Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  “Tell her we’ll be back in an hour or so. She’ll want to watch her soaps on the TV and then she’ll have to see the news. There won’t be much talk while they’re on. We’ll be back soon after. It’s as close as makes no difference.”

  Stephen has already gone to the back porch to fetch his jacket. Matt hears him telling Julia he’ll be back after the news.

  “There was no call for you to interfere,” she says when Matt enters the kitchen. “He was quite happy to stay at home before you spoke up.”

  “What harm does it do, Julia? He wants to see his pals. It’s seldom enough they all turn up on the same weekend.”

  “It’s not asking much to have him stay in. It’s not often we see him.”

  This is how they wage war with each other over their children. She always has an agenda that he tries to save them from. She’s still angling for one of the sons to take over the farm. She always said it was unnecessary to educate each boy beyond the Leaving Certificate. Once, when Stephen was in his first year at university, Matt overheard her suggest to him that his father was disappointed the boy showed no interest in the farm.

  “He may do as he pleases,” he’d said, emerging from his office. “Son, you go and get your education. I never got a chance so I won’t deprive you of yours.”

  She held a hand to her throat as if recovering from a fright. “Sure, if he takes the farm, there’s no need to waste three or four years clocking up some degree he’ll never use.”

  “Do you want the farm, Stephen?” he asked, and saw the answer in the boy’s dumb misery.

  “There’s no way he wants it,” he said. “What’s more, he’s entitled to his feelings.”

  Later that night Julia came into Matt’s bedroom. She stood at the door and said, “What sort of fool are you? They’re all saying what an eejit you were not to keep him at home and train him in. You’ll regret this education. He’ll think he’s too good for the place if you give him too much scope.”

  “Keep him under wraps, you mean? Force the farm on him? He’d resent it later. It has to be a free choice.”

  “You and your nonsense about choice. What say had you in the matter? Did it make any difference? Wasn’t it good enough for you?” she said, talking quickly, almost shouting. “It gave you a livelihood and a good life. Why throw it all away? And what was the point of all those years building it up?”

  “They’re all good questions, aren’t they, Julia? Tell me if you ever figure out the answers.”

  She turned on her heel and went into her own bedroom.

  He lay in the bed thinking about it that night. Unlike most of Matt’s contemporaries, his children could stay in Ireland, find work, and live in their country. They weren’t labeled “export only” and cast off. He remembered the boys in his own class, few of them getting any sort of proper tutoring, the majority of them hauled out of school at fourteen by their parents, many emigrating to the States or Britain, and one or two to Canada. Only three out of an original class of thirty-two finished second-level education.

  A decade later he still thinks he was right to give Colum and Stephen opportunities, even if it means the farm will be put up for sale after his and Julia’s deaths. “Come on, Stephen, chop, chop,” he says. “We’d better hit the big smoke.”

  He reverses the car out of the garage and Stephen hops in. The car lights illuminate the nearby road. He goes gently to save the car’s suspension from potholes in the tarmacadam. “Was she on about the farm again?” he asks.

  “She mentioned it, yes. She doesn’t feel the same as you about it.”

  “And never will. I was forced into this life, son. Maybe, if I’d come to it of my own volition, I’d have been happier. I’m not saying I was miserable, but I would have liked to have finished my schooling.”

  “You’re self-taught, Dad, and well read. I work with people who know less than you, and that’s at third level. I’m not joking!”

  “But I might have done something else. Brendan was the favorite to take over the farm, but he had other ideas.”

  “The way you tell it, he went into the priesthood to escape Granny. Didn’t he leave his order after her death?”

  “Before she died. He never told her.”

  “What!”

  Matt sighs. “Your grandmother was what’s called a domestic tyrant. When someone made a stand against her, it was done indirectly. We discovered that Brendan had opted out of the priesthood when he made it clear that he wouldn’t be officiating at your grandmother’s funeral.”

  “And what did he do after?”

  “Lived in cheap digs in Dublin and worked his way through an arts degree. He ended up a teacher, like Ellen. She’s living in the village these days, come back to the old sod. Have you come across her?”

  “Not unless she ventures into the pool room in Murphy’s. That’s usually where I hang about.”

  After a protracted silence, Stephen says, “You know it’s unlikely that either Colum or I will opt for the farm, don’t you, Dad? You understand. We’re settling into our lives.”

  Matt stops the car outside Hegarty’s, pulls out a packet of cigarettes, and lights one. He inhales deeply. “Why do you think I invested so much in your education? Because I never got the chance, and I didn’t want either of you to end up in the trap I found myself in. Your mother’s all agitated about succession and tradition but, not to put too fine a point on it, I couldn’t give a monkey’s.” He throws a wry look Stephen’s way. “Don’t worry about it, son. Que sera sera, eh? It’ll be a nice nest egg in years to come. You could make a packet out of selling on to developers. What else is going to happen to land with farming going down the tubes?”

  “Doesn’t it make you sad to think that way, Dad?”

  “What’s sad? I’m beyond sad, son.” He exhales smoke on a shuddering sigh. “Anyway, it’s all economics now, isn’t it? You should know that. Ways of living, communities, values, people, none of that matters any more. We’re all being sold on.”

  Stephen shifts uneasily in the passenger seat. “Don’t write anything off yet,” he says. “If I were to marry… it’s different when you’ve children to rear. Your priorities change.”

  Matt looks amused. “Throwing me a bone, son? You’re a terror for excavating. Stop digging. Let it lie.” He opens his door and nods toward the pub. “I’ll be in there. If you decide to stay on in Murphy’s, give us a shout.”

  Stephen gives a snort of laughter. “You know that’s not an option, Dad. Meet you in about an hour.”

  Saturday night merges into Sunday and the day passes at a galloping pace. All too soon Stephen will have to leave. In the early hours of Monday morning, Matt comes down in his dressing gown to see him off. Stephen plans to break the journey with a stop for breakfast.

  Matt watches the dark swallow up the taillights of the car as it turns onto the road. The house feels as cold and lonely as a heath as he pads through the kitchen in his slippers on his way back to bed.

  Julia passes Ellen on her way out of the store. “Hello, Ellen,” she says.

  “Hello, Julia.”

  Julia sits into the car and drives off in the direction of home.

  “Your uncle’s wife is a very close woman, nearly impossible to get to know,” Terry confides. “How do you get on with her?”

  “She’s quiet,” Ellen says diplomatically.

  “There’s a story there.”

  “There’s always a story, Terry.” No doubt there is, but Ellen doesn’t want to hear it.

  “I’ll tell you regardless,” Terry says, as though it goes against her nature. “Years ago your uncle was great with another woman. There was a big bust-up, and she ups and marries another. Next thing Matt’s walking down the aisle with Julia. Did you know that?”

  Ellen feels Terry’s eyes on her. “No, I didn’t.” No point in pretending otherwise.

  “Your uncle was a bit of a lad in his youth, a real charmer, had all the women trotting after him.”

  Ellen
dips her head to hide her expression. “You live and learn,” she says. “You never know who people will end up with.” Why did he marry tight-lipped Julia? “Who’s this other woman?” she asks.

  “She’s a nice person, but she’s had tragedy in her life, terrible tragedy. She comes down for Mass every day.”

  Ellen knows that Terry is itching to tell her about the tragedy, but she gathers up her bags and makes for the door. “See you tomorrow,” she says, brandishing a smile like a shield.

  When she reaches her house, she finds a message from her mother on the answering machine. Kitty has returned from her trip to Italy and is off to London for two weeks.

  Ellen sighs and rings Kitty. “You’re traveling a lot these days, Mum. When are you coming down to see me?”

  “Oh, that place gives me the shivers. I can never relax there,” Kitty says. “Why don’t you come to Dublin and see my new apartment?”

  “I’ll be up soon.” Ellen doesn’t tell her mother that her nickname in the village is “The Duchess” because of her infamous grand ways.

  Three

  ON THURSDAY EVENINGS they drive to Killdingle to do the shopping. Matt pushes the trolley up and down the supermarket aisles and Julia fills it. He has little interest in any of the items. Occasionally, she consults him about a purchase, and he’ll usually say, “Whatever you like” or “Take it if you want it,” but mostly it is she who decides. He carries the shopping bags out to the boot of the car. On this particular outing, on the journey home, she asks if he’ll drive her to the local hospital the following morning. “I’m being admitted for tests,” she says.

  It’s the first mention of this. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “I’ve been feeling under par for a while now and suffering from stomach pains.”

  In a display worthy of her, he says nothing for a while. He’s trying to remember if he noticed anything different of late. Then, “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “How can you know that?” she snaps.

  He sneaks a look at her profile and, sure enough — but it’s probably his suggestibility — she looks thinner in the face. He allows himself the luxury of imagining her being absent from his life, of a void in the space she occupies, of there being no need to contend with her.

  “Perhaps you have an ulcer,” he says eventually, for the sake of making a comment.

  “Maybe that’s all it is.” Does he imagine her turning in his direction? Does he feel her gaze on his face? He won’t place a hand on her hand and feel her withdraw it from his grasp. Words and silences are what lie between them now. He looks resolutely ahead, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, watching the beam from the car’s headlights shine on hedgerows and ditches, lighting them up like a scene from a film. As the images flick by, he feels his body grow numb, but underlying this sensation is a growing excitement. He wills himself not to look at her for fear she’ll see and understand his feelings.

  It’s only when he reaches home and walks into the house that he realizes he has the place to himself. Except for the time Julia left home for a fortnight to nurse her dying mother, or the few days she spent in hospital after each of the boys was born, she has always been an uncompromising presence in his life.

  She has left a casserole on the hob for dinner the next day. Like everything she makes, it will be competent but unexciting. Eating her food is a deadening experience; the taste buds remain untitillated, the appetite unsatisfied. He has always marveled at how she never mastered the art of cooking.

  Julia always guards the fridge, cooker, and sink like a terrible Medusa, her frizzy hair rising if anyone dares to approach them. Matt finds it strange to be free to open cupboards, and to look into the fridge to see what he might find. He takes out some bacon, sausages, and eggs, fills the kettle and switches it on, places a pan on the hob, cooks up a fry, butters bread, and makes tea.

  Without her presence, without her particular denseness or rigidity, he finds himself talking to some cartoon version of him and her as he eats. “There now, Julia,” he says, “take it easy, would you? It’s just chewing. It’s not a crime.” Or he turns to her place at the table and says, “Nothing wrong with reading at the table. It isn’t as if we ever talk.”

  He’s watching some late night film and has dozed off when the phone rings. The newspaper falls to the ground as he gets to his feet to answer the call. His reading glasses slide down his nose, where they perch precariously. It’s his wife’s sister, Mona, asking if he’ll drive her in to see Julia the following day.

  “You think she’ll require that?” he says a little lamely, realizing that, left to his own devices, it would never occur to him to visit his wife. She didn’t mention anything about expecting him. He had deposited her at the door of the ward and anticipated a phone call to summon him to collect her.

  “Sure, you have to visit. It’s awful to be in hospital if nobody calls,” Mona says. Her voice is as sharp as her sister’s when she’s annoyed, although he has formed the opinion that she’s more yielding than Julia.

  He waves goodbye to some of his anticipated time alone. There’s little point in offering resistance. He’ll be worked on and worn down. “Right so, when do you want to go in to see her?”

  “When’s visiting?”

  He has to admit that he hasn’t a clue, and then waits while she goes off to ask her family if they know the times. He hears her footsteps recede and tap-tap back again on the linoleum floor in their hall. Mona tells him tartly that he may pick her up after tea. He puts the phone down realizing that he has been managed again.

  From then on he visits his wife every evening, cottons on to what the form is by paying attention to what other patients receive. He brings in whatever she needs, a fresh nightdress, a cordial or fizzy drink, some grapes. It’s a quiet time on the farm and he has become a dab hand at shopping, cooking, and laundry.

  Sometimes he brings a magazine, usually one suggested to him by a shopkeeper. Magazines are almost her only reading matter. He hardly ever sees her look at a national newspaper, except to peruse the deaths column. International news is of no interest to her. He guesses that she has only the haziest idea of what goes on in the world. He wonders what politicians she votes for in general elections, as he has never heard her express a political opinion of any force. In that respect she’s a chameleon, echoing whatever’s being said at any given time. Any books she ever bought were textbooks from school or university lists, or inappropriate books that, because of their titles or the wheedling talk of a shop assistant, she had decided would be useful for the boys’ “education.” She was ambitious for her sons, but her ideas on education were a mystery to Matt for years until he finally concluded that she regarded it as a process or contrivance that had to be endured in order to render a person employable. The tools of that engagement, the books, were encumbrances that could be disposed of when the desired outcome — the requisite certificate, diploma, or degree — was achieved.

  Thus their younger son, Stephen, discovered — much to his annoyance — that she had stripped his bedroom of posters and books shortly after he graduated from university. Not only had she thrown out his textbooks, but also his football and music magazines and his collection of thrillers. When he broached the subject with her, she dismissed his anger, claiming she had cleared out “all those books” that had “clogged up the space” in his room. Something in her craved this emptiness, this absence.

  Matt keeps his reading material locked in his office for fear she will sweep it all away and consign everything to the fire or waste bin. He gives strict instructions that she isn’t to throw out anything from his desk or bookcase lest it relates to farm accounts. On many occasions she has asked him to “go through” the books and to “clear out the rubbish” and he has always ignored the plea.

  She does, however, have a fondness for the Southern Chronicle, the local newspaper, but curiosity and envy fuel her interest. She scours the pages for photographs of events or person
alities and uses many of the stories as fodder for gossip and snide remarks. She believes anything she reads, and it’s a fruitless exercise to try to persuade her that some of the reports are biased or unreliable.

  So, when he brings her one of those magazines — with their baffling mix of interviews with celebrities, knitting patterns, recipes, gardening and household tips, photos of the homes of movie stars, quota of romantic fiction, readers’ letters, and comments — he waits to see if she will pick it up and look at it. For the most part, except for necessary practical exchanges, she ignores him and watches the television in the ward, and he sits beside her in silence for up to an hour.

  When the novelty of bringing her magazines wears off, it feels uncomfortably like a parody of gift giving and, as she seems indifferent to anything from him, he arrives empty handed one evening. She appears not to notice.

  Ellen is visiting the house at night. The plastered walls and cement floors are drying out. The last of the workmen are finishing the electrics, and the understairs toilet has to be plumbed in. Every downstairs room is strewn with builders’ equipment. Moisture in the air causes the windows to steam up. The house is cold because the central heating system has yet to be tested and turned on. She has ordered oil from a local supplier.

  It’s irksome as well as pleasurable to call in to the property. She enjoys wandering about, but she’s itching to have the place to herself. Jerry, the builder, has promised that he and his crew will be out within a week. At night she claims ownership of a part of her territory. She has plugged in the old fridge and kettle, reinstated the table and chairs in the extended kitchen, and colonized the living area with crockery, cutlery, a jar of instant coffee, and packets of tea and biscuits. A rickety electric heater makes feeble efforts to disperse stickiness in the air. She has no kitchen as such, only the plumbed-in old sink unit and the ancient and partially functional electric cooker.

  The week Julia is away for tests, Matt takes to popping in on his way back from evening visits to the hospital. She’ll hear the rap of his knuckles on the window and she’ll either rush to open the door or call out, “It’s on the latch.” They’ll sit down in their coats, first to a cup of coffee for her and tea for him, and then she’ll produce the bottle and fetch glasses from the windowsill. In her mind they resemble a raddled old couple in pre–central heating days, slipping into an illicit sheebeen pub in some remote part of the west of Ireland to drink poitín. All they need is the packet of Woodbines, the stale smell of unwashed bodies and clothes, companionable silence broken by an occasional conversational exchange, the sheen of ancient mirrors on the wall, the crackle and glow of a turf and wood fire, and the soothing dark of stained pitch pine furniture with its tincture of dust.