by Maeve Binchy
“I’ll be very nice at the wedding. All day.” She smiled at Angela.
“Good, I don’t want to sound like a sermon on charity but you have had so much more than Chrissie and you always will have. Make it as nice a day for her as possible.”
“All I’ll get for my pains is Chrissie giving out to me all day, and if I’m nice, that will be further cause for complaint.”
“You promised.”
“Yes. What about your brother, when he was being ordained? Was that a hard sort of day?”
“No.” Angela’s voice seemed distant. She was looking out to sea. “My father didn’t have a drop to drink. Dr. Power gave him some tablets and told him it was dangerous to drink with them. I don’t know whether it was or not. And my poor mother had a hat with a veil. I’ll never forget it—and gloves. No, that day was no trouble at all.”
“You don’t talk about him much nowadays.”
“I’ll tell you some time.”
“Sure. I’m sorry.”
“Here’s Josie and Dick.” Angela looked up brightly. “You’re looking very well, Josie. Very pretty.”
“Thank you. I’ve been on another diet. The summer visitors will be here at the end of the week. I’m trying to ensnare one of them.”
“One in particular, or just anyone?”
“Well, I have my eye on one. But he’s a bit hard to get.”
Clare didn’t catch Angela’s eye. She had told her about Josie and James Nolan going to the States for the summer; and debated whether or not she should tell Josie this.
Angela had said she should have let it fall casually ages ago, but Clare said it was very hard to let things fall casually when Josie sat up on her bed and hugged her knees and made plans for the summer.
“This is the last night we’ll sleep together,” Clare said to Chrissie.
“I’m sure neither of us are sorry about that,” Chrissie sniffed. She was examining her face in the mirror with dissatisfaction. There was a definite spot on her chin.
“Well, it’s the end of one part of your life. It must be exciting,” Clare soldiered on.
“Well, I’m twenty-one. It’s time I was married.” Chrissie was defensive.
“It’ll be a grand day.”
“Yes, it will. It’ll be grand without any pats on the head from you, either.”
“I’m not patting you on the head. I’m just trying to say I’m pleased. That it’s great. That it’s the first wedding in the family. That’s all.”
Her face was angry. Chrissie softened.
“Yes, well. All right. Sorry. I suppose I’m a bit jumpy and everything.”
“You’re going to look terrific. The dress is fabulous.”
It was hanging on their wardrobe with an old sheet draped over it to keep it clean.
Chrissie looked at it mournfully.
“And your hair, it’s super. I’ve never seen it so nice.”
“Yes, well. Peg’s coming round in the morning to give it a comb out. You know, get it right for the veil.”
“Maurice will be delighted with you.”
“I don’t know. Look at this spot. It’s going to be desperate in the morning.”
“Listen. I tell you what to do. I’ll dab a bit of Dettol on it. And don’t touch it—do you hear? The Dettol won’t work if you touch it, and then in the morning if it’s not gone we can put some extra makeup on it. But it will have flattened a bit if you don’t touch it.”
“Why were you never like this before?” Chrissie asked suspiciously.
“Like what?”
“Interested in spots, and ordinary things.”
“I always was, but you used to say I was mad, remember?”
Fiona Doyle said she’d be happy to look after the shop for them while they went to the wedding. She asked how thick she should cut the bacon and was there anyone she should or should not give credit to. Tom said she was a model shop girl and that if ever the photographic business folded, there’d be a job for her in O’Brien’s ten minutes later. Agnes said that Fiona was a brick to come down so early because it gave them time to get ready themselves without rushing out into the shop every time the door opened.
There had been a pink card with “All Good Wishes on Your Wedding Day” from Tommy, and a nicely wrapped tablecloth from Ned with a small greetings card wishing them every happiness, and regretting that he wasn’t able to be there. Clare saw the fine hand of Father Flynn in both of these gestures.
Chrissie had been pleased. It hadn’t struck her as remotely odd that neither of her brothers would return for her big day. Agnes was pleased too. She had somehow resigned herself to the thought that the boys weren’t coming home again. Gerry Doyle had assured her they were well settled there, and wasn’t it better in this day and age, when half the country were down taking the mail boat to England looking for jobs, that her two sons had got there first and got themselves established. In fact Agnes O’Brien was more cheerful than she had been for a long time. Her ankle had recovered now, everyone said that it was her accident which had finally been responsible for the Committee putting up the new steps and railings, so she was regarded as a bit of a heroine.
She dabbed unaccustomed powder on her nose and looked affectionately at Tom as he struggled into the new suit he had bought. He had needed one anyway, and this was the perfect opportunity. He struggled with the unfamiliar fabric which seemed hard and full of pointy bits and corners.
“I’m just so relieved,” said Agnes. “Glad that she’s settling down.”
“Mogsy Byrne isn’t the worst, I suppose,” Tom O’Brien said reluctantly.
“No, when you think the way Chrissie could have gone.” They’d never spoken of it before, but they had been through their worries. Was Chrissie getting a name as being fast? Did she hang round with the girls who were known to be up to no good in the caravan park? They were lucky that poor Mogsy, not the brightest man in Castlebay, but the brother of Bumper Byrne who was certainly the sharpest, was going to take Chrissie on for life.
There had been a time when Chrissie had held out for Dillon’s Hotel; but after a look at the menus, the rates and whole set-up she listened more carefully to her future brother-in-law’s advice. Bumper and his wife Bid had advised Chrissie not to throw away her money just making the Dillons rich. Why pour out all that money so that Young Mrs. Dillon could have a new fur coat? Chrissie had wanted the day to be very splendid, but she and Mogsy listened obediently and heard that it could still be splendid without paying out a fortune. And this way they could invite more people; which was always good for business, and it didn’t insult people and cause grievances.
In fact Chrissie and her Mogsy had come round to the view that Dillon’s Hotel would be a very stuffy place to have a wedding anyway.
So they were having it in the big room behind Father O’Dwyer’s house. It had been a storeroom once, but Dr. Power and Miss O’Hara had somehow managed to persuade Miss McCormack that it should be used for the parish. Father O’Dwyer took very careful note of what she said. Now it was used for fêtes, and sales of work. They had the Irish dancing competitions there too, and recently it had been used for weddings or christening parties. There were long trestle tables covered with cloths, and there was a big tea urn. There would be plates of sandwiches, and bridge rolls, and sausage rolls. There would be jelly and cream as well as the wedding cake. Gerry Doyle was going to take the photographs, and cousins were coming from three separate towns for the occasion.
Chrissie and Mogsy had said they were keeping it small, but that still meant forty-five people. Just enough, Agnes thought, pleased for it to look respectable. There was no question of a rushed job. Nobody could say it was a hole-in-the-corner affair.
Clare was being very good over all the arrangements, Agnes noticed with surprise. And she was keeping Chrissie calm this morning; she had even bought some bath oil at Murphy’s chemist and said that Chrissie should be allowed to have the bathroom to herself for half an hour so everyone else shou
ld wash quickly or else wash at the kitchen sink. Agnes hadn’t expected Clare to be so helpful. Usually she and Chrissie had nothing but harsh words.
The young couple were going on a week’s honeymoon to Bray: which was just another seaside resort, but still it would be miles away from Castlebay and that was the main thing. Then they would be back, a married couple living in the new house, and Mogsy would be organizing the churns and the milk collection; and Chrissie would be back in the butcher’s shop, but with a new respect now. There would be two rings on her finger, she would be “Mrs. Byrne,” and she could talk about “my husband.” Agnes felt a great surge of sympathy for her large, brassy, argumentative daughter.
She could hear laughter coming from the bathroom. Clare was scrubbing the bride’s back.
“You’ll be next, Fiona,” she said to the beautiful dark-haired girl standing quietly in the shop.
“Oh, I don’t know, Mrs. O’Brien. Who’d have me?”
“Tut, tut, child, aren’t you the most beautiful girl in Castlebay?”
“I haven’t got much life in me though. Fellows like someone with life in them. I’m like that advertisement up there on the wall: Do you wake tired? I seem to wake tired all the time.”
Agnes O’Brien had never heard the young Doyle girl utter a sentence as long as that in her whole life. She wasn’t at all sure what to do. She wished Fiona had chosen a better time to confide in her.
“If I were you I’d go and have a chat with Dr. Power, it might be tablets you need. Dr. Power has great iron tonics in bottles too, they’d make you feel strong. Maybe it’s a lack of iron.”
The thin, kind face of Agnes O’Brien under her unaccustomed hat and dotted with unfamiliar powder was concerned. Fiona shook herself.
“That’s what I’ll do, Mrs. O’Brien. I’ll go up to him the next chance I have. It could well be lack of iron.”
Agnes beamed; and then decided to hurry on the bride and her sister.
Peggy had now arrived dressed in her bridesmaid’s gear and carrying a hairbrush and a can of lacquer. She pounded up the stairs.
“Your room looks different,” Peggy said, looking around. Clare said nothing. She didn’t mention that she had put all Chrissie’s clothes in the wash, everything that she wasn’t taking on the honeymoon. Clare would personally transfer these to the new home. Chrissie had an alarming habit of saying that she’d “leave this here” or “leave that here for the moment.” She couldn’t grasp the fact that she was actually moving residence. Clare had taken all the old shoes and put them in a box marked “Chrissie’s Shoes.” For the first time in years there was actually room to move.
Peggy began the back-combing and the teasing of the hair, expertly and with great intensity.
“Are you sure you’re not in a huff because I asked Peggy to be the bridesmaid instead of you?” Chrissie asked for the twentieth time.
“No. I think you’re quite right. I told you,” Clare said.
Chrissie examined her miraculously cured spot. “It was just that we didn’t know if you’d come or not. You see?”
Clare bit back her rage. There had never been any question of her not coming. “I know,” she said sympathetically. “I’ll try not to be too jealous of Peg,” she added cheerfully, and Chrissie laughed.
Peggy shrugged her shoulders. Chrissie hated Clare! What on earth were they laughing like old friends for? Oh well. It was her wedding day. She was entitled to laugh if she wanted to. Not that marrying Mogsy Byrne was anything much to laugh about, Peggy thought sourly. She’d prefer to be a spinster of twenty-two than marry Mogsy.
Father O’Dwyer was waiting at the gate of the church when the wedding party arrived. The Byrne family were all installed. The O’Briens arrived together—it was only a five-minute walk from their shop up Church Street and this was the triumphal journey. Chrissie walked on her father’s arm. She wore a white dress, which the dressmaker had said was far more suitable as a dance dress. Chrissie had giggled, and said why not, one day it would be a dance dress. Her veil was short and held in place by a headdress of wax flowers.
It was a sunny Saturday morning in June. The season hadn’t really begun; the people would start arriving in the next few days. But the whole town saw Chrissie O’Brien go to her wedding. They waved and shouted from shops and houses. Josie Dillon waved out from the hotel. Miss O’Flaherty at her stationery shop; the Murphys were in the street in front of the chemist’s shop. Dwyers’ had a big sheet of paper with Good Luck Chrissie written on it. She was very excited when she saw it, and kept drawing people’s attention to it.
Behind Tom O’Brien and his daughter walked Peggy in a very bright yellow which didn’t suit her.
Clare and her mother walked next, with Jim and Ben. Clare wondered would she ever walk like this with her father, as she had seen so many other girls walk to the church. It was nice because everyone had a chance to see the wedding party without having to go up to the church uninvited and peer. But Clare couldn’t imagine it. She could not see herself going through this kind of parade for anyone. It would have to be somebody quite extraordinary waiting up there in the church if she could endure this pantomime for him.
Just as she was wondering what kind of person it could be, Gerry Doyle appeared at her elbow.
“Stop dreaming about me and listen,” he said.
“You arrogant thing!” she laughed.
“I’ll run on ahead. Make sure Chrissie stops yapping enough for me to get a proper picture of you all coming into the church. Do you hear me?”
“Just her and Daddy? Or all of us?”
“I’ll want both, but she’s so excited now she’ll have half the town in the picture. I’m relying on you to calm her down.”
Clare smiled at him affectionately. Gerry Doyle understood how this album would be treasured for years, when Chrissie and Mogsy had few ceremonies to entertain them.
Yes, she’d calm Chrissie down for him. Even if it meant being bossy, superior Clare again.
Chrissie became very quiet in the church, and you could hardly hear her responses. Maurice Byrne, resplendent in a blue suit, was almost as mute. Only the firm unchanging voice of Father O’Dwyer could be heard properly. Then it was over and it was into the room that was too small to call a hall.
There were photos cutting the cake; and then the going away photograph of Chrissie with one foot on the ground and one foot in the car, the big Cortina that her brother-in-law was letting them drive to the station. There was confetti too—the understanding being that the family would clear it up before nightfall. Then Mr. and Mrs. Maurice Byrne had gone.
Nobody worked hard in Second Arts. It was a year off in a way because there was no serious examination at the end of it.
Valerie had had an eventful summer; her father had gone to hospital in England and had written from his hospital bed a long apology for his life. What had her mother done? Instead of laughing hysterically and opening another bottle to give her further fluency to curse him, didn’t she up and off to England? Her father had got better; and promised to abandon the fancy woman and come home. But not immediately. These things needed time, he had said. Valerie’s mother, however, had become a different person. No more morning cocktails. In fact, no cocktails at all. There was now no question of wasting as much money as possible and making-that-bastard-pay-up. Now it was different. Valerie must work hard in UCD, and make full use of the generous fees her father paid for her; she must remember that money didn’t grow on trees; and what’s more, they had to spend the whole summer doing up their house and getting it in order for the return of the Prodigal Father. Since Valerie had only scraped First Arts this was going to be a hard year. She was full of gloom.
Mary Catherine had been very off-putting when James had asked if he could come and call. She had said that the family would be moving around a lot during the summer; and, really, it wouldn’t be a good idea, because they were sure to be vacationing with friends whenever he arrived. James had tried to pin her down by givi
ng her definite dates; but she had been adamant. James seemed much more interested in her this year; he had asked her to a dress dance. Mary Catherine had spent the entire summer working in a soda fountain making milkshakes. It was very wearying trying to explain Ireland to people—they thought it was full of cottages and leprechauns. Her mother worked in the garment district and her two younger brothers did paper deliveries all summer. She hardly saw any of them until the big Labor Day picnic that the parish organized. Mary Catherine said it was nearly as difficult to explain America to the Irish as it was the other way round. She said she was hopeless at being an ambassador and that is exactly what her father thought that she was going to be when she graduated. Why else should she be so highly educated if it weren’t to get herself a big job like that? Obviously he had decided that she wasn’t going to marry an Irish nobleman with a castle if she hadn’t nabbed one the first year and he was pinning his hopes on her becoming a career woman instead.
Clare said she hated anyone being secretive but she had very little to tell. It was a summer like any other in Castlebay. Chrissie’s wedding had been exciting, and the weather had been good. Which was smashing, because that meant business was good and everyone was happy. Yes, she had met Gerry Doyle a bit. But he had been followed around by a very glamorous piece who had been meant to stay for three weeks. Her name was Sandra. And when the three weeks were up, Sandra decided that there was plenty to keep her in Castlebay, so she stayed the whole summer. Gerry Doyle had found her a caravan that wasn’t being used. They were the talk of the town, but Gerry didn’t take the blindest bit of notice. Apparently she was a student in Queen’s University up in Belfast, and she had a red bathing suit which she wore all summer long, with open shirts of pink and purple and orange, all the colors that are meant to clash with red. She had a big mane of hair and she used to wash it in public with a shampoo, using the new shower that Dr. Power had got the Committee to put up near the bottom of the steps to the beach. Valerie and Mary Catherine were rather sorry to think that the handsome Gerry had been so spoken for during the whole summer.