by Lia Mills
Florrie watched. ‘Have you heard anything about Con lately?’
‘I saw him at the Concert Rooms the other night. Why?’
She inspected one of her lemon elbow-caps. ‘Glenda saw him there too. She said he had Helen Stacpole on his arm.’
‘And?’
‘Mother thought that maybe you and he …’ She let the unfinished sentence hang between us.
‘No.’
‘I thought so too.’ She stopped fussing with the rind and looked at me. ‘Did something happen between you?’
Nothing had happened. We’d been awkward with each other when he joined us for Sunday lunches, but before long he led us back to the easy manner we’d had before. He ignored my silences and averted face, made bad jokes, found and met my eye, treated me as a friend. If a person can court friendship, that’s what he did throughout that summer. He may not have wanted me, but he liked me, and he let me feel his liking as a kind of balm to my pride. So the shame left me.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I stored away an idea that if he changed his mind and came looking for me, I wouldn’t turn him away. I knew what other people saw in him, different and uncomplimentary things, all true enough. But I’d seen something that went beyond his links with Liam, a thing that was equal to something in me.
Helen Stacpole was the shy, only daughter of doting and wealthy parents. I’d met her at some of Eva’s charity bazaars. That night in the Concert Rooms I watched them for a while, unnoticed. Con guided her through the crowd, holding her elbow. I couldn’t see the attraction. She’d so little to say for herself, she was sure to bore him rigid inside of ten minutes. Good luck to them.
I cleared strands of my hair from Florrie’s brush and swept them into the waste basket. ‘Will I wash this?’
‘I’ll do it.’ She detached one of her elbows from its yellow cup, then the other, picked bits of fruit from her skin. ‘Your turn will come, Katie. You’ll find someone, don’t worry.’
Liam stirred in my mind. He’d said the same; now his turn would never come. The normal progressions and milestones of family life would always snag on the ugly nail of his absence.
‘I don’t know that I want to.’
‘You will.’ She stopped picking at her elbow and wiped her fingers on a piece of flannel. Then she stretched her arms up over her head, rolled her neck, sighed a happy sigh. She was plump and smooth and soft-looking. Mother might have been like this, in her time. Nothing at all like me, or Eva, both of us thin as rails with long necks and pointy chins.
‘I hope Eva’s better today,’ I said. ‘I wish we could visit. Bartley’s a scourge, saying we can’t.’
‘She’s resting, Katie. Don’t go on about it.’
Eva was in a nursing home, convalescing after a serious kidney infection, and here was Florrie giving me filthy looks, all that kittenish contentment and sisterly concern evaporated. She and Mother had a dread that Eugene’s people would get wind of a constitutional weakness and call off the wedding. We had ghosts in the family who were never mentioned: Mother’s sister, Abigail, who had died in circumstances we weren’t allowed to know, and two infant brothers, born after Florrie. Neither lived longer than six months. Eva had had more than her share of miscarriages too, each leaving her more drained and sad than the last.
I lifted the blankets at the end of the bed and sat in under them, facing Florrie top to tail, the way I used to sleep beside Eva in the days when the three of us shared this room. Before Eva got married and left. Before Liam went off to be a soldier and lent his room to me. I nudged Florrie with my toes.
She jerked her legs away. ‘Your feet are freezing!’
‘It won’t be my cold feet putting the frighteners on you, in a few weeks.’
‘Katie!’ Her face and neck flushed scarlet.
‘Are you nervous about getting married?’
‘Why would I be?’
I nudged her again. ‘You know. After.’
She clamped her lips together so hard they all but disappeared. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Neither should you.’
I gave her a swift kick and got out of the bed.
Back in Liam’s room, I lifted my chemise from the chair, pulled it over my head and stepped into my new charcoal-grey linen skirt, a shade lighter than full mourning-black now that the first year was over. My fingers fumbled the buttons at the narrow waist, my hair fell around my face. I stopped struggling, took a breath to calm myself. For weeks I’d been agitated and restless. I felt as though a stone were caught in my throat. Something hot and sticky, like a child’s thumbs, pressed against the backs of my eyes.
Buttons fastened, I stood in front of the mottled rectangle of mirror, tilted back against the wall at floor level, to inspect myself. Lockie had hauled this mirror out of the box room when Liam went away, but we never got around to fixing it to the wall. At first it didn’t seem worth it, since he’d be home any day and wouldn’t thank us for the addition. Then there was all the talk of moving house, so what was the point? After that came the paralysis of not wanting to do anything that might remind us that he wouldn’t, ever, be coming back.
I looked into the angled recess of glass. A silvered pool at my feet reflected the high corner between wall and ceiling behind me, where Liam’s shaving mirror hung. The shadows were suggestive. In a certain light, they wavered. In the way that paired mirrors throw out an infinity of reflections, I thought I might see back through time, if I looked hard enough. I might catch a glimpse of Liam, before he left.
There was the rest of a fractious morning to get through, everyone out of sorts. First, we had Liam’s anniversary Mass in the Pro-Cathedral. The congregation was small, nothing like the day before, Easter Sunday, when the church was crammed to bursting, standing room only at the back, half the congregation got up in new finery, the other half wheezing and coughing in clothes they’d got out of hock for the occasion, lucky if there were laces in their shoes. Against the collective smells of so much humanity, Mother and Florrie had worn orange-and-clove sachets on ribbons tied to their wrists. They wore them again today, when there was no need for them.
After Mass we had a queasy breakfast. Dad planned to get the train to Bray and walk the sea path to Greystones and back. I followed him out to the hall and found him belting his walking coat. He pulled a soft cap out of the large pocket and stretched it into shape. I stood behind him while he put it on, looking over his shoulder at his face in the mirror. ‘Don’t forget Isabel’s coming to supper,’ I said. ‘You’ll be home in time, won’t you?’
He laughed at my expression. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘I still don’t think it was a good idea to ask her.’ I looked back at the dining-room door. ‘Mother’s got such a wasp in her ear.’
‘That’s rubbish, Katie. We’re over all that now.’
I didn’t feel sure about that. Isabel had taken up with a peace crowd run by a woman called Louie Bennett. A letter denouncing the war was printed in several newspapers in February, the Freeman as well as the Independent. It deplored conditions in the trenches for men on all sides, and the hardships of families left fatherless. There were a dozen signatories and Isabel was one of them.
‘Mildred has Liam’s memorabilia book, to show her,’ Dad said. ‘There’ll be no politics, I won’t allow it.’ He jammed the cap down around his ears, a parody of the hear no evil monkey, and left.
I hoped he was right, but I was afraid it would be difficult for Isabel, in front of all of us, to look through the scrapbook Mother had made. I’d had time to make peace with it. I’d even added some of Liam’s safer letters to the collection. Isabel had sent a photograph, along with a transcription of a poem by Mr Yeats, one that Liam had written into her journal the evening they got engaged.
Matt came downstairs, on his way to a friend’s house in Rathfarnham to study for his final examinations. The holdall he carried looked heavy.
‘Have you got an entire library in there?’ I asked.
He’d a sh
ifty expression on his face. ‘I’ve a lot of time to make up for.’
‘That you have. Well, don’t forget to be here when Isabel comes.’
‘I had forgotten. I might not be here, Katie. I’m sorry. Don’t wait.’
‘Suit yourself. Don’t you always?’
I went into the dining room to say goodbye. Mother and Florrie were looking through the wedding presents spread out on the table. There were several unopened brown-paper parcels. Florrie tore into one and a gift label fell out. I picked it up and handed it to her. She put it down among spills of paper. I rescued it, watching her open the parcel. ‘You’ll want to know who sent it. Do you have a list?’
‘We’ll remember.’ Florrie was flushed and happy-looking. Of a sudden I felt small and mean-spirited. A shadow crossed my memory, but I shrugged it off and caught Florrie’s eye. ‘You look lovely today, Florrie. All this suits you.’
She laughed that sudden bark of hers and batted my arm. ‘Go on out of that. Are you going out?’
What harm would it do if I was to stay and show interest in her spoils? ‘In a minute. I’ll help if you like. Let me find some paper and a pencil.’
About twenty minutes later – twenty minutes of unwrapping, exclaiming, discussing gift and giver – I entered a pair of silver sauce-boats with matching ladles on the list. I wondered about the hallmarks. If I knew how to read them, we’d know when they were made, where and by whom. I wondered how to say it, but Mother went looking for a box to store everything in and I missed my chance. Florrie held up the last item, a Dun Emer tablecloth, for my inspection.
I fingered the material. ‘It’s a good design. I like the band of colour.’
Florrie folded it away. ‘Not my taste. It’s from Mrs Finlay. By the way, Katie, does Isabel still wear Liam’s ring?’
Mother had come back in. She stood behind Florrie, listening for my answer.
‘She was wearing it when I saw her, a couple of weeks ago. On the other hand.’
‘I haven’t seen her in months,’ Florrie said.
‘No more have I.’ Mother put an orange crate on the floor and sat beside Florrie at the table. ‘It’ll be interesting to see how she’s changed.’ She set about refolding the linen. ‘I don’t see the fuss about Dun Emer goods. Too obvious for my taste. Give me a piece of fine French lace any day.’
‘Why should Isabel have changed?’ I said. ‘I don’t think she has.’
‘Well, if she bothered to stay in touch –’
‘I’m in touch with her,’ I said. ‘But, then, I make the effort.’ I caught myself. I didn’t want to stir up an argument, today of all days. This evening would be Isabel’s first time in the house since Liam’s Month’s Mind. I wondered who dreaded it the most.
‘Have we nearly finished here? I said I’d take Alanna for a walk at lunchtime, and – well.’ They knew the rest: meeting Isabel; afternoon tea at Percy Place with Hubie Wilson, then back here for supper.
Mother smoothed the last fold of the cloth and slid it back into its packaging. ‘Isabel should really give it back, the ring.’
‘What?’ I looked at Florrie, and she at me.
‘It belonged to Bill’s mother. Alanna could have it. Should have it, by rights.’
Florrie shook her head in warning but I couldn’t stay quiet. ‘You can’t mean it. Liam gave Isabel that ring.’
Mother’s eyes reddened. ‘What of it? She won’t marry him now.’
I was literally deprived of speech.
‘Mother.’ Florrie leaned in between us. ‘We’ve finished here. Will you come upstairs and help me sort through my wardrobe?’
Mother pressed her fingertips to her eyes and stood up to go with her. I watched them, Florrie’s confident hand at Mother’s back. Regret for my own awkwardness pressed on my ribs.
Out on the sunlit street, a tram hissed by along the east side of the Square. Although it was mild out, I wore Liam’s gabardine. Unbelted, it billowed around me like a cloak, made me feel strong and other than I was. I crossed the road, passed the fat tabby curled asleep in the window of the Rotunda lodge, and walked down the slope of the Square. The Parnell monument waited at the bottom, impassive reminder of the day Liam’s telegram came, and beyond it the length of Sackville Street leading south to the river, the ring of mountains beyond.
A familiar figure came striding towards me from Parnell Street, my schoolfriend Frieda Leamy, wearing her nurse’s uniform under her dark blue cloak, without the hat. Her fair hair was pulled back into a bun. It had been an age since we spent any proper time together.
‘I’ve been called in,’ she said. ‘Some mystery illness has caused people to miss their shifts this morning.’
I fell into step with her, as if we were off to school again, and we linked arms. ‘What kind of illness?’
‘Holiday-itis, I’d say.’ Frieda had a rich, throaty laugh. ‘It’s annoying, all the same. My parents have gone to the Fairyhouse Races. I had to leave Maria in charge.’ Maria was Frieda’s giddy thirteen-year-old sister. I told her I was taking Alanna to feed the ducks in Stephen’s Green and asked if she knew anything about the nursing home Eva was in, Nan Moorhead’s, which was not far from the hospital where Frieda worked, in Baggot Street.
‘I’m sure it’s grand. I’ve heard nothing bad about it, anyway.’
‘I’ve to meet Isabel, after.’
‘How is she? I saw her letter in the paper, against the war.’
‘Mother was furious.’
‘I’m sure.’ There was no love lost between Frieda and my mother.
‘We’re going to meet Captain Wilson, May’s nephew. He knew Liam at the Front. Liam said he showed him the ropes when he first arrived.’ I didn’t tell her it was Hubie Wilson who’d recommended Liam’s early transfer. Dad said we couldn’t hold that against him. Liam had made up his mind to get out there as fast as they’d have him; he’d more than one person putting words in various ears, and if it hadn’t been this posting it would have been another, sooner rather than later. But, if not for me, May wouldn’t have told Hubie Wilson about Liam, and Hubie wouldn’t have intervened. Liam might still be in a training camp in England – or even here. I couldn’t bear to think about it.
‘What?’
I’d stopped walking. Frieda was looking back at me. We’d reached the Pillar. I pretended I’d stopped to admire the flower-sellers’ wares. Lines of people were waiting on trams to take them to the seaside or out to Poulaphouca. There was a queue at the cab stand.
‘Let’s walk it,’ Frieda said, turning away from the queues. ‘I know I should hurry, but – may as well make the most of the sunshine while it lasts.’
I picked up a bunch of purple violets. ‘Look at the gloss on those leaves. Suffrage colours.’ I held them close to my face and breathed a deep breath.
‘Are ya smellin’ or buyin’?’ the woman asked.
I inhaled their scent again and put them back.
‘How’s Miss Colclough’s book coming on?’
‘It’s finished.’ This was a sore point. For a year I’d moved through each day to the next with no sense of purpose, time dragging me along behind it. Working for Dote made it almost bearable. She pulled me out of myself and towards the house in Percy Place, the libraries, the National Gallery, gave me something to think about that wasn’t war, or Liam. And, despite myself, I’d begun to catch my mind stretching and waking, against my will, humming sometimes with something like pleasure. But now all that was over. The book was finished. I was lonelier than ever.
‘What’ll you do now?’
I hesitated. If anyone would understand that I wanted to work, it was Frieda. ‘I was offered a job last week, in Briscoe’s.’
‘The showrooms, on the Green? What kind of job?’
‘Dote asked me to do some typewriting for Mr Briscoe, a catalogue for their next auction. I spent a couple of days there. It was interesting. I liked him. There’s a lot to learn. I’d need to do training, possibly in London.’
&nb
sp; Mr Briscoe had a gloomy, jowled face, like a bloodhound’s. It didn’t suit his character one bit. He took the trouble to explain the background of items that I asked about. He showed me an ornate ebony and brass desk with a shallow kneehole, only an indent, really, and eight pillared legs. A Mazarin desk, he said it was. Named for the cardinal. Mr Briscoe showed me how the sort of people for whom the table was designed would have sat, side-on, to accommodate their swords. I couldn’t but catch his excitement. Later, he took a necklace of rare black pearls out from the safe and let me try them on. They glowed warm on my neck, sent blood to my cheeks. I’d never seen myself as acquisitive before, but those pearls woke a kind of greed in me. Everything I looked at in the showrooms demanded to be touched, explored, known.
‘What does your mother say?’ Frieda asked.
‘I haven’t told her yet.’ She wouldn’t take kindly to the notion that I’d work in a shop – but I could hardly say so to Frieda, whose father was a draper.
We went on across the bridge. On the far side, I was distracted by the white stone front of the Lafayette Building, its turreted upper storeys like a dream of a castle, woken up in the wrong place and time. All it needed were coloured pennants flying from the buttresses, veiled women at the windows, horses pawing the ground below, impatient to be off.
‘If I tell you something,’ Frieda said, ‘promise you won’t tell anyone?’
‘Are we back in school now?’
‘It’s about Con Buckley. Promise.’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ My heart did, actually, pound.
She didn’t smile. ‘I know you’re friendly with him, Katie, but he’s a rat. One of the younger nurses had to leave the hospital on his account.’
I told myself not to listen, that no good had ever come of listening to gossip.
Frieda looked around again, lowered her voice still further. ‘She was going to have a baby.’
I looked at the ground, where uneven paving stones lay in wait for some hapless person to trip on them. ‘It could have been anyone’s, so. Why would you spread such a rumour?’