The Year of the Lucy

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Now, listen to me, Robert Marion,’ she said quietly, ‘habits in child-raising have changed since Mother Martin’s day but she brought your father up to be a fine man. It’s the end result that matters, pal. So you just close your big ears and your big mouth.’

  ‘Aw, Mom, as if I’d go blabbing . . .’

  ‘Especially not to Nick.’

  Roman started to shake the popcorn pan furiously.

  Mirelle tested the roast and decided that dinner was going to be a good hour and a half late. She fixed the salad quickly and got the dressing out to chambré. She turned on the small broiler for heating the canapés. Just on the dot of seven, she heard the doorbell.

  ‘I’ll get it! I’ll get it!’ roared Nick, charging up from the gameroom, scrambling to get to the door first. ‘Who’re you?’ he demanded in surprise.

  ‘Nick!’ Steve gave him a shocked reprimand. ‘Ann, Red, good evening. This young gangster is Nicolas. Nick, do you think you could prove to Mr. and Mrs. Blackburn that you have some manners?’

  ‘Sure,’ Nick replied, unabashed. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Blackburn. Let me have your coat. I’ll take yours, too, sir. Isn’t it a lovely evening?’

  ‘That’s better.’

  ‘Shoulda tol’ me who was coming. I thought it was Aunt Sylvia,’ said Nick, charging upstairs with hats and coats.

  Mirelle saw the back of him as she came into the hall to be presented to Steve’s boss and his wife.

  Red Blackburn was a tall, heavy-set man in his mid forties, with red, attractively greying hair. His wife, Ann, was a very handsome woman with frosted blonde hair, nearly as tall as her husband, and dressed simply but with great style. They greeted Mirelle with conventional warmth and guarded appraisal.

  Mirelle knew then that she was on review and wished she’d realised this possibility before she had invited them to what was surely going to be a trying evening.

  No sooner had the Blackburns been introduced to the senior Martins than Sylvia and G.F. arrived. G.F. did his usual courtly bow over Marian Martin’s hand and lingered a noticeable pause longer over Ann Blackburn’s. Roman arrived with the first of the hot canapés and passed them deftly around.

  ‘The next time I need a butler, are you for hire?’ Ann asked, smiling up at Roman.

  ‘My rates are low and I guarantee satisfaction,’ Roman replied in the accent affected by well-trained English butlers.

  ‘Well,’ Ann exclaimed, delighted, ‘here’s a live one!’

  ‘Robert, don’t be saucy,’ Mother Martin admonished.

  ‘He’s not the least bit saucy, Mrs. Martin, he’s charming,’ Ann said. ‘I only wish my teenager could make an original statement to an adult without stuttering and blushing.’

  Roman flushed and barely saved himself from stumbling over his feet as he presented the tray to Sylvia.

  ‘Why don’t you ever flirt with me?’ she asked in a loud stage whisper.

  ‘Roman!’ Steve’s quiet word held a warning.

  ‘That’s an interesting nickname,’ Ann said.

  ‘He was christened Robert Marion,’ Steve explained, handing Ann her drink. ‘But he couldn’t say it and it came out “Roman” which Mirelle preferred to the usual Bob or Rob.’

  ‘What’s Mirelle short for?’ asked Ann.

  ‘Mary Ellen but my . . .’ Mirelle hesitated because she caught Mother Martin’s disapproving glance. The woman disliked any mention of Mirelle’s past and particularly her European childhood. ‘. . . My tongue tripped, too, and it was contracted into Mirelle,’ and she damned herself for a coward, allowing Marian Martin’s petty grievance to inhibit the truth.

  ‘I always thought that it was your French nursemaid who gave you that nickname,’ Steve said, and all Mirelle could do was smile.

  ‘Oh, were you raised abroad, too?’ Ann asked with real interest.

  Mirelle saw Sylvia’s raised eyebrows. ‘You were?’

  ‘My father was in the diplomatic corps. As a child, I went all around the world.’

  ‘Ann’s even been in prison,’ her husband added with a sly grin.

  Mirelle saw Ann flush and was quick to note that, although Red might make a joke of it now, it had been no joke to Ann, then or now.

  ‘Yes,’ she explained swiftly in a bright voice, ‘in China during the Japanese war in the late thirties. But we weren’t held as long as some of our friends.’

  ‘Was your father ever posted in Vienna?’ G.F. asked, into the brief silence.

  ‘In a Japanese prison camp?’ Mother Martin asked, startled into overriding G.F.’s tactful change of subject.

  ‘Yes,’ Ann replied in a flat voice that would have told anyone in the least perceptive that she didn’t wish to continue talking about the experience.

  ‘You’re Viennese, aren’t you, G.F., and your family often entertained the diplomatic corps,’ Mirelle said brightly.

  ‘But you must have been just a child,’ Marian Martin persisted.

  Ann smiled with thin courtesy. ‘I was.’

  ‘It’s such a mercy how easily children forget their unpleasant experiences and remember only the nice ones,’ Mother Martin said fatuously.

  Mirelle saw the tightening of Ann’s mouth and knew that she hadn’t forgotten any of her unpleasant experiences.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Esterhazy, my father was posted to Vienna,’ she said, determinedly looking beyond Mother Martin. ‘As a matter of fact, we were there when Hitler marched in. I remember that Mother was particularly furious because we had barely had time to get settled in the schloss before we had to leave,’ Ann’s face darkened, ‘for the second time in rather a rush, leaving everything behind us.’

  ‘So many experiences are just wasted in children,’ Mother Martin went on, ‘when all you can remember about Vienna is being angry at leaving it. Now, Steve was there during and after the war and he’s told us so much about Vienna. Of course, he was a grown man then and could appreciate the finer things.’

  G.F. turned to Steve. ‘You served in Austria?’

  ‘Yes, with the occupation. I really love that city, even though the Viennese I met kept telling me that this wasn’t the real Vienna, that the real Vienna would take years to bloom again. Then, just when I didn’t want to be, I was transferred home in ’46. My points made me eligible for discharge.’

  ‘Steve had a brilliant war career,’ Mother Martin said, still fatuous. ‘Both my sons did and I’m sure Ralph would have been decorated, too, if he hadn’t been wounded so terribly.’

  Mirelle looked sideways at Steve and saw the telltale jerk of his mouth at the mention of Ralph’s wound. Something had happened then that Steve knew and his parents did not, something that still rankled deeply. In their early courtship days, Steve had drunk his army experiences out of his mind and his dreams. When they had first married, she’d often had to wake him out of ‘killing nightmares’ but, with time, the deep scars had healed.

  ‘Steve was awarded the Bronze Star,’ his mother rambled on, directing her remarks to Red. ‘But he never would say why.’

  Red made a suitable rejoinder and then looked inquiringly at Steve who shrugged diffidently.

  ‘Steve always says that they were handing them out with the C-rations that morning,’ Mirelle remarked when Steve remained silent.

  ‘Mary Ellen, you shouldn’t be so flippant about Steve’s heroism.’

  ‘Steve is.’

  ‘You were infantry, Steve?’ Red asked.

  ‘Yes,’ and then he asked Red if he could freshen his drink.

  ‘I’ve eaten all the cheese canapés,’ Sylvia announced, rising with the tray in her hand. ‘Mirelle, are there any more left in the kitchen? I’ll buttle now.’

  ‘There are more because I have to warn everyone that dinner will be later than planned. My automatic oven failed me,’ Mirelle said with a light laugh.

  ‘Mine does that, too,’ Ann said, chuckling, ‘but only when I am absolutely relying on it.’

  ‘Now, Mary Ellen, you mustn’t
tell a lie,’ Mother Martin put in. ‘The truth is that she was so busy with her church Bazaar that she didn’t get home in time to turn the oven on.’

  ‘All in a good cause,’ G.F. said, sliding neatly into the gaffe.

  Mirelle, too, managed a tolerant chuckle as she and Sylvia made for the kitchen.

  ‘Good God,’ Sylvia said sotto voce as they got out of earshot, ‘can’t she say anything that isn’t two-edged? At least my mother gives me a fair break at rebuttal.’

  ‘I’d give anything to know who fiddled with the setting,’ Mirelle replied through gritted teeth.

  ‘Why does she hate your guts?’ Sylvia asked.

  Mirelle sighed. ‘I appreciate your unbiased opinion. It’s trite to say that she resents me marrying her precious son but that was the start of it. She also likes to dominate. That’s her talent.’

  ‘She can have it. Your father-in-law seems nice. Also quiet.’

  ‘Sylvia, can you get the conversation around to Florida, please?’

  ‘Sure, sure, Mirelle.’

  Roman came in for more ice.

  ‘Grandmother unset the oven herself,’ he whispered to his mother. ‘I saw her.’

  ‘That’s what I suspected,’ Mirelle said. ‘But why? I warned everyone that I’d preset it.’

  ‘Grandfather wanted some broiled bacon.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Leave it at that.’

  ‘But it isn’t fair to you, Mother,’ Roman said in protest.

  Mirelle kissed his cheek quickly to take the sting out of his resentment for her sake. ‘I’ll live.’

  ‘Say, Mirelle,’ Sylvia said when Roman had left, ‘what’s this with Ann Blackburn?’

  ‘I just met her.’

  ‘Your precious mother-in-law’s all wrong if she thinks that gal forgot any of her “unpleasant childhood experiences”.’

  ‘I know. I saw it too.’

  ‘Well, here goes Sylvia into the fray,’ and, hoisting the tray over her shoulder theatrically, Sylvia went out.

  When Mirelle got back to the living-room, conversation was well launched on the subject of Florida.

  ‘My parents live in Kissimmee,’ Ann was saying.

  ‘Miss me?’ Mother Martin stumbled over the name.

  ‘No, Kis-sim-mee,’ Ann repeated. ‘It’s an Indian name. Father bought out on Lake Bryant, three hundred feet on the lake front, and the house has everything every one of our previous posts lacked.’

  ‘Three hundred lake-front feet?’ Dad Martin perked up with real interest.

  ‘Dad Mergenthau is a great one for buying innocently just the right thing,’ Red said with a laugh. ‘We’ve spent a lot of our vacations there with the kids, camping by the lake. Are you interested in fishing, Mr. Martin?’

  ‘Never had the time.’

  ‘You should try it. Go over Daytona way and do some night fishing on the Banana River,’ Red went on, leaning towards Arthur Martin to emphasise his recommendation.

  ‘I could never fish,’ Marian Martin said with a shudder.

  ‘Just what my mother said,’ Red replied with a chuckle. ‘My folks visited the Mergenthaus for the first time about four years ago and hell, if Mother didn’t become so devoted a fisher by the end of the first summer that she made Dad promise to retire there. They bought a place outside Daytona but they only use it during the worst part of the winter. Dad is still quite active in business.’

  ‘I don’t think I could ever fish,’ Marian Martin repeated.

  ‘It’s contagious,’ Ann said, ‘or do I mean infectious?’

  ‘Your parents like it out at Lake Bryant?’ Dad Martin asked, bringing the subject back to relevant matters.

  Fortunately both Ann and Red had considerable knowledge about the area around Orlando and it was time for dinner to be served before the subject was exhausted. Dad Martin had taken notes, including the addresses of both sets of parents.

  Mirelle hastily carved some lamb for the children, horrified that it was nearly nine o’clock and they were still dinnerless. Roman brought the plates down to the gameroom, coming back for milk and to inform his mother that Tonia had fallen asleep in a puddle of Crispy Critters.

  ‘The poor dear. Well, cover her up and for Pete’s sake, sweep up the cereal.’

  Sylvia invaded the kitchen while Mirelle was serving up the vegetables and efficiently aided in carrying the dishes to the table. Mirelle called Steve in to carve.

  ‘Thanks, Mother, just the same but you’re guest of honor,’ Steve was saying over his shoulder as he came into the kitchen. Then he started to curse under his breath.

  Sylvia looked at Mirelle as if to say “she’s riding him hard” and Mirelle shook her head imperceptibly. Sylvia shrugged and carried in the broccoli.

  ‘Dinner’s served at long last,’ Mirelle called out cheerfully. ‘Mother Martin, you’re here at the head of the table. The rest of you space yourselves, only no husband can sit next to his wife.’

  Mother Martin then noticed that the serving spoons had been removed from her place but before she could comment on that, Steve came in with the roast. No sooner had her plate been passed than she found a new objection.

  ‘Why, Mary Ellen, this meat isn’t cooked. It’s pink.’

  ‘Ah, then, the lamb is done just right, the European way,’ G.F. said appreciatively. ‘So few Americans understand that lamb must be treated tenderly, not cooked until there isn’t any juice or sweetness left in the meat. Mrs. Martin, may I serve you some of this broccoli?’

  Marian Martin was not immune to G.F.’s brand of flattering attention and Mirelle was deeply grateful for his suave intervention. Her mother-in-law was almost simpering with pleasure.

  ‘What have you done to the broccoli?’ asked Red, ‘it tastes good.’

  ‘He likes your broccoli?’ Ann Blackburn looked up in exaggerated surprise. ‘I beg you tell me what you’ve done. I haven’t been able to serve it to him for ten years.’

  ‘Simple. Cooked with a little butter in a heavy iron saucepan, served with caraway seeds and plenty of butter.’

  ‘The Hungarian in Mirelle coming out in triumph,’ Sylvia said, with a bland smile.

  Mother Martin cut herself short in mid-sentence to G.F. and stared down the table.

  ‘Is that where your marvelous bone structure comes from?’ Ann asked. ‘You’re so delightfully un-American-looking.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mirelle said and hoped that would be the last from Sylvia along this line.

  ‘My four kids, nice, healthy, are so exactly the American prototype that you couldn’t pick them out of a crowd of kids the same age. But all three of yours,’ Ann went on while Mirelle tried to look pleased, ‘have an indefinable difference about them. They’ll always be noticeable.’ She turned to Red. ‘Remember how crushed I was, Red, when Professor D’Alseigne called Jerry “un vrai type americain”?’

  ‘You may have been crushed, but I was flattered. All that foreign living ruins a good American.’

  ‘I think Robert and Nicolas look exactly like their father,’ Mother Martin said in an unequivocal tone of voice.

  ‘Yes, they do,’ Ann agreed warmly, ‘except for their eyes, and Roman’s cheekbones which are wide and high, just like his mother’s. Of course, Tonia is the spirit and image of you, Mrs. Martin, plus those magnificent eyes. Where did you get such an unusual shade of blue from, Mirelle?’

  ‘My unlamented father,’ Mirelle said lightly.

  ‘The Hungarian.’ Sylvia qualified her statement.

  ‘Did you know, Mrs. Martin,’ G.F. said, smiling, ‘that my mother was painted by Mirelle’s father? He was extremely successful at the time as well as extremely expensive.’ G.F. chuckled reminiscently. ‘If there were status symbols in those careless days, one was to have a portrait done by Lajos Neagu.’

  Mother Martin looked as if she were going to have a fit. Mirelle tried desperately to think of something to fill in the deathly still silence.

  ‘Neagu . . . Neagu . . .’ Ann murmured, trying to m
ake an association. ‘Oh, yes, of course!’ Her eyes widened with astonished delight. ‘Was he your father?’

  Helplessly, Mirelle nodded. She didn’t dare look at anyone else. But she wanted to murder Sylvia and G.F. Couldn’t they realise that accepting her bastardy so casually would only exacerbate the Martins’ displeasure?

  ‘You’re so right, G.F., about a Neagu portrait being a status symbol,’ Ann went on. ‘I remember the Ambassador’s wife . . . and she was the most awful bitch, too . . . paid a small fortune to be done by Neagu. He gave the most outrageous parties. How wonderful, Mirelle. Just wait till I tell Mother that I’ve met Neagu’s daughter. Won’t she be thrilled? Do be sure to tell Mother when you meet, Mrs. Martin, that your daughter-in-law is Lajos Neagu’s daughter. She’ll do anything to smooth your way then.’

  Mother Martin sat stiffly still in her chair, staring at Ann Blackburn with disbelief.

  ‘Did you inherit any of the fabulous Neagu talent, Mirelle?’ Ann was too excited to notice the reception of her remarks.

  ‘Watch out, Mirelle,’ Red laughed indulgently for he had noticed the strained look, ‘Ann collects people the way others collect stamps.’

  ‘Oh, you!’ Ann gave him a dirty look. ‘People are so fascinating. After all, you have to live with them and Wilmington is so dull and prosaic.’ She sighed. ‘I sometimes miss the diplomatic phase of my life. It could be very exciting.’

  ‘After being around the world six, or was it seven times, Wilmington is rather dull potatoes for my wife,’ Red said.

  ‘No, only the city itself,’ she contradicted him with spirit. ‘There are interesting people all over the world and in Wilmington. Why, here are Mr. and Mrs. Martin about to remove themselves all the way to Florida.’

  Silently Mirelle blessed her for that.

  ‘And Mirelle with a famous father,’ she continued, compounding her original errors. ‘Now, do you paint, Mirelle?’

  ‘No, she sculpts,’ Steve said very distinctly. Mirelle stole a glance at him and saw that his teeth were tightly locked but she couldn’t tell whether he was just angry or worried about the impression this conversation might be giving Red Blackburn.

  ‘You should have seen her at the church Bazaar,’ Sylvia drawled. ‘Her booth was very popular. She worked small busts in clay right there.’