“But Nance, you know that Seán thought it was a good idea.” Catherine’s voice was high and frustrated now. “I didn’t cause Seán to get angry that evening. He was fine with me – the argument was between you and him.”
“You knew I wasn’t happy about Joseph coming down here to work – and you knew why. Well, you will be happy to know that we argued all the way home and when we got back to the house. And Fiona heard us arguing which has made it all worse.”
“Oh no!” There was a pause. “What did she hear?”
“Enough to know there was a problem, but she didn’t know what it was about. We spoke about it the morning after her father died. Thank God she knows how well we got on – that the argument was a rare one.”
There was a silence, during which Fiona heard the main door of the building open. She glanced around, but didn’t see anyone. She heard footsteps and then Joseph suddenly appeared in front of her.
“I wondered if everything was okay?” he said. “The girls are still waiting in the car to say goodbye to Mam.”
Before Fiona had a chance to say anything, or make up an excuse to get him away from the door, she heard her mother’s raised voice again. The words clear and unmistakable.
“I’m telling you now, the same as I told you before,” Nance said, “I don’t want Joseph moving down here to Tullamore and I don’t need him working in the bar. I’m sure a young man of his age who is used to living in Dublin isn’t going to be interested in living in a country town. Just because he’s got into a bit of trouble you think you can palm him off on me now when it suits you.”
“God almighty!” Joseph gasped, his face white with shock. “What are they saying about me?”
“It’s nothing,” Fiona said, trying to reassure him. “They’re just having a bit of a discussion...”
“A discussion? From what I’ve just heard, I think it’s a bit more than that. And I think I need to sort this out now.”
Fiona moved back to allow him to go into the shop. As he pushed the door open, the bell rang and suddenly everything was silent. She quietly went in behind him, and stood at the door.
“I was outside,” Joseph said in a low but clear tone, “and I heard what was said about me looking for work in the bar, and I heard Aunt Nance’s response.”
“Oh, dear God,” his mother said. She looked over at her sister. “I’m so sorry...we had no idea we could be heard.”
“Well, Mam, I’m very glad I did hear,” he said, “because now I know what’s going on. Did you ask Aunt Nance to give me a job?”
His mother stepped backwards to lean against the shop counter. “Yes,” she said, “I did ask.”
“You had no business doing that,” he said quietly.
“But I told you that I would ask around...”
“But you didn’t say you were going to ask Aunt Nance.” He looked over at his aunt. “I’m sorry Mam put you in such an embarrassing position, especially on the day of your husband’s funeral. And I’m sorry if it’s caused any trouble between the two of you.”
Fiona moved forward now. “You don’t need to apologise for anything, Joseph. Not one thing. There’s something going on here between my mother and yours – and it’s not just today, it’s been going on for ages. And whatever it is, I don’t think you are the cause of it.”
“Oh, Fiona!” Her mother’s face was now drained of colour. “This is exactly why I didn’t want Catherine and me to be near each other. Not today. I knew something like this would happen.”
Joseph looked at his aunt. “I don’t want to be disrespectful to Uncle Seán, but I think I have to tell the truth. I would not come to work in the bar here if it was the last job on earth – and you are the last person I would want to work for.”
Nance’s eyes widened. “Well, there’s no need for –”
“Let me speak!” Joseph held his hand up. “If I’d been asked to work for Uncle Seán that would have been a different matter. He’s always been a gentleman to us. But from the way you’ve treated my mother and ignored me for the last number of years, I know exactly what you think of us. What I heard now just confirms it.”
“You don’t understand,” Nance said. “It has nothing to do with you. I would never have done anything to hurt you – not ever.”
Fiona stood silent. Her mother had behaved badly and was doing nothing to make things better.
Catherine lifted her bag. “Come on, Joseph, let’s get into the car and go home.”
“Hold on. I’ve one last thing to say before we go,” he said. “I was going to leave it for the next few days, until the funeral and everything was all over, but I might as well say it now. I don’t need the job here because I already have one. I’ve been offered a job over in England.”
“England?” his mother repeated in a high voice. “Where in England? And when did you hear about it?”
“Yesterday morning,” he said. “When I spoke to my father.”
“Oh, no...please, God...don’t tell me you’re going over to him?”
“I have a job in a hotel near him, as a trainee manager for the bar and restaurant.”
“But, Joseph, you know he’s not reliable. He’ll promise you the moon and stars and then he’ll let you down.”
“I know what he’s like and I won’t be depending on him. I won’t be living with him or anything like that. The hotel is giving me accommodation. I’ve spoken to the manager and it’s all sorted.”
Catherine looked at her sister. “I hope you’re satisfied,” she said. “I hope you’ve got what you wanted now.”
Chapter 13
On a Thursday morning in April, Fiona sat down at the dining table with a Biro and Basildon Bond blue notepad, and scripted letters in her distinctive, clear handwriting to Bridget and Angela. She knew that the fact the letters weren’t addressed in their mother’s handwriting would cause some concern for both her sisters. The envelopes would immediately tell them that Mam still wasn’t well, and had not yet recovered from the severe case of shingles that had hit her within a month of the funeral. It would also tell them that things, as yet, had not returned to normal at home.
As she wrote, Fiona thought that if her mother had been watching, she would have sighed and made her usual remark that an educated young lady should always use a proper fountain pen and ink. Angela and Bridget would not care what kind of pen she used. Bridget would just smile and roll her eyes at their mother’s endless comments about ladylike things. She would just be delighted to receive a letter from home.
Angela’s feelings about their mother’s writing preferences and her other strong opinions, Fiona could only guess at. She never really commented on things like that, just smiling and occasionally shaking her head in a non-committal way. But, Fiona conceded, she never complained about much either. Angela’s communication with everyone in the family was polite and to the point. If she needed something, she asked for it, and if she didn’t want to do something or to go somewhere, she said it quietly but in such a way that she was not forced into it.
Writing the weekly letters was a ritual her mother took seriously. Her first letters would be to the girls, and the others to her sisters and cousins in England and America. She would pick a quiet time and sit at the dining-room table – as Fiona was doing now – with a cup of tea and write in silence for an hour or more, giving each person her undivided attention and a letter tailored to the things she thought would be of interest to them.
Fiona had neither the time nor the inclination to write in such detail to her sisters. The same letter, she thought, would do for both, apart from odd little changes she would make at the end enquiring about Bridget’s life in the convent school and how Angela was faring in Dublin.
In the first few lines she gave a brief comment about her mother, explaining that she hadn’t really made much progress since they had left home a few weeks ago. She didn’t go into too many details in case it upset them, but neither did she play down the truth about her mother still languishi
ng in bed day after day.
As the oldest, she had always felt a certain responsibility for her two younger sisters, but lately there was a part of her that had begun to envy their independence. Their freedom from all responsibility of their mother and the family business. Without any discussion, it had just fallen on her shoulders. And the subject of her going to New York had never been mentioned since their father’s death. Even before she became ill, their mother had steered any conversations away from America. It was, Fiona thought, as if she had never made any plans. And yet, both Bridget and Angela were off living their own lives exactly as they wanted to, and at an earlier age than she could have dreamed of.
Bridget decided she wanted to enter a convent school to be a nun, and within months she was doing just that. Angela’s independence, Fiona knew, was a different case. She had no choice about spending her early years in Dublin but, now she was older, there was no real necessity for her to continue living there. She could easily come back home. There were offices in Tullamore if she wanted to work. But better still, Fiona thought, she could spend a few months here at home with their mother or helping out in the shop or bar.
Although it had never been openly discussed, she knew that Angela would not want to work in the business. Being away from home for so many years, she didn’t know the local people as well as the rest of the family. She was also quieter and more reserved than the others, and although she dropped into the shop and pub when she was home, she had always been treated as delicate and never expected to do any work. In many ways, Fiona now thought, Angela had been lucky and escaped all family responsibility over the years. Now she was older and fitter, it was only fair that she did her bit to help when it was needed. She read back over what she had written to Angela now, and added another line restating how hard it was for one person to deal with everything.
There was no point in labouring the situation with Bridget. There was nothing she could do to help until she was back home for the school holidays. And Fiona knew from hearing of the daily convent regime that Bridget had a hard enough life in her own way, what with prayers from early morning until night, and schoolwork and fairly heavy household chores. And going by the nuns in the school she had attended, they were not always easy to live with.
Angela, she reckoned, was her only hope of escape. Her only hope of ever having her own life again.
She spent another while on the letters and, when she had written the names on both the envelopes, she heaved a sigh of relief. Then, she sat back in her chair and contemplated the walk to the post office and the day ahead going between the shop and the bar.
Chapter 14
On a Saturday afternoon, Angela, seated at her dressing-table, looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her long dark hair was piled on top of her head with a few loose tendrils escaping at the back. Her newly cut fringe was parted in the middle, framing her face. “It’s really different...”
“Well, what do you think?” Maureen, her housemate, asked. “Have I got it right?”
“You have.”
Maureen lifted the magazine that she was copying the style from, and put it flat on the dressing-table. “Well, I think it’s fabulous on you. The long fringe suits you and it’s more modern than the tight buns you wear to work. I think you look exactly like a brunette Brigitte Bardot.”
Angela started to laugh. “A few weeks ago you said I looked like Elizabeth Taylor, and they’re not a bit like each other!”
“Listen, Madam,” Maureen said jokingly, “there are plenty of girls who would love a compliment like that. You should be grateful you’re so good-looking.”
“Oh, go away with you!” Angela said with a laugh. “No, seriously...do you think the fringe suits me? I haven’t had one since I was about ten. I’m not sure if I can get away with it...”
“You look amazing.”
The door opened and Jeanette came in, carrying a tray with three mugs of tea and an envelope.
“What’s the verdict?” Maureen asked.
“Oh, Angela,” she said, putting the tray down on the coffee-table, “it’s fantastic. It really suits you.”
“Do you think so?” Angela asked.
“I do. Maureen’s done a great job on it. You would think she was a real hairdresser.”
“Go away, will you?” Maureen laughed. “It was only cutting a bit of a fringe and pinning it up.” She passed the magazine over to Jeanette. “Isn’t she the spit of Brigitte, only dark?”
Jeanette nodded her head, staring at the magazine and then back at Angela. “You just need to do your eyes up a bit more, make the eyeliner more winged, and wear a paler lipstick.”
“You’re not sure, are you?” Maureen said, looking at Angela.
“I do like it – and I think you’ve made a great job of it, Maureen. I definitely like the fringe. But I just don’t know...” Angela bit her lip. “I think it’s a fabulous hairstyle, but I’m just not sure if it’s really me.” She stared back at herself in the mirror. In one way she loved it – she had never imagined herself looking as modern and casual as this – but, in another way, she felt it was looking at a different person. The sort of person she was not really sure she would like to be.
“Well, I think you look stunning,” Maureen said. “It’s all the rage at the minute, and it’s an easy style to copy. It’s just like doing your usual bun, but making it looser and pulling strands of hair out.”
“I know what you mean,” Jeanette said to Angela. “I’m like that when I’m trying anything new. When I had my hair cut really short, I hated it at first. But sometimes you need to give it a bit of time to get used to it.”
“You could do with being a bit more modern and daring, Angela,” Maureen said.
Angela laughed. “I don’t know if I’m the modern and daring type. That’s all miniskirts and stretchy white plastic boots. And I don’t exactly have the leg for miniskirts.”
“Ah, Angela – the rest of you more than makes up for your leg, and you can still wear the new modern tops and things.”
“Now,” Jeanette said, lifting up the magazine, “talking about your leg, I was just thinking that you should try wearing slacks more. We rarely see you in slacks.” She went back to the feature on Brigitte Bardot and flicked to the next page. She held the magazine up to Angela. “Look at this outfit – wouldn’t that be gorgeous on you?”
Angela studied the page for a few moments. The famous actress was wearing a long black fitted sweater over a pair of slim-fitting slacks with daisies on a black background. “I like the style, the sweater and trousers – it’s really lovely, but could you imagine what my clumpy shoes would look like with the ankle-length slacks?”
“You could wear them with longer, wider legs then,” Maureen suggested. “You could get a nice flowery tunic and wear it over trousers.”
“Maybe...” Angela said. “I’ll think about it the next time I go shopping for clothes.” She turned to Maureen. “Thanks a lot for doing my hair. Would you give it a good spray with lacquer, please, as I’m going out to visit my aunt in Lucan later.”
Maureen lifted the can of lacquer and then carefully sprayed the sides and the back of Angela’s hair. “That should hold it in for the rest of the day,” she said. She put the can back down. “We were thinking of going into town for a wander round. Would you not rather come with us?”
Angela shook her head. “No, thanks, I rang her last night and she asked me to come out.”
Jeanette went back to the tray now to get Angela’s mug of tea. “Oh, I nearly forgot, there was a letter on the table outside for you and I brought it in.” She gave her the mug and the envelope.
“Thanks,” Angela said, taking both off her. It was from Fiona. Her brow creased. “There’s no post this morning, and I never saw it there last night when I came in from work.”
Jeanette shrugged. “There was a parcel for somebody yesterday, maybe the letter was underneath it. Or maybe it fell down the back of the table and somebody saw it and put it back
on top. I had that happen to me with a birthday card from my brother in England. I was waiting on it for ages and I began to think he was just codding me about having sent it. I felt terrible when I eventually got it, and I went straight to the phone to let him know. ”
Maureen started to laugh. “Maybe that one from upstairs who keeps stealing the biscuits took it on you, and then got cold feet and put it back.”
They all laughed.
Maureen took a sip of her tea. “Any biscuits, Angela?”
“Yes,” Angela said, “there’s a packet of ginger nuts on the shelf near the table.”
“Ginger nuts?” Maureen laughed. “Where are all the chocolate ones you usually have from the shop at home? The ones that come in the big boxes full of goodies?”
There was a small silence, then Angela said, “I haven’t had a box of groceries from home since Daddy died. My mother’s not up to travelling to Dublin yet. She’s not been well for a while.”
“Oh, Angela, I’m sorry...I forgot it was your father who used to bring them. Me and my big mouth.”
“Don’t be daft,” Angela said. “I know you didn’t mean any harm. You can’t remember everything.” She shrugged. “I’m still trying to get used to it all myself.”
Angela went over and got the biscuits and then they sat for a while chatting.
After the girls had finished their tea, they left to get ready to go into town. Angela was just going to clear away the mugs when she remembered her letter.
She opened the envelope, and then began to read Fiona’s news telling her all about their mother who was still sick in bed with shingles, and how worrying it was that she wasn’t recovering as well as expected. Both their own doctor and a ‘quack’ from outside Tullamore who had visited her had said that they were concerned that her condition was not improving. But, Fiona stressed, both knew of cases like this when the after-effects of shingles took a long time to shake off.
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