Two Lives

20

‘We would not have come,’ Rose said, ‘in normal circumstances.’

‘We didn’t want to come,’ Matilda emphasized.

‘No, we didn’t want to come at all. We held back – oh, for how long, Matilda? Would you say a year?’

‘A good year.’

The panic that the first utterances of the sisters had stirred in Mrs Dallon did not quieten. Even before they stepped into the house, while Kilkelly’s man was turning the car in the yard and bringing it to a halt to wait for them, they had offered an explanation for their unannounced presence, repeating in a different way what Letty had reported: there was something the matter with Mary Louise.

‘She hasn’t been herself, certainly.’ Mr Dallon’s narrow grey face was enlivened by a reflection of his wife’s anxiety.

‘Well, of course we don’t know what being herself is,’ Rose said. ‘Strictly speaking. What I mean, Mr Dallon, is we only know the person Elmer brought into the household. To be candid with you, she was strange from the first.’

‘Though of course, Mr Dallon, not as unusual as she is now. Not of course by a long chalk.’

Distractedly Mrs Dallon poured the tea she’d made, and even asked if the man waiting in the car would like a cup. The sisters said not to bother, but Mr Dallon felt the man should be offered something, and carried a cup out. Certainly Mary Louise had become quieter, he reflected on this journey. Letty had been on about it again last evening: anyone would be quieter, she’d said, married to Quarry. But the marriage had taken place ages ago, she added, and every time she saw her Mary Louise was quieter still. When he returned to the kitchen Rose was saying:

‘We sit in the front room of an evening. There’s the wireless to listen to. Elmer buys the magazines when the YMCA has finished with them, hardly anything they cost him. They’re there in the front room, she could look at them if she wanted to.’

Mr Dallon noticed that his wife’s eyes had a distended look. They bulged and goggled. Never in all the years he’d known her did he remember seeing her eyes like that. Turning to him, she said:

‘Mary Louise is always in that attic. I told you she went up there, the day I called. Apparently she locks herself in.’

‘There’s that and other things, Mr Dallon.’ Rose’s tone was brisk in confirmation. ‘As we’ve been saying.’

‘You’d ask her a question, Mr Dallon, and she’d not reply.’

‘Why does she go up to an attic?’

‘We’ve asked her that, Mr Dallon, Elmer has asked her repeatedly. She doesn’t deign to reply.’

‘Another thing is, there are certain tasks I have myself and certain that Matilda has, and a small number that are Mary Louise’s. We reached that agreement, but to tell you the truth the entire house could be a rubbish dump for all she’d care.’

‘A rubbish dump?’

‘Filthy dirty,’ Rose explained. ‘If she has a mood on she won’t lift a finger. She puts the plates on the table unwashed from the last time. There’s grime and filth on the plates and she doesn’t so much as blink.’

‘Then again, in the shop, Mr Dallon. A person will come in looking for oilcloth and she’ll say we don’t stock it. When the fact of the matter is we have oilcloth in three different weights and more than a dozen patterns.’

‘To tell the truth, we can’t get rid of it.’ Rose allowed herself a deviation, though her lips remained tightened in a knot even as she spoke. ‘Nobody goes much for oilcloth these days, but Elmer says don’t throw it out so we don’t.’

‘Yesterday, for instance, we heard her saying to a person that oilcloth might be obtained next door, in Renehan’s.’

‘Perhaps Mary Louise wasn’t aware –’

‘There is no commodity in the shop we haven’t pointed out to her.’

‘She locks the attic door on herself, Mr Dallon. There’s a lot of property that she’s moved from one attic to the next. It wasn’t hers to touch, as a matter of fact, but never mind that. You rap on the door and ask her if she’s sick. She doesn’t say a word.’

‘Not a word,’ Matilda confirmed.

‘We thought ourselves,’ Mrs Dallon brought herself to say, ‘that Mary Louise was perhaps disappointed because a family hasn’t been started.’

‘Wouldn’t you say it’s a godsend it hasn’t, Mrs Dallon?’

‘I’ll give you an example,’ Matilda offered. ‘I was closing the shop a week or so back and I said to her, “Wait a minute, Mary Louise, I want to try on a few of the skirts that came in this morning. ” All I intended was that she’d give me an opinion – sometimes someone else is better than yourself. Well, she stood as still as a statue at the bottom of the stairs that goes up to the office, like she’d been put into the corner at school. “How’s that? ” I said when I’d slipped on the first one, a blue and mauve dog’s tooth it was. D’you know the reply I received?’

Together, the Dallons indicated they didn’t.

‘She said I looked ridiculous in that skirt. Then she walked away. Ridiculous. No reason given.’

‘Another thing.’ Once more, Rose took up the catalogue of shortcomings. ‘There’s a little porcelain egg-cup our mother had. Now, no one uses that egg-cup except myself. “Rose can have my egg-cup,” my mother said a week before she died. I walked into the kitchen one day and there she was, eating an egg out of it.’

‘These days she sometimes takes her food in the kitchen,’ Matilda explained. ‘She won’t enter the dining-room if she has a mood on.’

‘ “That’s a special egg-cup, Mary Louise,” I said, not cross, just gently. I said it even though I’d told her before. “I’d rather you didn’t use it, Mary Louise,” I said.’

Mrs Dallon was about to say that anyone can forget a request like that, or confuse one egg-cup with another. She began to speak, but Rose shook her head before she’d said more than half a dozen words.

‘A week later I found it chipped on the rim. You couldn’t have it on the table now.’

‘It’s going up to the attic I’d worry about more,’ Mrs Dallon confessed. ‘And eating her food in the kitchen. Why does she do that?’

‘That’s the difficulty we have,’ Matilda said. ‘You wouldn’t know why she’d do anything. That’s why we’re sitting here.’

Mr Dallon asked how Elmer felt.

‘Elmer’s tormented by it,’ Rose replied. ‘You have only to look at the unfortunate man.’

Not here, any more than in the town, did they intend to mention that their brother had been driven to drink. With the girl gone from the house he’d be back to normal within a day, neither had the slightest doubt about that. He’d come and go as he had before the unfortunate entanglement, without bringing the odour of a distillery into the house every time he returned to it. A veil would be spread over the period of unpleasantness.

‘But what on earth d’you think is the matter with Mary Louise?’ Mrs Dallon agitatedly exclaimed. ‘What’s troubling her?’

‘That’s why we’re sitting here, Mrs Dallon,’ Matilda repeated. ‘In order to gain your assistance. We were wondering could it be mental?’

‘Mental?’

‘If you were in the house ten minutes with her the word would come into your head. Is it a normal thing for any person to spend three-quarters of the day in an attic?’

‘I thought it was just the evenings.’

‘The evenings is the main time. But sometimes you look round in the shop and she’s not to be seen. Well, you saw for yourself.’

‘Sundays too,’ Matilda put in. ‘An entire Sunday morning. Many’s the time.’

‘Another thing, she’ll go out on her bicycle on a Sunday after dinner and you’d worry in case she’s ridden into a bog or something. Nine and ten o’clock she’s not back.’

‘She comes over here on a Sunday, but she’s never as late as that.’

‘Nine or ten, isn’t it, Matilda?’

‘Oh, easily. With the long evenings she’s out till all hours.’

‘There was one night she didn’t come in at all.’

‘What?’ Just for an instant Mrs Dallon sounded hysterical. Her husband raised a hand, as though to calm her. ‘What?’ she said again, whispering now.

‘The day you called in she walked out of the house and didn’t come in till six o’clock the next morning.’

‘But where on earth was she?’

‘Matilda and I were all for going to the Guards. “She’s gone over to Culleen,” Elmer said.’

‘She wasn’t here.’

‘Well, there you are then. To tell you the truth, Mrs Dallon, we’re worried the entire time. The state she’s in she could end up anywhere on that cycle. You hear terrible things these days.’

‘We didn’t know any of this.’ Mr Dallon slowly shook his head, the skin of his face puckered with concern.

‘She’s riding wildly about the country, God knows where she goes. There was another time we had to make Elmer go out looking for her.’

Matilda didn’t add that they had watched Elmer going straight to Hogan’s, that he hadn’t returned until after ten, an hour after Mary Louise had returned herself. Neither sister revealed that Elmer had argued that it was up to his wife to decide if she wanted to go for a bicycle ride, and how long she should remain away. Rose said:

‘ “I wouldn’t have it,” she said to Mrs Riordan in the shop a week ago. “The wide lapels don’t suit you.” The woman had her money on the counter. You can’t run a shop like that. If Elmer knew the half of it he’d jump out of his skin.’

It was then that Matilda mentioned a place they’d heard of, an asylum for women who were mentally distressed. They hadn’t made inquiries; a person had mentioned it to them, which told a tale in itself.

‘Very well looked after,’ Rose said. ‘A garden to go into. The food’s second to none.’

‘My God!’ Aghast, Mrs Dallon stared at her visitors. The suggestion was horrible; the thought of it made her feel sick in the stomach. No matter how oddly Mary Louise was behaving, why should she be committed to an asylum?

‘Mary Louise is not mad,’ Mr Dallon protested. ‘That doesn’t come into it.’

‘It wasn’t me who thought of that place,’ Rose reminded him. ‘Another person was trying to help.’

‘She should definitely see Dr Cormican.’ He turned to his wife. ‘We’ll drive in and have a word with Cormican.’

The sisters, feeling themselves dismissed by this decision, rose immediately. But before they left Rose said:

‘Naturally, no one would want the poor girl confined in some place when she could be looked after by her own. We don’t want to leave without saying that.’

‘Her own?’

‘Her family we were thinking.’ Rose looked around the kitchen. ‘Where things are familiar to her.’

Apart from words of leave-taking, nothing further was said. Kilkelly’s car carried the sisters back to the town. The Dallons prepared themselves for an immediate visit to Dr Cormican.

More than most people, Bridget, the manageress of Hogan’s Hotel, knew everything that happened in the town. She had noted with interest during the last eighteen months the intensifying of Elmer Quarry’s addiction. It was a curious phenomenon, a considerable surprise that a Quarry should have come to err in this way, since the family was known for its longstanding tradition of sobriety. Bridget was also struck by a related habit Elmer Quarry had developed, that of leaving the bar by the door that led to the hall of the hotel and pausing there for a few minutes. She had observed him watching her through the glass partition of the reception desk, while pretending to admire the antlers on the wall at the bottom of the stairs or to consult the Irish Field calendar of the year’s events. If through curiosity she emerged, he remarked on the weather and asked her how she was. Then he said good-night and went away.

Well used in her professional capacity to the attentions of men, surreptitious or otherwise, Bridget knew she was not mistaken in her surmises about all this. The direct way out of the bar to the street was by the other door: there was no call for any drinker to make his way into the hotel. And there was a quality in Elmer Quarry’s mildly inebriated gaze that precluded any further doubt: when he was boozed up he wanted to take a gander at her. Bridget didn’t mind – if you minded stuff like that you might as well change into another business. But she wondered about the girl Elmer Quarry had married, a kid whom no time ago she remembered seeing on the streets with a school satchel. She’d heard it said it couldn’t be easy for the girl with two harridans breathing down her neck; even worse when Quarry had taken to the bottle and wasn’t averse to eyeing other women.

‘What d’you make of Quarry?’ She put the question to the barman one evening, joining him in the bar when he’d closed it for the night. She usually looked in at this time and had a medium sherry while Gerry finished the glass of stout that had lasted all evening.

‘He’s the better for it with a couple inside him.’ Experienced in such matters, Gerry was firm.

‘It came on him suddenly though. Time was he only took a mineral.’

‘ You’d notice it in the older type of bachelor.’ Gerry paused. He savoured another mouthful of stout, then slowly wiped a residue of foam from his upper lip. ‘The Quarrys marry to get a baby,’ he said.

‘I know they do.’

‘She saw what was there before she took the step herself. Isn’t it evens Stephens if she can’t oblige the man?’

‘I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall in that house.’

‘I’ll tell you this. In a twelvemonth he’ll be well away.’

Later that night, as she undressed in her small room at the top of the hotel, Bridget was still thinking about Elmer Quarry and the girl who had married him. In particular she’d have liked to be a fly on the wall of their bedroom. She’d have liked to be a fly inside Elmer Quarry’s head, able to see what he was thinking as he lay down beside his young wife, and to know why it was he loitered in the hall of the hotel. But in bed, when she’d turned the light out, she forgot about the Quarrys and thought about the curate she’d been in love with when she was a girl herself, who’d been sent away to another parish. ‘I’ll give it up for you,’ he’d whispered, before Canon Maguire stepped in.

‘We just thought we’d see how you were getting on,’ Mrs Dallon said in the shop. ‘We had to drive in anyway.’

‘We haven’t seen you for a while,’ Mary Louise’s father added.

From behind the counter their daughter acknowledged their explanation. She asked them if they’d like to come upstairs and then led the way. The sisters greeted them with nods of approval.

‘You could swing a cat or two here,’ Mr Dallon said in the big front room.

Mary Louise made tea and brought it to them. Her mother said:

‘We’ve been a bit worried about you, Mary Louise.’

‘Worried? Why worried?’

Neither replied, neither knowing quite how to. Dr Cormican had explained to them that unless Mary Louise complained of being ill and came to see him he could not help. There could be a dozen reasons, he said, why she should choose to spend so much time in a locked room. People got up to greater eccentricities than that. ‘Why don’t you chat with her yourselves?’ he’d suggested.

‘Are you all right, Mary Louise?’ Mr Dallon asked. ‘Is everything OK with you?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Now, Mary Louise,’ her mother began, then checked herself. ‘What we mean is, maybe it’s lonesome for you. Maybe you miss the family and the farm.’

‘I’ve been married two and a half years.’

‘Even so, pet.’

‘Has somebody said something?’

‘The odd person has noticed you have a lonesome look.’

‘You don’t come out to see us on Sundays any more. We miss the visits, Mary Louise.’

‘James misses seeing you. Letty was saying the same the other day.’

‘Letty’ll soon be married herself.’

‘Yes, she will.’

‘If there’s anything troubling you, Mary Louise – ’

‘There’s nothing.’

They talked of other matters, of Letty’s wedding and of Mary Louise’s Aunt Emmeline coming to live at Culleen, of the way James bossed them about these days and how pleased they were that he continued to display initiative. Driving back to the farm, Mr Dallon was silent. The visit had changed his mood. He felt foolish. He should have foreseen that a marriage with such an age difference would not be plain sailing: he should have been against it. But he hadn’t been and that was that. He’d wasted a lot of time listening to the Quarry sisters and then waiting until Dr Cormican was ready for them, and then sitting down over a cup of tea in the middle of the morning. He resented, above all things, wasted time.

‘They’re troublemakers, those women,’ he said.

Mrs Dallon nodded, and agreed that they were. But even as she spoke she shared, without knowing that she did, the Quarrys’ view that Mary Louise’s marriage of convenience had turned out to be a grievous mistake. Mrs Dallon was never to alter that opinion.

Mary Louise did not change her ways. She had come to terms with Elmer and his sisters; she no longer feared the wrath of the two women’s tongues, and long ago she had ceased to wish to please her husband. She opened their bedroom window wider now, for his whiskey breath was so potent in the early part of the night that once or twice she felt light-headed through inhaling it.

Although her mother had hinted at the gossip that had begun, Mary Louise remained unaware of it. Nor did she know that her mother constantly worried, distressfully imagining a solitary figure in a locked room, nor that her father was angry with himself for permitting a marriage involving such an age difference. More and more she kept to the kitchen during mealtimes, in spite of Elmer’s protests that in doing so she was upsetting his sisters. Why should she not? she thought. She didn’t like them.

‘Bersenev took a droshky going back to Moscow and went in search of Insarov. But it took him a long time to find the Bulgarian because Insarov had moved to new lodgings…’

His search dulled the ornaments in the Quarrys’ dining-room, the grim dumb waiter, the sideboard, the double curtains of lace and chintz. Mary Louise hated the dining-room. She hated its Turkey carpet and its brown pictures and the salt and pepper in the left-hand sideboard drawer, and the smell of old food. But when she listened now, eating alone in the kitchen, she often heard the sound of Bersenev’s droshky. Without closing her eyes, there was the brick facade of the house where Insarov lodged.

Yelena Nikolayevna loved Insarov and didn’t know it. Yelena was a tall girl, olive-skinned and grey-eyed, with a complicated nature. She had been fond of her father, then cooled towards him, attaching herself to her mother instead. In the end she had distanced herself from both. Mary Louise tried to imagine that. Nothing even vaguely like it had occurred in her own childhood. Her first memory was of being with Letty, sitting beside Letty’s doll on stubble and Letty saying she must be still because dolls always were. Letty pretended to give her things to eat, as she did with her doll. The sun was warm on her face and head. Not far away a tiny bird was rooting in the stubble, and Letty tried to entice it towards Mary Louise and the doll so that all three could be fed, but the bird flew away. The first time she went to Miss Mullover’s schoolroom it was in the trap, James and Letty taking it in turn to hold the reins. They tied the pony up in the yard of Hogan’s Hotel and then her brother and sister each took one of Mary Louise’s hands. ‘A for Apple,’ Miss Mullover said, the tip of her cane on the rosy apple of her chart, then moving on. ‘B for Boot.’ Miss Mullover gave her letters to copy. ‘Mary Louise,’ she said; and pointed out each letter, saying that was what her name looked like. After the first time they didn’t go to school in the trap any more. Mary Louise sat on the crossbar of James’s bicycle, and he was made to promise that he wouldn’t ride fast. In time Mary Louise learned to ride Letty’s bicycle and Letty inherited her mother’s. On Fridays Miss Mullover always set more homework than she did on other days and James and Letty complained all the way back to the farmhouse. Two verses of poetry, ten spellings, three sums, a composition, history or geography, tables. On Mondays Miss Mullover was always cross, sarcastically reading out a composition if it was very bad, rapping knuckles with her cane. ‘You’ll stay in, James,’ she nearly always snapped on Mondays. ‘Until you know those verses perfectly you’ll not leave this room today.’ When Mary Louise first heard the story of Joan of Arc she imagined the peasant girl kneeling on the ploughed earth, hearing the voices. She imagined her waiting, tied to the stake, watching the building of the fire that was to burn her. Sometimes the boys from the Christian Brothers’ shouted abuse when the three Dallon children rode by, calling them heretics, reminding them that they would burn in hell. James always replied in kind, but Letty took no notice. ‘Why’ll we burn in hell?’ Mary Louise asked, and Letty said they wouldn’t.

Because Robert never came to Culleen when Aunt Emmeline visited the farmhouse, Mary Louise hadn’t known of his existence until she went to school. ‘I’m your cousin,’ he said one day in the school yard, and that was the first memory she had of him. After that she noticed he always finished his transcription before the others, and was best at spelling and tables. Her mother explained what it meant, being a cousin. ‘Aunt Emmeline’s one child,’ her mother said. She was twelve when she fell in love with him.

In the locked attic, or crouched among the Attridge graves, Mary Louise delighted in the intimacies death could not touch, any more than it could touch the love story of Yelena and Insarov. A legacy came to Robert from some distant relative of his father’s: he was no longer poor. On the day after Elmer first invited her to the Electric Cinema Robert arrived at the farmhouse. ‘No,’ she said when Elmer asked her to accompany him again, and went instead in search of the heron with her cousin. When they married they travelled in Italy and France. They sat outside a café by the sea, watching the people strolling by, Robert in a pale suit and a hat that matched it. He leaned across the table to kiss her, as he had the first time in the graveyard. Light as a butterfly, his kisses danced up and down her arm, from the tips of her fingers to her shoulders. The café orchestra began. They drank white wine.

Without closing her eyes, Mary Louise could see the flare of the gas-jets and snowy carriages drawing up. Tall Russians conversed in rooms with polished floors; walls were lined with mirrors, small oval tables covered with velvet and gold-fringed cloths. There was a haziness, in which her cousin’s voice spoke, in which her own voice repeated the difficult Russian names, and then through which they themselves passed back and forth like softly coloured shadows.