have the same,” I said to the boy. He wiped the glass-topped table clean, and took the empty glasses away. When he came back with the drinks, neither of them offered to pay at first, and then they both offered the money at the same moment, and finally Harry paid and left a two-shilling tip. The pink gin sounded better than it tasted, and I asked if I could have a bottle of orange. The orange drowned the bitter taste of the gin.

  I didn’t want to talk about Shakespeare’s sonnets because I only knew one of them by heart, so I said to Reginald, “Do you work hard?”

  “Work! No, I’m a confectioner … I sweeten life. Ha, ha, ha.”

  They laughed. I was wondering how many times he had told it before, how worn out it must be by now.

  “Laugh, Caithleen, Chrissake, laugh,” Baba said, and I tried a little laugh, but it didn’t work.

  Then she said that she wanted to speak to me for a minute and we went out onto the carpeted landing that led to the residents’ bathroom.

  “Will you do me a favor?” she asked. She was looking up earnestly into my face. I was much taller than she.

  “Yes,” I said, and though I was no longer afraid of her, I had that sick feeling which I always have before someone says an unpleasant thing to me.

  “Will you, for Chrissake, stop asking fellas if they’ve read James Joyce’s Dubliners? They’re not interested. They’re out for a night. Eat and drink all you can and leave James Joyce to blow his own trumpet.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, then, what are you worrying about?”

  “I’m not worrying. I just like him.”

  “Oh, Caithleen! Why don’t you get sense?”

  “I hate it. I’ll scream if that lump Harry touches me.”

  “He won’t, Caithleen. We’ll all stick together. Think of the dinner. We’ll have lamb and mint sauce. Mint sauce, Caithleen, you like it.” She could be very sweet when she wanted to coax me into a good humor. I sent her back to them, and I went upstairs and sat in front of a mirror for a while. Just to be away from them.

  And I thought of all the people downstairs enjoying themselves, and I thought especially of the women, cool and rich and mysterious. It is easy for a woman to be mysterious when she is rich. And for no reason that I could understand, I remembered back to the time when I was four or five and I got a clean nightgown and a clean handkerchief on Saturday nights.

  When I came down, they were ready to leave. We were going out to a country hotel for dinner.

  Baba sat in the back seat with Reginald. They were giggling and whispering all the time, and I
was ashamed to look back in case they were embracing or anything like that.

  “Well, to go back to this business of Shakespeare’s sonnets,” Harry said. He was still droning away when we drove up to the hotel, at the foot of the Sugarloaf mountain. It was a white Georgian house with pine trees all around it. There were masses of daffodils on the front lawn. They were far nicer and far happier than any other daffodils that I had ever seen anywhere else.

  “Must get a flower, boys,” Baba said, walking precariously on her icicle heels over the marbled chips. “Boys!” How could she be so false? She was a little drunk. I made an attempt to follow her, because I didn’t want to be alone with them, but halfway across I felt that they were measuring me from behind and I couldn’t walk another step. My legs failed me.

  “My dish is a lovely dish,” I heard Harry say, and when Baba came back with her button nose in the daffodil cup, there were tears in my eyes.

  “Jesus, I’ll never bring you out again,” she muttered.

  “I’ll never come,” I said under my breath.

  Before dinner we had sherry. The men played darts in the public bar and Harry stood a round of drinks to the local boys. You could see him swell with importance when they raised the glasses of stout and wished, “Happy Easter, sir.”

  We had lamb and mint sauce, as Baba promised, and there was a dish of boiled potatoes and some tinned peas. Reginald took three potatoes at once and asked the girl to bring him a double whiskey.

  “Eat up, Reg,” Harry said, with sarcasm in his voice. Harry ordered red wine for us. It was bitter but I forgave its bitterness because of its color. It was nice just to hold the glass up to the evening light and look through it at the brick fireplace and the copper pans along the wall.

  “You’re a grand girl,” Harry said.

  “I hate you,” I said to myself, but aloud I said, “It’s a grand dinner.”

  “You’re artistic,” he said, touching my glass with his. “You know a thing about me? I’m artistic, too. I had a little hobby once and you know what it was?”

  “No.” How the hell could I?

  “I made chairs, beautiful Hepplewhite chairs out of matchboxes. Artistic chairs. You’d like them. You’re artistic. Let’s drink to that,” and they all drank and Reg said, “Bravo.”

  “Happy?” Baba asked me, and I cut her with a look.

  “You know, I understand you,” Harry said, moving his chair closer to mine. I was uneasy with him. Apart from despising him, I felt he was the kind of man who would get in a huff if you neglected to pass him the peas. I decided to drink, and drink, and drink, until I was very drunk.

  “More potatoes, miss?” Reginald asked, as the girl came up the room with a tray of desserts. He had his elbows on the table and was resting his head on his hands. He was asleep when the potatoes came, so she took them away again, and she took his dinner plate and the bread plate, which was piled high with potato skins.

  “Come on now, eat your trifle.” Baba shook him, and his round, small, pig eyes focused on the plate of trifle underneath.

  “Sure. Sure.” He ate it quickly, as if he couldn’t get enough of it. Harry ate with great precision. We had an Irish coffee, which was so rich and creamy that I felt sick after it. Then Reginald paid the bill and stuffed a note into the girl’s apron pocket.

  We drove back just after ten o’clock, and there was a stream of cars coming from the opposite direction.

  “Sit close to me, will you?” Harry said in an exasperated way. As if I ought to know the price of a good dinner. Obediently I sat near him. I thought that the worst was over now and that we were going home to our little room.

  “Closer,” he said. The way he spoke, you’d think I was a dog.

  “Isn’t the traffic terrible?” I said. “You’re a great driver,” I added. All I wanted was to get home safely. We were within inches of death three or four times. Reginald began to snore, and Baba put her elbows on the back of my seat and began to talk. She was talking foolishly, about being a virgin, and she was very drunk.

  “What’s this?” I asked. The car had slowed down outside a large, detached, Tudor-style residence.

  “This is home,” Harry said. The double gates were open and he drove the car in within an inch or two of the white garage door. We got out.

  There was a cherry tree flowering over near the railings, and the lawn was smooth and cared-for.

  “Don’t leave me,” I whispered to Baba as we went up the steps.

  “Chrissake, shut up,” she said. She took off her shoes and climbed in her stockinged feet. Reginald picked her up in his arms and carried her into the hallway. Harry switched on the lights and we followed him into the drawing room. It was a big room with a high ceiling, and it was full of expensive furniture. You could smell the money.

  We took off our coats and laid them on the sofa. Harry clicked a button and the front of a mahogany cabinet opened out, displaying all sorts of bottles.

  “What will it be?” he asked.

  “Let’s all have Scotch on the rocks,” Reginald said, and Baba cooed with furry delight. I said nothing. I had my back to them and was looking at a portrait over the fireplace. It was a woman petting a horse’s forehead. His wife, I supposed.

  “That’s my wife,” Harry said as he handed me a huge drink.

  “How is Betty?” Reginald said. Determined to be bluff about her.

  “Fine. She’s gone down to the West for a golf championship,” he said, taking off his jacket. He had a fawn buttoned cardigan underneath, and he pulled it down over his hips and swaggered in front of me. His body was fat and vain and idiotic.

  “Come back, Betty,” I begged the plain, horse-faced woman in the oak frame. He drew the curtains. They were the most sumptuous curtains I had ever seen. They were plum velvet and they hung to the floor in soft rich folds. A pelmet of the same material came down in waves over the curtains, and they were fringed with red and white tassels. Mama would have loved them.

  “Sit down,” he said, and I sank into the high-cushioned sofa. He sat beside me and began to stroke my hair.

  “Happy?” he asked. Reginald and Baba were playing a duet on the piano. The piano stool was long enough for them to sit side by side.

  “I’d love some tea,” I said. Anything to keep us moving.

  “Tea?” he repeated, as if it were something that only savages drank.

  “Come on, Cait, we’ll make tea,” Baba said, getting up off the piano stool and patting her hair with her hands to keep the waves in place. Harry showed us the kitchen and went back sulkily to drink.

  “Christ, can we feck anything?” she said, opening the door of the big white refrigerator. A light came on inside when the door was opened and we looked in eagerly, expecting to see a few cold chickens. The metal racks were perfectly empty: there was nothing but a tray of ice cubes in a metal box.

  “Help yourself,” Baba said, standing back so that I could have a full view.

  We made the tea and carried the tray back to the drawing room. There was no milk, but the black tea was better than nothing.

  “Harry, can I show Barbara your oils?” Reginald said, and Harry said, “Certainly.” Reginald took Baba’s hand and they went out of the room. I yawned and called after her not to be long.

  “At last,” Harry said, laying his drink on the brass table and approaching me with a look of determination. I had my legs crossed and my hands folded demurely on my lap. I looked up at him with a look of nonchalance, but underneath I was trembling. He sat on the couch and kissed me fiercely on the lips.

  “Come on,” he said, and he tried to lift one knee off the other. The light from behind was shining on his face and his smile was strange.

  “No. Let’s talk,” I said, trying to be casual.

  “I’ll tell you a fairy story,” he said.

  “Do. Do that. That’s nice.” I smiled and accepted another drink. Talk, that was what I must do. Talk. Talk. Talk. And all would be well and I would get home somehow, a
nd make a novena in thanksgiving.

  “Ready?” he asked, and I nodded and crossed my legs again. He held my hand and I endured it for peace’s sake.

  He began: “Once upon a time there was a cock and a fox and a pussy cat, and they lived on an island far away …”

  It wasn’t a long story, and though I didn’t understand it fully, I knew that it was dirty and double-meaning and that he was a dirty, horrible, stupid man.

  I stood up and said hysterically, “I want to go home.”

  “Cold little bitch. Cold bitch,” he said, swigging a long drink.

  “You’re vile and horrible,” I said. I had lost control of my temper.

  “Why in God’s name did you come, then?” he asked as I went to the door and called Baba. She came downstairs fastening the gold chain around her waist.

  “I want to go home,” I said frantically. “Where’s Reginald?”

  “He’s asleep,” she said. She took her shoes off the hall table and went into the room for our coats.

  She asked Harry if he would take us home, and he put on his jacket and came out waving a bunch of keys venomously.

  It was nice to come out in the air and find the lawn white with moonlight. The lawn and the moonlight had dignity. Life was beautiful if one only met the beautiful people. Life was beautiful and full of promise. The promise one felt when one looked at a summer garden of hazy blue flowers at the foot of an incredibly beautiful fountain. And in the air were the sprays of hazy silver water that would descend to drench the blue parched flowers.

  I sat in the back. He drove quickly and I expected him to kill us.

  At the top of our avenue Baba said we’d get out because he might never turn the big car once he came into the narrow avenue.

  “Good night, Barbara. You’re a nice girl, and if I can ever be of help, don’t forget to give me a ring,” he said to her, and to me he said good night.

  We walked quickly up the street. It was chilly and the gardens seemed to be frozen over. It was bright from the moon and the stars and the streetlights, and all the curtains were drawn in all the windows. There was a light behind one window and a baby’s cry came from that direction.