Authors: Maeve Binchy
“I can send a copy to Mamusia, to my mother. She will be so proud to see me as part of a team over here.”
Clara swallowed hard. There was something about this girl that
made people feel protective about her and ashamed at the same time. Ashamed that they weren't more grateful for all they had, compared to what Ania had. Clara had bought a new jacket for the night. A cream-colored brocade, piped with red. It fitted her perfectly. She had been back to Kiki the hairdresser and looked as good as she had ever looked. She did a fashion parade in the kitchen before she left.
“You don't look as if you should be parking your own car. You should be drifting out of a limousine.” Adi was full of admiration.
“You know, you could be in your fifties,” Gerry said admiringly.
“I
am
in my fifties, Gerry.”
“Early fifties,” he said. “Forties even …” His voice trailed away.
“Are you on the pull, Clara?” Linda asked with interest. “Any man in particular?”
“No, I'm after many men, and many women too. What I'm after is getting recognition and support for work which I think is important.”
“But you're all dressed up like a dog's dinner,” Linda said.
“I have to try and sell the whole concept of this to people who are successful, and they wouldn't listen to me if I went in a cardigan, with my hair in rat's tails and wearing some kind of a pillowcase!”
She looked so totally different from this image that they burst out laughing.
“Oh, and do you know what I'd really like, Linda? If I get overexcited and have a glass of wine too many, could you come and collect me?”
“Sure,” Linda said. “Don't get too bladdered now and spoil the whole effect.”
“No, I'll try not to get…er …bladdered,” Clara said and left for the clinic.
“I shouldn't have said she looked in her fifties,” Gerry said.
“No, honey, it's fine. She knew what you meant,” Adi consoled him.
Linda rolled her eyes to heaven and said nothing. It was absolutely terrifying what people did for love. Adi used to have a sort of a mind of her own. Once.
• • •
They had the group picture taken.
Johnny's friend Mouth Mangan was a kindly man who understood that this was
the
picture of the night for the people involved. He had arranged it in such a way that the smaller members would be standing on a step and the others not. They would look very equal, which was the purpose of it all.
Mouth said they were all to look over his left shoulder as if they had seen something amazing there and say the words “beer mat.” This made them all laugh and he took the picture at once. Then they were to say the word “sympathy” and they all looked more serious. That was it. Over and done. Mouth had taken away his tripod and was setting up his other camera to take pictures of the celebrities.
“Do you do weddings?” Declan whispered to Mouth.
“I'm great at weddings,” Mouth Mangan confided. “I can do all the officials in eight minutes flat!”
“Officials?” Declan was bewildered.
“You know: Bride, Bride and Groom, Bride and Groom and attendants, Bride's parents, Groom's parents,
all
parents. Makes it easier and quicker if there are no divorces, remarriages and second families—” He looked at Declan questioningly
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then I mix and merge among the guests and give you a contact sheet and you order what you want and put what you want on a Web site. When is it? The wedding?”
“We haven't set a date yet,” Declan said a little wistfully.
“Well, she'd better get a move on.” Mouth was practical. “I don't have too many Saturdays free in the next year and a half.”
The place was filling up. The staff with their red badges introduced themselves to everyone. Frank Ennis watched, surprised, as they swung into action.
“Do I get a red badge too?” he asked Barbara.
“Wouldn't say so, Mr. Ennis. You're only the hospital, aren't you? It's not as if you were a member of the clinic here,” Barbara said.
“Or even a friend to it,” Clara said sweetly.
“You look very lovely tonight, Dr. Casey,” he said.
“And you scrubbed up well too, Frank. Nice tie. Did your girlfriend choose that for you?”
“Sadly, Dr. Casey, I am not blessed with a girlfriend,” he said.
“You mean you're
available?”
she said in mock excitement. “Lord, I wonder do the many unattached ladies coming here tonight know that?”
“I didn't say I was available,” he said loudly.
And Hilary covered her mouth to stop herself from laughing aloud.
Bobby Walsh arrived with his wife and son. Carl was pushing his father in the wheelchair. Mrs. Walsh's hard eyes ranged the open-plan clinic with some surprise. They showed even more surprise when she saw some well-known faces there. Surely that was …? And that woman was definitely a television celebrity. What was
she
doing here? A well-known businessman was talking to an actor. How had that shrewish woman who ran this place brought them all together? The bad-tempered Clara Casey was looking extraordinarily well tonight. Probably had a face-lift. Rosemary Walsh wished she had dressed more carefully herself. She hadn't known it was going to be so smart.
She saw Ania nearby, so she took off her coat and handed it to her, “the clinic's Polish maid.”
“Make sure it's put on a hanger,” she said.
Clara had seen and walked over to them. “How
good
to see you, Mrs. Walsh. Looking for the cloakroom, are you? Just down there at the end.”
“I thought…?” Rosemary Walsh began.
“Yes, I thought everyone could read the sign easily, but apparently not. Next time we must make it bigger. Come with me, Ania. I
want you to introduce me to Father Flynn.” And they moved off, leaving Rosemary Walsh more fuming than she had ever been in her life.
The speeches were short and to the point. Frank Ennis, who had, of course, insisted on speaking, was actually quite good. He was even rather gracious about the clinic and its elegant director, Dr. Casey.
Then the formalities were over and when everything seemed to be going well, Clara rang Linda.
“Sorry, love, it's Clara here.”
“And you're pissed!” Linda said, proud to have identified the situation.
“I wouldn't say that, but then us hopeless drinkers always say that, but I think I'm beyond driving.”
“Okay, will I come down now?”
“Yes. Come in and have a glass of wine.”
“How's it all going?” Linda remembered to ask.
“Amazingly well, and you should see the style,” she added.
“You don't sound too pissed,” Linda said grudgingly.
“You know what it's all about. Holding it all together.”
“I'll get a bus there now,” Linda promised.
“Take a taxi. You don't want to be parading your finery in the bus. Take a taxi. I'll pay”
“Oh, I'm to get dressed up too?”
“Well, I know you won't come in your jeans,” Clara said. She dared not say any more or Linda would be suspicious. But she knew her daughter well enough to realize that she had sent enough messages about smart attire.
Clara introduced Bobby to a man who had once played rugby for Ireland; he was animated in the conversation. She noted too that Ania was deep in conversation with Bobby's son, Carl. Rosemary Walsh stood on her own, her mouth set in a fury. She reminded Clara of someone. Then she remembered. Rosemary Walsh's face was like Clara's own mother's face. Ready and willing to disapprove of whatever presented itself.
Claras mother had not come. She'd been invited but said she had a bridge game and that she couldn't be expected to support every lame-duck cause that her daughter came up with. It was a relief that her mother wasn't there.
It would also be a relief if Rosemary Walsh would collect her coat from the cloakroom and leave now. But life didn't work like that.
Clara fixed the smile back on her face and introduced Rosemary to a bank manager.
“You're never a heart patient?” he said gallantly. It was exactly the right thing to say to Rosemary, so Clara joined in to reinforce it.
“Mrs. Walsh's husband, who is much older than she is, is one of the people who has done very well here at the clinic. Hasn't spent a day in hospital since he came to see us first. He's a great supporter, and he's here tonight, over there with his son.”
The bank manager was impressed, and Rosemary looked less beached than she had.
Clara had also introduced the good-tempered priest Father Flynn to a millionaire with the instructions that he wasn't to divert the millionaire's money entirely to his own center.
It was going better than she had dared to hope.
Nick arrived first. Clara saw him talking to his mother and had to steel herself not to go over and greet him. She watched as Hilary got him a glass of wine and introduced him to a couple of colleagues. He was tall and relaxed, as at home there as he would be anywhere. Would he be right for her troubled Linda?
Linda came in then. Clara saw her looking around the roaringly successful party in wonder. Clara felt a wave of pride at being able to show this to her over-critical daughter. Cake sale indeed!
She saw Hilary move Nick into Johnny's physiotherapy room and so Clara headed that way too with Linda.
“You need to look at these amazing exercise plans he has on the wall,” she said. “I'll try not to be too long.”
“You're great at hiding the signs of drink,” Linda said grudgingly. “I thought you'd be on all fours.”
Clara waved her wineglass around airily. It was her first drink tonight, but Linda must never know this. “Oh, I fear I'm well over the limit,” she said. “I'm glad I sound all right. I have two or three more people to talk to.”
“Take your time, Clara.” Linda was cheerful about it all. At least she wasn't going to have to carry her mother to the car. She was glad she had put on her black-and-white silk dress. It looked good on her and she had extremely uncomfortable shoes that went with it. She had dropped her sneakers into the trunk of the car as she passed by. She would never be able to drive in these shoes. Linda looked around at the people there. She recognized one or two faces from the television. She saw politicians whose faces were familiar. Ah, God, why had she called this a cake sale? She wondered where this awful man her mother hated called Frank was, and she'd love to met this boringly angelic Polish girl who seemed to be everything a mother wanted wrapped up in one small hardworking parcel.
She noticed a pleasant-looking man across the room studying the exercise charts. He wasn't wearing a badge. He must be a visitor like herself. She thought he had looked at her admiringly when she came in. But then she must stop thinking things like that. Usually people weren't fancying her at all, just looking with a passing interest at someone with long legs. It had been her downfall thinking that people were admiring her when more often than not there was no admiration at all.
It was Fiona who introduced them in the end. Clara told her to do it.
“Just say this is Nick Hickey This is Linda Casey. Please, Fiona, now.”
“Why don't you or Hilary do it?”
“I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you, so it's better you just go and do it,” Clara urged her.
“Ooh, is it a touch of matchmaking? Are we going to be talking about two weddings soon?” Fiona joked.
“If you mention anything like that, even remotely I will take you to one of those treatment beds and skillfully remove your entire heart and transplant it into someone else,” she said, with such intensity that Fiona backed down.
“Yeah, sure, I get the message.”
“This conversation is over and did not take place,” Clara said.
“What conversation? You'll have to excuse me, Clara. I have a couple of things to do.” Fiona escaped to Johnny's room to do the job.
She was very beautiful, Clara's daughter. She didn't need any mother trying to find her a fellow. And as far as Nick was concerned, he was so easygoing he didn't look like Last Chance Saloon either. Still, this was her mission.
“I came to pick up my mother because she's drunk,” Linda said.
“So did I, in a way. Snap!” He laughed.
“Who is your drunken mother?” Linda asked.
“Hilary Hickey” he said. “She's the office manager.”
“My mother is Clara Casey,” she said grumpily.
“Oh, the head honcho,” he said. “I see.”
“She looks quite sober, though.” Linda felt defensive now. She didn't want to let this office manager hear that Clara was a dipso or anything.
“Better to be sure though these days,” he said approvingly.
“Are you involved in the clinic here?”
“Not enough,” Nick said ruefully. “I didn't realize exactly how much they had all done here. I must say I'm impressed.”
“Me too,” Linda said. He hadn't said what he did for a living. Well, that was okay. She hated those people who immediately pinned you down and classified you by your job. Her ex-boyfriend Simon said that you should always ask someone what they did for a living the moment you met them so that you wouldn't waste any time with nobodies and losers. But that was very Simon. Not necessarily anything you'd want to live by.
This Nick was nice. And he revealed his job himself. He said he didn't get much exercise as he taught music, which was a sittingdown
job, and he played in a club, which involved sitting around and then standing up to play in an intense atmosphere.
Linda said she worked in a record shop and told him where it was.
“They're terrific,” Nick said. “They're starting a whole new jazz section.”
“And I'm in charge of it,” Linda said proudly.
“Never!” He was very impressed.
“Yes, I have a rack of Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Miles Davis already, and they've given me funds to get more.”
“Will you have Artie Shaw,” he asked, “and Benny Goodman?”
“Sure I will. I was going to get going with jazz women. You know, Billie Holiday, Ella …?”
“And Lena!” he cried. “You'll have lots of Lena Horne.”
“Oh yes, yes. My favorite, Lena is. More than you know.”
“Mine is At Long Last Love,’” Nick said.
The guests were all leaving. Clara and Hilary, the two ostensibly drunken mothers, were peeping around the door.