Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  She misses the certainties and comforts of her former working life — the inevitability of knowing exactly when Maureen will head toward the trees at the edge of the basketball pitch to snatch a furtive smoke, the pleasure of watching immaculately groomed Nesta open an impeccably presented lunch box of homemade brown rolls, healthy salad, screw-top miniature bottle of dressing, and regulation portion of fruit, and her fleeting guilt at her lack of fitness when tracksuit-clad Jane returns from a games or gym session with a class. Even the prospect of an irritating encounter with Lorcan Lynch seems faintly enticing. What she really craves is a greeting or a nod of recognition.

  It’s a weird situation being a new teacher in another school. All her familiar props have vanished. She and the students are strangers to one another. She has no track record or reputation. Without a context, she’s cast adrift.

  It may be that the lead-up to Christmas gifted Ellen with a honeymoon introduction to her students because setbacks arise in the New Year. During the first school week in January only three students in a particular class turn up with the required book. For some moments she looks at them and they watch her. “Why do you think I’m here? How can we do any work when you have no books? This is unacceptable,” she says grimly. Giving them no time to respond, she storms out of the classroom, finds Eddie, drags him back with her, and demands that he impose detention on the lot of them. “They’re wasting my time. I can’t work. I’ve nothing to work with,” she declares, inhabiting the alter ego she constructs when teaching — everything for effect.

  He’s unctuous. “You’re quite right, Ms. Hughes. These students are a disgrace.”

  “I’ve never come across the like of this before,” she claims. “People yap on about teachers not doing their job, but today shows what I have to contend with, Mr. Devine,” she says with a flourish. “Students are here to work, and it’s my business to give them what they’re entitled to. You understand, Mr. Devine?”

  “Absolutely, Ms. Hughes. I’m dreadfully sorry about this, Ms. Hughes. Look, would you consider allowing the class to start over with a clean slate? If anyone shows up without a book tomorrow, it’s automatic detention for the lot of them.”

  She taps her foot impatiently, crosses her arms, and stares at the floor. “I don’t know,” she says and sighs. “I don’t like letting them off.”

  “I can assure you they will have their books tomorrow. Hands up those who left the book at home — there, look Ms. Hughes — that’s the majority. Jenny, where’s your book?”

  “I have to buy it, sir.”

  “Immediately after school today, Jenny. Tim, why haven’t you got a book?”

  “Have to get a copy off my cousin.”

  “You need it for tomorrow’s class. Understand?”

  He smiles at Ellen’s stony expression, as though trying to charm her, and begs her to humor him by giving them a chance. He guarantees that they will all have the book by the following day.

  She agrees. When he leaves, she glowers at them, makes them take out their copybooks, and dictates notes from the missing text, talking at a speed they struggle to keep up with. “Know that for tomorrow,” she says, and flounces out of the classroom.

  At the end of the day she meets Eddie coming out of his office. “Thanks for the help. I had to make a stand with those third years.”

  “I hope you’re not going to be pulling stunts like that every day,” he says coldly.

  She’s taken aback. “Only if I feel I need to,” she snaps.

  “It took up a lot of my time,” he says sulkily.

  Her discomfiture is replaced by a cold rage. A surge of adrenaline engorges her veins. Her pulses thump. When she looks at him, this puny weed of a man, she doesn’t trouble to hide her contempt. Why should she care about him or about his beloved school? “Sorry about wasting your precious time, Eddie,” she snaps. “I didn’t do it for fun. It wasn’t a lark. I didn’t do it to be difficult. It happened only because I want to get on top of things. If you don’t like the way I operate, I can always leave.” That’s what she’ll do, she thinks. Leave. No need to waste more time here. There’s plenty of work in the world.

  Immediately he’s all solicitous concern. “No, no, absolutely no need for that. It’s not something I want every day, being called into a classroom.”

  “If it turns into a regular occurrence then we’re all in trouble and I won’t be hanging around,” she says, and stomps off.

  He comes after her. “Ellen, Ellen,” he cajoles. “No hard feelings, eh?”

  She sighs.

  “We all have our off moments,” he coaxes.

  “All right,” she mutters. She’s still cross with him.

  The following day she calls, “Books out!” as she enters the room. There’s a clatter as the books strike the desks. She does a tour of inspection — “Very good,” she says approvingly. Each student present has a copy — the relief! — either battered or torn or brand new. “Page ten,” she says.

  Eddie accosts her at coffee time. “I had young Tim’s mum in this morning delivering his book to the office and complaining about the cost. She says that there’s precious little money left for school when they’ve paid out for fast food take-outs and hiring in movies.” He shakes his head. “People and their priorities, I never get it.”

  “You’re a tough taskmaster,” he says when they meet at the photocopier one day in the second half of January. “You have them all on the run.”

  “You think I’m being unreasonable?”

  “They’re toeing the line.”

  Ellen presses the staple button on the photocopier. The machine clicks a sound like castanets. “I’ll ease out,” she says, “once I’m sure it’s okay.”

  “It’s okay. I’m telling you it’s okay.”

  “The sixth years are still sullen.”

  “Sixth years are always the biggest problem. It’s partly panic, and they resent losing their teacher before the final exam. They’ll be the most demanding, your toughest proposition.”

  “I’m pulling out all the stops.”

  “It’s not personal. They don’t even see you. They see Moira’s absence.”

  “She’s a bit of a control freak, Eddie, but doing a great job,” a voice from behind them says. “I’ve seen her in action.”

  Ellen recognizes the woman. “I’m Ellen,” she says.

  “I know who you are. I’m sure you introduced us, Eddie, but I’ll introduce myself again. Joyce — Joyce O’Dea is my name,” the woman says. “I saw you deal with Rosie McGann in the corridor the other day. The little madam was petrified. No harm to put manners on her. But you expend an awful lot of energy, Ellen.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Depends. You should watch it. Teaching takes you in, sucks you dry, and spits you out.”

  The bell for the next class goes. “See you,” Joyce says.

  At the end of the day Joyce nods as they pass each other in the corridor. Ellen is relieved. She had almost given up on establishing a bond with a person other than Eddie, and she and her aloneness have been uneasy companions.

  From then on, although they don’t hold conversations, Joyce greets her with a “Good morning,” “Hello,” “Goodbye,” or “See you” whenever they meet. Otherwise, the staff still treat Ellen as an unwanted spare part, a disconnect.

  Sometimes lonely days merge into even lonelier nights. Matt is elusive, and Eugene has landed a job installing kitchens in a cul-de-sac of new-build houses on the outskirts of Killdingle. She seldom sees him. “I thought you didn’t take on those kinds of jobs,” she protests when he tells her.

  “The fellow doing the job originally is out of action. He was in a car accident.”

  “I wish you hadn’t agreed to do it.”

  He sighs. “Maybe I shouldn’t have, but the money’s good, Ellen. I can stick it for a couple of weeks.” But when he calls to see her, he’s tired. He’s a go-to-bed-early Eugene, a one-drink-and-he’s-off Eugene, a falling-asleep-afte
r-a-kiss-or-two man.

  Perhaps the absence of romance is good, she thinks, Eugene’s periods of stress dovetailing neatly into her embattled work situation. It may be that she needs to be thrown back on her own resources. Nevertheless, there are times when she’d like to drive out to his place and stand in his workshop, just to have contact with him.

  The special afternoon that they spent together has taken on a cinematic quality. She can summon up a memory of what happened, but their kisses and exchanges have become unreal.

  By the time Ellen gets around to painting the main conservatory wall, the original outer wall of the house, it’s the last Saturday in January. She has been sparked into action by Eugene commenting that he imagines the plaster has finally dried out, and that she could risk tackling the ceiling and wall surfaces. Progress is slow, but when she eventually paints the final wall under the windows, it will be possible to apply a second coat of emulsion to the main wall.

  Suddenly, from her perch at the top of the ladder, she notices Terry pushing open the side gate and making her way into the garden. It’s a drizzly day but Terry is without hat or coat. Her shoes crunch on the newly laid gravel.

  When the bell rings Ellen has reached terra firma. She grabs a cloth and holds it under the paintbrush. When she opens the door, there’s no one to be seen. She glances down, and Terry is crouched over, head tucked in as she struggles for breath.

  “Are you all right?” asks Ellen.

  “I have a stitch in my side.” Terry straightens up. “Have you heard?” Ellen shakes her head. “Father Mahoney was in for his morning paper when his mobile went off calling him up to your uncle’s. Nan Brogan met Mona’s husband at the post office half an hour ago. He had just been told. Julia’s dead. She died at ten o’clock.”

  “Julia!” Ellen has anticipated this moment for some time, but when she hears the news — and despite her dislike of Julia — she feels a rush of sympathy for the woman, for what she had to endure before her demise. She takes a step back and spills paint on the floor.

  “Tut, tut! Careful. What’s with the brush in your hand?” scolds Terry, extracting a tissue from her sleeve and wiping the paint. She commandeers the brush. “Get newspaper,” she orders.

  Ellen gestures vaguely in the direction of the kitchen table. “There,” she says.

  “Apparently, Julia was due to go back into hospital for a blood transfusion, but she hasn’t been good this last while,” Terry volunteers.

  “Oh, Christ. I have to sit down,” Ellen says, and lands on a chair.

  “Careful. Don’t do yourself damage.” Terry locates a soaking jar, into which she plonks the brush. “What are you painting?” she asks.

  “The conservatory.”

  “Why don’t you hire Jimmy Joe to do that? He’d have the whole house done in a flash. You dribbled paint in the hallway, you know.”

  “Don’t bother about the bloody paint,” Ellen says. “Ten o’clock, was it?”

  Terry nods. “I thought you might know already.”

  “No. It’s been quiet for weeks. I’ve hardly seen Matt. He wasn’t getting out much. I called twice but…”

  “You weren’t wanted.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Beatrice said the same thing. She offered to help, told Matt to lift the phone anytime he needed anything but he never did.”

  “All that was Julia’s doing. She didn’t want people in the house.”

  “She was always a very private sort of person. Do you think they’ll wake her from the house?”

  “I’ve no idea. I wonder Matt didn’t ring.”

  “He’s a man.”

  Ellen stands up. “Sorry, Terry, I’ll have to run you. I’d better head straight up. Thanks for letting me know. And I had almost finished the paintwork.”

  “Go upstairs and get yourself sorted. Show me this paintwork.” Terry makes for the conservatory and Ellen trails her. “Sure, it’s only a matter of an undercoat of emulsion. I’ll finish it,” she says.

  “No, Terry. There’s no need, none in the wide world. It doesn’t matter.”

  “A shame to abandon it when it’s so near to finished. Look, it’s twenty minutes’ work at most. I’m a great one for paintwork, absolutely love it. It’s brilliant therapy. I’ll soak the brushes and close the front door after me. Come on now, I’m very trustworthy.” She steers Ellen toward the stairs. “You get changed. Leave this to me.”

  Matt sits slumped at the kitchen table with a tumbler of whiskey before him, a half-empty bottle beside the glass. He looks up. “So you found your way here,” he says coldly.

  “I came as soon as I heard.”

  “We haven’t seen much of you of late.”

  “That’s not fair, Matt,” Ellen protests. “I called a few times but it was made clear that I wasn’t needed. I felt in the way.”

  “So you would have been. Mona took over strategic command and ran the show. I didn’t get a look in.”

  “Do Colum and Stephen know?”

  “I rang. They pulled Colum out of a meeting, but we haven’t tracked Stephen down yet. He’s not answering his mobile.”

  “Where’s? — Is Julia in the —?”

  “Is her body here, you mean? No. She’s gone to the funeral parlor. She’ll be on view this afternoon. The removal’s tomorrow.”

  “Terry was wondering if it’d be today.”

  “Oh, was she now? Maybe you’d better ring and give her an update.” The edge in his voice cuts her.

  “It was Terry told me that Julia was dead.”

  “Good news travels fast, doesn’t it?”

  “What!”

  “Oh, nothing,” he barks. “Sit down, will you. You make me itchy looking at you hopping from one foot to the other.”

  Slowly she sinks into a chair on the other side of the table. “Take a drink,” he orders. “What’s your poison?”

  “I’ll have a beer.”

  “We’ve no beer. Have a proper drink.”

  Mona comes into the room and stares at Ellen. “Hello,” she says dejectedly. There’s a family resemblance to Julia, but Mona is a more substantial figure. She’s taller, stooped about the shoulders, chubby-cheeked, with multiple chins, and graying light brown hair.

  “Where did you get to?” Matt asks. “This is Ellen, my niece. Ellen, this is Julia’s sister.”

  “I think we’ve met before,” Mona says stiffly.

  “At the door a couple of times. I’m really sorry about Julia, Mona.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, thanks.” Mona’s eyes are fixed on the glass in Matt’s hand. “Matt, you’re not drinking again!” she says in an anguished tone.

  “Have you finished her room?” he snaps.

  Mona faces him, legs slightly apart, her hands crossed in front of her at the wrists, like an army cadet reporting to a superior. “I’ve cleared everything and put on a load in the washing machine.”

  “That’s fine. Take a rest now and go home. I’ll meet up with you later.”

  Mona glowers. “I’m not going anywhere. I want to clear up in case people call.”

  He shrugs. “If they call, they call. They’ll have to take me as they find me.”

  “She should have been waked from the house,” Mona mutters mutinously. “It’s what she would have wanted.”

  “Rubbish, woman. Why do they have funeral parlors, if it isn’t for this?”

  “She loved this house.”

  “Well, she wasn’t all that fond of some of the people in it. It’s only a house, Mona.”

  Ellen shrinks into her seat, eyes on the table. Matt looks as if he could spring into physical action, with God knows what detrimental consequences. Silently, Ellen urges Mona to give way. Then she hears an engine, looks out the window, and sees a car maneuvering to park in the yard in front of the house. “There’s someone outside,” she says, and there’s a sudden restaging of positions by Matt and Mona. He drops his gaze, pushes the glass away from him, and she dabs her eyes with a tissue.


  Seconds later, Beatrice enters, carrying a large cake tin. “I’ve come to pay my respects, Matt. I just heard,” she says. She bends as if going to take his hand but, unexpectedly, he gets to his feet and embraces her. He prolongs the moment, and she has to disentangle herself gently. “I’m really sorry, Matt.” She reaches out a hand, strokes his cheek, and steps back.

  He seems torn. He gazes at her, but then either remembers the others, or is embarrassed by this show of emotion. He sits down again and pushes a glass across the table to her. “Have a drink, Beatrice, the day that’s in it,” he says gruffly.

  “I most certainly will.”

  He pours a good measure.

  “Steady on, Matt. Just a drop.”

  “It’s not much. You can dilute it. It’s soda water or tonic you take, isn’t it?”

  “Either. It’s much of a muchness to me.”

  It’s a small thing really, this revelatory familiarity between them — it’s not just the particularity of the occasion, Ellen thinks — and it confirms for her what she has long suspected, that Beatrice is the woman Matt didn’t marry.

  “He’s being completely unreasonable. He won’t let me do a thing,” complains Mona suddenly. “He’s told me to go home. It’s ridiculous, Beatrice. You can’t shut up the house at a time like this. People will be calling.”

  Ominously, Matt says nothing. It’s as if Mona didn’t speak.

  Beatrice takes a quick look about as if judging the situation. She leans forward and touches Matt’s hand lightly with hers. “Matt, why don’t you and Ellen go down to the drawing room while Mona and I give this place a bit of a going-over?” she suggests. “I know it’s a nuisance, but think of it as a necessary evil.”

  He groans, throws his eyes to heaven, and glances over at Mona. It’s clear that he wants her out of the house. “I’m sick to death of people. I’d like the place to myself.”