• • •
Nan and Brenda are standing by one of the mini-market checkout stalls talking to Terry. Ellen gets the strong impression that she has interrupted a crucial stage in the pooling of tittle-tattle and rumor. “Hi,” she says, and receives muted hellos in return. The trio bestow their full attention on her as she fills her basket. Their compacted physical presence puts her in mind of a judging panel, a cluster of scowling individuals who award marks for suitable and unsuitable purchases. She’s tempted to hold up individual items and call out, “Okay to buy this?” or “Will I lose marks by choosing that?” to see if she can shame them into looking away.
“Everything all right?” she asks. “You’re all very quiet.”
“How’s the job going?” Terry calls out.
Ellen shrugs. “It’s going,” she says. “Where are the baked beans?”
“Top shelf. To the left of the eggs.” The air is rancid with tension, as if they’re in possession of classified information and are toying with her.
“Is this a test?” she asks.
“An inquiry. What’s wrong with a civil inquiry?”
Nan and Brenda are still in a huddle, their Judas eyes scrutinizing her.
“Work is fine,” Ellen says, and intercepts a knowing glance between them. “Don’t let me detain you, ladies,” she says with a beaming smile. “You mustn’t let politeness delay you.” She stares at them until, reluctantly, they move toward the door.
“We’re not in any rush,” Nan says with a begrudging display of false white teeth that struggles to pass itself off as a smile.
“It must be a lot different from Dublin,” Brenda calls over.
“What must?”
“Teaching in the country.”
“Not that much.”
“Sure, teaching in the city’s supposed to be a fright. The students are all out of control,” Nan says.
“To be honest, I don’t find much difference. I’ve heard of people finding country kids quite a handful, depending on the area. Some villages and towns are very rough. The kids I’m teaching in Killdingle are mostly okay but they’re no pushovers. I have to be on my toes with them, same as in Dublin.”
This seems to annoy them. “I wouldn’t dream of bringing up children in the city. Sure, you could never rest easy,” Terry says.
“Terrible environment. You’d never be able to relax. You’d always have to be on the lookout,” Brenda says. They’re sullen almost to the point of hostility. Something has put them out of sorts, but it’s difficult to guess the nature of their gripe. Most likely it arose out of whatever was being discussed before she arrived.
She expects an occasional outburst or rebuff because of a residual local hostility against cities, in particular Dublin, and the people who live in them. She has never quite figured out what motivates such flare-ups, whether it’s jealousy of the perceived better lifestyle in the metropolis, a feeling that small communities are constantly disadvantaged in terms of government funding, that they are consistently looked down on, or if it’s simply an unfocused hostility requiring an outlet. “Did some big story break on the news? Has something happened?” she asks.
“No, nothing,” Nan says. Nothing that they intend to share with her.
Ellen plonks her basket in front of the till, and the two watch as Terry scans and transfers each item to Ellen’s shopping bag. She feels she could demand a performance fee. They’re like dogs watching sheep, and Ellen has the horrible feeling that there’s a mark on her face or her skirt is tucked into her knickers, only they won’t oblige her by telling her.
“That’ll be twenty-three, seventy-one,” Terry says. She can just about bring herself to nod. Her usual persona has been replaced by something altogether more remote and calculating.
Ellen hands over the exact amount. “Well, I’m off. Good day, ladies,” she says breezily.
Of course, she is baffled by the episode. She understands that she hasn’t grasped fully the essentially conservative nature of the people, even if she pays theoretical respect to the differences between them and her. There’s something almost tribal about their anger at times. It’s usually a matter of attitude or emphasis. She tries to bear in mind that what they have experienced in life is radically different from what she has known, so she lets whatever grievance they’re voicing pass without comment. She doesn’t want to be perceived as the know-all city one when she knows so little about them.
She thinks she has the measure of Terry. The woman believes that Dublin is dangerous, promiscuous with criminality and replete with libidinous perverts. She assumes that Ellen is glad to have escaped city life. Terry used to connive with her when they pretended that Ellen knew everybody. Now, probably antagonized by Ellen’s disregard for the role allocated her by Terry’s concept of what constitutes acceptable behavior, Ellen has been reconfigured as a “blow-in,” a permanent outsider tainted by the evil of cosmopolitan influences, somebody who will never slot into village life, despite family connections. Every so often Terry likes to pull rank and to remind her of her status, prefacing remarks with phrases such as “Of course, not being from here, you wouldn’t understand” or “You couldn’t know about that.”
On her way up the street, she passes Father Mahoney, who frowns and ducks his head as he nods. He doesn’t bestow his usual cheery comment. She’s definitely at odds with the world today.
That evening Eugene doesn’t call over, hasn’t left a message, doesn’t ring and, when she tries his landline and mobile, she gets answering machines. It’s so unusual that she wonders if it is a cause for worry. She decides to wait for what the next day will bring, makes an early night of it, and is rewarded by endless dreams of chasing through tortuous tunnels and gloomy corridors.
The following day at work, it’s back to the exclusion zone. Ellen’s verbal sallies are met by blank looks. It’s as though the news of some person’s death is pressing down on everybody. She scours the newspapers for information on a local or global catastrophe but there’s nothing.
“Honestly, I’m at variance with everybody,” she complains to Eugene when he turns up on her doorstep that evening. “Where were you last night? Are you part of this terrible secret?”
He laughs. “I was out with my mother and sister and left the mobile at home. You forgot they were coming, didn’t you? And they’re treating me to dinner tonight. I booked all four of us into Duffy’s Hotel tomorrow for Sunday lunch. They’re mad to meet you.”
Ellen feels the old dipping sensation in her stomach. “It slipped my mind that they were coming. Look, don’t feel you have to include me tomorrow. I don’t need to be there.”
“I want you to meet them.”
She dons a black outfit and jewelry for lunch and feels over-dressed when she sees his mother and sister in trousers, casual shoes and tops. Eugene has told her that his mother is just sixty, but this tall woman with the well-cut blond hair, strong features, and excellent skin could pass for somebody much younger. She has the daunting look of one of those formidably brusque and efficient women who manage dogs and horses, an impression that is immediately dispelled by her smile and handshake. “You must be Ellen,” she says warmly, instantly conveying the impression of being a dependable and good-humored person.
“Ellen, meet my mum and Cora,” Eugene says, his hand pressing up against the small of her back, propelling her toward his mother.
“I’m delighted to be able to put a face to the name at last,” Mrs. O’Brien says. “I knew someone was bleeping his radar.”
Cora grins and says, “Hi.” Even taller than her mother, she is all thinness and angles. She hasn’t yet grown into her looks.
Ellen manages an answering “hi” although, afraid of close scrutiny and an interrogation, she avoids eye contact.
“Sorry we deprived you of Eugene the last two nights,” Eugene’s mum says. “We were supposed to arrive in the afternoon but we were late starting out.” Mercifully, she doesn’t seem interested in vetting Ellen. Sh
e hands her a menu and works to make her relax. She’s all gestures and smiles. They survive the lunch on small talk, surface explorations of each other’s opinions, and family jokes. Despite Cora’s coltishly provocative outbursts, there isn’t a mention of Ellen’s great age.
Eugene speaks rarely during the meal, happy to let his mother make most of the running. Ellen is conscious of him opposite her at the table, his knees pressed up against hers, his hands now and again brushing hers as they pass around condiments, vegetables, and sauces. He eats at a leisurely pace, not especially interested in the food, intent on what’s being said. Every so often he sends her encouraging looks, a conspiratorial wink, or nods of approval when he thinks she has acquitted herself well.
Cora drops a potato on the floor and manages to spill gravy on her napkin. Occasionally her interjections are puzzling when delivered without introduction or context, and punctuated by nervous laughter. Ellen tries to tease out meanings and finds herself on the receiving end of grateful looks from the girl.
“Don’t mind anything Cora says,” Mrs. O’Brien advises after one particularly baffling contribution. “She speaks before she engages her brain.”
“Mum!” screeches an outraged Cora.
“She’s very bright, Ellen, has started first year at Cork University, but she’s nineteen going on fourteen.”
“Mum thinks I’m an emotional retard, liable to embarrass everybody,” Cora says crossly. “Never mind, Ellen, I like you, even if I am in danger of causing an international diplomatic incident.”
In the following days Ellen is very glad to have them about. They provide a welcome distraction from the tedium of work where, even though Ellen isn’t being cold-shouldered as such, there is a noticeable reduction in conversational engagement.
“I expect everyone’s worn out because Easter is so late. Easter Sunday falls on the twentieth of April this year,” she complains to Eugene’s mum. “People are too tired to talk.”
“It’s spring. The change in the weather affects people’s moods,” Mrs. O’Brien says. “By the way, call me Mel. This ‘Mrs. O’Brien’ is very formal.”
“Fancy a trip to Cork tomorrow morning?” Cora asks. “I can show you about, and you can treat me to lunch at one of those posh restaurants poor students can’t afford.”
The following day they come across Terry in one of the little alleys off Patrick Street, and she barely manages to rise to a “pleased to meet you” when the introductions are made. Ellen is surprised by how effectively Terry has become another person. She has lost her ability to engage with people in a natural way.
“Is she the one who runs that mini-supermarket in the village?” Mel asks.
Ellen nods.
“Well, she has neither the personality nor the manner for it.”
“Normally she’s okay.”
“She could do better. A lot better. You can be certain I won’t be spending any of my money in her shop.”
• • •
Eddie closes the door of his office and turns to face Ellen. He acts as if he expects secret state police to burst in and drag him off. “You know I’m a teacher representative on the board of management? Your name got a mention at last night’s meeting,” he says harshly. “One of the parents brought it up.”
“Brought what up, Eddie?”
His eyes are evasive. “Your situation,” he mutters.
“My situation?”
“You know well what I mean,” he says irritably.
“You’re not making any sense, Eddie.”
“Mrs. Hussey — a dreadful woman —”
“In plain English, please.”
“The irregularity of your lifestyle. That bloody woman tried to talk about it — made an attempt to bring it up under any other business — but she was shut up.”
“What’s all this about, Eddie? You’ll have to explain.”
“Bloody ridiculous, it is. You’re living in fairyland, Ellen. How is it I didn’t know about this? I had to find out from the other staff rep.”
“What did you hear?”
“Not a bother on you,” he complains. “Carrying on as if you’re still in the city. Well, it won’t wash down here. You’ve no idea who’s connected to whom. Let me fill you in on some local color. There are wheels within wheels. Brenda Finnegan is great friends with the arch bitch, Hussey, mother of your favorite student, Isabel Hussey. They went to school together. They’re in the same branch of the ICA, and they’ve been keeping an eye on you, monitoring your behavior,” he says crossly. “Separated, heading for divorce, and now having a… well, carrying on an open relationship.”
“Somebody’s interested in my personal life. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yer woman, Hussey, was up to the office first thing this morning but, luckily, Nora was away at a principals’ meeting, so she had me to deal with. You’re an eejit to be giving her ammunition.”
The warning bell for first class goes. “That woman has you in her sights because of those battles you’ve been having with Isabel,” he continues. “I know her type. She bears grudges on behalf of her daughter. Anyway, watch it. She’s out to do you harm, although there’s no mechanism through the board of management.”
“It doesn’t matter, Eddie. Let her do what she likes. I don’t care.”
“And you’re good at your job, that’s the pity of it,” he mutters. “I get someone who can teach, and then this. Couldn’t you pull back, lay low till we know if Moira is going to resign? Be discreet. It is a Catholic school after all, and the trustees like surface piety.”
She’s surprised that he’s taking it so personally and lays a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry about it, Eddie. I’ll get back to you.”
He opens the door and she brushes past him into the corridor. “I’ll see you at break time,” he calls.
The first group she meets with are sixth years, and Isabel Hussey’s is the first face she sees. The girl is sprawled across the desk in front of the teacher’s table. Ellen looks at her, and the girl returns the look scornfully. A seething viper’s den concealed in pretty enough packaging, Ellen thinks.
She fills in the attendance sheet and hands back corrected exercises. There’s a gasp at the back of the classroom. “I got an A!” a pleased Rachel Gorman exclaims. “My first.”
“You deserved it,” Ellen says. “Great work. Replicate that standard in all your answers and you’ll fly the exam.”
Ellen is aware that Isabel Hussey is scanning the red pen comments on her work. The girl rarely achieves more than a top C grade. Isabel’s hectic social schedule leaves little time for concentrating on schoolwork. Her infamously awful mother blames teachers for her daughter’s results. She makes appointments to meet most of them and tries to bully them into giving her daughter better grades. Mrs. Hussey has been in twice to see Ellen — unannounced the first time and offended that Ellen couldn’t meet her — and then for an arranged meeting.
Ellen remembers a slim, dark-haired woman, mid to late forties, whose good looks have held up well, but whose expression of inordinate and permanent dissatisfaction is deeply unattractive. It’s rumored that though she and her husband live together, relations between them are anything but cordial. “I’m on the board of management,” she began, sidelining introductions, courtesies, and small talk, and launched into a tirade of complaints against Ellen. When she drew breath she looked as if she’d like to start again.
“This is so rude. We haven’t been introduced,” Ellen said. The woman declined to shake her outstretched hand and, even though Ellen gave her a chance to rethink her aggression, refused to meet Ellen’s eyes, crossed her legs — the top one twitched with agitation — and stared out the window.
Ellen took each complaint in order and rebutted every one, but it was clear the woman wasn’t listening. She ranted some more and repeated herself endlessly. In a heart-sinking moment, Ellen realized that she was up against an irrational force, that nothing she could say would penetrate this woman’s
hostility. It was obvious that Mrs. Hussey saw the world through her daughter’s eyes. If Isabel claimed she was working for her exam, then that was the case. Her daughter’s friends were her mother’s friends. Her daughter’s enemies were her enemies. If Isabel thought her teacher had taken a dislike to her, this was indubitably true. “I don’t have favorites,” Ellen said, but Mrs. Hussey threw her eyes heavenward. “If Isabel were to start working, she’d do very well. She’s winging it so far but still managing to get C’s.”
“She studies very hard,” Mrs. Hussey declared, “but she’s up against it with the teachers in this school. You seem to have a grudge against her.”
“I’ve never borne a grudge against a student or acted out of malice. You’ll just have to take my word for it and respect that,” Ellen said finally, bringing the interview to an end.
“You never gave her a B, even once,” Mrs. Hussey hissed on her way out.
“Be assured that when Isabel’s work is B standard, I will be delighted to award her a B grade.”
“Useless talking to you,” Mrs. Hussey said bitterly. “You don’t have my child’s best interests at heart.”
“That’s quite a serious charge, Mrs. Hussey, and it’s not true. I have every student’s interests at heart. I won’t, however, top up marks. You’d be the very first to complain if I awarded her high grades and she only scraped through on the exam.”
“God knows, I can’t stand her daughter but it makes no difference to the marks I give. She won’t achieve high grades if the information isn’t there, or if the answers are too short,” Ellen said to Eddie afterward.
“Often when you meet the parents, you understand the children,” Eddie said.
“If she comes in again, I want someone to sit in on the meeting.”
This morning Isabel has a smile on her face. She watches Ellen when normally she stares down at her hands. She looks radiant. She looks triumphant. Got you, the look says. Something tells Ellen that the little sweetheart has been working on her case ever since the encounter in the mountain pub.
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