by A. J. Cronin
‘I understand, sir. And I agree. There hasn’t been a word here in Dublin, about … about Kilbarrack.’
‘Then you are engaged, Desmonde. As from tomorrow at nine o’clock. I repeat the terms. The normal salary would be £20 a month. Because I am truly grieved for you, I shall make it £25.’
‘Oh, thank you, sir. From my heart. You will see how I will serve you.’
‘Good, Desmonde. Now leave me. I have the sixth form in five minutes.’
Desmonde left the school walking on air. He was saved. A regular position, one he would love, and a salary that would keep Claire and himself beyond all want.
He no longer felt tired, and stepped it out all the way to Dublin. Here he felt he must celebrate, and he stopped off at Bewley’s for a large cup of coffee and two wheaten scones, each with a pat of fresh butter. He knew Bewley’s coffee of old, quite unbeatable, so fragrant and strong, with a little pot of thick fresh cream to enrich it. It was heaven, although he did rather fancy one of the good looking pork pies his neighbour was biting into, but that was an expense and must come later. Afterwards he strolled to St Stephen’s Green and sat there on a bench in the sun amongst the students who usually passed the midday hour in that pleasant square of greenery in Dublin’s busy heart.
He got back to the little house on the Quays, now known as ‘home’, at three o’clock. Claire had not yet returned, but almost at once the door bell rang. A smart van stood outside, and on the doorstep the driver, in a natty green uniform.
‘Does Mrs Donovan Fitzgerald reside here?’
Quite taken aback, Desmonde nevertheless answered in the affirmative.
‘From Switzer’s,’ said the man, placing two large, beautiful, beribboned boxes in Desmonde’s arms. He then leaped into the van and was off.
Desmonde re-entered the house slowly, placed the two luxurious looking boxes on the living room table and studied them with mixed emotions, murmuring to himself with a questioning wonder: ‘Mrs Donovan Fitzgerald.’
He was not long in doubt. At four o’clock Claire dashed in, beautifully smart in her best clothes, and bursting with exhilaration and excitement as she flung her arms round him and exclaimed:
‘Oh, darling, I’ve had such a wonderful time. Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you. Well, I went, naturally, to Switzer’s in Grafton Street and spent a marvellous hour there. You’ve no idea what wonderful things they have there, regular Paris style, and better. Well, besides looking, I did a bit of shopping …’
‘Is this it here?’ he interrupted.
‘Yes, darling, some of it. Two heavenly dresses, latest models, I just couldn’t resist them. Of course I can’t wear them now, darling, I’m really beginning to show, but after, you’ll love me in then.’
‘But, Claire, these must have cost the earth. How did you manage to …?’
‘Very simple, darling, I told them I was Madame Donovan’s niece and wanted to open an account. You’ve no idea, Madame’s name is a password in Dublin. You should have seen them all round me bowing and scraping.’
‘But these things will have to be paid for.’
‘Ah, they don’t send their bills for six months at Switzer’s, especially to anyone with the name Donovan.’
‘I see you have adopted it.’
She laughed. ‘Ah, what’s the odds, darling, I’m entitled to it.’
‘Did that conclude your adventures?’ he asked, after a pause.
‘Not at all, not at all, by no means.’ She giggled. ‘ Remembering Joe’s invitation to the Hib I dropped over to the lounge and had the promised glass of sherry. Joe is a darling. He must have mentioned me to Mr Maley, the manager, the nicest fellow you could hope to meet.
‘”Joe tells me you are niece to one of our most distinguished clients.”
‘”Yes,” I said. “I am Mrs Donovan Fitzgerald.”
‘We shook hands.
‘”Are you lunching with us?”
‘”I had intended to,” says I, bold as brass. “Unfortunately I find I have rushed out without my purse.”
‘”Oh, Madam, don’t let that trouble you. I’ll reserve your table now. And you may lunch à la carte as a guest of the hotel.”
‘Well, Des, to cut a long story short, I had the best lunch ever, the lunch of a lifetime, pâte de foie gras, grilled salmon, strawberry mousse, and Irish coffee. Then, bowed out with smiles. So here I am, darling, back home and dying for a pee-wee, I must rush. Will you get us a cup of tea, Des, while I’m occupied in the bathroom?’
When she had gone to execute this laudable performance, Desmonde went slowly in to the kitchen to make the tea. She had not once asked him if he had succeeded in his interview with Dr O’Hare. Now, for the first time, he realised the folly of his marriage and was struck, as by a blow, with the premonition of disaster.
Chapter Three
Apart from the monthly salary, itself a life saving asset, Desmonde was happy in his new position, and as the weeks and months passed he became accepted and, always good with young children, liked at the school. He did not see much of his colleagues, since when out of the class room Dr O’Hare kept him busy in the office, often after school hours, and, observing the new master’s efforts to please, had come to take an interest in Desmonde, suggesting that later on he might study for his Ph.D.
Claire, too, in her own fashion, welcomed and approved Desmonde’s bread-winning effort.
‘It’ll be a blessing, Des, not to have you hanging around the house, like a sick dog, when I’m out and about in the town.’
Claire, however, was less out and about the town than before, since she was now most perceptibly pregnant and approaching the date of her delivery. Desmonde’s wish that her confinement should take place in the Mater Misericordia Hospital had been brusquely negatived.
‘I want none of that Convent Miserarium.’
‘But the Mater has a worldwide reputation, Claire. My friend Alec took his obstetric training there.’
‘It may be all right for the students, Des. But for the patients – stand outside and hear the screams. I want no nuns hanging around, flinging Holy Water at me. I’ve had a good long talk with old Mrs Mullen. She’s brought many a child into the world and she’ll bring ours.’
Desmonde, naturally, was constrained to acquiesce, doubtfully, yet impressed by Claire’s hardihood. He had a talk later on with his father’s old housekeeper which did partly reassure him. And indeed, when the event did take place, everything passed off with the greatest ease and facility. Desmonde, who had spent no more than an hour pacing anxiously outside, was called in by Mrs Mullen, truly official in a large starched white overall, to be presented with a lovely baby daughter, all warm and cosy from the soapsuds, her dark eyes, as she lay in his arms, bent upon him in tender wonderment. Claire, surveying this touching scene from her position of leisured indolence in bed, exclaimed:
‘Did I do well for you, Des?’
‘Wonderfully, thank you, dear, dear Claire. A lovely child, with your lovely dark eyes.’
‘Thank you, Des, dear. I’ll remember these kind words when we have our next set-to.’
‘I hope it was not too hard for you, dear.’
Here the old lady professionally intervened.
‘I tell ye, sir, in all truth and honesty, I never had such a patient in all my life. She bore down hard without a scream, and when the baby came out, that’s the worst bit, sir, she no more than uttered a little whimper. And I tell ye this, for I‘m sure it’s of interest to ye, there’s not a cut, not so much as a scratch on her dear little you-know-what. ’Tis as fresh and good as ever ’twas.’
The old woman was in her best form, and when she had done everything to her satisfaction, she smiled at Desmonde.
‘That’s the lot, sir. Mother tidied up, baby washed and asleep, the little crib set up there by your bed, all ready for her, the mother comfortable in bed and half asleep, so I’ll be off, till first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Good-night, and thank you, Mrs
Mullen,’ said Claire. ‘You’re a darling.’
Desmonde followed the old woman into the passage, put his arms round her, and kissed her withered cheek.
‘Dear, dear Mrs Mullen, you’re an angel, and have made us all so happy with your goodness and skill. Money can never repay you, but please tell me your fee.’
‘A couple of pounds is the usual, sir. But from you I’ll take one.’
Desmonde felt the ready tear spring to his eye. He took from his pocket the two five pounds he had removed from his store in the cupboard and silently handed them to her.
‘Oh, I couldn’t, sir, indeed I couldn’t …’
‘You must, I insist, after all you’ve done, borrowing the crib for us, and everything.’
‘Well, sir … I’ll take one, and thank ye kindly, but no more.’ And she tucked one of the notes into Desmonde’s breast pocket. ‘And now, good-night. I’ll be round first thing in the morning.’ On the doorstep she turned. ‘’Twould have been a happy moment for your dear honoured father if he could see his lovely granddaughter, just her alone, and no more.’
Desmonde went into the bathroom and got ready for bed. As he climbed in beside Claire he whispered:
‘Are you asleep, darling? If not, I want to tell you how happy you have made me. I feel that baby will draw us closer together, close the little gap that seems to have sprung up between us.’
‘And who made that little gap? And what would any wife think of a husband that walks in one night and tells her straight he doesn’t want her six nights in the week?’
‘It was stupid and tactless of me, Claire. I love to love you. But I’m like a bit of chewed string if I get too much of it.’
‘There’s some men can’t get enough of it. But there’s still a lot of the priest in you, Des. Well, now that I’m in milk and safe, I’ll maybe see more of you.’ She kissed him, adding: ‘If baby wakes in the night, get up and bring her in to me.’
Almost immediately she was asleep, and soon Desmonde followed her, clinging to her soft warm body.
Chapter Four
And now, on Saturdays and Sundays, when the weather was fine, the little family might be seen taking the air, along the Quays across the bridge, even as far as Phoenix Park, Claire beautifully turned out in one of the new Switzer dresses, the baby in the handsome pram her father had bought for her, and, of course, Desmonde, enjoying the admiring glances directed towards his equipage. Claire had taken advantage of this happy interim to present Desmonde with the bill for the dresses, some sixty odd pounds, sent again with a threatening letter. He could not protest, particularly when she, alone, had attended to the difficult matter of the child’s christening.
‘You wouldn’t want to do it, Des?’
He hesitated. ‘But it must be done.’
‘Give me the marriage lines the Canon gave you and I’ll see to it Sunday at the Carmelite. There’s always a crowd lined up there after the eleven o’clock. You’re still agreed on the name Geraldine?’
Claire had insisted on this, as a propitiation to her aunt whom she still hoped to win round, with the help of the lovely child.
So Claire had set off while Desmonde waited in an, agony of pained suspense, dispelled when Claire reappeared, smiling broadly.
‘All over, lad. The little one’s a Christian now, God bless her.’
It was then she presented him with the Switzer bill. Yes, Desmonde was happy, at least happy as one might be in his invidious position. His teaching at St Brendan’s had saved him from at least the worst of his remorse, and when this did at times torment him, when he was alone, he would cry: ‘You threw me out like a rotten apple. Why should I come back to You?’
His better relations with Claire were enhanced by the help he gave her with baby Geraldine. Every evening when he returned from school he would bathe, dry and powder the little one and make her comfortable with a fresh napkin for the night. On Saturdays and Sundays he was exclusively the baby’s nurse, rewarded now with a smile of loving recognition that warmed his heart.
One day when he was so occupied, while Claire sat reading the morning paper, she remarked idly:
‘What’s a note of hand, Des?’
‘A bit of paper, some sort of agreement that you sign with your own hand.’
‘Is that all there is to it?’ She laughed, and laid aside the paper to watch him powder and re-diaper the babe. ‘You’ve a real way with her, Des, you handle her a treat. And she loves you now, you can see it in her eyes.’
Desmonde smiled. ‘Are you about ready for our promenade now?’
‘I’ll just go and change my dress. It’s a pity we can’t all go out for lunch somewhere, we would be the admiration of the Hib!’
‘She’s a bit young for that yet, darling.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. But speaking of lunch at the Hib, Des, didn’t you promise to take me for a slap-up celebration when I had stopped being a milk bar!’
‘I did indeed, Claire dear, and I’ll not fail to keep my word. How about next Saturday? We’ll get Mrs Mullen to look after Gerry.’
‘It’s a date, Des. And I’ll want it with all the trimmings. Saturday’s the best day at the Hib. All the gang’s there.’
For the next few days, the prospect of the coming luncheon was never far from Claire’s mind. Never failing to remind Desmonde of his promise, and preparing herself, in her own ways, for the celebration, she departed on unknown missions several times during the week, returning with sundry parcels that caused Desmonde to wonder how much money had been expended on these apparent luxuries, and what might be the source of such unsuspected wealth. However, he refrained from pressing the matter, anxious to preserve the benign, harmony that now lay like a sweet melody upon the house.
Now that Claire was lactating and self-declared to be ‘safe’, Desmonde was induced, more or less by Royal Command, to perform his marital duties more frequently than before.
‘You really are a great lover,’ Claire complimented him after one strenuous performance. ‘I don’t want to swell your head, darling, but you leave a woman satisfied and fulfilled. There’s some, God knows, that leave you up in the air, waiting for what you haven’t got. But you’re the goods. I knew that the first time I had you in Kilbarrack Wood.’
‘That was a short and,’ he added quickly, ‘sweet event.’
‘I’ve no time for them that drags it out, darlin’, like layin’ down a cigar and goin’ back to it. Besides, ’tis a sinful perversion in the eyes of the Church. No, no, I’ll take your way, lad, you’ve got poon tang.’
‘I’m always afraid of hurting your breasts,’ Desmonde murmured, in an effort, perhaps, to get off the hook. ‘They must be full and tender, darling.’
‘They are, darling, and it’s sweet of you to think of it. So next time why don’t you just go in from behind? There’s them that tell me it’s even better.’
Accordingly, two nights later, suitably exhorted, Desmonde, although trying to postpone the event, did as he was bid, but all the time haunted by a horrid recollection of two mongrels he had once disgustedly observed performing in identical fashion in the main street of Kilbarrack.
At last Saturday dawned, faintly grey, yet full of the promise of sunshine. While Desmonde made coffee and attended to Gerry’s needs, a task in which he was now skilful, Claire rested in bed, rising at eleven to prepare herself for the pleasures of the day. Meanwhile, Desmonde had dressed himself and visited Mrs Mullen, who promised to look after the baby that afternoon.
At twenty minutes after noon Claire strolled into the living room and struck an attitude, inviting Desmonde’s admiration. She was wearing a smart green dress he had not seen before, new green gloves and a large flashy green hat, also new.
‘How, Des?’
‘Stunning,’ he murmured sadly. ‘You look like a very expensive French tart out for the kill.’
She laughed. ‘I like that, Des. I just came into a little money unexpectedly and thought I’d go the limit. Today, especially I want t
o attract attention. There’s some of the fellows up there at the Hib think I don’t have a husband. Did you order a cab?’
‘It’s such a lovely day I thought we’d just walk up.’
‘All right, penny pincher. At least we’ll give the neighbours a treat.’
They set off, arm in arm, when Mrs Mullen appeared, followed by the old lady’s shocked and sorrowful gaze. At one o’clock precisely they strolled into the hotel and through the lounge to the dining room. Here, the head waiter obsequiously bore down upon Claire.
‘Have you a nice table for us, Jules?’
‘The best, madam. Your usual, by the window.’ And he conducted them thereto and seated them, whispering: ‘May I tell madam how ravishing she is looking today?’
‘None of your blarney, Jules dear. What have you got to eat for us? And we’ll want a bottle of Perrier Jouet. This is a delayed wedding celebration. Meet my husband, Desmonde.’
‘Oh, I am pleased to know you, sir. Will you choose?’ He produced two large elaborately ornate menu cards, offering one to Claire, the other to Desmonde. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and instruct the wine waiter as to your champagne.’
Eventually a choice meal was ordered, the champagne opened, sampled and served. Meanwhile Claire surveyed the long room, commenting upon the various personalities she recognised. Her own attire and affected mannerisms were certainly attracting attention, looks, whispers, suppressed laughter, that seemed equally inspired by Desmonde. A quietly dressed man in a dark business suit, lunching alone at the adjoining table, had several times encountered Claire’s smiling glances and now, inclining towards her politely, he said:
‘Forgive me, dear lady, but from the proximity of our tables I have gathered, without seeking to do so, that I am in the presence of a happy wedding celebration.’
‘It is indeed, sir,’ replied Claire, delighted at last to have someone to talk to. ‘And long delayed through the remarkable circumstances of our love and marriage. Would you take a drop of champagne to celebrate with us?’