Like One of the Family

by Nesta Tuomey

  Suddenly she became self-conscious. She glanced towards the door. As if recollecting the time he went at once to open it. ‘Off you go. You can take your cushion with you.’ He sounded amused.

  She blushed and retrieved it. He waited until she was through the door then closed it gently after her. She walked back to the garage, her head in a spin. No one had ever described her so intriguingly to herself before. She felt as if she were being created afresh and was drawn, almost against her will, to view herself as he did.

  That night Claire stood on her bed, her feet sinking in the soft mattress, and looked in her dressing-table mirror. She badly wanted to see herself, all in one go. It was the first time such an idea had occurred to her.

  By bending her neck and crouching she was rewarded by a foreshortened frontal: first midriff and thighs, and then lower and upper torso. Her hips and thighs had lost their childish thinness and looked nicely rounded. Her breasts were beginning to get fat. When she arched her body, they gently budded the bodice of her cotton dress. Was this what he had meant by well developed?

  Next she angled the mirror so that she could see herself lying down on the bed. With her head resting on the pillow, she pulled up her dress and down her pants and looked critically across. In the months since the baby’s death she had filled out and was no longer a little girl.

  She dreamed that night, as in the period after her appendix operation, that she was in the operating theatre, except that this time he was the surgeon standing beside the table. She was aware that her hospital gown was ruched up leaving her naked below the waist, but each time she modestly tried to pull it back down he told the nurse to pull it up again. In the end she just lay there and let them. She remembered the dream long after she woke up.

  In the days after, when Claire passed the surgery, she felt a faint excitement as though behind the panelled door Eddie was waiting to continue their conversation. Now during her coffee sessions with Jane she encouraged the older woman to talk about him, avidly absorbing every detail of his life.

  Jane, who never needed any persuading to talk about her family, was pleased at her interest and painted a generally accurate, if slightly biased, account of the doctor and the man.

  Eddie was a brilliant surgeon and had been awarded several medical gongs for his research into ectopic pregnancy and the effects of certain drugs on bone formation in the developing foetus. He divided his time between his consulting rooms in Merrion Square and the city nursing homes. One day of the week he operated at the hospital. Jane said he was treated like a god by his woman patients and bullied and adored by his receptionist, who had been his faithful watchdog for thirteen years. This paragon managed to keep his appointment book filled without overcrowding it. New patients were encouraged to pay in advance of consultation and maternity cases prior to their six week check-up. No-one ever slipped past her and Eddie could not have functioned without her. Jane laughed and professed to be madly jealous of her. Claire asked Sheena later if this were true, but Sheena just laughed herself and said that the woman was almost sixty years old and the only threat she had ever posed was to her father’s waistline.

  ‘Somehow babies always seem to get themselves born around mealtimes,’ Sheena explained. ‘She worries about Daddy and stuffs him with take-aways.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Terry, who was listening. ‘He’s getting to be a right fatso!’

  Claire was struck by how casually the twins regarded their father. By comparison Hugh worshipped his father and was afraid of disappointing him. He thought of becoming a vet when he grew up but worried it would disappoint his father if he didn’t follow in his footsteps. Claire thought if only Terry had some interest in medicine it would have let Hugh off the hook, but Terry was not the academic type. His was a bold and adventurous spirit and when he grew up would more than likely become an explorer or a soldier. Terry climbed effortlessly to the top of the thirty foot chestnut tree in the garden, swinging daringly on a branch and shouting boastfully down to them all, while poor Hugh got dizzy and sick if he so much as went on to the garage roof to recover a tennis ball. Claire understood and empathised with Hugh’s fear of heights, but at the same time she couldn’t help feeling a sneaking admiration for Terry’s fearless show of courage.

  Claire got in the habit of hanging about her own gate around the time Eddie came home in the evening. But as soon as she saw his car turning into the road she would go at once into the house. One evening she lingered on the pavement, throwing her ball at the wall. When he had stopped his car and got out she pretended suddenly to notice him.

  ‘Hi, Blondie,’ he said with a smile and disappeared up the driveway before she could say hello back.

  Blondie!

  Another time she and Sheena were going upstairs as he was coming down. Claire had on a blue gingham skirt and a frilled top, her fair hair bound about her head in plaits. He murmured something in his daughter’s ear and passed on with a chuckle. ‘Don’t you want to know what he said?’

  Of course she did, but only if it was something nice.

  Sheena giggled. ‘Daddy calls you the Dresden doll. I think you’re more like Heidi.’ She linked her arm through Claire’s affectionately. ‘Daddy thinks you’re awfully pretty.’

  Claire hugged it to herself. The Dresden doll. It sounded delicate and exotic. Her heart went up and up.

  After that she began imagining dramatic little scenes. Jane had been called away and Eddie had need of her help with a woman who had cut an artery and was rapidly losing blood. She stood beside him following his instructions to the letter and afterwards he admitted that the woman would have been dead only for her. Sometimes Jane had died (Claire felt a bit guilty even thinking such a thing) and he was lonely and seeking comfort. She sat with his head in her lap and tenderly stroked his forehead, ran her fingers through his grey-black curls. Beyond that her imagination did not go.

  One evening, Claire saw Eddie and Jane, both were smartly dressed, come out of the house on their way to some function.

  ‘Don’t forget to get out the hose and water the plants,’ Jane reminded Hugh. She had on a mustard and brown Thai silk dress, with a linen jacket draped over her shoulders, and very high heels. She was wearing lipstick and she had been to the hairdressers. Claire thought she looked almost pretty.

  Eddie backed the Rover out of the garage. Terry had hosed it down and given it a polish, and now the chrome gleamed and the bodywork held a blue satin sheen. He put on the brake and got out. He had on a light grey mohair suit, red silk tie and a handkerchief peeped from his top pocket. Claire thought he looked very grand.

  ‘And how are you, my dear?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘No more bother afterwards I hope.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said, remembering her manners.

  ‘No trouble at all... only too happy.’ He made her an elegant little bow and smiled his beautiful, rather mournful smile.

  ‘Eddie, shouldn’t we be going?’ Jane sat carefully into the car, arranging her skirts so as not to crush them. She had been telling Hugh which plants most needed water. She had recently acquired a camellia in a terracotta pot and wanted to be sure he would spray the leaves.

  ‘Claire will help you,’ she called through the window, adding in a low flattering voice to Claire, ‘Keep an eye on him, there’s a love.’

  When they were gone Claire and Hugh got out the hose. They attached it to a tap on the side of the house and took turns directing the jet of water across the flowerbeds. At first it was fun. They screamed and laughed, soaking plants and bushes, everything in sight. Then they turned the hose on the house and the water spurted up like they had struck oil, drenching windows and gutters. There was a muffled shout and Terry stuck his head out of the window.

  ‘Hey, watch it down there, you eejits,’ he shouted. He leaned out, comic in hand, vigorously shaking drops from the pages. His irritated gaze took in the dripping figures below. ‘Aren’t you getting a bit big for that sort of caper, Claire?’ he asked sc
ornfully. ‘Hugh will cop it when Mum comes home.’

  Claire flushed, reminded of Jane’s parting words. She had betrayed a trust. ‘Sorry!’ she whispered, washed now by guilt. But Terry had gone back inside. She looked uneasily at Hugh. His T-shirt was sticking to his ribcage, his hair falling in a wet lick across his forehead. Her own dress clung sharply to the lines of her body, emphasising the swell of her small breasts. She went hot with shame. What must Terry have thought! She turned away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled.

  He followed her across the damp grass, still holding the nozzle in his hand. ‘You’re going home?’ He sounded disappointed.

  Claire wandered through the gate. She had made a fool of herself.

  Claire hated it when the McArdles went off on holidays in August. They owned a holiday bungalow in County Waterford and went there every year. Jane took the whole month off and Eddie commuted for the second half, driving down from Dublin for the weekend.

  Claire wandered about like a lost soul for the first week, just living for some word from them. Sheena had promised to send a postcard. Claire felt like someone on a life-support machine, merely existing until their return.

  She haunted their garden in the evenings, slipping like a lonely ghost about the darkening perimeters. The trees were covered with slowly ripening fruit. At night they were a thick mass of sweet-smelling leaves in the gloom. She didn’t like to pull an apple from the tree. It seemed ungrateful somehow, though why she couldn’t say. Jane had always been more than generous to her. Claire rummaged on the ground for a windfall and bit into it. It was sharp and woody-tasting. She spat it out and reached almost defiantly to the tree. The apple that came away filled her palm and was sweet and moist on her tongue. She dropped it guiltily in the grass and went home.

  By the time the McArdles had been away three weeks, Claire was counting the hours to their return. Sheena’s card arrived at last, a few lines with the expected message: ‘Having a great time, swimming and playing tennis. Disco dancing at night. If only you could be here!’

  Dancing! Claire felt envious. Not so much for the boys Sheena was meeting - if anything she felt distinctly nervous at the prospect of them - but for the altered status it implied. Her friend had stepped into a different world while she played at home in short socks.

  The same post brought a card from Hugh. He’d caught a whopper of a fish and only wished she’d seen it. But he’d got sorry for it and chucked it back in the sea. He signed his name and Hero’s paw-mark. Claire laughed and felt a whole lot better.

  That evening she wandered again in their garden. The tool shed was locked and she peeped in the cobwebby window, hoping to see Hero’s bed. The puppies were all long since disposed of and she felt wistful remembering their eager pink tongues, the warm solid feel of them. Hugh had wanted her to have the little black and white one she was so fond of and urged her to ask her mother, but Claire had known it was out of the question.

  She could hear a radio playing in the bedroom in the house next door. She recognised the tune ‘What’s Another Year?’ It had been very popular a few summers before.

  The lights in the adjoining houses were being turned on. Claire stood listening under the trees by the side of the garage in the faint pink light, not knowing why she did so, but reluctant to go home. The music stopped next door, and she heard footsteps approaching. She felt sudden panic at being found there and, opening the small door in the side wall of the garage, slipped inside. There was the smell of rotting potatoes. She stumbled on a coil of rope and shot out a hand to save herself from falling. She looked about in the gloom for somewhere to hide.

  ‘I said one drink...’ Eddie McArdle’s voice sounded with startling clarity at the other side of the up and over door.

  ‘You said!’ The woman’s voice sounded amused, incredulous. ‘What makes you think it’s any easier for me.’

  Claire stood very still as their footsteps went on down the path. They must have been in the house all along. But where was his car? After a moment she heard the muffled slam of a car door and the engine starting up. He must have left it on the road. She waited an age, giving them time to get away before she crept out, pulling the door gently after her. She ran full tilt into him coming round the side of the garage.

  ‘What the hell?’ He gripped hold of her, his breath coming short and quick. No less startled, she froze in his grasp as he dragged her forward into the light.

  ‘It’s me... Claire,’ she said timidly.

  ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘So it is. Where in the world did you spring from?’

  ‘I was in the garage...’ She blushed and hung her head. She began to shiver.

  Eddie looked at her professionally. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ He put the back of his hand against her forehead. ‘You feel a bit feverish.’ He reached for her hand to take her pulse.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, teeth chattering slightly. ‘Just a bit cold.’

  ‘Mmm. Your hands are icy. Better come inside. I was just about to make coffee.’ He walked off towards the porch. She stood hesitantly until he called, ‘Come along,’ at which she followed him inside. The drawing-room door stood open, spilling soft lamplight into the hallway. She noticed two glasses on the low coffee table and a decanter, half filled with some golden liquid. She walked on past, down to the kitchen where he was bringing the kettle to the boil.

  ‘Perhaps you would prefer cocoa?’

  ‘No, coffee is grand.’ She didn’t want to put him to any trouble. Besides cocoa was for children. He took down two mugs from the dresser, scraped a spoonful of instant into each and filled them up with boiling water.

  ‘Jane never remembers to buy coffee. Fortunately there is just enough.’

  Claire thought of the way Jane made coffee, almost entirely on milk, and wrapped her cold fingers about the mug. ‘How are they all?’ she asked shyly.

  He looked up and smiled. ‘Enjoying themselves.’

  ‘And Hero?’

  ‘Off on endless forays, following scents. She’s a country dog at heart. Wouldn’t be surprised if she decides not to come back at all.’

  She stared at him. What would Hugh say?

  He laughed at her concerned face. ‘Only funning,’ he said. ‘Hero’s no fool. She knows when she’s well-off.’

  She nodded, relieved.

  He took her mug away from her. ‘It’s cold in here. Let’s go into the drawing room. It will be pleasanter there.’

  He put his arm around her, ushered her down the hall and into the drawing-room. He set down the mugs on the coffee table.

  ‘Sit down, Claire.’

  She sat in the armchair closest to her. He lowered himself into another and took up the whisky decanter. With a pleased grunt he poured himself a drink. She realised he was a little drunk.

  She sipped the coffee, wondering when she should go.

  ‘How have you been enjoying the summer?’ Eddie took a swig from his glass and waited, head on one side. When she was silent he prompted, ‘Go on... tell me what you’ve been doing? I’d really like to know.’

  She said she went to the library every day, took out a lot of books.

  ‘You’ve spent all your time reading!’ He laughed. ‘In this hot weather?’

  She coloured, stung by his air of amusement.

  ‘I like to read.’

  ‘Absolutely nothing wrong about that,’ he conceded. ‘I only wish the same could be said of the twins. Those two never open a book.’

  ‘Christopher... my brother... is a bit like that,’ she admitted.

  ‘Younger than you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes...two years... but he acts a lot younger.’

  He smiled and nodded. ‘Boys mature more slowly than girls. I’m not surprised an astute young lady like yourself has already noticed this.’

  She felt inordinately pleased by his approval.

  ‘Tell me your favourite authors.’

  S
he did. This was the real world, more real to Claire than her own. She became animated. She was aware of his eyes upon her and felt excited and a little carried away by his attention. ‘I mean in Jane Eyre she’s merely a governess and Rochester is the master of the house, but when he challenges her opinions she has the courage to stick to them and even when he’s terribly fierce and rude to her she doesn’t allow him to intimidate her. You see although Jane cares for him passionately she preserves her detachment from him,’ she concluded earnestly, trying to remember in which textbook she had come across this observation.

  He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You’re really quite smart, aren’t you, Claire? And romantic too.’

  Yes, she supposed, she was. Certainly she loved reading about people in unequal circumstances falling helplessly, hopelessly in love and cleaving together, despite dreadful opposition.

  ‘Apart from reading how else do you enjoy yourself?’

  She searched about but could find no answer. With Sheena away, reading and visiting the library were her only pastimes.

  ‘I expect you play tennis?’

  ‘Now and then.’ Why on earth had she said that when it wasn’t true except for knocking a tennis ball against the back wall?

  He nodded. ‘I like a game myself. We have plans to build a hard court at the back. Not this year. Maybe next. You must use it, of course.’ He got up suddenly and leaned over her head to switch off the lamp.

  ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ He sat down again. ‘More restful.’ He began talking about Sheena, the fun she was having flirting with the boys in the neighbouring cottages on their holiday site.

  ‘She’s becoming very mature, filling out. Her breasts are as developed as a sixteen year old.’ Eddie laughed. ‘Driving the young lads mad. Sheena will give them a run for their money.’

  Had he said breasts? She felt a sudden shock and went hot all over.

  ‘Had your first date yet?’ he asked her.