I turn slowly into the main street and approach the market square, which is used as an unofficial car park by the town. I succumbed some time ago to the amour-propre of the few I know here and no longer refer to this place as a village. As I manoeuvre my car into a space close to the library entrance, a task that is less than challenging since there are only four other cars, someone shouts. Then screams. And Olivia O’Hara, her head buried in a book, steps straight out in front of me, sways slightly and seems to disappear, while still holding her book, beneath the wheels of my car. My foot and the brake are in violent collision, my wrist twists to kill the ignition. I almost fall out of my car. People are running across the road. Olivia O’Hara is lying on her side facing the wheels, her arms outstretched towards them like a lover. She is still. Then she rolls over onto her back and looks up at me.
“Oh God! It’s the German! You nearly knocked me down, Mr. Middlehoff Indeed you did knock me down. You nearly killed me.”
I lean over her and with another man whom I recognise as Mr. Brannigan help her to her feet. Her face is slightly grazed and blood from her knee seeps through her woollen stockings.
“I’ll drive her to the hospital. My car’s just here.”
Mr. Brannigan wears a long, heavy raincoat and leans slightly on his furled umbrella, as though his height embarrassed him and he wished to shrink a little. He speaks with the fast rhythms of a man from Cork, an accent with which Bridget has made me familiar. It is one she mocks and mimics.
“I don’t think a hospital is necessary. Dr. Carter is just two doors away.”
They look at me, the German speaking with authority. They look at me in silence. Dr. Carter’s name resonates with the memory of another O’Hara child.
“Oh Mr. Middlehoff…”
The sound of Olivia O’Hara’s voice redeems us from remembered and imagined fears.
“I mustn’t forget my books. I ordered them specially.”
She looks around in panic. The shocked victim always seeks the insignificant, as a reassurance of normality. Looking at her it is clear she may cry at any moment. Crying is not weeping. I know that all will be well.
“Do not worry Miss O’Hara, I will retrieve the books.”
I pick them up. Eugénie Grandet, François Mauriac’s Thérése Desqueyroux. I am surprised this last is available in the local library. Perhaps Mauriac’s Catholicism? Perhaps respect for his Nobel Prize, or his passion for the mysteries of sin and redemption?
“I’m going through a bit of a French phase. I think it’s a bit like Ireland, only more sophisticated.”
She smiles. And I am reassured. Her smile, I note, is a little crooked, and reminiscent of that of Harriet. Then she hobbles, supported by both Mr. Brannigan and myself. This way will be quicker than by car, and the manoeuvres involved in seating her in either my car or that of Mr. Brannigan might prove even more painful.
Susan Carter opens the door. Her husband rarely speaks of her, whether through a natural reticence in personal matters or through boredom. I remember a comment about her love of hunting. I remember because of Harriet’s passion for the same violent sport, which women often undertake more recklessly than men. “Susan’s only connection with this country is hunting,” he’d said once. I know this kind of Englishwoman. Their education is equestrian. A hierarchical journey from Pony Club to the hunt that ensures an inculcation of courage and will. Physical courage is strangely compelling in a woman. When I said that to Robert Carter one evening he replied with some bitterness, “Susan required more than physical courage to marry me, an older ex-Major. War-damaged, as her mother put it to me once during an uncomfortable meeting.” After which outburst the subject of Susan had remained closed. In a rare personal moment he told me he’d left Britain for a country without constant reminders of the men he would not see again. He is good looking in that Battle of Britain boyish way, about which I feel no animosity. His appearance will not change greatly with age—his handsomeness will simply fade. As Susan’s flat looks will fade as she too becomes middle-aged in about a decade or so, as the luminosity of blondness drains gently away.
“Robert!” she calls out in a high, almost childish voice. Then, turning to us, “I’m sorry, we were having lunch.”
Why should she be sorry? The English of a certain class seem to live in a permanent state of apology.
“Miss O’Hara.”
He walks towards her unhurriedly.
“Please don’t call me Miss. Reminds me of school.”
We follow her into his surgery and help her on to his examining table.
“Will you turn around while I try to get my stockings down.”
“That might be painful, Miss O’Hara. Let me soak the area first. And then I will pull the curtain.”
“Don’t ruin them.” And she tries to smile. “Will someone go and tell my Dada where I am? He can tell Mama better than I can. Don’t tell him on the phone. It’s too much. Mama, well she’s not ready for any shocks, even small ones. He’s up at the showroom, trying to sell a car or a tractor, I can’t remember. Just get to him before anyone tells her.”
She speaks urgently, as though the breaking of the news of this thankfully minor incident is more important than any pain she might be suffering. She is too young to be so protective.
“I will take Miss O’Hara home. I have no further appointments this afternoon.”
“Thank you Dr. Carter. Please stop calling me Miss. You make me grown in a way I don’t want to be with this Miss O’Hara business.”
“Very well. It’s Olivia, then.” He motions us to leave. Outside the surgery door Mr. Brannigan starts to tremble.
“I can’t do this. I’m a bit shaky, you know. They talk about me I’m sure, even to you, Mr. Middlehoff.”
“No they do not, Mr. Brannigan.”
“Ah well, then you really are a stranger. I know there’s whispering. Tom O’Hara, well he steps in sometimes, into strange situations. We never acknowledge it after an incident. He always goes back to being just a decent neighbour. It helps to keep things normal. So if I go to tell him we might be forced to talk. And silence is best.”
He is now gripping his umbrella as if to stop the shaking of his hands.
“Very well. I will tell Mr. O’Hara.”
“Thank you. You must think me a coward. After all, I am a neighbour and, I suppose, a family friend.” He hesitates. “It’s awful to ask you to do it. I know it’s a small thing, this incident. I mean, Olivia’s barely scratched, but with the history …”
We walk to our cars. We nod to each other and part. I drive slowly, trying to prepare myself to tell Tom O’Hara that I have injured his daughter. He takes the news calmly. Just stands there. Rooted. This man strikes me as one who grew slowly, like an oak tree, and will withstand much.
“It’s nothing, you say?”
“Her face—slightly grazed. Some bruising on the knee. I don’t know. She’s shaken, that’s all. Dr. Carter will drive her home. You’ve had a shock, Mr. O’Hara. Would you like me to drive you to your house?”
“No. But thank you. I’m going to walk. It’s not far and this town knows not to face Sissy in her den. Her grief terrifies them and I don’t blame them. No one will tell her. Besides, the walk will give me time to think of what to say to Sissy. Though I’ll walk quickly enough. No loitering.”
Then as he starts to walk away, he turns suddenly and asks, “Have you thought about the gate? I’ve heard nothing from you.”
“Yes. I have thought about it, Mr. O’Hara.” I pause.
“No decision though? A slow man, are you, Mr. Middlehoff? A bit like myself. Sissy’s the quick one. Though I fell for her in an instant. She was like a bolt of lightning in my life. Anyway, sure it’s your gate. Ah well … goodbye Mr. Middlehoff.”
“Please call me Thomas.”
“You know, I think I won’t. I don’t think we’ll ever be close enough for that.”
And I can sense, as he walks down the street, the need in him
to hurry and his resistance to it as though his heavy body is a force-field against which he needs to do battle. I go to my car and turn towards home. I had brought a message to a man who must now tell the tale. He must face his task.
When I get home Bridget tells me that the Garda have been fully informed by Dr. Carter who wants me to ring him, and that a Garda will come to Lake House tomorrow.
“I’m glad it’s nothing—but that Olivia O’Hara! She’s always got her head in a book that girl. She starts reading them as she walks out of the library. It’s almost happened before and she should be more careful after … the tragedy.” And her voice trails away.
“Miss O’Hara was in no way to blame.”
Bridget turns to leave; she is clearly rather distressed. Fear for the O’Haras, possibly.
“And Mr. Middlehoff, I nearly banged myself again on that table you have in the hall! That table is all angles. It’s dangerous. A child could brain itself on it. It’s my opinion, Mr. Middlehoff, that marble should only be seen in church. That’s what I think.”
“There are no children in this house.”
“You’re right there, Mr. Middlehoff. And wrong.”
And she set off to the kitchen promising—no, insisting on—tea. I need it, she tells me. And today I say yes. She is pleased.
“Cake?” Why not please her further?
“Yes. Thank you Bridget.”
I ring Robert Carter.
“Robert, forgive me for today’s intrusion. You were the closest—again. She’s all right?”
“All thankfully minor. Dr. Sullivan will take over now—the dressing on her knee needs to be changed, then a few days’ rest … I was glad to be of help. I rather like that girl. She was splendid at the inquest.”
“What did you think of it—the inquest?”
“We are outsiders. There was much to consider here … However, I think the coroner did his job with due consideration to the feelings of all concerned. He might have been a little harder on the chemist who supplied the chemicals. Still, the poor man was almost hysterical with grief. However, I still feel that there was nothing sinister. Though I gather there are rumours, but it is my opinion that most people agree that the matter is now, quite correctly, closed.”
“I agree. We are outsiders. Will you thank Susan for me, Robert. She was most kind.”
“She is.”
Robert Carter’s conversational style is one with which I feel at ease. He uses language to mark distance in a neutral zone. We recognise a certain similarity in our verbal style. Thus we are aware that this conversation is over and thus our friendship continues.
SEVEN
Some days later I visit the O’Haras. In another country I would take flowers, but here it might be misconstrued. Propriety rules. Instead I take books as a gift. Goethe’s Elective Affinities and Fontane’s Effi Briest. Though I do not know Olivia O’Hara well, I feel an affinity and a sympathy towards her. Nothing more. And since she has been wounded, doubly wounded, I wish to warn her of other dangers.
It is Sunday and the previous day I had asked Mr. O’Hara if a visit was acceptable. Reluctantly he’d agreed. Perhaps he believed I would talk about the gate. He was wrong.
Their house is long and low. It is a bungalow, but one built about fifty years ago and has a charm that is altogether lacking in the new concrete prairie buildings now scattered through the fields of Ireland. What Harriet refers to as bungalow hell. I stand outside this unlucky house, as its owner calls it, press the bell and to my surprise Olivia O’Hara opens the door.
“Hello Mr. Middlehoff Don’t look surprised: I’m fine now. I hobble a bit but Dada tells me it looks romantic. Come in. We’re in here.”
I follow her into their sitting room. It is large and dark. Heavy red velvet curtains obscure daylight and the silence I noted when I entered the hall permeates this room also, like a curtain one dare not draw. I stand awkwardly, waiting for a way into what I know is the formless darkness in which they move and from which I now understand I cannot escape for some time. I regret considerably that I did not post my books to Olivia O’Hara. Indeed, as I survey the scene I regret knowing them at all.
“Mama, Mr. Middlehoff is here.”
“Mrs. O’Hara.”
She is sitting quite upright in a large armchair. She is composed. She is dressed in a black skirt and a black high-buttoned cardigan. When she looks at me her face is drained of expression. True nothingness. True grief. Tom O’Hara follows me into their sitting room and with him comes a feeling of a sudden normality.
“Now, Mr. Middlehoff, you will have some sherry?”
And from the handsome mahogany sideboard with its silver teapots and trays and goblets he pours me a drink I loathe. Dry for me and sweet for Mrs. O’Hara. For Olivia he squirts soda water into a tumbler. She has, he tells me, taken the pledge. I look confused … And the promise made by the youth of Ireland to abstain from drink as part of a temperance movement is explained to me. The banal, I believe, is now expected of me conversationally and I obey.
“Dr. Carter tells me that there are no problems with your knee.”
I have failed. At the name Dr. Carter I see Mrs. O’Hara jerk her head slightly, as though I’d inadvertently brushed my hand against her face. She recovers. I am a guest. These are a courteous people. Again the silence settles. Then, suddenly, music from another room. Had it been machine-gun fire all three of them could not have looked more horrified.
“My God! What is that? What is that, Tom? Music? It’s music!”
I feel that I am frozen in a painting of this family and the now-closed eyes of father and daughter tell an enigmatic story. The viewer would never know that the closed eyes are a reaction to an assault of a music that they cannot hear. Then their eyes open and a weary Tom O’Hara smiles sadly at his wife.
“It’s Daragh. He’s got the wireless on. It’s coming from his room.”
Olivia jumps up from her chair. She winces slightly as she rushes towards the door.
“I’m sorry Mr. Middlehoff Will you excuse me?”
I stand up as she leaves the room. I wish that I too could leave but Mrs. O’Hara is now speaking rapidly.
“How can that happen Tom? How I can hear music in this house? Music? Music in this house?”
“It’s his wireless.”
“He has his own wireless?”
“Yes, he has.”
“How?”
“I got it for him. I told him only to play it when you were out. He needs something. He enjoys Radio Luxembourg.”
“Radio Luxembourg? He needs Radio Luxembourg? Now, in the days …?”
“He’s young, Sissy.”
“So is Olivia. She just reads her books quietly.”
“Ah, Sissy, he’s three years younger than Olivia and what ever age he gets to be, reading will not be what comforts him. He’s a boy.”
“But… he … He loved books. He was like Olivia. Like me. Like you.”
“The two boys listened to Radio Luxembourg. You know that, Sissy. He didn’t only read books. He was wild as well. You know that. Climbing up on the roof. Diving too deep, roller skating too fast. Daragh’s wild in his own way—but he’s a different boy, he’s a different child. Now, Sissy darling, don’t get so upset angel. Think of our poor visitor. He came in from Lake House to give Olivia a present.”
“Ask Daragh to stop! I’m sorry Tom, I can’t bear it. I’m sorry, Mr. Middlehoff. I can’t bear it.”
I understand that at least. And I understand that she will have to bear it. I feel I must say something, anything.
“I understand, Mrs. O’Hara.”
“I doubt that, Mr. Middlehoff. Forgive me I’m … I’m …”
What do I have to lose? I say the words quickly: “You are ill, Mrs. O’Hara. You are seriously ill with grief.”
She looks down at her hands and slowly twists the rings on her wedding finger. A Victorian sapphire ring and a wedding ring. Then she looks up at me.
“You’r
e right Mr. Middlehoff. I am indeed ill with grief. And I know it. But they don’t. They refuse to accept that I am ill.” And she looks defiantly at her husband.
“Ah Sissy, we must not do this to Mr. Middlehoff.”
“Please, Mr. O’Hara. I am full of sympathy.”
And just then the music stops. Mrs. O’Hara closes her eyes.
“Would you like another sherry, Mr. Middlehoff?”
“No. Thank you. I wanted to bring a small gift—these books—to Olivia. I will leave them for her.”
“No, please wait. She’ll be back in a second. Ah, here she is. Thank you darling. He didn’t …?”
“No Dada, he was grand about it.”
She looks at me and bites her lip. I am selfish, and even was I kinder what could I do? What could I say? I wish to leave. I hand the books to her.
“Thank you Mr. Middlehoff. Goethe! I think he’s on the banned list.”
“Olivia is working her way through it!” And Tom O’Hara laughs. “With regard to books I trust her. We’ve had Father Dwyer down here before and she always argues him out of his worries.”
There exists between this father and daughter what rarely exists between parent and child: moral trust. Trust. My father felt the same about me. Once. When he saw me as a teenager reading Gottfried Benn’s Morgue. But that was long ago. I rise to leave. They press me to stay. To have another sherry. But I know that they too wish for the end of this visit. Tragedy has savagely dislocated them from their lives, from the normal rhythms in their house and they need to establish a pattern for a new life, in private. I have intruded. And will not again. I say goodbye with a small bow to Mrs. O’Hara, who looks straight into my eyes for a disturbing second and then turns away.
“I’ll show you to the door.”
“Thank you.”
And Olivia walks, still limping slightly, out into the cold and towards my car as I protest.
“Please stay inside. It really is too cold.”
“No, it’s good for me to be outside …”
“When do you return to school?”
The Truth About Love Page 7