The music began; as I listened to the procession of notes, my mind stood still. My head slipped back onto my shoulders, but Matthew was too immersed in the music to notice.
Afterwards, there was tea and sandwiches in the garden behind the church, because it was the last concert of the season. First, we queued up to buy a cassette for the car. Our concert neighbour was now ahead of us in the queue. She was small and round, with a mass of curly brown hair that hid her face. The sunlight transformed her into a shimmering purple haze. A gust of wind blew her scarf to the ground. It was much thinner than the ones I wore in winter. Matthew bent to pick it up.
“Oh, thank you,” she said. “Excuse me; I must pay for my tape.”
There was also a big queue for the tea and sandwiches. The woman wasn’t in it. Ladies wearing large hats and soft cardigans admired my sailor dress and remarked on how attentive I was during the concert. They said the same things every week. I tried not to squirm as they patted my head with their gloved hands and compared my hair to silk.
Matthew took a plate of sandwiches and a cup of coffee to a table. I followed behind with my cup of water, careful not to spill it.
“I can procure you some refreshments if you wish,” Matthew said.
I was about to remind him that we already had sandwiches when I realised he was talking to the purple woman, who was standing behind us. Matthew never talked to the people at the concerts, even though they always wanted to talk to him.
“Oh no. There’s no need to go to any trouble. I’ve already had lunch. Anyway, they have so many people to serve.”
“Nonsense. They have nothing better to do.”
He turned back towards the refreshments table. I adjusted my hat, which was slipping over my eyes. It was always doing that.
“My name is Astrid,” I said to the woman, to fill the space left by Matthew.
“Nice to meet you, Astrid.”
I waited for her to pat my head, but she shook my hand instead.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Ora.”
“Is that spelt A-u-r-a?”
She laughed. Her laugh tinkled.
“Not quite. It begins with an ‘O’.”
Matthew came back with the refreshments and gave them to the woman. The plate and cup wobbled in her hands.
“The hungry masses are thinning out, so it wasn’t too difficult to obtain these.”
The woman smiled and thanked him, but then she put the plate and cup down on the table and didn’t touch them. For a moment, nobody said anything, then Ora broke the silence.
“Maybe you could tell me your name, since you went to the trouble of getting me all this food.”
“Dr Matthew Johnson. Pleased to meet you.”
He shook her hand. Then he reached for his cup and drank most of the coffee in one gulp.
“So how old are you, Astrid?” Ora asked.
“Nine and five-sixths,” I told her with a flourish.
She laughed again. I didn’t know why. It was my age after all.
“Ten in November,” Matthew added.
There was a frog in his throat.
“Aren’t you lucky you didn’t have to start school today?”
“Don’t go to school.”
“Oh! Don’t you?”
“I educate her,” Matthew said, before I could reply.
“Goodness. That’s wonderful.”
“Yes, this concert is part of our educational programme. We’ve been to all the concerts in the series. I take it this is your first one?”
“Yes. I’m not from here, you see. I was in the area. It was such a lovely surprise to find out it was on. Did you enjoy it?”
“Vivaldi is tolerable, I suppose. Are you familiar with the works of J.S. Bach?”
Matthew started talking about the Bach pieces on the tape. The woman fiddled with the end of her scarf. He talked for a long time and my legs became restless.
“Matthew, I want to listen to the tape,” I said, tugging his sleeve.
“Oh,” he said, in the voice he used when I interrupted his sample collecting. “Right. Yes.”
He rummaged in his pocket. The car keys jangled. He thrust the keys and tape at me.
“You remember where the car is?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I won’t be long.”
He started talking to the woman again, in a voice too low for me to catch the words.
The car was warm from the sun. I slid the tape into the machine and lay down on the back seat. I recognised the music from the records we listened to in the evenings, on the record player that Matthew said was an antique. Matthew said Bach was good for my brain. He didn’t like any other music. The soothing sounds washed over me. My eyes grew heavy and I let them rest.
A hand touched my shoulder. Laughter floated towards me from a distance: Matthew’s rumbling laugh and a gentle, tinkling laugh. The purple woman’s laugh. Aura spelt with an ‘O.’ She was standing beside Matthew, peering into the back seat. Keeping my eyes shut, I fumbled for my shades, which were on the floor.
“Sorry we were so long,” Ora said. “We were walking in the garden. Matthew was showing me all the plants. He knew all their proper names; it was amazing.”
Matthew didn’t like it when people called him by his first name. I waited for him to correct Ora. But he didn’t.
“Pity you missed it,” she went on.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve already seen the garden lots of times.”
She smiled.
“I suppose you have.”
Ora gave Matthew a piece of paper, which he put in the space between the seats.
“It’s not going to be at four on the dot,” she said, as Matthew and I put on our safety belts. “There’ll be a speech at half four. But there’ll be refreshments and you can look around.”
“I have various work commitments to attend to next week.”
“Well, if you wanted to come, you know...”
Her hair hid her voice.
“Yes. Thank you. Goodbye.”
Matthew started the car. The gears groaned in protest as it shot forward. He held tight to the steering wheel.
“What does she mean, not at four on the dot?” I asked Matthew.
“Her photographic exhibition is opening next Tuesday week in the municipal library. She thought we might like to go to it.”
“Could we?”
“We may be in Dublin next week.”
I didn’t say anything more. Matthew liked to concentrate when he was driving.
“I’ll be postponing your introduction to the Latin tongue,” Matthew said, as we ate our lunchtime stew. “We’ll be going to the library instead.”
“Why?”
Matthew always said that routine greased the wheels of life. A change to our lesson plan was an unexpected treat.
“I’ve heard they’ve made some interesting acquisitions in their wildlife section.”
“But you said their book collection was paltry.”
“Yes, well I have it on good authority that they’ve received some interesting papers from the Wexford Birdwatching Society. They might be worth a look.”
As I brought my plate to the sink, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. It was covered in stew marks. The writing was big, so it was easy to read.
“Look, Matthew, it’s the concert lady’s exhibition. We can go and see it after all.”
Matthew cleared his throat.
“Oh yes. We may look in,” he said.
After lunch, Matthew told me to wait for him in the car. When he came out, he was wearing his Dublin suit, the black one with shiny patches on the material. He wore his white shirt underneath. His hair looked different too. It
was pushed back from his forehead and it glistened. He smelled of chemicals; the smell tickled my nostrils.
The pictures were hanging on the brick walls in the library’s exhibition area. Ora was already there, surrounded by a cluster of people. Most were women wearing scarves that fluttered like hers. They buzzed around her in a swarm. Matthew didn’t go over to her. He handed me a plastic cup filled with water and took one for himself. We stood in front of each picture while Matthew scrutinised them. I craned my neck and tried to look at them too, but they were hung too high, the colours and shapes danced out of reach. So Matthew described them to me instead. All the pictures were of children playing on beaches, on patches of waste ground, by busy roads. There were colours everywhere. The last picture was of a little girl who stared in wonder at a rainbow in a puddle. Matthew explained that the rainbow effect was caused by contact between car oil and water. As he spoke, the hum of voices stilled. All I heard was the sound of footsteps. Matthew carried on talking, but I turned around. Ora was standing there.
“Hello there. I wasn’t expecting to see you,” she said.
Matthew stopped mid-sentence and whipped his head around.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “Well, we happened to be doing some research in the library, so we were in the vicinity.”
“I’m so glad you could come.”
She smiled. Little dimples appeared at the sides of her mouth.
“What do you think of them?”
“Well, I don’t profess myself to be an expert in photography, but the juxtaposition between subject and location is interesting. You appear to have a gift for catching people at unguarded moments.”
“I like the rainbow made out of car oil,” I said.
She laughed. Then she made a loud swallowing sound.
“I hate to disturb you, but we’re trying to start the speeches.”
“Oh. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt proceedings.”
I was surprised to hear Matthew apologising. He didn’t like being told what to do. And he didn’t like speeches either. We stood at the back of the room while they were being given. As soon as they were over, Matthew strode towards the double doors at the entrance to the library. He moved so fast that I had to run to catch up with him. There was a noticeboard on the wall near the doors. As I reached it, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Just a moment.”
It was Ora. Matthew was already at the second set of double doors.
“Hurry up, Astrid, you know I despise malingerers.”
“Matthew, Ora wants to talk to us.”
Matthew paused, leaning on the door handle. His breath was loud, even though he wasn’t running. He turned and walked back towards us.
“I won’t keep you, Matthew. I just thought...” Ora took a deep breath. “I could show the prints of the photographs to Astrid. She might find it easier, you know. She could get a better look.”
“I suppose they were a little out of her reach,” said Matthew.
“Now?” I asked.
“Of course not now,” said Matthew. “Come for lunch. Next week. If you’re in the area, of course.”
My jaw gaped open. No one came to our house except for Mrs O’Brien and she was gone now.
“I’ll be delivering photos on Monday morning. Maybe after that, if it’s all right.”
“Very good.”
Matthew rummaged in his briefcase and produced a torn-up piece of paper and a pen. He wrote on the paper. When I bent over to look at the paper, I saw our telephone number. Matthew never gave our telephone number to strangers. As he handed her the paper, it fell on the ground. They both reached down to get it and their hands bumped against each other.
“Let us know what time you’ll be arriving,” he said.
“I’ll do that. Thank you so much. I must go.”
She returned to the throng, her purple scarf streaming behind her. Matthew didn’t leave straight away. He turned back towards the doors and stood very still, the way he did when he was observing fish in the rockpools.
The sunny weather was gone now. Clouds dripped warm rain in a constant stream. The heavy air made my brain sluggish, as I toiled over unyielding fractions. It took longer than usual to finish the questions. I expected Matthew to be impatient with my efforts, but he just looked at my paper and put it down.
“We’ll tackle this later. Let’s work on those samples instead.”
Delighted with the reprieve, I went to get the silver bucket, where the seaweeds awaited inspection. They were almost dry now. I brought them into the kitchen and let them spill onto the table. As always, I was tempted to burst the pods that lurked underneath the fronds. But now I knew the reason why it made Matthew cross; it destroyed the sample. Matthew was on the telephone. He was saying Ora’s name. I remembered that she was coming for lunch. There was a frog in his throat again. When he finished, he came into the kitchens.
“Begin the sorting process. I have to start lunch.”
Matthew always gave me work to do while he was making the stew. The task of sorting the samples absorbed my attention. Matthew was teaching me the Latin names for the seaweeds. As I worked, I recited them, relishing their twists and turns, the shapes my tongue made. Matthew’s spoon stabbed the bottom of the saucepan as he stirred the stew. When I finished, I brought the silver bucket out to the small room where the washing machine was kept. As I set it down, I heard a faint thump. It came from the front of the house. I went back into the kitchen.
“Matthew, did you hear that noise?”
“Astrid, please don’t distract me while I’m cooking.”
There was another thump, louder this time, loud enough for Matthew to hear it too. Someone was knocking at our front door.
“Ah. You’re right. Our guest has arrived.”
Matthew wiped his hands. Then he ran them through his hair, which was sticking up at the front.
“I didn’t realise it was so late. Go and answer it.”
I had to pull hard at the front door to open it because it was stiff. By the time I managed to open it, Matthew was standing behind me. He was wearing different clothes, a white shirt and a pair of grey pants. He smelled of chemicals again. His hair didn’t stick up any more.
“You’re most welcome to our home,” he said.
He stood aside to let Ora pass, pulling me with him. Damp trails of hair clung to her face. She carried a lot of paper bags, which were covered in large splodges of rain. Matthew reached over to take them from her.
“Find the way all right?” he said. “I hope my instructions weren’t too labyrinthine.”
“No. I asked in the village. All I had to do was mention the road and they knew it was your house.”
“I have no doubt they did.”
In the kitchen, she opened the bags. They contained a plant with purple flowers which matched her scarf, a hunk of cheese which smelled of old socks and a folder which I guessed contained the photographs. Matthew put the plant on the window. As he placed the cheese on the top shelf of the fridge, Ora reached over and took it out.
“I’m so sorry, it’s just it’ll lose its consistency in the fridge. Have you got a press to put it in?”
“Oh, yes of course. Astrid, put it in our food drawer. I didn’t realise.”
“I was a caterer before, you see.”
“Then I’ll bow to your expertise on this matter. We should eat. This thing is as ready as it’s likely to be.”
I took out plates and knives. Ora sat beside Matthew at the table and I faced them. There was less space at the table than usual. The seaweed lay in neat piles at the other end, waiting for Matthew’s scrutiny. We ate our stew and washed it down with water. Ora said she liked the stew. She ate all of it except for the lumps, which she stacked in a neat pile at the side of the plate. Matthew talked all th
e way through the meal, about the samples he was collecting and our lessons. Ora kept asking him questions. She sounded confused, because Matthew was using all the long words he used when he talked to the people in Dublin. He appeared not to hear her. At last, he stopped. We all stared down at our empty plates.
“Did you partake in any interesting activities at the weekend?” Matthew asked.
“Well, my son came home. It was his first weekend home.”
“Home from where?” I asked.
“He’s away at school,” she said. “He comes home every second weekend.”
“That must have been pleasant for you,” said Matthew.
“Oh, it was lovely. But it was hard, you know, dropping him back.”
Her hair fell in front of her face. She sniffed and fumbled in her handbag.
“Have you got a cold?” I asked her.
Matthew reached in his pocket and took out his handkerchief. He put it on the table in front of her and began gathering the plates, clattering the knives and forks together.
“Astrid, help me with these,” he said, his voice louder than usual. “Then go inside and look at those pictures Ora was kind enough to bring for you. We’ll follow you.”
I sat in a chair by the fireplace, Ora’s folder in my lap. I opened it and flicked through the pictures. Without Matthew’s narrative skills, they failed to hold my attention. I waited for Matthew and Ora to come in, but they didn’t. The murmur of their voices drifted towards me. I set the folder down at my feet and stole an opportunity to immerse myself in Treasure Island, which I was only allowed to read at night, after all our work was done. I finished two chapters before Matthew and Ora came back in.
“Goodness, we didn’t even notice the time passing,” said Ora. “Hope you enjoyed the photographs.”
I snatched up the folder and covered the book with it.
“Oh yes,” I said. “They were very interesting.”
“I dabbled in a little photography during my time in Africa,” said Matthew. “My efforts were somewhat amateurish, but I’m going to make the bold assumption that they may be of interest to you.”
The Pink Cage Page 8