I am Mary Dunne

by Brian Moore

  ‘Good. Now, come on down and have some supper.’

  ‘No.’

  I know. It was childish of me, but dammit. Later, it seemed much later, he knocked and asked if he could come in. Mackie had gone to bed, he said, and he was tired and wanted to go to bed too.

  I called out. ‘Look, just this once would you mind sleeping on the couch in the study?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  He went away. It was the first time we’d slept apart since that third night of our marriage when I slept at the YW and he at the YM. Maybe that, our sleeping apart, was the worst thing I did that evening. For I set a precedent.

  But, no, sending him off to sleep alone wasn’t the worst part of it, the worst part was that, hours later, in the middle of the night, I got up, went down to the living-room and there, sure enough, was the letter from Catherine Mosca, sitting in the letters tray on the sideboard. I read the letter. I read it twice. And the worst part, the very worst, the most despicable part of all was that next morning I apologized. Mackie and I made up and, so much for my independence, a week later her cheque had been cashed, I had passed my interview and was enrolled in Catherine Mosca’s evening class.

  Yet if I had not worked hard in acting class, I might still believe I was born to be an actress. ‘A so-called actress,’ as Ernie said tonight, his voice thick with that hatred of actors you find in so many people. Of course, Ernie doesn’t just hate actors, he hates me in particular. Funny, I haven’t thought of him since he left. Despite all that happened tonight, I did manage to excise him from my mind. Perhaps the truth about Ernie is that he does not stay in anyone’s mind. He did not even stay in my mind before tonight, yet how could I have forgotten some of those things which happened.

  I wish I had remembered him. I wish I’d had some warning feeling when I first saw L. O. MACDUFF scribbled on the doorman’s pad. But, of course, as with everything else about Ernie, the L.O. MacDuff thing is not something one would remember. Only Ernie would remember it.

  It was about half an hour after I tried to reach Mama in Butchersville that the phone rang again. Terence always answers the phone when he’s home. But, after a moment, I heard him call out from his study.

  ‘For you, Mary.’

  When I picked up the receiver in the living-room, I could hear Beau’s and Sam’s voices in the background. Then Terence, hearing me on the extension, hung up and all at once there was a strange heavy silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘Mary?’ (A man’s voice.)

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Who?’

  ‘L.O. MacDuff. Didn’t you get my message?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, vaguely. ‘But, I’m afraid, I, well, I have an awful memory for names.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Mary,’ he said. ‘It’s Ernie Truelove. Don’t you remember the nickname you gave me?’

  ‘God,’ I said. ‘Hello, Ernie.’

  ‘You did remember,’ he said. ‘You were just teasing, weren’t you?’

  ‘Are you here on a vacation?’ I asked him, wanting to get off this name thing.

  ‘Just a few days. I’m supposed to go back to Montreal tomorrow morning. That’s why I phoned you. I – ah – I wondered if – ah – if you and your husband would care to join me for a drink tonight? My last night and all that. I’d like to kind of celebrate with someone I know. And, well, you’re the only person I know here. Apart from the fact that you’re the person I’d most want to see, even if I did know other people.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, yes, but I’ll have to check with Terence, all right?’

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘If you’re busy, I mean if you have another engagement, I understand, of course. I know you must be mixed up with all sorts of interesting people, I mean being married to Terence Lavery and all. Look –’ (his voice grew loud, hurting my ear) ‘– I mean, don’t be shy, tell me, forget it, just thought I’d call, that’s all.’

  Now it was my turn to get loud and flustered. ‘No, listen,’ I said, ‘I just wanted to check with Terence –’

  ‘No, be frank,’ he interrupted. ‘Look, we’re old friends.’

  ‘I was going to suggest,’ I said, ‘that perhaps you’d like to come and have supper with us. Just pot luck.’

  ‘Oh, but I couldn’t put you to that trouble. I mean I didn’t phone for that. I wanted to invite you.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ I said. ‘We’d love to see you.’

  ‘Great.’ He did sound delighted. ‘I’m a fan of your husband’s, you know. Look – can I bring a bottle or something?’

  ‘No, just yourself,’ I said. ‘Is seven all right?’

  ‘Any time,’ he said. ‘Seven will be fine. By the way –’ (a long pause, then he went on) ‘– you – ah – you know that Hat was living at my place when he died?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I said and just then I sensed he was going to say something I didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Well, he was. He used to talk a lot about you, Mary. I mean – well, you know he was in love with you right up to the end.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said. (What could I say?)

  ‘Yes, well I just thought I’d tell you, I mean, no matter what he may have told you or written you, he did love you. I just mentioned it because there mightn’t be a chance tonight, I mean with your new husband there and all.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll see you at seven then, Ernie.’

  ‘Seven,’ he said. ‘Gosh I’m looking forward to it, Mary.’

  ‘So am I. See you then.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘Lay on, MacDuff.’

  He hung up. I remember thinking, that’s it, lay on, MacDuff, was his slogan, he used it all the time. I remember thinking, I hope he doesn’t bore the pants off Tee and then, the thing he’d said, the thing I didn’t want to think about, came into my mind and angered me all over again against Hat. I could just see him sitting in Ernie Truelove’s place in Montreal, a Scotch in his fist, his wild black eyes fixed on his audience as he dramatized how he felt about me, how he loved me, how, goddammit, he would always love me because, do you see, Ernie, Mary was the woman I really loved, she was the love of my life. And then, obliquely (or perhaps not so obliquely), the old hint of suicide, the last emotional stop pulled out to ensure that Ernie would not leave him alone. For, total actor that Hat was, the suicide threat meant the audience would rally around. Oh, how could I have wept for him so many times since I heard of his death?

  I hung up the phone and thought why have I invited Ernie Truelove to supper? Why have I left myself open for another evening of reminiscence about Hat?

  I was shaking. Adrenalin or fear, I don’t know, but at that moment I willed Terence to appear and, as though by magic, he did appear coming by the living-room, showing Beau and Sam to the front door.

  ‘ ’Bye there, Martha,’ Sam told me.

  ‘ ’Bye, honey,’ said Beau.

  They were putting on their coats in the hall. Both, I noticed, wore grey desert boots. Sam had a green bulky knit sweater and Beau a maroon Swiss velour shirt. Both had purchased flat British cloth caps. Beau’s face is very fat and the cap, when he put it on, looked like a lid on a kitchen pot. And Sam, well, Sam was simply too old for fancy dress.

  ‘Be talking to you,’ Beau assured Terence.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll be in touch,’ Sam decided.

  ‘Ciao,’ said Terence, closing the door on them, waving them a farewell, then turning, coming to me, smiling, his arms out to hold me and I rushed into his arms and held him tight, for in his embrace my fears went. I held and was held and was safe. I put my face against the lapel of his tweed jacket and rubbed like a cat.

  ‘Well, now, Martha,’ Tee said. We laughed. ‘Yes, indeed,’ Tee said. ‘They don’t know your name.’

  ‘Who does?’ I asked. ‘Sometimes I forget myself.’

  ‘Who’s L.O. MacDuff?’ Tee asked, suddenly holding me off and looking at me.
‘Some old love?’

  ‘No, no. But he’s coming to supper. I’m sorry I couldn’t get out of it, I’ll tell you about it. Want some tea?’

  ‘Okay. And let’s go into my room and goof and gossip a minute.’

  Tee turned me towards his study and asked, ‘Good day?’ and, without thinking, I said, ‘No, no, I’ve had an awful day, it started badly, it was just one thing –’ (and then stopped myself, remembering that, nowadays, I always seem to be complaining. I seem neurotic, self-centred, always talking trivia, I don’t know how he can still like me) ‘I mean,’ I said, changing tack, ‘I had a strange sort of day. I had lunch with Janice Sloane and that was very odd, I can tell you.’

  ‘Odd?’ he said.

  ‘It would take ages even to give you the gist of it. But one thing came out. Remember we used to wonder who it was told Hat about you and me? Well, it was Janice.’

  But Tee wasn’t interested in that, that’s the past and he never thinks of the past. He kissed the nape of my neck. ‘L.O. MacDuff,’ he said. ‘Our mysterious dinner guest, he’s the one I want to hear about. I bet he’s an old boyfriend.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, but as I said it I remembered that Ernie had taken me to dinner a few times and a memory came of one night, vague, for I was high, when Ernie wept. That was all I remembered then, it was just a pinprick, I put it out of my mind. ‘Wait till you hear,’ I said to Tee. ‘Know what his real name is? It’s Ernest Truelove.’

  ‘No wonder he changed it to MacDuff. Martha, you have to be joking?’

  ‘Stop calling me Martha,’ I said. ‘I’ll begin to think it’s my real name.’ We were in the kitchen now. I put water in the kettle and decided to tell Tee about that strange thing of forgetting who I was in the beauty parlour this morning, but ‘Teabags or tea?’ he asked and I said teabags would do, and he went into the pantry out of earshot to get the teabags. When he came back, I had begun to feel trembly again, and, when I spoke, my voice was shaky. ‘I mean,’ I said, ‘about names. It’s strange, it’s been such a funny day about names, it started this morning when the woman in the hairdresser’s asked my name and I forgot, I couldn’t remember, I just blanked out for a moment. It was like that time long ago – I think I told you about – in Juarez, a real panic –’

  But Tee came to me and held me, pressing me to him. ‘Now, now, take it easy,’ he said. ‘Don’t get upset.’

  ‘And then when I did remember, I remembered my name as Phelan,’ I said. ‘Which was really depressing.’

  When I said depressing, Terence’s eyes went neutral. Sometimes, I think he thinks there’s something wrong with me, something mental. ‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘It’s just your time of month.’

  But, as he said it, he looked at me with a sort of questioning look, and I thought to myself, he thinks I’m mad, he does. My hand shook as I poured hot water into the teapot. I tried to sound light, and casual.

  ‘It was funny that thing about my name,’ I said. ‘I mean, really. Who am I any more? All these names, who am I?’

  ‘You are May-ree, May-ree,’ he sang, ‘and it’s a grand O-o-ld N-a-a-me.’

  ‘Wrong. Ask Sam. My first name is now Martha.’

  He laughed and, if I had left it at that, it would have been fine, it would all have passed off as a joke. But when I am nervous I am incapable of leaving things alone, I go on about them and so, I did go on and said, ‘But seriously, Dunne, Phelan, Bell, Lavery – just think if it were you, would you remember? I mean is it any wonder I can’t remember my name now, when somebody asks me?’

  He picked up the tray. ‘At least you’re not L.O. MacDuff, yclept Ernest Trueblood. Let’s take the tea into my room.’

  ‘Truelove,’ I told him.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘And was he a true love?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I mean he sounded like some old boyfriend of yours. Is he?’

  ‘Of course he’s not. You think every man I meet is one of my old boyfriends.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Tee said. ‘You take the teapot, okay?’

  ‘All right,’ I said, starting off down the hall. ‘I suppose he was a “boyfriend”, as you call it. I mean I went out with him a few times.’

  ‘In Montreal?’

  ‘Yes. After Jimmy and I broke up. Hat was in Europe and it looked as though his wife wouldn’t give him a divorce. Ernie worked in our office. He asked me out to dinner a few times and I was lonely and went.’

  Terence pushed open the door to his room and put the teacups on his long work table. ‘Well, it’s funny. When I told him I’d get you to call him back he said he’d wait in his room for the call. I said there was no need for him to do that. Then he got all upset. He said, “No, no, you don’t understand, it’s important to me to see her, very important.” So I said, “All right, but I’m sorry I didn’t get your name?” and he sort of hesitated and then he said, “Well, if you tell her L.O. MacDuff, she’ll know who you mean.” Which I thought was an odd thing for him to say.’

  ‘It was a nickname I gave him. He was always saying “Lead on, MacDuff”.’

  ‘I thought it was lay on,’ Tee said. ‘Lay on, MacDuff, isn’t that what Macbeth says?’

  On the wall of his study Terence has huge prints and photographs of the great men he admires. I looked at the wall, staring at those famous faces, thinking maybe Terence does not believe me, maybe he thinks I was promiscuous before I met him. I have Hat to thank for that lie about being promiscuous, it’s the sort of thing, once a man says it, other men believe him.

  From the wall, Dostoyevsky, bearded like a Bible elder, stared down at me in contempt. Above him, in an early photograph, Proust saw through me with calm ellipsoid orbs. Yeats, in Augustus John’s portrait, ignored me to contemplate some pure beauty I would never be. All were men, all men judged me, all men were unfair, as Hat was unfair, and in my mindless tension it seemed to me that Terence was accusing me of having an affair with silly Ernie Truelove and, worse, somewhere in the back of the panic of my mind there was the memory of Ernie weeping. I could not remember why or when but there, staring at and stared at by those great and famous men, I was again guilty of something, I knew not what, but guilty, yes, guilty. Self-condemned.

  Ernie weeping, why could I not remember why or when it was, what had happened to my memory? I stared at the wall as Terence poured cups of tea. Dostoyevsky, Proust, Tolstoy, Yeats. They knew who they were and, because they did, we, posterity, will always know. They wrote, therefore they are, whereas I, sitting glum on that sofa, was nameless, lost, filled with a shameful panic. I looked at Proust, the flâneur, who renounced his world for his work. I thought of his death, the great book finished after fifteen years, the last pages of corrections lying on the invalid’s sick-bed. And as I stared at Proust’s strange eyes, some self-defence within me rose up to shift the intolerable burden of blame and I thought to myself why did Terence put these great men on his wall, Terence who is so quick to judge me promiscuous, isn’t Terence afraid of being judged himself? My God, when I think of it, the arrogance of a man who could do the trivial work he does under the scrutiny of the likes of Tolstoy and Yeats. Proust gave up a world for his work. Terence wouldn’t even give up a party.

  And then, as though he guessed at my sudden anger towards him, Tee got up, and put a Chopin record on the record player. No one has known my moods as he does and he was right, music was the best thing then. In my emotional state, music could bring tears, but tears lull me, whereas, as he knew, further talking would lead to my finding some pretence to pick a fight with him.

  I stared again at the bearded elders, heard Brailowsky begin a mazurka, tried to think of the clear water sound of the music but it was Down Tilt. I was on the cliff edge and I knew it, on the edge of that state of mind where I will blame myself for anything, a state of mind where the world is not at fault, but I am at fault and I said to myself, be calm, be calm, listen to this mazurka, let the music fill your head, driving all thoughts a
way.

  The music swelled, lulling me, and I turned to look at Tee who had stretched out on the daybed and was reading the New Statesman. He put his heel to his toe and shucked off one brown loafer. It fell to the floor. Heel to other toe as he shucked off the second loafer. It did not fall but lay on its side on the daybed while I stared at the loafer, thinking I will not think about anything but that – the loafer – I will contemplate the loafer and listen to the music and will not think. I-will-not-think.

  Terence was watching me. He was just pretending to read his paper. I knew he had guessed the mean thoughts I’d been having about him and now he was silently asking me what had I done with my life to give me the right to criticize what he had done with his?

  And I said to myself I’m not going to get into an argument with him about that or anything else. But it was no good. I did get into an unspoken argument. I said to myself, look here, now.

  There doesn’t have to be any purpose.

  There doesn’t

  have

  to be

  any PURPOSE.

  Ordinary people live ordinary unmeaningful lives. (I said to myself.)

  There doesn’t have to be

  any

  PURPOSE.

  Take women. Most women don’t even live lives of quiet desperation. (Quiet desperation is far too dramatic.) Most women live lives like doing the dishes, finishing one day’s dishes and facing the next until, one day, the rectal polyp is found or the heart stops and it’s over, they’ve gone. And all that’s left of them is a name on a gravestone.

  But it was no good, he was judging me, I knew what he was thinking and so I damn well judged him, I looked up at Dostoyevsky on the wall and look here Fëdor, I said to myself, would you have put aside your novel for a sure thing, for a little musical the way Terence did? Damn right you wouldn’t, Fëdor. But that little revue in London, that really is what Terence is best known for. I remember the afternoon after it opened, we drove up to the theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue to see the notices on the marquee and the theatre manager came out and took our photo with a flash beneath the critics’ kind words. ‘Happiest romp in years – Times.’ ‘Laughed till I cried – Sketch.’ ‘Charming, With-it, Up-to-the-minute! – Mirror.’ I stood there, arm-linked with Tee, smiling for the camera, stood there in a drizzle of rain, and was sad behind my smile, sad for the play Terence had abandoned because ‘they’ had said audiences wouldn’t like it, because ‘they’ had pushed him to write this and now ‘they’ were vindicated by the inanities written over the marquee beneath which we posed. How dare you judge me, Terence, I said to myself, staring at him as he pretended to read his paper, how dare you? Let me tell you something, Tee. If you are with-it and up-to-the-minute then you will never be ahead of it or outside it or apart from it, as genius is, as Proust was apart, as Dostoyevsky was not with it. I stared at him and I was Mad Twin and yes, yes, yes (I thought), you shouldn’t worry about success. Do you hear me, Tee?