Apartment 3B

by Patricia Scanlan

  When Dominic returned several hours later Rita was in next door and the neighbours’ sixteen-year-old daughter was babysitting. And he’d been feeling guilty for going out midweek and leaving Rita on her own, he thought wryly. Paying the girl, he switched off the lights and went to bed. He was asleep before his wife came home.

  Wednesday 14 November 1973

  Dominic’s heart sank as he turned into the driveway to find the house in darkness. Where the hell was she gone now? God, he was starving! He hoped Rita had left him some dinner at least. He cast an angry glance at his watch. Seven-fifteen. He’d been at work since six that morning, he was tired, hungry and put out.

  It was too bloody late to be keeping the children out, especially when they had school the next day. And the baby should be in bed! Slamming the car door Dominic let himself into the house with a face like a thundercloud. In the kitchen a note from his wife told him that there was a pot of stew on the cooker and that she had taken the children over to her friend Mona’s house to watch Princess Anne’s wedding. ‘Princess Bloody Anne,’ muttered Dominic as he lifted the lid and gazed at the congealed mess in the saucepan. It would be all right when it was heated up, he supposed. Cutting himself a slice of turnover he buttered it thickly and spread some blackberry jam on it. You’d think that Mona would have her hands full with her own five kids without wanting their four as well. Honestly, Rita and she were like blasted Siamese twins. One couldn’t go anywhere without the other. Still, he could have come home and had Mona and her gang here. They practically lived here, eating him out of house and home. No! they wouldn’t have been able to watch that wedding on his TV – he didn’t have the stations. Mona had a big aerial that received all the English channels. Surely the wedding wasn’t still going on. No doubt his wife and children had been gone since early afternoon, maybe the whole day for all he knew. The fire wasn’t cleaned out, and the house was cold. For Chrissake! It was the middle of winter and he’d been down on the quays since the crack of dawn this morning, waiting for ships to dock so that he could search them for contraband. Being a customs official was no joke in the middle of the winter.

  In a foul humour, Dominic set about lighting the fire and tidying up the nappies and socks and toys that lay around the sitting-room. It would match his wife better if she did a bit of housework instead of gallivanting over to Mona’s all the time. The smell of burning sent him rushing out to the kitchen where he found, to his fury, the remains of his dinner stuck to the bottom of the saucepan. Cursing viciously, he got his coat, found his car keys and slammed the front door behind him. Fish and chips yet again for dinner! It just wasn’t good enough! Heaven knows he gave his wife enough money for food if only she’d damn well cook some! As he sat into the car, Mona’s car arrived and his three children tumbled out, shrieking greetings. They were followed by his wife, who was carrying the sleeping baby.

  ‘Daddy! Hello Daddy. We saw the wedding!’ Denise informed him.

  ‘Load of crap!’ said his nine-year-old son.

  ‘I’m dancing in a feis, Daddy,’ five-year-old Kimberley beamed.

  The baby woke and howled hungrily.

  ‘Hello, love. Where are you off to?’ his negligent spouse enquired.

  ‘Hi gorgeous!’ Mona exclaimed, setting his teeth on edge.

  ‘I’m going to get chips for my dinner!’ he gritted.

  ‘Goody! Chips!’ yelled the children.

  ‘Get me a spice burger,’ instructed his wife.

  ‘And I’ll have a sausage in batter,’ Mona sang.

  Shit! That meant she intended staying for the evening. He couldn’t even have a bit of peace in his own home. With wheels spinning and a screeching of brakes, a thoroughly exasperated Dominic Kent roared out of his driveway.

  Sunday 25 June 1978

  Dominic Kent closed the file he had been working on, refiled it in the cabinet in his secretary’s office, gave a last look around and locked the door behind him. He whistled cheerfully as he ran down the stairs to his car. He hoped that Rita would have his dinner ready. His mouth watered. He was starving and a roast with Yorkshire pud would go down a treat. He loved the traditional Sunday lunch. Then he was going to settle down and thoroughly enjoy the World Cup final between Argentina and Holland. He deserved the break with all the hard work he was doing.

  Not that he was complaining, he reflected, as he drove along the Cork docks. Business was booming and he didn’t mind a bit coming into the office on a Sunday to do a bit of work. Mind, he had always hated working Sundays when he was with the customs. But when you were working for yourself it didn’t seem to matter somehow. It had been a hell of a risk that he had taken, giving up the good permanent and pensionable job and setting up on his own – and he with a wife and four kids to support. But the gamble had paid off. He had done his background work thoroughly and his customs clearance business was doing terrifically well, so well in fact that he was seriously thinking of opening up an office in Dublin. That was next on his agenda. The only thing about it was that he would have to spend three days a week up in the capital. He’d have to leave Rita on her own with the children. The eldest was fourteen, the youngest nearly six, a big responsibility. Dominic sighed. They probably wouldn’t even notice that he wasn’t there. Rita was never in anyway. Most evenings he went home to find a note that she had gone to her ICA meeting, or a school committee meeting, or a feis, or her aerobics with Mona. He had thought that once they moved to Montenotte on the other side of Cork from where they had lived, maybe his wife wouldn’t see quite so much of her friend and that perhaps they would have more time together themselves, but that had been wishful thinking. Indeed, Mona and her five children were as much on the scene as they had ever been. It sometimes seemed to Dominic that she might as well move into the house; she practically lived there anyway. Of course Mona had terrible marital problems, his wife would explain, when he remonstrated with her. Mona’s husband was a drinker and a gambler and Rita was her oldest friend. Dominic thought that perhaps if Mona had been at home a little more often, instead of over at his house with Rita, her husband might change his ways a little. Neglect could drive a man to drink and gambling, he thought, a little unkindly. It wasn’t that he was an unkind man; it was just that he wished mightily for a little more peace and solitude in his own home, an existence a bit more ordered, so that he could come in from a hard day’s work, sit down and have his dinner with his family and spend a couple of evenings with his wife, instead of the constant rushing around to this thing and that, the slapdash meals, the constant state of disruption that seemed to be his lot. Paddington Station was an oasis of peace compared to his house. Sighing again, he swung his car up the drive. His blood began to boil as he saw Mona’s familiar station wagon parked outside the door.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he cursed viciously. She and the gang couldn’t be here again! Christ Almighty, a man could only take so much! One day in the week! He couldn’t even have his Sunday dinner in peace. And what about the match, he thought in horror. The kids would have the stereo on full blast in the next room, Mona and Rita would be nattering away. The World Cup final only happened once every four years and he couldn’t even watch that in peace. Well, damn it to hell, he was going to enjoy his match in a bit of peace! Reversing down the drive, he headed back the way he came until he arrived at the Country Club Hotel. He parked the car, checked into a room and walked into the dining-room. After a feed of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, creamed potatoes, carrots and brussels sprouts and a half-bottle of wine, he walked along the corridor to his room, kicked off his shoes, lay down on the bed, arranged the pillows comfortably behind him, switched on the television and in the featureless solitude of a hotel bedroom, prepared to enjoy the World Cup final.

  CECILY AND SIMON

  Monday 24 November 1975

  Cecily Clarke curled up in a tight ball beneath the bedcovers. She was trying not to move from the warm patch in the sagging middle of her bed. Outside the blankets her nose was co
ld and she could feel the icy fingers of winter on her face. She thumped the alarm clock with a vicious wallop. ‘Oh shut up, you!’ If there was one thing she truly hated in this life it was her alarm clock, its loud insistent ringing waking her from her precious slumber to face another cold dark miserable Monday morning.

  Groaning, she buried her head under the pillows. She just couldn’t face getting up for work today. She could hear the rain pelting relentlessly against the rattling windows. It was a horrible day.

  If only she were rich! She would leave this Godforsaken island to go and live in the Bahamas or some other exotic place where the sun shone and it never rained and the temperature never dropped lower than the eighties. She gave an experimental little cough. Yes! She could definitely feel a tickle in her throat and she was a bit chesty. If she went out in that weather she’d be in danger of getting pleurisy or even pneumonia! Again she coughed, quite pleased with the result. Definitely bronchial. Snuggling down in her comforting cocoon of heat, Cecily decided that she was definitely not going to work that day. Old hatchet-face Muir could go and take a running jump for himself. He’d just have to manage without her. He could answer his own phones and tell his own lies, she decided self-righteously. How many times had she sat in that dingy outer office saying to telephone callers, ‘I’m afraid Mr Muir is unavailable today; he’s in court,’ while he sat, not twenty feet away from her, unwilling to take the call. It fascinated Cecily that he actually had any clients. He never returned their calls and frequently the cases he was involved in took years to get to court. Law was a noble profession, he often told her in his dry, humourless way. Ha! There was nothing noble about Alfred Muir, BCL. He was the greatest crook going, making a fortune in interest on clients’ money. As soon as she possibly could she was getting out of his clutches.

  Cecily smiled beneath the bedclothes. She knew just who was going to rescue her from her life of drudgery. Simon Conroy, dashing young dental surgeon, certainly knew how to treat a lady! She had been dating him for a good while now and things were getting better and better. Last night before he drove back to Moncas Bay, he brought her for an exquisite meal in the Burlington, then they had gone dancing in Annabel’s nightclub. It had been so . . . sophisticated . . . and Simon had such a charming manner. He asked her what she would like for Christmas and he hadn’t batted an eyelid when she had told him she would like some heated rollers, even though they were expensive enough. She’d lay a bet he’d give her some jewellery as well – he was extremely generous! She’d met the family too, which was a step in the right direction. The parents were all right, she supposed. A bit countrified but what else could one expect. Joan, the elder sister, was a bit drab but nice. She hadn’t really taken to Lainey, the younger sister. A bit of a consequence, but surprisingly glamorous for a country girl. She had been wearing a most elegant Italian knit suit, and she really thought she was somebody.

  ‘Cecily!’ her mother called from the doorway. ‘You’ll be late for work.’

  ‘I’m not going in today, Mummy.’ (Cecily always called her mother Mummy; it sounded much posher.) ‘I don’t feel well.’ She made her tone sound as pathetic as possible. ‘Just ring in and say I’m sick.’

  ‘Oh dear, is it your chest again, love? Well, you stay there and I’ll bring you up some toast and honey and I’ll heat up a hot-water bottle for you,’ her mother said comfortingly.

  ‘Thanks Mummy,’ Cecily gave a theatrical wheeze and settled down for a nice little nap while she awaited breakfast.

  *

  Simon Conroy gave a mighty yawn and let himself into his dentist’s surgery. Even though it was eight-thirty it was still very dark. The main street of Moncas Bay looked deserted and forlorn, with just a few Coke tins rolling around in the wind – and what a wind! It was a howling gale. He bet the waves would be lashing in over the pier wall today. He yawned again. He’d better drink some good hot coffee to wake himself up; he had a busy day ahead. He had appointments all morning and he had to see his accountant in the afternoon.

  Of course it had been all hours when he got home from Dublin last night. It had been a most enjoyable evening, though, and Cecily was in sparkling form. And she had been so thrilled with the gold brooch he gave her. He’d been lucky to get it in a sale in Arklow. Cecily was a very classy woman who really knew how to listen to a man. It was the first thing that had attracted him to her that night they met in the Horseshoe Bar in the Shelbourne. He’d been up in Dublin for a dentists’ convention and he and a few of the others had gone for a quiet drink in the renowned hotel. Cecily and some of her friends had been there and they had all got talking. Cecily had seemed really fascinated by him and wanted to hear all about his practice and all about Moncas Bay, which she said sounded like a paradise. She had told him that she was a PA to a high-powered lawyer and her own job sounded mighty interesting too. She might even take up law as a career herself, she told him. It was a very nice evening and he was delighted when she agreed to see him again.

  They had been dating for quite a while now, and though going up and down to Dublin was an expensive enough business, he didn’t mind too much. It was just that the late Sunday nights were a killer. But Cecily wouldn’t hear of him going home early. ‘I’ll be here all on my lonesome,’ she’d pout prettily and what could he do but stay. He hated the Monday mornings but then you can’t have your cake and eat it, as the saying went. Talking of cake, he was hungry. He’d send the nurse out for a couple of coffee slices when she came in. Bad for the teeth, he knew, but he had a terrible sweet tooth despite the fact that sugar was a killer. Dentist, practise what you preach, he ordered himself. A nice juicy apple would be much better for him. After all he was starting ever so slightly to lose his hair. He’d better make sure he didn’t lose his teeth too! Cecily wouldn’t be too impressed with a balding toothless man, now would she?

  Saturday 20 August 1977

  As the wedding band slid easily along her finger, Cecily Clarke felt a warm glow of satisfaction. At last! Simon had married her. Cecily Clarke-Conroy sounded so imposing – she intended keeping her maiden name as well. And oh, how she was looking forward to living in Moncas Bay.

  It was the happiest day of her life when she gave in her notice to the hated Alfred Muir, BCL. He was really furious at the thought of having to go and recruit a new secretary because he’d have to pay her more money than the pittance that he was paying Cecily. No-one would come and work for him otherwise. He hadn’t even given her a wedding present, the tight old bastard! When she had seen that one wasn’t forthcoming, and when she had her reference safely in her handbag, and her last week’s wages, she had risen languidly from her desk, strolled into his office as he prepared to close, torn out from her pad ten pages of shorthand letters (he was too mean to buy a dictaphone) that she hadn’t bothered to transcribe or write up, ripped them neatly in four and said coldly:

  ‘You can take these and stuff them you know where,’ (Cecily was too much of a lady to say arse) ‘as far as they can go. You are the meanest, most dishonest creep that any girl has ever had to work for. It has not been a delight to work for you, Muir,’ (she felt so powerful calling him just Muir), ‘but it certainly is a delight to know that I’ll never set foot in this dump or see your ugly mush again. Good evening!’ Then she turned on her heel as Alfred Muir, almost apoplectic, watched her exit from his life for ever.

  Cecily marched out without a backward glance at her untidy desk. She had left two days’ filing to be done; in fact she had left the place in a right mess and she didn’t care. Let him sort it out before his new secretary came on Monday. On Monday, she’d be lying on a sunbed getting a tan in preparation for her wedding. After all, you couldn’t wear an off-the-shoulder creation without a tan. And after that, Cecily knew that she was never ever going to have to work to earn her living again. Simon was going to take care of her and she could lie in bed in the morning reading magazines, eating chocolates, and watching TV as long as she wished. Simon’s wedding presents to her were goin
g to be a portable TV for the bedroom and a gold bracelet! Cecily practically danced down the stairs of the office at the thought of her fantastic new life as Mrs Simon Conroy.

  As she firmly placed the ring on the finger of the man standing by her side and heard the priest pronounce them man and wife, Cecily smiled happily at her new husband. Everything was going perfectly. She’d deliberately chosen St Peter’s Church in Phibsboro because of the long aisle. She was really looking forward to swanning down it as Mrs Conroy. They had booked the reception in the Burlington and that should really impress the Moncas Bay in-laws, although her father had had to take out a second mortgage, and her mother had taken up part-time work in the factory down the road. ‘We want to give you a good send-off and we don’t want to let the side down,’ her mother had assured her. Outside the church a white Rolls Royce awaited her. And Simon, in his top hat and tails, looked absolutely divine. Rather Clark Gableish actually! Lainey would never out-do this wedding – if she ever got married, Cecily thought smugly. She wasn’t dating Steve McGrath any more and he was squiring Helena Casey around. Imagine losing a catch like Steve McGrath! Good enough for her, she was just too big for her boots! Well she might have her prestigious new job, and her new car and her designer clothes, but she hadn’t got Steve McGrath and she was still single. Thus thought the new Mrs Conroy as she knelt for the priest’s blessing.

  The smile froze on her face as she glided down the aisle on Simon’s arm and saw her new sister-in-law looking absolutely stunning in a white silk suit, a mouthwatering pink pillbox hat, complete with a little veil, matching pink shoes and a bag that was unmistakably Chanel with its trademark gold chain. She was laughing heartily at something Tony Mangan was whispering to her.