Civil & Strange

by Clair Ni Aonghusa

  Beatrice tries to let the rumors and stories she hears pass her by. She lets out an occasional “I see” or “Really?” or “Aha” as she looks out the window. The day’s light has a strange quality. Thick clouds line the pale gray sky, which shimmers with a yellow luminosity.

  “It looks as if the weather’s going to give us a blast,” Nan says. Beatrice nods.

  The bus lets them off at the creamery. It’s half past five and the light is beginning to fade. She spots Simon standing by his car at the edge of the square.

  “You didn’t come down specially to collect me, did you?” she asks.

  He grins. “That wind would skin you, it’s so cold.” He nods over at Hegarty’s. “I got a bit sidetracked, but I’ll run you home.”

  “Not at all. Stay put, Simon. You take very little time away from the job.”

  He reaches down for her shopping bags “Have you forgotten? The cows need to be milked.” He deposits the bags in the boot of his car and opens the passenger door for her.

  “The milking is an awful bind,” she comments as they set off.

  “It’s the nature of the beast, never bothers me. I was in O’Hara’s earlier buying tools and wiring when I got waylaid by an old pal. You know how one drink turns into two?” he says with a grin.

  She laughs. “With some people it can turn into four or five.”

  “That’s the beauty of your farm being the closest to the village. If I’m the worse for wear, I can always walk home. See, here in record time,” he says as he parks the car to the side of the house.

  She follows him through the back porch into the kitchen. “It has that advantage. Thanks,” she says when he drops her bags on the kitchen table.

  “Don’t cook any grub for me,” he says. “I’ll go straight from the milking and grab soup and a sandwich in the pub. My pal’s on his way back to Leeds first thing tomorrow morning and I don’t want to miss him while he’s about. I could be very late tonight. Oh, the forecast is for the wind to drop in the early hours of the morning. We’re in for a cold spell. They’re expecting snow tomorrow.” There’s a sudden breeze as the back door slams after him.

  She sees the message light flashing as she passes the phone, presses the play button, and hears, “Mam, it’s Paula. Ring me on my mobile the minute you get in.”

  “Great! You got my message,” Paula says. “I’ve news for you!” Her words are rushed. She sounds either drunk or excited.

  “Is everything okay? Are the kids all right?” Beatrice asks.

  “Mam, I saw him!”

  Instantly she guesses what her daughter is going to say, but she asks, “Who?”

  “Andy, I saw Andy! I met him on the underground today.”

  “My God!” The temperature in the room dips. She feels her shoulders shaking. Everything has gone out of focus. She can hardly wait to hear what Paula will say next. “Were you talking to him?” she asks. She’s finding it hard to breathe.

  “I held back. I was afraid he’d run off if I spoke, so I waited until we were in the carriage. When he saw me, he recognized me before I opened my mouth. He remembers me as plump, the way I used to be before I slimmed down.”

  “What was he like?” She has to speak briefly or her voice will break.

  “He was asking after everyone. He knew Dad has passed on but John’s death was a bit of a shock.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Well, I got off at his stop, even though I was dead late for a meeting. So we went for a drink.”

  “I see.”

  “You sound peculiar, Mam.”

  “I just can’t imagine it.”

  “I can’t believe it happened. He’s over in London for a conference. He’s married to a Yank and living in New York. They have a child. We exchanged addresses.”

  “Was he friendly?”

  “He was just lovely.”

  “And how did it end?”

  “He had to go. We exchanged phone numbers too. Then I had to ring my boss and explain why I was so late.”

  Beatrice checks the room around her. The ceiling, walls, and floor have settled down again.

  “Will I give you the number?” Paula asks.

  “I’ll get it off you again.”

  “Aren’t you pleased? I thought you’d be pleased. You sound disappointed.”

  “I don’t know what I am. It’s hard to take it all in.”

  “He may be in touch, Mam. He might even come on a visit.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Don’t be skeptical. He could surprise us. Look, got to go. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

  “Bye, love.”

  She stands at the kitchen window. It’s almost dark outside. The wind whistles round the gable end of the house. The bushes in her garden shake. She shivers. She hears the click of a switch as the central heating boiler turns itself on.

  Simon has set a place for her at the table. She picks up the dinner she left out that morning and places it in the microwave, fills the kettle with water. The air in the room feels heavy and inert. It’s as if the kitchen is smothering her.

  The microwave signals the end of cooking time with a ping. She doesn’t touch the food. She has forgotten it. She longs to tell somebody her news.

  Eleven

  OUT OF THE BLUE, Stephen starts to come down for weekends, and Matt resents the intrusion. He takes exception to feeling obliged to invent a routine whenever Stephen is about, and dislikes the shopping, cleaning, and cooking that having a guest entails.

  After three such visits, Matt realizes that this might be setting a pattern. “Don’t feel you have to keep me company. I manage perfectly well on my own,” he says, but Stephen pays no heed. His cheery determination to create a pleasant atmosphere wins through, shaming Matt into a semblance of normal behavior. He scrubs up and makes an effort. On Friday nights in the pub he confines his intake to two pints and insists that Stephen meet up with friends on Saturday nights.

  Stephen voices disappointment on finding Matt retired to bed on an early return from the pub, so Matt begins to wait up, watching the flickering screen of the box or scrutinizing a newspaper. This is more show than anything else. Most of the time, his mind is a vast panoramic vacancy.

  They go through the hoops of attending Mass on Sunday morning, and Stephen rewards him with a roast for lunch — chicken, beef, lamb, or pork — initiating Matt into the mysteries of cooking roast spuds or making Yorkshire pudding, reminding him of the minor triumphs and pleasures of life.

  Matt knows full well what his son is up to — he won’t have anything put over on him — but he can’t pretend that it’s easy. Stephen is so unrelentingly upbeat that he’s irritating. That tedious cheeriness grinds you down. Anyway, he’s skeptical about his own adaptability. Old dog, new tricks? He may not have the resources for a start-up, never mind a follow-through.

  Stephen’s always telling him he has choices, is forever saying that life’s not over. It’s all very well for him. He’s young. It’s all ahead of him. He has energy, courage, and reserves.

  Matt could continue to wallow in bitterness, bemoaning his bad luck and drowning in self-pity. He could backtrack, let things slide, ease up on the maintenance of the farm, forego the little jobs, retreat from all his responsibilities, and run everything down. It’s tempting. However, farming is all he has ever known and all that he’s likely to know.

  He’s sixty-four years old. “That’s no age nowadays,” Stephen says. “You have to be well into your eighties before we allow any concessions.” What can he look forward to? Peace of mind would go a long way. At some stage in the future his strength will ebb. But not yet, not yet. No sense in giving in for the moment. He’s seen people wait around, sometimes for decades, for death to claim them. Living death. No, he has to keep going and maintain a routine, if only from inverted cowardice.

  When Stephen’s around he’s always rattling on about how the farm needs modernization to cut down on physical labor. It amuses Matt to see his son sizing thin
gs up and seeing them properly for the first time. Stephen investigates machinery and equipment, examines outbuildings, walks fields, scrutinizes cows and calves — actually helps out with milking the cows and feeding the calves, seeks out other farmers and chats to them about recent developments, intent on easing Matt’s workload. Stephen’s no slouch when it comes to research, reading The Farmers’ Journal and ringing up farm organizations for information. It almost puts Matt to shame. He jeers his son, terming him a “gentleman farmer” or a “part-time farmer” and cautions him that he’ll develop muscles if he’s not careful. Stephen takes it all in good part, and Matt enjoys a rekindled interest in the business the times his son is about.

  As he eats toast and swallows tea one morning, he realizes that he has felt less like a delicate fossil of late. There are moments when he lifts his head, enjoys the warmth of the sun on his back or savors the tranquillity of the day. There’s an intermittent sense of purpose as he goes about his work.

  Last weekend, they moved the bookcase from the study to the living room. It was Stephen’s idea. They sorted and arranged books on the shelves. Matt has gone as far as to single out a volume, extract it from its position, and open it. Reclaimed books lie about the house. It gives a great but thoroughly misleading impression. His concentration isn’t what it once was, and he needs a new pair of reading glasses. He knows that he only has to say the word and Stephen will ring up the optician and make an appointment, but he hangs back.

  “You’ll enjoy this,” Eugene says. “We were lucky to get a seat.” He balances two drinks as he wedges himself in beside Ellen on the bench. The barman tops up the musicians’ drinks when they take a break to go outdoors to stretch their legs.

  Ellen can’t take in enough of the pub. “It’s tiny,” she marvels. The room is about three times the size of an average living room and crammed with people. She’s enthralled by the rough plaster on the walls, the traditional dresser in a corner, old signs and sayings on the walls, the knickknacks on the deep windowsills. From outside, the car park looks like an old-style picture-postcard yard enclosed on three sides by a thatched cottage and outbuildings. She would have driven past without a second glance, and was amazed when Eugene turned in.

  “They come from miles around on a Saturday night. It’s a great session.”

  “This is a real education. It’s like time travel, going back forty or fifty years. It’s brilliant. The bar could have stood there for centuries. No mock anything. I can’t get over it.”

  “You didn’t know about this place?” She shakes her head. He catches her hand. “It’s up to me to reveal these hidden treasures.”

  The musicians return and start the second part of the session. They launch into a few reels, and then one of the men sings a Bob Dylan song, accompanying himself on an acoustic guitar.

  “This can go on till two or three in the morning,” Eugene says. “It’s a great mix of Irish traditional music, American folk, and the occasional rock tune. I’ve even heard a jazz version of a traditional tune. Only once, mind you, when there were visiting musicians.”

  “I feel sorry for car drivers, having to sip soft drinks most of the night.”

  “There’s no problem with having a few drinks. They lay on a taxi service.”

  A young man with a strong true voice belts out a Neil Young song, followed by a woman singing an unaccompanied ballad. The predominant instrument is the guitar, followed by tin whistle, bodhrán, and ukulele. One man plays a flute.

  “Have you any song?” a woman asks Ellen.

  She shakes her head.

  “Go on. You can sing,” Eugene urges.

  “If you have a voice, there’s no point in shouting down a well,” the woman says.

  “I don’t sing in public,” Ellen hisses, but she’s spared when attention moves away to a girl who agrees to play the tin whistle. After each performance — and most are good — there’s roaring applause.

  “Don’t deprive us of your voice,” Eugene whispers, but she quells him with a severe look.

  “Shut up,” she says emphatically.

  Inadvertently overhearing her rendering of “Carrickfergus” in the fledgling days of their relationship, an impressed Eugene had asked, “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  “Concerts and listening in on traditional music sessions. I did music at school,” she answered. Ellen sings when she’s happy or sings along to music, and now she sings for Eugene, but she has never had the confidence to sing in front of a crowd.

  Now, she slips away from him. “Back soon,” she promises. In the queue for the outside toilets, she hears a voice say, “That’s Hughes, isn’t it?” She has no idea who’s speaking but she doesn’t turn to look. It’s clear that some student has seen her.

  Another voice answers, “You’re right. She’s nice, isn’t she?”

  “I don’t know about her being so fucking nice. The bitch got me into trouble,” the owner of the first voice says. Ellen gazes at the floor to avoid eye contact with anyone. She’s wondering if she should just make for the bar, grab Eugene, and beg him to take her home. No, she can’t. She needs to go to the toilet. The trouble with avoidance is that they can see her, but she doesn’t know them. She’ll have to hope that whoever it is isn’t intent on causing trouble.

  She’s jumpy when she rejoins Eugene. She knows the dangers of this situation. Provocation followed by confrontation, if they have the nerve. One of the girls was okay, the other hostile. But first she has to know who they are. Eugene catches her scanning the crowd. “What’s up?” he asks.

  “I think that some of my students are here.” She looks again. “Christ! At least three of the sixth years.”

  He puts an arm about her shoulder and she throws it off. “What’re you doing?”

  He gestures angrily. “Back to that, are we?” he asks. “How can it matter? You’re off duty.”

  “Humor me. I’m not happy about them being here.”

  “They’ve seen you. So what? It’s not such a big deal. You’re just the bitch who stands in front of them every so often.”

  “Thank God you didn’t kiss me.”

  “You know you’re neurotic about this? You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Even if there’s no threat, it’s not good from a discipline point of view. I can’t afford to give them any ammunition. I earn every cent of my money trying to sweeten those bloody sixth years, the troublesome ones.”

  Her eyes rake the room again, and she breathes a sigh of relief when she fails to locate them. Perhaps they’ve gone? Not their scene really, this place. Boy bands are what they’re after. Eugene places a discreet arm about her waist. She directs a warning look at him. He grins and, with his free hand, raises her fingers to his lips. “Don’t!” she says sharply, pulling away, and he laughs.

  In the early hours of the morning, as Eugene and Ellen push through the crowd on their way to the exit, Ellen notices a slight, dark-haired girl talking to a sixth-year boy. It’s Isabel Hussey, Ellen’s harshest critic. The girl’s mother is known as a professional complainer. Isabel throws a venomous look Ellen’s way.

  After a quick final visit to the ladies, Ellen finds the doorway blocked by the little madam. “Hi,” Isabel says.

  Ellen swivels her neck to look and spots two of Isabel’s retainers in the shadows to the side of the toilets. Away from Isabel’s influence, the girls are nondescript, polite and well behaved. When Isabel pulls their strings, they mutate into sullen, gum-chewing thugs.

  “Hello.”

  “Enjoying the music, Miss?”

  “Sure,” she says, and dodges past Isabel.

  “Nice boyfriend. Good-looking. You like ’em young,” Isabel calls after her.

  Ellen laughs dismissively. She longs to say “You bitch” to the sour-faced cunt but contents herself with “Goodnight.” The girl’s two companions are mute. Conscious of being under scrutiny, Ellen forces herself not to make a run for Eugene’s jeep.

  Isabel says someth
ing under her breath to her friends and they snigger. Ellen won’t allow herself to look back.

  Eugene starts up the jeep, revs the engine, and turns on the headlights. The yard floods with light. She levers herself up quickly and he drives away immediately. “Were they annoying you?” he asks. “I was going to come over.”

  “Small stuff. Snide remarks. I could handle it.”

  “You shouldn’t let them spoil the night.”

  “I didn’t. What’s the name of this place?”

  “Kill.”

  “What’s that? ‘Cill’? Church?”

  “Yes. It’s about ten miles from Ballindoon.”

  And ten miles farther on is Killdingle. Twenty miles doesn’t put sufficient distance between her and Isabel Hussey. Young people have money and cars now. They can turn up anywhere.

  Suddenly she’s exhausted from the effort of the draining self-control she had to show tonight. The Isabels of this world shouldn’t have a walk-on part in her private time. She huddles close to Eugene. “I’m tired,” she says.

  Briefly, his cheek rests against her head. The impenetrable darkness across the sharply undulating terrain makes driving hazardous. He takes it slow, and she’s glad he’s at the wheel. The narrow road across the bog is like a thin strip of ribbon fluttering against unruly, coarse hair. It would be remarkably easy to career off and into a ditch on any of the sharper bends.

  • • •

  Some weeks after her phone call to him, Ellen spots Stephen on the main street in Killdingle. She registers his height, his loping stride, his trademark calf-length coat, and the shoulder-length hair that Matt is so strangely dubious about. Instinctively, she ducks her head as if she hasn’t seen him, but he steps out to block her. “Ignoring me?” he asks.

  “I thought you mightn’t want to meet me.”

  “Life’s too short for that sort of messing about,” he says in a dismissive fashion. He catches her arm and leads her down an alleyway into a coffee shop by the river. “It’s hard to believe this place used to be so run down,” he says. “You’d wonder where all the old warehouses, garages, and workshops went.”