Echoes (37 page)

“Mammy, why are you saying all this? I'm only in the door! I'm not going up to Miss O'Hara's. I'll go and see her tomorrow or the day after maybe, but you never minded that—you were always grateful to her too.”

“I know. Don't mind me. I'm cranky these days.”

“What is it?” They were on their own.

“A bit of everything.”

“It's not Chrissie's wedding. You're not upset about that?”

“Not at all, for every shoe God made a stocking. I tell you those two were matched in heaven.”

“Well what then?”

“I suppose I get to thinking. I wonder about Tommy.” Clare's heart jumped. “You'll know this yourself in years to come—there's something about the eldest one, I don't know what it is. But he never writes. He never comes back. Wouldn't it be great if he walked in this Christmas? That's what I was thinking I suppose.”

“Tommy never wrote more than his name in his life—you know that.”

“Yes, but I'm not settled about Ned's letters. He's hiding something. I'm going to ask Gerry Doyle when he comes in here will he go and see him, he's going to England tomorrow.”

“When did he tell you that? He said he was going to tell no one.”

“I asked him if he'd pick up some supplies for us before Christmas and he said he wouldn't be around. He just told me now, a few minutes ago when you were getting your stuff out of his van and being surprised at the sound of the sea all over again.”

“Gerry'd not have time to go finding Tommy and Ned.”

“Ah, he will. He's a good boy for all that they give him a bad name around here. I'll have a word with him tomorrow.”

 

Clare left a note into Gerry Doyle's house that night. She said she wanted to stroll out to see the cliffs, her mother said she was stark raving mad but you might as well talk to a stone wall as to any of her children.

Gerry was sitting on the wall next morning as she had asked him. It was dark gray and threatening but it wasn't raining. They were both wrapped up well.

“There's a bit of a problem about Tommy,” she said.

“I thought there was from the sound of you.” He didn't sound triumphant or curious.

“Wormwood Scrubs to be exact,” she said.

“That's a bit of a problem all right.” He grinned at her comfortingly. “And your ma doesn't know?”

“Nobody knows except Ned and me.”

“That's hard.”

“No, it's worse on him in the jail, and the old man they beat up doing the robbery, those are the people it's hard on.”

“Sure. Well, what will I do? Say I can't find him?”

“No, could you just ring Ned. I've his phone number here written out, and talk away to him and then tell Ma that Tommy's fine. Would that be all right?” She looked very young and very anxious in the cold morning air.

“That's fine. I'll look after it.”

“Thanks, Gerry.”

She hadn't asked him to keep it to himself; she didn't need to.

“About Fiona,” he said.

“It's none of my business,” she said suddenly.

“No, but anyway, she's having a baby this week. A Christmas baby of all bloody things.”

Clare nearly fell off the wall with shock. But for Gerry's sake she hid it. “She's lucky to have you,” she said.

“We're a great pair,” he said and leaped lightly off the wall. He helped her down.

“Happy Christmas anyway,” he said.

She looked at him gratefully. His small pointed face was cold in the chilly dawn. He had said as little as could possibly be said, offered little sympathy when there was nothing to say. He had told Fiona's secret just so that she would have something in return, so that the pain and shame of her telling could be written off in a balance on some kind of scales.

“Happy Christmas, Gerry,” she said. “You're very very nice.”

“I've always been telling you that. You're the one that didn't realize it,” he joked.

“I don't mean
that
sort of nice,” Clare said, but she wondered as she said it was she being truthful. He was so handsome and kind; he had this great sense of being in charge. Nothing could go really wrong if you told Gerry. Fiona had been very lucky to have a brother like that. Fine help poor Tommy or Ned would have been in such a predicament. She felt sorry that he wouldn't be around for the Christmas holidays. She felt this odd kind of wish to hold on to him. Not to let him go.

“I'd better head for foreign parts,” he said. He was still holding her hands since he had helped her down from the wall.

“Safe journey. I hope . . . I hope Fiona'll be all right.”

“I'm sure she will. She's going to give the baby for adoption, and then I suppose I'll have to teach her something about photography.”

“About
what?
”

“Photography.” He gave his familiar crooked grin. “That's what the whole place thinks she's been studying for the past six months.”

 

Angela was delighted to see her, no of course she wasn't too early, come on in and have breakfast like the old days.

“When I'm properly grown up and have my own place, I'll have exactly the same breakfast as you do,” Clare said, tucking in.

“What do I have that's special?”

“You have white shop bread and you have nice thin shop marmalade and you don't have thick homemade bread and awful homemade marmalade like people buy at sales of work.”

“Is this all your university education has done for you, made you whinge and whine about shop bread? Tell me about it all there. Tell me about Emer and Kevin. Why don't you write to me, great long letters like you did when you were at school?”

“I don't know. I really don't know.”

“That's very honest of you.” Angela smiled, not at all put out. “Anyway you're very busy up there.”

“It's not that.” Clare struggled to be honest. “I write to my Mam, and to Josie and to Tommy. I
do
have time.”

“It might be easier in a while,” Angela seemed untroubled by it. “Let me tell you about the place above. You won't credit this. Immaculata has gone totally and completely mad this term, the men with white coats will be stepping out of a van for her before Easter, mark my words.”

Mrs. O'Hara frowned. “You're very foolish and wrong, Angela, to say such things in front of a child. For all Clare's great marks she's only a child.”

“It's all right, Mrs. O'Hara,” Clare said. “I've heard it all. I say nothing, I keep my mouth closed.”

“You're the only one in this county who does then,” grumbled Angela's mother.

There was a long and insane story about Mother Immaculata having a Christmas pageant where everyone had to bring a toy for a poor child, they would all be gathered by the crib. Then one child had asked where they would go.

“To the
poor,
” Mother Immaculata had shrilled.

“But aren't we the poor?” the child had asked. “There isn't anyone poorer than us.”

Clare laughed and while more tea was being poured she wrote Angela a note. “I want to talk to you about Tommy, but not in front of your mother.”

Angela suggested that Clare come upstairs to see some new books that she had bought, and Clare sat for the first time in her teacher's bedroom. She was surprised at how sparse it was, with the very very white bedspread and the crucifix hanging over the bed head. There was a small press, Mary Catherine would have wept over the lack of closets. And a white chair. No carpet but a nice rug on the floor. Somehow it was a bit sad.

“I had to tell Gerry Doyle about Tommy,” she explained. She told everything except Gerry's secret.

“I had to tell him,” she said eventually when she saw Angela's troubled face. “What else could I have done?”

“I suppose you could have let him find out and hoped he wouldn't tell your mother.”

“But it would have been so devious, such a long way round.”

“You might be right. I'm sure you are. It's just that now you've told him you're sort of in his power.”

“That's very dramatic.” Clare tried to laugh.

“He's a very dramatic young man. I've always thought that. Far too handsome and smart for Castlebay—he's dangerous almost.”

“I won't be in his power, honestly.” She looked straight into Angela's eyes. “As much as I know anything, I know that. I'll never be in his control.”

 

David came into O'Brien's shop on Christmas Eve. Bones sat obediently outside the door.

“You can bring him in. Everyone else brings their hounds in,” Clare's father said. “In fact Mogsy Byrne brought in two cows a month ago.”

“I'd thank you to remember his name is Maurice, Dad, and he did
not
bring them in. They came in because the young fellow who was meant to be minding them wasn't.”

“Congratulations, Chrissie. I heard you are engaged.” David was polite.

Chrissie simpered and showed him the ring. David said it looked terrific.

“No sign of you making a move in that direction yourself?” she said, arch woman of the world now, trying to encourage those who were hanging back.

“Oh, I think I'd better wait till I'm qualified. It's bad enough asking someone to take on a doctor but a medical student would be a fate worse than death, and we'd have nothing to live on.”

“Have you lost your heart up in Dublin?” Chrissie wondered.

“Chrissie, stop it. You're very forward,” Agnes said.

“No, I've been working too hard really to have any time for romance.” He smiled easily at them all. “Is Clare here?”

“No, no sign of Clare—where would she be but up in Miss O'Hara's or in the hotel with Josie Dillon, there's no sign of her round here, I can assure you that.” Chrissie's voice was resentful. “Sorry your visit was in vain,” she said spitefully.

“Not at all. I came for cigarettes,” he said easily. “And for a tin of those nice biscuits as well for Nellie, and some black pudding.”

“Your mother got black pudding this morning,” Tom O'Brien said—it would be no use alienating a customer by selling the same thing twice.

“I'm sure she did but I bet she didn't get enough. I want six bits on my plate when we come back from Mass tomorrow morning. You've no idea how I miss black pudding in Dublin. They only have mean little slivers of it, and it doesn't taste the same at all.”

He wished them happy Christmas and they found a piece off the end of some cooked ham for Bones, and Bones gobbled it up and raised his paw in the air even though nobody had been offering to shake hands with him at all.

 

Clare was lying on Josie's bed, telling her all about the hostel and the rungs up the wall and the laughs with Mary Catherine and Valerie. She told her about the lectures and the debating society on Saturday nights, and the hops, and how each Society had dances which were meant to make money.

Josie was disappointed that she had only met James Nolan on two occasions—in the café and at the very hot crowded party in somebody's flat. Clare revealed that he had danced with Mary Catherine twice, if you could call it dancing in those dark rooms; but he hadn't asked Mary Catherine out on a date or anything. Clare
didn't
tell her that James Nolan had forgotten her, she didn't think that was useful information; instead she said that she got the impression he was a bit fickle and faithless. But Josie said that was only when you didn't know him well.

Josie was thrilled about how she was building up the winter business in the hotel; and Uncle Dick had become really nice, not mad and grouchy like he used to be. Granny was totally gaga now; she had told Josie that Josie's mother had been putting arsenic in all their food for years now, and had even poisoned some of the guests, which was why they hadn't come back since. Her sisters Rose and Emily were home for Christmas and weren't a bit pleased about the bridge weekends; and they had almost told her to her face not to interfere. Clare didn't know how awfully quiet the place was in winter. When they were young they hadn't noticed it so much, but it was really so quiet you wouldn't believe it. She had learned to play bridge herself with Uncle Dick and sometimes the two of them went up to the Powers' and played a few rubbers with Mrs. Power and Mr. Harris, that auctioneer man who lived in a big house halfway between the town and Castlebay. He was
eligible,
Uncle Dick said, but he was also a hundred and ten. Well he was thirty-seven, eighteen and a half years older than Josie, twice their age. Uncle Dick must be mad. Clare agreed and told Josie not to dream of trapping the eligible Mr. Harris.

They speculated about Chrissie and Mogsy and wondered what either of them could see in the other. Would their children be as awful as both of them, or twice as awful?

 

Father O'Dwyer went round to the houses of the sick on the night of Christmas Eve and brought them Holy Communion. He came to the O'Hara cottage as his last visit. Angela had prepared the place for his visit and had a little candle-lighting in front of the crib.

She had gone upstairs while the old woman's confession was heard and then when the priest called her she came down to kneel while her mother received Communion. They were all silent for a few minutes, but after that Father O'Dwyer had a cup of tea and a tomato sandwich from which the crusts had been cut off.

“Isn't it a pity that Father Sean didn't make it over to see you this Christmas?” he said conversationally.