Apartment 3B

by Patricia Scanlan

  And then the brainwave had struck her! Couldn’t she and Simon do with a base in Dublin? What with Andrew having started boarding-school in the capital a few months previously, it would be perfect for when they wanted to go and visit instead of having to do the round trip in the one day, or stay in her parents’ two-up two-down. Cecily didn’t like staying there. She never liked being reminded of her roots. Besides, she informed her husband, her son would need somewhere to stay when he went to university. It would be an investment. It would be ideal for them, and it would be just perfect for when she went up to Dublin for her little shopping trips. Not even the McGraths had an apartment in the city. Cecily and Simon’s social standing would rise notches among the set.

  Simon had been surprisingly and gratifyingly agreeable. The idea of their being the only couple from the Bay to own a place in Dublin had swung it for her. Simon liked to impress as long as it didn’t cost him a fortune. Buying an apartment would be a good investment taxwise and although it might be a bit pricey, it would be worth it, he informed his thrilled wife. Of course he didn’t realize that Lainey was interested in buying an apartment, and he certainly didn’t realize that his wife had got an exact description of the apartment Lainey was interested in purchasing, through sneaking a look at her sister-in-law’s letter. These little snippets of information had been kept very close to Cecily’s flat bosom.

  It had really been very simple to find out which apartment in Glasnevin Lainey was interested in. Cecily had rung all the big estate agents in Dublin until she found the one selling the apartment fitting Lainey’s description. If Lainey was interested in it, then it had to be classy. Although it was hard to swallow, she knew that her sister-in-law had such good taste. Apartment 3B in Mountain View sounded so impressive. Convenient to the city and practically beside the new Dublin City University, it was perfect. Even more perfect was the fact that Simon had a big dental operation to perform and couldn’t make the viewing. She was going alone. She wouldn’t let Madam Lainey get the upper hand in this battle. Cecily wanted Apartment 3B and she was going to get it!

  The Sixties/Seventies

  LIZ

  Saturday 8 July 1978

  Liz Clancy sat sprawled in an easy-chair in the company of her mother and her sister, Christine, urging Bjørn Borg on to victory against Jimmy Connors in the Wimbledon men’s final. Although she was up for Borg, and he was winning quite easily, compared to the previous year’s marathon five-set struggle, Liz felt a sneaking admiration for Connors as he grunted his way through his serve. The man never gave up. They had been so disappointed the previous day that Navratilova had beaten Chris Evert in the women’s singles.

  ‘He made a bit of a balls of that, if you’ll excuse the pun,’ Christine grinned as Connors smashed a serve into the net.

  ‘Christine Clancy!’ expostulated her mother, laughing. They cheered as Borg aced a shot right down the line to clinch victory.

  ‘Feel like knocking a few balls around?’ Liz asked her sister, as they watched the young blond hero being presented with his prize.

  ‘Sure,’ Christine agreed, ‘Let’s hit Johnstown.’

  Johnstown Park was just across the road from them and had a dozen tennis courts. The girls played tennis there often. They ran upstairs to the bedroom that they shared and Liz pulled on a pair of green shorts and a tee-shirt; Christine, being the better tennis player, slipped into tennis whites. ‘You just want to show off your tan,’ Liz accused.

  ‘If ya got it, flaunt it,’ grinned the incorrigible Christine as she delved into her wardrobe to find her sneakers. Christine’s wardrobe was a sight to behold. ‘Modern art,’ her sister called it. A mixture of books, clothes, shoes, dolls from her childhood, and God knows what else resided there. It was the bane of her mother’s life, but as Christine explained, she knew exactly where everything was, and to prove it, she held aloft her sneakers. ‘I knew they were in there somewhere,’ she exclaimed triumphantly as she tried to close the bulging doors.

  Liz laughed at her efforts. ‘Christine, it’s time you did a bit of a clean-out. It’s nearly as bad as when Dr Devine came for the visit.’

  ‘Oh Lord don’t remind me,’ groaned her sister, guffawing at the memory.

  They had both come down with a terrible stomach bug and their mother had asked the doctor to call on them. Fortunately the bedroom was fairly tidy, and Liz had tidied it even more by shoving her artwork, charcoals and paints under her bed. They lay, pale and wan, awaiting the doctor. Dr Devine was shown up to their room by their concerned mother, grinned at the pair of them and called them malingerers. He then informed their mother that he quite understood why she would want to get rid of the pair by poisoning them, but that there were other methods she could use and that he would explain later. In spite of themselves the girls had to laugh. Liz, who had suffered the worse, was given an injection, and as she lay watching the doctor take her sister’s temperature, an almost imperceptible movement caught her eye. A gasp of horror was stifled as she saw Christine’s wardrobe doors start to bulge. It couldn’t happen now! How mortifying! Her mother would have a fit! Liz lay on tenterhooks awaiting the avalanche as Dr Devine chatted away to Christine. The bulge was starting to get bigger. The doctor stood up and walked over to the window that was at right angles to the wardrobe.

  ‘You’ve a nice view of the mountains here,’ he commented. Oh God, he was going to be buried under a mountain in a minute if he didn’t move away. Please, please go, Liz prayed, and almost started to giggle. It had happened to her father once. He had come in to their bedroom one night during a storm to close their window, when the doors of Christine’s wardrobe had burst open and a stream of articles and clothes and tennis racquets had erupted. ‘I feared for my life, it was worse than Vesuvius,’ he later told their long-suffering mother. Now it was going to happen again! Only this time it would be the poor unsuspecting doctor who would get the fright of his life. Liz caught Christine’s eye and nodded towards the wardrobe and saw the shock of awareness dawn on her sister’s pale face. Her eyes widened, her mouth a horrified ‘O’. Christine slid down further under the covers and waited.

  ‘No gallivanting for a week, girls,’ the doctor warned as, mercifully, he took his leave of them, considerately closing the door behind him. He was halfway down the stairs and the girls were halfway out of the bed when the wardrobe doors burst open in glorious abandon. ‘God Almighty, that was close!’ gasped Liz weakly.

  ‘Quick!’ panted Christine, shoving stuff back in, ‘before Ma arrives up and sees this.’ It had been a near thing, and there had been a massive clean-out the following weekend. Looking at the wardrobe with a practised eye, Liz could see that it was cleanup time again. Next weekend, they decided, as they strolled happily towards the park.

  Life was good, thought Liz, as she walked beside her sister, bouncing a ball on her tennis racquet. She was twenty-one, single and free, and just out of art college, with her whole life ahead of her. She was already getting work as a result of the exhibition the college held for graduating students, and her portfolio had been commented upon most favourably. Next week, she was starting a mural for a wealthy family in Howth, and she’d been commissioned to submit the cover-design of a book to a big publishing firm. If they liked her work, she’d really be on the pig’s back. Some of her friends had gone into advertising, but Liz much preferred the idea of working freelance as she didn’t like to be tied. And she was so lucky to enjoy living at home. She got on well with her parents, unlike so many of her peers who couldn’t wait to get flats. And as for Christine, her younger sister by two years, there was nobody who knew her better.

  They had to wait for a court so they sat watching the other players. ‘Would you look at that,’ her sister nudged her and she turned to observe two young men in white shorts and tee-shirts and tennis pullovers. Confidently they strode on to the court and the younger man bounced the ball on the line and began preparing to serve. Raising an elegant arm, he threw the ball in the air, missed complet
ely and almost knocked himself out. ‘Eat your heart out, Borg!’ murmured Christine as Liz tried hard not to laugh.

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ Christine inquired.

  ‘Ah there’s a bit of a party on in Joseph Ryan’s house. We’re all getting together. Do you and Liam want to come?’ Liam was Christine’s boyfriend.

  ‘Sure, it might be a bit of crack,’ agreed Christine as they took a vacated court and began to play tennis.

  *

  ‘Oh you play tennis do you?’ Liz heard a bearded young man, with a gold chain and pale lemon jacket, chat up her sister as Liam went to get them both a drink. ‘I play in Fitzwilliam myself, it’s rather hard to get in there.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Christine coolly. ‘I play in Johnstown Park in Ballygall. They’re Corporation courts and anybody can get a game . . . if ever you’re stuck.’

  The bearded one, looking absolutely horrified at the idea of playing on a Corporation tennis court, fingered his chain nervously. ‘Jolly good, that sounds nice,’ he murmured unenthusiastically as he excused himself to ‘mingle’.

  ‘I love taking the mickey out of pseuds,’ laughed Christine unrepentantly.

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Liz. ‘And this party’s full of them.’

  ‘You don’t like Picasso!’ The man in the purple silk shirt and matching headband almost shrieked in dismay over the din. It was later, and Liz, bored witless, was beginning to have thoughts about going home.

  ‘No!’ she retorted. ‘I think he was one of the biggest chancers going, himself and Salvador Dali. A three-year-old could do what they did.’

  ‘Don’t you like modern art? Don’t you admire the genius of Rauschenberg, Beuys, Tapiès?’ He was thunderstruck at the idea of an artist not liking modern art.

  ‘Can’t abide it,’ said Liz cheerfully. ‘There’s too much of the emperor’s new clothes syndrome, if you ask me.’

  ‘Who do you like, then?’ he challenged, shocked by this shameless philistinism. Liz had no problem there, ‘I like the Impressionists, Manet, Monet, Seurat, Renoir, Degas. I love Gauguin but my favourite of all is Norman Rockwell.’

  ‘Norman Rockwell! My Gawd how . . . how middle-class!’ the modern art aficionado ejaculated. Liz watched in fascination as his purple headband slid down over one eye. He was fifty if he was a day, but he dressed in the style of the Sixties, and she was sure he must have gone to Woodstock. He was an art lecturer in one of the technical colleges. ‘Share a joint?’ he drawled, producing some pot.

  ‘Thanks. I’d prefer a cup of tea. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go and make one,’ Liz said mischievously, hiding a smile as her listener almost got lockjaw.

  ‘Norman Rockwell . . . tea . . . what are young people coming to?’ the aging hippy muttered as he took a drag of his joint and went to find another nubile young lady to try and impress.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea myself,’ a deep voice in the region of the crown of her head murmured. Liz turned and looked up into a pair of twinkling blue eyes. Hmmmmmmmmm, she thought to herself, he’s gorgeous.

  ‘Would you now?’ she laughed.

  ‘I sure would, and I can’t stand modern art and I love Norman Rockwell . . . whoever the hell he is.’

  ‘You mean you were eavesdropping?’ she said in mock disgust.

  ‘I certainly was,’ agreed the young man shamelessly, holding out his hand. ‘Matt Lacey’s the name and I’m gasping for a mug of tea. The kitchen’s that way,’ he pointed helpfully with the other hand.

  ‘I’m Liz Clancy,’ she smiled back, glad now that she hadn’t gone home, ‘and I make a mean cup of tea!’ They shoved and pushed their way through the throng. Catching Christine’s eye, Liz winked before disappearing into the relative peace of the kitchen. The only occupants were a couple snogging behind the door, and a young girl, out for the count under the big pine table. The snoggers, seeing that Liz and Matt were not to be intimidated into departing, moved out into the back garden, leaving just the gently-snoring young woman.

  ‘Some party!’ grinned Matt as he filled the jug kettle.

  ‘You can say that again,’ laughed Liz as a loud shriek emanated from the bedroom above them. She studied him as he opened press doors looking for mugs. He was tall, lean, with close-cropped tawny hair and blue eyes flecked with gold, and Liz decided he was a guard, a prison officer or a soldier. The hair was always a dead giveaway. His voice had the lovely soft West of Ireland lilt that you could listen to for hours and, looking at his firm chiselled features, she decided that he would make a great subject for a portrait. Never one to beat about the bush she said directly, ‘I’d like to do your portrait if you’d let me.’

  Matt looked at her in surprise. ‘Would you now!’ he teased. ‘So you’re an artist!’

  Liz grinned back at him. ‘Yes, I am and you’re a guard, a prison officer or a soldier.’

  ‘Aha, a bit of a detective as well, I see,’ he remarked, smiling, as he made the tea. ‘There, get that inside you and then you can bring me home and show me your etchings.’ He handed her a mug of steaming hot tea.

  Liz took a welcome sip. ‘Mmm, mother’s milk,’ she sighed in satisfaction. If there was one thing she loved it was a decent cup of tea.

  ‘Do you live in a garret like all the best artists?’ he enquired, his blue eyes meeting hers with a smile.

  Liz took another sip of tea. ‘No, I live at home, actually.’

  ‘Oh!’ he seemed surprised. ‘And where’s home?’

  ‘Is all this going to be taken down and used against me in evidence?’ Liz raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘If you want me to come and sit for my portrait I’ll have to know where you live,’ he pointed out reasonably.

  ‘I live near Glasnevin. That’s on the northside,’ she added helpfully. The party was in Terenure and he, being from the country, might not be thoroughly au fait with the capital.

  ‘I just think I might be able to locate it,’ he teased. ‘Working as a policeman means that at least you get to know the city.’

  ‘Where are you based?’ Liz asked curiously.

  ‘Kevin Street, and I’m from Spiddal,’ he said, forestalling her next question.

  ‘Ooh, Spiddal!’ she sighed. ‘How on earth can you settle down in Dublin after living in a paradise like that?’

  Matt shrugged and drained his mug. ‘I’m the kind of person who can live anywhere, I’m adaptable. And besides I can always go back for holidays and it makes it all the nicer.’

  ‘And what is a nice Connemara guard doing at a wicked party like this? You know that people are taking . . . substances . . . and things?’

  He laughed, a good hearty laugh that made her laugh as well. ‘Joseph is my cousin and he asked me along. And as for the substances . . . well I’m here to rescue nice young girls like yourself from crazy purple-clad art lecturers. Would you like to be rescued?’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  Liz smiled back at him. There was something about him that she really liked – there was no nonsense nor anything pretentious about him, a thing she found so refreshing. ‘I’d love to be rescued,’ she assured him. ‘Excuse me for a second. I’ll just tell Christine my sister that I’m off.’

  ‘How will she get home? Has she got a lift?’

  ‘She’s with her boyfriend. He’s got a car so they’ll be fine,’ she told him, liking him all the more for his concern.

  Christine and Liam were chatting to another couple and when Christine saw Liz she grinned. ‘Who’s the hunk that made off to the kitchen with you? If it wasn’t for himself here,’ she dug her beloved in the ribs, ‘I’d have tried to wipe your eye.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ Liz laughed.

  ‘All’s fair in love and war, honey,’ Christine drawled. ‘Come on, tell me everything.’

  ‘All I know is that he’s a guard from Connemara, working in Kevin Street and he’s very nice.’ Christine couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

  ‘A guard! Love the uniform! Shame about the hair!
’ her sister teased. ‘Go on with you and don’t stay out all night. If I’m awake when you get in, bring me up a cup of coffee!’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Liz agreed. ‘See you later!’

  She didn’t in fact get home until six the following morning. They left the party, and Matt, a gentleman, opened the door of his beat-up Toyota. ‘This has seen better days, I’m saving for a new one,’ he told her, grinning, as he pressed down a spring that had shot up in the driver’s seat. Her own seat was fine.

  ‘You’ll probably get a Merc or a BMW with all that overtime you’re getting.’

  ‘Not with the tax I pay. Come on and I’ll see if I can afford fish and chips.’

  ‘Yum yum,’ she enthused. Now that he mentioned food she realized that she was quite hungry.

  ‘Would you like to go to a restaurant?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s not too late.’

  ‘Oh that would be lovely,’ Liz said demurely. ‘We could try the Mirabeau. The food is fabulous!’

  Matt’s eyes widened but he said evenly, ‘Why not?’

  Liz tried to keep her face straight but it was impossible, ‘I’m only joking!’

  ‘You brat!’ He grinned back, showing lovely even white teeth.

  ‘Fish and chips will do fine.’

  ‘Are you sure now?’ he said seriously and she had to resist the urge to throw her arms around him and plant a big kiss on his mouth. He was an absolutely gorgeous guy – that was for certain.

  ‘Sure I’m sure. Drive on, Macduff, to the nearest chipper,’ she ordered.

  ‘We’re not just going to any old chipper,’ she was informed smugly. ‘Have you ever tasted Burdock’s cod and chips? They’re the best chipper in Dublin . . . in Ireland even, and I should know. I’m a connoisseur.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’ve heard of them,’ Liz replied. ‘They only open in the evening, isn’t that right, and they do their chips in a special oil.’