Echoes (28 page)

CLARE HATED SHARING THE ROOM WITH CHRISSIE WHEN SHE came home from school during the holidays. Chrissie's clothes smelled of sweat; she always had stockings rolled up and stuffed into shoes. The dressing table was covered with spilled powder and hair clips and combs with tufts of Chrissie's curly hair caught in the teeth. She used Clare's bed as a place to store her clothes and only very grudgingly removed them when the occupant returned from boarding school at the end of term.

Clare thought almost nostalgically of her small clean white bed in the dormitory, of the chair where her uniform lay neatly waiting for the morrow, with the stockings folded on top like a cross. It was always nice and airy in the dormitory, freezing sometimes, actually, but there was never that close smell of bodies that you had sharing a room with Chrissie. Worst of all were the blood-spattered white coats. It had never been defined who was to wash these coats and where the washing was to be done, but while it was in dispute two or more of them often festered on the floor. Clare would hide them under other garments so that she didn't have to speculate what part of what dead animal had bled over Chrissie's middle. She looked around her in disgust.

She
should
feel sorry for Chrissie—she knew this—but it didn't make it any easier. It was a desperate life standing up in Dwyers' butcher's shop and having to hack great bits of carcasses of dead sheep and cows. It wasn't a glamorous job, and it couldn't do her any good at the dance when fellows asked where she worked. Clare had suggested more than once that she try to work somewhere else. The chemist maybe? And be with that old bore Mr. Murphy, Mr. Murphy, a daily communicant who kept his own daughters under lock and key? No thank you very much. Or the hotel even? And be a skivvy passing round dinner plates or washing up for Young Mrs. Dillon and her mad old mother-in-law—no, thank you, not even if Clare was friendly with them. Thank you, Chrissie would prefer to earn her own wages and be done with the place as soon as she left it in the evening.

There had been a hope that she could have used the room they had called the Boys' Room, the downstairs room where Tommy and Ned used to sleep all those years ago when they lived at home. But Mam and Dad said that room had to be used as a storeroom now, and since the business was far better than ever before, a storeroom was needed. The new caravan park up on the Far Cliff Road meant a great deal of trade. People in caravans had to buy everything; they didn't do much cooking so it was mainly cold ham and tins of things. When they trekked across from the caravan field O'Brien's was the first shop they met, perched as it was at the top of the steps going down to the sea. Very few of them went any farther, and then the caravan people came back again to stock up for the day on the beach, and on the way home they would buy things for their tea. It was all great but it did mean that the Boys' Room was gone as a possible place to sleep, and Clare felt she must keep the rows to a minimum, only fight over things that are really important.

Miss O'Hara and Clare had another secret, another scholarship, another overambitious project. Clare O'Brien was going to go for the county scholarship. One student in the entire county would be offered a place in University College, Dublin, to study Arts, to do a B.A. degree. It was called the Murray Prize. A Mr. Murray long dead had left his money for this, and the competition was fierce. Usually a bright boy from one of the seminaries won it, but three years ago it had been a girl, a very brainy girl whose father was professor already. Clare and Miss O'Hara had decided to take it on.

The prize was awarded on the strength of marks received in the leaving certificate together with a personal interview. Those candidates with a sizeable number of Honours Papers and who had already announced their participation would be called to appear before a committee. Even to be called to interview by the Murray committee was an honor. But it was an honor that wouldn't happen until the end of August. The examination results had to come in first. Miss O'Hara had begged Clare to enjoy the summer, it might be her last summer of freedom. If she
did
get to university there would always be the need to study, and she would have to work for extra money—the Murray scholarship was not princely. If she did
not
get to university then she would be working during the rest of her summers, so there was even more reason to enjoy this last one. Have a bit of a fling, Miss O'Hara had advised her, and Miss O'Hara had said embarrassingly that Clare was turning into a fine-looking girl and she should make the most of it.

Clare looked at herself in the mirror. She wanted to lighten the color of her hair: she used Sta-Blonde shampoo, which claimed to bring out the blond highlights, but it didn't or else there were no highlights to bring out. She would have used some peroxide in the rinsing water like some of the girls at school did but, really, one look at Chrissie's peroxided fuzz would be enough to turn you against the stuff even if the smell of it didn't. Clare had grown tall, all of a sudden, when she was fourteen. Nobody had expected it, least of all Clare, and it was highly irritating. School uniforms had to have false hems and be let down to the last possible thread. She wore her hair in a ponytail with one of those nice plastic clips. Chrissie had said it made her look like a horse, but Clare had taken no notice. The great thing about going away to school was meeting so many other people and being able to compare Chrissie with them. Now she no longer believed her elder sister and didn't feel put down by the scathing insults heaped on her all the time.

Clare would like to have had blue eyes. Brown eyes were wrong in her face she thought, her complexion wasn't right for them. If she were like Ava Gardner, or had a dark smoldering face, then big brown eyes would be good; but she thought they looked out of place with her light hair and fair skin. Still. There was nothing she could do about them. Josie told her they were fine, and what's more they were unusual, so there. She should be delighted with them and stop complaining.

Josie was going from strength to strength these days. She was already in the office of the hotel, wearing a frilly white blouse and a cameo brooch. She had lost a great deal of weight in the two years she spent living in her aunt's house while she went to the commercial college. Her aunt was the meanest woman in Ireland and the meals that were served were extremely sparse. But it was all to the good and Josie's two sisters looked at her with shock each time they came home from their boarding school, and, eventually, the Hotel and Catering College. Slow, fat Josie could type letters like the wind, had understood bookkeeping and simple accountancy. She was helping Father and Uncle Dick and Mother with far more confidence than they seemed to be able to drum up. In fact Rose and Emily were quite jealous of the sister they used to call poor Josie. They even complained when they saw her change into whites and play tennis with that Clare O'Brien from the shop. But Josie was calm. She and Clare played tennis every morning from eight to nine; then they went to work, Josie in her family business, Clare in hers. They played again at seven in the evening. Rose and Emily had all day to play if they wanted to. It was unanswerable. Which was why Rose and Emily hated it; it was even further irritating to see that Josie and Clare played well and often played a mixed doubles with guests from the hotel.

Clare and Josie had more fun at the dance than Rose and Emily who thought, wrongly, that they would be exotic and a treat coming home as they had from Dublin. But the visitors didn't know where they had come from and the locals all knew the two girls who were around all the time; they were never without a partner.

Leaning over the balcony and watching Josie rocking enthusiastically to “See You Later, Alligator,” Emily complained loudly one evening that the young ones had it very easy, didn't they? Nice cushy job ready made for them in the hotel, no studying hotel management, all plain sailing and life one long holiday. Chrissie O'Brien, another wallflower, watched her younger sister with equal rage and said that there was no justice in life. Rose and Emily had to disassociate themselves. Annoyed they might be, but they weren't going to ally themselves with terrible Chrissie O'Brien.

The Nolans still came to Castlebay; they were part and parcel of the place now. At least, Mr. and Mrs. Nolan did. Of James, there was no sign. Josie sighed.

“Maybe he'll come down this summer, and you'll dazzle him,” Clare said.

“No, I interrogated his mother. He's in France picking grapes with David Power. Can you imagine anything more stupid, those two picking grapes? They don't need the money. Why aren't they here where they
are
needed?”

“It's a funny time of year to be picking grapes,” Clare said thoughtfully. “I thought all that was much later on.”

“Maybe they're up to no good. They could have French mistresses.” Josie was deliberately making herself miserable.

“They should be working for their exams,” Clare said primly. David Power was about Fourth Med by now. And James Nolan had a B.A. in economics, but he still had to do his Bar Final. Josie was right—they were much too grown-up and sophisticated to pick grapes or whatever in France, but they were much too grown-up and sophisticated to come to Castlebay as well.

 

Molly Power was delighted with the letter. It said she was to let the Nolans know too. David and James would be arriving next Thursday week. Things hadn't worked out exactly as they had hoped in France, long explanations later, but meanwhile they thought they would come back to Castlebay. Waving the letter Molly ran out on to the drive as she heard her husband's car on the gravel.

“Great news: David's coming home next week.”

His face lit up with pleasure. “David's coming back, Bones,” he said and the animal did three circuits of the car, barking delightedly.

Paddy Power took his wife's arm and they sat on the garden seat, looking straight out to sea. On a day like this, it was paradise.

Nellie called from the kitchen window. “You look very comfortable out there, stay as you are. I'll bring out your dinner.”

A polite protest.

“Sure, why don't you act like the quality?” Nellie said and closed the window.

They smiled at each other, pleased greatly that their son was coming home.

“I arranged for old Mrs. O'Hara to go into the County Hospital for a couple of weeks today. Observation, I call it.”

“And what is it? What has she got?”

“Nothing, as far as I can see. Nothing she hasn't had for years. But I want to give Angela a holiday—that's what it's really about. Angela hardly ever gets a break. I want her to enjoy a bit of this summer. Lord, she's living in a place that half of Ireland and indeed half of England as well seems to be descending on . . . but she never gets out to enjoy it.”

“You're very thoughtful.” Molly touched his knee affectionately.

“I've always liked her, always—she's got such pluck, I know it's a funny word, it's not a word for people like us, but that's it. Pluck. Do you know I often think young Clare O'Brien from the shop has it too. I always see her as sort of an echo of Angela O'Hara.”

“Do you?” Molly frowned.

“Same way of sticking their chins up and getting on with things, no matter what.” Dr. Power smiled at the thought.

“I don't think so.” Molly was shaking her head. “Angela had spirit certainly, and it's wonderful she got so far, considering . . .” She left unsaid the ripples of disapproval over Dinny O'Hara's behavior, and her own remoteness toward the life looking after an old woman.

Dr. Power hid his impatience. He hated Molly in that grande dame mood. “Well, the child Clare O'Brien has nobody to be apologizing for, just the fact that she was born poor and triumphed over it.”

“She was born sneaky, Paddy, you're too kind, you don't see these things. A woman would notice. She has deceitful eyes.”

“Well, you say what you think. I say what I think.”

“But it's silly. Silly, to say such a thing about a child.”

“To me some of the things
you
do and say are silly. I don't pass remarks about them.”

“All right, Moll, all right. Life's short. Let's leave it.” The day seemed less shiny somehow for him.

 

Gerry Doyle arrived at the O'Haras' cottage later in the afternoon. He was to give them a lift to the hospital. “Take as much time as you like,” he told them. “I'm in no hurry, so don't be rushing.”

But they were ready: Mrs. O'Hara tremulous and afraid of a bumpy journey in that young tearaway's van, Angela pale and anxious. The little suitcase had been packed.