The Lingerie Designer

by Siobhán McKenna

  Chapter 36

  Helen and Poppy were on their way. The itinerary Poppy had planned was economical, using indigenous tour operators where possible, thus saving money while helping to sustain the local economy. They’d fly to Hanoi and from there they’d travel to visit the area where Helen’s father died. Then they’d take a boat trip on Halong Bay, followed by trekking into the Northern Hills visiting the various tribal villages and staying in local homesteads.

  “Is that okay by you? Staying in local homesteads, I mean?” Poppy had asked.

  “Of course I don’t mind – it sounds fun,” Helen had said. “What exactly is a homestead anyway?”

  “I’ll send you the link – it looks amazing, really remote. We get to stay with local families, eat with them and everything. They’ve got communal lofts with mattresses on the floor and, well, wherever you lay your sleeping bag that’s your bed for the night!”

  Helen had felt Poppy’s excitement down the telephone line. Silently she screamed, but she wasn’t about to rain on Poppy’s parade.

  “Sounds like a swinger’s party to me – why didn’t you say that in the first place? Of course I’m in!” she replied.

  Looking at Helen now, Poppy wasn’t so sure it had been a good idea. The problems started with Helen automatically turning left when they boarded the plane.

  “Excuse me, madam, economy passengers are this way,” the steward said, guiding her to the right.

  “Oops, force of habit, sorry,” Helen said to Poppy a little coyly.

  Matters deteriorated when the only two seats together were in the middle of a middle row, sandwiched between two rather large burka-wearing passengers.

  “Can we order double Bacardis?” Helen whispered.

  “Of course, why not?”

  “I don’t know – I don’t want to offend anyone or anything.” Helen tilted her head, to refer to their neighbours.

  They ordered rum – singles not doubles. The crew didn’t offer refills and the girls decided against clambering over seats to get to the galley for more.

  Helen had slept most of the way, her sleep troubled with thoughts of Eden. She’d worked fourteen and sixteen-hour days, organising as much as possible for Sarah to run the office without hiccups. Still, Fred had grumbled and made comments about selfishness, job-cuts and company loyalty, which had led to the final unpleasant encounter with him. She’d left the office with a bad taste in her mouth.

  Trying to find a comfortable position in a tight semi-upright seat, Helen’s mind tossed and turned as much as her body. Was she ready to leave Eden? More accurately, was she ready to leave the security and fat salary? As if in answer to her question, the seat in front of her reclined into her lap. This is what life would be like if she left her prestigious job – shunted to the back of the bus, vying not to melt into oblivion. Could she start over from scratch at nearly forty years of age? By leaving her job would she also leave behind her self-worth? Or was she just bound to her ego? She thought of Sarah and her revelation that growing up wealthy had reduced her self-esteem. Helen had come from a loving home but she had still spent her life trying to justify her existence in this world. Why?

  The other side of her brain began its counter-attack. You could take that month-long trip to ride horses in Patagonia. You could run on the beach with JD – every day. You could open your own lingerie boutique – leave the rat race behind, leave Fred Giltrap behind. Maybe things could finally work with Rob. Stop it, woman, you’re driving yourself crazy! Helen put on her iPod, as much to quieten her own thoughts as drown out the sounds of the aeroplane.

  On landing at Doha, Qatar, Poppy still hadn’t admitted to Helen the length of the stopover.

  “So what time’s our flight to Hanoi? Do we have time for food?” Helen looked at the itinerary, a look of panic flashing across her face. “Poppy, what’s the time difference here? According to this, we’ve a six-hour stopover?”

  “Really?” Poppy tried to look innocent. “That’s awful. Look at all the money we saved, though.”

  “Well, I’m going to spend my savings in the bar,” Helen said, rolling her eyes but smiling all the same.

  Until that is, they got to the bar. Or rather didn’t.

  “There’s no friggin’ bar!” Helen exclaimed, having desperately searched every nook and cranny of the airport. Doha was an alcohol-free airport.

  The drink-police thwarted a cunning plan to buy duty-free. “You can collect your bags of alcohol when you board the plane,” the cashier told them after they’d handed over their cash.

  “Now might be a good time to teach you to meditate, Helen,” Poppy said, defusing the bomb that was Helen’s impatience.

  Everything would be fine when they got to Hanoi.

  Hopefully.

  “Are you sure this is a three-star hotel?” Helen asked their local guide, Lu, who wanted to be addressed by her adopted Western name ‘Sue-Ellen’.

  They were standing looking into the lobby of their Hanoi hotel, which was lined with scooters.

  Lu brushed off their concerns. “Yes, yes, great hotel. Don’t worry – they only move scooters inside for the evening. They will put them outside again in morning. Now you go wash, get some rest, I pick you up in a few hours, we have dinner. Don’t be late.”

  The beds were akin to a wooden board, covered with a threadbare sheet. The bathroom suite was a vomit shade of green with mildew and various fungus shapes growing out of the tile crevices.

  “What do you think that smell is?” Poppy made a face.

  “Don’t even go there, Poppy! It’ll look better after a few hours’ sleep. And look at the bright side – if we get hungry we can just go to our bathroom and pick some mushrooms.”

  They climbed into bed fully clothed to avoid sheet-to-skin contact.

  They didn’t sleep.

  Later that evening their guide, Lu, or ‘Sue-Ellen’, arrived to collect them, on a motorbike.

  “Hanoi traffic very bad, this much quicker. I no use car for you,” she said, thrusting a helmet at Helen. “In Vietnam, we all fit on one bike. Because you foreigners, we go on two bikes.”

  Helen wondered if she was referring to the size of their arses.

  Sue-Ellen gave an abrupt wave to the driver of another motorbike, shouting something at him in Vietnamese – he duly took off his helmet and handed it to Poppy.

  “Okay, keep knees in and no one gets hurt. We supposed to wear helmets. Not enough helmets so we avoid police. They fine me, but put money in their pocket,” she said, adding what was surely a “fucking-pricks” insult in Vietnamese. She raised one arm as though calling the troops to battle, as she high-revved the throttle. “Let’s go!”

  Helen and Poppy were catapulted into the stream of traffic.

  They rode the motorbikes through the labyrinth of the Old Quarter before weaving into the wider streets of the city. It beat any roller-coaster experience in Disney and blew away the cobwebs the long journey had left.

  Dinner was in Sue-Ellen’s kitchen – “A real Hanoi experience!” she had called it.

  As they entered her house she startled them with a shout. “Take off your shoes!” Then she added more gently, “Please. Cannot wear street shoes in house.” She pointed to a line of plastic flip-flops that lined the wall. They slipped their feet into the least worn-looking on offer.

  Sitting around the small table, Helen wondered how she’d ended up in a stranger’s kitchen, wearing a stranger’s shoes, in a back street of Hanoi.

  Despite the rocky start, the girls ate well. They even downed a few shots of some sort of homebrew, equivalent to poteen.

  Sue-Ellen stood, indicating the meal was over. “Okay, tour over. Curfew in Hanoi tonight, I bring you back to hotel now. Tomorrow morning get yourself to airport to fly to your war tour. You no book that with me so I don’t have the fly details.” She shook her head and tutted.

  Helen looked to Poppy for confirmation.

  “Yes, she’s right. I booked the tour and the flight
s down to Hué with another company,” Poppy said, fiddling with her hair.

  “I see you in a few days, back in Hanoi after your war tour. You can book more tours from me then, okay?”

  “Maybe,” Helen replied.

  This answer did not please Sue-Ellen who tutted again.

  “Why is there a curfew – it’s only ten thirty?” Poppy asked.

  The guide simply shrugged. “No reason, they just do it. Come on – let’s go!” She was booting them out.

  The hair-raising motorbike ride to the hotel was much more fun with food and a few shots of an unknown fiery substance in their stomachs. Poppy even managed to keep her eyes open this time.

  Chapter 37

  Mary Devine spooned the last bit of fondant on a gooey chocolate-fudge cake. She stepped back to admire her handiwork. Satisfied that the cake was finished she licked the spatula – the best part of baking, no matter what your age or diabetic tendencies. She heard the familiar sound of a key in the front door, bringing with it warm memories of a previous life when Mary had been a wife, lover and mother.

  “Hi, Marma!” Lily called out. A loud thumping of books hitting the floor announced her arrival home from school. “Something smells divine, Mrs Devine!” Lily followed the chocolate waft into the kitchen.

  “How was school, love?” Mary asked.

  Lily grunted and sat at the table.

  “That good?” Mary smiled. “Here, I was going to keep this until after dinner but sure we can have a sample slice now with a cup of tea.”

  “I think I’ll text Mum and tell her to stay in Vietnam for another week. I’m getting used to all this home cooking.”

  “That reminds me, Helen rang here earlier. Did your mother get you on the mobile?”

  “Yep, she rang the café too. Angelo said she thought I might be there and she was hoping to save on cost by calling a land-line.”

  “Very wise, your mother.” Mary smiled to herself. “You know you’re welcome here anytime, Lily, even when your mother is back. I love cooking and it’s nice to have someone to cook for.”

  “I wish you’d give Poppy a few lessons – she thinks cheese on toast is a gourmet meal – when she’s managed not to char-grill it!” Chocolate cake melted in Lily’s mouth.

  Mary stifled a laugh, remembering what Poppy had said to her once, “Mary, I can cook you anything as long as you like Cajun. Cajun Chicken, Cajun Salmon, Cajun Spag-Bol.” Cajun was Poppy’s term for anything she cremated beyond recognition.

  “Thankfully, your mother has other fantastic qualities that more than make up for the fact that she’s somewhat challenged in the cooking department. Besides, you’re nearly eighteen – you should be learning to cook for yourself!”

  “Why would I do that when I’ve got you to do it for me?” Lily enjoyed the banter nearly as much as the cake.

  “Independence – that’s why every woman should have her own money and know how to cook. Your health is your wealth but a few bob in the bank helps too.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re on about, Marma, but you do know how to make chocolate cake, so if there’s more going I’m willing to sit and listen as long as you’re not going to start a lecture – I’ve homework to do, if you’re going to start on me.” Lily pressed her finger to the plate, collecting the last few crumbs.

  “My lecturing days are well over, love. I tried with Helen and your mother and look where that got me.” Mary cut another thick slice of cake.

  “Helen’s very successful, Mum too in a different way. It’s not your fault they’re a pair of loons.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, it’s not that marriage is the be all and end all, but if I’m being honest, I would like to see Helen and Poppy settle down and not go running off like Thelma and Louise.”

  “Who are Thelma and Louise? Girls they were in school with?”

  “It’s a movie, before your time, dear. Maybe we’ll rent it one night.”

  “What did Helen have to say today then?”

  “They’re in Hanoi but they’ll be heading to a small island somewhere, Cat’s Paw or something.” Mary shook her head. “Why she had to go to Vietnam, I’ll never know – why not go somewhere normal – like Spain?” She threw her eyes to heaven.

  “Who’d want to be normal?” Lily frowned. “And wasn’t Helen’s dad killed there? It’s natural to be curious about her father.”

  Mary wondered if Lily was talking about herself or Helen. “Of course it is. I just never felt the need to see where Jim died. I don’t want to think of him there. If I see it, it’ll make it more alien. I prefer to remember him in paint-splattered overalls, Marlboro in his mouth – before he ever wore that blasted uniform.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, it’s a bit weird how an Irishman died in an American war.” Lily found the snippets of stories she’d been told about Mary and Jim Devine’s life fascinating.

  The only sound in the kitchen was a clock ticking and even that appeared to stand still for a moment. Mary stopped cleaning counter tops and sat down to have a sliver of cake – dinner could wait.

  “I wasn’t much older than you, Lily, when we got married – Jim and me.” Mary twisted the plain gold wedding band that she still wore. “He was eight years older than me, tall and handsome. All the girls in the town fancied James Devine, especially when he left town to join the British army.” Mary smiled, the images in her mind clear, as if she’d only seen him yesterday.

  “That’s odd – why not the Irish army and how come the British accepted him?”

  “By joining the British he had a chance to see the world and, remember, the Irish army was still relatively new in those days – he wouldn’t have got much further afield than Dublin. If you were born in Ireland before 1948, you were entitled to dual citizenship. Not that it matters because the Irish are still accepted into the British army to this day.”

  “Huh, I didn’t know that, Marma.” Lily pursed her lips.

  “And he was the second son to a small farmer. The farm couldn’t support all of them, so naturally it went to the eldest brother. His father was a mean drunk, who was quick to lose his temper and use his belt. Jim wanted to get as far away from him as possible. He would work at odd jobs all around the town after school. When he got a job on the big dairy farm, he’d go there before and after school each day. He said he wanted to save up enough money to go to America and never come back to this godforsaken place. I thought he worked all those hours to avoid his father and his drunken temper, myself. Jim’s mother died shortly after giving birth to him and according to the town’s gossips, Jim Senior took to the drink after that.” Mary stared off into the distance as she spoke. “My own father worked at the farm too, that’s how I got to talking to Jim. I’d find any excuse to go there, to bring my dad a packed lunch, pick up a dozen eggs for the tea. At that stage Jim thought of me as a kid but he’d sit and talk to me and tell me stories of America, where everyone was given the chance to follow their dreams.” Mary fell silent, lost in the past.

  “Marma?”

  “Here’s me, reminiscing when you’ve got homework to do!” Mary went to stand up.

  “Please, Marma, I can do that later, I’m enjoying this. I’ll even make a fresh pot of tea,” Lily pleaded.

  Mary didn’t need much encouragement. “All right so but I’ll make the tea.” She went to get the teapot. “I suppose the romance started when Jim came back from the army – he was gone for nearly five years. I’d all but put him out of my head and then there he was, standing at the back of the draughty church hall, rucksack over one shoulder, his fatigues tucked into his boots.” She heated the teapot. “I was leading lady in the musical society’s production of Annie Get Your Gun. I spotted him mid-chorus of “Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better”. Oh Lord, even thinking of it now! My heart beat so hard when I saw him that I thought it would leap right out of my chest! I don’t know if it was the feisty Annie Oakley, the singing, or the final embrace in Buffalo Bill’s arms that did it, but when we bow
ed to the applause, I caught Jim’s eye, even all the way down the back of the hall. There was something different. I think that was the moment we fell in love.”

  Lily looked at Mary, mesmerised. Mary’s face glowed, that schoolgirl falling in love, all over again.

  “He waited for me in the shadows outside the hall, said he wanted to walk me home safe. We had our very first kiss that night and it felt so right, not like with the few awkward young lads I’d kissed before.” Mary smiled, with a little shyness.

  “Bit of a dark horse, are we, Marma? How many lads were you kissing?” Lily teased.

  “It wasn’t like that! Lord no, especially not with my father, a staunchly religious man. He kept a close eye on me, his only daughter. He had a rifle for shooting rabbits – the joke was it was really for shooting any lad that tried to step out with his daughter.”

  “How did you and Jim manage?” Lily asked.

  “We kept it secret at first. We’d snatch an hour here and there – talk about America. Jim had been giving me his money for some time, asked me to hide it for him. His dad would tear the house apart looking for it, so he could buy more booze. I shared with Jim that I dreamt of being a New York actress, on Broadway – I felt I could say it to him, you see, I knew he wouldn’t laugh. So we’d kiss and cuddle and talk about our life together – I never remember feeling as alive as I did on those long summer days.” Mary paused again, lost in her own world.

  “So what happened?” Lily urged her on.

  “The inevitable when you live in a small town – we got caught.”

  “But what was so wrong with it – didn’t you say you were seventeen?” Lily looked confused.

  “Yes, but that didn’t matter to my father. He hit the roof saying that Jim didn’t come from the right side of town and that he was too old for me. A soldier of his age would be expecting things from a young woman. He forbade me to see him any more.”