“It was a pity about the change in the weather though,” Declan commented. “I was beginning to feel we were back home in Ireland.”
“Oh, it didn’t hold us back,” Maggie pointed out. “Martin drove us all around, and his wife is a grand baker. We had home-baked soda bread – imagine! Soda bread in America. They’ve some kind of shop that has a lot of the Irish things in it. I got a good few recipes off Catherine, so I’ll try my hand at them when I get home.”
“You needn’t wait until you go back home,” Jean told her. “You have my oven at your disposal, and we’re all willing to be guinea pigs, especially if there’s chocolate in any of the recipes.”
“Begod,” Maggie said, “I just might have a go at one tomorrow. Mind you, we may have to go to the shops for some of the ingredients. I’d like to go back to that wool shop in town anyway.” She gave a little sniff. “Catherine’s not a knitter, unfortunately, so we didn’t find any decent shops for wool. I think I’ll go back to the one in Binghampton. It was about the best I’ve seen so far.”
Any time the conversation veered towards what Aisling had been doing while they were away, she carefully switched it back by quizzing them all about their trip.
“It sounds as though Martin’s wife is very nice,” she said. “Are they planning a visit over to Ireland some time?”
There was a silence. “Well,” Maggie said, “I don’t know what kind of reception she would get if she came over.”
“Or Martin for that matter,” Declan said with a sigh.
“What do you mean?” Aisling asked.
“Well,” Maggie said again, “it’s the religion part for one thing and then . . .” She hesitated for a few moments. “Well, she’s not just American . . . she’s got what you’d describe as a well-tanned skin. Too well-tanned, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you mean she’s foreign?” Jean asked. “Mixed race?”
“Something like that,” Maggie said. “Not that I would be against coloured people myself . . . we had a very nice black missionary priest at the church last year. It’s more the religion bit that’s the problem – she doesn’t seem to have any.” She dug Declan in the ribs. “What did she call herself?”
Declan looked vague. “A humanist . . . or a humanitarian or some such thing.”
“Anyway,” Maggie rattled on, “she’s a very nice woman, and her colour and religion are not my business.”
Aisling could feel her face starting to burn. “Other people’s religions have nothing to do with us,” she said pointedly.
Maggie looked at Declan and raised her eyebrows. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Aisling. Sure, that’s exactly what I’ve just been saying.” She gave a little sniff. “It’d be different if it was my own family, but thanks be to God, for once it’s not.”
Aisling’s heart dropped like a stone. Nothing had changed. The holiday in America and staying with Bruce and meeting Martin’s wife had made not an iota of difference to her mother’s outlook. It was still firmly rooted in the small-minded ways of back home.
“We went to see the Statue of Liberty,” Declan said, changing the subject.
“And New York City,” Maggie gasped. “You wouldn’t know where to begin describing it, but your father bought a nice book with pictures of all the places we went to.” She leaned forward and tapped Aisling’s shoulder. “It’s a great pity you missed it. You would have loved seeing New York.”
“Maybe I’ll get to see it another time,” Aisling said, in as bright a voice as she could muster.
But inside she wondered what her mother would have to say if she announced that she was planning a trip to New York with Jameson Carroll. That, she knew only too well, would be quite a different matter.
The next few days passed fairly quickly with visits to more places and more people. The temperature had continued to fluctuate, hot in the day and then plunging down to fairly cool in the evenings accompanied by showery weather.
Jean kept apologising for the change in the weather, as though she were responsible for it, and explaining that it was most unusual for the time of year.
Aisling spent the time when she was in the house either reading or watching the American television channels – anything to keep her mind off the big white house at the other side of the lake.
“Is everything all right, Aisling?” her mother asked, when she came upon her staring out at the rain-splattered window. “You’re not homesick, are you?”
“I’m fine,” Aisling said, turning back to her book, “and I’m definitely not homesick.”
A while later Maggie came bustling back into the sitting-room. “Jean says you have to phone Oliver. She says you’ll feel better after that.” Her voice dropped. “To tell you the truth I’m getting a bit homesick myself. I’d like to hear how they’re doing up at the house and the shop.”
Aisling stifled a sigh of annoyance, but she got to her feet and went into the hall to the phone. It rang out. She tried several times later that afternoon, checking the time difference for Ireland, but there was still no reply.
The following evening, with Maggie almost glued to her elbow, she tried again. Just as Maggie had stuck her ear to the phone to check for herself, it was finally picked up.
“Yes?” Oliver’s self-assured tones echoed over the line.
By the time Aisling had the phone back, she found herself flustered and not quite knowing what to say to this husband of hers, whom she had neither spoken to or thought about for what seemed an awful long time.
“Hello, Oliver . . . I’m sorry for not . . .”
But before she could say another word, his voice cut through.
“Aisling, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to ring – but I’ve been caught up with the play. Have you been trying to get through to me?”
“Just a few times,” she said, trying to put some feeling into her voice. “It doesn’t matter . . . as long as there’s nothing wrong.”
“No, no,” Oliver said, “Indeed no. There’s nothing wrong at all.” There was silence for a few seconds. Then, he said quickly. “Are you having a good time? What’s the weather like out there?”
“Fine,” Aisling said automatically, despite the rain. “Is everything OK back home? Pauline and Charles and Bernadette?”
“Grand. I’ve called in regularly. Charles is making a grand job of running things with Pauline and Peenie keeping an eye on him. And little Bernadette is the finest, running around the place and wrapping everyone around her little finger.” He said nothing about the holy statue episode. That could wait until they got back home. “And the weather’s not too bad. The odd drop of rain as usual, like.”
“And your play?” she checked, still aware of her mother hovering around.
“Oh, that went off well,” he said. “We got a great crowd, and a very fair write-up in the local papers.”
“Oh, I’m delighted for you,” Aisling said, her voice pitched unnaturally high to sound enthusiastic for her mother’s sake. She was rewarded by a smile appearing on Maggie’s worried face, before she disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Sure, it’s not too long until you’re due back home now, is it?”
“No . . . around . . .” A picture of Jameson Carroll crept into her mind, and she could hardly get the words out, “around another week or so.”
“A week?” Oliver’s tone was high with surprise. “I thought it was nearer a fortnight . . .”
“Sorry,” Aisling corrected herself. “It is actually around a fortnight . . . counting the travelling and everything.”
“Oh, right . . . a fortnight then.” Oliver repeated. “Well,” he said in a brighter tone, “you’ve nothing to worry about – I’ll be at there at the airport, waiting for ye all.”
“That’s good of you,” Aisling said quietly.
“I’ve got the times all written down and everything,” he said, as though he was talking to one of his commercial salesman. “So you’ve nothing to worry about at all.”
&nb
sp; There was silence for a few seconds. “So . . .” he said, sort of awkwardly. “I won’t waste your phone bill . . . chatting on. Tell your mother and father that I’m asking for them . . . and that I hope ye all enjoy the rest of your holiday.”
“I will,” Aisling said.
“Goodbye to you all now.” The line clicked and he was gone.
“There you are now!” Maggie’s face was beaming when Aisling went back into the kitchen. “You’ll feel the better for speaking to Oliver.” She smiled triumphantly at her sister. “Did he say how things were going at the shop, and what the weather was like? And if there was any news? Nobody dead or anything since we left?”
Aisling took a deep breath. “Everybody’s fine back at the shop. The weather’s not too bad, Oliver’s play went well and got a great write-up, and he’ll be there to pick us up from the airport.”
“So, nobody died at all?” Maggie said, sounding almost disappointed. “Oh, well . . . as long as he doesn’t forget to pick us up the day we land home.”
“Oh, Maggie!” Jean said, catching Aisling’s eye and winking. “Don’t be talking about going home just yet. We’ve lots of things we still haven’t done.”
Later on, when Declan and Maggie had gone into the sitting-room to write some postcards, Aisling poured her heart out to her aunt in the kitchen.
“Oh, Jean,” she whispered, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. The time’s flying so fast . . . and before I know it, I’m going to be saying goodbye to Jameson.”
“You still have some time left together,” Jean said, touching her arm.
“No,” Aisling shook her head, and Jean could see the tears forming. “He’s in New York now, and even when he comes back . . . I don’t know how we’re going to see each other again . . .”
“How does he feel about you now, Aisling? How serious has it got?”
“Very serious,” Aisling said softly. “I’ve no doubts at all about his feelings. He loves me . . . and I love him, Jean.” Her hands came up to cover her face, and she struggled against the flood of tears that were threatening.
“Oh, honey,” Jean commiserated, stroking her hair. “I feel so awful about all this – if you hadn’t come out to the wedding, you wouldn’t be suffering so much now.”
Aisling shook her head. “No, you’re wrong. Coming to America has made me waken up to what was happening in my life . . . I couldn’t keep closing my eyes to Oliver and what he was getting up to. That’s why I came away for the summer in the first place. I think I was hoping he’d make the decision and walk away. I was leaving it to him, because I was afraid of what people would say if I took the decision to destroy our marriage.”
“When you say ‘people’, Aisling . . . you really mean your mother, don’t you?”
Aisling nodded. “Well . . . she’s the main one. I could probably face my father and Pauline and Charles . . . but it would kill Mammy.”
“Look at me, Aisling,” Jean said in a firm tone, and she waited until Aisling’s watery eyes met hers. “You’re wrong – I don’t think it would kill your mother at all.”
Aisling moved across the kitchen floor to close the door tightly.
“Your mother,” Jean stated, “is flesh and blood – same as the rest of us! Whether she likes it or not, other people have to make their own decisions in life.” Her face softened a little. “Now, she’s my sister, and I grew up with her . . . but she’s no saint. If she was, her first thoughts would be for other people – not for herself.”
“It’s just the way she is,” Aisling heard herself say weakly “It’s the way things are with everyone back home. Sometimes, I think I’m a bit inclined that way myself.”
“Oh, tosh!” Jean snapped. “Maggie’s just the way she is because people let her be that way! I’d actually forgotten how selfish she really is. Haven’t you noticed that she wants to dictate to us all what time we eat, when we eat and what we eat! She really would like to be a dictator if she got the chance. I can tell the way she talks about your brother and sister that she is trying to dictate their lives as well.”
“She doesn’t mean any harm,” Aisling said.
“Harm bedamned!” Jean stated. “If I hadn’t stood up to my own mother and people like Maggie, I would have missed out on a lovely man like Bruce. And I’m not fooled, Aisling . . . she’s only happy to see me because we live so far away, and there’s nobody that really knows us both. It would be a very different story if Bruce and I started coming to Ireland every summer. A very different story.”
Aisling’s head and shoulders drooped. “I know what you’re saying,” she admitted, “but it’s not all about Mammy. How would I face the people at school, the people who come into the shop?”
“Oh, Aisling,” Jean said with a weary smile, “that’s what you call taking responsibility for your own life. Having the courage to make decisions for yourself.” She covered Aisling’s hand with her own. “Now, although I don’t share your mother’s fervent religious views, I do believe that God gave us all free will. There would be no point in us having a mind and a brain if we didn’t use it. Look at the Bible stories – Mary having an illegitimate child and Joseph marrying her even though everyone knew it wasn’t his child. He went against all the rules and regulations of his culture, didn’t he?”
Aisling nodded, not entirely understanding what her aunt was getting at.
“To find out what’s right for you,” Jean said, “you have to follow your own heart and conscience.”
“I know exactly what’s right for me,” Aisling whispered. “It’s finding the right thing for everyone else that’s the big problem.”
“You’ll never please everyone,” Jean said, “so if you really want something – go for it. Just wait for the right time. Like most mothers, your mother is a lot stronger than you think.” She suddenly gave a wry grin. “D’you know . . . it’s just dawned on me that this household has now changed into a replica of hers in just a couple of weeks. We’re all doing things exactly the way she likes, because it’s easier than arguing with her.”
The conversation came to a sudden halt as Maggie’s feet came tapping along the hallway. She stuck her head in the door. “That film you were on about earlier is on the television in five minutes, Jean.” She looked suspiciously from her sister to her daughter, and then headed over to the kettle. “Would either of you like a cup of tea before it starts?”
“Thanks, Maggie – but no,” Jean said in a decisive manner, “but you have whatever you fancy yourselves. There’s some nice cookies in a box there, too.” She went to the drinks cupboard and lifted out a bottle of Martini and another of gin. “Bruce and I often have cocktails at this time of the evening, and we seem to have got out of the habit since you heavy tea-drinkers arrived.”
“Cocktails?” Maggie said in a high, disapproving voice. “I wouldn’t thank you for alcohol. Tea suits me just fine. I’m not hard to please.” She rummaged in the cupboard for mugs.
“As I said, Maggie,” Jean said in a sharper tone, “you’re welcome to have what pleases you. I often have a cocktail when I’m preparing dinner, but with us eating much earlier since you’ve come, I’ve kinda got out of the habit. Still, I suppose we can have them after dinner just as easily as before.”
Ignoring Maggie’s disapproval, Jean started sorting out all the different ingredients and checking that the cocktail mixer was put together properly. “Aisling, honey,” she said now, “would you mind getting me a bag of ice, and some slices of lemon and limes from the fridge, please? They’re in a little round container with a lid. Now that I’ve started, I want to do this right.”
Maggie opened the box of cookies, and peered inside. Thank God, she thought lifting out some vanilla buns, cakes and biscuits were one thing you could rely on in America.At least they got that right. She put two big spoonfuls of tea into the teapot. The giddy way Jean was carrying on, she would need good, strong tea.
Aisling handed over the bag of crushed ice and the container with t
he sliced fruit. “Thanks, honey,” said Jean, adding ice to the mixture, then giving the container a few good vigorous shakes, “and that little jar of olives in the fridge door, please. Bruce likes his Martinis with those.” She handed the container to Aisling. “Give it a good, youthful shake, while I sort out glasses.” She looked over her shoulder. “Sure you won’t change your mind, Maggie?”
Maggie’s brows came down and her lips set in a hard line. “No . . . no. You and Bruce do whatever ye’re used to, but tea’s fine for the rest of us.”
“I’m going to have a cocktail,” Aisling suddenly said. “I really fancy something different for a change.” She gave the container a last shake, then set it down beside her aunt. “I’ll just check if Daddy wants a cold drink or tea –”
“No need!” Maggie said, but Aisling was already out in the hall. She came back a few moments later to say that both men would love cocktails while watching the film.
Shortly afterwards, ignoring a stony-faced Maggie, Jean and Aisling loaded up trays with drinks and salted pretzels and biscuits.
“For once,” Jean said, with a twinkle in her eye, “we’re going to watch a movie, American-style.” She put her arms around Aisling. “I know it’s not as nice as spending an evening with Jameson Carroll . . . but a weepy movie and a couple of cocktails is a nice ending to any day. Who knows what tomorrow might bring?”
The effects of the slow-moving film coupled with the unaccustomed drinks made Aisling feel sleepy. She headed off to bed around midnight, and after a short while she fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke some hours later, it was to the sound of heavy rain battering against her slightly open window and the low howl of wind. For a few moments she felt disorientated and thought she was back in Ireland. Then, as awareness dawned, she threw back the quilt and padded over to the window to close it.
As she stood stretching on tiptoes, she could just see the tops of the trees in the garden in the bright moonlight. She looked out at the swaying, dripping branches and wondered if Jameson was back home yet. In his white house . . . just five minutes’ walk away.
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