So she would smile and sit there as the empties collected on the table, quietly playing the role she thought was required as the vacuous banter circulated, unheard by her as she thought of Francis, poor, vulnerable, frightened Francis, who needed her, and she wished she could be left on her own in the cottage to wait for her man to return, to serve her own punishment for whatever crimes he’d committed.
The girls’ embrace concealed, unsubtly, their surveillance of her. They checked constantly how she was, always probing, monitoring her soundness, waiting for her to fall apart. She assumed they must be observing each other in the same way, but it seemed as if their attention was devoted solely to her. From time to time she wondered what would happen if she failed their tests. But at least they understood, partly, some of it.
He was out after eighteen months, shaven and shorn, eager, bright-eyed with the righteous religiosity of the struggle, more driven than ever. Only a fool would contend that the H-Blocks were a place to find reconciliation and rehabilitation. Francis emerged a bitter and ever more closed automaton. She was only thankful that he did not return to Belfast and leave her. It seemed he was still required in South Armagh.
Were these things of which she could ever talk to Cheryl? Of course not.
She didn’t allow herself to think further, instead climbing wearily from the bed. She looked at him lying lost and vulnerable on the counterpane. A child, like all men. He was the centre of her existence and assumed that role as if by right. She did not even have to ask whether she was the centre of his life. But the answer to the question did not perturb her. This was the way of the world, her world at least. She felt no resentment; she supposed what she felt must be love or something like it.
She went into the bathroom and sniffed the contents of the little plastic bottles of colourful, viscous liquids that proclaimed to consist of peach blossom and raspberry essence, or avocado and lime. Selecting one and carefully retaining enough in the bottle for the duration of their stay, she poured some into the bath and watched as the cascade of water foamed it up to a decadent and dangerous volume. She pulled off her clothes, laden with the sweat of the journey, left them on the floor and climbed into the silky warmth of the water. It felt more self-indulgent than anything she had afforded herself in her life, and serenely joyful. She looked at the shining beige of the tiles and dozed.
Later, she dressed in a clean pair of shorts and a T-shirt and washed her knickers in the sink, leaving them to dry on the towel rail. Francis was still asleep. She took her key card from its little folder and, trying to minimize the click of the closing door, left the room and went to the lift.
The public areas of the hotel elicited awe: high ceilings with ornate cornices; polished marble pillars and floors strewn with thick, sumptuous rugs patterned in pastel swirls; sofas and armchairs gathered around gilt-legged coffee tables on which lay glossy magazines as well as the world’s newspapers. A hushed bustle around the massive wood check-in desks that ran the whole length of one of the walls, behind which young men and women ministered with practised smiles to arriving and departing guests. The café, where Chinese waiters in bow ties, white jackets and white gloves served high tea, delivering tiered plates laden with dainty cakes, deftly serving tiny sandwiches with spoon and fork, solicitously pouring tea.
As Bridget approached, a uniformed commissionaire opened one of the glass doors for her with a broad smile and a touch of his hat. She stepped outside. Immediately it hit her: the temperature. The humidity took her breath away. She consulted her map and submitted to the heat and the noise and the smell of spices, garlic and drying exotic dampness. By the time she had reached the first intersection she was lost and anonymous in the rush of people. It was enthralling. She stopped to look at her map again and heard tuts as people walked around her. She was an obstacle, an unhelpful island in this stream.
The exhaustion had returned like a blow to the head that drained her instantly of energy or will. It was the heat, she thought. Her T-shirt was drenched with sweat. She concentrated carefully and retraced her steps.
Back in the room Francis had woken.
‘Where you been?’ he said.
‘I just thought … You were asleep.’
‘Just don’t go anywhere without me. Right?’
She looked at the floor.
‘Right?’
‘Right, Francis,’ she said.
‘It’s a strange country. You don’t know what might happen. You just do what I say.’
‘All right, Francis.’
Bridget had been surprised when Francis agreed that they should attend the wedding. Since Cheryl had moved abroad she’d been back to Ireland every two or three years to see her parents and these were the only times they’d seen each other. They’d generally met for a stilted drink in the pub and it was always clear that Cheryl could not wait to be away from her parochial past and return to her cosmopolitan present.
‘Everything’s just the same,’ Cheryl would sigh, ‘only smaller.’
‘Is it?’ Bridget would reply.
‘Well, yes. Bits and pieces change. Places close. The security force stuff. There’s more of that. But really it’s all the same. Only it’s …’
‘Dying?’
‘I don’t mean it like that. But there’s a whole world out there. Don’t you ever want to get away?’
She understood so little.
‘No,’ Bridget lied.
The invitation had come out of the blue. The only correspondence she normally received from Cheryl was the annual rushed letter in January apologizing for not having sent a Christmas card and replying to Bridget’s card. Cheryl’s letters were always sparse on detail but full of good intentions, never fulfilled, to do better and write more comprehensively when she had more time. But here they now were. From somewhere Francis had found the money for the two airfares – that in itself was a mystery to her.
Now she felt cold fear at the prospect of meeting all these strangers and the big ceremony. At the same time, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This was a life she could have led. After all, she’d not been that different from Cheryl: brighter probably, though less outgoing. Or possibly that was no more than a delusion that sustained her for a moment.
‘You wearing that?’ he asked.
‘No, Francis.’
‘Better hurry up, then. The drinks thing starts in twenty minutes.’
He was wearing his best shirt and his trousers were neatly pressed. He had shaved and applied copious amounts of aftershave. She thought he looked great, as attractive as that first evening back in the village.
‘Well, get a move on,’ he said.
She rushed to the shower, put on the plastic cap to protect her hair and immersed herself in the high-pressure stream. What luxury, to have a long bath and then a shower not an hour later. At home they had a stained enamel bath and the shower attachment emitted no more than a dribble of water that the dodgy immersion heated to just about lukewarm. She put on the only dress she had with her, her only good dress in fact, bought in Grafton Street seven years previously in the sales. She had fretted over wearing the same dress for this reception and later for the wedding itself, but had no choice.
The function room on the mezzanine floor was brightly lit. A chandelier sparkled. A white-suited waiter offered them champagne as they entered. Francis scanned the room while Bridget watched him.
Eventually, with relief she saw Cheryl and nudged Francis. He strode towards Bridget’s friend and enveloped her in an enthusiastic hug. Bridget contented herself with a more hesitant peck on the cheek.
‘You’re looking lovely,’ she told Cheryl.
‘I’ll say,’ said Francis. ‘You look fantastic, woman. Now where’s your ugly other half?’
Cheryl summoned Tony from a nearby scrum of men while Bridget observed her. She was the same person with whom she had shared her secrets as a girl at St Mary’s but more polished. Cheryl’s complexion was immaculate, make-up expertly applied to conve
y an impression of health and naturalness. Her hair was coloured with subtle highlights that turned its natural mousiness into a blended sheen of mid-brown and blonde and cut cleverly so that it flowed over her shoulders. Bridget had been to the hairdresser’s in Armagh before travelling but her coiffure now felt amateurish, as if achieved with rulers, set squares and shears.
Tony was detached from the crowd and ambled towards them, beaming.
‘Now then, me old mucker,’ he said to Francis, and embraced him. Normally Francis would not have tolerated this bodily contact from another man. ‘How the devil are ye doing? Looking good.’
He turned to Bridget and swept her up in his arms, almost hurting her with the ferocity of his hug. ‘And how are you, Bridget, darling? You’re looking just great too.’ He beamed at her.
‘Fine, Tony. Just fine,’ she said, as she was supposed to, with a small smile.
He turned to Francis. ‘Well, mate. Been too damn long.’
‘Sure has,’ said Francis.
Bridget was aware that they were the centre of attention, people regarding them, smiling.
‘Let’s catch up,’ said Tony, putting his arm around Francis’s shoulders, ushering him gently to a corner of the room.
Cheryl had disappeared somewhere into the throng. Bridget followed the two men, eyes down.
‘Great to see you both,’ he said, but his voice was wary and he was looking at Francis.
‘I’m not going to piss on your parade,’ said Francis with a smile.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ said Tony, and led him away into a crowd near the bar, leaving Bridget to drink her champagne on her own. She felt tired.
Cheryl returned. She wore a short cocktail dress on which sequins sparkled and she towered in her high heels.
‘How’re you, then, Bridge?’
‘All right. We’re OK.’
‘Good.’
‘What a life you have here. And this … It’s wonderful.’
‘Thanks. Means a lot. And Francis? How’s he?’
‘Oh, you know. Not so bad. Things aren’t so bad.’
‘That’s great.’
‘I like your hair. And that dress suits you.’
‘Thanks, Bridge. It’s good to see you. Hard to imagine you here, but I’m so glad you made it.’
‘Yes,’ said Bridget.
‘Look, I have to do my perfect hostess bit. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up later. Let’s make sure we have a good long chat.’
‘All right.’
Bridget didn’t know what she should have expected. Not, certainly, to fall back immediately into that old intimacy, to be able to share the confidences of their teens and early twenties. But perhaps to connect in some way.
It was just like Cheryl. They had met on their first day in secondary school. While Bridget had been stand-offish and shy, Cheryl had been welcoming and confident. She’d reached out and grasped Bridget’s hand at lunchtime, saying, ‘Let’s go and see what there is.’
Now Cheryl flitted between people as she had always done, smiling and seemingly fascinated until her attention was taken by the next person she spied. Bridget was left standing, an empty glass in her hand.
Forty-five minutes later she judged she could safely leave and return to the room. Cheryl would not notice her absence. Nor would Tony. Francis certainly wouldn’t.
Francis laughed at her when he returned to the room. He noticed her knickers drying in the bathroom and said, ‘Don’t you realize Tony’s paying for everything? They clean your clothes for you here. All you do is put your things in a bag and leave them in the room. Tony’ll sort the bill.’
‘Sorry, Francis,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Don’t apologize to me.’ With that he began to undress.
He lay down on the bed in his underpants and began flicking through the television channels. This was the way of it, she supposed. Life. Whatever the glossy magazines might say that lay neatly splayed on the glass-topped coffee table next to the bowl of tropical fruit and the sharply folded copy of the Straits Times.
3
The next morning he was again snoring as she used the bathroom quietly and dressed. She moved the lamp while searching in the darkness for her key card on the bedside table and he was instantly awake.
‘Fuck you doing? What time is it?’
‘Seven thirty.’
‘I thought we were on holiday.’
‘I was just on me way to breakfast, Francis. The girls are supposed to be meeting at eight thirty to go shopping.’
‘Don’t expect me to be getting up at this hour.’
‘I wasn’t. I thought you might want to sleep on.’
‘I’ll have my breakfast up here. Later on. Then I’m off with the boys to do some sightseeing. You’ll be all right?’
‘Sure I’ll be all right, Francis. Cheryl has it all organized. I’ll see you here later?’
‘Yeah. Enjoy yourself.’
‘You too.’
She took the lift down from the fifteenth floor and joined the bustle at the buffet with the besuited and purposeful businessmen and the glamorous women. She felt dowdy, she knew she was dowdy; with her drab clothes cut straight and cheap, completely unsuitable for the climate, her sensible shoes and her straight dark hair.
Taking a bowl of cereal and asking the waiter for a cup of tea, she sat at a table as far away from the dazzling central hum of conversation and glittering teeth as she could. She ate in small mouthfuls, watching. It appeared to her that she was watching a television show, live, each participant playing his or her role to perfection, lines learned from other shows over the years. She had a sense that between her and these people there was an invisible but inviolable glass wall. She was tempted to approach the wall, if she could locate it, just to touch it and with no hope of penetration; but this thought made her fearful. She had imagined this trip would take her somewhere different and help her understand her life. Perhaps it had, but it had also reinforced her sense of how alone she was.
After breakfast she waited patiently in the lobby, on a sofa that was far too well plumped with cushions to be comfortable, for the rest of the women to appear. For fear of waking Francis again, she didn’t return to the room. Nor was she sure she wanted to see him at the moment.
By and by they appeared, individually and in small groups, to gather around the fountain in the centre of the reception area, chatting excitedly. Bridget recognized several of them from the night before but she doubted any of them would have known her again. Finally Cheryl arrived and with her the moment that Bridget could no longer put off. She stirred inwardly to move, and then again. At any moment she would find the courage, stand up and head towards them with the best smile she could muster. But not just yet. She knew she would not be able to buy anything, even the smallest, cheapest trinket that would demonstrate her relative poverty. But that was not the true reason for her immobility. She shifted her torso a millimetre or so. This was it. No, it wasn’t. She found herself seated still and her stomach muscles relaxed slightly, only to tense again in readiness for her next attempt to stand and join them, only fifteen feet or so from her. Now they were moving and it was too late. There were no frowns or discussions about missing persons. They simply walked, giggling, self-absorbed and evidently enraptured by the prospect of the day ahead. Still Bridget sat and watched. The sliding glass doors closed and she could see the women climbing into a small bus parked outside, which promptly pulled away. Well, she thought, there’s always tomorrow. Sightseeing’s more up my street anyway. But she doubted she would be here in the lobby the next day, waiting.
It was over a half hour later that she saw her husband coming out of the lift. She didn’t know how she had spent the intervening time. Sitting, thinking into open space, she imagined, looking gormless, mind spinning. She had been doing more of this recently.
Francis did not see her but marched over to a stocky, diminutive man in a blue pinstriped suit, a loud tie and a pink shirt. The two men gre
eted each other effusively and walked out of the hotel together. Francis seemed to have recovered from his evening’s carousing and looked well. She felt glad.
Now she was free to return to the room. She sat and watched American television for a while. At lunchtime she allowed herself an extravagance, ordering a sandwich from room service which she ate absent-mindedly. She dozed a little on the huge bed but was wakened by a sharp rap at the door. She rose quickly and felt mildly nauseous. The knock came again and a voice called, ‘Housekeeping!’
The term meant nothing to Bridget and she opened the door carefully. The chambermaid with her trolley stood there looking cross. She said, ‘I sorry. I come back later.’
Bridget stared at her for a moment before saying, ‘No, no. I’ll go.’ Francis would want the room tidy when he returned and this lady needed to do her job. She collected her handbag and left the chambermaid to her work.
In the lobby Bridget decided she needed air and stepped outside into a hot breeze that was far from refreshing, under a heavy overcast sky of gunmetal grey. It remained oppressively warm and she regretted her decision. She decided to walk a small distance nevertheless and wished she had changed into her T-shirt and shorts before leaving the room.
She had taken no more than forty paces when she saw a woman in a dark business suit stumble. Her briefcase fell to the ground and a few papers spilled from it. ‘Bugger,’ Bridget heard her say in an English accent. No one stopped to help the woman or shared eye contact with her.
Bridget had drawn abreast with her. ‘Here, let me give you a hand,’ she said.
The woman turned and looked at her with curiosity. ‘Thanks.’
Bridget began gathering the papers.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman again. ‘A friendly face in this bloody city. And even better, an Irish voice. Reminds me of home. Thanks.’ She smiled, and Bridget smiled back, automatically. The comment about the Irish voice was confusing.
‘I think I’ve broken the heel of my shoe,’ said the woman.
‘Oh dear,’ said Bridget.
A Traitor in the Family Page 4