Chapter Two
‘Come on. Let’s have a peek at the mansion to see how much more they’ve done,’ Ellen suggested with a glint in her eye.
‘But they might drive up and catch us,’ Miriam demurred. ‘That would be really embarrassing.’
‘They won’t catch us, they’re gone racing at the Curragh. It’s the perfect opportunity. Although why they can’t just show us around like you and Ben did when you were building your house, I can’t figure out. It’s ridiculous having to sneak around peering in through windows. Mind you,’ she laughed, ‘there’s plenty of windows to peer through. I’d hate to have to clean them.’
‘I’m sure Emma will have someone in to “do”,’ Miriam remarked.
‘I don’t know if they’ll have the money. They’re spending an absolute fortune. They can’t have a lot left with the wedding coming up and a honeymoon in Italy.’ Ellen steered Daniel’s pram around a muddy puddle. It was New Year’s Day and they’d gone for a walk in an effort to liven themselves up after the big turkey dinner they’d had.
Miriam was disgusted with herself. Through strict dieting, she’d managed to lose almost a stone between September and Christmas, but she’d put back on half of it during the festive season. It was very disheartening. She wanted to be slim for the wedding.
‘Come on, I’ll put Connie in the pram as well and we’ll walk really fast. Dawdling along is no good for us,’ she urged Ellen.
‘Just let’s have a quick look,’ Ellen wheedled. ‘It’s only down the road.’
‘You’re as nosy—’
‘Give over, Miriam. Be honest, you’re dying to see the mansion too,’ Ellen retorted.
Miriam laughed. She was curious. It was six weeks since she and Ellen had last ventured to have a look and by all accounts the house was almost completed. Emma didn’t want anyone to see it until it was just right so they had to make do with whatever they were told about its progress. Much to Ellen’s chagrin. It didn’t bother Miriam to the same extent. Sometimes she thought Ellen was a bit jealous of Emma and Vincent. If only her sister-in-law could find a nice chap and settle down herself.
The black-tiled roof and redbrick walls of the new house could be seen through the tangles of bare-branched trees. In summer the foliage would hide it from view of the road. The house was the talk of Glenree. Vincent had hired a building firm recommended by his architect. Much to the disgust of local builders. Only the best of material was being used and the strange design of the house led to much comment.
‘Too posh for the likes of us,’ Mrs Whelan said snootily to Sheila at the guild one evening. Sheila was furious. But she couldn’t think of a suitable riposte, and privately she agreed with the remark. It was nice to be able to show off, but floor to ceiling windows and strange sharp angles were a bit much. Instead of being the object of envy, the house was becoming the object of ridicule. Houses like that were all right in Hollywood, but not in the quiet backwaters of Glenree.
Miriam and Ellen walked through the churned-up dirt track that led towards the house. They were used to conventional bungalows and cottages and two-storey houses; the angular redbrick building ahead of them was unlike anything either of them had ever seen.
A huge plate glass window dominated the front of the house. This seemed to be the sitting-room and Miriam had to admit that in summer the views would be superb. Redbrick walls jutted out to form an alcove where the big balustraded porch stood with its double white wood doors. Further along, a long narrow floor-to-ceiling window gave a church-like impression. The driveway dipped to a lower level and two large garages. Above them, the bedrooms. The master bedroom had an ornately decorated wrought-iron balcony.
The nearer they got to the house, the muckier it got. Connie was having great fun, dancing in and out of puddles in her little red wellies.
‘I think we should turn back,’ Miriam said doubtfully.
‘Never say die,’ declared the intrepid Ellen as she sidestepped a particularly muddy patch. ‘Come on, I want to see how they’ve decorated it.’ She put the brake on Daniel’s pram and clambered over bricks and planks. Moments later she had her nose pressed to the window of the sitting-room.
‘Jeepers! Miriam, look at this!’
Miriam hastened to her side and peered in through the window.
‘Wow!’ she breathed. ‘It’s all painted white. And look, they’ve got a television set—’
‘And a radiogram,’ Ellen said enviously. ‘Look at the size of the room. I don’t like the white though. It’s a bit cold if you ask me.’
‘Yeah, but they have a big fireplace and Vincent told Ben that they’re going to get that new sort of heating. Oil heating.’
‘Let’s have a goo at the kitchen.’ Ellen edged her way around to the back of the house.
‘Look at the presses. They’re all fitted. It’s so modern. They’ve got a fridge too. It’s huge. Ben and I are saving for one.’ Miriam’s tone was wistful.
‘Da wanted to buy Ma one but she wouldn’t have it. Her larder’s her pride and joy,’ Ellen said ruefully. ‘To be honest, I think a kitchen like that is wasted on Ems. I wouldn’t say she could cook an egg.’
‘Don’t be so nasty, Ellen. Give her a chance. I think she’s nice enough,’ Miriam argued.
‘Saint Miriam,’ jeered Ellen. ‘You’re such a softie, you know.’
‘I know. But we’re going to have to get used to having her in the family. We should make an effort to get on with her.’
‘Listen, she gets up my nose and that’s it. Don’t expect me to be watching my Ps and Qs for the next fifty years.’
Miriam laughed. ‘You couldn’t watch your Ps and Qs for five minutes, let alone fifty years. Come on, let’s get out of here and walk as far as Glenree.’
‘Do we have to?’ Ellen made a face.
‘Yes we do,’ Miriam said firmly. ‘We’re going shopping for our wedding outfits in a couple of weeks. I want to have a few pounds off.’
‘Yeah you’re right. We don’t want to look like elephants beside Miss Skinnymalinks Emma.’ Ellen set off at a brisk pace around to the front of the house.
‘Wait for me, Mammy!’ Connie said anxiously.
‘I’m waiting, pet.’ Miriam stretched out a helping hand to her daughter.
‘What’s a . . . a . . . skinnyinks, Mammy?’
Miriam stared down into Connie’s wide blue trusting eyes. ‘What?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Don’t say what. Say pardon, Mammy,’ Connie reproved, primly echoing her mother’s oft-repeated instruction.
‘Sorry. Pardon.’ Miriam hid a smile.
‘What’s a . . . a you know, what Auntie Ellen called the new lady?’
Holy God, I’ll kill her, Miriam thought in horror. Ellen frequently forgot little ears were listening to her and was apt to be most indiscreet.
‘She wasn’t talking about the new lady,’ Miriam said lightly, and then came her salvation. ‘Oh look! There’s a little robin. Isn’t he gorgeous.’ Connie’s attention was immediately diverted. She stood very still and watched the bird hopping across the muck. Miriam heaved a sigh of relief when her daughter announced that the robin was looking for his tea and wondered if he would like to come home and have some of their turkey.
‘Maybe he’ll follow us home.’
‘Maybe he will, now let’s go and catch up with Auntie Ellen and Daniel. If you’re very good I’ll buy you a treat in Glenree.’ Connie squealed with delight and skipped alongside her mother, all questions about skinnymalinks forgotten.
Sheila stood in front of the old polished wardrobe in her bedroom and eyed her clothes with a jaundiced eye. Nothing that she could see was at all suitable to wear for her forthcoming meeting with the judge and Mrs Connolly. The judge and his wife had invited Mick and herself to lunch in the Russell. It would be their first encounter. Mrs Connolly had been extremely pleasant on the phone. She’d said how pleased they were that Emma was marrying such a nice young man as Vincent. And how wonderful and gener
ous it was of the Munroes to give them a site as a wedding present. Such a practical and expensive gift, she’d said. ‘Well we’ve sites set out for all our children,’ Sheila couldn’t resist boasting. The Connollys might have a magnificent house in Foxrock, and lashings of money, but the Munroes were landowners. That counted for a lot.
‘We thought the Russell might be nice. The food is wonderful,’ Mrs Connolly suggested.
‘Delightful,’ Sheila said in her posh phone voice. As if to imply that she dined in the Russell morning, noon and night. They’d agreed on the Sunday after New Year.
Ever since then she’d been trying on outfits and discarding them. Ellen had bought her a lovely new dusky pink twinset for Christmas which looked very smart with her grey skirt. She could wear her pearls and her cameo brooch and her fur stole. Mick kept telling her to go and buy herself a new outfit, but she’d already spent a fortune on her wedding outfit. She’d bought it in Switzers and it was most elegant. It was a pity she couldn’t wear it to the lunch but of course that was out of the question.
‘If a twinset and pearls is good enough for the Queen to wear, it will be good enough for you to wear,’ Sheila addressed her reflection in the mirror. She’d had her hair permed for Christmas. She’d go to the hairdressers for a set on Friday. By this time next week, the ordeal would be over, she comforted herself. She was going to buy Mick a new shirt and tie though. She’d get that in Kelly’s drapery in town. It would save her having to traipse into the city. She’d do that first thing in the morning. Now that she’d finally decided on her outfit she felt more relaxed. Then a thought struck her. Should she wear a hat? Sheila’s heart sank. No doubt Mrs Connolly would be wearing a hat. Smart ladies always did. Sheila hated hats. She always wore a lace mantilla to Mass and she had one navy one for occasions. She’d bought a flower petal creation for the wedding. Would the navy hat do or should she buy a new one? This was even worse than the wedding, Sheila thought crossly as she took out the hat and held it up against the twinset. No! Definitely not. Now she was going to have to rethink her whole outfit. It was very vexing indeed.
The Connollys were thoroughly enjoying the races. It was a crisp sunny day with just a hint of chill in the breeze. ‘I’ve been thinking, darling.’ Pamela Connolly arched an eyebrow at her daughter and handed her a glass of champagne. ‘Perhaps we should make it dinner rather than lunch, with the Munroes. I don’t want them to think we’re being mean. After all they are going to be your in-laws and that site they gave you is worth quite a bit of money. They might think we’re cheapskates.’
‘Oh Mummy, don’t be silly. Lunch will be fine. They don’t go out that much. They’re not that sort of people. Lunch in the Russell will be a treat for them.’ Emma’s tone was dismissive. She took a sip of her champagne and waved at Gillian and Frank, who were heading in their direction.
‘I’ll speak to your father about it, Emma, and see what he has to say. We don’t want Vincent to think that meeting his parents isn’t important,’ Pamela said firmly.
‘Oh do what you want. I wish this blasted ordeal was over. If you ask me, dinner in the Russell will be wasted on them. They’re more used to roast chicken and tinned peas in that dreadful Glenree Arms,’ Emma retorted rudely. Fortunately Vincent was studying form with her father so he didn’t hear her condescending remarks.
‘Emma!’ Pamela frowned. ‘That’s no way to talk about Vincent’s parents and don’t ever let him hear you talk like that about them. Otherwise I can promise you, my dear, you’ll end up rowing. It’s all right for Vincent to criticize his parents or for you to criticize your father and me, but one of the golden rules of marriage is not to criticize each other’s parents.’
‘But you’re always giving out about Grandad Connolly,’ Emma said huffily.
‘Yes, maybe, but not in front of your father. I warned you at the beginning that you might have been better marrying someone from your own set—’
‘Vincent fits in perfectly with us,’ Emma responded quickly. ‘It’s just his parents aren’t very sophisticated.’
‘Well if you’re marrying Vincent you’ve got to put up with his parents. So be gracious about it, Emma. Your father and I wanted you to wait. Sometimes I think you’re too immature to be getting married at all.’
‘I’m going to join Gillian and Frank, see you later.’ Emma turned on her heel, furious with her mother and her lectures. We’ll see how gracious she is when she meets the rest of the clodhopper relations at the wedding, she fumed as she flounced her way across the muddy track. If only Vincent’s family were upper-class southsiders everything would be perfect. She could have married Oliver Singleton or Conan Rafter if she’d wanted to. Both of them were crazy about her. But once she’d met Vincent, Emma knew he was the one for her. Vincent was a real man. He was ambitious, he could fit in at dinner parties. And he was strong and fit and didn’t mind doing physical work. She loved watching him help the builders at the weekend, stripped to his white short-sleeved T-shirt, like the one Marlon Brando wore in Streetcar Named Desire, his muscles rippling as he lifted the heavy blocks. Oliver and Conan hadn’t any muscles to speak of and they certainly wouldn’t have the strength to lift a block in each hand the way Vincent could.
She was dying for their wedding night. Vincent wouldn’t go the whole way, even though she wouldn’t really object if he did. He didn’t want to risk her getting pregnant. The wait would be worth it, he told her when she lay in his arms tingling with frustration during one of their passionate petting sessions. She had no intention of getting pregnant, married or not. Her sister had told her about a great new discovery called the contraceptive pill. All the girls in London were on it. Jane was on it. She said you just took a little tablet for twenty-one days and then took a break for seven days and it prevented you from getting pregnant. It wasn’t available in Ireland but Emma had got a six-month supply the last time she was in London. She’d been on it for two months. The only difference she noticed was that her breasts were a little bit fuller and she didn’t mind that at all. It really turned Vincent on.
Emma glanced over at her beloved. He looked very dashing in his sheepskin coat. She’d bought it for him for Christmas. He’d bought her an exquisite gold charm bracelet with a gold heart charm. He was going to buy her a charm every Christmas for the rest of their lives, he’d told her as he fastened it around her wrist on Christmas morning. Emma thought it was the most romantic gesture. She shouldn’t have snapped at her mother, she thought ruefully. It was just pre-wedding nerves. The sooner she was married and all this fuss and faddle was over the better.
‘How’s the bride-to-be?’ Gillian trilled. Emma put on her couldn’t-be-happier smile.
‘Wonderful. Just wonderful.’
‘Well just wait,’ Gillian warned. ‘The next few weeks are going to be hell. Take it from one who’s been there. By the time you’ve argued about the number of tiers on the cake, and about who’s sitting where in the church and at what table in the hotel and so on, you’ll be ready for divorce. Frank and I had a row the night before the wedding. The night before! Didn’t we, darling?’ Gillian beamed up at her husband.
‘That was because you insisted I wear that ridiculous top hat,’ Frank growled.
‘You looked very distinguished in it,’ his wife purred. ‘Is Vincent going to wear one?’
‘We haven’t decided yet.’ This was an outright fib. Vincent’s language when she had told him she wanted him to wear top hat and tails was unrepeatable. Emma was doing her best to get around him but it looked as if the most he’d do would be to wear a morning suit. As she listened to Gillian rattling on, Emma couldn’t help thinking that an elopement was beginning to seem like a most attractive proposition.
Sheila sat beside Mick in the cosy warmth of the car and stared out at the Christmas lights strung across Grafton Street. Coming through town had been like driving through wonderland. All the shop windows festooned with lights and decorations. The trees in O’Connell Street sparkled like diamonds
as frosty moonbeams caught their light. Normally Sheila loved the magical atmosphere of Dublin at night during the festive season, but tonight she was too tense and wound up to give more than a cursory glance out of the car window.
When Mrs Connolly phoned to suggest changing the Sunday lunch invitation to Saturday dinner, Sheila was horrified. Lunch was bad enough, but dinner could go on for hours and hours. She certainly wouldn’t be able to wear her twinset to dinner. She had to beg Ellen to go into town with her the following day to buy an outfit. Dinner in the Russell meant serious dressing up. After much traipsing through shops, and trying on and discarding, and interference from condescending sales ladies, Sheila had finally selected an evening dress in shades of muted pinks and lilacs. She’d bought it in Madame Nora’s and she’d treated herself to a beautiful pair of long black gloves to go with it. Ellen assured her she looked like royalty.
She certainly didn’t feel like royalty, composed and regal and poised, as Mick drove slowly past the Shelbourne and turned right along Stephen’s Green. Her stomach was tied up in knots. She wouldn’t be able to eat a thing, Sheila fretted. Her palms felt sweaty as they drove towards the Harcourt Street corner of the Green and the long gleaming elegant windows of the Russell came into view. Sheila could see the silhouettes of diners already seated and the warm subdued glow of the lamp lights.
‘Cheer up. At least we’ll get a good meal. This is one of the best hotels in Europe, we might as well enjoy it,’ Mick said cheerfully as he manoeuvred the car into a parking place. Mick wasn’t the slightest bit perturbed. He was looking forward to the evening. Mick felt he was anyone’s equal, he didn’t suffer the anxieties she was feeling about this meeting.
‘You look lovely, Sheila. I’ve never seen you look as well, so best foot forward now,’ he encouraged as he held open the car door for her and took her arm to lead her across the street. Her breath curled white in the frosty sharp air as they walked briskly towards the hotel, her high heels tapping on the ground. Couples strolled hand in hand, laughing and chatting, looking forward to their night out. Sheila would have given a million pounds to be sitting beside her blazing fire at home listening to the concert on the wireless.
Promises, Promises Page 4