“You know the little ritual my mother has?” he said. “About kissing the statue goodnight and asking it to make her a good girl –”
“Get to the point!” Pauline demanded. “What happened
with the damned statue?”
“She bit –” Charles stuttered, “she bit the nose off – and it’s possible she might have swallowed some of the stuff – the marble or the plaster or whatever the material is.”
“Jesus Christ! Where is it?” Oliver said, jumping to his feet. “We’d better have a look at it – see what kind of stuff is in it –”
Pauline lifted the half-asleep child in her arms, and followed the men out into the hall.
There was a silence, while everyone surveyed the nose-less statue.
Oliver put his hand up and rubbed his finger over the bare, rough surface under Our Lady’s eyes. He put the chalky substance up to his nose, and then tentatively put his tongue out to lick it. “I think it’s only harmless plaster,” he deduced. He turned to Charles. “And was she sick straight after she got it in her mouth?”
“Well . . .” Charles scrunched up his forehead in thought, “I think she spat it all out . . . she wasn’t really sick until later.”
“And was she very sick?” Jack Byrne asked.
“No . . . just a little bit,” Charles said. “You see, she woke up looking for Pauline . . .”
His eyes swivelled to the child’s mother, who now flushed red with guilt and worry.
“And what happened then?” Oliver said.
“Well, she just didn’t want to settle,” Charles recounted. “I gave her drinks
of milk – just in case there was any acid in the plaster – and then drinks of water and orange juice. And some biscuits . . . and then I thought some custard might be good for her.” He gestured with his hands. “With it being made with mainly milk. So I made a pot of custard and she had two bowls of it.”
“Two bowls of custard?”
Pauline said incredulously.
“She didn’t really want to finish the second,” Charles said lamely, “but I encouraged her to finish it. I thought it would help her stomach – just in case any of the plaster had been digested. You see, I thought the alkaline in the milk would help counteract any acidity in the plaster . . .”
Pauline looked from Oliver to Jack Byrne. “Is it any wonder she was fecking sick? Eating two bowls of custard at this hour of the night. Sure, that would nearly make a grown man sick!” Then, she suddenly thought. “Have you ever made custard before, Charles?”
Charles shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve watched my mother and Mrs Kelly often enough.” He pushed his glasses high on his nose. “It’s simple enough to follow a recipe. Sure, it’s only the same as following a scientific formula.”
Pauline shook her head and muttered, “I should have known better . . . two bowls of custard.” She cuddled the sleeping child high up her arms.
Jack Byrne leaned over and touched Bernadette’s forehead lightly with the side of his hand. “I don’t think her temperature is too high,” he said, “and it’s a warm enough night.”
“Do you think we should take her to the hospital – just to be sure?” Pauline asked, looking directly at Jack, then around the others.
“I don’t think there’s any need for that,” Oliver said in a low voice. “I think the statue was harmless enough.” He caught Pauline’s eye. “I think it’s just a mixture of everything that’s upset her.”
“I would agree with that myself,” Jack Byrne said, but Oliver never looked at him, just barely nodded his head.
Pauline heaved an audible sigh of relief. “Thank God . . .”
she said. She was silent for a moment, then she looked up at her brother’s miserable face. “You did your best, Charles,” she said quietly. “And you were right to think of the hospital if there was no one else here to advise you.”
Charles dug his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “I was trying not to panic . . .” he said, brightening slightly.
“I think I’ll leave her down here with us for the time being,” Pauline said. “If you’d bring me down a pillow and a blanket, Charles, then I can keep an eye on her.”
Charles went rushing off to do as he was bid.
Half-an-hour later everyone was sitting around the table drinking tea, and casting watchful eyes over the sleeping child.
“I think I’ll head off to bed now,” Charles said, looking exhausted from the whole ordeal. He went over to give a last look at the child, and check her forehead. “She’s cooled down a good bit,” he said, giving everyone a relieved smile.
“She’ll be grand now,” Pauline whispered. “You go off and have a long lie in the morning, Charles. Last Mass will do us all.”
Then, when he’d finished his cup of tea, Jack Byrne stood up. “I think I’ll be heading off home now, Pauline,” he said quietly. He put a hand out to Oliver. “It was nice to meet you even if the circumstances weren’t the best.”
Oliver stood up and shook his hand. “Yes. It’s a pity about the circumstances.”
“Maybe we might all meet up again for a drink sometime?” Jack asked.
Oliver did not reply, and instead reached out to fill himself another cup of tea.
“That would be lovely,” Pauline said quickly, getting up to see Jack to the door, “and maybe when Aisling gets home from America, the four of us could go out together.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” Jack Byrne said.
And as they walked out to the car together, Pauline noticed that Oliver had still said nothing.
Chapter 17
Lake Savannah
The morning of the wedding dawned, and with it the house broke into the chaos that Maggie associated with such occasions. People, flowers and gifts started to arrive at regular intervals and in various numbers, while the bride and groom and the family all took turns bathing and showering. The wedding ceremony wasn’t until three o’clock in the afternoon, but there was still plenty to be done around the house.
Aisling helped Sandra and the bridesmaids with all the little last-minute things like painting all four sets of nails with a shimmery mother-of-pearl varnish, and then helping them with their make-up and jewellery.
Maggie and Jean bustled about making tea and coffee and piling trays with bagels and toast.
Later, as Aisling welcomed another group of people at the door and then brought them cool drinks to have on the deck outside, she thought how different it all was to the morning of her own wedding. Maggie had fuffed and faffed, making sure that everything was done in the proper, customary way. Her parents had started saving in a special account when Aisling’s engagement was announced, in order to pay for a lavish wedding reception in the biggest hotel in the area.
This was Maggie’s reward to her daughter for proving sh
e had been brought up properly. That she didn’t have to have a ‘hole-in-the-corner do’ like some of the local girls did. Or the rushed weddings over in England, that often heralded the arrival of a baby some six months later. No, Aisling had not let her parents down, and the memory of that white wedding had been a balm to her mother’s nerves when her sister returned home in shame.
Around eleven o’clock, the arrival of the hairdresser moved things into a different gear in the Harper household. The sitting-room became a salon, as the bride and three bridesmaids fluttered around watching each other have tiny fresh flowers woven into their carefully piled-up hair.
Maggie became slightly alarmed, when she saw her sister displaying uncharacteristic panic as it neared lunch-time and she still hadn’t had her own hair attended to.
“This is starting to get like bedlam,” Maggie said, feeling harrassed on her sister’s behalf. She checked her watch for the third time in as many minutes. “I only hope to God that we’re all ready and in the church for three o’clock.”
The hairdresser kept calm, and shortly afterwards Jean – her blonde hair teased into a straight sophisticated style – was back to her relaxed self. Then, she and Aisling and Maggie went off upstairs to help the bride and bridesmaids into their outfits.
“We’d better get ready ourselves,” Aisling said some time later, guiding Maggie into her bedroom. “The men are all dressed and having a walk down at the lake, and the bridal party are more or less ready – so that leaves only us and Jean.”
Maggie donned a flowery creation which was the staple design back home for women of her age, while Aisling had gone for a plain, edge-to-edge suit.
Maggie stood back to admire her daughter. “You look like Jackie Kennedy,” she stated proudly. “Apart from her having the dark hair, of course.”
Aisling wasn’t sure if she wanted to look like an older President’s wife, but she knew her mother meant it as a compliment. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, and was happy with what she saw. Pink, box-style jacket with a wine-coloured trim, and a matching sleeveless dress underneath, just on the knee. The suit was decorated with black and gold buttons. Pink, kitten-heeled, sling-back shoes and a matching envelope-style handbag completed her outfit.
She brushed her long blonde hair out, already lightly streaked by the American sun. She could have had it curled or waved by the hairdresser, but decided to leave it more casual, since she was probably going to feel dressed-up enough in the suit.
Then, she carefully applied her make-up. Not too heavy, but enough to cover the sun-kissed parts of her face that hadn’t quite turned into a tan, and enough to make her good skin look perfect. She smoothed a pale blue powder shadow on her eyelids, then she carefully wet her brown block mascara, and brushed it on her lashes with careful strokes. Finally, a slick of pearly pink lipstick and a touch of Evening in Paris perfume – and she was ready.
“All I can say,” Maggie stated as she looked at herself in the mirror, “is thank God I had a perm before coming over.” She lifted her flowery concoction of a hat, and balanced it on her curly, silvery-grey head. She smiled now, delighted with her reflection. “All this nonsense downstairs with the hairdresser – and Jean as bad as the young ones. If she’d had a decent perm last week, then she wouldn’t have got into that state earlier.”
Aisling stifled the large smile which threatened to spread on her face, and stuck a hatpin in Maggie’s hat. It never failed to amuse her that her mother was so self-congratulatory at her own ordinariness.
The next hour flew by and soon it was a flurry of cars and taxis as the different groups all left for the church, leaving the bride and her father behind awaiting their pony and trap.
* * *
“Does my hat still look okay?” Maggie whispered to Aisling for the hundredth time as they sat in the second
front pew in the beautiful, small church. It was surprisingly
old-fashioned with lovely old statues and floral displays everywhere.
“Your hat’s fine,” Aisling hissed back. “Now try to forget that you’re wearing it.”
Then her father leaned across to her mother and commented, “They’re all very casual here. Would you believe that I’ve seen a few men with
no
ties – and d’you know that you’re the only woman in the church with a hat on so far?”
“I knew it!” Maggie whispered back, throwing an accusing eye at her daughter. “Didn’t I tell Aisling that? But she insisted that I should wear it.”
“Don’t let it be bothering you,” said Declan, oblivious to the agitation he’d now caused. “Sure, it looks fine on you anyway.”
Aisling closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer.
* * *
The ceremony was beautiful, and Aisling was relieved to notice several hats in evidence when they got out into the sunny churchyard. People were gathered in clusters – watching as the photographer organised the bridal party for the wedding portraits.
“If I didn’t know different, I would have sworn we were in an Irish church,” Declan was saying to one of the guests. “It has the very same feel as our churches back home –“ Then he was distracted when another man came up and tapped him on the shoulder.
“I’ve got something that might interest you and your wife,” the man said.
Aisling recognised him as a neighbour of her aunt and uncle’s.
The man gestured to a small cemetery across the road. “If you have a couple of minutes to spare while the wedding party are busy, you might like to have a look at the headstones. I’ve just been looking myself, and I noticed that most of them are Irish immigrant. Some of them even give dates and details of when they arrived in Ireland.”
“Oh, God bless their souls,” Maggie said, a pained expression on her face, “and them buried out here in a foreign country.”
“You never know,” the man said, guiding them towards
the cemetery, “you just might come across someone who hails from your homeplace.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Declan said, raising his eyebrows at Aisling.
Aisling moved away to join a younger group of people, friends of the bride and groom whom she’d been int
roduced to earlier in the day. Everyone stood around, chatting lightly in the afternoon sunshine as the photogr
apher took shots of group after group. Then, Aisling heard her name being called and she whirled round to be confronted by a very smart, beaming Thomas. She glanced around, but he seemed to be on his own.
“You – look very beautiful today,” he said, looking her over from head to toe. “You look very – different.”