The Misremembered Man

by Christina McKenna

  But even as he was saying those words, he was suddenly remembering the warning on the little instruction leaflet, the leaflet he’d no more than glanced at. Now, too late, he was recalling lines that read: Excessive sweating can shorten bonding times. Do not use gel or lotion on this product.

  “Och, we’ll give it a wee wash,” Paddy said, “and slap it back on ye.” He patted Jamie’s head. “Sure it’s still sticky, so should stay in place right enough.”

  “But it’s gonna be wet!” Jamie wailed. “What am I gonna say to her when she sees me with a soakin’ wet head?”

  “Leave it to me, Jamie.” Paddy took the wig and started to wash it under the tap with soap. “Ye could say you went out for a wee walk and it rained.” Paddy was thinking on his feet, something he rarely had cause to do.

  “But Paddy, the sun’s blazin’ down outside and I can hardly say it was rainin’ in the toilet.”

  Jamie stared into the mirror and almost wept, looking as inconsolable and desperate as a convict on his way to the hangman’s noose.

  “God, it’s a terrible thing,” he cried. “Me and her were gettin’ on powerful well, so we were, and now it’s all spoilt.”

  Paddy was nodding in commiseration while drying off the hairpiece with a towel. He held it up to the light, and was satisfied.

  “There ye go now, Jamie. Try that.”

  Jamie repositioned the toupee as best he could. But the soaking in the urine had had its effect, and this, coupled with the fact that Paddy had not properly rinsed off the soap, had caused the synthetic fibers to shoot up. The wig now resembled an electrocuted water rat.

  “That’s looks grand now right enough,” Paddy observed, but knowing as he said it that he was stretching the truth to screeching point. “Sure it’ll take you back to the table for another wee while. Me and Rose can wait as long as ye like, Jamie.”

  Glumly Jamie studied his reflection. But maybe Paddy was right, he thought; when he turned his head from side to side, it maybe could pass at a push. But only just.

  “Och now, is it not fearful bad lookin’?” he asked the mirror, knowing it was, but leaving it to Paddy to reassure him, or not.

  “Not a bit of it,” Paddy said smoothly. “It looks a wee bit wet, Jamie, but it’ll dry with the heat a your head soon enough.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right.” Jamie looked long and hard in the mirror. “And how’s the rest of me?”

  “You look grand, Jamie. Me and Rose were just sayin’ we never seen you lookin’ as well.” He patted Jamie on the back. “And we were just sayin’ that you and Miss Devine look very well together. She’s a fair, well-lookin’ lassie. Ye know, Rose was just sayin’ you look like yous were made for each other, for the pair of yous have the same noses, so ye have.”

  “God, did Rose say that, did she?”

  “She did indeed. Now I think that you should go out first, Jamie, because it might look a bit strange the pair of us comin’ out at the same time. We’ve been in here a good bit and you wouldn’t want people to be talkin’, like.”

  Jamie nodded.

  “You wouldn’t want to be keepin’ that lady waitin’ any longer.”

  “No, I s’pose you’re right, Paddy.”

  Jamie prepared to go, checked himself in the mirror again, rebuttoned his jacket—but made the mistake of looking down at his feet. The action had the unfortunate consequence of dislodging the wig again. It struck one of his glossy, brown toecaps and slid across the floor like a fleeing rodent.

  “Jezsis Christ, Paddy, that’s the end of it! It’s all up now. Naw, I can’t go back out. The bugger just won’t stay on.”

  Paddy stooped to pick it up.

  “Now, Jamie,” he said gently, “could ye not try? You could keep your head good and steady and not look up nor down, then it’d stay on, like.”

  “Naw, Paddy, I couldn’t risk that.”

  “Are you…are you sartin now, Jamie?”

  “Y’know I’d rather be put up agin a wall and shot, begod, than have me hair fall off in front of her. That’s as true as God put breath in me.”

  Paddy scratched his head, in a quandary. “Aye, I s’pose you’re sartin right enough.” There would be no dissuading Jamie on this one. His mind was made up.

  Both men stood in a muddle of indecision. Then Paddy’s eyes lit up.

  “I’ll tell you what, Jamie. I’ll go and ask Rose what we should do.”

  Jamie brightened.

  “That would be the thing, Paddy. Rose’ll know what to do. Why didn’t we think of it sooner?”

  And with that, Paddy left. Jamie stuffed the toupee into his pocket and sat down in one of the toilet stalls. He would await Rose’s undoubted wisdom, and her solution to this monumental problem.

  Lydia checked her wristwatch. James had gone to the gents some twenty minutes earlier and she was beginning to feel uneasy. The photographers were now settled at several tables in a cordoned-off area, enjoying plates of sandwiches. Every time Lydia looked their way she would catch the menacing flash of McPrunty’s bifocals as he looked her way. She picked up The Times again and pretended to read it.

  What on earth, she wondered, had happened to James? She resolved to approach his friends and ask the man to go and check the bathroom.

  She folded the paper and went to get up. She saw, however, that it was unnecessary. His friends had disappeared also.

  “Hello, Miss Devine!” a voice behind her made her jump. She turned to see a woman holding out a hand. “I’m Jamie’s—I mean James’s—friend. Rose McFadden’s me name.”

  Lydia remembered. “Oh Rose, yes! How nice to meet you. Has something happened? Is James all right?”

  “No, Miss Devine—”

  “Call me Lydia, please.” She looked at her anxiously. “Do please sit down, Rose.”

  “Thank you, Lydeea, I will indeed!”

  Rose installed herself in Jamie’s chair and rested her purse on her knee.

  She had dressed carefully for this very special occasion. Lydia could not have known it, but the polyester frock Rose wore had been cut on the bias by her expert hands; or that her Aran cardigan—which showed her deftness with the bunny bobble and fisherman’s rib—had won first prize in the ladies’ knitwear section of the Duntybutt Women’s Institute Creative Christmas competition of 1972. Her hair—freshly permed at the Curl Up ’n’ Dye salon—was a confection of cinnamon-tinted bubble curls. Her face was freshly dusted with Yardley Almond Surprise. At her wrist a charm bracelet clinked its twenty-three charms—each one honoring another year of a marriage survived.

  “Now there’s nothing to worry about, Lydeea,” she said kindly. “James has just got a wee problem in the toilet which might take a while to put right—if you folly me meaning.”

  “No, I don’t, Rose. Is he ill?” Lydia sat forward. “I have firstaid experience. Perhaps I could help.”

  Rose was not prepared for this, had promised Jamie that she’d “take care of everything.” She had assured him that telling Lydia he had taken ill was the best ploy, but now she saw that Miss Devine was genuinely concerned and wanted to know what exactly was wrong. Rose had to think fast; it was something that she, like her husband, was not used to doing. She therefore said the first thing that came into her head.

  “Well y’know, Lydeea, God-blisses-an-save-us, but it’s not as serious as that. It’s just that he has a problem.” She glanced down quickly at her lap, then looked up again and nodded. “Down there.”

  Lydia continued to stare, perplexed.

  “It’s a gentleman’s problem,” Rose explained, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Sometimes it takes him an hour, maybe even two.”

  Lydia didn’t know what to say. A silence ensued. Then Rose committed the cardinal sin of all inexperienced liars: She began to crochet a great frill of anecdotal “fact” to make the lie appear more plausible.

  “Oh, it runs in the family, Lydeea. His uncle was the very same, if truth be told. And y’know what they say: A leper do
esn’t change his socks. Now me mother, God rest her soul, was different altogether: runnin’ steady one week then the next nothing atall. It was the nerves, I think. She had a nervous dep-position—or whatever it is they say. Was never much of an eater anyway; would peck at things like McGinty’s chicken. And y’know, when you don’t eat proper it’s not good for you, and James—God-save-us—was on a diet, for to meet you, like.”

  Rose sat back in the armchair, pleased that she’d got the awkward news delivered.

  “I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Rose.”

  “And believe me, Lydeea, James is very sorry that he can’t come out just now too.” She canted forward again, clutching the purse, as if she were about to divulge the third secret of Fatima. “And he unner-stands that you don’t want to be waitin’ that long, so he’s asked me to ask you—that’s if you wouldn’t mind—could you give him a phone number if you have one, because he sez he’d like to see you again because you’re a real lady, and I can see that meself, Lydeea.”

  Lydia smiled and reached for her purse. She wrote down her number and tore the page from her diary. Rose folded it and stowed it in her purse.

  “Thank you very much indeed, Lydeea. James will be very pleased that you unnerstud his wee problem.”

  She got up and took Lydia’s hand. “And I hope you and James get to know each other better,” she said, “because he’s a very fine fella with a very kind heart, and there’s not too many like him goin’ about these days. God, y’know, since you started correspondin’ with him, he’s been as proud as a cock on a dunghill and as happy as a cat between two houses.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that, Rose. Thank you for explaining things to me. And I hope we meet again soon.”

  And with that Rose shot off in the direction of the toilets to impart the good news. Lydia gathered up her things—just as Daphne was coming through the lounge. She went to meet her; Daphne was frowning. She threw confused looks to where her friend had been sitting, noting the vacant table.

  “Where’s—?”

  Lydia grasped her elbow and steered her back the way she had come.

  “I’ll explain in the car,” she said.

  “It didn’t go well?”

  “Yes and no. It was—”

  Lydia stopped. Somebody had tapped her shoulder. She turned and caught her breath.

  “Now, Miss Devine,” said a little bald man, “you know what it feels like to be left in the lurch! Doeth unto others as you would have them doeth unto you. Luke six, verse thirty-one. I am a Christian gentleman myself—which is more than can be said for some!”

  Frank Xavier McPrunty straightened his cravat, adjusted his spectacles and marched triumphantly out into the sunshine, leaving both ladies staring after him in astonishment.

  Chapter twenty-nine

  Daphne drove Lydia to the hospital, listening intently and trying to suppress a giggle as her friend related the strange story of Mr. McCloone. By the time she entered the County General, Lydia believed she had recovered sufficiently from that very odd experience to face the sobering business of her mother’s condition.

  Three weeks had passed since Elizabeth Devine’s admittance, and in that time Lydia had become used to the routine of visiting and sitting by the bed. Although she would not admit it to herself, she felt in her heart that this ritual of vigil-keeping would, somehow, continue for a long time. The hours she sat at the bedside were very precious to her. She quickened her step down the long corridor, regretting that Mr. James McCloone and his mysterious antics had delayed her unduly.

  But when she pushed open the door to her mother’s room, an unexpected sight met her. The bed was empty. Someone coughed politely, and she turned to find Sister Milligan in the doorway.

  “Where is she?” Dread was descending on Lydia. Her hand went to her heart, as if to slow its beating.

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Devine. Your mother passed away an hour ago.”

  “No!” Lydia saw the stern, implacable face. She wanted to scream at the nurse for being so heartless. “She can’t have! Why are you saying such a thing, such a callous thing?”

  Sister Milligan took her firmly by the arm, well used to dealing with the bafflement of the bereaved, and led her to the armchair.

  “We rang you several times but we couldn’t reach you.”

  Lydia went from shocked silence to disbelief, then to despair, as she tried to absorb the stern but sympathetic words. What she’d feared the most had become a reality. The cold, hard fact was hers, and only hers, to deal with. The death of a loved one left the bereaved with no choice, no escape or hiding place—only the searing, raw pain of loss.

  She floundered in this newfound knowledge, swaying back and forth, sobbing uncontrollably. The full impact of her dereliction—wasting time in that silly hotel, meeting that silly man—was taking hold of her to a high degree. The whys and reprimands rained down, as a tremendous feeling of guilt swept over her. How could she have been so foolish, so selfish?

  And so she wept on and on, the room and the nurse and her whole world dissolving and drifting farther and farther away—an untethered balloon in a vast gray emptiness rising higher and higher. She heard the ambient sounds of the hospital and the world beyond the window, a seemingly random blend of lives being lived, and knew in those fearful, helpless moments that she’d reached a turning point. A point that, no matter how painful, was lit by the knowledge that she would only undergo it once. The loss of a mother is a singular and incomparable event. Such understanding gave relief. But oh so very, very little.

  She did not know how long she sat in the vacant room with the indifferent nurse, or at what point she’d blacked out.

  All future attempts she’d make to recollect those events—between her mother’s death and burial—would remain misted over and obscured, as if seen through sun-thronged glass; blindingly real but never fully recalled or understood. Perhaps it was best that way. She was thankful for the comfort of amnesia.

  The Reverend Spencer, her father’s much younger successor, conducted the funeral service. He was a tall, thin man who held himself like a length of driftwood, his vestments seeming to weigh as heavily on him as his solemn office.

  Lydia and Gladys sat in the front pew, and before them lay Elizabeth—wife, sister, mother—all her earthly titles stilled to that one last image: the mahogany casket.

  Around them were disposed Mrs. Devine’s elderly friends, spread out and brought together with their memories and tears, singing their hymns in cracked voices, their faces sagging with the knowledge that the time left to them, too, was finite.

  At the graveside Lydia and Gladys stood arm in arm, watching the rain splashing down on the casket, their eyes misting with tears as Elizabeth was slowly lowered to her rest.

  It was somehow appropriate that the sun did not shine, that the birds did not sing, that what should have been a bright August afternoon had given itself over to a wintry, doom-laden grayness. God himself was in sympathy. Why should the day smile when there was so much sorrow to be borne?

  After the funeral, Gladys insisted on remaining for a week with Lydia at Elmwood. Even though her niece would have preferred to have faced the inevitable loneliness of her new situation by herself, and as soon as possible, she knew that to voice her true feelings would be churlish. All attempts by such well-meaning people—Daphne with her invitations to lunch, Beatrice Bohilly’s offer to help her dispose of her mother’s clothes, the young vicar’s words of consolation—made her appreciate that she had real friends and that perhaps the empty space her mother’s passing had left behind might well be the door to a less fearful place, where she was free to be herself and not just an adjunct, an accessory. After all, with her mother’s death came the death of dependence and the birth of an anxious freedom. Freedom. Was it not what she’d always craved?

  “Perhaps you should take time off school, Lily dear.”

  Gladys sat in the chintz drawing room, in Elizabeth’s favorite armchair, a glass of
gin and tonic—her nightcap—on the occasional table, within easy reach.

  She looked like a voluptuous concubine in a shogun’s palace: resplendent in a crimson kimono patterned with copper dragons and golden serpents. On her feet she wore frail mules crested with waving plumes of ostrich feather. Lydia stared down at them now as her aunt spoke.

  “Take time off,” she said again. “After all, they can get a replacement for a week or two, until you get back on your feet.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Work would take my mind off things.”

  Lydia had one week left of her school vacation. She sat twisting a button on her cardigan, the cup of cocoa which Gladys had prepared for her going cold on the coffee table. She was caught between not wanting to appear helpless—in which case Gladys would take it upon herself to remain another week, a scenario she did not want to even imagine—and not wishing to seem ungrateful.

  “You could stay a couple of weeks with me,” Gladys said. “It would lift your spirits.” She put the ebony cigarette holder to her lips and inhaled deeply, then laid it across the ashtray.

  “Gladys, you know I couldn’t do that. Our holiday with you was the last my mother and I had.” She took a hankie from her sleeve as the tears started again. “The Ocean Spray would be too soon and too painful for me.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose you’re right. But you know the sooner you come to terms with these things the better. It doesn’t do to mope about. After all, you’re a big girl now.”

  “Am I not allowed to grieve?” Lydia glared, not caring for her aunt’s tone.

  Gladys shrugged. “Grieve all you like, Lily dear. It won’t bring her back.” She took up the cigarette again.

  “What a heartless thing to say. I know you and Mother didn’t see eye to eye, but grief is a natural reaction to the death of someone you love. Where is your sorrow, Gladys? After all, she was your sister.”