by Anne Doughty
Back at school, I taught lessons and couldn’t remember afterwards what I’d said and discovered a warm sympathy in both my pupils and my colleagues that I had never expected. Back at the flat, I stopped protesting. During my time in Belfast, I had realised there was no point. Now, with my father off the immediate danger list, I had my own reason for wanting to go home.
I filled the sink and shook the soap powder so fiercely that I sneezed. As I prodded the first of the shirts into the foaming mass, something caught my eye. At the far end of the garden, the first finger of sunlight picked up the golden spray of chrysanthemums I’d last seen by moonlight. In the pale awakening of the early morning, the dew on the grass was so white it looked like frost. I watched the sky lighten. Soon, I could separate the grey-blue of the lough from the darker blue of the Antrim Hills.
I pushed open the window and caught the throb of engines. Moments later, the black and white mass of the Liverpool ferry glided across the smooth water, heading for its berth in the centre of the city. Behind it, the wake oscillated, sending out its vibrating ripples to break as tiny waves on the Down shore. Minutes after and miles away on the far Antrim shore, gulls would bob up and down briefly on the grey water, their unexpected motion understood only by those who could connect such a distant event as the passage of the Liverpool ferry with such a small local happening.
When I looked through the porthole and caught sight of the Down coast the December morning we returned to Ulster, the lough was far from calm. I had wanted to go up on deck. Soon, we would be able to see the places we knew so well, the beaches where we had walked, the bays where we had sailed with our friends. But Colin said it would be chilly and that he’d see to the car, so I’d gone up alone and found myself a small, partly-sheltered space on the upper deck below the lifeboats. From there, I’d looked out at the grey, broken water and listened to the mournful cries of the gulls following in our wake.
The Antrim shore was dark and brooding and the crags of Cave Hill rose ominously above the red and grey sprawl of the estates at its feet. By the lough’s side, the gantries stood, silhouetted against the sky like great mechanical birds feeding in the tainted water. Factory and warehouse, chapel and church, two-storey house and four-storey mill. So familiar, my heart leapt. But only with sadness. An unnameable sadness.
Words of Louis MacNeice suddenly came back to me. I could hear my father’s voice reading them, and the thought of that well-loved voice, so nearly lost such a little time ago, released a flood of memories.
Long after I’d been able to read for myself, I’d still ask my father to read to me. And he had, so willingly. Anything I put into his hands. Books from school, or from the library, or his own, well-thumbed volumes of plays and poetry. He read to me and then he’d coax me to read aloud for myself. Soon, we were able to take it in turns to read and our reading together had become a ritual and a reassurance.
At that moment the ship had begun to turn. I went forward to the rail. The water was brown in the harbour area, beaten into an unlovely whirlpool, spattered with debris and flecked with oily waste. The water slapped and protested as the ship whittled away the remaining inches between itself and the slimy masonry of the dock wall. I heard the chains run out, saw the gangway rise, and felt the deck shudder as the engines died. Ship and land embraced. I had come home. As I turned to go below, the tears welled up so fiercely I could not see my way ahead.
I rubbed crossly at the collar of a white shirt, squeezed it out and piled it on the draining board with the others. Six of them, the hand-finished ones Maisie gave him that first Christmas home.
‘Just a “little” present, Colin dear.’
I could still hear her voice, thin and bright, as the stack of gift-wrapped boxes was brought out from under the tree.
‘Oh, Mum, you shouldn’t have. After all you’ve done already.’
Colin’s tone made me wince. Not just his effusiveness, but the particular way he chose to acknowledge the ‘real’ present, the awful furniture already installed in the new house. He had kissed her and sat with his arms entwined in hers as my ‘little’ present was brought out.
‘Nothing like a nice white shirt to help on the way to the boardroom,’ she said, in the sort of whisper that only the stone deaf could fail to hear.
The look of self-satisfaction on Colin’s face was so sickening, I had to turn away. That look and the way they sat with their arms entwined upset me more than I could explain to myself. It was an awful moment, but worse was to come.
‘I do hope you like yours as much, Jenny,’ went on Maisie, as Keith passed over the beribboned box bearing my name.
With all eyes upon me, I fumbled with the ribbons and tore ineffectually at the wrapping. When I finally got the lid off the elegant box inside, I discovered two superbly finished garments in cashmere. Light as a feather, and more expensive than any item I had ever possessed, I found myself holding what Valerie and I always called a ‘lady wife’ twin-set. And as if that were not bad enough, the colour was the particular pastel shade we’d long ago christened ‘knicker pink’.
I pulled out the plug and watched the dirty water settle to a flat calm. I braced myself and pressed a switch. The disposal unit minced the harmless water as if it were crunching chicken bones. The whole sink fitment vibrated, the soap holder moved crabwise across the draining board and the whirling vortex of water disappeared.
Well, the boardroom wouldn’t be long now. And then what? I started rinsing the shirts. Of course, everything would be fine. It seemed once Colin had convinced himself that something was fine, or going to be fine, then that was it. Finished. Classified. No need even to speak of it again.
Just the way this house had been ‘fine’. It was the show house for the Loughview and Kilmorey estates, and it had been Maisie’s idea we should have it, all nicely furnished as it was and only a little grubby from the probing fingers of potential buyers. ‘The last word in elegance,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Everything you could possibly want and nothing for you to do but unpack your bits and pieces.’
We hadn’t even seen it when Colin said yes. I objected, of course. And he agreed with everything I said. True, it wasn’t what we’d had in mind, was it? No, it wasn’t very convenient for my school. Yes, we had hoped for a little more privacy, hadn’t we? And then he made his own position clear. It was such a good opportunity. The nominal figure his father had suggested in lieu of a mortgage would leave us very comfortable. We could travel, as I wanted. And we could always redecorate, and even refurnish, to our own taste, after a discreet interval. We’d be fools not to take it.
I dumped the first batch of shirts in a bucket and started on my blouses. That was the trouble. Colin always saw my point of view, said how much he agreed with it, and then paid no real attention to it whatever. How often had we discussed and planned some course of action, only for me to find that just the opposite was happening? Once, I used to think it was my fault for not making myself clear. But now I wasn’t so sure. I was beginning to wonder if Colin ever thought about anything at all, or simply reacted to any situation as it happened.
I found myself rehearsing some of his characteristic phrases. ‘But it’s Saturday,’ he would say, or, ‘After all, we can afford it,’ or his favourite, ‘It’s too good an opportunity to miss.’ They seemed harmless enough, I had to admit, but the problem was the effect they had on me. Colin had only to utter one of them and I would feel I was quibbling, or being difficult or unreasonable. How was it he could manage to give such empty phrases the stamp of sweet reasonableness? And why was I always having to protest at decisions that materialised out of nowhere, as if there was no need for me to be involved in them?
The whole miserable business had begun that very morning we arrived home. Straight from the boat, en route to the flat our friends had lent us while they were abroad, we stopped off to see Maisie. She insisted we stay with them till the Christmas holiday was over. He had said yes for both of us, without a moment’s hesitation.
So
we quarrelled that night in our bedroom, hissing at each other across the thickly carpeted room, with its pink fringed lamps and fat, pink eiderdowns. Colin said he didn’t see what else he could do when Maisie suggested it. He’d thought it would save me having to cook in a strange flat till after the holiday.
I would never forget that Christmas holiday. It was a nightmare from beginning to end, a continuous exposure to noise, food, and relatives. A continuous demand for sociability, small talk and team performance. And Christmas Day itself had been the worst of all.
The house was overheated and airless. Every room, even the bathroom, boomed with festive music piped from the new stereo, William John’s latest acquisition. Over the top of it, William John himself sounded forth, his voice heavy with goodwill but edged with unease. As if by continuous action he could disperse the burden of Maisie’s disapproval, he urged the company on from one celebratory meal to another and from one obligatory piece of jollity to the next. He circulated endlessly, enveloping himself with talk as if it were his only defence. He asked questions and paid no attention to the answers. He grew flushed, exhausted and irritable. His efforts made him so querulous that, in the end, I was hard-pressed to find any sympathy for him, even though I knew how much he feared the sharp edge of Maisie’s tongue.
Maisie had been even worse, if that was possible. Less good-natured than William John to begin with, she shuttled between kitchen and lounge, tight with tension and breathless with effort, so resentful of what she saw as William John enjoying himself while she had the worry of the food, despite the fact she’d refused all help with it. Her eyes darted about constantly without ever focusing upon anyone. Her endearments flowed endlessly all around the company, their emptiness as palpable as that of the gin glass which seldom left her hand.
‘What on earth am I doing here?’ I asked myself as I stood in the lounge on Christmas morning, watching Colin mixing drinks at the bar and serving them out to William John’s cronies and their blue-rinsed wives. I looked up and spotted Keith, grim-faced and uneasy, changing records under William John’s supervision. I went over to him and tried to comfort him. He muttered something bitter about ‘conspicuous consumption’, and then Maisie bore down on me.
Half the time I felt a failure for not being able to ‘enjoy myself’ and the other half I felt a fraud for even trying to. In the end, I hit on the idea of playing a film extra. That way, I could put some life into a non-speaking part. Laugh merrily over spilt champagne. Smile happily as mother-in-law points you out as Colin’s little wife. Accept delightedly drink or liqueur, chocolate or crystallised fruit. Or even a paper hat.
A few hours’ exit were granted in the afternoon to go over and see my parents and then back we went for the evening performance. By bedtime, I was beside myself. As we shut the bedroom door, I turned to Colin for comfort and all he did was look down at me with amazement and say, just as if he were humouring a fractious child, ‘Oh come on, Jenny, what’s wrong? It’s Christmas. It’s the old man’s way, you know. He does lay it on a bit thick, but he’s all right. He’s very fond of you, you must see that. They both are. That was quite a present you had from Mum, wasn’t it? More than generous.’
I despatched another sinkful of grey water with a furious press of the switch.
‘More than generous,’ I repeated. Just what my mother said last night. That was it. Generosity was quite their forte, their well-practised technique, for getting what they wanted. When you had finished being ‘more than generous’ you could stand back, secure in your own good opinion of yourself, and expect repayment. How could anyone refuse you anything you wanted when you had had the foresight to be ‘more than generous’?
I turned on the cold tap so fiercely that a stream of water bounced off the clothes in the sink, splashed me in the face and poured down the front of my sweater. I stood and shook myself, but it was no use. The ice-cold water was trickling down inside my jeans. ‘Damn the bloody McKinstrys,’ I hissed as I peeled off my wet top. ‘Damn, damn their bloody generosity,’ I fumed as I ran upstairs in my bra to find something dry to wear.
By the time I found a cotton top and an old wool sweater to go over it, my wet jeans had made a damp, cold spot on my tummy. I stripped them off and scuffled in the drawer where I keep my gardening clothes. As I pulled out my old green cords, I caught the lingering perfume of lemon geranium. I sniffed appreciatively, stuck my hand in the pocket and brought out a handful of withered leaves. They were the trimmings from the cuttings I’d set going for Valerie, after that splendid day at the end of the holidays up on the north coast.
Dear Valerie. The thought of my oldest and closest friend brought a sudden anxious stab of distress. Valerie and I hadn’t seen each other all term and it was entirely my fault. Several times when I had come back from theatre visits or parents’ evenings, Colin had said she’d phoned. She’d chatted to him, passed on bits of news and sent me messages, but I hadn’t phoned her back. I couldn’t think why on earth I hadn’t. Every time I watered her cuttings, I vowed I’d do it right away. I thought of her so often, but I still didn’t do it.
Why on earth not? I asked myself crossly. You’re a fool. An absolute fool. She’s the one person who’d really be able to help you.
I continued to scold myself as I pulled on the green cords. I zipped them up and found they sagged limply round my middle. ‘Gracious, you have lost weight this term,’ I muttered as I looked for a belt.
But all the belts I tried needed an extra hole and I didn’t feel like searching the garage for a hammer and a sharp instrument, so I found a pyjama cord of Colin’s, threaded it quickly through the loops and tied it in a bow. ‘Like a sack tied in the middle,’ my mother would say. Well, she wouldn’t see it, would she? So there. No one would see it. I pulled my sweater firmly over my handiwork and ran downstairs to phone Val.
Why are you still puzzling over it, Jenny, I asked myself as I settled by the phone. Why do the reasons matter so much when you know she’ll understand?’
As I started to dial her number, the hall clock began to strike. I dropped the receiver as if it had given me an electric shock, stood up and laughed at myself. Valerie is one of those people who can sparkle half the night but has an awful job waking up in the morning. It was still only eight o’clock. Well, at least today there’d be nothing to stop me ringing her. I’d have a good old blitz till about eleven, make a mug of coffee, and get her after she’d had some breakfast.
Feeling positively light-hearted, I collected my buckets and headed for the clothesline. The sun had come out from behind one of the bright, white clouds that streamed out of the west. I could feel warmth on my arms as I pinned up the first shirt. The dripping fabric inflated in the breeze like a wet sail, showering me with droplets as fine as spray from a toppling wave.
Suddenly, I was on the north coast, the beaches deserted, clean and empty, the summer people gone. I was walking by the sea, the real sea, the Atlantic, its breakers driven by the force of the wind out of the great empty spaces of mid-ocean, unmarked sand at my feet. The cry of the gulls filled the air. Pieces of driftwood caught in the black tangled masses of wrack, seashells small as children’s fingernails, pebbles bright with moisture, fragments of glass, transformed by the cleansing sea from rubbish to tiny jewels, lay spread out before me.
‘Hello, Jenny, you’re up early this morning.’
I swore under my breath, disentangled myself from the sixth hand-finished white shirt and said, ‘Hello, Karen.’ One look at her face told me there wasn’t the slightest possibility of her going away.
While the fence at the end of the garden adjoining the council estate is six feet high and backed by a fast-growing screen of willow, the fences on both sides of the Loughview gardens are only three feet high. Tastefully planted with low-growing shrubs, ‘all part of the extra care which make these properties so desirable’, it makes it possible to carry on a conversation with other young executive neighbours up to six houses away. If you so wished.
&nbs
p; I didn’t. The first time I’d seen the house, I’d suggested we put up a six-foot fence all the way round and plant honeysuckle and climbing roses, knowing that would add another couple of feet in time. Colin agreed immediately that it would look very nice. But that was before we discovered Karen and Neville lived next door.
‘How are you, Jenny? We haven’t seen you for ages.’
I went on pegging my way down the line, though I knew there would be no escape. Karen followed me along on her side of the fence, displeasure written all over her face.
‘I’m fine thanks, Karen, just fine. How are you?’ I added dutifully.
Not that I needed to ask. Karen was Karen. She was flourishing, as always. Newly-set hair, tailored slacks, floral pattern smock, well-made-up face. As my mother would say, and regularly did say, ‘Karen Pearson always looks just immaculate.’ Intimidating at the best of times, at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning it was positively indecent.
Karen has always been ‘immaculate’. Ever since my first day at primary school, when she was detailed to look after me, she has been a model of propriety. Always tidy. Always in the right place, at the right time. And ever since that day, by virtue of her two months seniority, she has been ready to show me the right way to do things, exactly as she showed me my peg in the cloakroom and supervised my changing into my house shoes on our very first meeting.
I came to the end of the clothesline. There was nothing for it. I marched back towards the house and paused at the bald spot in the flowerbed where Colin and Neville stood to chat or hop over to peer under the bonnets of their respective cars.
‘Look, Jenny, I can’t stop now,’ she began breathlessly as she caught up with me.
I breathed a sigh of relief but I should have known better.
‘I think I hear Simon,’ she went on. ‘You must come in for coffee, ten thirty, and we’ll have a proper chat. They’ll both be asleep again by then.’
I opened my mouth to protest; but she was too quick for me.