Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  She’s not given to daily consumption of spirits but drinks to keep Matt company. She wonders how a man once so disciplined and abstemious has come to rely so heavily on alcohol. She’s convinced that not a day passes but he imbibes one, two, or more drinks. He doesn’t drink to excess — she has never witnessed him drunk — but it’s an important ritual for him. Until the alcohol appears, he sits uneasily in his seat, fidgeting with anything at hand and hunching his shoulders. His relief when she produces the bottle and glasses is palpable. He goes almost as far as to smile as he lifts the glass and slugs back the first few gulps of the dark liquid. When the alcohol starts to take effect, she can see the tightness in his stooped shoulders loosen. He stretches out his limbs, crosses his feet at the ankles, and is disposed to talk.

  “How’s Julia?” she might ask. It takes courage to mention the topic as Julia is almost a taboo subject with him.

  And he will reply, “Much the same,” “a little better,” or “not so good tonight,” until one evening he announces, “She came home this afternoon.”

  Ellen takes this as an indication that Julia is well, until he lets slip that chemotherapy sessions are to commence in a few weeks’ time. “I thought she was in for tests?” she says.

  “That’s what she went in for, but something showed up on a scan, I think, and they extended her stay. They wanted to explore that, do more tests and take a few biopsies. She’s at home to recover and let everything heal before she starts treatment.”

  Ellen decides against asking what type of cancer Julia is suffering from — she suspects stomach — as she’s fairly certain that Matt will skirt the issue. He can be infuriatingly vague. “So, will she have to go back into hospital?”

  For a moment, from his look, she thinks that he’s going to tell her he hasn’t a notion, but then he says, “Once every three weeks she’ll go in for a session of chemo.”

  “They must think she has a chance.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s cancer of the pancreas and it’s very invasive. It’s gone into the liver — that’s why she was yellow. Mona thought she had jaundice. She’ll be getting what’s called palliative chemotherapy. It could improve her quality of life, or extend her time a bit, and it gives her peace of mind. She feels that something’s being done.”

  “I should pay a visit.”

  “No, no, she doesn’t want visitors, except immediate family.”

  “Do Stephen and Colum know?”

  “I’ve told them — and she says — that there’s no need for them to come down every weekend. It’s not as if they can do any good,” he says despondently.

  “The prognosis isn’t good then.”

  He looks irritated. “No, but who knows? You hear stories of condemned people surviving, and those expected to survive shuffling off.”

  “Julia didn’t object to you coming out tonight?”

  A frown indicates that her questions are on sufferance. “Mona came over. The two of them are as thick as thieves, so I left them to it. They don’t want me about.”

  He’s always itching to move away from the topic of Julia and her health, and a lighter note enters his voice as he relates this or that story, scandal, or controversy, as if they are treats that he has stored away to reveal or allude to during his visit to Ellen. In turn, she fills him in on the tittle-tattle of her encounters with others. He wouldn’t dream of telling Ellen that she’s a comfort to him. She wouldn’t admit that, but for his visits, her days would be solitary.

  “Are you a Mass goer?” he asks one night.

  “You’ve seen me at church.”

  “Yes, but did you go when you lived in Dublin?”

  She takes a sip of whiskey. “Of course.”

  “Tell the truth and shame the devil. I’d be surprised if you went at all.”

  She regards him through narrowed eyes. “Here it’s expected.”

  “Lots of them don’t bother. The church is half-empty of a Saturday night and it’s almost deserted at the Sunday Masses, except in summer when people are home or visiting.”

  “I suppose I go for social reasons, hoping someone will talk to me, and generally somebody does.”

  “And they know who you are?”

  “They know that I’m one of the Hugheses. Yes, I get lots of small talk.”

  “You still haven’t given a proper answer.”

  She shrugs and looks away.

  “I’m not going to strike you down if I don’t like your response,” he says.

  “It’s a generational thing. It’s difficult to know what to say to you.”

  “I know what’s wrong,” he says, topping up his glass. “You can remember the days when it was dangerous to give a straight answer, when everybody had to dissemble. You think you have to fob me off, don’t you? Amn’t I right?”

  “You think you’re the only one can ask questions,” she complains. “Are you religious?”

  “That’s a good one. Am I religious?” He sits back in his chair and regards her. “What do you think?”

  “If I knew, would I be asking?”

  “If neither of us answers,” he muses, “we have a stalemate. I asked first, why don’t you answer first?”

  “I’m not at all religious,” she says crossly. “I believe in some sort of god but I can’t stand the church, that is, the organization. When I lived at home with Mum, I went, but after that no, except for work-related stuff. Here, it’s the done thing.”

  He nods. “About what I expected you to say.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? It’s so deeply ingrained, such a habit, that it would be difficult to break away from it now. It was pounded into us when we were children. We got it at home. We got it at school. There was no escaping it. Life was steeped in rituals and procedures. There’s part of me attached to some of the ceremonials, but do I believe?” He takes a rhetorical pause. “I have to say I reject a lot of it,” he continues. “You straddle different generations, mine who got roped in because there was no avoiding it, and the young ones nowadays who couldn’t care less. They never go near Mass, unless for a wedding or funeral. For some people my age, religion explains the meaning of life. That doesn’t apply to me. I stumble when confronted by certain articles of belief.” That habit of reticence and concealment is so embedded in him that this is the first time he has trusted her with any revelation.

  She wants to match his openness. “I’ve shrugged off a good deal of it,” she says carefully. “Subversive teachers helped to feed the doubts — but parts, the sexual morality — which I know is rubbish — dog me, can’t shrug it off so easily.”

  “Right.” The bemused expression on his face makes her think that she has taken openness a degree beyond what he can tolerate. “That’s just one example,” she ventures.

  “No, no, that’s obviously a large part of it,” he says gamely. “When they’ve got you by the balls, your heart and mind will follow!”

  “I came in on the tail end of that stuff being taught, but it’s all out the window now.”

  “Right,” he says guardedly.

  “And I think we’d better change the subject,” she declares with a laugh.

  “What would your father make of all this, I wonder?”

  “You knew him. I haven’t a notion.”

  “He told me he left the priests because he couldn’t take the celibate lifestyle. When he came across your mother working in the university library — she had just qualified as a librarian — he laid siege to her. She was a looker, very well got up, which made a change. The clothes people wore then were very drab.”

  The doorbell rings and they start. “Are you expecting someone?”

  “Damn,” she says. “Just when it was getting interesting.”

  “You’d better answer in case it’s important.”

  She can’t imagine who it might be. Except for Terry and Bart’s tour of the house, her only visitor has been the postman. Suddenly she wonders if Mona has sent down for Matt and hurries out. Whe
n she opens the door, a stranger, a tall young man, faces her. She has to crane her head to look up at him. In addition to his strong physical presence, she’s immediately aware of a distinctive characteristic, like a surfeit of energy or an electrical current.

  “Saw a light,” he says, and extends a hand.

  “And you are?” she says, holding back.

  “Didn’t your builder tell you to expect me? I’m Eugene O’Brien, the kitchen maker.”

  “Oh,” she says, remembering. “Jerry said you might call.”

  He grins. “Now, will you shake hands?”

  She is almost afraid that his touch will carry a charge. Then, sheepishly, she places her hand in his. “Sorry.”

  He steps in. “That little house you’re renting was in darkness so I chanced my luck here when I saw the light. God bless all here,” he says when he enters the kitchen and sees Matt at the kitchen table.

  “Do you know Eugene?” she asks Matt.

  He nods. “He made a kitchen dresser for our place the year before last.”

  Eugene extends a hand and Matt shakes it. “Am I interrupting? I can come back at a more convenient time.” He’s whippet thin and, now that she can see him properly, he looks ridiculously young. He’s relaxed, and exudes a freshness and vigor that’s very engaging. She hadn’t anticipated the kitchen man being attractive.

  “I’d better make use of you now you’re here,” she says. She has learned from experience that local tradesmen are difficult to source. It’s tricky to get them to call to a house, and even trickier to get a starting date out of them. They make promises they have no intention of keeping. Her builder has flagged this man as the best at his job, but she’s not prepared to take any chances.

  “Well, I’ll be off,” Matt says abruptly.

  “Don’t go,” she urges, reluctant to lose him. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “I’ll only hold up proceedings. You’ll be yapping on about whether to use this wood or that wood and the look of things, and I’ve no truck with that talk.”

  “Eugene just has to make a few measurements, then go off to make a plan and work out an estimate. Isn’t that right, Eugene?”

  “Well, I’ll need to measure the space exactly. Matt’s right. I can’t give you a plan or an estimate unless I know what style of kitchen we’re talking about. You’ll have to give me some guidelines.”

  “That’s one area where I don’t have an opinion,” Matt says. He finishes his drink and gets to his feet. “Buy a sink unit at the hardware shop, find a place for it, plumb it in, wire in a cooker and a fridge. Bob’s your uncle and that’s your kitchen,” he adds as a parting shot.

  “There’s more than that to it, Matt,” she grumbles as she escorts him to the front door. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

  He smiles as he puts his cap on his head. “Depends on whether Mona calls over. She’s my escape ticket.”

  “I’ll expect you.”

  Eugene hands her one end of a measuring tape and directs her to stand at the edge of this and that wall while he extends and retracts the tape a few times. When he turns his head toward her, the light catches his features at a particular angle, and suddenly she notices the thin, faded scar running from temple to chin on one side of his face. All that remains is an indentation and a difference in the pigmentation of the skin. She draws in her breath.

  “Didn’t you spot that till now?”

  “What?”

  “My calling card.”

  “It’s very faint, but how did you get it?”

  “Years ago I was ambushed by a gang on my way home late one night, and they were just getting stuck into me when a taxi came round the corner. The taxi saved me, and the driver took me to hospital.”

  “That’s awful. Was it… How did it affect you?”

  “Was it traumatic, do you mean?” He shakes his head. “It needed stitches. I was a bit nervous for a few weeks, slow to venture out on my own, but I got over that. There’s a lot you can shrug off when you’re seventeen.”

  “I’m sure you could have it treated cosmetically.”

  He snorts. “There was a time when the look of it bothered me, but now I think I’d miss it if it weren’t there.”

  “It’s not that noticeable. I don’t think it’ll affect your prospects.”

  “Prospects? That’s a word rarely heard nowadays. I thought it was women who worried about their prospects.”

  “Stop thinking in stereotypes,” she scolds.

  He watches her quizzically. “That’s something I can’t be accused of.” He closes the tape measure, jots down a few figures in a little notebook he keeps in his shirt pocket, paces up and down and roams about the kitchen, as if getting the feel of it.

  “So Matt is your uncle,” he says suddenly.

  “He’s the only one I have. My mother’s an only child.”

  “I didn’t realize you had connections here.”

  She laughs. “Will having connections improve the price?”

  He looks straight at her, and she’s disconcerted by the clarity of his gaze. “You’d never know,” he says, as if he means something else. He has presence, what’s called charisma. Strictly speaking, he couldn’t be dubbed handsome. His features are sharp but regular, his eyes a dark brown, his nose slightly prominent, and his chin solid but not excessive. With the exception of the slight distortion of the scar tissue, he has good skin, which reminds her of her own blotchy complexion. She estimates that he’s probably eight to ten years younger than she.

  She feels exposed, sensitized to him, as if stripped of a protective layer of skin. It’s probably the whiskey. She hopes that he’s unaware of the impact he’s having on her.

  As he jots down a few additional notes, she notices his elegant hands. He has the long slender fingers of a musician.

  “So, what have you in mind for this kitchen?”

  She laughs wryly. “I haven’t a notion. I hoped you might help me out. You know what works.”

  “Well, for example, if you’re going for wood, do you want hard or soft wood?”

  “Hard. I know that much.”

  He grins. “That’s a start. Firstly, I’d suggest putting the sink by the window. The hob would work in the corner and…” He pauses. “Look, why don’t I draw up a draft plan and base the estimate on a few different woods? I’ll bring along samples next time. We’ll take it from there.”

  “Jerry said you’re particular about your work so that’s a great recommendation.”

  He grins. “That’s a lot to live up to. Jerry’s a bit of a perfectionist. I’ll drop in a rough estimate in a few days. It’ll be reasonable. It won’t be city prices. Ask anyone about my work and they’ll tell you it’s good. Okay so?” He rams his notebook into his shirt pocket and grins. “That’s it for now.”

  “I’ll see you out.”

  “Right. We’ll talk again soon.”

  The house feels deprived of his presence when he’s gone. She clears the glasses from the table and rinses them under the tap. The window panes need cleaning. Everywhere needs cleaning. Each time she sweeps the floors more dust descends. Jerry has told her that it will take a year for the newly built parts of the house to dry out completely.

  It’s a Saturday night and suddenly she decides that she can’t face the pokey bedroom and gruesome bathroom in the rented house. The builders won’t disturb her on a Sunday morning.

  None of the upstairs lights is working. She carries a basin of cold water up in the dark and goes down again for a torch, matches, and a small old paraffin heater. On her third journey, she makes up a hot whiskey and fills a hot-water bottle she found in a cupboard under the sink.

  In the bathroom the white of the new toilet and shower unit gleams in the moonlight. Her illuminated reflection flickers in the mirror above the sink. From the window she can see the shadowed backyard. She washes her teeth, rinses her mouth, and spits out the water.

  She carries the whiskey and hot-water bottle into her bedroom.
The moon ducks behind a cloud and her eyes take a while to adjust to the darkness. The floorboards are bare, the windows are without curtains, and the bed is a silhouette. She lifts the dust sheets carefully and places them in a corner of the room. The streetlight isn’t working but it doesn’t matter. It’s all right. Everything’s all right. She knows her way by touch. She knows every inch of this house.

  Beatrice lays her buckets under the tap on the uneven cement floor. From the open door behind her comes the chug-chug of the milking machines, snuffling snorts and occasional moans from the cows.

  The sleeves of her jacket are spattered with dirt. Her boots leave tracks of mud on the floor. Outside, cow dung intersperses with pools of water, making a patchwork pattern in the sludge. She’s indifferent to the strong smell. Over thirty years of living with that odor has immunized her against it.

  Behind the run of buildings is the hay barn. In the weeks and months following John’s death, she used to become almost physically sick if she had occasion to visit this place. She would torment herself by wondering what his last moments were like. A dull pain would suffuse her body if she tried to imagine what he might have been thinking about as he smoked his final cigarette, what convinced him to pull the trigger, and how long it took him to die.

  When their third child was born, she was delighted to have a son. John had been full of promise as a child, a handsome, cheerful boy, at ease with himself and always willing to help with the farm chores. In his teenage years his vulnerability became apparent. When the school summoned Jack and her to a meeting, they learned that he’d been skipping classes on a regular basis. Teachers had caught him coming out from town pubs or gaming halls on more than one occasion. That encounter exposed John’s disastrous academic performance and that he didn’t have a single friend in the school. “You half-wit,” his father shouted when John arrived home that day. “What sort of idiot have I as a son?” He didn’t speak to John for months after that. And he didn’t speak to Beatrice for a number of weeks. He blamed her for any failings in their children. “How come you weren’t on top of this?” he demanded. “You’re responsible for rearing them and you’ve fallen down on the job!” She had given up trying to answer his accusations and steeled herself for another of his campaigns against her. Silence and patience were her allies. Reproaches and recriminations only fueled his antagonism.