Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  “It keeps the butter and milk and a few frozen peas but not much else.”

  “This house is like a time capsule, isn’t it? How did those women manage?”

  “It was fine years ago. Of course, it was lived in then.” She finds a jug for the water and pours whiskey into the glasses. “Sit down and take your drink,” she orders.

  “I suppose you’ll be getting an architect in to design the alterations.”

  “I’ve done that, and he’s drawn up plans.”

  “You’re not serious!” He takes a sip of whiskey. “No doubt you’ll be having the obligatory conservatory out the back. They’re very fashionable.”

  She smiles, abashed. “Well, yes, I will!”

  “This should be interesting,” he says, deadpan. “I’m going to enjoy the transformation. Show us the plans.”

  She runs upstairs and fetches them, and he spreads them out on the kitchen table. “What’s wrong with this table?” he asks, shaking it. “It’s rocking.”

  “It’s old and unsteady. You’ll have to make do.”

  He nods and checks the plans. “French doors for the conservatory?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You’re better off. The sliding patio doors are a godsend to thieves. They can remove them. No trouble to break in. Saw a program about house security on the BBC the other night and you’d be amazed how simple it was.”

  “You hardly need security in a place like this.”

  “Rural Ireland isn’t the place it was. Gangs travel the countryside looking for places to rip off. There have been two break-ins in the village over the last year or so, a shop and pub only to date, but some house will get done eventually.”

  “So the twentieth century has arrived.”

  “What century are you living in? It’s the twenty-first century by my reckoning. Course I could be wrong, being ignorant and backward and all that.”

  “None of that nonsense, Matt. You may have left school early, but you’ve picked up all you need to know.”

  He throws her one of his rare grins. “The only reason I’m sucking up to you is that a few books will come my way if you settle down here. I’m assuming you still read. I remember your mother complaining to me you always had your nose stuck in a book. She could never find you for the washing up and household chores.”

  “I’d hide in the bathroom! That used to drive her wild. She wasn’t in the cousins’ league when it comes to housekeeping, but she wanted things neat and tidy. Housework was never my strong point, although I’m better now.”

  “What I always liked about you,” he says, and pours a good measure of whiskey into each glass, “is that, even when you were older, grown up really, you still didn’t give a damn whether the house was falling down about your ears. The cousins used to go on about how you wouldn’t or couldn’t see what needed doing. You had them mesmerized.”

  She blushes. He’s being ironic, she presumes.

  “You’ll have to buck up now though,” he says, handing her a glass. “The women down here have a points system for housekeeping that will keep you on your toes.”

  “I’ll sign up for the opt-out clause.”

  “So, no change there.” He continues to study the plans, asking occasional questions. Then he rolls them up and hands them back to her. “Shouldn’t be too bad,” he comments. He raises his glass. “Here’s to a successful venture.”

  “Thanks. I might need your advice now and again.”

  “In order to disregard it? But you could try me,” he adds when he sees her crestfallen look.

  She goes to refill his glass. “No thanks. I’m driving,” he says, and stands up. “These chairs are riddled with woodworm. Most of what’s in this house is only fit for a skip.” He pauses at the door. “How’ll you manage during the building work?”

  “I’ll rent out a little place down the street. It’s very cheap.”

  “You could rest with us.”

  “I’d only get on your nerves.”

  “Since when did you get on my nerves?” he asks, reprovingly. He looks about. “I don’t remember seeing a phone on my way in. Did they get one in the end?”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “Now there’s a funny kind of meanness for you. Always down to the public phone box to make their calls, battling down the street in all weathers when there was no need. Could never understand it myself.”

  “They thought it was a luxury they couldn’t afford.”

  “Bollocks. They were just too mean.”

  “I’m getting phone points put in most rooms.”

  He snorts. “From one extreme to the other, eh? I suppose you’ll take the eye out of us with your designer this and designer that, trying to show us all up with your new fads.”

  “You know me better than that,” she admonishes.

  “I’m just trying to annoy you. Come up for dinner on Sunday, two o’clock sharp,” he says. His invitations are always abrupt.

  “I might take you up on that.”

  “We’ll expect you. Remember, on the dot of two. Julia’s a stickler for time.”

  She thinks about her uncle as she makes her way to his house. He’s known as a quiet man although he’s involved in community affairs, a member of the Parish Council, and the Tidy Towns and St. Patrick’s Day committees. He has a reputation for speaking only when he has something to say, but he always says what’s on his mind. She’s seen photographs of him in his youth and, despite the awkward poses, forced smiles, and strange clothes, it’s clear how handsome he was. Traces of his former attractiveness linger on his face when it’s in repose.

  Julia answers the door, greets Ellen with a quick, ducking embrace, like a bird’s wing brushing against the cheek, and flashes a formulaic smile. Julia isn’t unpleasant or bad-tempered but she holds herself aloof. She keeps physical contact to a minimum. She has been known to move as if to shake a person’s hand but then not touch them.

  As a child, Ellen tried to make an ally of Julia, but Julia warded her off. She didn’t encourage Ellen to visit the farm, and on the rare occasions that she issued a face-saving invitation — as if there were a risk of cross-contamination — she generally arranged for Ellen’s younger cousins to be at friends’ houses. Almost the only occasion at which Ellen could be sure of running into her cousins, barring the occasional unexpected encounter on the street, was Sunday Mass.

  Matt lets Julia make most of the conversational openings, and there’s little sign of his usual teasing quickness and comments. Now and again a quirky smile flickers against the edges of his mouth.

  “Come in. Sit down. You must be perished with the cold. I didn’t hear an engine. Did you walk up?” Julia says.

  “I’m between cars.”

  “How long is it since you were last around? You must see great changes.”

  “I can’t get over all the little shops that have closed down.”

  “That’s the way now. Somebody retires and nobody in the family wants to take on the business. Ballindoon is lucky to have a butcher at all. Lisdonnell lost theirs when the poor man died. The shop is standing empty.”

  Matt shakes off his torpor. “Our small population doesn’t make it worth anybody’s while to buy premises,” he says, as he hands her a glass of whiskey. “Most people do a weekly shop at the supermarket and use the local stores to top up. It’s terribly easy to get into Killdingle these days. The traders in the town send out a bus on market day. They want the business. It picks people up at eleven and drops them back at half past three.”

  “Thanks for the chocolates,” Julia says. “I’m not much given to chocolates but your uncle likes them. I’m more into baking. I like a nice fruitcake.”

  “I’ll remember that next time.”

  “Are you a good cook?” Julia asks.

  “Not great at baking or desserts. I’m better at main courses.”

  Matt looks up. His eyes glint. “Our Ellen doesn’t do much in that line. Kitty used to claim that any boy would do bet
ter than her in the kitchen. Isn’t that right, Ellen?”

  “That was ages ago, Matt!”

  “I must give you a few recipes,” Julia says absently.

  “I won’t be doing much cooking for a while. The place I’m renting has two rings and a grill.”

  “There must be more than that,” Matt says.

  “It’s cheap because it’s primitive, and it won’t be for long.”

  “I suppose,” but he doesn’t sound convinced.

  They sit down to the meal and, as she eats Julia’s food, Ellen begins to think her own cooking skills not too bad after all.

  Two

  DAYS LATER every church pew is taken and the choir gallery is crowded for Dan Tuohy’s funeral Mass. The organist to the back of the gallery can’t see over the heads of people. She has to rely on those to the front to alert her to the priest’s signals to strike up for the next hymn or prayer.

  Beatrice is in the last row of seats to the side of the altar. She can see Stella Tuohy and her children some of the time. For the most part Stella sits quietly, eyes downcast, a child to either side of her. Dan’s two sisters sit rigidly to the edge of the pew like security guards. All three women look grim, as well they might, reflects Beatrice. She blesses herself as the coffin is wheeled down the aisle to the front door, genuflects in the direction of the altar, and hurries toward the side door.

  “This must bring it all back,” a voice says behind her as she dips her right index finger in the holy water font outside the door.

  She forces herself to turn and face Brenda Finnegan. “Hello,” she says.

  All five-foot-three of Brenda strains up to look into Beatrice’s face. “My heart goes out to you,” she says, giving Beatrice’s arm a sympathetic squeeze.

  Beatrice is always wary of Brenda and her predilection for gossip, but she smiles as if touched by the expression of concern. “Terrible, isn’t it,” she says. “I’m just thinking of the poor man’s wife and family.”

  “I was in the house last night,” confides Brenda. “You should have seen her; well, heard her. She was in an awful state.” The tone of Brenda’s voice is unsettlingly brisk.

  Unable to bring herself to call to the Tuohy household the previous night, Beatrice had persuaded Simon, her farm manager, to deliver apple tarts she had baked.

  Nan Brogan joins them and they exchange greetings. “Do we have any idea why he did it?” Nan asks.

  “There’s talk of bad debts,” Brenda says.

  “Wasn’t there a bit of a scandal about him and the young Galvin boy years ago?” asks Nan.

  “That was nothing but loose talk,” Brenda says in one of her occasional forays into setting the record straight.

  Something in Beatrice snaps. “I hate that kind of tittle-tattle,” she says. “People speculating when they know nothing, making up what they can’t know and salivating over it all. It’s disgusting.”

  “You heard me defend him,” Brenda says hotly.

  “I was only saying what I heard,” Nan says in an offended manner.

  “Well, that doesn’t mean you have to repeat it.”

  “God, you’re getting very hot and heavy,” Nan says. “Keep your hair on.”

  “The way stories take wing here just sickens me,” Beatrice says. “Don’t think I don’t know how they blackened my John’s character, when his only crime was not being up to things.” Not being able to cope with the life his father forced on him, and letting the only girl he cared for go because he hadn’t the guts to propose to her, she thinks. For a moment she’s half afraid that she has spoken her thoughts aloud and glares fiercely at the other two.

  She’s aware that Nan and Brenda are staring at her open-mouthed. Instantly she’s sorry that she said anything at all.

  “You’re overreacting, Beatrice,” Brenda says quietly. “We’re all bemused by Dan’s death. Nobody can figure out why it happened.”

  “What are we all? Hyenas? Feeding on the kill? Can’t we leave people alone?” bursts from Beatrice. She watches the women exchanging looks and nods, takes in a quick gulp of air, and steadies herself.

  “There, there, don’t go on so,” Brenda says in an infuriatingly gentle tone. She strokes Beatrice’s arm. Beatrice has to struggle with herself not to push her away. “It’s not so long since you had to — had to…” Brenda falters under Beatrice’s cold gaze. There’s satisfaction in seeing her words extinguished, like the spluttering gasps of a dying engine. For moments there is silence. “We all feel for you. This must stir it all up again,” Brenda says eventually.

  “I’m not going to parade my emotions for your benefit. I try to keep all my crying private, the way I live my life,” Beatrice says thickly.

  “You weren’t so full of yourself the day of John’s funeral. There were tears then. You think you’re beyond reproach because of what happened but you’re not. Nobody is,” Nan says coldly.

  The words slice through Beatrice like a knife and she wishes she could press a button that would transport her to another place, any place other than here, but she’s stuck in this accursed village with these two harpies at a depressing funeral. “Who’s beyond reproach, Nan? Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. Remember that? ‘There’s so much good in the worst of us, and so much bad in the best of us, that it hardly behooves the most of us to talk about the rest of us.’ That was one of my father’s sayings. Good, isn’t it?” she snaps. Brenda is tugging at Nan’s sleeve, trying to pull her away, but Nan can’t leave for fear she might miss something interesting.

  Beatrice walks quickly to catch up with the crowd as it leaves the church grounds for the adjoining graveyard. She reaches the plot as the gravediggers reposition the funeral flowers on the dug earth and set the coffin on planks covering the hole in the ground. People cough and make way for the priest and altar girls. Nan takes her cue to wiggle and push her way to the front of the throng, dragging Brenda with her.

  As soon as the priest opens his breviary, Beatrice forgets her irritation with Nan and Brenda the way a person forgets a swatted fly. She’s transported back to John’s burial, the gash of the opened grave, the hushed crowd, and how she found herself reading the inscription on her husband’s tombstone over and over again. She listens to the drone of the priest’s voice and loses track of time. The silence of the day and the hush of the crowd as the coffin is lowered into the grave, the tantalizing beauty of the countryside, covered in a fine mist, reactivate the pain in her heart and the feelings of loss she usually works so hard to suppress. She’s conscious of glances directed at her as the priest finishes his prayers, shuts his book, and the gravediggers cover the hole with a wide plank.

  Father Mahoney stares into the crowd. “Dan’s family has asked me to thank you all for coming and to invite everybody to attend a buffet lunch in Hegarty’s pub,” he says.

  Father Mahoney walks toward Beatrice, who doesn’t notice his approach. “This must be a very sad occasion for you,” he says. “Very lonely.”

  “It’s difficult, Father.”

  “Would you like me to fetch you a plate of food?” She shakes her head. “My door is always open, Beatrice, if you ever need to talk.”

  “I know that, Father. It’s very good of you.”

  He massages his forehead as if he has a headache. “I have to admit that I’m at a loss,” he says. “I know we’re given all sorts of explanations — the loss of spirituality, the emptiness of life in a materialistic society — but what really drove your John to end his life, or what made Dan kill himself? They lived in a strong community. The family structures were in place. What was at the nub of their despair?”

  She doesn’t feel able for Father Mahoney’s blunt comments, however well-intentioned. “I’m as much in the dark as you, Father. Maybe they thought their lives were hopeless?” She shrugs. “There’s really no way of knowing.”

  “Yes, but…”

  She realizes from the thrust of his jaw that he wants to launch into a conversation on the subject a
nd her courage fails her. She knows that he’s only trying to do his job, but today she can’t handle his grim earnestness, his pedantic and humorless attempts to come to terms with the concerns of his flock. He’s a pleasant man, if taken in small doses, but she just has to get away from him. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I will grab something to eat,” she says, and edges past him toward the table.

  At the buffet Beatrice finds herself next to Brenda, who is busily loading two plates with quiche and salad. Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice sees the bony outline of Nan’s head craning on its long neck as she waits for Brenda to join her.

  “I see you escaped Father Mahoney,” Brenda says. “He can be a bit hard to take. Could you pass me that plate of sausage rolls?” Robotically, Beatrice passes her the plate. “Thanks very much.” Brenda slips away to join Nan, who has secured a corner spot for them.

  “I’ll fill that for you,” Lily Traynor, the caterer, says, and whips away Beatrice’s plate. It returns laden with savories, salad, and rice.

  “Thanks, Lily.”

  “Let me get you a drink,” Lily offers. Beatrice shakes her head.

  “No ifs or buts now, you’re going to have a glass,” Lily insists. “Red or white?”

  “A glass of white, please.”

  “Time was you’d never have turned down a drink, Beatrice Furlong,” a voice at her shoulder says.

  She always does a double take whenever she encounters Matt Hughes. Of course, she notes mechanically, he’s still a handsome man. “I have a splitting headache, Matt,” she says. “I feel like ‘Exhibit A’ here. They’re all feeling very sorry for me.”

  Lily passes her the wine. “There you go,” she says. “I’ll call up next week, and we’ll drive across to Waterford and have our lunch out.”

  “I’d like that, Lily. Give me a ring.”

  “Pay no heed to all that attention. It’s of the moment,” Matt says, guiding her away from the crush at the buffet table. He smiles. “I hear that young fella you have on the farm is gettin’ on well. I’d say you were glad to have him during the foot-and-mouth scare.”