Wise Follies

by Grace Wynne-Jones

  ‘She’s a great little talker, isn’t she?’ she observes. ‘Listen to her saying “peck” – such a clever little thing. She hasn’t got the pronunciation quite right yet but there’s a definite improvement.’

  I’m going to laugh in a minute if I’m not careful. I’m going to splutter into my tea and spray its droplets all over the furniture. I try to distract myself by looking out the window. As I do so I spot a pair of glasses half hidden by the curtains. They are on the ledge and are slim and stylish. As I go to fetch them I notice another slightly thicker, tortoiseshell-rimmed pair peeking out from under a pile of ancient newspapers. I pick them up too.

  ‘I think I’ve found your glasses, Mrs Peabody,’ I say, bringing them over to her. ‘There seem to be two pairs. Which is the right one? They look very similar.’

  Mrs Peabody peers at them. ‘This pair, dear,’ she says, putting the slimmer ones on. ‘They’re still no help, I’m afraid,’ she squints. ‘I can’t even see Cyril’s cage.’

  ‘Well, try these on then.’ I proffer the other pair.

  ‘No, no, those used to be Eric’s. I can tell by the tortoiseshell frame.’

  ‘But they’ve both got tortoiseshell frames, Mrs Peabody.’

  ‘Have they? Goodness.’

  ‘Try them on – please do,’ I urge.

  ‘Oh, all right, if you insist,’ Mrs Peabody sighs. She puts on the glasses and surveys the room again. She says nothing for quite some time.

  ‘Oh well, it was worth a try,’ I think, a trifle dejectedly.

  Then I hear Mrs Peabody exclaim, ‘Well, goodness me, Alice, you’re right. They do make a difference!’ She’s beaming delightedly. ‘I must have got my glasses mixed up with Eric’s. Oh, thank you, dear. You don’t know how much this means to me.’

  Mrs Peabody’s hands are fluttering on her lap. She’s almost jumping out of her chair with excitement, and Liam and I are pretty ebullient too. How wonderful – Mrs Peabody will now be able to see her crockery and find her tea bags. She may even not have to sit so close to the television that she’s almost in the cast of Coronation Street. ‘Well, this certainly calls for a sherry,’ she declares joyfully.

  ‘Yes, indeed it does,’ I agree.

  As I return with the glasses I notice that Mrs Peabody is staring most intently at Cyril and Dora’s cage. ‘My goodness,’ she is saying, ‘these two are not at all the lovebirds that I’d thought.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I mumble apologetically. ‘We should have told you.’

  ‘Yes, we didn’t want to disappoint you, Mrs Peabody,’ Liam adds. ‘You seemed to find the idea of their romance so cheering.’

  ‘Maybe even budgies lose interest in romance, Mrs Peabody,’ I say earnestly, desperately trying to comfort her. ‘I mean even I’m not as interested in romance as I used to be. It’s begun to seem so – so laden with illusion.’

  Just as I’ve announced this, Cyril decides to break his months of silence. He squawks ‘bollocks’ very loudly and as he does so Mrs Peabody and Liam exchange gleefully delighted glances. They’ve even begun to laugh. They’re not just laughing at Cyril, they’re laughing at me, I know they are. It’s just not fair. I meant what I said about romance. I really did. Still, I must say I find the timing of Cyril’s expletive rather disturbing.

  ‘Oh, come on, Alice, don’t look so serious,’ Liam is chuckling. He’s staring straight into my eyes with a strange softness. I look away quickly. I don’t like him looking at me like that. It’s as if he thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t. Very few people do. I don’t trust people easily. I don’t expect them to understand me. I am so scared of their misinterpretation that I prefer to dissemble. Smile my dolphin’s smile.

  I’m smiling gamely now as I finish my glass of sherry. I am pretending to share Liam and Mrs Peabody’s delight in Cyril’s pronouncement. That’s how you keep people away – you don’t show them what you feel. Only I don’t think I’m fooling Liam. He’s the one who’s solemn now. Concerned. I smile more brightly. Why aren’t I fooling him? I can do it with most people. I drink my sherry quickly then I make my excuses and leave.

  As soon as I get home Mira says that there’s a letter for me on the hall table. ‘Fancy some spag bol?’ she adds.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I go into my room, where I put on an ancient jumper that’s covered in paint splashes. Then I set up my easel and get out a landscape I’m working on. Having done this I go to the hall table and pick up my letter. It’s rather stiff and probably contains some invitation. I seem to have got on to a number of obscure mailing lists recently.

  Yes, I was right, it is an invitation. It’s to an art exhibition which is being held this Friday. The exhibition features ceramic sculptures by – I have to read the sentence again – by James Mitchel! Mira must hear something strange in my silence because she pads out into the hallway in her huge furry slippers. She looks at me and then at the card I’m holding.

  ‘So you’ve opened your letter.’

  ‘Yes’ – I lean against the wall and take a deep breath – ‘yes, I have.’

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  I hand it to her.

  ‘Ah, the “last good man” himself,’ she smiles wryly. ‘What’s the PTO at the back about?’

  ‘What?’ I grab the card from her, then I turn it over and read:

  ‘Hi there, Alice.

  Hope you can make it to my exhibition. I’m inviting former pupils from my pottery class, so you’ll meet some old friends there. I got your address from the college. I’ve been staying in a cottage in the wilds getting ready for this exhibition, so I only heard your phone messages when I got home the other day. Glad that you got the information you needed. Best wishes and hope to see you soon, James.’

  The words are almost dancing in front of me, like they’re in the Rio Carnival. James Mitchel has written to me. He’s going to be right here, in the same city as me, at the end of this week! I read through his note again, hoping I may have missed some sense of pining, some sense of urgency. I haven’t. If only it was in French.

  ‘So, are you going to go?’ Mira is studying me curiously.

  ‘I dunno. No. I mean – maybe – yes. Probably.’

  After dinner I try to get on with my painting, but thoughts of James Mitchel keep intruding. Cyril was right, I haven’t really lost interest in romance – that is, James Mitchel – at all. Poor Eamon, how disloyal I’m being to him. I so wish I could love him the way I love James. He’s a good man. He deserves that. But I can’t say ‘yes’ to his proposal if I could have James instead. Yes, I must go to that exhibition. If nothing else it may clarify my feelings a little.

  As I paint a field filled with lavender – a field I often see when I look out the window of my imaginary villa in Provence – I decide that what I admire most about James is his conviction about himself. The answers he has reached. I suppose I hope a little bit of them are going to rub off on to me, though I do realize that men like him sometimes just leave smudges. Long before James Mitchel there was that yoga teacher, and that bus conductor, and that bassoonist. All very different, but similar in one vital way. They had an altitude to their attitude. Even their confidence seemed to have the weather-beaten, but durable, quality of granite. Contented in their solitude, they were a sort of emotional equivalent to Mount Everest. Unassailable to all but the determined, and perhaps foolhardy. Compared to them, most of my past boyfriends weren’t even hills.

  I didn’t know James Mitchel did ‘ceramic sculptures’. He’s got so many interests he’s a veritable Renaissance Man. Where does he get time for all this stuff? I wrote an article about time management once and left it so late I almost didn’t make the deadline. He has so much to teach me. I must have him. I must.

  No, no. That isn’t right. I mustn’t get too needy with James – I know he’d find that off-putting. I must remain nonchalant with him. Have some altitude to my attitude myself. That’s what men like him really admire. Having trekked for miles through their inte
rnal Himalayas, they don’t really want to have to peer down into the foothills for their Significant Other. They don’t want to retrace their steps to find her. They want her right up there with them – in some sweet, calm place where they don’t really need each other anyway.

  I really must buy myself a clingy top.

  Chapter 24

  I’m at the opening of James Mitchel’s art exhibition.

  It’s a swelteringly hot night. I almost feel I’m in the tropics. The large whirring fan overhead looks like it belongs in Casablanca. I put lots of ice in my wine and then cup the glass in my hands, letting it cool me.

  My ‘look’ this evening is not what you might call subtle. In fact, I could be taken for a participant in one of my own articles. Annie helped me with my make-up. ‘You didn’t get those lips sucking oranges,’ was Mira’s parting comment. Who knows, by the end of this evening I might be licking mayonnaise from James Mitchel’s inner thigh area. I want to look sexy and attractive. I want James Mitchel to see my curves but not too much of my bottom, which is a bit too big. Thankfully my new clingy top covers it and my navy cotton trousers have a flattering line to them.

  I’m used to receptions – or ‘deceptions’ as Cindi calls them. I find large helpings of wine and hors d’oeuvres alleviate the small talk. ‘Yes, I have the press release and the photos, thanks,’ I say. ‘Was that caviar vol-au-vents that went by just then?’

  But tonight is different. I am not ‘on assignment’ – though in a way, of course, I am. I must somehow make an impression on James, but I’m not sure how to go about it. I’m standing in a corner of the gallery feigning enormous interest in the exhibition catalogue. My nose is stuck right into it, but every so often I look up, rather furtively, and search for him among the crowd. I feel so self-conscious, as though what I’m up to is obvious to everyone. I must see him first, preferably from afar, so that I can ease, with a shore appraisal and then a gentle paddle, into the great sea of longing he brings up for me.

  I grab another glass of wine from a tray as though it is a life jacket. Alcohol. I need alcohol. I’ve seen him. He’s over there chatting with a bunch of calm, cheerful people, a wineglass in his hand. His hair is shorter and he’s got a brown corduroy suit on and a cream cotton shirt, which shows off his tan. He feels me staring at him and looks over. I look down, gulp, into my catalogue which is now damp from my sweaty palms.

  This is ridiculous. I sidle over to a sculpture of a naked man. There’s a lot of nudity in James’s sculptures. They are mostly of men and are very well done. Almost embarrassingly detailed in fact. The sculptures of women, many of them in abandoned poses, are also hard to stare at in my present state. James Mitchel knows a lot about the human body, that is becoming very clear. He’s studied its crevices and corners, its curves and conduits. How I wish he’d study mine.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see that James is moving towards this side of the room. I head for the table with wine bottles on it. I fill up my glass, a little unsteadily. I’m beginning to experience a distinct sensation of floating.

  How many glasses have I had – four – five? I take a fistful of peanuts from a bowl.

  ‘Is that you, Alice?’

  Oh, my God, that’s his voice. I stand very still for a moment, steadying my face. Then I try to turn around, nonchalantly, only I seem to tip a bit to one side.

  ‘Hello, James! Great exhibition.’ I gesture rather too wildly and spill some of my wine.

  ‘So, how are you?’ James is smiling his calm, sweet smile. I find myself staring at him, drinking in his features. If he was wine he’d be vintage Bordeaux. ‘Done any pottery recently?’ he continues. He seems slightly perplexed by my silence.

  ‘No. No, I haven’t actually. Your sculptures are wonderful, James. I didn’t know you did this kind of thing.’

  ‘Ah well, Alice. I’m sure there are a lot of things we don’t know about each other.’ James gives me one of his wry, knowing looks. ‘I’m so glad that you came.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Have you bumped into Mildred yet? She’s over there.’

  ‘Oh, is she?’ There’s a pause. A pause in which James might decide to wander off. A rotund lady in a chiffon dress is studying him purposefully. She looks as if she’s about to grab him away from me at any moment. Other people are touching his arm and saying, ‘Well done.’

  ‘So, how is the pottery studio in West Cork going?’ I ask. He mustn’t get away from me, not just yet.

  ‘I haven’t done much with it, but I hope to soon. I’ve been getting ready for this exhibition.’ James is looking around a bit, probably aware that there are a number of other people he should be talking to. I wish he’d show more signs of lust. Lust would do to start with. We could get round to the other stuff later. I’m not usually this superficial but even meaningless sex with James would be wonderful. He’ll be gone in a moment. If I want to see him again I’ll have to act now. I take a deep breath and try to summon up the lines I’ve been rehearsing.

  ‘James – regarding your pottery studio – I may be able to help you with a bit of publicity for it.’

  ‘Really. How?’ James is looking most interested.

  ‘You’ll be making some household ceramics, won’t you? You know, like tableware?’

  ‘Yes, along with other things.’

  ‘Well, there’s a “Style” section in the magazine I work for, and I might be able to get them to include a write-up about your range.’

  ‘Really! That would be great.’

  I can’t believe what I’m about to say. But I must. I must. It should sound spontaneous. I’ve been practising it all day. ‘Tell you what, James,’ I smile gaily, ‘why don’t you come to dinner the next time you’re in Dublin. Bring some samples and photographs of your pottery with you. We could have a proper chat about it all then.’ I take a deep swig from my glass of wine and brace myself for his answer. Dear God, my bra strap is showing! I tuck it back into place.

  ‘Thanks, Alice. What a kind offer.’ James seems genuinely grateful. ‘Give me your number again, will you?’

  I hand him my card and then the rotund lady in the chiffon dress grabs him and pulls him away from me. I don’t mind. A quiet, grateful smile has settled on my features. One does have to take the romantic initiative sometimes, one really does. And I just have! Me, Alice Evans.

  And then I realize something. I should have said I would phone him to make the dinner arrangements. This way James Mitchel has to phone me. But what if he doesn’t? He didn’t last time. I lean dejectedly against a wall and am about to leave when I see Mildred. I go over to her. She’s gazing longingly at a particularly nubile male nude.

  ‘Quite an exhibition, isn’t it Alice?’ She eyes me meaningfully.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I agree.

  ‘In fact, if these sculptures were paintings,’ Mildred begins to chortle delightedly, ‘I’d say they were extremely well hung.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  James Mitchel phoned yesterday. He’s coming to dinner tonight! The thought had me bolting out of bed at a ridiculously early hour this Saturday morning.

  I can’t believe how unkempt this cottage seems. Even though Mira and I clean it quite regularly, we seem to have overlooked innumerable domestic details. At first glance anyone could see that it’s the home of a woman with a tidemark around her bath, and life. A woman with tea-stained mugs and ancient grey bras. This gross generalization acquires the purity of higher calculus when I feel it, and I’m feeling it right now. At least it’s the weekend, so I have time to clean the place up. But I’m still in a terrible tizz.

  ‘Oh, Tarquin,’ I say, ‘how am I going to get this place ready in time?’ He just looks up at me longingly, with deeply resigned eyes. He hopes we’re discussing food. He begins to rub himself against the leg of a chair. He now shows his affection for me by caressing inanimate objects but still hasn’t summoned up the courage to let me pat him.

  I rush out to the corner shop and buy Cif, b
leach, lavender Ajax, lemon floor cleaner and a box of J-cloths. When I get home I arrange them in a row on the kitchen sideboard and vow to keep them there because they look so impressive. Then I squat beside the cooker, trying to reach the globs of muck that have gathered slyly between it and the washing machine.

  ‘Hello.’ Mira pads into the kitchen with a yawn and reaches for the tin of Earl Grey tea. She’s about to spoon some into the teapot with the cracked spout when I shriek with alarm.

  ‘You can’t use that!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The teapot. It’s got bleach in it. It was all brown and stained inside.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Alice,’ Mira sighs wearily. ‘James Mitchel is hardly going to go around inspecting the insides of our teapots.’

  ‘It just makes me feel better to know it’s clean,’ I announce defensively. ‘We’ve become sluttish, Mira. We’ve let things slide. Even our underwear isn’t white any more.’

  ‘How were we to know that the blue bedspread would run like that?’ Mira counters. ‘You’re getting into a state, Alice. I wish Eamon was back from Peru. He wouldn’t stand any of this nonsense.’

  ‘How can I attract a Wonderful Man if I don’t even have a decent sofa?’ I wail. The state of this cottage has suddenly become synonymous with my entire life. Things spilling out of cupboards, unsorted. Murky corners I am somehow going to have to steel myself to face.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ Mira says sharply. ‘The kind of man you need wouldn’t care about that stuff – he’d be far less high-maintenance. He’d want you for yourself.’

  I stare at her glumly. She is, of course, right. A pristine sideboard would, in a way, be so much easier. And how desperately politically incorrect it is of me to want to lure a man in this manner. I really must start rereading Gloria Steinem. My feminism definitely seems to need a bit of dusting.