by Alison Walsh
‘And who’d look after the children then?’ he says, his face a mask of disapproval, before he leans back in his chair and roars with laughter.
‘You are mocking me,’ I say. ‘You horrible, horrible man. I’m going. I didn’t need to get dragged out of my class for this,’ and I pull myself upright, my chair scraping back on the floor so loudly everyone turns around to have a look. I’m about to turn around, when he grabs my hand, tight. ‘Sit down,’ he says. His expression has darkened and for a moment I feel afraid.
I have to pull myself together. ‘No,’ I retort. ‘Nobody orders me around.’
His face softens. ‘Sorry. Sorry, Michelle. Will you please sit down? I promise I won’t take the mick any more.’
Reluctantly, I perch on the edge of my chair and he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a battered-looking black velvet box. ‘Here,’ he says, pushing it across the table to me.
‘What is it?’ I look at the box as if it is dangerous somehow. He sighs and pulls it back, opening it and taking out two rings, the same rough silver, the same knobbly purple stone in the middle. ‘I promised that if I ever found you, I’d give you this,’ he said, handing me the smaller of the two. The larger one, he slipped onto the fourth finger of his right hand, admiring it.
I hold mine in front of me, unable to work out what exactly he’s asking me. I look at it for the longest time and the place seems to fall quiet around us.
‘Well?’ he says, taking my hand and stroking my ring finger. ‘Will you wear it?’
I know if I get the answer wrong, I’ll never see him again, but it’s a risk I have to take. I can’t let him think he’s in charge here. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, and I get back up, put the ring into my handbag and close the catch. ‘Thanks for dinner.’ And I walk out of the restaurant without turning around.
3
The cheap Prosecco was going to June’s head, her hand clammy on the glass as the three of them bunched up on the sagging sofa in the bridal shop. Mary-Pat’s Melissa was in the middle, chattering away about bodices and dropped waists, while she and Mary-Pat sat either side of her, like anxious terriers waiting for the fox to appear.
‘Jesus Christ, it’s warm in here,’ Mary-Pat was saying, her face red, two circles of sweat under her arms. She was wearing a bright cerise T-shirt and those awful cut-off cargo pants that every middle-aged woman June saw seemed to be wearing. June fingered her cream linen jacket and carrot-leg navy trousers – she couldn’t help herself, she felt that she looked good, even at forty-one. But she put a bit of effort into it. She hadn’t resorted to anything chemical, not like some of the girls, but she looked after herself: she ate well, avoiding red meat, drank a glass of red wine every night and did Pilates three times a week. It was possibly the most boring way God ever invented of spending forty-five minutes, but it kept all of her bits in the right place, and she supposed that it was worth it. She just couldn’t turn into one of those women who’d let herself go, she thought, eyeing her sister’s solid shoulders, the flab that hung over the waistband of her trousers. And trainers … she eyed Mary-Pat’s large white pair, complete with those awful neon ankle socks – no one over twenty-five should wear trainers.
‘What the hell is she doing in there,’ Mary-Pat was saying, ‘is she trying on every bloody dress in the shop? I’m baking alive here and I need something to eat.’
‘Mum, will you take it easy,’ Melissa said, ‘anyone would think you didn’t want to be here.’
Mary-Pat shot June a look, which June tried hard to ignore, examining the bubbles in her glass before taking another tentative sip. It was cheap and warm, but she’d have settled for anything just to get through this.
‘I mean, choosing a wedding dress is the most important decision she’ll ever have to make,’ Melissa was saying, ‘and she’ll want to get it just right.’ She had a dreamy look in her eye and June felt like hugging the girl – bless her, she was a romantic. If only she knew, June thought, that you had to have so much more after the romance had gone. Something that would bind you both together: friendship, loyalty, common interests, the kind of things that she and Gerry shared.
‘For God’s sake, Melissa, she’s not winning the feckin’ Nobel Prize, she’s just trying on a wedding dress,’ Mary-Pat snapped.
June shot out a warning hand and placed it on Mary-Pat’s shoulder. Mary-Pat shrugged it off. ‘Mel, why don’t you go and see what’s happening.’ June smiled. ‘Maybe Rosie wants a hand.’
The girl was off like a shot, bouncing off in the direction of the curtained area, behind which Rosie clearly was trying on every dress in the shop. Lovely Melissa – she was such a sweet-natured girl, in spite of the fake tan and the straightened hair and those spidery fake eyelashes. June thought of her two girls. Georgia would have loved this, if only she didn’t have extra violin after school, and so would India, but she’d told June that she was ‘up to her eyes’ preparing for her maths mocks. June was disappointed – she would have loved to have the girls with her, and it was ages since they’d seen their cousin, but she couldn’t argue with hard work. Gerry and she were always going on at them to put the effort in, so she couldn’t complain. Mary-Pat thought it was highly entertaining that she had two such studious girls, ‘seeing as you never did a stroke of work in your life,’ she’d joked. Georgia was a bit of a wild card, though, and June knew she’d have to watch her. She had something of Daddy about her, a twinkle in her eye and a sense of mischief, which June was determined to keep under control. Still, June was proud of them both. Mary-Pat was probably a bit jealous – and boy, could she be hard on Melissa.
‘MP, will you go easy on her, she’s just having fun,’ June said quietly.
Mary-Pat shot her a look. ‘Fun.’
‘Our baby sister is getting married and she’s including us in this … ritual.’ June chose the word for want of a better one. ‘Is that so bad? You were complaining last week that she didn’t want to include you.’
‘I know,’ Mary-Pat muttered. ‘It’s just …’
‘What?’ June said gently.
‘It’s just … it’s been a shock her coming back after all this time, Junie. I just don’t know what to think.’ Mary-Pat looked anguished and, not for the first time, June felt a flicker of irritation, which she masked. She knew that Mary-Pat was upset, but frankly, she was behaving as if the world were going to end just because her sister had come home after ten years to see them all. Yes, the visit made June feel a tad … uneasy, but she was pleased to see her sister. Delighted, in fact. She really must have Rosie and Craig over for dinner before the wedding, just the two of them, so that she could get to know him a bit better.
‘MP, she’s not trying to upset you or me or anyone else,’ June said, more confidently than she felt. ‘She just wants to get married in the town where she grew up, and she wanted to see Daddy before, well—’
At the mention of Daddy’s name, Mary-Pat shot forward and grabbed June’s arm. ‘She wants Daddy to come to the wedding, you know.’
June felt the glass, slippery in her hands. She longed to take another big swig of the nasty wine, to find oblivion in Brides & Co. on South Anne Street. Anything but to have to listen to her sister. ‘Oh?’ she said carefully. ‘Have you told her what he’s like?’
Mary-Pat shook her head. ‘She’s been in a couple of times, but he was knocked out with all the pills and now they have a vomiting bug, so no visitors are allowed, thank God. We have to keep her away from him,’ she added by way of explanation.
‘We do?’ June knew that Daddy wasn’t quite right, that he was inclined to say the first thing that came into his head these days, but she couldn’t help thinking that Mary-Pat was being a bit cloak and dagger about it all. Rosie would see him sooner or later, before or after the wedding. Maybe she was afraid that Daddy would embarrass them all in public. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, she thought.
She went to reassure Mary-Pat that she and Gerry would look after Daddy, to make s
ure she could relax and enjoy the day, because she felt guilty about it. Mary-Pat did all the running after Daddy, bringing him those unhealthy big bars of chocolate and the Racing Post, and June knew that it was the least she could do, to offer to mind him for one day … but one look at her sister made June say, ‘You’re right. It’s not a good idea.’ Because she knew that’s what Mary-Pat wanted to hear. June always agreed with Mary-Pat, even if her sister was talking nonsense – because it was easier than to face up to her. She’d always let Mary-Pat bully her, and she’d never minded that much, but sometimes she just wished her sister would be a bit … kinder. A bit less relentless.
There was something June couldn’t put her finger on, and she had a sense of the horrible shagpile carpet in the shop shifting beneath her feet. She knew that Daddy was feeling better – he’d practically risen from the dead, sitting up one day last week in St Benildus’s after a week in a semi-coma and demanding a fry-up, and that was good, wasn’t it? They were all delighted about it, weren’t they?
Mary-Pat got up, shuffling forward on the sofa until she could stand up. ‘So that’s settled then. The bug will do for now, then we’ll tell her that he’s got the bladder infection back and that he’s too ill to come,’ and she began to rummage in her handbag for a cigarette. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ June knew better than to probe. Mary-Pat must have her reasons, June thought doubtfully, even if she knew that her sister wasn’t telling her everything. We all have our reasons. June thought of her little writing box under her bed, with those flimsy blue aerogrammes in it, and for a moment she closed her eyes. No, mustn’t think about that.
‘I need a fag,’ Mary-Pat muttered. ‘Where the hell did I put my lighter?’
‘I’ll come with you,’ June volunteered, desperate to get out of the stuffy shop. She followed her sister out onto the busy pavement, thronged with people in summer clothes. It was another baking hot day, of the kind they’d grown used to this glorious summer. Mary-Pat found her cigarettes and her lighter and after lighting up and taking a big drag, she leaned against the shop window, her face relaxed for the first time all morning, and she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. For a moment, June wondered if she could cadge a cigarette off Mary-Pat, but she changed her mind. Smoking was so bad for your skin.
The two of them stood there in silence for a few moments, drinking in the hot summer sun, Mary-Pat’s cigarette smoke spiralling into the air. ‘You all right, June?’ Mary-Pat’s eyes flicked open.
Mary-Pat’s question came so suddenly, June started in fright. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ I was under the impression that you were the one who was in a bit of a state, she thought.
‘You look a bit … tired, that’s all.’
‘Oh, God, no.’ June shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘How’s Gerry … and the girls?’
‘They’re fine.’
‘Fine.’
‘Yes, fine, Mary-Pat.’
‘Sure, what would you have to be complaining about anyway?’ Mary-Pat threw her cigarette on the ground and put it out with her foot, in its huge white trainer. ‘All the servants wiping your bottom for you and making you breakfast in bed.’
‘Very funny. Orianna and Luka are hardly servants. Orianna’s practically part of the family now anyway.’
‘Right. And I bet you have her sitting up to dinner with you every night. I can just see her, clinking the wine glass with Gerry.’ And Mary-Pat cackled at her own joke.
‘How’s the WeightWatchers?’ June knew she was being a bitch, but she couldn’t help herself.
‘Oh, pile of miserable crap as usual, but, sure, not all of us are blessed with your genes, June.’ The way Mary-Pat said it made June blush with shame. She didn’t know why she was being so mean. Mary-Pat always teased her about being comfortable, but neither of them really minded. June knew that her sister wasn’t bothered about nice things, not really. If she was, she’d hardly be living in Gnome Central, as the girls unkindly called it, that tiny little house, filled with knick-knacks and fishing gear and that dog. June shuddered every time she thought of him, that big horrible brown thing who drooled all over the place. She also knew that things had been tough for Mary-Pat and PJ in the last few years, but her sister had never complained. Once, she’d even broached the subject of giving them a little loan, but Mary-Pat had nearly bitten her head off and June hadn’t asked again.
There was another long silence. ‘MP?’
‘What?’
‘Do you ever look around and wonder if it’s been worth it?’ Lately, June had sometimes wondered just that, even though she’d rather die than admit it to anyone. She’d done everything in her power to avoid it, to stave it off, thinking too much about things. She’d poured herself into the job of homemaker, to use the American term, to make sure that Gerry and the kids never wanted for anything and if June felt guilty about farming out the job to her Filipina housekeeper, she told herself that that’s what it took to keep the show on the road. With Gerry hardly ever there, she needed all the help she could get.
And she compensated for her guilt by driving the girls wherever they wanted to go, telling herself that it was because she loved her Land Rover, but really it was because she needed to feel useful. ‘It’s what I’m there for,’ she’d say when India or Georgia would say that they could just get the bus to their piano classes and hockey camps. And even though she saw the looks on their faces, a mixture of irritation and pity, she ignored them. I’m still useful, she thought to herself. I’m still needed. Because she couldn’t bear to think what it might be like if she wasn’t.
‘What do you mean?’ Mary-Pat was saying. ‘If what’s been worth it?’
‘Oh, you know, you think you’re going along and then … suddenly everything seems different. I mean, it’s the same, but you see it differently.’ June was trying to explain how she felt these days, but by the look on Mary-Pat’s face, she wasn’t making much sense. ‘What I mean is—’ June was about to continue when Melissa stuck her head around the door of the shop. ‘There you are. I might have known, Mum, that you’d be smoking your head off.’ She curled her lip. ‘Rosie’s waiting for you.’
Mary-Pat grimaced. ‘Better get it over with then.’
‘Behave, MP, will you?’
‘I’ll try,’ Mary-Pat said, pushing the door of the shop open with an exaggerated sigh.
‘Ta-dah!’ Melissa was standing beside Rosie, a huge grin on her face, and when Mary-Pat and June were silent for a second, she squealed, ‘Doesn’t she look amazing?’
June was rooted to the spot. Rosie was standing in a shaft of sunlight, which caught her lovely golden-red hair and lit up her pale, freckled skin. And she just looked a vision in antique cream lace, with a dropped waist, that suited her boyish figure, a large damask rose pinned to her hip, her lovely hair piled in a loose bun on her head. She looked like one of those women in the pre-Raphaelite paintings that Mammy loved so much. Oh, she was lovely, just lovely, June thought. How did you grow up so suddenly, Rosie? she thought. How did that happen? And, not for the first time, she felt that guilt that she’d had so little to do with it. That she’d left it all to Mary-Pat.
She could still remember it, the day she’d run away. Not that she’d admitted that to anyone, even to herself. June was nineteen, nearly twenty, and she knew it was her last chance to get out, even though she told herself that she was simply going up to visit Susie at the nurses’ home in St Vincent’s where she was doing her training, and where she would host illicit parties, her tiny room stuffed full of student nurses and doctors. It was fun, and June wanted that more than anything else. Fun and life and excitement.
It had been part of her Grand Plan. She’d actually called it that, had written it into the pink furry diary she kept under the bed and which June had loved because it had had a little padlock on it. She’d written the heading in block capitals, with a row of bullet points below it. First, she’d learn to talk properly, not like some ‘bogger’ a
s they called it in Dublin. Then she’d have lots of acquaintances. Everyone in Dublin had them, to go to the theatre with, to the kind of expensive restaurants June couldn’t afford. Nobody in Monasterard had them – they had sisters, brothers, friends, cousins, not acquaintances. It sounded much more sophisticated. And June wanted to be sophisticated more than anything else.
And so she’d told no one, sneaking out the door that Saturday afternoon, everything she’d need stuffed into a little duffle bag that she’d found under Pi’s bed. But Rosie had followed her. ‘Where are you going, Junie?’ She’d bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, her little freckled hands grimy from hours spent on the towpath, messing around the way she loved to do.
‘Oh, nowhere special, Rosie-boo, just off to Timbuktu.’
‘You are not going to Timbuktu,’ Rosie said, her face crumpling and June thought how tactless she’d been. Rosie had a thing about people leaving. It made her anxious and they normally had to explain to her exactly where they were going and for how long. It was funny, really, because she’d had no memory at all of Mammy leaving, not like the rest of them, but somehow she seemed to have absorbed the anxiety about it.
And so, June had lied. ‘You’re right, I’m not. I’m just going to Dublin to a party. I’ll be back in the next day or two.’ And Rosie had seemed to accept what she’d said, but it didn’t stop her watching June as she walked all the way up the towpath to the village. June could feel Rosie’s eyes on her back, and it made her feel awful, because she knew that she was never coming back. Oh, of course, she had – she’d come back the following Tuesday to pick up the rest of her stuff, but she’d never stayed at home again. Not properly. And she’d never thought to wonder how her sisters felt about it. She was gone, leaving Monasterard, and everything else, behind her. And she’d come to Dublin and she’d made a go of things, gathering together a circle of friends-who-weren’t-really-friends for cocktails, the theatre, the gallery openings that she attended because one of her boss Paddy’s clients owned a place on Fitzwilliam Square. She’d been desperate, she knew, to ‘get on’. And because she didn’t resemble the back of a bus and had worked hard on her manners, she’d succeeded. Except she knew that she didn’t like the word now, ‘acquaintances’. It was a lonely kind of a word. And she was a lonely kind of a person.