City Girl

by Patricia Scanlan

  It was strange how they had become friends, so different in personality as they were and with such completely different lifestyles. Yet it seemed to Caroline that for all her out-going ways and many ‘friends,’ Devlin was a little lonely. She was an only child and at least Caroline had the boys. Athough they weren’t much use it was better than having no-one in the house when she came home, as often happened with Devlin. Her mother and father always seemed to be out.

  Caroline stayed over in Devlin’s house occasionally and had met Mrs Delaney. Mrs Delaney was gracious, elegant and yet it struck Caroline that there wasn’t an ounce of motherliness in her. Not like her own mother who had been so warm and loving and full of fun. What fun the teenage Caroline had enjoyed with her own mother on their weekly forays into town which usually ended with a trip to the pictures and then a meal in one of O’Connell Street’s many restaurants, where they would have Caroline’s then favourite meal, mixed grill and chips. Devlin and her mother never went anywhere together, a fact that amazed Caroline until she met Lydia Delaney. As the bond of friendship grew between the girls, Devlin confided in Caroline about Lydia’s drinking and sometimes when things got really bad at home, Devlin would stay over at Caroline’s for a night or two until the worst was over.

  Caroline loved the nights Devlin stayed. She would always make a special effort to have the house neat and tidy, shoving the boys’ shirts into their wardrobes out of sight, hiding her father’s multitude of textbooks under the sofa, hastily spraying air freshener around when she heard the door bell, to camouflage the heavy smell of her father’s pipe smoke which seemed to invade every nook and cranny. Compared to her friend’s luxurious abode, the Stacey house was functional and low key but Devlin never seemed to notice, and after a while it ceased to bother Caroline.

  It was shortly after they became friends that Caroline began her Arts degree out in Belfield. Sitting on the number ten bus as it left O’Connell Street for the journey to the campus, she felt half-excited, half-afraid. Around her sat other young students chattering excitedly, looking forward to the new adventure ahead of them. Why couldn’t she be like them, she thought in despair. Why was every new experience such a big trauma for her? Some of the girls on the bus had come from all over the country and were setting up home in strange flats and digs. How she envied their desire for freedom, their eager cutting of the ties that bound them to home. If she had to leave the security of her home and come up to a strange new city and find her way around she’d die of fright, she knew it.

  The first few weeks on campus had been so strange and unnerving. Compared to secondary school where every hour was mapped out, the loose unstructured style of University was a completely new experience. Along with hundreds of other young freshers Caroline wondered if she would ever find her way around the sprawling complex that made up University College Dublin, where she would remain in search of knowledge for the next three years. It was the proverbial melting pot, and from the big glass-walled restaurant Caroline viewed her peers each day with a faintly incredulous envy. Some of the way-out clothes worn so individualistically by many of the students amazed her. How wonderful it must be, she mused, as she saw one girl wearing purple ski pants and a vivid orange shirt, to have such confidence in yourself that you could carry off such an outrageous get-up. She would watch the eager clusters that gathered around the notice boards deciding which society to join. The Dramsoc and Literary and Historical societies were by far the most popular but she couldn’t gather enough courage to join either of these.

  The black tie debating contests fascinated her. Imagine to be able to stand up in front of a vast crowded theatre full of people and speak with fluent conviction on whatever topic was under debate! It was her dream, and often on the long traffic-jammed ride out to Belfield she would imagine herself in full flow making the winning speech, graciously accepting the loud applause of her audience. A few times she joined her classmates for a drink, after lectures, in the campus bar. The experience left her miserable as everyone else seemed to know someone. The music was loud and unintelligible, the smell of tobacco and pot permeated her hair and clothes and the battle to get to the bar through the jam of tightly packed bodies never seemed worth the effort. At the approach of closing time mention of parties in so and so’s pad would filter down along the groups of laughing relaxed young people and a mass exodus would begin to the exciting, faintly seedy area of flat-land in Rathmines. She had gone to a few, but the thought of getting drunk or stoned or laid terrified her and she was always on edge and never able to really enjoy herself and eventually she stopped going. And so she went to her lectures in the huge impersonal theatres and the social life and crack of the college passed her by. There were times when Devlin despaired of her.

  ‘Honestly Caro! your life is one long drudge. Out to college in the morning, classes all day, home to cook for your dad and the boys, study all night. You’re wasting your youth!’ she would exclaim in exasperation. She would not let a little thing like studying for the Leaving Cert interrupt her own social life.

  ‘You’re different, Dev.’ Caroline would try and make excuses. ‘Anyway Dad would have a fit if I was out every night and besides, someone has to do the housework.’

  ‘Why does it have to be you?’ Devlin had asked quietly. Caroline had no answer.

  Near the end of her third and last year in college Caroline had let herself be persuaded to attend a class reunion. By now her figure had become so slim as to be almost boyish, her small heartshaped face dominated by wide dark-lashed brown eyes. Devlin dragged her to get her unruly black hair cut and styled and the hairdresser, one of the most expensive in Dublin, took a good long look at her and murmured something that sounded like ‘Audrey Hepburn eat your heart out,’ and then proceeded to scalp her.

  Speechless, Caroline had eyed the complete stranger in the mirror. Was it really her? With the feather-cut hairstyle that now framed her face and made her eyes look enormous, she had a gamine yet sophisticated look and after the initial shock she was really more than pleased. Devlin had made the expedition a real day out for them. They had gone for lunch in the Westbury. It was the first time Caroline had been in the luxurious hotel and as discreet waiters took their orders Caroline sat back in her chair and sighed happily. ‘This is really living, Dev! Imagine being able to do this all the time? I’d love it.’

  ‘You should do it more often, Caro,’ her friend retorted, wishing that Caroline could develop more confidence in herself and, more important, a sense of her own worth as a person. It gave Devlin great pleasure to watch her friend enjoy the delicious meal. Usually Caroline shopped in Henry Street on the other side of the city, never venturing south of the Liffey, but today Devlin was determined that her friend was going to splash out. That was why she had taken her to an expensive hair salon. Her hair had cost thirty pounds but it was worth every penny. Now she was going to take her to buy something expensively exclusive to wear at the reunion.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ Caroline queried innocently.

  ‘Oh nothing at all,’ murmured Devlin airily. ‘Come on, finish your coffee and we’ll go and get your dress.’

  That night, dressed in a body-hugging soft black angora dress with a flamboyant royal blue cowl neckline to lesson the severity, Caroline stood in front of the mirror and gazed at herself in awe. Gone was the dumpy dowdy lump of lard of three years ago. In its place a small slender elegant sophisticate stared back at her from the mirror. Devlin was practically dancing around the room with delight.

  ‘My God Caroline, you’re stunning! You’re so small-boned, look at your face. I’d love cheekbones like yours!’ She scowled momentarily. ‘What a shame that Bollox O’Brien has emigrated.’

  ‘Devlin!’ Caroline never failed to be shocked by her outspoken mentor.

  ‘Tsk. Oh I know, Caro, but it describes the cretin perfectly,’ Devlin said, unrepentant about her description of the boy who had stood Caroline up that fateful night so long ago. Arranging the cowl so that
it fell perfectly around Caroline’s shapely neck she said firmly, ‘My dear girl if I catch you in anything but tight-fitting clothes from now on, I’ll murder you.’ She laughed. ‘In fact, Twiggs, I’m going to make sure you never get into those baggy jeans and sweatshirts again.’ Flinging open the wardrobe door, she dragged out an armful of the offending articles.

  ‘Oh wait Dev! I mean you can’t! I’ve nothing else to wear.’

  Devlin nodded crossly. ‘Well, it’s about time you got some new clothes. My God, you slave around here for nothing!’

  Caroline had to agree, although she hated when Devlin made comments about the way her family treated her. She knew that in his own way her father loved and depended on her: he just didn’t think about buying new clothes. Since his wife died he just had no interest in anything and the boys were too busy with their own lives to worry about her. Besides, the thoughts of giving away her trusty baggy old jeans and sweatshirts caused a vague feeling of panic to flutter in her stomach. They concealed her new slenderness and she could hide in them. There was no way she was ready to flaunt her new body. Her figure might have changed considerably but her self-confidence was as non-existent as ever.

  ‘Listen, Dev, I’ve only two months to go before I get the degree. When I get a job I’ll buy a whole new wardrobe. OK?’

  Reluctantly Devlin surrendered her spoils. ‘And I’m coming with you,’ she warned as they made their way downstairs to say goodnight. Caroline’s father just lifted his head over the top of his paper and his eyes widened slightly.

  ‘Very nice. Don’t be too late,’ he said mildly.

  ‘I won’t,’ she assured him. She really didn’t want to go to this reunion: she had never been popular at school, being far too shy and introverted for anyone to have taken notice of her, and because of her weight she had never played games or gone to any of the school dances. The nuns had been kind to her after her mother died, often asking how she was coping and how was her father. Apart from that, school had been a nightmare and even now she could still cringe at some of the memories of her schooldays.

  Valentine’s Day had been the worst. The trauma of going into class and being asked maliciously by one horrible girl how many Valentine cards she had got, had been soul destroying. One year in desperation she had sent herself one but even then at the last minute her nerve failed her and she left it lying in her school bag as she underwent her annual interrogation. So why was she going to this reunion? Why had she let Devlin persuade her to go?

  ‘Listen to me,’ her friend had said. ‘You look like a million dollars. Take a deep breath and walk into that room. Tell them you are studying nuclear physics or something. Make them take notice of you. It’s easy!’ Devlin, of course, would take something like a reunion in her stride.

  As she slowly approached the Gresham Hotel, where they were holding the function, Caroline could feel all her poise evaporating. Butterflies as large as elephants did tangos up and down her insides. It would be just like her to faint and cause a scene, she thought in self-disgust, as she stopped to view herself in a plate glass window.

  ‘You look fine,’ she reassured herself. Catching sight of a tough-looking young fellow staring at her, she clutched her bag against her and walked briskly along O’Connell Street. The sun was beginning to set, its dusky pink hues giving a softer edge to the harsh neon-lit façades of the capital’s premier street. Queues were beginning to form outside the Savoy and, feeling lonely, Caroline watched the couples holding hands as they laughed and talked and were entertained by a wild-haired busker playing a jaunty tune. She walked on and taking a deep breath mounted the steps and found herself in the elegant foyer of the Gresham Hotel. The subdued air of genteel graciousness calmed her as she watched white-jacketed waiters pouring coffee from silver pots into delicate china cups for daintily sipping ladies. Catching sight of herself in a sparkling mirror she saw that in spite of her interior chaos, her exterior appeared calm and controlled. Lifting her chin and forcing one foot to follow the other Caroline walked into the room where the event was taking place.

  The hum of rampant gossip assaulted her ears as thirty-five young women who hadn’t seen each other for three years caught up with each other’s lives.

  ‘And you know something else? She was three months gone when she got married . . . !’

  ‘You’re not serious, Valerie! And she was such a Holy Mary!’

  Well, Val hadn’t changed, Caroline thought. Still dishing the dirt. Swallowing hard she took a glass of wine from a bored-looking waiter and edged her way to the far side of the room. Nobody had recognized her yet and she was content just to listen.

  ‘Isn’t Pamela a walking bitch? Imagine doing a thing like that on her best friend. I couldn’t believe it.’

  Caroline was agog! What had Pamela done on Thérèse? It was obvious they weren’t talking. Thérèse was on the other side of the room with her back pointedly turned on her former best friend. Caroline moved towards the window, passing another little knot of chattering young women.

  ‘Would you look at Deirdre? Did you ever see anything like the hair? You can see the black roots from here. It’s dreadfully tarty! And did you hear about Nuala? She’s over there by the door. She’s living with Aileen. They’re gay! Imagine!’

  There was a ripple of excitement at this piece of information.

  ‘You mean that utter snob Aileen Corey? Crikey, I wonder what they make of that in her “cultural backwater”?’ A gale of laughter followed that biting remark. Caroline tried to suppress a grin. She remembered Aileen Corey very well. A most pretentious girl who, when asked where she lived, answered coolly, ‘Dunboyne, a cultural backwater.’ There was much sniggering in the class at this remark which was quite unoriginal, having been lifted from an interview with an Irish writer. It was typical of Aileen, always out to try and impress. So Nuala and Aileen were living together. Well, it wasn’t really anybody’s business. Their personal lives were their own affair. The idea of their gayness did not offend Caroline as it did some of the others. For all Caroline’s introverted shyness, there was a maturity and tolerance about her that made her a most non-judgemental person.

  ‘I hear Moira and Michelle have emigrated. Honest to God, if I have to go to one more farewell party I’ll cry,’ she heard a soft voice say. Caroline smiled. The soft voice belonged to Anne Morrell, one of the few girls in the class who had ever passed the time of day with her, but she was too shy to go over to her and it was obvious no-one recognized her. So Moira and Michelle had emigrated. It wasn’t surprising. With mass-unemployment it was the only option many young people had, and most families had been touched by the spectre of emigration. Even Declan, her own brother, had been one of the thousands who had applied for one of the precious American visas allocated to Ireland. What she would do if she didn’t get a job herself Caroline did not dare think about. She’d have to go on the dole.

  A voice to her right caught her attention and she felt the old familiar dread as she recognized the harsh nasal tones of Ruth Saunders. Ruth had been the notice-box of the class, always hogging the limelight with her sharp sarcastic wit that had often flicked Caroline on the raw. Ruth had been her malicious tormentor every Valentine’s Day. She had taken a sarcastic delight in embarrassing her and for a moment Caroline almost felt as if she was back in the big airy classroom on the green corridor in Eccles Street.

  ‘I don’t see any sign of Nellie the Elephant, do you?’ she was saying derisively. ‘She’s probably entered the convent.’

  Anger surged through Caroline. The miserable bitch, standing there so arrogant, smirking and flaunting her pregnant belly as if to say ‘Well I’ve got a man – so there!’ How dare she assume that Caroline was only capable of retiring to the religious life and anyway, what was wrong with the religious life? Some of the nuns who taught her had been the most fulfilled and happy women she had met. Many of them had been far better educated and seen far more of life and the world than she or Ruth Saunders ever would.

&nb
sp; Taking a deep calming breath Caroline turned to face her old tormentor.

  ‘I think it’s a case of the kettle calling the pot black,’ she drawled coolly. ‘How are you Ruth?’

  The horrified amazement, the ugly flush of embarrassment that mottled the other girl’s puffy face were a sweet revenge for Caroline.

  ‘Are you . . . I . . . I mean you can’t be Caroline Stacey,’ she stuttered.

  ‘I assure you I am,’ Caroline responded lightly. Gosh, this wasn’t so bad after all, she thought, as her quaking subsided.

  Deriving an immense amount of pleasure from the other girl’s mortification she decided to press home her psychological triumph. After her years of misery it felt so good to be the cause of her adversary’s discomfort. She observed casually, ‘I see you’re married, Ruth. When is the happy event?’

  Ruth’s little pig eyes glowed in delighted superiority over her spinster sister. She gave a shrill little giggle. ‘Oh, Peter swept me off my feet. You remember Peter?’

  Caroline nodded drily. Peter was as quiet as Ruth was sharp and bossy and there was no doubt who wore the pants in that marriage.

  ‘The baby’s due in two months’ time. Are you dating yourself?’

  Their eyes met through the curtain of their mutual antagonism.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Caroline responded airily. ‘My boyfriend Mark is in Saudi at the moment. He’s a nuclear physicist. I may go out myself later in the year to join him. Who knows?’ She gave Ruth a cold smile. ‘I do want to pursue my own career. I think it’s very important for a woman to excel in her own field, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh very,’ echoed Ruth, completely deflated.