Dinner Party

by Sarah Gilmartin

  Peter coloured. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, now.’

  The sun went in behind a cloud and a lovely breeze took up.

  Kate patted the ground beside her. ‘How did you get those curls?’

  Elaine sat in the Buddha pose she’d picked up at pony camp. ‘You just need to make her think she had the idea herself.’

  ‘Mammy’s no fool,’ said Peter.

  Ray flattened some daisies with his foot, then flopped on the grass beside them. Peter sat down too. He started talking about the flood control measures in San Diego, a place that Kate pictured exactly like Brittas Bay but with roller-bladers and ice-cream-cookie sandwiches. Elaine unfurled from her Buddha and rested her head in Kate’s lap. Her curls would lose their bounce but it was a moment of such strange and unexpected happiness, all her siblings together once more, here in the relative freedom of the back yard, that Kate couldn’t bear to have it end. Giving herself up to Peter’s hypnotic drone, she took the end of a curl and skimmed it between her fingers.

  ‘Damn.’ Ray sat up.

  ‘What?’ said Kate, looking at the house.

  ‘I forgot—you’d a call, Peter. Some foreign wan.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Like ten minutes ago. Twenty. I think.’

  Peter gave Ray a dig, called him a dope and shot off towards the house.

  Kate sighed and got ready to go herself. At Cranavon, there was never peace for long.

  Kate was downstairs in the good room, waiting for her mother to redo Elaine’s curls. Her stomach gave a strange, dog-like gurgle as she settled on the couch. The brocade cushions were too stiff, no yield to them at all. On the wall above the mahogany bureau, the family photos hung in dull bronze frames. The twins in matching sailor dresses, Ray in his Confirmation suit, Peter’s graduation from farming college, the whole family gathered around a weird bed-couch in a photographer’s studio. Her father was in the hunting jacket he hated, staring straight and unsmiling at the camera, like a man who’d wandered into the wrong photo.

  Occasionally, the wall gallery was repositioned or added to, but the photos on top of the bureau never changed: three separate wedding days in silver rectangular frames. Kate loved the centre one most of all, her mother in puffball white, her face smiling and tilted towards Daddy’s. The other photos, both similar in style, were of her grandparents, two quaint-looking couples standing side by side. Her mother’s father, Granddad Matheson, was the most handsome of the four, like Frank Sinatra only bigger across the shoulders. In his wife, Kate could just about see Granny as a young woman, the same curious eyes and flat cheeks. Though she only lived in Hackettstown, not even half an hour away, they barely saw her. Once a month, they would call to the house after mass, but never for long. Her mother couldn’t stomach Granny’s plain cooking, which was perfectly fine to Kate, better even than most of the things she got at home. But her mother always refused a plate; she could barely sit at the table when they were there. She would get up and move things that didn’t need to be moved. Or she would open presses and be horrified by the tinned contents inside. It was something to do with her own Daddy dying so young. She was very traumatized by it still. This was a word the twins associated with their mother. A sad, grown-up word that was kind of like an apology.

  Granny wasn’t lonely, at least, Kate knew that much. She had her bookkeeping business and there were always people coming and going, even on the weekends, cups of tea and shortbread biscuits, heavy glasses of whiskey for the men, the big ledgers with the blue lines and dozens of bills and receipts piled on the Formica table. Mammy hated those receipts more than anything. She would talk about the mess on the zigzag roads back to Cranavon (That tip, she’d say, that tip of a house), lamenting the way she’d been ignored when she was younger, surrounded by adults with their adult voices. Kate understood that her mother had to wait until she’d a family of her own before she could be heard, but it was a shame she’d forgotten what it was like to be the child.

  There was something not quite right about the photos the longer Kate stared, and it wasn’t just the reddish tinge of the frames. She got off the couch and fixed the wrinkles in the lace runner beneath them. Then she turned each photo in towards the others, like she’d seen Mammy do. In the third one, Daddy’s parents were stern and pale-faced. They had died before Kate was born, though Peter remembered them and he still talked about Nanny Gleeson’s vegetable garden that used to have turnips, cauliflowers and even courgettes in it, where now there was just patio squares and Mammy’s rotator washing line. Kate and Elaine had played a thousand games of hopscotch on that patio over the years. But you couldn’t play hopscotch at thirteen-and-a-half, not even on your own when no one was watching. Kate looked longingly at the window, the Venetian blinds glowing yellow with the sun. Upstairs, her mother went heavy across the landing and seconds later the flurry of leaving began.

  They drove up a twisting path through woodland before the ivy-covered mansion came into sight. Their mother had booked a table with a view of the gardens, the grass as bright and smooth as Wimbledon. You could see everyone coming and going, the men in their Sunday suits, the women unsteady on the stones.

  An old waiter in a shiny maroon waistcoat called them all madame and said merci bucket instead of bow-coo as a joke. Kate impressed her aunt by asking for the menu in French. When the waiter left with their order, they went back to people watching. Mammy knew everyone in Leinster and she kept them all entertained with stories that Kate felt privileged to hear.

  Despite her earlier complaining, Elaine was similarly agog. They both sat at the table, listening keenly, in their almost matching blue lace dresses—Elaine’s an elegant A-line, Kate’s criss-cross at the chest. Twin sisters in almost matching dresses with almost matching faces. Fraternal twins, if you wanted to give them their proper name, or same same but different, if you listened to the schoolyard taunts. Or there was the family line: identical from behind. They both had high foreheads, button noses, big eyes, but then: Elaine’s cheekbones, the neatness of her chin beside Kate’s wide, flat mouth and the unsightly teeth she’d inherited from her father. No, no—this game was not fun. She pulled herself out of it as the food arrived. The tiered silver cake stand was bulging with scones and crustless sandwiches and tiny glazed pastries.

  Kate copied her mother and went through things in the right order: scones, sandwiches, pastries. Her favourite was the mini lemon meringue tart. Over on Elaine’s plate, there was now a collection of half-eaten confectionery: a walnut brownie, an eclair, a cocktail fork stuck like a sword into the centre of a coconut macaroon. Her sister was holding up the butter dish, vigorously arguing its merits over the pappy, no-taste cream. Aunt Helen was pretending to be vexed in her generous way that could make light of anything. She looked like Daddy when she smiled, the same soft features and deep-set eyes. Shaking her perm, she dangled the pot of cream over Elaine’s plate, tilting it back again just before the drop. The twins started laughing, high on life, on sugar, on the spontaneity of it all. It was nice to be back on the same wavelength as her sister. Lately it was beginning to feel as if Kate was years younger, even though she was technically six minutes older.

  ‘How many scones have you had?’ Their mother’s voice cut through the messing.

  Kate presumed she was talking to Elaine until she felt the papery fingertips touch her hand. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure.’ Though really, she knew. She’d recently started to count things like that, they both had. It was like an unwritten rule of secondary school, that meant you were no longer free to eat food without noting it in some imaginary ledger. Well, it was three. Three lousy scones that were practically the same as one of the big ones from the tea room in town.

  ‘Well?’ Elaine said. ‘Come clean, Kate.’

  Kate went to kick her but the sly cow had moved her legs.

  ‘How many?’ their mother said, sharper now.

  ‘I savaged at least—’ said Aunt Helen.

  ‘Let her answer, H
elen.’ Her mother swooped over the table.

  Everyone looked at Kate.

  ‘This is my third?’ She squinted at Elaine for support. Her sister raised her eyebrows in an alarming imitation of their mother.

  ‘You didn’t leave enough for your twin,’ her mother tutted. ‘Greedy guts.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Elaine. ‘Pig face.’

  ‘You just said you were stuffed!’ Kate gripped the edge of the table.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ her mother said. ‘And watch yourself. You’re getting beyond.’

  Kate didn’t know what that meant, which was worse than a direct insult—how could you get rid of the shame?

  ‘Did I tell you, girls…’ Her lovely, lovely aunt started a new story, but Kate could see her mother was no longer interested. She seemed exhausted now, perched on her chair, tight-lipped and smiling, her head turning to follow any passing guest.

  There was nearly another incident after the final cup of tea when Mammy tucked her stiff bob behind her ear, clearly exposing a pink pearl earring that Aunt Helen failed to notice. Elaine saved the day by saying she wanted them and the necklace when Mammy was dead. They had a good laugh about that, and when the joke was over, their aunt duly complimented the exotic colour of the pearls. It was a question of taste and you were either born with it or not. ‘What would you like when I’m dead, Kate?’ Her mother turned to face her. ‘I don’t ever want you to die, Mammy,’ she said. ‘But I’ll take the sapphire ring if you’re asking.’ Everyone laughed again, and it felt wonderful to be the source of the humour instead of a greedy pig. She left the second half of her scone, just in case. She had put far too much jam on it anyway. It was a gummy mess.

  The adults spent the rest of the tea talking about death: Mammy’s hairdresser’s son who’d been decapitated by a steering wheel; the old woman in town with the tumour as big as a baby; the place in Switzerland that you could check into like a hotel and never check out again.

  Just as Kate was trying to remember the French word for bill, which was definitely not billet, her mother gave a little squeak. She rose from her chair but sat down again, tucking her bob behind her ears. ‘Is that—?’ said Aunt Helen. ‘The man himself,’ her mother replied. ‘The luck of it.’ From her seat, Kate couldn’t see who it was, but she saw the pain on her sister’s face. ‘Well, now,’ her mother said. ‘I’ll just.’ Her fingers clutched at the silk sleeve of her dress, then, smiling, she lifted her arm and waved.

  Across the room, there was Principal Clerkin, taller and more ferocious than ever in a dark grey suit. His eyes squinted as he clocked Kate, peering into the secrets of her soul before dismissing her as frivolous. It was not just paranoia. All the girls in her class felt the same. Everyone knew he did not like first years, especially first-year girls. He only asked the boys questions when he came into the classroom. Kate hated his moustache, which she could barely bring herself to look at. Elaine had nailed it, a slug of pubes.

  ‘Please,’ Elaine said now, picking up a knife. ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘If he wants to come over and say hello.’ Their mother’s hand was up again, flapping like a fish. ‘You won’t embarrass me,’ she smiled.

  ‘I’m going to the toilet,’ Elaine said.

  ‘Sit.’

  It was more of a hiss than an instruction.

  ‘Isn’t this nice?’ said Aunt Helen. ‘You can both get in his good books before school starts.’

  Kate could see him making his way slowly across the dining room, stopping at tables and shaking hands, his wife a few steps behind him in a camisole and tight black pants. At the water jug table, she overtook him and walked towards a group of adults seated at the far end.

  ‘Leather trousers,’ Kate’s mother said under her breath. ‘My God.’

  Aunt Helen laughed. ‘Watch out—here comes the new millennium.’

  Her aunt was right, the new millennium was only five months away, or exactly one hundred and fifty-two days left to convince their father about the firework disco in Rathcrogue House.

  ‘Martin!’ Her mother was on her feet, tall and slender as a model in her high heels. She called out again and some of the tables stopped their conversation to stare. In the stillness Kate noticed, for the first time, the pitter-patter against the sash windows and she wondered how long it had been raining.

  ‘Bernadette.’ The principal arrived at their table, shook her mother’s hand and at the same time managed to manoeuvre her back into her chair. ‘I trust you’re having a wonderful summer. And that the terrible two are behaving themselves.’

  Elaine gave a kind of dead pigeon stare. Kate smiled for both of them but had to look away when she saw the moustache, the ends of it blonder than before, like tie-dye pubes at the corners.

  ‘These two?’ her mother laughed. ‘Street angels, home devils. But the summer has flown, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Indeed. A busy time for a farmer.’

  Her mother bit her bottom lip. ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘Francis has been working hard. And Peter, of course, back from San Diego in time for the harvest. America has really made a man of him. And how is my Hilary?’

  Elaine laughed out loud.

  The principal gave her a look. ‘She’s doing well. Got the scholarship exams in Trinity.’

  ‘In Law!’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘My word,’ said her mother. ‘That girl is a credit to you.’

  ‘She’s home with us now for a few weeks. Tell Peter to—’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ her mother said. ‘I’ll tell him to call tomorrow.’

  Aunt Helen stifled a laugh.

  ‘Excuse my manners.’ The principal turned to Aunt Helen. ‘Martin Clerkin, Head of Tullow Community. For my sins.’

  The adults laughed.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve—’

  ‘She’s our aunt.’ Elaine cut him off.

  Mammy gave her a warning smile.

  ‘Two sets of sisters out for afternoon tea,’ he said. ‘How lovely. Now, I won’t keep you.’ He did the roly-poly thing with his hands that he sometimes did in school.

  ‘Oh, we’re not related.’ Her mother’s voice was louder than before. ‘This is Francis’s sister.’

  ‘Younger sister.’ Aunt Helen winked, and Kate said a silent thank you that there was at least one adult behaving normally.

  ‘I’m an only child, sadly,’ her mother said now, proving Kate’s point. Why was she telling the principal this random information? Even Kate could see he was trying to get away.

  ‘My father,’ her mother said. ‘Well, I’m sure you know from Hilary.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ The principal looked to her aunt for help.

  ‘Bernadette Gleeson, née Matheson,’ her aunt said. ‘The Mathesons of Hackettstown.’

  The principal said, ‘Donald Matheson—of course.’

  ‘I used to watch the big black car collect him every Monday,’ her mother said. ‘And drop him back to us on Fridays. I’d be there, waiting at the gates. And then—’

  ‘Of course,’ the principal said.

  ‘I was only seven years old. Imagine that, girls?’ She looked at Elaine first, then Kate. ‘I hope you never—’

  ‘Such a tragedy,’ he said.

  Kate made the mistake of looking at her sister, who had the pained face of someone about to skit herself. She knew exactly what Elaine was thinking. There was no way the principal was getting away now. Their mother was a genius.

  ‘In the prime of his life,’ said her mother.

  ‘And the prime of his career.’ The principal switched to his assembly voice.

  ‘He was.’ Her mother clutched her pearl necklace. ‘He’d just signed the Fisheries Act that very morning.’

  Across the table, Elaine was pursing her lips and nodding just like Mammy. In front of the principal! Kate didn’t know where to look.

  ‘Poor Daddy was a minister for only a year,’ her mother said to the principal. ‘The driver of the truck had been drinking—did yo
u know that? Within the legal limit, but back then that was whatever you were having yourself, and one for the road too.’

  ‘A disgrace,’ the principal agreed.

  ‘He would have been Taoiseach. They all said it. A man who was popular with the people and knew how to carry himself abroad. A true statesman.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The principal made another roly-poly. ‘He did the state some service—and we know it.’

  As they both bowed their heads, Kate could feel the skitters take hold. She knew better than to look at her sister but it was so tempting, just to see, just in case, she might not—oh, but she was. Their eyes locked, a second, maybe two, and Elaine was gone. The laughter burst from her in a loud, high-pitched song that went across the dining room. Kate dug her nails into her palm, but it was no good. Her shoulders had taken on a life of their own, jigging up and down. On the other side of the table, Elaine had given herself over to the hysteria, rocking in her chair like a woman in mourning, an arm clutching her middle, tears streaming down her face. There was nothing for it but to go with her, slide into it and let her sister pull them both out to sea. Everything ached—her cheeks, her tummy, even her lungs—a wonderful, rippling ache that she was powerless to stop. She crossed her legs, afraid that she might wet herself. Somewhere in the background she heard her mother saying her name, only her name and not her sister’s, and then her aunt apologizing but giddy herself, not able to fully get the words out.

  A firm hand on Kate’s shoulder ended it eventually. Like a patient waking from a fever, she gasped for air and went silent. Her mother was staring at her with the kind of deranged look that Copernicus got whenever the vet came to vaccinate the cows.

  ‘Girls,’ said the principal. ‘You won’t want to be carrying on like that in September. You’re not first years any more. Another year and you’ll be in Junior Cert. Indeed.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Martin.’ Their mother glared at Kate. ‘I don’t know what’s come over them.’

  ‘It’s all the sugar,’ said their aunt. ‘I can feel it myself.’