City Girl

by Patricia Scanlan

  ‘Please God let Aunt Elizabeth be out,’ she prayed in the back seat. Aunt Elizabeth was out. And Marian’s jaw dropped in shock when she saw who was standing at her front door. ‘You’re as bad as Ma Clancy with your mouth open. Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ Maggie asked lightly.

  ‘Of . . . of course . . .’ stammered Marian.

  They stared at each other. Marian looked weary and Maggie knew that she didn’t look much better herself.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ Marian said finally. ‘After all I’ve done to you . . . it must have been a very hard thing.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘It wasn’t hard at all, Marian. I really miss you. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I don’t like not talking. When I heard you on the phone tonight I just had to come over and see you. I mean, can’t we even talk about it? Isn’t that what friends are for?’

  ‘I’ve been some friend,’ Marian muttered miserably. Maggie gave her a hug.

  ‘Look it’s in the past, can’t we forget it? For heaven’s sake, Mar, would you put the kettle on, I’ve got to get back to the nurses’ home by eleven, and I’ll have to go soon ’cos I can’t afford another taxi so I’ll have to get the bus.’

  They had tea, caught up on some gossip, and arranged to meet after Christmas to talk things over. It had been a rushed visit but as Maggie left she hugged her friend. ‘I’m really glad I came,’ she said happily, ‘I’ll see you after Christmas.’

  Marian’s hug was less enthusiastic but Maggie thought no more about it until a letter arrived on her doorstep early in the New Year to say that Marian had thought the matter over and she didn’t think things could ever be the same between them. In an almost theatrical vein she had written, ‘I’ll miss the fun and the chats and when you think of me think of the good times. Let’s not hurt ourselves any more than we’ve been hurt already!’ How typical of Marian, melodramatic to the last. She couldn’t have a row like any normal person. No! She had to end the friendship!

  ‘Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face,’ said Annie Mary when she heard the latest. ‘Look, Maggie,’ she had said firmly. ‘She’s not worth it. Don’t waste your time upsetting yourself. I feel sorry for the girl. She’s obviously immature, probably the type that never grows up. Forget her!’

  Maggie never heard from Marian again. She got over the hurt and sadness, and the irritation at such a needless waste of a friendship, but she never forgot Marian Gilhooley. She threw herself into her studies, came top of her class in her first year and moved into a flat! She had found life in the nurses’ home so restrictive that she vowed once first year was finished she was moving out. It might be more expensive, but at least she’d have her independence. God! they were treated like children. Each night, a member of the home staff would open the door to every student’s bedroom and check that they were in for the night. Maggie used to sizzle with anger. It was such an invasion of privacy, and it was something she never got used to. The authoritarian regime exercised by hospital management used to have the student nurses fuming. The common room used to be a forum for gripes and discussion.

  ‘For Christ’s sake! I’m past the age of consent, I can vote. I know how to act in an emergency. What the hell difference does it make if my tights are the wrong shade? Is the colour of my tights going to affect someone who is in cardiac arrest?’ Barbara Reid spat as she told the others how she had been called up in front of the matron for wearing the wrong colour tights with her uniform.

  ‘I think it’s something peculiarly Irish,’ another young nurse said reflectively ‘My sister works in a library and the wan in charge asked her if she’d obey a direct order if it was given to her. I ask ya? And a queue out the door and this is all that’s worrying her! They’re obsessed with authority in this country. You’re not treated like an adult. Take the divorce referendum. The church orders us to vote no. But for goodness sake, I’m a Catholic, I know I can’t have a divorce, but why the hell should I deprive anyone else from having one just because of my beliefs. If you have to be led like sheep it’s a poor reflection on the maturity of the individual.’

  ‘Here, here,’ came a rousing chorus.

  Maggie grinned at Barbara. ‘Well, I don’t know about you but I’m thirsty Hey sheep! Anybody like to come for a glass of Guinness?’

  Maggie’s energy was boundless and after her hours on the wards she would need only a refreshing shower before she and her friends would hit Dublin’s nightlife. Dublin was a joy to her after the sedate pace of life at home which might occasionally be enlivened by the odd little drama such as the time Don Joe O’Mahony’s goat had feasted extravagantly on Mary Ellen Flaherty’s best pair of bloomers and Mary Ellen had shot him, the goat that is! There had been ructions; it had kept the village going for weeks.

  Maggie moved in to a small bedsit at the beginning of her second year. The pleasure of being her own boss was a revelation. How blissful not to have to wash up after her dinner if she didn’t feel like it. She would sit looking at her dirty dishes and decide that she was much too tired to wash them this evening. Twenty minutes later she’d be out the door and off to a ballad session in Slattery’s pub in Capel Street, her favourite haunt. She thoroughly enjoyed the hot smoky friendly atmosphere where she and her friends would join in singing evocative ballads, tales of Ireland past and present, until they were hoarse and dry-throated. Long draughts of rich creamy Guinness sliding down their throats would restore their vocal chords for the next session. After closing time a ravenous hunger might set in and they would meander over to Baggot Street and devour one of Ishmael’s magnificent kebabs, the crisp tasty pitta bread filled to overflowing with a heavenly sauce full of delicious spit-cooked meat. Fortified then for a night of dancing they would hit the nightclubs to bop till the early hours. Maggie lived life to the full, eager to banish the memories of death and illness which were constant reminders to her that life was short and you just had one go at it.

  Much as she loved city life, she did not forsake Wicklow entirely. After a hard, draining, exhausting Saturday night on Casualty, Maggie was more than ready for a large dose of tranquillity and some fresh country air. Saturday nights on Casualty were dreaded by all, doctors and nurses alike. The drunks, the drug addicts, the brawlers, the broken-boned, bleeding, puking, roaring and raving would arrive after the pubs closed while Maggie and her colleagues were trying to take care of the real emergencies, the heart attacks, the car crash victims, the distraught bewildered relatives. She had seen it all but she never got used to it.

  Once when she had pulled a white sheet over a young man who had died in her arms as a result of a motorbike accident, a petulant crabby little man who had broken his wrist while giving his wife a clout snapped crossly, ‘D’ya have ta die here before ya get any attention?’ as Maggie prepared to ring down to the mortuary.

  A red mist danced before her eyes and for the first time in her career she lost her temper. With eyes blazing she turned on him and said in a voice that was even more menacing because of its quietness, ‘If you don’t shut your big mouth, you little gurrier, I’ll make sure you die roaring without a priest!’ Three hours later, though he was still unattended, there wasn’t a peep out of him.

  Maggie loved nursing. It wasn’t all blood and guts and trauma but it was people like him and times like these that made her ask herself why she hadn’t married Joe Conway. Almost two years after she qualified, savage health cuts and the loss of eighty beds in the hospital where she worked caused her to become redundant.

  A little unwillingly, because the choice was not hers, she joined the emigration trail and went to New York to nurse. Five of her class had gone and secured jobs easily. Irish nurses were in demand world-wide and although Maggie had decided that she would eventually travel the world, having to do so because of redundancy left her with a bitter taste in her mouth. All the years of training and hard work that she had put in had meant nothing to the politicians, nor had the protest marches to the Dail where thousands of he
alth workers and union members had demonstrated their anger and disgust. Maggie and her friends had still found themselves on the outward-bound Jumbo from Shannon and the sad thing was, they were the lucky ones. They at least had jobs to go to and the green card that was more valuable than gold dust for anyone desiring to work in the States.

  Eleven

  Despite herself, Maggie took to New York as a duck takes to water and she gloried in the frenzied pace of life in the city that never sleeps. She loved the lights and the noise and the traffic. It all made her feel gloriously alive and part of the racing thrusting pulse of the city. There was so much to do and so much to see.

  At first she had lived in the nurses’ home of the hospital where she worked, and how different life was there from the regimented system she had been used to at home. There was no such thing as signing in and signing out. Nobody shone flashlights into your room to check to see if you were in or out. Boyfriends or girlfriends or relatives were allowed to stay the night – in short, people were treated as mature adults and Maggie’s independent spirit thrived on such treatment. It was very much teamwork on the wards. Nurses were treated as equals by the doctors and consultants, and their input was judged to have as much importance as that of the doctor. Life as a nurse in City General was challenging, rewarding – and exhausting. If Maggie thought Saturday nights on Casualty in Dublin were bad, the tidal wave of trauma that confronted her on her first casualty night in New York was unbelievable. Suicides, potential suicides, drug-crazed, wild-eyed addicts, AIDS sufferers, mugging victims, it was endless. Her abilities were stretched to the limit, but she coped and went to bed the following morning bone weary but exhilarated.

  After two months she took a small apartment in a renovated brownstone in the Murray Hill area of East Manhattan, sublet by a nurse who was going to work for a year in California. As studios go in New York it was good. She had a small separate kitchen, separate bathroom, and a postage-stamp dining alcove. She had a view of the East River and the Queens Midtown Tunnel, and at night she would sit in her big cane chair with its huge chintz cushions, drinking a beer and watching the never-ending stream of cars winding into the dark-holed entrance of the tunnel on their way to Queens and the posh suburbs of Long Island. Maggie loved hearing the hoots of the ships’ sirens and the hum of the engines of the various river boats that steamed up and down the murky river. The rent was high, but Maggie felt it was worth it to get away from the frenetic environs of the hospital. She had liked the nurses’ home but living there meant she was never rid of the hospital. At least now that she had her own apartment, she was able to separate her private and working life, and although she enjoyed her work, she was always mighty glad by the time the day was over, to take the subway, or the bus, or if she was not too tired, to walk to her little studio overlooking the river. It was comfortable, nicely decorated in pastel pinks and blues and, most important, it was air conditioned. It also had its own intercom video system which from the security angle was great, as the amount of crime in New York city was staggering. Maggie didn’t see much of the rest of the people in the building. The man across the hall from her kept the oddest hours; he must do shiftwork, she decided. The girl in the flat beside her, Jessica, worked in an advertising agency on Madison Ave and she always said hello.

  Before long Maggie got her bearings. It was almost impossible to get lost in Manhattan and once she had the grid system worked out, she was fine. The avenues went north to south, the famous Fifth Avenue was the dividing line between East and West Manhattan and the streets and avenues all bisected at right angles. Besides she wasn’t far from the UN building; once she had that in sight she was only a few blocks from home.

  She decided she was going to explore every inch of the city. But first of all she must explore her own area. She discovered that just a few blocks away in the UN building you could get free tickets to the General Assembly and could have lunch at certain times in the Delegates Dining Room overlooking the superb gardens and the East River. It was something she treated herself to many times.

  Food took on a whole new meaning for Maggie while she lived in New York. And if she hadn’t used up so much energy on the wards she would have come back to Ireland a very fat lady indeed. She tried everything: hot dogs, bagels, strawberry cheesecake, egg rolls, duck paté with pistachios, beef sukiyaki, southern fried chicken, pumpkin pie. Each day had a new delight!

  East Fifty-ninth street was her point of reference. On her day off, she would leave her apartment, walk the few blocks to East Fifty-ninth and carry on from there. Sometimes she would just walk its length until she got to Central Park, or else she would walk to Third Ave, Lexington, Park or Fifth, take a section and explore, going from the Lower East side to the Upper West, as the mood took her. She loved to ramble along Madison Ave, past the famous Maxim’s at Sixty-first, right up to Seventy-second street, and stare at the windows of the exclusive boutiques full of Giorgio Armanis and Valentinos and other exclusive designer clothes that she had only ever read about before. She would observe the wealthy leisurely shoppers strolling up one side and down the other, sometimes followed by chauffeured limos whose interiors bulged with dozens of new purchases.

  Once, just outside Saks on Fifth Ave, she had actually seen Jackie Onassis looking stunningly elegant in a grey Burberry, her eyes hidden behind big dark glasses. Maggie had tried not to stare. She remembered President Kennedy’s visit to Ireland, though she had been very young at the time, and could still remember that awful November day when her mother, sobbing, had told her of his death in Dallas. It had been such a shock to see her mother cry that it had frightened Maggie.

  ‘Will the bad man come and shoot us?’ she had asked anxiously, her heart beginning to pound.

  ‘Ah no, darling, but say a prayer for the soul of John F Kennedy, and for his poor wife and children,’ her mother had replied, taking out her rosary beads.

  Now as Maggie observed this famous woman in the flesh she remembered as a child how fascinated she had been by the big book about the President’s life and death, that they had at home in Wicklow. Often when it was raining, Maggie would sit curled up in the huge armchair in front of a roaring fire, turning the pages slowly with Nedser her little dog snoring quietly at her feet. Now she remembered those days with a little pang of homesickness. She could feel the texture of Nedser’s soft fur between her fingers, she could hear the soft gentle pitter-patter of rain beating against the window pane, and smell the rich tangy perfume of the pine logs as they crackled and spat in the flames of the fire. How nice it would be just once more to be a little girl again leafing through the big black book with the pictures of a radiant Jackie as First Lady. There was an immense dignity about her now and Maggie, conscious that she was staring, chided herself for her bad manners.

  On Sunday afternoons she would browse with friends around the antique stores in Greenwich Village, soaking up the unique ambience that made it one of the most exciting places in New York. They would sit outside O’Henry’s on the corner of West Fourth and the Avenue of the Americas, drinking beer, eating baked clams flavoured with garlic and watching the world go by. It was all so new, so exciting, so utterly different from home.

  Sandra and Jennifer, two of the group of five that had come to America, had moved on to Los Angeles and they often tried to persuade Maggie to move over to the West Coast, but although she liked to spend a few days there, she preferred New York. LA, despite its more laid back atmosphere, held no attraction for Maggie and the lifestyle seemed almost unreal. And the drug scene was something else. She had been to parties where coke and other drugs were freely available and using them was as common as drinking wine. Sandra, she knew, often snorted coke. Jennifer had told Maggie that all Sandra’s salary was going on drugs and Maggie could see for herself how her classmate’s personality had changed so radically as a result of her habit. She was taking pills to bring her up and others to bring her down from her highs and sometimes she was so spaced out Maggie found it hard to believe she
was holding down a job.

  Once out of curiosity at a party in Dublin she had smoked a joint, had turned pale green and promptly puked. From then on she stuck to health foods and Guinness, ignoring the urgings of others to try some ‘stuff.’ Maggie had seen too many overdose victims to have any desire to experiment. She thought Sandra was crazy to be getting mixed up in the drug scene and told her so forcefully when she caught her snorting coke one weekend she was visiting LA. She’d also seen the telltale needle marks in her veins which meant she had been shooting up.

  ‘You’re crazy, Sandra. Get help before it’s too late or you’ll ruin your life!’ Maggie pleaded with the other girl.

  ‘Stay cool, Maggs, you’re such a square, you have no fun,’ was the other girl’s doped response and Maggie felt like hitting her for being so dumb and irresponsible.

  Six months later, after a frantic call from Jennifer she ended up flying out to LA where she had to identify Sandra’s horrifically emaciated body in the city morgue. Weeping almost uncontrollably, Jennifer told Maggie how the dead girl had been sacked from her job and had ended up on the streets of LA as a hooker, desperate to support her craving for drugs. She had been working for a Puerto Rican pimp who had been feeding her addiction on heroin. Eventually she had overdosed and now lay cold as ice on a slab in the morgue. In the end, it was Maggie who took care of the arrangements for having the body flown home and it was she who spoke to Sandra’s distraught parents on the phone and tried to console them. Jennifer had fallen to pieces in the crisis, so Maggie made her take a holiday break, and took her to New York to stay with her for two weeks, until the other girl got over the shock.