Yesterday's Weather

by Anne Enright

  Cathy married late and it was hard work. She had to find a man. Once she had found one, she discovered that the city was full of them. She had to talk and laugh and be fond. She had to choose. Did she like big burly men with soft brown eyes? Did she like that blond man with the eyes of pathological blue? What did she think of her own face, its notches and dents?

  In the end, she went the easy road with a kind teacher from Fairview and a registry office do. She stole him from a coltish young woman with awkward eyes. Cathy would have sold her a tapestry Gladstone bag, one that was ‘wrong’ but ‘worked’ all the same.

  Sex was a pleasant surprise. It was such a singular activity, it seemed to scatter and gather her at the same time.

  Cathy fell in love one day with a loose, rangy woman, who came to her counter and to her smile and seemed to pick her up with the same ease as she did an Argentinian calfskin shoulder bag in tobacco brown, with woven leather inset panels, pig-skin lining and snap clasp. It was quite a surprise.

  The woman, whose eyes were a tired shade of blue, asked Cathy’s opinion, and Cathy heard herself say ‘DIVE RIGHT IN HONEY, THE WATER’S JUST FINE!’ – a phrase she must have picked up from the television set. The woman did not flinch. She said ‘Have you got it in black?’

  Brown was the colour of the bag. Cathy was disappointed by this betrayal. The weave would just disappear in black, the staining was everything. Cathy said, ‘It’s worth it in brown, even if it means new shoes. It really is a beautiful bag.’ The woman, however, neither bought the brown nor argued for black. She rubbed the leather with the base of her thumb as she laid the bag down. She looked at Cathy. She despaired. She turned her wide, sporting shoulders, her dry, bleached hair, and her nose with the bump in it, gave a small sigh, and walked out of the shop.

  Cathy spent the rest of the day thinking, not of her hands, with their large knuckles, but of her breasts, that were widely spaced and looked two ways, one towards the umbrellas, the other at the scarves. She also wondered whether the woman had a necklace of lines hanging from her hips, whether she had ever been touched by a woman, what she might say, what Cathy might say back. Whether her foldings and infoldings were the same as her own or as different as daffodil from narcissus. It was a very exciting afternoon.

  Cathy began to slip. She made mistakes. She sold the wrong bags to the wrong women and her patter died. She waited for another woman to pick up the tobacco-brown bag to see what might happen. She sold indiscriminately. She looked at every woman who came her way and she just didn’t know anymore.

  She could, of course, change her job. She could drive a bus. She could work as a hospital maid in, for example, the cardiac ward, which was full of certainties.

  Because women did not get heart attacks. They would come at visiting time and talk too much or not at all. She could work out who loved simply or in silence. She could spot those who might as well hate. She would look at their bags without judgement, as they placed them on the coverlets, or opened them for tissues. They might even let a tear drip inside.

  Cathy emptied out her building-society account and walked up to the hat department with a plastic bag filled with cash. She said, ‘Ramona, I want to buy every hat you have.’ She did the same at Shoes, although she stipulated size five-and-a-half. She didn’t make a fuss when refused. She stuffed the till of her own counter full of notes, called a taxi and hung herself with bags, around her neck and down her arms. All kinds of people looked at her. Then she went to bed for a week, feeling slightly ashamed.

  She kept the one fatal bag, the brown calf-skin with a snap clasp. She abused it. She even used it to carry things. She started to sleep around.

  THE PORTABLE VIRGIN

  Dare to be dowdy! that’s my motto, because it comes to us all – the dirty acrylic jumpers and the genteel trickle of piss down our support tights. It will come to her too.

  She was one of those women who hold their skin like a smile, as if she was afraid her face might fall off if the tension went out of her eyes.

  I knew that when Ben made love to her, the thought that she might break pushed him harder. I, by comparison, am like an old sofa, welcoming, familiar, well-designed.

  This is the usual betrayal story, as you have already guessed – the word ‘sofa’ gave it away. The word ‘sofa’ opened up rooms full of sleeping children and old wedding photographs, ironic glances at crystal wineglasses, BBC mini-series where Judi Dench plays the deserted furniture and has a little sad fun.

  It is not a story about hand-jobs in toilets, at parties where everyone is in the van-rental business. It is not a story where Satan turns around like a lawyer in a swivel chair. There are no doves, no prostitutes, no railway stations, no marks on the skin.

  So there I was knitting a bolero jacket when I dropped a stitch. Bother. And there was Ben with a gin and tonic crossing his legs tenderly by the phone.

  ‘Thoroughly fucked?’ I asked and he spilt his drink.

  Ben has been infected by me over the years. He has my habit of irony, or perhaps I have his. Our inflections coincide in bed, and sometimes he startles me in the shops, by hopping out of my mouth.

  ‘Thoroughly,’ he said, brushing the wet on his trousers and flicking drops of gin from his fingertips.

  There was an inappropriate desire in the room, a strange dance of description; as I uncovered her brittle blonde hair, her wide strained mouth. A woman of modified adjectives, damaged by men, her body whittled into thinness so unnatural you could nearly see the marks of the knife. Intelligent? No. Funny? No. Rich, with a big laugh and sharp heels? No. Happy? Definitely not. Except when he was there. Ben makes me too sad for words. I finished the row, put away my needles and went to bed.

  Judi Dench came out of the wardrobe and decided that it was time that she had an affaire herself. She would start a small business in the gardening shed and leave her twin-sets behind. And just when she realised that she was a human being too – attractive generous and witty (albeit in a sofa kind of way) – some nice man would come along and agree with her.

  Mrs Rochester punched a hole in the ceiling and looked at Ben where he sat at the end of the bed, maimed and blind. She whispered a long and very sensible monologue with an urgency that made the mattress smoulder, and we both had a good laugh about that.

  Karen … Sharon … Teresa … all good names for women who dye their hair. Suzy … Jacintha … Patti …

  ‘What’s her name?’ I asked.

  ‘Mary,’ he said.

  My poor maimed husband is having sex in the back of our car with a poor maimed woman who has a law degree and a tendency to overdress. She works for a van-rental firm. You would think at least she could get them something with a bigger back seat.

  My poor maimed husband is seriously in danger of damaging his health with the fillip this fact has given to our love life. And while he bounces on top of his well-loved sofa, Satan turns around in the corner, like a lawyer in a swivel chair, saying ‘Go on, go on, you’ll wake the children.’ (Or is that me?)

  She is the silence at the other end of the phone. She is the smile he starts but does not finish. She is the woman standing at the top of the road, with cheap nail-polish and punctured ears. She is the girl at the front of the class, with ringlets and white knees and red eyes.

  The phonecalls are more frequent. It is either getting serious or going sour. He used to head straight for the bathroom when he came home, in order to put his dick in the sink. Then they stopped doing it by accident and started going to her flat instead, with its (naturally) highly scented soap. Should I tell her the next time she rings? Should we get chatty about Pears, fall in love over Palmolive? We could ring up an agency and do an advert, complete with split screen. ‘Mary’s soap is all whiffy, but Mary uses X – so mild her husband will never leave.’ Of course we have the same name, it is part of Ben’s sense of irony, and we all know where he got that from.

  So Ben is tired of love. Ben wants sad sex in the back of cars. Ben wants to desire the brok
en cunt of a woman who will never make it to being real.

  ‘But I thought it meant something!’ screams the wife, throwing their crystal honeymoon wineglasses from Seville against the Magnolia Matt wall.

  I am not that old after all. Revenge is not out of the question. There is money in my purse and an abandoned adolescence that never got under way.

  I sit in a chair in the most expensive hairdresser in Grafton Sreet. A young man I can’t see pulls my head back into the sink and anoints (I’m sorry) my head with shampoo. It is interesting to be touched like this; hairdressers, like doctors, are getting younger by the day. My ‘stylist’ is called Alison and she checks my shoes beneath the blue nylon cape, looking for a clue.

  ‘I want a really neat bob,’ I say, ‘but I don’t know what to do with this bit.’

  ‘I know,’ she says, ‘it’s driving you mad. That’s why it’s so thin, you just keep brushing it out of your eyes.’

  I am a woman whose hair is falling out, my stuffing is coming loose.

  ‘But look, we’re nearly there,’ and she starts to wave the scissors (like a blessing) over my head.

  ‘How long is it since you had it cut last?’

  ‘About ten weeks.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she says, ‘because we’re not going to get any length with all these split ends, are we?’

  ‘I want to go blonde,’ says the wet and naked figure in the mirror and the scissors pause mid-swoop.

  ‘It’s very thin …’

  ‘I know, I want it to break. I want it blonde.’

  ‘Well …’ My stylist is shocked. I have finally managed to say something really obscene.

  The filthy metamorphosis is effected by another young man whose hair is the same length as the stubble on his chin. He has remarkable, sexual blue eyes, which come with the price. ‘We’ start with a rubber cap which he punctures with a vicious crochet hook, then he drags my poor thin hair through the holes. I look ‘a fright’. All the women around me look ‘a fright’. Mary is sitting to my left and to my right. She is blue from the neck down, she is reading a magazine, her hair stinks, her skin is pulled into a smile by the rubber tonsure on her head. There is a handbag at her feet, the inside of which is coated with blusher that came loose. Inside the bags are bills, pens, sweet-papers, diaphragms, address books full of people she doesn’t know anymore. I know this because I stole one as I left the shop.

  I am sitting on Dollymount Strand going through Mary’s handbag, using her little mirror, applying her ‘Wine Rose and Gentlelight Colourize Powder Shadow Trio’, her Plumsilk lipstick, her Venetian Brocade blusher and her Tearproof (thank God) mascara.

  I will be bored soon. I will drown her slowly in a pool and let the police peg out the tatters to dry when they pick up the bag on the beach. It affords me some satisfaction to think of her washed up in the hairdressers, out of her nylon shift and newly shriven, without the means to pay.

  My revenge looks back at me, out of the mirror. The new fake me looks twice as real as the old. Underneath my clothes my breasts have become blind, my iliac crests mottle and bruise. Strung out between my legs is a triangle of air that pulls away from sex, while my hands clutch. It used to be the other way around.

  I root through the bag, looking for a past. At the bottom, discoloured by Wine Rose and Gentlelight, I find a small, portable Virgin. She is made of transparent plastic, except for her cloak, which is coloured blue. ‘A present from Lourdes’ is written on the globe at her feet, underneath her heel and the serpent. Mary is full of surprises. Her little blue crown is a screw-off top, and her body is filled with holy water, which I drink.

  Down by the water’s edge I set her sailing on her back, off to Ben, who is sentimental that way. Then I follow her into his story, with its doves and prostitutes, its railway stations and marks on the skin. I have nowhere else to go. I love that man.

  INDIFFERENCE

  The young man in the corner was covered in flour. His coat was white, his shoes were white and there was a white paper hat askew on his head. Around his mouth and nose was the red weal of sweating skin where he had worn a mask to keep out the dust. The rest of him was perfectly edible and would turn to dough if he stepped outside in the rain.

  He was with a pal. They were assessing her as she sat across the room from them with a glass of Guinness and an old newspaper that someone had left behind.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked the white man.

  ‘I wouldn’t go near her with a bag of dicks,’ said his companion, who was left-handed – or at least that was the hand that was holding his pint. He had the thin Saturday-matinée face of a villain; of the man who might kidnap the young girl and end up in a duel with Errol Flynn. She saw him swinging out of velvet drapes, up-ending tables and jumping from the chandelier, brandishing, not a sword, but a hessian bag from which come soft gurgles and thin protesting squeaks.

  Errol Flynn wounds him badly and is leaning over his throat ready for the final, ungentlemanly slash when the bag of dicks escapes, rolls down a flight of steps, shuffles over to the beautiful young girl and starts to whine. She unties the knot and sets them free.

  ‘What a peculiar language you speak,’ she said mentally, with a half-smile and a nod, as if her own were normal. ‘Normal’ usually implied American. I am Canadian, she used to say, it may be a very boring country, but who needs history when we have so much weather?

  Irish people had no weather at all apart from vague shifts from damp to wet, and they talked history like it was happening down the road. They also sang quite a bit and were depressingly ethnic. They thought her bland.

  Of course I am bland, she thought. You too would be bland if you grew up with one gas pump in front of the house and nothing else except a view that stretched over half the world. Landscape made me bland, bears poking in the garbage can stunted my individuality, as did plagues of horseflies, permafrost, wild-fire, and the sun setting like a bomb. So much sky makes ones bewildered – which is the only proper way to be.

  She rented a flat in Rathmines where the only black people in the country seemed to reside and the shops stayed open all night. The house was suitably ‘old’ but the partition walls bothered her, as did the fact that the door from her bedroom into the hall had been taken off its hinges. The open block of the doorframe frightened her as she fell asleep, not because of what might come through it, but because she might drift off the bed and slide through the gap to Godknowswhere. (In the shower she sang ‘How are things in Glockamorra?’ and ‘Come back, Paddy Reilly, to Ballyjamesduff’.)

  The white man was beside her asking to look at her paper and he sat down to read.

  ‘Go on, ask her does she want to come,’ said the matinée man across the deserted bar.

  ‘Ask her yourself.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ said the matinée man picking up their two pints and making the move to her table.

  ‘God that’s a great pair of shoes you got on,’ he said looking at her quilted moon-boots. ‘You didn’t get them here.’

  ‘Canada,’ she said.

  ‘She can talk!’ said the villain. ‘I told you she could talk.’

  ‘You can’t bring him anywhere,’ said the white man, and she decided that she would sleep with him. Why not? It had been a long time since Toronto.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked, and was surprised at the silence that fell.

  ‘I’m skiving off,’ said the white man. ‘I’m on the hop. Mitching. I’ll get the sack.’ She still didn’t seem to understand. ‘Look at me,’ he opened up his palms like a saint to show her the thin rolls of paste in the creases. ‘I work over there. In the bakery.’

  ‘I guessed that,’ she said. ‘I could smell the fresh bread.’

  She wrote this story in a letter to her flatmate in Toronto. It is a story about A Bit of Rough. It includes furious sex in redbrick alleyways. It has poignant moments to do with cultural distinctions and different breeds of selfishness. Unfortunately the man in question is not we
aring leather, nor is he smelling like Marlon Brando. He is too thin. His accent is all wrong. He is covered, not with oil and sweat, but with sweat and flour.

  The furious sex took him by surprise. She looked at a man sliding down the wall on to his hunkers with his hands over his face. He had lost his paper hat. There was flour down her front congealing in the rain. ‘I’ve never done that before,’ he said.

  ‘Well, neither have I.’

  ‘I’ve never done any of that before.’

  ‘Oh boy.’

  ‘And I’ve got the sack.’ So she brought him home.

  ‘Erections. What a laugh. My ancient Aunt Moragh bounced out of her coffin on the way to the cemetery. I will never forget it. You could almost hear the squawk. It was my cousin Shawn driving the pick-up when the suspension went. Now he was a bit simple – or at least that is, he never talked so you couldn’t tell. But he took her dying so hard that he was swinging the wheel with one hand and crying into the other and he drove regardless, with his ass dragging in the dirt. I swear I saw Moragh rise to her feet like she was on hinges, like she was a loose plank in the floor coming up to hit you in the face. And she yelled out “Shawn! You come back here!” I was only six, but I wouldn’t deny it, no matter how much they said I was a liar.’

  There was a thin white man in her bed, and when he got up to go to the toilet he disappeared through the doorframe like the line of light from a closing door. They were no longer drunk. He stayed, because he didn’t know what else to do. He was fragile, like a man let out of prison, who bumps into a stranger on the street and feels a lifetime’s friendship. He stared, and she felt all the stories she had inside her looking for him like home.

  ‘So Todd tells me about this woman that he is in love with. I mean that’s OK, but why do men have to take all their clothes off before they can tell you about the woman they love? So there we were, sitting in the U of T canteen and I’m saying “Todd, please, it’s OK, I’ll survive, please put your clothes back on.”’