by Maeve Binchy
Peter was taken aback. He had never had a conversation this long and this amicable with Ben. Now it turned out that the boy was well trained in his strange craft and treated the deceased with respect and dignity.
Then Clara stood up to leave.
“I have to go now. I'm taking a colleague to the cinema,” she said.
“Can I come?” Peter asked, slightly sheepishly.
“No way—my friend Hilary has been very upset recently about her mother's death and we are going to a very girly, sugary movie. You'd hate it, Peter. Really you would. I'll see you sometime during the week.” And she left them all gaping as she ran down the stairs and out into the precinct.
“I'm inviting my friend Peter to supper on Saturday,” Clara announced. “I'll be cooking a salmon. I'd love you all to come.”
“Will there be an announcement?” Linda asked.
“I don't think so—unless you have something to tell us, Linda?”
“Very droll,” Linda said. “Just wondered, that's all.”
“Is Gerry invited?” Adi asked.
“Of course. Gerry is part of the family.”
“There will be things he can eat, we can eat?”
“Yes, there will, and the rest of us can have salmon.”
“What will we call him, Mam?” Adi asked.
“Peter. That's his name.”
“Not ‘Daddy’ then?” Linda wouldn't let it go.
“No, Linda, not ‘Daddy’ You manage to remember Cintas name when you go to see your dad. It would be nice if you remembered Peter's.”
“Will he be overnighting, Mam?” Adi asked.
“No, Adi.”
“Do we have to dress up?” Linda wondered.
“No, Linda. Just be here around seven and make him welcome …”
Their jaws dropped when they saw Peter. He was so much better-looking than they had thought. A pharmacist? A chemist? He should have been old and stooped. Instead he was tall and handsome. A very cheerful smile.
He asked Adi about teaching, he talked to Gerry about organic vegetables, and he even got Linda to promise to show him how to use an iPod. They questioned him closely and he answered openly. He had been a widower for a long time, he had one daughter who thought he was an old fogey, he didn't travel very much but this year he was hoping to go on a short break to Italy, rent a car, drive on the wrong side of the road and have a great time.
“Will you be involved in this, Mam?” Linda asked.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Clara said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
When he came to leave, he kissed Clara on her cheek and said that he had had a delightful evening and would see her tomorrow as arranged.
They waited until they heard the garden gate closing, then they all went mad. He was terrific, he was like a film star, he was great fun. How had Mother managed to trap him?
And Clara went to bed well pleased.
The worst was over. They had met each other's children. Everything else was going to be plain sailing.
Clara's mother was the first to call.
She had phoned unexpectedly to the house on Sunday and the girls told her that Mam was out with a real looker, a guy in a velvet corduroy jacket. Apparently it was a fully fledged Affair.
“You didn't tell me any of this?” Her mother's sharp, disapproving tones came down the line.
Clara had had a busy day, but she knew better than to cut her mother short.
“No, I was waiting until we could have a nice lunch with plenty of time to talk about it rather than rushing it all on the phone,” she began, pulling her diary toward her. She would have to meet her mother now.
“Where had you in mind?” her mother snapped.
“I thought Quentins would be nice.” Clara looked to see which afternoon wasn't too bad—Friday maybe? “Friday, Mother, and I'll tell you all.” She hung up with a heavy heart.
“Are you all right, Clara?” Hilary asked.
“Not really. I have to have lunch with my mother while she interrogates me about my sex life.”
“Will she?”
“Not directly, of course, you know what mothers are like …” Clara could have bitten her tongue off. “Oh, Hilary, I'm such a fool. Forgive me. I wasn't thinking.”
“Don't think of it, Clara. It's not important.”
“But it is. I know what you'd give to be able to have lunch with your mother again.”
“Maybe not. This could have been one of her bad days. She might think I was her aunt or the postman or someone about the drains.” Hilary laughed ruefully.
Clara thought that she seemed to be getting a little better about it all. Not much, but a little. “Thank you, Hilary. I don't deserve you.”
Hilary noted she had written “Quentins” on the diary page for Friday. “My, you're sure pushing the boat out for your mother! Quentins, no less!”
“I'd better not tell Peter, then. He'd go mad at the expense.”
“Careful, is he?” Hilary asked.
“Sensible is what he would call it.” Clara laughed.
“You look happy,” Hilary said admiringly.
“I'm almost afraid to say it, but I think I am,” Clara agreed.
Alan called about thirty minutes later. “Did I hear congratulations are in order?” he asked.
“That's such a cliché, Alan. What are you trying to say?”
“I'm trying to say that the girls told me about your new friend and I'm glad for you, that's all.” Alan sounded injured.
“Thanks, Alan. Is this it or is there more?”
“Well, I thought you'd tell me something about him, when did it happen, where is it leading?”
“And why in the name of God do you think I should discuss these things with you?”
“We're friends, Clara—” he began.
“We are not friends. We are contesting almost everything.”
“That is because you are being so unreasonable.”
“Good-bye, Alan.”
He called back immediately. “Don't you hang up on me. This is intolerable.”
“That's right, it is intolerable—I am trying to do a day's work. I will not tolerate your whingeing and whining about this and that just because you have nothing to do.”
“No, please, listen to me.”
“I have a line of people waiting to talk to me, Alan. You will have to excuse me.” She felt nothing as she replaced the receiver.
Peter had certainly done that for her. He had chased the big, overpowering shadow of Alan Casey away.
Clara met Peter's brother and sister-in-law and some of his colleagues. They were invariably pleasant and welcoming toward her. In turn she introduced Peter to her friend Dervla, and to Hilary and Ania and Declan from the clinic. Everyone got used to Peter calling to collect Clara after her work or even to bring her a packed lunch to share. People knew that they were going to Italy together, and there was a general air of approval about it all.
Her mother had been characteristically downbeat at lunch.
“Too long on his own, too set in his ways, I'd say,” was her verdict, as her mouth opened and snapped closed over oysters in Quentins.
“Only time will tell, Mother,” Clara said wearily.
“Oh, no, common sense would tell, but I am afraid you're not well stocked in that department.”
“Isn't this a lovely restaurant?” Clara said.
“And it ought to be, at these prices.”
“Would you like to meet Peter or not?” Clara asked.
“Common courtesy would suggest that you might introduce us, but then …”
“But then, I wasn't well stocked in that department either—is that what you were about to say?”
“Clara, dear, do stop frowning. If this young man is so charming he won't want to see such a crosspatch.”
“Right, Mother. Big smile coming up …”
Unfortunately she nailed the smile to her face just as Frank the Crank, the hospital manager, spotted h
er across the room and thought she was smiling at him. He came straight over.
“The lovely Dr. Casey,” he said, holding out his hand.
She couldn't have been more annoyed. Her mother looked up.
“Are you Peter?” she asked.
“No, madam, I'm Frank.”
“Lord—another one!” Mother said, astounded.
Clara clenched her teeth. “This is my mother. Mother—Frank Ennis. Frank runs the hospital single-handed with a fist of steel.”
“Not exactly.” Frank smiled, letting it be assumed that that was precisely what he did.
“Lovely treat to give your daughter,” he said to Mother.
Could Mother leave well alone? No, of course she couldn't.
“Oh, dear me, Frank, it's Clara's treat, she's rolling in money— I'm a poor widow lady.”
Frank looked at Clara, pleased. Now he had something on her. Clara had fought him euro by euro, cent by cent for her salary, her staff and her expenses and here she was being described as rolling in money. Clara felt an unreasonable desire to give her mother a slap so hard that it would knock her off her chair. But life was about keeping up appearances, so it was a temptation that she managed to resist.
Clara and Peter were serious about going away for a few days, and they were looking through the travel brochures and the map of Italy when Amy came in. She talked cheerfully for a while and seemed interested in their plans.
“I'll be away at the time myself. Ben and I are going to Cyprus,” she volunteered.
“That's terrific,” Clara said, and they got the map to see where Ayia Napa was.
“Do you know what, Clara?” Amy looked out from under her great fringe of long fuzzy hair.
“No, what?”
“If you would like to spend nights here in this flat with my father, that's fine with me.”
Peter turned a dull brick red. Clara knew she had to rescue the situation.
“That's most generous and welcoming of you, Amy. I do appreciate it, and if it's too late to go home sometime, I'd be very grateful, but at the moment it's not a big issue.”
“Okay, not at the moment, but when you come back from Italy you might feel different, what with being used to sharing a room. I just wanted you to know that it's cool with me.”
The holiday was a huge success. They spent a couple of days in Florence, a couple of days in Venice and then a lazy weekend beside a big lake. On the last day there, Peter asked her to marry him.
She hadn't expected this.
“Do you mind if I wait a little while before saying yes?” she asked gently.
He did mind, she could see that. He had hoped she would say yes at once. She could hardly bear to see his face. It had crumpled. It was hard for this man to change the habits of a lifetime, a man set in his ways, as her mother had guessed. But she was not going to say yes under an Italian pergola of flowers by a blue lake. She had to go home and think about the life they would live together. That night she saw him getting up and going to sit at the window, his face sad and his shoulders stooped. They didn't mention it on the homeward journey.
And once back in Dublin, Clara said that she would need to go back to her own place to get her clothes in order for work.
“That's not important. You're running away from me.”
“Oh, no, I am not running away from you. You have asked me a wonderful question, and now that we are back in the real world I promise you that I am going to think about it very carefully”
“When will you have thought?” he asked.
“Soon, Peter, truly.”
“But can't we even talk about what's holding you back? Is it where we live, is it our work? Is it the children?”
“No, it's none of these things. I just have to get used to it as an idea.”
“You must have known how I felt.”
“I didn't think it would involve marriage.” She spoke truthfully and he could see that.
“I know that you were a bit bruised the first time round …”
“No, that's not it. That's long over and done with.”
“So what is it, I beg you, Clara?”
“Soon,” she said.
“Will we take Dimples on an outing?” Fiona suggested to Declan.
“Where were you thinking of? Across Europe on the Orient Express?” Declan asked, smiling at her affectionately.
“Maybe one day, but we should break him in gradually. Suppose we said a walk along Killiney Beach for starters?”
“How would we get out there?”
“On the train. Come on, let's go—Saturday?”
“I was going to catch up on paperwork.”
“I'd make us a gorgeous chicken sandwich—and one for Dimples too. Please?”
“Well, that's it, then. I can't stand between a dog and a chicken sandwich.”
“You're very agreeable, Declan Carroll—will you be a very nice old man?”
“Any day now,” Declan promised.
They looked a happy little family, the red-haired doctor, the beautiful girl and the big floppy Labrador, as they looked out the window of the little train. Dimples loved Dalkey, which was where they got out. It was full of interesting smells and people with small dogs. They strolled along together, looking at the houses and gardens.
“Imagine Bobby Walsh and Rosemary living out this way for all those years,” Declan said. “You'd think it might have made her nicer just being here, but no …”
“That woman hasn't a nice bone in her body,” Fiona agreed. Then they saw the sea and Dimples barked enthusiastically.
They climbed down the rocky park to the beach at White Rock and walked along Killiney Beach. The mountains ringed the bay beautifully and other dog walkers throwing sticks had chosen to make the same outing. They greeted each other cheerily. Then they found a rock and ate the sandwiches. Dimples saw a bird and followed it to the shoreline.
“God, that was a near thing. He could almost have caught it.” Fiona had her hand to her mouth in dismay.
“No, not Dimples. Anyway, birds are very fast and very clever. They always escape.”
They watched Dimples barking over-excitedly at the edge of the water. The bird swooped by again, maybe to have a laugh at the sight of the fat Labrador. So Dimples plowed determinedly out to sea in pursuit. Then, suddenly, he was in trouble: the waves wouldn't let him in, he was floundering and beginning to panic.
Fiona had her shoes off and was into the water immediately. She shouted at Declan not to consider coming into the sea, that it was all under control. It didn't look under control. She was nearly up to her waist in seawater by the time she caught Dimples's collar and dragged the dog in to safety.
Dimples showered everyone around with his almighty shakes. And then he sneezed eight sneezes in rapid succession.
Declan hadn't even got his feet wet.
“I did nothing,” he confessed. “I can't swim.”
She had struggled to help Dimples, she was indifferent to the fact that she was soaked to the skin, she was protecting him. Declan had never loved her more, and never felt more useless.
“You saved Dimples,” he said.
“Well, I thought up this cracked idea—I couldn't let Dimples perish, could I?” She was shivering, and then totally unselfconsciously she peeled off her jeans, her socks, her pink frilly pants and wrapped herself up in the rug they had intended to sit on. She tied it around her waist with the belt of her jeans, sat down on the pebble beach and drained the half bottle of wine that had been part of the picnic. “I think I can say I deserved that,” she said cheerfully.
“Fiona?”
“Yes?”
“Fiona… It seems an odd kind of thing to say just now …but…”
“But I shouldn't strip off like that on the beach. I won't again, I just wanted to get out of the wet clothes.”
“No. That's not what I was going to say. Not at all.”
“So what was it?” She looked at him, her eyes squinting in the weak sunshine
, already warm and dry from the rug that wrapped her up.
“I was going to ask you would you marry me?” he said in a rush.
“Marry you, Declan?” She was utterly astonished.
“Well…yes. There's nothing in the world that I want more.” He was almost afraid to meet her eye in case he saw pity or ridicule or a wish for a kind way to let him down gently.
She said nothing.
“I'd be very good to you and look after you. I love you, Fiona, with all my heart.”
“Married?” she said. “You mean married, married like grownups?”
“Please say yes. Please.” Declan was looking at Dimples's tail thumping on the beach. He was still afraid to look Fiona in the eye.
“Declan,” she said in a low voice.
He looked up. She was smiling.
“I thought you'd never ask me. I'd love to marry you. I'd love it with all my heart.”
And he leaped up and dragged her to her feet and kissed her for so long that Dimples was concerned and began to circle them with anxious barks. And if anyone had been watching the little tableau they would have seen the rug around the girl slip down and the two young people grab it as if their lives depended on it.
Back in the clinic, they told Clara she looked wonderful. Tanned and rested.
“And like a demon for work,” she threatened. “Come on, now, tell me what's happened.”
They told her stories.
There was of course only one real item of news: Declan and Fiona were going to get married.
They had tried to say nothing, but everyone knew that something was afoot. Eventually Barbara had more or less beaten it out of them. Had they made plans or had they not? When they shuffled and said sort of, the place went mad.
In vain did Declan and Fiona try to protest that no ring had been bought, no date had been fixed. It was the first homegrown romance and everyone was milking it for all they could. Ania had rushed out and bought sparkling wine, Lar had offered a few choice facts about weddings for people to note down and remember. There was a card, too, which Clara must sign: they had been waiting for her to come back. Hilary had been wistful, remembering when she was young and in love. Bobby Walsh had said it was enchanting news and that Rosemary would be delighted, which nobody really believed. Johnny managed not to say that no good would come from it all, and Lavender offered to make the wedding cake and said they should tell her in good time when they set a date.