This is not something that warm water, scented candles and heady words can fix. But I must settle and wait. I have no control. I must be patient and see what tomorrow brings.
5. Nora
Frank says that from the first minute I walked into his shop, he knew that he was going to marry me.
It still gives me goose pimples, every time he reminds me of that. I had very slim ankles, he says, and he had always liked that in a woman. I looked at myself a bit differently after that. Me? Nora? With sexy ankles? I don’t know, but I suppose I’d never thought much about my feet before. On the day we met, I was looking to buy a pair of flat navy shoes, more like walking shoes, really, that I needed to match my new blue jeans. In fact, I had just recently managed to fit into a pair of size sixteen denims, my first pair ever, and I wanted suede walking shoes that would also go with my new duffel coat. It was a bit like a uniform, Trinity rules for dressing that I never completely understood, if I’m honest. Or if I did, I never managed to pull it off, not in the way the other three did. Claire could fall out of bed, throw on a bin-liner and still look gorgeous. She was always elegant. It hasn’t done her much good, though, has it, over the years?
Maggie had to work a bit harder than that. She used to make most of her own clothes back when I knew her first. She said she had to, that she was way too small for the fashionable stuff. If she wasn’t making herself things from scratch, she’d be altering bits and pieces instead to make them suit her better. Cheap things that she’d rummage at market stalls to find, or that she’d buy from children’s departments during the sales. She was always able to adapt anything to suit her, even though she was curvy. She’d look bang up to the minute and would do it so economically that I envied her.
And then there was Georgie. Well, Georgie had a style all of her own. Sometimes she’d go casual, sometimes tailored and old-fashioned, almost, but somehow she always got away with it. She had a passion for knitting that started some time towards the end of first year, just before I left Trinity. I suppose that’s where her business idea came from later on, although the passion for knitting didn’t last. At one stage, I used to think that Georgie might become a teacher, because she read so much. But she was much too selfish for a career like that. She cared about surface things far too much. Georgie was like one of those animals that change how they look so that they can fit in with their surroundings. Chameleons, I think they’re called. Something like that, anyway.
‘Can I help you?’ Those were the first words that Frank ever spoke to me. The thing I noticed about him was how kind his eyes were, how they creased at the corners when he smiled. It was just a few months after I’d come back from London and nobody had smiled much at me there.
‘Yes,’ I said. And I remember thinking that this had to be a sign that things were going to start getting better for me. In fact, I’d found most of my first term at Trinity a very unfriendly time. I was older than all the other first years, and there was nobody there from my old school, either. All of them had gone to UCD, but Daddy had insisted that Trinity was a better choice for me. I wouldn’t know anybody there, he said. Nobody would know our family if I went to Trinity, but they might if I went to UCD. Stillorgan was just that bit ‘too close for comfort’, was how he put it. The afternoon that I met Frank, someone who had promised to meet me for coffee hadn’t turned up at the Buttery. I’d met her at an English lecture the day before. Blake baffled me. I understood nothing about the Songs of Innocence and Experience and I could see that she didn’t either. I knew it by looking at her blank face and the way she held on to her pen. Her knuckles showed white and she didn’t take one note. Neither did I. I hoped then that she was someone who needed a friend just as much as I did.
Miriam Fuller, that was her name. Isn’t it funny that it has just come back to me now, after all these years? I can’t remember the last time I thought about Miriam Fuller. That day, I’d sat at the table in the Buttery on my own and waited for her. I’m sure now that nobody paid much attention to me, but at the time I felt self-conscious. I sat there for an hour or more and then it dawned on me that she wasn’t delayed. She wasn’t coming at all. Once I realized it, I couldn’t wait to get out. I’ll never forget how upset I felt. I could feel my face grow red and couldn’t get out the back door fast enough. I told Maggie about it a few weeks later and she was kind.
Mammy had given me some money that morning to buy my shoes and tights and other bits and pieces that I needed, so that’s what I decided to do. Money was always so difficult with my parents, particularly since Eddie. I think that they were afraid to give me more than my bus fare after that. It made things hard for me because the girls always expected me to buy my round and help out with the parties that we held, maybe once every term. But I just didn’t have it. I never had it. Not till Frank.
I was glad to make my escape from Trinity that day, the day Miriam Fuller never showed up, and I made my way towards Henry Street. I’d always liked the look of Fitzsimons’s shoe shop, but I’d never bought anything there before. Mammy always said it was a bit dearer than the others, but you couldn’t fault the quality. And that afternoon, I felt that I needed quality more than anything else. I wanted something solid and dependable that wouldn’t let me down.
I pushed open the door of the shop and stepped inside. It was small and that surprised me. The window with its display of boots and shoes and even furry slippers had made me think that it would be much bigger, but it wasn’t. In fact, there were only three chairs for customers and a cramped bit of corridor that led to the till. Most of the space was taken up with shelves piled high with cardboard boxes. I wondered how anybody could know what was in all of them. The smell of new leather was everywhere, and so was polish and something else that I couldn’t name then, but now I know was aftershave.
The shop was quiet and empty, apart from one tall, thin man behind the till. He had a bundle of what looked like receipts and he was concentrating on totting things up. It wasn’t a very busy time in the shoe business. A late, grey Monday evening in early November. Afterwards, Frank told me that it was too long after the summer sales for crowds and too soon for the Christmas rush. The man at the till, who of course turned out to be Frank, looked up from his papers the minute I closed the door behind me. He continued to look as I walked towards him, and then he took his glasses off with the one quick movement I have come to know so well. Frank has never liked it that he needs to wear glasses. I’ve never minded and have always found his short-sightedness charming. Now he grumbles that he’s both short-sighted and longsighted at the same time. He can’t see the number on the bus and he can’t read the small print, unless he holds the newspaper at arm’s length. That day, though, he was able to see me well enough.
‘May I try these on?’ I pointed to the navy shoes I had just spotted. Suede, with one wide strap and a low, sturdy heel. In fact, I was pleased at how I sounded. I came across as formal and polite, and I made sure not to seem too friendly with a shopkeeper. My father, in his precise, legal way, had always been very strict on the difference between ‘can’ and ‘may’. Right then, I was grateful to him.
‘Certainly, miss,’ Frank said, and I saw that his smile faded a little. He told me afterwards that he’d hoped I’d be a little bit more friendly, that I’d respond at once to how deeply, instantly, he had admired me.
But I felt the need to be careful. I remember stepping away from him, further than was strictly necessary, just to make a point of the distance that there should be between us. He backed off then, in every sense, and his face looked, I don’t know, a bit fallen. He was so different from Eddie. Poles apart. The two of them couldn’t have been more unalike. But still. I had learned that it paid to be careful.
The navy shoes on display were a six, but they were too big. Frank suggested a five, instead of a five and a half, because he said that good-quality walking shoes tended to be of a generous size. I wasn’t sure, but I said I’d try them on anyway. I remember how eager he looked as he trotte
d off to the stores to find me a pair of size fives. I thought what an obliging man he was. He was gone a long time. Just my luck, I said to myself. He’ll be out of fives. But in fact he came back with a whole pile of boxes in his hands. I was glad that he had thought to bring me lots of different styles to try on. I’d have hated to walk out of there without buying something, especially after all the trouble he’d gone to.
He sat on a low stool in front of me, shaped a little bit like a filled-in triangle with a sloping leather seat, and he pulled out the wads of tissue paper from one of the shoes. ‘These are really good quality,’ he said, ‘and we stock a waterproof cleaner that keeps them looking good.’
‘Oh, okay’ I said. I had forgotten that suede often got stained and soggy in the rain. Then he took my right foot in his hands and eased on the soft navy suede. He had the shoehorn ready, but he didn’t need to use it.
‘Is that comfortable?’ he asked me after a bit.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It feels fine.’
‘Would you like to try the left one, then?’
I nodded. ‘Thank you, yes.’
He did the same with the other shoe and this time, he had to use the shoehorn at the last minute. But his hands were gentle. He looked up at me apologetically.
‘Most people have one foot slightly larger than the other,’ he said. ‘It’s perfectly normal, nothing to worry about.’
I nodded. I found that those words said in such a kindly tone touched me and made my eyes fill with tears. I hadn’t had kindness in such a long time. I had to stand up and walk away from him, down to the end of the shop, in case he noticed. I looked into the mirrors placed low on the floor that reflected only my feet and ankles. I could feel him looking at me still, but now it didn’t make me uneasy any more. When I was able, I made my way back to my chair and sat down again. And then I smiled at him. It was the least I could do to thank him for his kindness.
‘These are very comfortable,’ I said. ‘I like them a lot. I think I’ll take them.’ I felt pleased. A full size smaller than the last ones I had bought in London. Another good sign, maybe.
He nodded and looked satisfied. An excellent choice,’ he said. He took the shoes up to the till and I followed him. Even then, I remember feeling a bit sad that buying the shoes had taken such a short time. I felt that I might like to linger for longer. The memory of his hand on the sole of my foot was a warm and comforting one.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ he asked then.
I don’t know, I must have looked a bit blank because the next words he spoke came out all in a rush.
‘We’ve just got in a new range of Italian leather,’ he said. ‘Very fine, very feminine. I think the black or the navy court would suit you very well. That is, if you are looking for a slightly more dressy shoe.’
I remember wondering why he seemed so nervous. As a matter of fact, I was looking for something with a higher heel to wear with my new skirts. Fine quality wool skirts, or so my mother told me. Her voice had been very firm as she said it. She must have seen the disappointment on my face. Merino, I think she said they were, but I didn’t care what they were made of. I didn’t like them. They were dull and dark and safe. They didn’t suit the Trinity uniform at all. But by then I had learned not to argue with her or with Daddy.
‘Actually, yes,’ I said. ‘I do need a more formal pair as well.’
Then he relaxed and smiled again in the way he had when I’d entered the shop.
‘You just sit yourself down there,’ he said, pointing to the chair I had only just got up out of, ‘and I’ll show you what I’ve got.’
And that was it, really. I left the shop with two pairs of shoes, one flat, one dressy, and although I didn’t know it at the time I had Frank’s phone number in both shoe boxes. He told me afterwards that he’d always believed in taking no chances with the important things in life. He had been very discreet and very polite. He must have scribbled down his telephone number on a couple of bits of till roll while he searched for the size fives in the store room.
‘Please don’t take this amiss,’ said the note. ‘I really enjoyed meeting you and would value your company again. Forgive me if I offend. My number is 8335584. Respectfully yours, Frank Fitzsimons.’
Luckily, I took the shoes out of their boxes while I was still in my bedroom, on my own, otherwise I don’t know what would have happened. I was surprised but not surprised at the same time. I folded both bits of paper and put them into my purse, where no one was likely to look. Then I took the two pairs of shoes down to the kitchen to show to Mammy.
I let a week go by and then I tried his number. He answered at once and I wondered if he’d been waiting by the phone all that time for me to call. I felt shy and anxious and a little bit foolish, too.
‘Frank Fitzsimons?’ I asked.
‘That’s right,’ said a voice. It sounded hurried, as though he had been running somewhere and my call had stopped him in his tracks.
I didn’t know what to say. I was about to hang up because I felt my cheeks starting to burn with embarrassment. How could you say, ‘I’m the girl who bought two pairs of shoes from you last Monday afternoon, one navy, one black.’ Then he might say, ‘What time on Monday afternoon?’ or ‘What sort of shoes?’ or something like that, and then what would I say? For all I knew, he might be in the habit of putting little notes into all his women customers’ shoe boxes. In fact, he might even be another Eddie, only with a different way of getting close to me.
‘I know who you are,’ he said quickly. ‘Please don’t hang up. You bought one pair of suede walking shoes and one pair of Italian leather courts. I took the risk of putting my phone number in with your purchases.’ There was a pause, but I didn’t feel able to fill it.
‘I hope I didn’t offend,’ he said. ‘But I did want to meet you again.’
I really didn’t know what to say. ‘Well,’ I said, and got no further after that. And then: ‘Well,’ again, with almost no change of tone.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘please let me know your name.’
I hesitated for a minute. I was afraid that there might be no going back this time either. ‘It’s Nora,’ I said. I wasn’t sure about this conversation, wasn’t sure about it at all, but at least he couldn’t see my face over the phone. And I knew that I could hang up any time I wanted to and he’d never be able to find me. That was something to be grateful for.
‘I’d like to meet you, Nora. It’s a lovely name, by the way’ ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Just meet me for an hour, after work, any time this week. You name the place. A cup of coffee, a drink – you decide.’ His voice was nice, firm, and I could feel that he was smiling. I imagined I could see the creases at the corners of his eyes.
‘Bewley’s?’ I said, naming the first place that came into my head.
There was another pause. ‘I might not make it before Bewley’s closes. The shop stays open until six.’
‘Oh.’ I hadn’t thought of that. I felt foolish all over again. I should have thought of that.
‘Perhaps the Earl Mooney?’ he said. ‘It’s very central – top of North Earl Street, near O’Connell Street?’
A pub, I thought. And not a very nice one, late at night. In fact I had often seen old men staggering out after closing time, full of Guinness and bad temper. But it should be fine in the early evening.
‘I know it,’ I said. ‘I think that would be all right.’
‘Shall we say a quarter past six tomorrow then? Half-six, if you prefer. Sometimes I get delayed closing up and I wouldn’t want you waiting for me.’
I could feel all my anxiety beginning to drain away. He sounded like a gentleman, a real old-fashioned gentleman. He reminded me of the polite lovers in Jane Austen’s books. Men like Captain Wentworth. I’d fallen for Captain Wentworth straight away. I’d read all of Jane Austen’s novels the summer after I did my Leaving Cert. I couldn’t get enough of them. I read them at the same time as I began to realize
that men in ordinary life – men like Eddie – didn’t behave like Wentworth or Dashwood or even Bingham and Darcy It was a funny coincidence, I’ve often thought since. Well, not funny really, more like strange. There I was as an eighteen-year-old girl running away across Europe with Eddie, at the same speed as disappointment and grief were making their way back towards me. I suppose the mercy of it is that I didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t know about unhappy endings back then.
‘Yes, all right,’ I said, ‘half-six is fine but I’ll have to go by eight o’clock at the latest.’
‘That’s perfectly all right,’ he said. ‘You already have my home number should you change your mind, and the shop number is in the phone book. Number eleven, Henry Street.’
‘I won’t change my mind,’ I heard myself saying. And it was true. I knew by then that I wouldn’t.
Frank was waiting for me as I came through the door of the pub. I had the impression of shiny wood and stained glass and huge open spaces. He came towards me at once, a newspaper tucked under his arm. I thought he wasn’t as tall as he had seemed in the shoe shop, but maybe that was just the high ceilings of the Earl Mooney High ceilings like that make everything look smaller.
‘Nora,’ he said, and took my hand. ‘How nice to see you again.’ He nodded towards a corner of the pub, but he didn’t let go of my hand. ‘There’s a grand quiet table over here.’
We ordered coffee first and then he had a pint. I had a dry Martini and white lemonade. All too soon, it was eight o’clock. I didn’t need to go, not really, but I wasn’t going to tell him that, not on a first date. Frank listened to me that night. I think that that’s what really made me like him. He still listens in the same manner, even after all these years. In fact, he listens in that intense way that people have when they want to understand what someone else is saying. You know that they’re really interested. I don’t mean ‘listening’ by just staying quiet and waiting for the chance to jump into the conversation and tell their story just as soon as there’s a bit of a gap.
At a Time Like This Page 11