Country Days

by Taylor, Alice

  “Well, different shops keep different types of suits,” I said foolishly.

  “We’re not going to different shops,” he told me.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Anyway,” he decided, rising to his feet, “we might as well get a move on. There’s no more to be done here.” We walked down the street and around a corner. He stood back in front of a shop that I had never noticed before. “In here now,” he said.

  The little shop had a solid oak door and window and the lettering above them boasted the craftsmanship of earlier days. The window was tastefully dressed with an incredible variety of menswear, clearly the work of a person with an eye for perfect colour co-ordination. We went into the small shop which consisted of a short timber counter on our right, behind which rows of shelves reached from ceiling to floor and were packed with shirts; on our left the same again, laden with sweaters. Not a suit in sight.

  At the end of the short counter narrow timber stairs curved steeply upwards, and just than a pair of legs appeared behind the timber bannisters. They descended and a short, stocky, middle-aged man came into view. Dressed in matching fine tweeds with a measuring tape around his neck, he was sandy-haired and ruddy-faced, and he broke into a delighted smile when he saw Uncle Tom.

  “Well, how are you?” he said. “The old navy number must be calling it a day.”

  Uncle Tom did not have the navy suit on him and it impressed me that he remembered, but Uncle Tom took it for granted.

  “This is my niece,” Uncle Tom told him.

  “The bodyguard,” he smiled and, rubbing his hands together, enquired, “what’s the occasion?”

  “A family wedding,” Uncle Tom told him.

  “Couldn’t be better,” he responded and, sweeping his arm in a grand gesture towards the stairs as if we were ministers of state, he invited us to “come this way”.

  We emerged on to another floor, a duplicate of the ground one, but here rows of suits hung in military precision and yet another flight of stairs curved upwards.

  “Sit down here,” he invited Uncle Tom, indicating a large, comfortable leather armchair of a kind which I associated with select men-only clubs. “And for you, my dear,” he smiled, producing a padded footstool.

  “Now,” he said, clapping his hands together, “let’s get started.”

  There was no doubt but that he knew his business inside out and delighted in it.

  “No change in measurements I’d say,” he observed. “But just in case…” and he whipped the measuring tape so fast around Uncle Tom’s ample proportions that I marvelled that he had time to take in the details.

  “Just as I thought,” he said, “you’re keeping fit.”

  “Now, let’s see,” he said to himself, and I felt that this was an artist at work. He walked along the rails, mentally eliminated unsuitable models and then nodded his head in approval when something pleased his fastidious eye. He swung off the suit that found favour and laid it across the back of a chair beside Uncle Tom, where he could be getting accustomed to the feel of the material. On his walk around he picked up just three suits, but I knew somehow that any one of them would be right. Then he lifted down two huge fashion books and placed them in front of me.

  “These are this year’s styles,” he told me.

  He was about to launch into the newest fashion details when Uncle Tom declared: “Whist up, man, and don’t be confusing us. That girl knows as little about men’s fashions as I do.”

  He smiled tolerantly at our admission of ignorance.

  “Now then,” he said, “which of these would you prefer?”

  “This one,” Uncle Tom decided, pointing at a navy one, which I thought was rather a pity as it was almost a duplicate of the one hanging up at home in the wardrobe.

  “Good choice,” our man declared, and I felt disappointed in him, but he soon recovered his ground without blinking an eyelid.

  “This one, however,” he continued, “is of a slightly better quality.” And he picked up a dark grey suit that was the essence of respectability.

  “Slip on the jacket now and if we’re on the right track we’ll try the pants.”

  Uncle Tom eased himself out of the deep chair where he had been reclining in regal fashion. The jacket fitted like a glove and gave him the appearance of an elderly statesman.

  “Slip on the pants now,” he was invited, and while he withdrew to the fitting room to do so, our man disappeared down the stairs. He came back up laden with shirts, ties and caps. When Uncle Tom reappeared, he looked splendid. When it was decided to their mutual satisfaction that it had everything that was needed in a suit, the next step was the shirt. Our man knew exactly what was required and gently guided Uncle Tom in the right direction, and likewise with the tie. It was all done with the utmost diplomacy and skill, and the end result was a perfectly tailored country gentleman.

  So far there had been no mention of the cap and I would have thought that he had forgotten it had I not known that a bundle of them were lurking in a corner outside of Uncle Tom’s vision. Parting Uncle Tom from his cap was a bit like unveiling the chalice, for it covered his holy of holies.

  Without batting an eyelid our man brought forward three caps for review: “They are still making them, thank God,” he said. “When this crowd go out of business, it will be a sad day for the cap wearer.”

  Uncle Tom examined the caps in great detail, and I realised that this required a far weightier decision than choosing the rest of the outfit. After a long and intensive examination, one found special favour with him.

  “That’s a grand cap,” he finally declared, and slipped off his old one. With the removal of his perpetual cap, Uncle Tom’s white bald dome came into view. He looked exposed and vulnerable. Bald heads that are continually open to the weather become hardened off like greenhouse flowers put out in the garden. But those constantly covered become delicate and their coming out is akin to the exposure of the female bosom. Uncle Tom eased on his new cap gingerly and gently rocked it up and down so that it would mould itself around the contours of his head. Satisfied, he smiled with relief. Our man smiled back in delighted agreement, and I sensed that he knew he had cleared the biggest hurdle.

  “Shoes now,” Uncle Tom demanded, sticking out a well-worn brogue, and within minutes the right shoes were on his feet.

  “Might as well get an overcoat as I’m here,” he decided, and our man disappeared up the spiral stairs to the floor above and arrived back with the perfect fit. Uncle Tom was newly dressed from head to toe, and all had been achieved with the minimum of fuss.

  “That’s it, so,” he announced. “Bag the lot while I’m togging off.” And he disappeared into the dressing room.

  On his return we proceeded down the stairs in a leisurely fashion and Uncle Tom asked, “What’s the damage?”

  When it was all added together, our diplomat knocked off a fiver for good luck and threw in a pair of matching socks; Uncle Tom paid up with a smile of appreciation on his face. As he handed over the money, he was asked, “Herself stayed at home?”

  “She did indeed.” And the unspoken thought between the two of them was clear: that it was the best place for her.

  As we walked up the street, I looked at my watch. The whole thing had taken less than an hour.

  “That’s some shop,” I said.

  “The only place to buy anything,” Uncle Tom told me.

  The following Saturday at the wedding I watched Susan dance with a resplendent Uncle Tom, his suit and cap a perfect match. She looked lovely and I could see that she felt good in her blue suit as she caught my eye and winked.

  A TIME TO GO

  DRIFTING IN THAT semi-conscious state that exists between sleep and wakefulness, I soaked in the silence of the early morning. The bedroom door opened quietly and my husband came in; his calculated movements alerted my mind to the fact that something was wrong. He sat on the side of the bed, took my hand in his and said gently, “I have bad news.” He hesitated, then co
ntinued: “Your father died last night.”

  “Oh, God,” I protested. “I was going down to see him tomorrow. Oh, why didn’t I go yesterday?”

  Despite all the years that he had been with us, I felt cheated out of that one last visit, when perhaps I might have prepared my mind for the fact that it was to be the last time. There is never a right time to die.

  Because he understood me so well, my husband left the room and quietly closed the door. I sat up in the bed and rested my chin on my knees and looked out through the window at the old tower at the end of the village. On that cold February morning, it was shrouded in an early morning mist. Scenes of childhood flitted through my mind. My father lighting the Christmas candle, his bald head shining in the candlelight. Coming into the yard late on a winter’s evening with his two horses, their hooves and his heavy boots covered in the mud of the ploughed field. I remembered him turning the butter box that was his toolbox upside down on the kitchen floor and walking away when the job was done, leaving chaos behind him. The pride in his eyes when my mother was dressed up in her best suit and Sunday hat.

  “Any of your daughters will never be as good looking as you, Len.”

  His impatience, which never seemed to annoy her because she was closer to him and understood him better than any of us. I remembered she had once told me that she wished to live longer than my father because she did not want to leave him on his own. She felt that no one could surround him with the love and patience that she alone could give him, and how right she was.

  One of my young sons snuggled into the bed beside me and rubbed my face in sympathy.

  “Don’t be sad for Grandad,” I said.

  “Mom, it’s you’re crying, not me,” he replied.

  And sure enough, when I put up my hand, my face was wet with tears. I tucked him up in bed, dressed myself quickly and slipped down the stairs and out the side door. As I walked up the hill to the church, I felt a hard, unfamiliar lump and sadness within, and my mind seemed slightly out of focus. Our little church with its elegant steeple and mellow stonework stood welcoming in the grey of the morning. Inside, the altar candles flickered in the dim light. I entered the peace of the early morning weekday mass: no sermon and just a scattering of people. Our little church was a tranquil, soothing place where minds could drift and meditate.

  As mass began I reached out and thought of my father, gone away beyond where human minds can stretch, and gently the peace of that holy place filled my heart. I should have gone around to the sacristy before the mass to tell Fr Seamus, who was a friend, to pray for my father during mass, but as yet my wound was too raw. I needed to heal a little before taking anyone else into my mind.

  After breakfast we drove home through the early morning between trees and bushes huddled under grey frosty coats. When we came to a straight part of the road outside Macroom, I remembered one night a few years previously when I had been driving him home and we had got a puncture. We had both got out to size up the problem.

  “Aren’t I the useless devil?” he had said, “that I can’t change a wheel. If it was a pony after losing a shoe, I’d be some help.”

  We had both laughed at his assessment of our dilemma, and just then a car with two men had come along and sorted us out in no time at all. He had been so grateful to them; he never took a kindness for granted and often spoke of those two men afterwards.

  As we drove in the gateway leading down to our house, I mentally pulled myself together to get a grip on myself so that I would not upset my mother. She was serene and calm, nothing to show her inner hurt but a face paler than usual and an extra-firm grip on my hand as we went into the parlour where my father was laid out in his best suit, his strong slender fingers interlaced across his chest. I was so glad that he was still there in his own place. His long, sensitive face was relaxed and peaceful in death; you could almost believe that he was asleep. Suddenly I found myself smiling and I could imagine him saying, “Aliceen, don’t do Bessie Babe on it.”

  Bessie Babe was an old neighbour who loved crying at wakes and funerals and months afterwards could turn on the tears. My father had always maintained that she enjoyed crying.

  “Well, Mom,” I said, “we had better not do Bessie Babe on it.”

  “Yes,” she smiled, “that would really annoy him.”

  Neighbours and relations came and went all day, and it was comforting to share memories of my father and the times that they had spent together. I knew him as a father; they knew him as a friend. Late in the afternoon I was sitting alone with him when an old man came into the parlour. He walked over to the coffin and, placing a hand on either side of it, looked down at my father. There was love and caring in his whole stance, and he reached out his hand and touched my father’s face. He was saying goodbye. I sat motionless, not to disturb the farewell between two old friends. My mother came into the room and joined them and I felt that these three had known each other long before I was born. Afterwards I asked my mother about the old man, and she said simply, “They went to school together.”

  Later that evening the whole house filled up with people before the hearse came to take my father to the church. There is something profoundly touching about a removal from a family home where the owner has lived all his life. It was his final parting from his own place.

  That night I stayed with my mother in their little flat where they now lived at the end of the family home. We slept in the bed that they had shared together for so many years and where he had died so quickly and peacefully the night before. It felt good to be so close to him. The fire that we had built up before going to bed sent long shadows across the low ceiling, and the room was filled with a quiet peace.

  The following day after the funeral mass, we followed the hearse up the steep hill to the sprawling country graveyard. My father had never been a great attender at funerals and considered that to be my mother’s department. If she did not go herself she dispatched one of us to represent the family and my father always advised cynically, “Make sure that you are seen!”

  He regarded a burial as a family affair whereas my mother considered it a neighbourhood affair. He had often laughed at her and said, “Len, the whole parish will turn up to bury you, but I’ll have the place to myself.”

  He did not, however, have the place to himself, and I was surprised how comforted I felt by meeting so many of our old friends and neighbours. It is difficult to anticipate how one will react in any given situation until it actually happens. He was laid to rest in the old family grave under a limestone Celtic cross bearing his parents’ names and those of many of his brothers and sisters. He was the last of that family and he joined his little son Connie, who had gone before him so many years before.

  Friends and relatives who had travelled long distances came back to the house for a meal, and much talking was done. As the last of them drifted away, the early darkness of the February evening was drawing in. I put on a pair of wellingtons and wrapped myself in an old coat of my father’s and walked down through the fields to the river that circled around the valley at the bottom of the farm. A light mist was falling and the wet grass squelched beneath my feet. Out there the quietness of the night was broken only by the water in the deep glaise as it tumbled over the stones. The fields were empty of animals and only the occasional rustle and scratching in the hedges reminded me that out there wildlife was always moving around in its own sheltered world. Reaching the river I sensed rather than saw its satin-black stillness and I thought how timeless is the flow of a river. For years my father had fished this river, and how he had loved it, but now he was gone from this place like seven generations of his family before him. Was there anything of him left around this river and these fields that he had walked so often? The scurrying clouds parted and a pale moon lit up the river bank, creating shadows in the dark water.

  Silently my brother joined me and we stood together watching the water flow. He was the oldest and only brother and I was the youngest of his five sisters, and
between us had always existed a special understanding. We walked along by the river talking as only people who are on the same mental wavelength can. As we walked I felt that the passing of my father was part of a natural pattern, and because his grandchildren were here to carry on, there was no cutting off. Part of him would always be here in his land.

  Leaving the river, we followed an old path that I had not walked for many years. I remembered a very steep hill that we had trudged up every evening coming home from school. Now with the eyes of an adult, I looked at the gently sloping incline and laughed.

  “My God,” I said, “I used to think that this was a mountain and it’s really only a little hill.”

  We walked up the gentle slope and turned our feet homewards.

  Coming into my mother’s flat, I found her sitting by the fire with the tea ready on a tray and toasting bread before the glowing fire.

  “You went down to the river,” she said, “just like your father. He always walked the fields to sort things out in his mind.”

  SPRING AND I

  AS I STOOD at the top of the stairs, the early morning sun peered in over my shoulder. It lit up the walls around me and highlighted the dust-laden cobwebs that draped from picture to picture. How long had they been there? During the long winter months, I had never noticed them. They had gathered in like a silent army all around the house.

  If you are a collector of pictures or other useless articles that can be acquired at auctions, antique shops and craft fairs, then the price to be paid is the accumulation of numerous bits and pieces between which cobwebs can drape in comfort and on which dust can rest easily. If you then decide that they all have to be polished and kept in mint condition, they become a burden which takes all the joy out of your collection. My solution to the problem is to let them lie in comfort under their dusty jackets, which I delude myself gives them an air of shrouded antiquity. Occasionally, however, something happens to disturb my acceptance of their grey, restful mantles, and then a mental battle ensues. The sun had started two strains of thought. The lazy side of me said that I should leave things as they were while the more industrious side advised getting my act cleaned up to welcome in the spring.