At a Time Like This

by Catherine Dunne

  I couldn’t see Claire in the crowd and had to listen to the bandleader call on Aunty Mary or Uncle Joe or whoever, to come on up and sing a song. And still the uncle on stage kept going ‘ . . . If I died an aul’ maid in the gaaaaaaarret? I wanted to kick something.

  ‘None of your business, Mags,’ Paul said to me when I cornered him later on. I must admit that he looked only marginally less devastated than she did.

  ‘But you love her,’ I hissed in his ear. The band was deafening. ‘I know you do. The two of you are great together. Why are you throwing it all away?’

  He looked at me. ‘It’s over.’ Then he shook his head. ‘There are some things that can’t be fixed, and there’s no point in trying.’

  Fixed? I remember asking myself. What could be broken between these two? They were the perfect couple. If it was us, me and Ray, then I could understand. I didn’t know what kept me going back to him for more. The ‘hook of hope’, isn’t that what the psychologists call it? The belief that this time, he means what he says.

  I got no more out of Paul. Georgie and I talked about it afterwards. She could see how upset I was. And then even she dried up.

  ‘Claire has asked me not to talk about it,’ she said, when I asked her what was going on.

  ‘Georgie, this is me, Maggie. Your best friend, remember? Or is there something here I’m missing?’

  She shook her head and sighed. ‘Of course not. Claire doesn’t want the three of us to fall out over it.’

  I looked at her. I was speechless.

  She put her cup down. ‘Truth?’ she asked.

  I nodded.

  She leaned towards me and spoke quietly. ‘Her heart is broken, Maggie. I don’t think she can bear to talk about it. She refuses to tell me anything. We have to leave her alone. You have to leave her alone.’

  And so I did. But that doesn’t mean I got over it.

  Nora and Frank’s wedding was not ‘the makin’s of another’, quite the opposite, in fact. While Helly lumbered off, snowed under with confetti and good wishes, Claire took herself home by taxi, so quietly that no one noticed she was gone. Except me. I saw her go. And she saw me, too. She looked back at me over her shoulder as she climbed into the back seat. There was sadness written all over her face and something else, too. Something I didn’t recognize until years later. And by then, so many things were too late.

  Shortly afterwards, I left. The heart had gone out of things for me. I couldn’t find Ray, so I headed home on my own, my patience exhausted. True to form, he came crawling back the next day. He cried, his face white and remorseful. And I took him back, of course I did. It would be different, he promised. It would.

  It would and it would and it would.

  And Georgie?

  She and Danny had danced all evening – but only the slow sets. They kept disappearing outside, and returning with shining eyes and broad grins. I knew what they were getting up to. Danny was a serious dope-head in those days. I suppose you could say he was serving his apprenticeship. I’ve never been sure why Georgie put up with that. She dabbled, but she never used like Danny did. I had the feeling even then that she was marking time with Danny. And that time was limited.

  Less than two weeks later, term began. Into our second year, we were now Senior Freshmen. Georgie had passed her repeats with flying colours: she got herself a First. I was glad for her. Failure did not come easily to her. Her results were the excuse for some serious celebration. We still kept on the flat at number 12, but something among us had shifted. Weekends were different, Claire was different. Even Georgie was different. Her First seemed to fire up all her ambitions. She spent longer and longer days in the library. I was happy enough to take refuge in my sewing machine on the nights when she wasn’t home. And there was always Ray. Astonishingly, I missed Helly during that second year. It’s amazing the things familiarity will do to you.

  I’ve put Nora’s wedding photos, along with my own, back where they belong – at the top of the wardrobe this time, pushed towards the back behind the hat boxes. It really is the strangest thing, to see yourself from the point of view of the completely different person you can become over the years. When I see myself now, I no longer see myself, if you know what I mean. The young ‘Maggie’ and the forty-something Maggie are not even distantly related. ‘Maggie’ no longer exists.

  At least she hasn’t, up until now. Not for the longest time. But I can feel her presence. I’m beginning to welcome her back, the longer all of this goes on. Claire told me once about shedding her skin when she came to Dublin first, about the transformation of rural innocent into urban sophisticate. I like the image. Snaking along, leaving a life discarded. And I like that feeling of struggling out of a carapace, being born again as something new.

  Breathing other air.

  Wearing other skin.

  4. Georgie

  So. It is good to be home.

  Everything around me here gives me pleasure. I don’t know why I keep forgetting just how much. It’s as though each visit is coloured like Tuscan pottery: vibrant and rich and completely right while in its own surroundings, but garish and tawdry under Irish skies. The time in between visits foments uncertainty, I have discovered. It’s as though I suspect that with each return trip I’ll be disappointed. That this time, the light will have dimmed, the glory dissipated. But once I get here, all that anxiety leaks away. My spirits begin to soar at the first sharp smell of cologne and black tobacco, at the wall of heat outside Peretola airport, even at the chaos of the car rental desks.

  Yesterday, I didn’t mind standing in line, waiting my turn. Instead, I people-watched. Under normal circumstances, I find rubbing elbows like this with the hoi-polloi distasteful. Maggie has called me an incurable snob. I make no apologies. But yesterday afternoon was – as were so many other things – definably different. Even though it was still months away from high season, the airport was swarming with anxious elderly Americans, imperious Brits, a motley crew of backpackers: a whole melting-pot of nationalities. As I’ve said, I am neither a patient nor an observant traveller, but for once the multitudes afforded me endless fascination. It was as though I were watching the world gain an added dimension, a consciousness of being poised on the cusp of change. I realized even as I thought it how ridiculous that was: how insignificant, in the grand scheme of things, were the events of my personal universe. Nevertheless, I was seeing the people around me in sharp relief, their faces arresting, all the possible secrets of their small lives compelling in a way they had never seemed to be before. Even the woman at the Hertz desk, whose badge proclaimed her to be Patrizia, was of interest to me. No longer young, her makeup was heavy but impeccable, the eyes dark with defiantly spiky lashes. Her lips were outlined in what looked like black pencil, filled in with scarlet gloss. Just for a moment, I was reminded of Maggie. But Maggie would never wear such obvious, in-your-face lipliner – hers would be infinitely more subtle, a much better match. And neither would she wear such an expression of inhospitable boredom.

  I greeted her – Patrizia, that is – pleasantly. My Italian isn’t up to much, but I have to say I find Italians prefer the odd linguistic stumble to being shouted at. I have often watched their faces cloud over as yet another tourist behaves as though increasing the volume can make up for not speaking the language. So.

  ‘Buona sera, signorina,’ I said. And I slid my driver’s licence towards her. ‘Mi chiamo Georgina White.’ Then I placed my passport in front of her, open at the photograph page. Ludicrous though that photo is, six years on. ‘Ho prenotato un automóbile—’

  But she wouldn’t allow me go any further. ‘For how many days?’ she asked, her voice heavily accented, but the English fluid, confident. I detected more than a trace of weariness. Nevertheless, she had the grace to smile.

  ‘Cinque . . . oh, sorry’ I said, in case she thought I was another objectionable tourist trying to score a point. I’d spent so long perfecting my spiel that just for an instant, it had seemed a shame to was
te it. ‘Five days,’ I said. ‘Initially’

  She nodded. She tapped on her keyboard. ‘You wish extra insurance, or to add another driver?’

  ‘No,’ I said, all too used to the upselling that goes on on these occasions.

  Just at that moment, my mobile beeped. I knew it had to be him. I made an apologetic gesture in Patrizia’s direction, but she was no longer paying me any attention. I searched the small screen for the words I wanted to see. As usual, he did not disappoint. My response was brief, in the circumstances. He’s used to that, too.

  Patrizia tore off the multiple copies and ringed the places I had to sign with a thick black pen. Her gestures seemed aggressive. ‘Here,’ she said, stabbing at the places for my signature. ‘And also here.’ I took the pen she offered me and obeyed. Then she tore off the copy destined for the bottom of my handbag and smiled a brilliant, electric smile. ‘Welcome to Firenze,’ she said. ‘Your car is in Bay 24, block C. Please check with this list.’ And she handed me yet another sheet of paper. And this’ – she jabbed with the black pen again – ‘this is the number you call if you have problem.’

  A problem or problems, I was tempted to say, but I didn’t. Instead, I smiled back, but in a more restrained manner. After all, I am Irish. I didn’t have the big hair, the glittering rings and bracelets, the high-voltage appearance – even in uniform – to go with such a Mediterranean smile. But she had disarmed me with her warmth. I felt swept up again into that maelstrom of affection and bafflement that has accompanied each of my visits to this extraordinary country.

  To be fair, I think his text had something to do with it too: with that sense of welcome and homecoming that now submerged me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. I took the key and stuffed the paperwork into my handbag. ‘Grazie,’ I said, risking a farewell ‘thank you’.

  ‘A lei,’ she replied. ‘Buon viaggio.’

  But I could see by her expression that she had already dismissed me, that she was girding herself to deal with the next, more problematic customer, who was already crowding me out of his way, his voice loud with complaint. Just at that moment, I knew how Patrizia felt. I knew it, because I have known it so many times myself. I have battled that same sense of dismay that accompanies the arrival of the client who refuses to be placated, whose satisfaction comes not from the item purchased, but rather from the transaction itself. And the more difficult that transaction, the more demanding, the more petulant they are permitted to be, the better and happier they feel. Finally, they go home triumphant and we resign ourselves to feeling our energy sapped and our cells clogged with resentment. We might have sold something and made a tidy profit, for sure, but it always feels as though we have been forced to buy into something that we didn’t want. Such are the pitfalls of serving the public, the frustrations of relationships based on buying and selling.

  So. Once I walked away clutching my car-key and my new sense of freedom, I felt filled with the recklessness that goes hand in hand with the casting off of polite responsibility.

  I have to say that I struggled a little with my suitcase, my handbag and the various plastic bags from Dublin airport – filled with the Estée Lauder cleanser and moisturizer set that I hadn’t been able to resist. And the bronzing powder. I had bought smoked salmon, too, and a couple of boxes of handmade chocolates on special offer. I no longer bring whiskey. Not since I discovered that Irish whiskey is cheaper in Italy anyway.

  I mastered the intricacies of Peretola’s car-hire system a couple of years back and I have never faltered since. Yesterday afternoon, once I sat behind the wheel of my Mercedes A140 – nothing wrong with a little luxury on such occasions, I’ve always felt – I was overcome with a rush of expectation and a sense of finality. The drive from Florence to Volterra can be a challenging one, once I leave the motorway. But the car’s progress up the steep climb was effortless. There was a mass of chalky dust thrown up by the tyres, unleashing the unmistakable smell of warmth, soon to be heat, and – I know it is a strange word to use – that scent of foreignness that makes me feel that I am truly here. Everything, even the dryness, seems thrilling in a new way every time I come back. And each time, I wonder why it is I have stayed away for so long, how it is I have been able to stay away. Everything is familiar but new. I love the way the olive trees glow silver in the sunshine, the way the vineyards stretch for miles, all the way to Volterra, it seems. The town rises in the distance, a sunny promise of shady, narrow streets, of morning coffee in the piazza, of tiny shops made for rummaging.

  Yesterday evening, as I drove up the narrow, tree-lined driveway, I felt the ridiculous prickle of tears as I turned the last corner. I saw the faint tracery of shadows on the terracotta-coloured walls of the villa, the glint of sunshine on the unnaturally blue waters of the pool. It had seemed sensible, given the circumstances, to buy my own place here two years ago, rather than renting. My visits had become more frequent, rather than less, despite the old wisdom of not mixing business with pleasure. The new and exciting turn my life had taken made me feel it was time to set down new roots, to find new soil.

  So. It was with no small sense of ceremony that I retrieved my key from the inside, zipped pocket of my handbag. Push, pull; pull, push: the opening of the heavy outside door acquired all the resonance of decisions made and implemented.

  Once inside, the dim and musty air filled the hallway with such familiarity that it almost took my breath away. It was the smell of home. Home. Such an evocative word, so loaded with hope and expectation and belonging.

  Well, here it is, for better or worse. And here am I.

  The first thing I did when I got inside was to throw open all the windows. I love that routine of opening shutters, the way the metal bars whine just before the light floods in, reminding me to oil them into silence. But I already know that I never shall. Their creaks and gibbers have always been reminders of the silences I have left behind. I welcome them. And so, last night, once again, I decided that I’d leave them just as they are.

  I remember the first day I saw this place, Paola’s smiling face as she heaved open the front door, her friendly ‘Buon giorno. Signora White?’ Only she pronounced it ‘Wyte’ with an emphasis on the ‘y’ and a complete inability to master its whispery ‘h’. Never mind, she and I have had some fun since, with my lack of ability to count the syllables in some of the most extraordinarily lengthy Italian words that name the shortest of domestic objects. Abbigliamento for dress; asciugamano for towel. Paola introduced me to my personal favourite that day, too, over coffee: sorseggiare – to sip.

  It was she who showed me around the villa late that afternoon, doing her duty gravely, thoroughly. She couldn’t have known that I had already decided to buy, and her insistence on detail made me impatient. Not her fault, but nevertheless. At the end of the visit, we had a macchiato together in the gleaming kitchen. The smell of coffee was heady, almost intoxicating. She had prepared a plate of biscotti: thin slices of yellow brioche, some tiny, gleaming meringues, soft ovals of amaretti. A breath of warm wind made its way through the mosquito screen on the window. The mountains were visible through the wide metal grille, retreating from the ranks of olive groves. I wanted to live in this villa so badly it was a physical craving, as insistent as thirst or lust. We sat together at the small table, dipping the biscotti into the froth of our coffee and, woman to woman, with a bit of English here, a bit of Italian there, she told me that sometimes, there was a smell of damp in the kitchen; that sometimes, the plumbing in the bathroom was less than perfect. But by then, I didn’t care. All it had taken for me to be sure was to take one step into the cool, tiled interior of the hallway. Something had shifted inside me and I was at peace. At peace and at home. A casa.

  Paola had stood after a polite interval. She brought our cups to the clattery sink and rinsed them, with a thoroughness that spoke of something else. She had begun to look distracted, almost embarrassed. The air in the kitchen had become uneasy. I understood at once. I spoke without even think
ing.

  ‘Paola – le piace lavorare per me – qui – in casa?’ I didn’t care about whether my grammar was correct: all I wanted was to communicate that her job was still there, with me, soon to be the new owner.

  Her smile was huge. ‘Si, si, Signora Wyte, si, si!’

  She said many other things too, but I heard only the occasional word like ‘gentile’ and ‘piacere’, but it didn’t matter. Paola came with the house.

  Once all the windows were open after my arrival last night, I set to unpacking with gusto. Paola used to insist on doing it for me at first, couldn’t understand why I was so anxious to undertake one of the tasks that she regarded as hers. But she gave up insisting, eventually. ‘Va bene, Signora, va bene,’ she’d say in a tone of great weariness, shaking her head at the lunacies of foreigners.

  But I enjoy unpacking. I enjoy the satisfaction afforded by all that hanging, folding, tidying; the making of home. Yesterday, in Paola’s disapproving absence, I had fun, seeking out those places I had already prepared for toothbrush, makeup and perfume. Finally, I remembered to check the fridge and discovered that Paola, as good as her word, had stocked it just as I’d asked. Despite the unlived-in air of the white-tiled kitchen, everything was spotless. I’ve always noticed how Europeans – I mean real Europeans, not those of us who ended up with that designation by having our paltry little island towed by economic ropes towards the mainland – take their housekeeping really seriously. They understand scrubbing, scouring, dusting, polishing in the way our grandmothers used to do. We’ve lost that art, our generation, among so many others. Not that I long for its return. Well, perhaps I do, but only if I can pay others in order to indulge my appreciation of it. Nevertheless, I do notice that the Irish ‘it’ll do’ approach to domestic cleaning does not exist outside of our own cabbage patch. Paola is what my mother might have called a ‘little treasure’. The ancient skills of laundering and mending and fiercely economical grocery shopping are among her many talents. Not to mention cooking. The sort of cooking that takes hours in the kitchen, not the microwave moments that produce fodder little better than palatable. That’s what my cooking was reduced to over the years: an indifferent response to the duty of filling plates for four, three times a day every day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. I did the maths on that one during a particularly enraged period, but I’ve forgotten the result.