by Maeve Binchy
“When will you actually be earning any money, Linda?” she asked mildly.
“I knew you'd start to grizzle.” Linda's face under the mask was moving with annoyance.
“Who's grizzling? It's just a simple question.”
“Well, in a couple of years, I suppose,” Linda said grudgingly.
“Don't you qualify next year?”
“Mother, what is this? Do you want to let this room or something?”
“No, I'm quite happy for us all to live here. It's just that today I met a lot of builders and electricians and plumbers—”
“And you're going off to live in a commune with them,” Linda interrupted.
Clara ignored her. “And I was thinking of having a second bathroom built. But your warm, generous father is unlikely to want to support this project, and I was wondering how to finance it. Adi could give a little, and I was hoping that next year you'd be in a position to contribute too.”
“I was thinking of a gap year before settling down to work.”
“A gap between what and what exactly?” Clara asked.
“Don't take it out on me if you've had a bad day” Linda looked mutinous.
“I haven't had a bad day; actually as it happens, I had a very good day. I employed a girl who is about your age, and she worked from nine a.m. until seven p.m. without complaining. I asked her to come in and do the same tomorrow and she cried with gratitude.”
“Bet she wasn't Irish,” Linda said.
“She will be one day, but at the moment she's Polish.”
“Aha!” Linda was triumphant.
“Oh, Linda, shut up. You don't know the first thing about work of any kind and here you are bleating on about gap years. You don't know how lucky you are.”
“I don't think I'm lucky at all, not even a little bit. My parents hate each other. My father is going to marry someone my age. Think how that makes me feel. My mother is a workaholic, bellyaching about the fact that I'm not out there slaving for a living even though it was agreed I'd be a student. I was here minding my own business having a sleep and you come in and unload all this on me. Why not tell me about all the starving orphans in China or India or Africa as well as the Polish girls who are your slaves?”
“You are a truly horrible girl, Linda,” Clara said and banged the door on her daughter's bedroom.
“What's all that shouting upstairs?” Gerry asked Adi.
“It's the real world, Gerry,” she said. “It's the world of people not getting on, not making allowances for other people, not seeing anyone else's point of view.”
“It's all that red meat,” Gerry said. “No good could come from eating a dead cow in the afternoon.”
• • •
The next morning, Clara was gone by the time Adi came down to breakfast. There was no sign that she had eaten anything, and no note left about evening plans. All that shouting last night must have been more serious than it sounded. Adi went to wake Linda, who was not best pleased.
“You only need to close your eyes in this house and someone barges in roaring and bawling,” she complained as she struggled to wake up.
“What's wrong with Mam?”
“God, how do I know? She was like a bag of weasels last night, complaining that I wasn't Polish, that I wasn't financing a new bathroom, that I was still a student. She nearly took the door off its hinges. She's coming unstuck, I'd say.”
“What was it about, Linda?”
“I have no idea on earth. Maybe she's upset about Dad wanting to marry Cinta.”
“She doesn't love Dad anymore.”
“How do we know who she loves? She's totally deranged. Now will you go away and let me sleep?”
“What about your lectures?”
“Oh, for God's sake, Adi, go away and poison young minds, will you?”
Linda was back snuggled down again, deep in her bed. Adi shrugged and left. There was no further information for her here.
Little Ania was sitting outside the door of the center.
“You did mean it, madam?”
“Indeed I did, Ania. I'll get a key cut for you today, so tomorrow you can be in before me.”
“You will give me a key to this place?” Ania was astounded.
“Sure. Then you can have the coffee ready when I get here.”
“We will have a coffee machine?” Ania said, excited.
“Yes, it will arrive today. Meanwhile, here's some money. Go get us two huge coffees down in the precinct, and whatever you think we should have for breakfast—something full of sugar to give us energy. A croissant, a doughnut. Whatever. One each.”
“This is a wonderful job,” Ania said, and trotted off obediently.
The day flew by again. The builders were a cheerful crew and they worked fast. Soon the place was beginning to resemble Claras plan. Her own desk was out in the center, keeping an eye on all that happened. The nurses’ station was waiting to be fitted out from General Medical Supplies. The treatment beds had arrived and small cubicles were erected with curtains made from the material Clara had chosen. The waiting room was painted and fitted with racks that would hold information about heart care. There would be a water filter for patients and a coffee urn.
Lavender's dietitian's room had been prepared; her weighing scale would arrive later in the day, along with one for the nurses’ station.
The physio room was suitably bare; the equipment depended on what Johnny and Clara could winkle out of the establishment. Clara was pleased with progress so far. She would show that Frank what she was made of. She was surprised when Ania delivered her a salad sandwich at lunchtime and another coffee.
“Let me pay you for this,” she said.
“No, madam. You gave me much money yesterday. Today I get you lunch.”
She looked so pleased and proud it wrenched Clara's heart and made her even more annoyed with her own lazy daughter, who at this moment was probably sleeping off the effects of last night.
“Have you everyone you need now, madam?”
“No, Ania. I still need an office manager. Someone who will keep the payments in order. Someone who will cover my back.”
“Cover your back?” The phrase was new to Ania.
“Yes. Keep me out of hot water, out of trouble.”
“Will this be a secretary?”
“Sort of, but they want me to have a young girl. That's no use to me. I need someone who can stand up to monsters like Frank Ennis and his gang. You can't expect a child to be able to do that.”
“Do you think that you will win, madam?” Ania's eyes danced with excitement.
“If I find the right person, we can get her installed before they are aware of it. The trouble is finding her.”
“You will do that, madam. I know.”
“You have more faith than I do, Ania.”
“Where would we be in life without faith?” Ania asked as she cheerfully went for a brush to sweep up after the carpenters and make them mugs of tea.
When the first week was nearly finished, Clara knew that she must go and meet the local pharmacist. She knew him to be Peter Barry, a fussy sort of man of about fifty who had a chemist's shop in the shopping precinct very near the center. He would be filling prescriptions for her patients once they started. She must check that he was up to speed with the various heart and blood pressure medicines that she would be prescribing. She need not have worried.
Peter Barry was certainly on top of his work. Fussy or not, he had read all the recent research on new drugs and contraindications. Clara felt briefly that she was back at medical school being lectured to all over again.
“I wish you every success in the clinic,” he said formally. “It's badly needed, something that will make people realize they can control their own heart problems.”
“Oh, yes indeed. It's long overdue,” Clara murmured. It was the usual polite response she gave when told what a worthwhile job it was. No one must suspect how much she resented this backwater where she had ended up. S
he would do her job as well as possible and then leave. But her smile was bright.
“You're right. If you could see patients clutching at their little bottles of pills terrified that they haven't understood which magic potion will keep them alive. I try to be reassuring, but often they need to talk, to ask and learn, and there just isn't the time.”
Clara was impressed. This man had more humanity than she had suspected.
“It's a lot of work, I agree. Do you have an assistant here?”
Peter Barry became prim again. “There is always a qualified pharmacist on the premises, Dr. Casey, I assure you. But my assistant is part-time. I had hoped, you see, that my daughter, Amy, would join me in the business. But then—daughters!” He shrugged.
Clara was sympathetic. “What did Amy do instead?”
“Finding herself apparently. It's a long search.” Years of disappointment were in his voice.
“Mine is talking confidently about a gap year. Another year of being supported and having to make no decisions.” Clara knew she sounded bitter. She hoped that her mouth was not cold and hard like her own mother's was. But then maybe her mother had every reason to be disappointed with Clara. What had she achieved in life? Two sulky daughters, a broken marriage, failure to get the cardiology job that everyone had said was hers. Possibly her mother was as disillusioned with her as she was with Linda and as this man with his glasses on his head felt about his daughter.
Peter Barry wasn't letting the topic go. “What would you do if you had your time all over again?” he asked.
Clara knew exactly what she would do. She would not have married Alan. But then those two girls would never have existed, and that was unthinkable. True, they had their difficult moments, but they were her children—she remembered so well the day that each of them had been born. They could be very good and loving; they were funny too, and tender. She wouldn't wish their lives away. But Clara had spent many years hiding her true feelings and disguising her reactions. She wasn't going to let down her guard and discuss it with this man now.
“Lord, it's hard to know. What would you have done?” she asked, putting the ball firmly back in his court.
Peter Barry had no hesitation. “I would have married again and made a proper home for Amy,” he said simply. “Her mother died when she was four. She has never known a family.”
“It's hard to find someone to love and marry just like that.” Clara shook her head. “It's so much luck, isn't it?”
“I don't know. I really don't know. I think there are a lot of people in the world who would make perfectly suitable mates, companions, spouses, if we just put our minds to it.”
Clara murmured her agreement and left. She saw she had a text message from Alan on her phone but didn't read it. Her mind was already full with things that needed to be done or worked out or avoided. She didn't need to think about Alan as well. But at the end of the day she was ready to read his message. She had achieved more than she had thought possible. The appalling Frank Ennis had come on an unexpected visit expecting to find disarray and confusion and found instead a nearly completed job. The floor covering had arrived, the builders were cheerful and enthusiastic, the furniture was on order and Tim proudly showed off the security system he had chosen. The two nurses, Barbara and Fiona, were busy planning their nurses’ station.
Lavender had brought in her posters about healthy food. Johnny had set up his exercise machines. And, best of all, Clara had found her assistant.
She was named Hilary Hickey and she had come in to inquire was there any part-time work. She was a qualified nurse and phle-botomist and she had also worked in hospital administration. She was forty-nine, widowed, with one son. Because of home circumstances she needed to be around the house a bit these days, so she could not commit to full-time work. Before they had finished talking, Clara knew she was perfect for the job. But she must curb her automatic response, which was to jump in with both feet before asking any practical questions.
“Are the home circumstances connected with your son?” she asked.
“No, my mother. She's elderly and she lives with us. She needs an eye kept on her. Someone to put a head around the door and make sure she's all right.”
“Sure, sure. How is her health?”
“Sound as a bell. She'll outlive us all. She gets a bit confused sometimes, but nothing to worry about.”
Hilary was full of energy and could turn her hand to anything. She helped Ania, Clara and Johnny carry in a huge machine that looked like a bacon-slicer, but he assured them it was an arm exerciser. Hilary got on easily with everyone who was there. And she was there when Frank Ennis arrived on his tour of inspection. Clara could not have wished for a better ally. She introduced them.
“Miss Hickey” He nodded and shook her hand.
“Frank, how are you?” Hilary said cheerfully, and Clara had to put up a hand to hide her smile at the look on Frank's face. He was so accustomed to being Mr. Ennis and having huge respect.
Frank looked with some mystification as Ania refilled his coffee mug. “And you are …exactly?”
“I am exactly Ania Prasky,” she said.
He glared at her, but it was clear she did not intend to mock his form of speech. It was obviously unfamiliarity with the language. “And are you employed here?”
Clara intervened. “I pay Ania from petty cash. I would prefer to have it on a more regular basis,” she said.
“You pay her as what?”
“As an aide.” Clara didn't let her glance flicker.
“But there are aides in the wards to help the nurses, not here.”
“We find that there will be a great need for an aide here. Some patients will need wheelchairs, some will need assistance to and from the bus stop, there is a need for coffee, for general cleaning, making the place acceptable and attractive to those who come here. We will need someone to go to and from Mr. Barry's pharmacy for those unable to make the journey. We constantly need someone to go to and fro to the hospital to collect X-rays and to do general messages. There is work every minute of the day, I assure you.”
“Oh, I'm afraid it will be quite impossible to get the hospital to agree to that,” Frank began.
Clara saw Hilary's eyes narrow slightly. The fight was on.
“You see, Dr. Casey, you already have Miss …er …Hickey here to help you. We can't expect to provide a bottomless pit of employees—”
Hilary interrupted. “But, Frank, a persuasive man like yourself would have the hospital eating out of your palm in no time, and you needn't think that my knees are as young as Ania's here and that I'd get down and clean the floors, nor would I spend the time when I could be helping to run the place, so I am sure you'll see to it that Ania stays with us.”
It felt like ten seconds, but Clara knew it could only have been three at the most. Then he spoke. “How much do you pay her?” His voice was more like a bark.
“The minimum wage, but now that she has had a week of on-the-job training I would have thought—”
“Minimum wage!” he snapped and left.
Ania hugged them both and brought out the chocolate biscuits. After all this goodwill Clara was able to face Alan's text message. He wanted to meet her. He suggested a drink after work, a meal even. She texted him back. He could come to her house, but he must bring no wine. They would talk for an hour, there would be no rows, the girls would not be dragged into it. If he agreed to that, then he could come to the house at seven.
Her mother rang just then to find out if Clara would come around and help her decide between fabrics for curtains. Clara knew that this would be an unsatisfactory endeavor. Her mother relished indecision. Nothing would be agreed, nothing would be chosen.
“I can't, Mother. I have to meet Alan,” she said.
“To get rid of him finally, I hope,” her mother said crisply.
“Perhaps and perhaps not. We'll see.” Clara was mild.
“We have seen,” her mother snapped. “And we haven't liked
what we saw.”
“Sure, Mother.” Clara hung up wearily.
Hilary looked at Clara, who worked so hard, and hoped that she had planned a good evening out. But when she inquired, she was surprised at Claras reply.
“My tiresome ex-husband is coming around to the house to ask, yet again, for a divorce,” Clara said simply.
“I'm sure you'll say yes and get rid of him,” Hilary said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Why should I make things easy for him?” Clara wondered.
“Because hanging on to him only makes things worse for you. I must rush. Lord knows what my poor mother will have got up to.” And she was gone.
Clara's friend Dervla phoned as she was driving home. “He's coming round again this evening,” Clara explained.
Dervla had never liked Alan, but she was usually reticent. Not this time. She spared no feelings when she heard the news.
“I have been hearing that he's coming round or that he hasn't come around for twenty-five years. Clara, give him the bloody divorce. Get closure on the thing, for heaven's sake.”
“Thanks, Dervla.” Clara laughed.
“Have you thought he might be tiring of the new broad and wants to come back to you?”
“No. I'm too old and hatchet-faced.”
“Would you have him if he did want that?”
“That's like talking about white blackbirds,” Clara said. She wasn't going to go down that road.
At home Clara was relieved to find the house empty. It would make things easier. She had a shower and washed her hair. She had just dried it and put on a fresh pink shirt when she heard him ring at the door. She offered him coffee and poured it out for him. Black, as he always took it.
“Just a chat, Clara, like old times,” he pleaded.
“Not like old times. Old times were mainly a screaming match, if you remember.”
“Well, the very old times, then.” He had a nice smile. She would have to agree to that. He held his head on one side as if he were convincing you to see things his way, which of course she had done for years.