by Sharon Owens
‘Okay, I’ll think about what you said,’ Emily said graciously.
Dorothy just smiled and nodded wisely.
29. The Letter
Mrs Emily Nightingale sat up all night in her tiny little apartment just thinking about what Dorothy had said to her in the art class. It was a very hard thing to have to admit, but, yes, it probably wasn’t very nice of her to allow her husband and daughter to go on living in limbo like this. Actually it was rather scandalous. She’d been having such fun being an independent lady in New York that she hadn’t really noticed the time passing at all. And possibly she’d been in denial as the months flew by. Yes, there was definitely a fair bit of denial going on. But there was never a minute to spare, she rationalized then. No real time for soul-searching between dashing to work and serving hundreds of customers every day, and then dashing home again to shower and change her clothes, and then going out to eat supper or see a show or a film with Dorothy and the gang from the art club. It was non-stop really. It wasn’t a deliberate act of neglect on her part.
‘It is simply a case of there being too few hours in the day,’ she muttered to herself. But Emily knew in her heart that she was only being selfish to let things continue the way they were…
The ancient heating pipes in the kitchen began to throb and rumble ominously, and Emily got up off her tiny 1930s-style sofa and went into the other room to make some tea and heat a croissant for breakfast. She lifted her pretty pink cup and plate from the dish rack and fetched butter and milk from the fridge.
‘But I don’t want to go home,’ she said suddenly to her ancient chrome kettle. ‘I can’t go home yet; I’m not ready to give up my adventure. Oh my God, that’s why I haven’t been honest with anyone. Least of all myself! Because I don’t want to live in that big house ever again! I don’t want to go back to being a robot! Just cleaning and cleaning for six days a week and then going to Mass on Sundays! And if I do go back now I know I’ll go mad with boredom. Really and truly mad ! Not just jittery-mad! Properly insane!’
And so the decision was made for her. Yes, she was broke and exhausted here in this vast city of eight million people. She barely made enough money working six days a week in the bakery to pay the rent on a run-down studio flat on the outskirts of Manhattan. She knew that people in her neighbourhood had been murdered for their shoes. She knew that it was only a matter of time before she was deported for overstaying her holiday visa, or even developed a health problem of some sort. And she had no health insurance and hardly any savings either. Her husband had always taken care of the money. She had just a few hundred pounds saved in the bank. But, still, she felt so young and alive sitting on the bus each morning, wearing her yellow dress for the bakery, smiling at people from every walk of life. Not knowing who any of them were and none of them knowing who she was either. It was a lovely little fantasy that could well come crashing down around her ears at any moment. But while it lasted she was determined to savour every minute.
‘I’ll write to David today,’ she said to herself. ‘I’ll write to him today and ask him for a divorce. It’s the only decent thing to do. He’ll never leave Fermanagh and I don’t want to live there any more. So we’ll divorce. Then he can decide what to do with the rest of his life. And maybe he can set me up with an allowance of some kind. So I can extend my visa or get health insurance or even move to another city somewhere. One where they don’t bother to check up on the immigrants quite so often.’
Emily Nightingale knew that she had no concrete plans and very few life skills. But she knew one thing: her life had only begun to take shape at the tender age of sixty-five. Which sounded ancient, but it wasn’t really. Not since she’d had a relatively easy life and was therefore well preserved looks-wise and in good health generally.
‘No, that’s it. I’m never going back to that big dark house ever again,’ she told herself sternly. ‘Just to end up dusting and cleaning for David and myself. And he doesn’t notice the cleaning anyway and I don’t care about it any more.’
It was a revelation to Emily, but she knew then, in that exact moment, that she’d be happy to be poor for the rest of her life, as long as she had something useful to do each day. A useful job to go to, or a great hobby to devote hours of time to. Friends to visit and places to see. She wanted to eat out every day even if it was only a coffee and a cheeseburger in one of the cheap places. It had taken a long time to arrive, Emily Nightingale’s coming of age. But now she could see it all so clearly in her mind. She wasn’t going back to routine and solitude, and peeling spuds over the kitchen sink, and eventually joining the rest of the Nightingales in their private plot in the village cemetery.
‘Oh my God,’ she sighed with relief. ‘It’s over.’
She had another two hours to fill before she had to be at work.
‘I’ll write the letter now,’ she said.
She took her tea and croissant and sat down by the window. She yawned widely and began the letter to her husband, writing slowly and carefully on a notepad she’d bought for fifty cents in a discount store.
Dear David, I’ve thought a lot about this and I want a divorce.
No, that was too abrupt. She tore out the page and rolled it up into a ball.
Dear David, how are you? This is going to come as a bit of a shock to you but I want a divorce.
God no, that was still too brutal. Another page was ripped out.
Dear David, how are you?
Thank you for being so patient and understanding. I have always loved you very much. And I know you have always loved me. And that it hasn’t always been easy to live with me. But I’ve changed a lot in recent months and I don’t want to live in Fermanagh any more. It’s not Fermanagh that’s the problem or even yourself. It’s just that I need my own space. I love New York and I want to live on my own from now on and I’m sorry but I want a divorce. There is nobody else involved, I promise you. It’s just something I need to do for my own happiness. I hope you can find happiness too some day soon.
Yours sincerely,
Emily
Yes, that would do for starters, she decided. She’d post the letter on her way to work, and hope that she didn’t fall asleep today, standing behind the counter. She hadn’t sat up all night worrying for years. It was quite exciting really to have something to sit up all night for, to be honest… She’d have to put her address on the letter now too, for David would have to go to a solicitor and there’d be forms to sign. They’d been living apart for eighteen months already. Surely it wouldn’t take too long to get the formalities over and done with. Lots of mature ladies were leaving their husbands these days, in America as well as in Ireland and Britain. She’d read about it in The New York Times. It was a golden time for older ladies, she told herself bravely. Not just resigned to the housework any more. Not just picking up after their husbands any more, until their backs gave out or their fingers got arthritis and then they had to get the home help in.
‘I’ve got ten good years left in me yet,’ Emily said, sipping her cup of weak tea. The only thing that bothered her about America was the weak tea, she thought suddenly. They had coffee you could stand a spoon up in, yes. But their tea was like warm water no matter how many teabags you put in the pot. No wonder so many Americans said they never drank tea. Still, bad tea aside, she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her days asking her husband what he fancied for his lunch.
She would call Ruby as well, she decided. She’d call that very day and tell her daughter not to worry about her any more, and that she wasn’t coming home for a good while yet. She was happy here in New York and she was enjoying her job at the bakery and she wasn’t ready to come home to Ireland and take her seat in God’s Waiting Room. And maybe Ruby could send her out a few packets of good strong tea from M&S if she had a minute to spare any time. The Fair Trade stuff had the best flavour, she reckoned.
‘No, then again, maybe not.’
Tea was probably not the most suitable thing to be asking for at th
is particular stage, she decided. But anyhow she’d talk to Ruby this morning also. It was high time they cleared the air.
Poor Ruby, Emily thought to herself.
Ruby was headed down the same path that she herself had been on for so many years. A dull daily routine in that little dress shop of hers: like a hamster on a wheel, every day exactly the same.
‘At least when I get sick of the sight of iced doughnuts, I can move on,’ Emily told herself smugly.
She folded the pages of the letter to her husband and slipped them into a cheap envelope. Stamps she could buy on the way to work. Emily yawned again and went to lie down for an hour. But she remembered to set her alarm clock so that she didn’t sleep in.
‘Don’t want to get fired,’ she told herself. Oh, it was so fabulous to think that she was now in a position to even get fired. God bless America…
Back home in Belfast, Ruby was lifting the red velvet evening bag out of the display case. The red bag she would parcel up and send to her mother just as soon as she had an address to send it to.
30. The Lonely Father
Ruby parked her car at the front door and this time her father came out to greet her. He practically flew across the gravel he was going that fast. He looked a lot better than he had in recent months though. He’d put on some weight and his clothes were neatly pressed.
‘Steady on, Dad,’ Ruby said, getting out of the car and reaching her arms towards him. They hugged each other fiercely for about half a minute.
‘Thanks for coming, love. I don’t know why I’m being so stupid about it,’ he said, sniffling. It was clear he’d been crying for hours. ‘She’s been gone long enough. I should have known she was never coming back to me.’
‘Oh, Dad, are you all right?’ Ruby said, giving him another big hug and pushing the car door shut with her foot.
‘Not too bad, considering,’ he said in a low, tired voice. ‘There’s never a dull moment with your mother.’
‘Divorce, huh? Did she really ask you for a divorce?’ Ruby asked.
‘Yes, I have the letter here in my pocket,’ he said. ‘Come inside and I’ll show you.’
Together, arms linked, they went into the house. Ruby was surprised to see it was looking splendid. The entire place was immaculate, in fact. The straggly weeds were gone from the drive and there were fresh flowers in a tall vase on the hall table.
‘I see the housekeeper and the gardener have worked out well?’ Ruby said, very impressed with such a high standard of tidiness.
‘Yes, they’re lovely people,’ Ruby’s father said at once. ‘The parish priest put me on to them. He’s a great man and he’s been very supportive in all of this. I had a wee chat with him a few days ago. Anyway, yes, the housekeeper and the gardener, they were glad to get the bit of work, God bless them indeed. But what do you think is going on over there in New York? Has your mother met someone, do you think? She said there was nobody else, but I don’t know what to believe. She’s a very good-looking woman still. I mean, why has she waited all this time to ask me for a divorce?’
‘Dad, I honestly don’t know what to think. She’s told me next to nothing on the phone. All the time she’s been away… just little bits of trivia. Jasmine says that she thinks Mum is having the mother of all crises.’
‘You mean it’s just a phase? A hormonal thing?’
‘More or less. Yes.’
‘And she doesn’t really mean it?’
‘Well, that’s just it. I don’t know if she means it, Dad. I guess the two of you will have to start communicating properly soon. For a start, you need to decide what you want. I feel weird even asking you this… but do you even want Mum back? You seem to be managing quite well on your own these days.’
‘I suppose I am. But how will we sort things out? What will I do to get in touch? She doesn’t have a phone in this place where she’s staying, her mobile is never on and we still don’t know where she works exactly. Will I go over there and wait on the doorstep, do you think? There’s an address on the envelope.’
‘Oh, Dad, I’m not sure. Would it be too much for you if she refused to talk to you? It would, wouldn’t it? You’d be very upset. And you’d still have to travel home again. It’s a seven- or eight-hour flight, don’t forget. And that’s each way, obviously. It’s a lot of travelling to do when you’re not in good form.’
‘Would you come with me, Ruby?’
‘Dad, to be honest, I’d rather not,’ Ruby said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not really my business, that’s why,’ Ruby sighed. ‘I’m not getting involved in a big thing like this. This is between you and Mum.’
‘But she’s your mother.’
‘I know she is, Dad, but she’s your wife. I’m in my thirties now, you know! Some children are only babies when their parents get divorced.’
‘Still and all?’ he pleaded. ‘We could make a holiday out of it?’
‘No, honestly, it’d be too much emotional upheaval for me, I think. I’m still getting over the funeral. I mean, it’s only recently I could face going into a restaurant without Jonathan by my side, for heaven’s sake. And it’s so crowded in New York. So much to think about.’
‘Of course, I’m so sorry. Listen, I’ll get you some lunch,’ Ruby’s father said, nodding his head with resignation. ‘I had a notion you wouldn’t want to get involved. And, of course, you’re quite right not to. It’s high time your mother and I got our lives organized. Come through to the kitchen…’
While Ruby sat down, her father donned a pair of oven gloves, lifted a big shepherd’s pie out of the oven and set it gently on the kitchen table.
‘Wow, this smells lovely, Dad,’ Ruby said, pleased that he’d gone to so much effort for her.
‘I made it myself,’ he announced proudly.
‘Really? Did you? I thought the housekeeper made it!’
‘No, I went on a little cookery course they were running at the Buttermarket Centre,’ he admitted shyly. ‘Just a wee social sort of thing, nothing too fancy.’
‘Dad, I’m delighted for you,’ Ruby said, fetching two plates from the cupboard and helping them each to a huge slice. ‘This is a great sign altogether.’
‘I don’t know about a great sign, Ruby, but at least I won’t starve. Do you think I should call her bluff? Agree to the divorce and see if that shocks her back to reality?’
‘No, I think you should decide what you want to do, and then proceed with dignity and caution…’
‘Um, very sensible advice! You know what? I was speaking to the gardener about it this morning. Niall is his name. He’s divorced. He’s only twenty-seven years of age and he’s divorced. What is the world coming to?’
‘Twenty-seven, huh? What happened to his marriage? Did he say?’
‘His wife had an affair with an older fella, it seems. A rich businessman in his forties that she met when he came into her salon to have his hair cut. They got chatting and one thing led to another, so Niall said. She left him a note beside the telephone. To say they’d gone to England to start a new life together.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Aye! Niall said it wasn’t too bad in the end really. They had no children and hardly any equity in the house. So he bought her out, divorced her and just carried on as normal with his job in the call-centre. Mind you, that’s why he’s doing the bit of gardening on the side now. Because he needs the extra money to pay the mortgage on his own.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It seems no big deal to get divorced these days. Niall says all of his pals are either single or divorced or just living together. But none of them are actually married.’
‘I know. Sure I’m widowed and Jasmine is single. And Teresa Morris is a widow too. You know that poor woman – her husband was killed in a farming accident?’
‘Oh sorry, I clean forgot to tell you,’ Ruby’s father said, making a guilty face.
‘It’s all right, Dad. You’ve clearly had a lot on your mind these last few years.’<
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After dinner they went for a long walk around the village and then along the lough path.
‘These reeds aren’t as high as I remember them,’ Ruby said sadly.
‘They’re still as sharp, pet, so mind yourself,’ her father replied. ‘Fierce cut you can get from a reed. Right to the bone.’
‘Are there still dragonflies?’
‘Of course there are.’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you love Mum?’
‘Of course I love her.’
‘Why do you love her?’ Ruby asked.
‘That’s a silly question,’ he said crossly.
‘No, it isn’t. Tell me.’
‘Well, she was beautiful. Still is. And she was a lot of fun in the early days, always laughing and carrying on, telling the funniest jokes you can imagine. Doing all the silly voices. She made me laugh a lot.’