Dinner Party

by Sarah Gilmartin

  The queue at the dock kept growing. Kate watched the lady in the hairnet frown as a girl ordered four hot chocolates. She seemed to have no one with her but then she gestured at the slanted glass windows behind her head and mimed smoking a cigarette. The smell of melting sugar wafted towards the tables. Suddenly, the morning’s efforts of getting to the campus hit her like a dirty wave—all the ordinary things so painful, even rolling in bed or leaning across the sink to get her toothbrush—and she closed her eyes to stop the tears. The smell was stronger with her eyes shut, the brutal sweetness of melting sugar. Like candyfloss, the flagrantly bad-for-you top notes. The last time she’d eaten it. Maybe. Not maybe. Who was she fooling? That autumn morning, that beautiful, sunny Halloween morning four years ago.

  In the cramped tutorial room, Kate’s foot went into spasm. The cast had come off last Friday but the bit near the ankle was still giving her trouble. She dipped her head out of the lecturer’s eyeline, hoping he couldn’t see her. These spasms were frequent, a burning, burrowing sensation that was definitely worse than bone pain. But they’d go away when she rebuilt the muscle strength in her foot. Ray had given her a rehab plan and she was following it to the letter, doing it twice a day instead of just in the morning, hoping for a double-quick recovery. The Economics Ball, the official end to Michaelmas term, was the weekend after next, and she was determined to be ready for it.

  She looked around the sparsely furnished tutorial room, wishing there was a window. A sliver of sky, a seagull or two, any kind of distraction. It was almost an architectural feat that the majority of rooms in the five-storey Arts Block were without natural light.

  The guy from Clongowes, who still told everyone he was from Clongowes even though they were in third year, was giving a long-winded answer to a question about CFDs. He was very tall and balding and his right foot kept tapping to some imaginary soundtrack. ‘The problem,’ he said, summing up, ‘is trust.’ But then he went off again, talking about hedge funds and regulations and some other things that Kate knew only by name. She hoped they wouldn’t be on the exam. She could not, at this very moment, even remember what the acronym stood for. She knew it was about spread betting. Gambling, her lecturer kept calling it, in his even, sleep-inducing voice.

  She rubbed the patch of rough skin on her hands and looked at the other students, wishing she’d had more time to get to know them before they switched tutorials next term. The girl from Kerry with the dead-eyed stare, or the Erasmus student from Munich with the straight teeth. Kate had only spoken to him a handful of times. She found tutorials hard, preferred the anonymity of lectures. But still, she was pleased with how this year was going. Halls had turned her into someone who was adequately popular, normal even, able to muck in with the rest of them. She no longer felt hollow. Though her marks were suffering—she was still making the grade in everything, but in that murky second-class-honours way that her mother considered a fail.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ said the lecturer.

  She looked up to see who he’d asked, confident it wasn’t her. He was one of the nice ones who didn’t put you on the spot.

  ‘Kate,’ he said. ‘Do you agree?’

  Oh dear, she’d no idea what acronym they were onto now. The warmth she’d been chasing all morning finally ran through her body. If she hadn’t been semi-paralysed by the fact that everyone was looking at her, she would have loved to take off her coat. The rest of them had done so the moment they came into the room. She was always behind.

  ‘Well, Kate. What are your thoughts?’

  She couldn’t look him in the eye. She focused on his beige blazer, at a small stain that was almost a shamrock near the rim of the lapel.

  ‘Contracts for difference,’ the German guy said.

  She flicked her eyes at him. He showed his lovely teeth and nodded encouragement.

  ‘Yes, CFDs,’ she said. ‘Well, it’s gambling, really. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Exactly.’ The lecturer tilted his chair back, ‘But why?’

  She felt the heat flood every part of her, running up to her brain like water in a rad. A rush of words came out. They were in English, certainly, but not in any coherent pattern. She had no control over them, could hear them, right now, pop out her mouth while she was thinking other thoughts. So who was in charge of the speaking? Who was at the helm?

  ‘Right, OK,’ the lecturer said eventually. ‘That’s not what we were saying. Not entirely.’

  ‘Kate broke the foot,’ the German guy said loudly. The room was so small it sounded like a cheer. He leaned forward in his chair to point at her orange Converse. ‘She broke the foot.’

  Everyone looked at her shoe.

  ‘Is it broken now?’ the lecturer frowned. ‘Should you be here?’

  ‘I got the cast off last week. It’s all better.’ Her voice was thin and squeaky. ‘I just haven’t been able to do the reading.’

  ‘I see,’ said the lecturer. ‘I didn’t know. Stay back after and we’ll have a chat.’

  She nodded. The German smiled at her like this was a positive outcome. As Clongowes started again, she sank into the folds of her coat and tried to concentrate herself into being cold.

  The air in her room was stale and sweet and the sharp winter light seemed to find the one gap in the purple curtains that led directly into her eyes. Kate had been awake for a few minutes, paralysed by the weight of her head and the siren that went off inside it every time she went to move. She was topless, right at the edge of her bed, one arm hanging limply over the frame. Her fingers wouldn’t curl. Elsewhere: flip-flopping stomach, mouth dry and crusty, bladder like a hatching egg. At least she was still in her knickers. But she wondered who was snoring behind her.

  Oh, why, why did the tassel of the damn curtain seem so far away? She let her eyes go round the room instead—her folders on the shelf, her photos, the digital radio blinking four red zeroes, her beautiful salmon-pink ball dress reduced to a silky mess on the ground. Behind her, a little snort and then a sound like a cow low-moaning. She could feel the bulk of him, whoever he was, the slick warmth against her back. For a moment she imagined it was an actual cow, and she gave a bright, drunken laugh into the room, using the momentum to lift herself fully onto the mattress, elbowing the cow-man so he moved towards the wall.

  Half comfortable now, she looked again at the dress, the debs dress her mother had bought her in a fancy boutique in Donnybrook. It was one of their best ever days, the first time (the only time?) she’d made Mammy happy since Elaine. Her mother had been in her element, dressed in her finery, breezing in and out of the shops. Kate must have tried on a hundred outfits and when they’d found the one, her mother had cried and hugged her, and there was such closeness between them that Kate felt for a small moment as if Elaine was there with them in the fitting room. That day, Kate saw what it was her mother wanted, perhaps what everyone in the family wanted: Elaine had been the outgoing one, the easy one, the brilliant one, and when she died Kate was supposed to just switch over and become her. Well, at least she’d managed it for a single day.

  All of a sudden, her arm came back to life, aching from wrist to shoulder. She pulled at the loose skin of her tricep and tried to remember what had happened the previous night. Miranda! Oh no, the poor thing, flat on her face on the stage, a sparkly red starfish.

  But then? What then? The rest of the evening was only available in shards, piercing into her as they landed. She remembered standing on a chair in the hotel ballroom and someone lifting her into the air. Rag Doll, they’d said, let’s go flying, Raggers. She stuck her legs out from under the duvet into the damp air of the room. No bruises or gashes. There were usually scars after a memory-less night, but no, her pale skin had nothing but goosebumps.

  The guy behind her snorted again, rolled into the middle of the bed and cocked his top leg over her. She peeled back the duvet to inspect the leg. She’d known from the bulk of him that it couldn’t have been Jurgen, but still she was disappointed when she saw the pasty,
hairy thigh. A ferocious weight, like the trunk of a dead elephant, that seemed, somehow, to smell of garlic-and-cheese chips. At a loud groan from behind, she gave the trunk an almighty heave and dashed to the towel rail. When she had the towel tucked securely under her arms, she glanced at the bed.

  ‘Well, Raggers, how’s the form? You look hanging.’ Clongowes had rolled onto his back and was smirking at her.

  She couldn’t do anything except stare at him. He took her purple duvet and snuggled it up to his chin. She wanted to rip it off him. How dare he touch her things.

  ‘Who’s that?’ He nodded at the photo of herself and Elaine at their sixteenth. ‘She your sister? Smoking hot.’

  ‘Get—’ Her voice was breathless.

  ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’

  Kate clutched her stomach.

  ‘Are you OK? Like, you’re green, babe. Your face? Are you going to—’

  But she was gone, out of the room, keyless, witless, hopeless, running down the hall to the bathroom cubicles, wishing, just wishing to forget.

  When the Michaelmas term ended, Kate took the bus home to Cranavon for the holidays. Seasonal preparations went better than expected and even a small pine tree with shiny needles was cut from the farm, brought to the house on the back of the tractor and placed in the good room.

  On Christmas Day, they had made it through dinner. The five of them sat around the solid oak table in the good room. No tears, no outrages, no fights. Her mother had so far resisted going over to the stereo, putting on the dreaded CD, skipping five tracks down to ‘Lonely This Christmas’ and crying into some otherwise festive dish, as she had done every year since Daddy died.

  With burnt brandy still in the air and the big bowl of whipped cream going flat beside the elegant candles, they debated whether to cut the Christmas cake. Kate couldn’t believe they were considering more food. Her stomach was bloated and heavy, and now she would have to sit with the cramps, feeling each sprout as if it had been a stone.

  ‘Well, I’m stuffed,’ said Liz. ‘It was delicious, Mrs Gleeson.’ She tossed her long blonde hair over to one side like a pop star.

  Their mother smiled. ‘You’re very welcome, dear.’

  She went on to tell Liz yet another story about some woman at bridge. Cancer. Then a death. And another one. And then the cancer was back. Or it was a new cancer, Kate had lost track. Her mother had been talking all morning. Kate had literally heard the revving voice in her sleep and had opened her eyes to find her mother there in the room at the peach wardrobe, which was where she kept her special occasion clothes these days.

  ‘Seriously, Mrs Gleeson,’ said Liz, who was pretty good at anticipating the pauses for an amateur. ‘This was one of the nicest dinners I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing,’ her mother smiled. ‘Stop now.’

  Poor Peter at the head of the table managed to keep his face neutral, though he had grown, prepared and cooked everything himself from scratch. Kate had helped him arrange the cheesy parcels for the starter, and she’d done the table just like Mammy wanted—gold and white settings, not an inch of gaudy red.

  ‘Elizabeth, I’m so glad you came down for Christmas,’ her mother said, her grey eyes flashing.

  ‘I’m so glad you invited me.’ Liz drained her wine.

  Her mother gave a coquettish laugh. ‘Stop,’ she said.

  It was like hanging around with friends who thought they didn’t fancy each other.

  ‘Seriously,’ said Liz. ‘It was better than a hotel.’

  Well! That was the clincher—her mother practically leapt across the table in her bid to pat Liz’s arm. ‘You’re a sweetheart,’ she said, beaming. ‘Raymond has done very well for himself. I hope he knows that.’

  Ray grunted, but you could see he was pleased.

  ‘I don’t think I could manage cake,’ Liz said. ‘Not yet.’

  The rest of them nodded agreement. It was so nice to have a visitor at the table, they said. This was the way to do Christmas. They should have done it years ago. Aunt Helen’s visits didn’t count—no one with a blood connection counted. Kate winked at Ray through the candles, good old Ray, who had brought some shadow of ease back to Cranavon.

  He misunderstood her meaning and took a cracker, pointing it like a gun. He was wearing the light blue shirt with the little horse on the pocket that Liz had given him that morning, and his face was flushed and happy.

  ‘Go on, so.’ Kate leant forward.

  Her mother turned sharply. Were these the show crackers, not for pulling? To hell with that. She finished her wine, grabbed the end, gave a fine tug, but the cracker split open without a bang. A miniature scissors fell onto the table. Peter extracted the thin brown strip from the debris and snapped it in his fingers. Under the tree Copernicus woke and yelped.

  ‘You didn’t even pull it, Kate.’ Her mother snatched the gold hat and rested it on top of her bob. ‘She didn’t pull it, Liz.’

  ‘No,’ said Liz. ‘Handed it to him.’ She mouthed an apology to Kate as Mammy reached for her water.

  Her mother went back to telling them the endless story about her visits to the local hospice and how they weighed on her. She’d started going a few years ago and seemed to have forgotten that it was voluntary.

  Eventually, when the story was finished, Ray got the box of Penneys crackers from under the tree, and there was pulling and shouting, the smoky smell of gunpowder, some jokes that Peter mistook for trivia, and then a last-minute turnaround on the cake where they all ganged up against her and decided it wasn’t Christmas without a slice.

  ‘You cut away,’ said Kate. ‘I’ll finish the clean-up and have some later with charades.’

  ‘Have some now,’ Peter said.

  ‘Charades?’ Liz looked at Ray in horror, her Dalkey accent more pronounced. ‘Like, really?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ their mother said. ‘We love a game of charades in this house.’

  ‘Will you have a small slice, Kate?’ Peter cracked the icing with the knife.

  ‘Later,’ she said.

  ‘There’s nothing like charades at Christmas,’ said her mother.

  Kate had a sudden pang: Elaine in her candy-cane pyjamas, acting out her favourite film, The Hand that Rocks the Cradle, and Kate guessing the answer the moment she held up six fingers.

  The sprouts started cramping in her stomach again. She took as many plates as she could carry and headed for the kitchen. Copernicus followed her in his slow, limping way.

  As she rinsed the plates, Kate caught snippets of the conversation inside. Her mother talking about the bridge feud, Ray explaining the farm to Liz and then Peter talking over him, explaining it better. They had five men full-time, and the two temps who had come this morning before mass. Because a farm doesn’t stop for Christmas, she heard Peter say with a tinge of something that wasn’t just booze. Her brother oversaw everything at Cranavon but she knew he wasn’t happy with his lot, that he still dreamed of going back to San Diego. He’d tried to get that girl, that woman, whoever she was, to move to Carlow with her son, but she wouldn’t, or she couldn’t, leave America. And there hadn’t been a sniff of anyone else since. Imagine keeping a hope like that alive for seven years. She didn’t understand it. What was the point in teasing yourself? It was starting to ruin Peter, this other life he could no longer have, or allow himself to have. His golden blond hair had gone white at the sideburns and he’d become sour in the last year or so, a kind of gradual bitterness that had started with jibing at Ray about coming home more often, and had developed now into a general dissatisfaction with anything either of them did for Mammy. Nothing seemed to be good enough. Perhaps he had just been here too long and was becoming like her.

  It was a mean thought, the kind of thought she’d grown accustomed to having the longer she lived in Dublin. Her first year in college hadn’t been like that. She’d answered her mother’s phone calls every evening, spent hours listening to her, trying to ease her sadness and wo
rries, reassuring her that she’d be home on Friday evening, that she’d get the late bus back on Sunday, or the early one from Carlow town on Monday morning if Peter would drop her. That first year Kate had been happy to come back to Cranavon every weekend. She’d been dreadfully homesick, a word that did not really cover it at all. Twinsick. Kate was still, on her bad days, cripplingly twinsick.

  But then second year and friends and going out and alcohol. This last one had been a great discovery—the freedom of it, the blankness. Her relationship with her mother had changed enormously. She was less nervous of her and more exasperated by her, by the fact she’d somehow managed to stay the same even through her grief. How had she not been changed by Daddy? By Elaine? Loss had split Kate open. It had halved her and halved her again. And yet her mother, through all her lamenting, seemed fundamentally the same.

  The house, meanwhile, had certainly changed. A grim, airless atmosphere hung about Cranavon, even now, at Christmas. The kitchen never felt clean, like there was an invisible film on the surfaces. Her bedroom, though larger than the one in halls, seemed darker, more cramped. She was uneasy here and it made her short-tempered—sniping at her mother, impatient with Peter, less willing to laugh at Ray’s messing. She tried to keep away as much as possible, claiming all sorts of part-time jobs and study groups and imaginary exams in Dublin. (She always did so well in the imaginary ones.)