by Maeve Binchy
“And talking to foreign men,” Eve explained to clinch matters.
“My Seester is married to a Dublin man,” Mario explained.
“We’ll let people know,” Eve said solemnly.
Sometimes they went to the harness maker. A very handsome man on a horse came one day to inquire about a bridle that should have been ready, but wasn’t.
Dekko Moore was a cousin of Paccy Moore’s in the shoe shop. He was very apologetic, and looked as if he might be taken away and hanged for the delay.
The man turned his horse swiftly. “All right. Will you bring it up to the house tomorrow, instead,” he shouted.
“Indeed I will sir, thank you sir. I’m very sorry sir. Indeed sir.” Dekko Moore sounded like a villain who had been unmasked in a pantomime.
“Lord, who was that I wonder?” Benny was amazed. Dekko was almost dead with relief at how lightly he had escaped.
“That was Mr. Simon Westward,” Dekko said, mopping his brow.
“I thought it must be,” Eve said grimly.
Sometimes they went into Hogan’s Gentleman’s Outfitters. Father always made a huge fuss of them. So did old Mike, and anyone else who happened to be in the shop.
“Will you work here when you’re old?” Eve had whispered.
“I don’t think so. It’ll have to be a boy, won’t it?”
“I don’t see why,” Eve had said.
“Well, measuring men, putting tape measures round their waists, and all.”
They giggled.
“But you’re the boss’s daughter, you wouldn’t be doing that. You’d just be coming in shouting at people, like Mrs. Healy does over in the hotel.”
“Um.” Benny was doubtful. “Wouldn’t I need to know what to shout about?”
“You could learn. Otherwise Droopy Drawers will take over.”
That’s what they called Sean Walsh who seemed to have become paler, thinner and harder of the eye since his arrival.
“No, he won’t, surely?”
“You could marry him.”
“Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.”
“And have lots of children by putting your belly button beside his.”
“Oh, Eve, I’d hate that. I think I’ll be a nun.”
“I think I will too. It would be much easier. You can go any day you like, lucky old thing. I have to wait until I’m twenty-one.” Eve was disconsolate.
“Maybe she’d let you enter with me, if she knew it was a true vocation.” Benny was hopeful.
Her father had run out of the shop and now he was back with two lollipops. He handed them one each proudly.
“We’re honored to have you ladies in our humble premises,” he said, so that everyone could hear him.
Soon everyone in Knockglen thought of them as a pair. The big stocky figure of Benny Hogan in her strong shoes and tightly buttoned sensible coat, the waiflike Eve in the clothes that were always too long and streelish on her. Together they watched the setting up of the town’s first fish-and-chip shop, they saw the decline of Mr. Healy in the hotel and stood side by side on the day that he was taken to the sanatorium. Together they were unconquerable. There was never an ill-considered remark made about either of them.
When Birdie Mac in the sweetshop was unwise enough to say to Benny that those slabs of toffee were doing her no good at all, Eve’s small face flashed in a fury.
“If you worry so much about things, Miss Mac, then why do you sell them at all?” she asked in tones that knew there could be no answer.
When Maire Carroll’s mother said thoughtfully to Eve, “Do you know I always ask myself why a sensible woman like Mother Francis would let you out on the street looking like Little Orphan Annie,” Benny’s brow darkened.
“I’ll tell Mother Francis you wanted to know,” Benny had said quickly. “Mother Francis says we should have inquiring minds, that everyone should ask.”
Before Mrs. Carroll could stop her Benny had galloped out of the shop and up the road toward the convent.
“Oh, Mam, you’ve done it now,” Maire Carroll moaned. “Mother Francis will be down on us like a ton of bricks.”
And she was. The full fiery rage of the nun was something that Mrs. Carroll had not expected and never wanted to know again.
None of these things upset either Eve or Benny in the slightest. It was easy to cope with Knockglen when you had a friend.
TWO
1957
There hadn’t been many teddy boys in Knockglen, in fact no one could ever remember having seen one except on visits to Dublin when there were groups of them hanging round corners. Benny and Eve were in the window of Healy’s Hotel practicing having cups of coffee so that they would look well accustomed to it when they got to the Dublin coffeehouses.
They saw him pass by, jaunty and confident in his drainpipe trousers, his long jacket with velvet cuffs and collar. His legs looked like spider legs and his shoes seemed enormous. He seemed oblivious of the stares of the whole town. Only when he saw the two girls actually standing up to peer at him past the curtains of Healy’s window did he show any reaction. He gave them a huge grin and blew them a kiss.
Confused and annoyed they sat down hastily. It was one thing to look, another to call attention to themselves. Making a show of yourself was high on the list of sins in Knockglen. Benny knew this very well. Anyone could have been looking out the window seeing them being cheap with the teddy boy. Her father maybe, with the tape around his neck, awful sleeveen Sean Walsh, who never said a word without thinking carefully of the possible effect it might have. He could have been looking. Or old Mike, who had called her father Mr. Eddie for years, and saw no reason to change.
And indeed everyone in Knockglen knew Eve as well. It had long been the nuns’ ambition that Eve Malone be thought of as a lady. She had even joined in the game herself. Eve didn’t want it to get back to the convent that she was trick-acting in Healy’s Hotel and ogling teddy boys out of the window. While other girls with real mothers resisted all the attempts to gentrify themselves, Eve and Mother Francis studied books on etiquette and looked at magazines to see how nice people dressed, and to pick up any hints on behavior.
“I don’t want you to put on an artificial accent,” Mother Francis had warned, “nor do I want you sticking out your little finger when you’re drinking tea.”
“Who are we trying to impress?” Eve had asked once.
“No, look at it the other way. It’s who you’re trying not to let down. We were told we were mad and we couldn’t rear you. It’s a bit of human, non-saintly desire to be able to say ‘I told you so’ to the begrudgers.”
Eve had understood that immediately. And there was always hope that the Westward family would see her one day as an elegant lady and be sorry they hadn’t kept in touch with the child who was after all their own flesh and blood.
Mrs. Healy approached them. A widow now, formidable as she had always been, she managed to exude disapproval at fifty yards. She could not find any reason why Benny Hogan from the shop across the road and Eve Malone from the convent up the town should not sit and drink coffee in her bay window, but somehow she would have preferred to keep the space for wealthier and more important matrons of Knockglen.
She sailed toward the window. “I’ll adjust the curtains—they seem to have got all rucked up,” she said.
Eve and Benny exchanged glances. There was nothing wrong with the heavy net curtains of Healy’s Hotel. They were as they always were: thick enough to conceal those within while giving a perfect view out.
“Well, isn’t that a terrible poor ibex!” exclaimed Mrs. Healy, having identified easily what the girls had been looking at.
“I suppose it’s only his clothes really,” Eve said in a sanctimonious tone. “Mother Francis always says it’s a pity to judge people by the garments they wear.”
“Very admirable of her,” snapped Mrs. Healy, “but of course she makes sure that the garments of all you pupils are in order. Mother Francis is always the first to judge you girls by the uniform
s you wear.”
“Not anymore, Mrs. Healy,” Benny said happily. “I dyed my gray school skirt dark red.”
“And I dyed mine black, and my gray jumper purple,” Eve said.
“Very colorful.” Mrs. Healy moved away like a ship under full sail.
“She can’t bear us being grown up,” Eve hissed. “She wants to tell us to sit up straight and not to put our fingers on the nice furniture.”
“She knows we don’t feel grown up,” Benny said gloomily. “And if awful Mrs. Healy knows then everyone in Dublin will know.”
It was a problem. Mr. Flood the butcher had looked at them very strangely as they walked up the street. His eyes seemed to burn through them in disapproval. If people like that could see their awkwardness, they were indeed in a bad way.
“We should have a rehearsal, you know go up for a couple of days ahead of everyone else so we won’t look like eejits.” Eve was hopeful.
“It’s hard enough to get up there when we have to. There’s no point in asking to go up there in order to waltz around a bit. Can you see them agreeing to that for me at home?”
“We wouldn’t call it waltzing around,” Eve said. “We’d call it something else.”
“Like what?”
Eve thought hard. “In your case, getting book lists and timetables—there’s endless things you could say.” Her voice sounded suddenly small and sad.
For the first time Benny realized properly that they were going to live separate lives though in the same city. Best friends from the age of ten, now they would go down different roads.
Benny was going to be able to go to University College, Dublin, to study for a B.A. degree because her parents had saved to pay for her. There was no money in St. Mary’s convent to send Eve Malone to university. Mother Francis had strained the convent’s finances already to provide secondary education for the daughter of Jack Malone and Sarah Westward. Now she would be sent to a convent of the same order in Dublin where she would do a secretarial course. Her tuition fees would be waived in exchange for some light housework.
“I wish to God you were coming to College too,” Benny said suddenly.
“I know. Don’t say it like that, don’t let your voice get drippy or I’ll get upset.” Eve spoke sharply, but without harshness.
“Everyone keeps saying that it’s great, we have each other, but I’d see more of you if you were still in Knockglen,” Benny complained. “Your place is miles across the city, and I have to come home on the bus every night, so there’ll be no meeting in the evenings.”
“I don’t think there’s much of the nightlife planned for me either,” Eve said doubtfully. “A few miles of convent floor to polish, a few million sheets to hem. A couple of tons of potatoes to peel.”
“They won’t make you do that!” Benny was horrified.
“Who knows what light housework means? One nun’s light could be another nun’s penal servitude.”
“You’ll need to know in advance won’t you?” Benny was distressed for her friend.
“I’m not in much of a position to negotiate,” Eve said.
“But they never asked you to do anything like that here.” Benny nodded her head up in the direction of the convent at the end of the town.
“But that’s different. This is my home,” Eve said simply. “I mean, this is where I live, where I’ll always live.”
“You’ll be able to get a flat and all when you get a job.” Benny sounded wistful. She didn’t think she would ever see freedom.
“Oh yes, I’m sure I’ll get a flat, but I’ll come back to St. Mary’s, like other people come home from flats on holidays,” Eve said.
Eve was always so definite, Benny thought with admiration. So small and determined with her short dark hair and white elfin face. No one had ever dared to say that there was anything different or even unusual about Eve living in the convent, sharing her life with the community. She was never asked about what life was like beyond the curtain where the nuns went, and she never told. The girls also knew that no tales would be told of their own doings. Eve Malone was nobody’s spy.
Benny didn’t know how she was going to manage without her. Eve had been there for as long as she remembered to help her fight her battles. To deal with the gibes of those who called her Big Ben. Eve had made short work of anyone who took advantage of Benny’s gentle ways. They had been a team for years: the tiny wiry Eve with her restless eyes never settling long on anything or anyone; the big handsome Benny, with her green eyes and chestnut brown hair, tied back with a bow always, a big soft good quality bow a bit like Benny herself.
If there had only been some way they could have gone in the doors of University College together and come home on the bus each night, or better still got a flat together, life would have been perfect. But Benny had not grown up expecting life to be totally perfect. Surely it was enough to have got as much as she had.
Annabel Hogan was wondering whether to change the main meal of the day to the evening. There were a lot of arguments for this and a lot against.
Eddie was used to his dinner in the middle of the day. He walked back from the shop and the plate of meat and potatoes was put in front of him with a regularity that would have pleased an army officer. As soon as Shep started his languid stroll out to meet the master at the turn of the road, Patsy began to heat the plates. Mr. Hogan would wash his hands in the downstairs cloakroom and always profess pleasure at the lamb chops, the bacon and cabbage, or the plate of cod and parsley sauce on a Friday. Wouldn’t it be a poor thing to have the man close his shop and walk back for a kind of halfhearted snack. Maybe it might even affect his work and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate in the afternoon.
But then think of Benny coming back from Dublin after a day in the University: wouldn’t it be better if they saved the main meal for her return?
Neither husband nor daughter had been any help. They both said it didn’t matter. As usual the burden of the whole house fell on herself and Patsy.
The meat tea was probably the answer. A big slice of ham, or grilled bacon, or a few sausages, and they could put a few extra on Benny’s plate in case she felt the need of it. Annabel could hardly believe that she had a daughter about to go to university. Not that she wasn’t old enough—she was well old enough to have seen a family through university. She had married late, at a time she had almost given up hope of finding a husband. She had given birth at a time when she thought miscarriages would be all she ever knew.
Annabel Hogan walked around her house: there was always some little thing to be done. Patsy was in the big, warm kitchen, the table covered with flour and crockery, but it would all be swept away and scrubbed by mealtime.
Lisbeg was not a big house, but there was plenty to do in it. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. The master bedroom looked out over one side of the front door and Benny’s bedroom was on the other. At the back of the house, the dark spare room and the big, old-fashioned bathroom with its noisy pipes and its huge wood-surrounded bath.
Downstairs if you came in the front door (which people rarely did) you would find a large room on each side. They were hardly ever used. The Hogans lived in the back of the house, in the big shabby breakfast room that opened off the kitchen. There was hardly ever a need to light a fire in the breakfast room because the great heat of the range came through. There was a big double door kept permanently open between the two rooms, and it was as comfortable a place as you could imagine.
They rarely had visitors, and if ever anyone was expected the front drawing room in its pale greens and pinks with damp spots over the wall could be aired and dusted. But in the main, the breakfast room was their home.
It had three big red plush armchairs, and the table against the wall had three dining chairs with plush seats as well. A huge radio stood on the big sideboard, and shelves of ornaments, and good china and old books, were fixed precariously to the wall.
Now that young Eve had become such a regular guest in the
household, a fourth chair had been found, a cane chair rescued from one of the sheds. Patsy had tied a nice red cushion to it.
Patsy herself slept in a small room beyond the kitchen. It was dark and had a tiny window. Patsy had always told Mrs. Hogan that it was like being dead and going to heaven to have a room of your own. She had always had to share with at least two other people until the day she came to Lisbeg.
When Patsy had walked up the short avenue and looked at the square house with its creeper and its shabby garden, it seemed to her like a house on the front of a calendar. Her small room looked out on the backyard, and she had a window box. Things didn’t grow very well in it because it was in shadow and Patsy wasn’t much of a gardener, but it was her own, and nobody ever touched it, any more than they ever went into her room.
Patsy was excited as any of them about Benny going to university. Every year on her annual holidays, Patsy paid a dutiful visit of one half day to the orphanage which had reared her, and then she went to stay with a friend who had married in Dublin. She had asked her friend to take her to see where Benny would be a student. She had stood outside the huge pillars of University College, Dublin, and looked at it all with satisfaction. Now she would know where Benny went and studied; she would know the look of the place.
And indeed it was a big step for Benny, Annabel Hogan realized. No more safe trotting to and fro from the convent. It was life in the big city with several thousand other students from all kinds of places, with different ways and no one to force you to study like Mother Francis. It was not surprising that Benny had been as excited as a hen walking on hot coals all summer long, never able to keep still, always jumping up with some further excitement.
It was a relief to know that she was with Eve Malone for the morning, those two could talk until the cows came home. Annabel wished that there had been some way young Eve could have been sent to university too. It would have made things more fair somehow. But things rarely turned out nice and neatly in this life. Annabel had said as much to Father Ross the last time he had come to tea, and Father Ross had looked at her sternly over his glasses saying that if we all understood the way the Universe was run what would there be left for God to tell us on the Last Day.