Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  “How come?”

  “Well, my father’s cousins lived here. After he died my mother used to leave me with them during holidays. It gave her the freedom to go away, and I used to have a great time. I had the run of the village, could wander anywhere and do as I pleased. I have very fond memories of this house. It was always special.”

  They discuss the notion of freedom, the lack of restrictions when she — and he — were children. She discovers that he’s younger than she thought, twenty-six to her thirty-eight, which to her confirms him even more definitely out of her reach. She rattles on about how confined and controlled a lot of city kids are, chauffeured and monitored, their parents afraid to give them free rein for fear of encounters with murderers or sexual deviants. “They’re not allowed to disappear for hours on end.”

  He wants to know why she didn’t stay up at Matt’s place. She skirts about the immovable obstruction of Julia. “Just happened that the cousins offered to take me — I was a great favorite with Sarah — for a week it was supposed to be originally, but I got on so well with them that it turned into a month. It stretched even longer in other years. I was in my element here.” She talks about Kitty. “You haven’t met my mother. Well, mothering wasn’t exactly her thing. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to offload me, suited her right down to the ground. Kept the two of us happy. We weren’t at each other’s throats all summer. It was a godsend.”

  “So you never stayed at your uncle’s?”

  “No but, of course, I visited. They had sons, but they were younger than me.” She comes to a halt, feeling as if there’s a subtext to all of what she’s been saying, not something she likes to face, the question of why her immediate relations, her mother, and Matt — not Matt, Julia really — weren’t keen to take her on, and why it was left up to more distant relations to look after her. “My summers,” she says. “Such summers. But what about you? Tell me all about you.”

  “Me?”

  She smiles. “Don’t think you can grill me and get away with it. You’re not from around here. What’s the low-down?”

  “I’m a Wexford man, born and reared in Enniscorthy.”

  “So, why are you living here?”

  He shrugs. “Followed a woman, followed a job, a bit of both really. The woman came to nothing. The job went well and I decided to set up on my own. I bought the plot of land and had a house built, converted an old shack into a workshop.”

  “No ties to the place?”

  “My move here was accidental.”

  “Will you move on?”

  “I’ve lived outside Ballindoon for more than three years now. Sometimes I think I’ll end up somewhere else. Other times I reckon I’ll stay put. I do very well here. Business is good.”

  She empties the last of the wine into their glasses. “I’m inclined to fret about the decision to come here, worry that the whole thing’s a big mistake,” she admits. “I haven’t settled, don’t feel I’ve taken root. It’s probably why I messed you about with the kitchen.”

  “If you decide to sell up, the kitchen’s a great investment.” He catches a skeptical expression on her face and speaks emphatically. “That’s not just sales patter. You may as well have everything up to standard. This is a grand house, it’ll be brilliant when it’s finished. Whatever happens, you’ll get more than your money back. Only thing is, if you do change your mind, won’t it be next to impossible to break into the property market in Dublin?”

  She shudders. “I’ve been over this a hundred times. Could I afford to return if I wanted to? That’s all murky territory.”

  He regards her in a quiet way. “Don’t they say that there are only decisions and consequences?”

  She hugs her arms close. “I’m so full of doubt these days. I really don’t know what I’m at.”

  “You mean to say that you aren’t on the hunt for husband number two?”

  She squeals with laughter. “That’s the last thing I’d want. I’m allergic to husbands. I’ve had enough of them. One was enough.”

  He watches her with amused calm. “You’ll be okay,” he predicts. “Starting over is hard. It’s quite an adjustment. You have to give yourself time.”

  “You’re sickeningly wise for your years,” she jokes. “I’m much more lost.”

  “I could be lost too. Did you ever think of that?” He stares straight at her and she’s taken aback. She can’t believe this.

  “That’s highly unlikely,” she says skeptically.

  “You think?”

  “Well, yes, I do.”

  “But what do you know about me?” he asks disconcertingly. He drains his glass. “Let’s stroll down to the pub for a celebratory drink. It’s the least we deserve. We sorted the kitchen tonight.”

  It’s age-inappropriate to be with him, she reminds herself. How will she sustain the farce of her disengagement in his heady company? She’ll make a false or revelatory move, let slip a predatory disposition, and they’ll hit an impasse. It’s not as if she hasn’t been trying to establish a prudent distance between them. She has demonstrated her sensitivity to the disparity in their ages, dropping phrases like “When you get to my stage” or “In years to come you could find,” and so on, and it’s hard work. Her reflex nervousness kicks in. Just when she thought she had salvaged her poise, she has come unstuck. “Oh. Oh. I don’t know,” she says.

  “Why not? Unless — unless you’re fixed up tonight?”

  It’s a question of who’s being predatory. Does he sense her loneliness? Is it out screaming in the world, obvious to everybody? Perhaps he’s showing a professional friendliness? She can’t have it. She won’t. She’s well able to trot out some patter. “Oh, it’s past my bedtime, way past it, Eugene. It’s very good of you to offer, but I’ve held on to you for far too long. I’m not fit to be seen tonight. Go and relax over a pint with someone more…” She stops herself from saying “your age” and says “more congenial.”

  His smile looks forced, as if her refusal annoys him. “I’m talking about a drink, one drink. It’s not a big deal. Look, you don’t have to talk down to me. Just speak to me as you’d speak to anybody else.”

  She’s dumbstruck. There’s a standoff, his eyes glinting with anger, hers wide with surprise. She drops her gaze and feels the treacherous heat rising on the skin of her neck and face. Different scenarios flash through her mind — she could cancel the order for the kitchen and expel him from the house — she could make a play of being offended. No, no, neither of those. She can’t. It’s not in her, and it isn’t what she wants. She hadn’t meant to sound condescending. She didn’t intend to patronize him. What can she say to break the tension?

  Finally she manages to look up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way you took it. That stuff — the business about age — was supposed to be a running joke. No harm intended.”

  He looks away. “Good. Fair enough. Thanks. We’ll work on an equal footing from now on.”

  “Honestly, I’m not in the humor for going to the pub. I haven’t got my public face on. It’s bad enough you catching me like this —”

  “This?”

  “Slumming it. Disheveled. No makeup.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Why do you need makeup? You look fine to me.”

  She laughs. “No disclaimers,” she says. “My skin’s not good. I’m a mess. And I’ve nothing else in except whiskey or coffee.”

  “Coffee will do nicely.” He tidies his samples into the bag he brought.

  “Remember, there’s no obligation. You don’t have to be polite.”

  He sighs exaggeratedly. “Are you still banging on about that?”

  “God, sorry. I’m always making assumptions. And I shouldn’t. I don’t know you well enough.”

  He catches her hand and squeezes it, which adds to her confusion. “Relax, would you? It’s no big deal. Once we’re straight with each other, I won’t miff easily. You don’t have to be on guard with me.”

  She wonders what would happen
were she to place her free hand on top of his? What if he were to respond? She’s as bad as any inexperienced adolescent hooked on sensory excitement. She knows how these thoughts hatch and why she’s in this delusional frame of mind. She blames it on the gristle of loneliness that has lodged in her innards.

  She withdraws her hand and hopes her face is inscrutable. Thank God he can’t read her thoughts. He might feel sorry for her. The idea of his pity is enough to shrivel her insides. How terrible to be so needy, so incomplete in herself that she’d even think of — well, what would be so awful about it, really, except for how it might be interpreted?

  But she revives, makes coffee and gives him an accelerated tour of the house. His manner is restrained as he follows her in and out of rooms. In the conservatory he comes to life and heads straight for the open crates on the floor. He bends down and examines the contents of the first crate. “Books,” he says. “It’s full of books.” He reaches into another crate, bundles some volumes together, lifts them out, examines their titles, skim-reads some of the blurbs on the back covers, nods as if he has satisfied himself on some issue. “Educated reading,” he says, almost dismissively. “All fiction, is it?”

  “History and politics as well.” She feels as if she’s lining up character witnesses to defend her against reproach.

  He bestows a conspiratorial smile on her, returning the books to their boxes. “Our house was always full of books,” he says. “Mum and my aunts are into reading in a big way. Dad’s a fan of Westerns and thrillers, and I take after him. I’m annoyed if I don’t figure out the plot before it’s given away. I used to read political stuff, even considered joining a political party once. What am I saying? I went along to a few meetings.”

  “Which party?”

  “I’m too ashamed to say,” he says, as though choking down a laugh at his former self. “Anyway, I copped myself on. Know what I found out about politics?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  He frowns. “I used to think the stakes were big. Actually, the stakes are too small. It’s all compromises and sellouts. Depressing stuff.”

  “I can’t visualize this serious you,” she says playfully.

  He frowns. “I’m supposed to be apathetic because of my age, right? You have to think beyond the stereotype, Ellen, beyond the surface. Isn’t that what you said? You decided certain things about me the minute we met, didn’t you? One, that I wasn’t a reader and two, that I wouldn’t be interested in politics. Right?”

  “I wasn’t being serious,” she says crossly. “And I’m not the big baddy. Okay, maybe there was a bit of lazy thinking. Look, I promise not to typecast you, but you have to promise to do the same for me.”

  She’s taken aback by the warmth of his smile. “Deal. Atta girl,” he says, to her disgust.

  “I’m not a horse,” she snaps.

  “But you are spirited.”

  “I should hope so.” She looks at her watch. “Is it that late? It’s time to throw you out.”

  “Tonight was very enjoyable,” he says at the door.

  “Really? Golly gee, thanks,” she says lightly in a mock-American accent.

  “You could do with some bookcases.”

  “Bookcases?”

  “For your books.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve lost the habit of reading. Wish I could get back into it. It’s a great way to pass the time.”

  He leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. The air thins. She pulls away, realizing too late that it’s not a pass, but she’s beyond reciprocating. “How very continental,” she says.

  “It’s a great way of getting to kiss women without giving offense.”

  “Goodnight, Eugene.”

  He grins at her. “I’ll leave you to your hot-water bottle. Don’t forget to take out your false teeth before you go to bed.”

  She makes as if to hit him, and he laughs and dodges her blow. “You’re a bad bastard,” she calls after him, then shuts the door and leans back against it.

  As she washes up, she notices that she’s humming. It could be interesting getting to know Eugene. But, didn’t Matt suggest that he’s involved, or was involved, with a woman? She’s sure he told her Eugene was living with a partner. “‘Partners,’” Matt had said. “It’s a tricky word. They’re all living with partners these days. Time was when a partner was a business associate. Now partner can mean anything. You’re nearly afraid to ask, especially if a fellow’s partner is another fellow!”

  Naturally, Eugene has a woman, and no doubt she’s a fresh young thing. Ellen isn’t susceptible to him. She understands the situation. He was playing her, oiling the exchanges between them, and consolidating her commitment to the kitchen.

  Five

  BEATRICE IS IN THE MIDDLE of chopping vegetables for a stir-fry when Mike Hogan, the stone mason, calls her out from the house to admire his handiwork. She wipes her hands on a dishcloth as she follows him to the side of the house. She has watched him shape the new wall, steps, and raised bed over the last couple of days, but finds that she is unprepared for the finished product. Without telling her, he has created a seat on the lower wall of the raised bed. “Aren’t you the one?” is all she can say as she views it.

  Mike, a hunched, thin, balding man in his mid-fifties, hangs back as though anticipating a reprimand. “Do you like it?” he asks shyly.

  “Like it?” she echoes. “I love it!” Mike has curved the finish on the top of the rear wall and made flat ledges to the sides and front of the new structure. The ledges and steps are made from Liscannor stone, but the supports and walls are built with local sandstone and limestone. “You’re a treasure,” she says and walks up past the new planting bed to the wall that now borders the existing lawn and shrubbery, exactly as she planned and he has executed it.

  “So you’re pleased?” he says quietly.

  “Pleased? I’m delighted and so impressed. You’re one of the wonders of the world, Mike! You must be kept busy these days.”

  “There’s great call for walls and garden features. Over the last few years it’s become a fashion to put a stone façade on entrance porches or a section of a house. Some people face the entire front in stone.”

  “I’ve seen that, although some of it doesn’t look great.”

  “It needs the right stone, local stone, for the best impression.”

  She turns to him. “And you’ve managed to finish in time for dinner. Come in and wash your hands. I’ll call Simon.”

  He protests, but she waves aside his politeness and insists that he join them. She pours three glasses of whiskey and fills a small jug with water. “We’ll celebrate a job well done,” she says with a smile.

  Mike, always retiring, runs his fingers through what remains of his hair and smiles shyly behind thin lips and bad teeth. “I’m glad you’re happy,” he says, nodding. In the old days, he’d have twiddled a flat cap and touched his forelock in deference to her and the powers that be.

  “Go out and admire Mike’s handiwork,” she says to Simon, when he ducks into the kitchen for dinner. This morning she warned him that dinner would be in the middle of the day.

  “That’s great skill,” Simon says on his return. Mike’s bobbing head and frozen smile convey his agonized delight.

  Beatrice knows they had better temper their enthusiasm or Mike will take off, finding the praise too much to bear. “Here’s to a job well done,” she says, diluting the whiskeys according to each man’s taste and filling her own glass to the brim. “Rath Dé ar an obair.”

  “Sit down, Mike,” Simon says. “Beatrice likes you coming to the house because you’re a great grubber.”

  “Waste not, want not,” Mike says, glowing red spots on his cheeks the only indication of his pleasure.

  “Have you met the new arrival in the village?” Simon asks Mike when Beatrice produces upside-down pineapple cake after the main course.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Ah, you must have seen her about, Matt Hughes’s niece,
the one who did up Sarah Hamilton’s old house. She was lucky with the builders. Jerry and the lads went at her house hammer and tongs. They’re great workers.”

  “They musta had five men working on it the first month,” Mike says, his tongue loosened by whiskey, flattery, and conversation.

  Beatrice makes tea. “They started at eight sharp every morning, six days a week. I knew she was about and I called a few times, but she wasn’t to be seen. I was certain I’d run into her, that we’d bump into each other. How is it I never came across her at Mass?”

  “You go Sunday morning. She goes Saturday night,” Simon says.

  “Brendan, her father, was a fine man,” says Beatrice.

  “I was only a young lad when he died, but I can remember my father traveling to the funeral in Dublin,” Mike says, accepting a helping of cake.

  “Glasnevin Cemetery, wasn’t it? He’d be about seventy if he were alive today.”

  “At the time it seemed strange he was buried up there but it makes sense. His wife didn’t want much truck with this place. Ah, it was a shame. Brendan was a character. He had a lot of spunk, much more go in him than Matt.”

  “Yes, very different in personality. Outgoing, and much more ambitious, knew his own mind,” Beatrice says. “They used to say that their mother had a vocation for one of her sons to be a priest, but that the wrong son got the vocation. Mind you, Brendan didn’t last long after his ordination. Lord knows what happened. It all came out at Hanora’s funeral.”

  “It was great gas, Simon,” Mike says. “We were all waiting on Brendan to say the Mass but he had left the priests. Bit of a scandal, you know. Next thing we heard that he was teaching. I think he had trouble finding a permanent position but finally he got a job in a Protestant school. When he eventually turned up, he had a wife and baby in tow. After that he used to come pretty regularly. He’d bring Ellen. They stayed with the Hamiltons because Julia was against having him in the house.”

  “Julia?” Simon asks.

  “There was terrible tension. Julia was very hot on religion. Matt tried to put his foot down but it was a waste of time. She’d have worked against him and spoiled any holiday.”