“It’s not mine – it’s on loan from Sarah. My student pocket doesn’t stretch to designer dresses.”
“Sarah Nugent, that Dublin girl with the big sad eyes?”
Charlotte was taken aback. “What makes you say that?” She always thought of Sarah as a carefree girl and was surprised to hear her described otherwise.
“I’ve seen her in the labs. She always looks kind of sad to me. Out of place…” he trailed off. “Anyway, enough about her. It’s you I’m interested in. Time to walk you home, my ass is frozen solid sitting on this boulder.”
As they walked back to the harbour flat, they passed bedraggled revelers tucking into curried chips and coleslaw burgers, dropping wrappers as they went.
The flat was quiet and still as they sank into the threadbare sofa kicking off their shoes. Despite Tomas being brushed off earlier, it didn’t stop him trying to undo the knot in Charlotte’s halter neck. But after a few fumbled attempts, his ardour cooled, and he nodded off on Charlotte’s shoulder. She too drifted into sleep.
* * *
Sometime later Charlotte became aware of a stiffness in her neck. Her mouth felt dry. Half-awake she thought she heard a banging. It got louder. Roused into wakefulness, she registered an insistent knocking at the front door. The knocking was interspersed with door-bell chimes.
Christ almighty, where’s the fire? She struggled into a sitting position and rubbed her eyes. Fuckity fuck, I never took out my contacts. Her eyes felt gritty and dry and her mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage. The knocking continued.
“Okay, okay, hang on to your knickers – I’m coming,” she shouted. Her voice sounded like it was coming from someone else’s head.
Charlotte picked her way over some discarded underwear in the hallway. Oh Christ no – I didn’t, did I? The moment of panic subsided as she felt the comforting ridge of her knicker elastic. She’d been reasonably sober last night. Of course she’d have remembered if she’d succumbed.
Someone’s finger was now firmly wedged on the door-bell as the chime became a continuous wail. Annoyed, she wrenched the door open with a scowl.
“For God’s sake!” She was about to swear but was startled to see a small neat woman with stiff hair wearing a fur coat and clutching an expensive-looking bag.
“Sorry to disturb you,” said the woman frostily. “I thought that even students would be awake at this hour.” Her mouth moved into a smile but her eyes remained very cold. “I assume I have the right flat – is Sarah here? Sarah Nugent?”
Christ, it must be the dreaded Mrs Nugent, Sarah’s mother. The state of the place – it was like a squat, no worse – a brothel.
“Angela Nugent, Sarah’s mother,” she said extending a hand. “I don’t imagine Sarah’s expecting me. We had a pharmacists’ conference in the Ardilaun Hotel last night. I hadn’t planned on coming.”
Too bloody right she’s not expecting you, thought Charlotte. Where was Sarah anyway? Charlotte didn’t even know if she was in the flat. By now, Mrs Nugent had edged her way into the hallway and was staring at the discarded knickers lying in the middle of the floor. Charlotte bent down as nonchalantly as she could and picked them up.
“I’m Charlotte, Mrs Nugent. Would you like to wait in the sitting room while I see if Sarah’s here?” Charlotte’s voice sounded croaky and hoarse from the night before. She suddenly remembered that Tomas was passed out on the sofa. What was she to do? The kitchen wasn’t any good. It had three days of washing up in it and someone had inexplicably left the clothes horse on the kitchen table.
Too late. Mrs Nugent was already in the sitting room coolly looking at a goggle-eyed Tomas who’d just woken. At least he was clothed. Thank Christ for small mercies. No point in introductions – she’d leave them to it.
Charlotte scurried down to Sarah and Kathy’s room and knocked on the door dislodging the stolen Moycullen 6 miles sign. Inside, hushed tones were followed by laughter. Opening the door, Charlotte peered around the corner. Sarah’s single bed was empty. Kathy’s single bed on the other hand was occupied – by Kathy and a furry-legged companion.
“It’s Sarah’s mother,” hissed Charlotte. “Where the hell is Sarah?”
Kathy bolted upright sporting nothing but a love-bite.
“Christ! Sarah’s mother – what the fuck? Let me see – Sarah went up to the courthouse last night, I think. They were doing homebrew. I came back to go through my lines for Hot Tin Roof.”
The mound in the bed started to move. “Yeah, I see,” Charlotte muttered, looking at the hairy legs. “Look, I’ll take your bike and cycle over to get her. I take it these are yours?” She tossed the knickers onto the bed and shut the door.
“Sarah not here?” asked Mrs Nugent as she looked at her gold watch. “The conference resumes shortly. What a shame.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs Nugent. Sarah’s just around the corner. I’ll get her. Just give me ten minutes.”
Charlotte tore out the front door leaving a bewildered Tomas staring blankly at Mrs Nugent who looked like a bad smell had just become worse.
Charlotte felt ridiculous, cycling hell for leather up St Mary’s road in a red silk dress. But something told her it was important that she produce Sarah.
Twenty minutes later, after a crossbar home at breakneck speed, Sarah burst into the sitting room looking disheveled, hungover, and nervous. Tomas Walsh had disappeared. Sensing trouble was afoot, Charlotte made herself scarce, hiding in the filthy kitchen. She couldn’t help but overhear the stilted conversation.
“Hi, Mum, I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I can see that.” Mrs Nugent’s tone was chilly.
“Are you eating, Sarah? Are you studying? Are you looking after yourself? This flat smells damp. And what about your chest? We don’t want you to end up in hospital like you did in the summer.”
This was news to Charlotte. Sarah hadn’t mentioned being in hospital last summer.
“God forbid I’d inconvenience you, Mum. Which question would you like me to answer first?” Sarah said.
“Don’t be petulant. You’re not here on a bloody holiday camp although I have to say this place looks like a detention center.”
Whoa there! That’s a bit harsh, thought Charlotte, chiseling welded cornflakes from the sink.
“I know, Mum, I am working….” More conciliatory now. “I’m going to lectures, I’m getting projects in on time. My asthma’s under control. There’s no need to worry. Honestly.”
“Look, Sarah, you’re an adult. You’re responsible for yourself. But Daddy and I do expect that you won’t throw another opportunity away. You’re not terribly good at focusing now are you? The pharmacy is there waiting for you when you qualify. I know it seems a bit away now but you’ve got it all to look forward to. I’ve had a word with your father and we both agree that you should work there this summer – to get a feel for the place.”
Christ, Sarah hadn’t planned on that! What about America? They were all going to work on the J1 student visa.
“But, Mum, what about my J1? I’m going to the States this summer. Remember, I got that gig working on costumes with a film company.”
“Oh, Sarah, sweetheart, don’t be ridiculous – how’s that going to advance your career? Maybe at the end of the summer you can go for a week to Aunt Dorothy in Newport. Daddy and I do know how to reward hard work you know.”
“But, Mum, you let Ava and Penny go inter-railing in Europe in their college summers – you didn’t make them work in the pharmacy.”
Charlotte felt uncomfortable listening to the desperation in Sarah’s voice. She tried to shut the kitchen door but it had warped and only shut half-way.
“And, Sarah sweetheart, you really should be more careful with your things. That red dress that your friend is half wearing is the one I bought for you in London. It’s pretty much destroyed as far as I can see.”
Face burning, Charlotte turned on the radio, quite sure she didn’t want to hear any more.
The woman was a bitch. A stupid stuck-up bitch.
Ruth
University
1990
Ruth had fallen behind. There were all those areas in Statistics that she was unsure of. Attending 9 o’clock lectures would have helped. There were reams of economic theory. It couldn’t compete with the chain-smoking, coffee-swilling, soul-baring chats into the still hours of the morning.
It didn’t help that no one in the flat crawled into bed before one in the morning. Conversation seemed so much more interesting at one or two in the morning than at eight o’clock at night.
Ruth was not a straight A student. She’d never excelled academically, but up to now she’d done enough to get respectable grades. The previous year she’d lived with a local family near college. There had been regular meal-times and regular comings and goings.
This year things were different. Meal-times were haphazard if at all. Sleep was irregular. There were so many excuses not to study – the impromptu visitor, the whiff of a party, there was always a distraction. In these last few weeks, Ruth had the feeling that things were spiraling out of control.
This week was even more disorganised than usual. It was Rag Week. There was no point trying to concentrate in college buildings. A giddiness permeated every stairwell, lecture theatre, and every library seat on campus. The mayhem was fueled by high spirits, alcohol, and the abandon of those who knew they were doomed to fail.
Ruth turned down the chance to join in crazy drafts on the college concourse. She wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the havoc it wreaked. Each draft piece was a shot of supermarket rum or vodka, each shot one step closer to projectile vomiting, or worse – a visit to the hospital.
She might just clear her work backlog if she got down to it. While everyone else was acting the fool – she’d make up the time. She couldn’t bear the thought of re-sitting exams. She didn’t want to see the hurt and disappointment on her father’s face. She was the first in the family to go to university. She couldn’t shatter his pride. As far as Ruth could make out, repeat students were serial offenders. They didn’t learn from their mistakes.
Ruth was not the only one in trouble. It was time they all knuckled down. Sarah had sworn she was going to study today. She was full of good intentions yet Ruth could have sworn she’d seen her earlier in the day, shouting at the college rowing team racing down the river in fancy dress.
Sarah would dive-bomb into despair as soon as Rag Week ended. Ruth had little doubt of that. She’d seen it before and found it all so tedious. Listening to her moan about how far she’d fallen behind. How everything was pointless. Threatening to douse herself in petrol and set herself alight in the Quad. This time Ruth would tell her to go right ahead. Sarah would sit up in bed all night smoking. She’d be unable to get up until noon the following day. She’d cough and wheeze and suck on her inhaler. She’d miss more lectures, and fall further and further behind. Sarah was going to be an all-round-pain-in-the-ass. Ruth could see it coming.
Ruth wasn’t falling into the same trap. She wasn’t wasting time gawping at stupid Rag Week spectacles. She wasn’t getting involved in bed-pushes, or stupid drinking competitions. She was going back to the flat at the harbour. Walking past the cathedral and past Nun’s Island, Ruth prided herself on her resolve. She would study for the afternoon.
Nearly home, Ruth spotted Mikey Fahy. He was outside washing the pub windows, putting as much energy into it as he did into everything, which wasn’t much. What a loser.
“Hi there, Ruth,” he said, leering at her.
How the hell did know her name?
The guy creeped her out.
Ignoring him, Ruth hurried inside. The flat was messy but quiet. It was mid-March and watery sunshine seeped through the grimy panes. She’d get her duvet and park herself at the chair by the window with her notes. Opening the door of the twin bedroom, there was a fumbling movement from Kathy’s bed. A throaty laugh.
“For Christ’s sake, Kathy!” Ruth exploded. “It’s Rag Week, not Shag Week.”
“Good one, Ruth. I like it.”
Josh White, auditor of the Literary and Debating Society propped himself up in bed. “That’s clever,” he said, flicking his long hair.
“Sorry, Ruth,” said Kathy, looking sheepish. She hugged the sheet to her chin. “Josh is just going.”
“Really? I was under the impression he was just coming.” Ruth yanked the duvet from her own neat bed.
“Comedy actress I see,” said Josh.
Shit, shit.
Why did she have to say that? Why should she care how Kathy spent her time?
Why should she care who Kathy screwed?
Josh White was going think Ruth was nothing but a sour old bag. She had a fair idea what the guys said about her behind her back. It was just so annoying to find a succession of different men in her bedroom all the time. No wonder Kathy had fallen behind. She was too bloody wrecked from her love-life. Ruth decided to be more amenable when Josh resurfaced.
Making a mug of coffee, Ruth swaddled herself in her duvet and took out her statistics notes. She tried to concentrate but it wasn’t working. She was too annoyed. Was she annoyed because she was the only one in the flat without a boyfriend, she wondered?
Charlotte was seeing Tomas Walsh, whose ubiquity had rendered him merely human from his previous god-like status. His netting had devalued his currency.
Kathy had a succession of men – Josh White being the latest in the series. And Sarah had someone new. She had sent that poet packing when he’d turned up a few weeks earlier begging for her to take him back. Sarah hadn’t let him past the front door. She’d thanked him for his interest and gave him the bus fare for his journey back to Dublin.
Guys fell hard for Sarah. There then followed another poor sucker who only made it to a fortnight. Even now, weeks later, he was throwing Sarah lovesick looks across the college canteen. Sarah seemed oblivious to the carnage all about her – she moved on quickly. She was now dating a member of the work-force, not a student. Students were too passé.
Ruth wondered what Mrs Nugent would make of Sarah’s antics. The old dragon would shudder if she knew her precious daughter was going out with a stinky fisherman. It occurred to Ruth that it’d be worth telling the woman just to see the look on her face.
Sarah was spending fewer and fewer nights at home, eschewing the spartan comfort of their flat for the damp and pungent surrounds of her boyfriend’s trawler. She’d met him in a pub where he’d bought her three bottles of cider. “I dazzled him,” she’d said dancing around the flat. Ruth doubted any dazzling was required. When Sarah decided she wanted a man, they seemed to fall at her feet.
Luke had a blood-burst outdoor face and he told filthy jokes that Sarah found amusing. Ruth did not. How long would this guy last, she wondered? Sarah was enjoying the novelty for now but Ruth predicted that just like all the others, the romance would be short-lived.
Charlotte had looked at the positive side of Sarah’s relationship and what it might bring to the group. When Sarah appeared after a weekend’s absence carrying two large bags of hake and mackerel, Charlotte was in heaven. Free food! They’d had fish pie for a week.
Cosy in her duvet and scribbling away, Ruth consoled herself in the knowledge that she wasn’t missing out. If Luke the fisherman was the best she could hope for she’d really rather do without.
Anyhow, what was the point in entering into a relationship at this late stage of the year? There were scarcely two full months left to the exams. There’d be plenty of time for men in the summer. Her J1 visa had come through and she was heading to the States for the summer.
The others could party and go clubbing in Salthill. They could go to the Holiday Hotel and the Warwick. They could dance in the Oasis club with their best white T-shirts under UV lights. They could go for chips and kebabs and fall asleep in phone-boxes. They could steal road-signs and shopping trollies. Ruth would not be joining them. Ruth was going to study.
* * *
/> But things happened that middle term to thwart her. Things not of her making. Firstly, there was the incident with Kathy and that weirdo, Mikey Fahy. How was it that Kathy always managed to create trouble?
Having decided it wasn’t safe to leave her bike in the pub’s backyard, Kathy decided to venture out to the same unsafe backyard with her laundry. She’d rigged up a makeshift line between piled-up kegs on a blustery Saturday. When she returned to take in the clothes, she stumbled on Mikey Fahy – he was dreamily caressing the padded cups of her best pink bra. Aghast, she turned on her heel and left the clothes exactly where they were, refusing ever to retrieve them. They could rot out there for all she cared, now they’d been touched by that pervert.
This event preceded a melt-down. Kathy’s melt-downs were not unusual, but on a scale of one to ten, this registered close to nine. In her mind, Mikey Fahy had graduated from annoying creep to weirdo sexual predator. Matters weren’t helped by her reading matter at the time – case studies on the causes and triggers of sexual crime. Not for the first time, Ruth seriously wondered about Kathy’s suitability to her course in Psychology. When she wasn’t like a praying mantis, devouring some guy, she was fantasising about some guy devouring her.
It wasn’t long before the guys in the courthouse got wind of Mikey Fahy’s antics. They scoffed at Kathy’s fear. Their attempts to trivialise the incident had the reverse effect. Repeated strains of ‘Psycho killer – qu’est-ce que c’est?’ only served to heighten Kathy’s fear.
The melt-down ended in a tearful declaration that Kathy was going to leave the flat. She could stand the threat of Mikey Fahy no more. But where would she go, wondered Ruth? Off to shack up with Josh White? The whole business was so annoying.
Ruth took it personally. She felt let down. The four of them had made a commitment to share the flat together for the year. Boyfriends could come and go but surely they owed one another more than a casual allegiance? It wouldn’t be the same with three of them. Bugger Kathy and bugger her disposition. She really was quite tiresome.
The Blue Pool Page 5