My Oedipus Complex

by Frank O'Connor

‘And then you come strutting back, stuffed with drink, and think I’ll let you make love to me, so that you can have something to talk about in the public-house.’

  Her eyes were bright with tears of rage. She had forgotten that something like this was what she knew would happen when she made him go to the village, so little of our imagination can we bear to see made real. He sank into a chair, and put his head between his hands in sulky dignity. She lit the candle and went off to bed.

  She fell asleep and woke to hear him stirring in the kitchen. She rose and flung open the door. He was still sitting where she had seen him last.

  ‘Aren’t you going to bed at all tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you,’ he replied. The drunkenness had gone, and he did look both sorry and miserable. ‘I’ll go now.’

  ‘You’d better. Do you see the time?’

  ‘Are you still cross? I’m sorry, God knows I am.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘ ’Twas all true.’

  ‘What was true?’ She had already forgotten.

  ‘What you said. They were talking about you, and I listened.’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Only you were too hard on me.’

  ‘Maybe I was.’

  She took a step forward. He wondered if she had understood what he was saying at all.

  ‘I was fond of you all right.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘You know I was.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She was like a woman in a dream. She had the same empty feeling within her, the same sense of being pushed about like a chessman, as on the first night when she carried him in. He put his arm about her and kissed her. She shivered and clung to him, life suddenly beginning to stir within her.

  One day, some weeks later, he told her he was going back home on a visit; there were cousins he wished to see; something or other; she was not surprised. She had seen the restlessness on him for some time past and had no particular belief in the cousins. She set about preparing a parcel of food for him, and in this little attention there was something womanly that touched him.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said, and meant it. He could be moved easily enough in this fashion, and she saw through him. It was dull being the lover of a woman like herself; he would be best married to a lively girl of eighteen or so, a girl he could go visiting with and take pride in.

  ‘You’re always welcome,’ she said. ‘The house is your own.’

  As he went down the boreen he was saying to himself ‘She’ll be lost! She’ll be lost!’ but he would have spared his pity if he had seen how she took it.

  Her mood shifted from busy to idle. At one hour she was working in the garden, singing, at another she sat in the sun, motionless and silent for a long, long time. As weeks went by and the year drifted into a rainy autumn, an astonishing change took place in her, slowly, almost imperceptibly. It seemed a physical rather than a spiritual change. Line by line her features divested themselves of strain, and her body seemed to fall into easier, more graceful curves. It would not be untrue to say she scarcely thought of the man, unless it was with some slight relief to find herself alone again. Her thoughts were all contracted within herself.

  One autumn evening he came back. For days she had been expecting him; quite suddenly she had realized that he would return, that everything was not over between them, and very placidly accepted the fact.

  He seemed to have grown older and maturer in his short absence; one felt it less in his words than in his manner. There was decision in it. She saw that he was rapidly growing into a deferred manhood, and was secretly proud of the change. He had a great fund of stories about his wanderings (never a word of the mythical cousins); and while she prepared his supper, she listened to him, smiling faintly, almost as if she were not listening at all. He was as hungry now as the first evening she met him, but everything was easier between them; he was glad to be there and she to have him.

  ‘Are you pleased I came?’ he asked.

  ‘You know I’m pleased.’

  ‘Were you thinking I wouldn’t come?’

  ‘At first I thought you wouldn’t. You hadn’t it in your mind to come back. But afterward I knew you would.’

  ‘A man would want to mind what he thinks about a woman like you,’ he grumbled good-humouredly. ‘Are you a witch?’

  ‘How would I be a witch?’ Her smile was attractive.

  ‘Are you?’ He gripped her playfully by the arm.

  ‘I am not and well you know it.’

  ‘I have me strong doubts of you. Maybe you’ll say now you know what happened? Will you? Did you ever hear of a man dreaming three times of a crock of gold? Well, that’s what happened me. I dreamt three times of you. What sign is that?’

  ‘A sign you were drinking too much.’

  ‘ ’Tis not. I know what sign it is.’

  He drew his chair up beside her own, and put his arm about her. Then he drew her face round to his and kissed her. At that moment she could feel very clearly the change in him. His hand crept about her neck and down her breast, releasing the warm smell of her body.

  ‘That’s enough love-making,’ she said. She rose quickly and shook off his arm. A strange happy smile like a newly-open flower lingered where he had kissed her. ‘I’m tired. Your bed is made in there.’

  ‘My bed?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You’re only joking me. You are, you divil, you’re only joking.’

  His arms out, he followed her, laughing like a lad of sixteen. He caught at her, but she forced him off again. His face altered suddenly, became sullen and spiteful.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘ ’Tis a change for you.’

  ‘ ’Tis.’

  ‘And for why?’

  ‘For no why. Isn’t it enough for you to know it?’

  ‘Is it because I wint away?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘I don’t know whether ’tis or no.’

  ‘And didn’t I come back as I said I would?’

  ‘You did. When it suited you.’

  ‘The divil is in ye all,’ he said crossly.

  Later he returned to the attack; he was quieter and more persuasive; there was more of the man in him, but she seemed armed at every point. He experienced an acute sense of frustration. He had felt growing in him this new, lusty manhood, and returned with the intention of dominating her, only to find she too had grown, and still outstripped him. He lay awake for a long time, thinking it out, but when he rose next morning the barrier between them seemed to have disappeared. As ever she was dutiful, unobtrusive; by day at any rate she was all he would have her to be. Even when he kissed her she responded; of his hold on her he had no doubt, but he seemed incapable of taking advantage of it.

  That night when he went to bed he began to think again of it, and rage grew in him until it banished all hope of sleep. He rose and went into her room.

  ‘How long is this going to last?’ he asked thickly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This. How long more are you going to keep me out?’

  ‘Maybe always,’ she said softly, as if conjuring up the prospect.

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Always? And what in hell do you mean by it? You lure me into it, and then throw me away like an old boot.’

  ‘Did I lure you into it?’

  ‘You did. Oh, you fooled me right enough at the time, but I’ve been thinking about it since. ’Twas no chance brought you on the road the first day I passed.’

  ‘Maybe I did,’ she admitted. She was stirred again by the quickness of his growth. ‘If I did you had nothing to complain of.’

  ‘Haven’t I now?’

  ‘Now is different.’

  ‘Why? Because I wint away?’

  ‘Because you didn’t think me good enough for you.’

  ‘That’s a lie. You said that befo
re, and you know ’tis a lie.’

  ‘Then show it.’

  He sat on the bed and put his face close to hers.

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘What hinders you?’

  ‘For a start, I have no money. Neither have you.’

  ‘There’s money enough.’

  ‘Where would it come from?’

  ‘Never you mind where ’twould come from. ’Tis there.’

  He looked at her hard.

  ‘You planned it well,’ he said at last. ‘They said he was a miser…Oh, Christ, I can’t marry you!’

  ‘The divil send you better meat than mutton,’ she retorted coarsely.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, his big hand caressing her cheek and bare shoulder.

  ‘Why don’t you tell the truth?’ she asked. ‘You have no respect for me.’

  ‘Why do you keep on saying that?’

  ‘Because ’tis true.’ In a different voice she added: ‘Nor I hadn’t for myself till you went away. Take me now or leave me.… Stop that, you fool!’

  ‘Listen to me – ’

  ‘Stop that then! I’m tame now, but I’m not tame enough for that.’

  Even in the darkness she could feel that she had awakened his old dread of her; she put her arms about his head, drew him down to her, and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Now do you understand?’ she said.

  A few days later he got out the cart and harnessed the pony. They drove into the town three miles away. As they passed through the village people came to their doors to look after them. They left the cart a little outside the town, and, following country practice, separated to meet again on the priest’s doorstep. The priest was at home, and he listened incredulously to the man’s story.

  ‘You know I’ll have to write to your parish priest first,’ he said severely.

  ‘I know,’ said the man. ‘You’ll find and see he have nothing against me.’

  The priest was shaken.

  ‘And this woman has told you everything?’

  ‘She told me nothing. But I know.’

  ‘About her uncle?’

  ‘About her uncle,’ repeated the man.

  ‘And you’re satisfied to marry her, knowing that?’

  ‘I’m satisfied.’

  ‘It’s all very strange,’ said the priest wearily. ‘You know,’ he added to the woman, ‘Almighty God has been very merciful to you. I hope you are conscious of all He in His infinite mercy has done for you, who deserve it so little.’

  ‘I am. From this out I’ll go to Mass regularly.’

  ‘I hope,’ he repeated emphatically, ‘you are fully conscious of it. If I thought there was any lightness in you, if I thought for an instant that you wouldn’t make a good wife to this man, my conscience wouldn’t allow me to marry you. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Never fear,’ she said, without lifting her eyes, ‘I’ll make him a good wife. And he knows it.’

  The man nodded. ‘I know it,’ he said.

  The priest was impressed by the solemn way in which she spoke. She was aware that the strength which had upheld her till now was passing from her to the young man at her side; the future would be his.

  From the priest’s they went to the doctor’s. He saw her slip on a ring before they entered. He sat in the room while the doctor examined her. When she had dressed again her eyes were shining. The strength was passing from her, and she was not sorry to see it pass. She laid a sovereign on the table.

  ‘Oho,’ exclaimed the doctor, ‘how did you come by this?’ The man started and the woman smiled.

  ‘I earned it hard,’ she answered.

  The doctor took the coin to the window and examined it.

  ‘By Jove,’ he said, ‘it’s not often I see one of these.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll see more of them,’ she said with a gay laugh. He looked at her from under his eyes and laughed too; her brightness had a strange other-world attraction.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ he replied. ‘In a few months time, eh? Sorry I can’t give you change in your own coin. Ah, well! Good luck, anyway. And call me in as often as you please.’

  News for the Church

  When Father Cassidy drew back the shutter of the confessional he was a little surprised at the appearance of the girl at the other side of the grille. It was dark in the box but he could see she was young, of medium height and build, with a face that was full of animation and charm. What struck him most was the long pale slightly freckled cheeks, pinned high up behind the grey-blue eyes, giving them a curiously oriental slant.

  She wasn’t a girl from the town, for he knew most of these by sight and many of them by something more, being notoriously an easy-going confessor. The other priests said that one of these days he’d give up hearing confessions altogether on the ground that there was no such thing as sin and that even if there was it didn’t matter. This was part and parcel of his exceedingly angular character, for though he was kind enough to individual sinners, his mind was full of obscure abstract hatreds. He hated English; he hated the Irish government, and he particularly hated the middle classes, though so far as anyone knew none of them had ever done him the least bit of harm. He was a heavybuilt man, slow-moving and slow-thinking with no neck and a Punchinello chin, a sour wine-coloured face, pouting crimson lips, and small blue hot-tempered eyes.

  ‘Well, my child,’ he grunted in a slow and mournful voice that sounded for all the world as if he had pebbles in his mouth, ‘how long is it since your last confession?’

  ‘A week, father,’ she replied in a clear firm voice. It surprised him a little, for though she didn’t look like one of the tough shots, neither did she look like the sort of girl who goes to confession every week. But with women you could never tell. They were all contrary, saints and sinners.

  ‘And what sins did you commit since then?’ he asked encouragingly.

  ‘I told lies, father.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I used bad language, father.’

  ‘I’m surprised at you,’ he said with mock seriousness. ‘An educated girl with the whole of the English language at your disposal! What sort of bad language?’

  ‘I used the Holy Name, father.’

  ‘Ach,’ he said with a frown, ‘you ought to know better than that. There’s no great harm in damning and blasting but blasphemy is a different thing. To tell you the truth,’ he added, being a man of great natural honesty, ‘there isn’t much harm in using the Holy Name either. Most of the time there’s no intentional blasphemy but at the same time it coarsens the character. It’s all the little temptations we don’t indulge in that give us true refinement. Anything else?’

  ‘I was tight, father.’

  ‘Hm,’ he grunted. This was rather more the sort of girl he had imagined her to be; plenty of devilment but no real badness. He liked her bold and candid manner. There was no hedging or false modesty about her as about most of his women penitents. ‘When you say you were “tight” do you mean you were just merry or what?’

  ‘Well, I mean I passed out,’ she replied candidly with a shrug.

  ‘I don’t call that “tight,” you know,’ he said sternly. ‘I call that beastly drunk. Are you often tight?’

  ‘I’m a teacher in a convent school so I don’t get much chance,’ she replied ruefully.

  ‘In a convent school?’ he echoed with new interest. Convent schools and nuns were another of his phobias; he said they were turning the women of the country into imbeciles. ‘Are you on holidays now?’

  ‘Yes. I’m on my way home.’

  ‘You don’t live here then?’

  ‘No, down the country.’

  ‘And is it the convent that drives you to drink?’ he asked with an air of unshakable gravity.

  ‘Well,’ she replied archly, ‘you know what nuns are.’

  ‘I do,’ he agreed in a mournful voice while he smiled at her through the
grille. ‘Do you drink with your parents’ knowledge?’ he added anxiously.

  ‘Oh, yes. Mummy is dead but Daddy doesn’t mind. He lets us take a drink with him.’

  ‘Does he do that on principle or because he’s afraid of you?’ the priest asked dryly.

  ‘Ah, I suppose a little of both,’ she answered gaily, responding to his queer dry humour. It wasn’t often that women did, and he began to like this one a lot.

  ‘Is your mother long dead?’ he asked sympathetically.

  ‘Seven years,’ she replied, and he realized that she couldn’t have been much more than a child at the time and had grown up without a mother’s advice and care. Having worshipped his own mother, he was always sorry for people like that.

  ‘Mind you,’ he said paternally, his hands joined on his fat belly, ‘I don’t want you to think there’s any harm in a drop of drink. I take it myself. But I wouldn’t make a habit of it if I were you. You see, it’s all very well for old jossers like me that have the worst of their temptations behind them, but yours are all ahead and drink is a thing that grows on you. You need never be afraid of going wrong if you remember that your mother may be watching you from heaven.’

  ‘Thanks, father,’ she said, and he saw at once that his gruff appeal had touched some deep and genuine spring of feeling in her. ‘I’ll cut it out altogether.’

  ‘You know, I think I would,’ he said gravely, letting his eyes rest on her for a moment. ‘You’re an intelligent girl. You can get all the excitement you want out of life without that. What else?’

  ‘I had bad thoughts, father.’

  ‘Ach,’ he said regretfully, ‘we all have them. Did you indulge them?’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘Have you a boy?’

  ‘Not a regular: just a couple of fellows hanging round.’

  ‘Ah, that’s worse than none at all,’ he said crossly. ‘You ought to have a boy of your own. I know there’s old cranks that will tell you different, but sure, that’s plain foolishness. Those things are only fancies, and the best cure for them is something real. Anything else?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation before she replied but it was enough to prepare him for what was coming.