Wise Follies

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  ‘So, how’s your garden, Liam?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, all right I suppose,’ he answers unenthusiastically, as he removes a woman’s pink blouse from the drier. That’s all he’s going to say. He’s almost ignoring me. I begin to feel rather uncomfortable. It’s best to try to keep on good terms with one’s neighbours.

  ‘I’m sorry I was a bit off-hand with you earlier,’ I say. ‘But I was a bit preoccupied about something.’

  ‘Yes, you certainly were,’ he replies, making no attempt at tact. Americans can be so blunt sometimes.

  ‘Well, anyway, I’m sorry if I appeared rude,’ I continue, ‘I’m not usually like that.’

  ‘You said what you felt, Alice.’ He turns to me and gives me a placatory smile. ‘There’s no need to apologize for being honest. I “vant to be alone” sometimes myself.’

  ‘Well, I just thought I’d explain,’ I say, picking up my blue plastic bag and lugging it towards the door.

  ‘And I’m glad you did,’ he replies, as he begins to stuff his clean clothes into a large Nike sports bag.

  Once I get outside I begin to wish I’d brought another bag with me. The one I have is rather old and the plastic around the handles has stretched. How silly I was not to check it before I came out. Eamon would have. He’s such a very methodical person. I lift it gingerly and, just as I’m about to head home, I hear a thud and look down to see that my plastic bag, sans handle, has landed on the pavement. I grab my bra, which has escaped, and stuff it back. Then I pick up the bag and attempt to hug it to my chest. I wish my arms were longer. My hands are sweaty now and are slipping on the plastic. As I start to walk away in a splayed-footed duck-like fashion I sense someone is watching me and turn around. Oh no, I should have guessed it, Liam is watching me. He’s laughing. ‘Would you like a lift, Alice?’ he is now asking.

  I stare at him, flustered. In normal circumstances there is no way I’d want to share a car with Liam, but I’d better say ‘Yes’ if I’m ever going to get this laundry home. I approach his Citroёn slowly. Then, as he opens the passenger door, I have a sudden desire to flee. To drop my laundry and race away down the almost empty street. It’s ridiculous. What is it about Liam that makes me so uncomfortable? So defensive? It’s as if I’m frightened of him for some reason, but surely there’s no need to be. After a conspicuous hesitation I enter the car gingerly. This makes Liam smile. When he looks at me from his upstairs window he sometimes smiles like that. I stare ahead stoically, determined not to share his amusement. It’s just a short drive home. Surely I can put up with his company for ten minutes. As Liam stuffs my laundry bag into the back seat I say ‘thank you’ in a prim, polite manner.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he replies in the bland tones of an airline steward, though he is grinning at me mischievously. As he climbs into the driving seat he adds, ‘Sorry that the car’s so untidy. I’ve been meaning to give it a good clean for ages.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I reply. ‘You should see my cottage.’

  ‘I’d very much like to see your cottage, Alice,’ he answers, deliberately misinterpreting my remark it seems to me. I stare out of the window grimly. Then, as Liam switches on the ignition, I almost jump out of my seat. He must have been playing the radio at full blast when he drove here, because it’s now blaring so loudly I put my hands to my ears.

  ‘Sorry,’ he grimaces, turning the dial to a civilized volume. As he does so I recognize the song that is now filling the car. It’s k d lang singing ‘Constant Craving’ and it’s reminding me of James Mitchel. I look down at my lap sadly. I really don’t want to hear that song right now. Not here. Out of the corner of my eye I see Liam giving me a swift, studious glance. Goodness, he’s turning the radio off. I didn’t even have to say it. He must be very perceptive. Maybe that’s what drew Elsie to him. There must be some reason they stay together, despite their infidelities.

  ‘Mrs Peabody is a great old character, isn’t she?’ Liam is now commenting as we take the coast road homewards. I look out at the sea. The sea changes colour at least ten times a day. I love looking at it – charting its changes.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ I agree.

  ‘She talks a lot about you.’

  ‘Mmmm – I suspected as much,’ I sigh. I wonder what on earth she’s been saying. I decide not to ask.

  ‘She really gets into the old Harvey’s sometimes, doesn’t she?’ Liam continues.

  ‘Ah – so you’ve noticed that too,’ I smile. He’s obviously shared a number of sherries with her, like me. ‘It’s best to hold on to your glass,’ I add. ‘That way she can’t keep refilling it.’

  ‘Yes, I kind of sussed that one, Alice.’

  I look at him with muted warmth. Sharing this car with him isn’t quite as uncomfortable as I’d thought it would be. He’s not being so forward now, so brazen. Even the leather patches on his faded tweed jacket don’t seem so irritating anymore. He’s obviously not going to try to turn me into one of his infidelities. I’m too old for him anyway. He wouldn’t fancy me at all. Amazingly I’m feeling quite comfortable with him. Almost cosy. ‘What do you make of Cyril and Dora?’ I enquire, mainly to be conversational.

  ‘A definite case for no-fault divorce,’ Liam says firmly. ‘Though, of course, I haven’t been able to tell Mrs Peabody this. She’s convinced that they are “love birds”.’

  ‘Yes. She keeps telling me they are “company for each other”, but frankly I think Cyril was happier on his own.’

  ‘You know something, Alice?’ Liam says, turning to me earnestly. ‘Sometimes I feel like sneaking into her sitting-room and letting them both out. I hate to see any creature in a cage, but they’re used to it now – and they like their birdseed. Anyway, they’d need a warmer climate.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I agree, almost forgetting my previous awkwardness. It’s rather a relief to have someone to discuss all this with. Mira has never been that close to Mrs Peabody. She doesn’t have that many other visitors. ‘I was the one who encouraged her to get the larger cage for them,’ I add, speaking quickly.

  ‘It’s a very nice cage,’ Liam comments. ‘Almost a little aviary.’

  ‘Yes, it is nice,’ I agree. ‘But I’m afraid it doesn’t quite make up for the Australian outback.’

  We’re almost at my street now. As Liam changes gear his hand briefly brushes against my leg and, suddenly, my old awkwardness returns. Did he do that on purpose? Surely not. And yet a small suspicion lingers. He is definitely a most perplexing person. I lean towards the door and notice that we are pulling up outside my cottage. I reach for the door handle the moment the car stops. My sharp, urgent exit is beginning to feel like a getaway. In fact, I’m about to leave my laundry behind when Liam says, ‘Here, don’t forget this,’ and hands me my big blue bag. There’s something almost tender about the way he does it. Concerned.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ I say, winching up an appropriately grateful expression.

  ‘It was a pleasure. Really.’

  I give him a guarded smile and close the car door before he has time to say anything else. Then, hugging my bag, I walk quickly away.

  Back in the cottage I dump the laundry in my room and turn on the television. It is only later, when I’m hunting for one of the long T-shirts I use as nighties, that I discover something very puzzling.

  Somehow – and I can’t work out how – I’ve brought Liam’s lurid Mickey Mouse boxer shorts home with me.

  Chapter 23

  I’ve just given Liam’s Mickey Mouse boxer shorts to Oxfam. I’d no wish to keep them and I couldn’t march up to him and say, ‘Here’s your underpants.’ It might have created the wrong impression – especially if Elsie was around. I still can’t work out how they got into my bag. Maybe boxer shorts have a life of their own, like socks and the TV remote control.

  After I left the Oxfam shop I dashed into a newsagent’s to buy a card for Eamon. It’s his birthday soon. I’m still in the newsagent’s now – it has an excellent selection of various ‘greeti
ngs’. Too good a selection perhaps because after a quarter of an hour I still haven’t found a card that seems quite right. I need a marzipan card – one that’s not too sweet and not too neutral. Something pleasant and in no way perplexing. The thing is, the romantic ones are far too schmaltzy and the golf ones are rather garish. The ones with teddy bears aren’t his style either. There seem to be numerous photographs of gorillas in various poses – but heaven knows what he’d make of them. It occurs to me that I really don’t know what kind of card Eamon would like to receive. I could stay in this shop for hours, hacking my way through the various nuances, panic mounting. Eventually I grab one featuring a tranquil lake.

  As soon as I get to my desk Gerry asks me if it’s August yet. ‘Yes, it is,’ I answer, adding the date, year, century and country just in case he might be unsure about them too. As Gerry studies me warily, Humphrey darts towards my desk and borrows my stapler. Then Cindi appears and asks me about my weekend.

  ‘It was quite quiet really,’ I answer wearily. She’s obviously itching to tell me the latest saga in her complicated life. The thing is, I don’t really know if I can listen to her. My own life is making its demands felt very firmly this morning. More firmly than usual.

  I turn on my word processor. My singles dances and personal ads article has to be ready by tomorrow. I’ve got to phone various dating agencies and some women I’ve tracked down who answer personal ads on a routine basis. A number of people I phoned on Friday weren’t in. I left messages for them to ring me, but I’ll probably ring them again anyway. Research of this nature requires a great deal of persistence.

  ‘Having a cuppa?’ Cindi is looking at me curiously now, obviously not understanding why I have not, so far, offered to make her one.

  ‘I’ll probably have one later. I’m in a bit of a tizz about this article.’

  ‘Which one is that?’ asks Cindi, who now sounds slightly put out. Article deadlines have never prevented me from listening to the details of her complicated life before. She went on for a full half-hour that time her hair got caught in a metal hinge on the filing cabinet.

  ‘The article about singles dances and personal ads,’ I reply.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Cindi is still staring at me.

  ‘Sorry that I can’t talk now.’ I give her an apologetic smile. ‘It’s just that I’ve got piles of people to phone. I’ve got to give this article loads of oomph. Sarah’s still angry with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I didn’t answer a personal ad myself.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I just couldn’t face it.’

  ‘Oh well, I’m sure the article will be interesting anyway.’ Though Cindi is smiling, her jaw juts out as she says this, as if I’ve broken some tacit agreement. I only listened to her because I wanted her approval, but it’s becoming rather clear that she hasn’t been too concerned about gaining mine. I wonder if she’s ever even wondered what I want or need these mornings myself. I haven’t even asked her for that assertiveness book back because I thought it might offend her.

  ‘See you then,’ Cindi calls out a trifle sharply as she exits, taking her approval with her. Part of me feels like jumping up and running after her, and it. I need approval. I need piles and piles of it. Or maybe I don’t. For, as I sit here staring at my computer it suddenly occurs to me that though Cindi may now like me a little less, I seem to like myself just a little more. Suddenly the image of Laren Brassière floats before me and I allow a little scowl to settle serenely on my mouth. I’m rather looking forward to having that ‘proper chat’ with Laren now. The fact that she has altered so much is almost comforting. I’ve grown used to the idea of her metamorphosis, it no longer unsettles me. It fact, in some ways I almost find it hopeful. Proof that people can change their ways, if they really want to.

  The morning passes in a phalange of phone calls and paragraphs. I want to make this article even-handed. I want to give practical information and a description of the dance, as well as offering a fair representation of the various viewpoints. The thing is, as the day continues the article seems to take on a strange life of its own – especially after a rather liquid lunch with Matt. I don’t refer to my research notes nearly as frequently as I should. By the time I’ve reached the middle of the article I have even ceased to care whether it makes sense. The who, what, when, where, how and why of things is rarely the whole story. Articles tend to need a slant, a cohesive ‘angle’, and I am growing tired of geometry. My rebellion mounts and I attempt a small mutiny. I type the words in a sort of frenzy. The final paragraph reads as follows:

  ‘In short, it doesn’t really matter what you’ve done or who you are. Just make sure you’re wearing a short dress or clingy top. Get his phone number somehow and ring it. Ring it even if he doesn’t want you to. Reach the point where you’re not even sure you want him anyway. Find things you love and then start doing them. Talk to God occasionally. Empty churches are most restful. Sing in the bath. Watch Colin Derling on Gardeners’ Questions. Take up weaving if necessary. And buy yourself a really nice pair of slippers. Wear them on dates if you feel like it. If he really is ‘Mr Wonderful’ he won’t mind.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ I think as I email the article to Sarah. ‘At least it’s a refreshing change from The Rules’ – that American book about dating that takes demureness to extraordinary extremes. I walk out of the office blithely, but as soon as I’m on the bus home I start to fret. That article is definitely over the top. Maybe I should email a revised version of the piece to Sarah tomorrow. Yes – that would be sensible.

  I decide to pop in on Mrs Peabody before I go home. She’s on her own so much. She really does need company. But when I go into her sitting-room I see that Liam is already with her. He’s wearing a denim shirt and looks even more young and fetching than usual. His hair has grown longer lately and is a bit tousled. His faded jeans hug his long, slim and rather athletic legs, which are stretched out languorously. He seems very much at home. His deep brown eyes look at me so intently that I have to look away. ‘Oh, sorry for interrupting, I’ll come back later,’ I say quickly. But Mrs Peabody insists that I join them.

  ‘Alice, I’m so glad you helped me find a partner for Cyril,’ she announces happily. ‘Look at them – they’re inseparable. It’s so sweet.’

  Liam regards me with raised eyebrows. Just a moment ago Cyril lunged at Dora and she had to hop quickly out of his way. They’re bickering over a sprig of millet. Their pecks are in no way affectionate. Liam obviously feels a change of topic is called for. ‘You’ve lots of photographs on your dresser, Mrs Peabody,’ he remarks. ‘Is that dashing fellow in the tweed jacket your late husband?’

  ‘Yes. Yes he is,’ Mrs Peabody replies animatedly. ‘See the big one in the centre – that’s of Eric with his great chums Ian and Michael – they were off bird-watching in the Wicklow mountains.’ Liam gets up to have a look. ‘It’s a great photograph. Did you take it?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. It’s so strange to think they are all no longer with us. Sometimes I can’t quite believe it.’

  Liam pats her shoulder kindly. ‘It’s dreadful missing people isn’t it, Mrs Peabody? I can never get used to it myself.’

  I look around the room and its reminders of Eric. Mrs Peabody has kept many of her husband’s personal belongings, including his carpet slippers, which are by the fireplace, his silver snuffbox and his old Reader’s Digests. In fact, there is so much of Eric around I sometimes almost feel I’ve met him.

  ‘Let’s have some sherry,’ Mrs Peabody suggests eagerly.

  I get an urge to giggle, and I can see Liam is struggling to remain solemn himself. ‘Would you mind if I had a cup of tea instead, Mrs Peabody?’ he asks gently. ‘That Darjeeling of yours is so delicious.’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that too,’ I add quickly.

  ‘Tea it is then,’ Mrs Peabody agrees, though there is a definite trace of disappointment in her voice. She starts to rise from her chair with considerable difficu
lty. I’m about to assist her, but Liam rushes over before me. He offers her his arm in a most gallant manner and she leans on it, smiling up at him almost flirtatiously. I follow them into the kitchen. We both watch as she reaches into cupboards, her hands feeling for the shapes of the crockery before she extracts it.

  ‘How’s your eyesight these days?’ I ask.

  ‘Those glasses I got were a great help at first, dear,’ she sighs. ‘But after a while they just seemed to make everything more blurry.’

  ‘Maybe you should give them another try,’ Liam suggests.

  ‘I have, dear,’ she replies. ‘They’re no use at all. And anyway, I’ve lost them.’

  ‘I’ll help you look for them,’ I volunteer.

  ‘No, no, dear. I’m better off without them. Really.’

  Liam and I look at each other concernedly. Mrs Peabody is handling the crockery in a rather precarious manner. As she loads it on to a tray I half expect to hear a clatter at any moment. ‘I know where things are you see, dear,’ she’s explaining happily.

  ‘Yes, of course you do,’ I agree, stealthily shoving the tin of tea bags towards her. She’s been hunting for it for the past minute. I stand stock still as she pours boiling water into the teapot, ready to lunge.

  ‘I’ll take the tray out for you,’ I announce firmly. As I reach for it Liam reaches for Mrs Peabody’s arm. ‘Here, let me escort you,’ he says grandly.

  She looks up. ‘You are such a nice boy, Liam,’ she smiles.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Peabody. You’re a rather ravishing young lass yourself,’ he replies, giving me a quick wink as he does so. He waits patiently as Mrs Peabody touches the corner of her favourite armchair, watching protectively as she works her way round cautiously to the seat. Then we all sit down and sip our tea and try to ignore Dora’s frequent ‘fecks’. She’s saying them quite loudly and Mrs Peabody seems determined not to be offended.