PAIRS
PAIRS (An Irish story by Syd Peck)
Portaisling is a small village off the main road between Galway and Athlone, long since bypassed so that it is today a sleepy shadow of its former busy traffic-choked self. There is not normally a lot of traffic on the road even in summer, and in wintertime a visitor could be forgiven for thinking that perhaps the twentieth century and its traffic loads had completely forgotten Portaisling. The network of sliproads, underpasses, bridges, and motorway lanes nearby ensure that any extra traffic in the village could only be because of some local event with solely parochial ramifications. Despite the efforts of the highway engineers, however, the size and positioning of the buildings down its main street allow Portaisling to retain an air of a place of potential excitement but temporarily overcome with sleepiness. The village’s main street runs steeply down to the south , flanked on one side by grey limestone terraces of two-storey houses, interrupted here and there by a pub, a tiny grocery shop, and a hotel, and on the other side by the walled demesne of Fitzwarren House, now in ruins. Some properties down the hill have been demolished as slums and have been reduced to rubble-strewn building sites.
About three o’ clock one Sunday afternoon in February, a grey Audi rolled smoothly down the steep slippery hill into Portaisling and, unable to find a space to park along the kerb, the driver pulled the car quickly into a cleared building site at the roadside, unsure about the quality of the rough surface and slightly worried whether his tyres would be flattened by rusty nails, and he switched off the engine. He had been looking out for the blue Ford neatly parked next to a phone box outside the Fitzwarren Hotel a few metres behind his now stationary car, and the forty year-old squinted up his eyes against the sun’s glare off the wet road, trying to see whether there was a woman in the blue car or not. Uncertain, he switched off the music of the radio and pulled his tall frame awkwardly out of the low-slung driver’s seat and, fastening his double-breasted jacket carefully as he would for a job interview, he strolled the few metres up the hill towards the Ford. The driver’s door of the blue car swung open and a smiling agile woman stepped quickly out and took a few short steps towards him with arms outstretched.
They fell into a tight hug and held it long, like old friends who had been separated for years. A warm kiss and more hugs and words of greeting were showered on each other, leaning back within their embrace and smiling as they surveyed each other’s face, and then returning to a closer clasp for several moments, standing in the shiny glare of the wet road in front of the radiator grill of her car.
“At last…Stephanie… I’m so glad to see you…. after all this time”
“It’s so good to be able to put my arms around you at last after all this long time, Ian.”
“Oh, I feel the same.”
They gradually slackened their smiling embraces and turned away from the sun’s penetrating glare, and hand-in-hand they stepped slowly on to the footpath.
“What shall we do then, Steph?”
“I don’t mind, I just want to talk and be close,” she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it lightly, smiling like a teenager.
“Looks like the rain’s going to come back. This place looks ok, Ian, …shall we go in?”
“Sure, it’ll do…why not?”
The brightness outside had dazzled their eyes so that the interior looked gloomier than it really was. Nevertheless it was certainly dim. Behind the polished and painted front of the Fitzwarren Hotel the shadowy interior had several possible ways through, one room leading to another and another. He pushed open the nearest glass door and made enquiries. It was a noisy room holding several members of a wedding party. Embarrassed at interrupting, he asked briefly if the café was open and was duly directed. A young man with sraight white teeth and wearing a carnation in his fomal wear brusquely pointed Ian down the passage and muttered, “Down there, fella, first room on the left.” The small café was situated in a room which could be seen into through another glass door. It was almost empty save two old-timers, an old man and woman - obviously locals - seated in intimate silence watching newcomers out of the corners of eyes which seemed permanently focused on the ornaments behind the bar. A small bell pinged as they entered, announcing the arrival of fresh customers. The hand-holding pair chose the single table in the no-smoking section. Not that it made much difference. Only three tables, one of which was already occupied by the two locals, were available in the entire room, and the room was filled with cigarette smoke regardless of the existence of little cards on the wall indicating “Smoking” and “No-smoking” sections.
After some minutes the ping of the bell induced the arrival of a small lady who bustled in, apologising for the delay in serving what were obviously her last real customers of the evening. She instantly reminded both of them of the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, and, leaning closer and touching heads, they shared the whispered thought and smiled silently. She busied herself around the café and fussed over the newly-arrived couple, making an effort to catch up with what she felt were the interminable several minutes they had waited while she had been outside telephoning.
“Still raining, Bernie?” the old man asked, deliberately establishing a bond of intimacy with the waitress in the face of the two strangers.
“Just spitting now,” she threw the remark over her shoulder.
Crumbs on their white tablecloth were swept efficiently into a well-trained hand, and messy plates were piled up and carried away, all this action accompanied by a continuous stream of chatter about the weather and the traffic outside being aggravated by the wedding party parking too many cars. Finally she returned with an order booklet and pencil and enquired what the couple would have to eat. Did they want a wine list? Would they like the home-made soup which could quickly be warmed? She used the third finger of her pencil hand to knit back a strand of wetted grey hair which fell loose over her scribbled notes. Something from the grill before it was switched off? Maybe a sandwich? Maybe you need a moment to choose…? As the sixty-something lady busied herself with the preparations and repeatedly knitted back the hair strand, she willingly shared her recent life’s details with the pair.
“You’re in a very happy mood with the world after such a wet and busy day…?” offered Ian.
“Oh yes, well…” she hesitated with a tiny melodramatic touch, “ You see, I’m getting married next month.” She uttered the reply with a matter-of-fact air and not a little pride and satisfaction.
The pair caught each other’s eyes sideways in amused disbelief. Probably some imagined notion in the head of this white rabbit from the backwaters of County Galway.
As she fussed away into the kitchen with her pencilled notes to herself, the glass door allowed the noise from adjacent rooms to pervade the café. A young man, whose practised voice seemed to suggest he was used to being the centre of attention, could be heard telling an off-colour joke to friends, who in turn seemed only too anxious to laugh. They knew his ready sense of humour and well-polished witty responses had been largely responsible for charming his new bride. He could always charm anyone if it suited him, and his character was well known to his male friends.
“Well, it’s no surprise to me, Malachy, you could always con the girls….” quipped one of his cronies.
“Aye, they’d never know which way our Mal would jump,” added an older voice, to the chorus of laughter from the group.
In formal wedding wear of grey tails and white bowtie the groom was tall and good looking, with sleek black hair and a sunbed-acquired tan. His appearance was just perfect, almost too perfect. Aware of his own attractiveness, he smiled constantly in the direction of women. His straight white teeth revealed themselves in what often turned out as more of a leer beneath an appearance of innocent boyish charm. He caught the eye of the chief bridesmaid and she moved over to his chair, and he whispered into her ear. She reddened and smirked with a knowing, “Sure you’ll need that for later tonight! ” and laughed heartily.
He drew her hand closer and stroked the skin of her forearm as he confided in her some detail of his supposed worries, inviting her to be more sympathetic towards him and listen more closely. She gave him her undivided attention and her brown eyes held his long and deep. Once he had her attention he began to assume an air of seriousness and dedication to his task in hand of getting the new marriage up and running, with plans for a house and a career move ahead. She seemed to know much of what he was about to say before he said it as though she had been through the story before. But she feigned attention as if it was all new…she loved his attentions and basked in them. He could barely disguise his interest in today’s target audience, the bridesmaid who had been the best friend of his new wife since schooldays and whom he had known just as long as his wife.
“You’ll have to come round and visit after we get back from you-know-where,” he suggested in a low tone “Just because I’m married doesn’t mean we can’t still be close friends, if you get my meaning....we ll talk about décor and stuff. You’re really very good at that crack.” She was pleased at his compliment. “Sure if you want me to - I will, Malachy, ” she replied, “But what will herself think of that?” “Don’t you be worrying about her…she has her evening classes and such…and Jaysus you’re her best friend from schooldays....C’mon we’d better be joining the others now, so…” .
Further along the passage, in a dimly-lit room in the back of the hotel the main wedding party was in mid-celebration. After several hours of celebration, the room wasn’t very fresh. It was a private room used exclusively for such celebrations and the doors were sprung to close automatically, and were not glass. It smelled of smoke and the upholstery was dark and old fashioned but it was the best Portaisling could provide for its favourite daughter of the day. It was long after the main meal and before the dancing would begin, and two guitarists and an accordion player were busy unpacking instruments and setting up their gear. It was one of those awkward interludes when there is no set pattern for behaviour and people go off and do necessary everyday things which have been held up by the formality of the day’s proceedings.
The bride was a little unhappy, for her groom was absent again, maybe at the toilet, maybe drinking heavily with his brother or the best man, maybe getting some air to allow him to take stock of what he had just vowed to do, maybe flirting a last time with a certain young guest at the reception. His absence rendered the bride oddly conspicuous, rather like a mother pushing an empty baby buggy or a policeman with mud on his uniform. She was happy because the preparations and the successful wedding day were all she had hoped and planned for…but she was uneasy about her future with Malachy. Where did he think he was when he should be here with her.... and this their first day as a couple…?. She managed to laugh heartily with some of the guests, a young, man plainly her brother whose red hair unmistakably matched her own long red tresses, and an older woman who might easily have been an aunt or a neighbour. The two women showed friendliness but not the casual disinterested intimacy of mother and daughter.
“Your hair is lovely, Kate….. Malachy must love it does he? Where is he by the way?” the older woman enquired harmlessly.
“Oh, he’s over there with James somewhere,” ….. she made excuses for him.
“And did you enjoy the meal? Did Malachy? Are you enjoying the day? Is Malachy enjoying himself? Such a good idea to have the reception in his dad’s hotel, nice personal service, you know.” She twittered on in good-natured way, not realising how she was causing the girl to wince.
“Yes, it’s been a lovely day,” Kate lied. They’d chosen turkey for the main meal, his favourite, but he’d said nothing about it and seemed preoccupied all the way through their celebration. Maybe with wedding nerves, she told herself.
The pretty, red-haired bride had noticed the two people coming into the hotel because they had momentarily interrupted the wedding party’s interlude-laughter with an enquiry about whether the café was open at that time of day. She might not have recalled them but for her embarrassment at Malachy’s somewhat brusque answer to their questions. Strange to see people other than her wedding guests or the locals in the only hotel in Portaisling on a Sunday evening. Portaisling wasn’t the sort of place people passed through on their way to some other destination. Either you intended to be in Portaisling or you simply didn’t come into the village. These two were clearly intending to be there, as if by prearranged design of long-standing, Kate felt. Yet they did not know the place and it seemed as though it was simply a handy, if unfamiliar, rendezvous point. A kind of no man’s land. Their enquiries about food service answered, the two people had left the wedding party’s proceedings apologetically and disappeared from her sight down the short passageway to the café.
Five minutes later on her way to search for her wayward groom, Kate saw them again, getting seated in the café. Asking Bernie at the kitchen door if Malachy had been seen, she paused for a few moments and watched the two strangers through a gap in the curtain. These two absorbed her curiosity by the way they behaved towards each other. Their behaviour was cautious behind their immediate air of glad warm welcome, like two long lost siblings or acquaintances trying to feel each other out and establish whether the same rules applied now as did then, each anxious to please and avoid overt conflict. She wished fleetingly that Malachy could have some of this care. Their familiarity seemed to lack intimacy and was diluted with the extra politeness and solicitousness of strangers. The man seemed anxious to get his companion seated in a place where she would feel comfortable yet in enough light to observe her closely if discretely. Yet the choice of tables was limited in any case. Menus were picked up and items discussed in superficial terms as if it did not really matter what was ordered. This was a ritual meal like a wedding breakfast, an excuse to meet and talk. The woman seemed equally anxious to get close to him and check whether his appearance was genuine. Did he smell nice? Did he have clean nails? Kate instinctively knew all the small things that would tell a woman so much without the need for outright interrogation. The bride could easily see the eyes of the woman appraise him as he looked away at something in the room. Yet there was real concern underlying the woman’s need to explore. She was concerned for his comfort and continually asked if he was ok with this or that aspect of the table seat, the heating and so on. Neither of these two seemed to Kate to have any agenda beyond just being with the other person. They were there simply to meet, nothing else mattered. They were two halves of a whole unit, neither having any purpose in Portaisling without the other. No one would come to Portaisling without such a specific purpose.
Through the glass door, Kate McGuire, or Kate Quinn as she was now to be known, watched the man looking at his companion as they conversed and how he made mental notes of her appearance, as if comparing it to some picture previously conceived. He sat very erect in his seat, as if he’d wished her to be a little smaller. The woman who had come in the blue Ford was about thirty five years old. She was slim and looked fit, almost athletic, showing not an ounce of spare flesh. Short hair cut in a business-like style accentuated her slim physique, and her nose bore tiny marks from the glasses she wore for distance work and driving. Her face had flawless skin and pale blue eyes set well apart under what could only be described as a thatch of short thick springy blonde hair with occasional streaks of whitish cream on one side of the parting. Her lips were sensual but held in check by years of understatement with no hint of lipstick and no teeth visible except when smiling. She wore no jewellery, and very little perfume, and her clothes were modest and not designed to impress. To Kate’s eyes, this woman had the appearance of being no stranger to hard work, and had large hands as if she was used to physical labour. She exuded an air of no nonsense but was warm and genuinely affectionate. She reminded Kate of her own mother, a woman carefully trying to steer a course through life which would minimise damage to self and others, perhaps too careful and unwilling to take a plunge because of previous hurts. She was well-spoken with a studied air of precision in her speech like one who was used to talking to some audience which relied on her every word being clear, like a speech therapist or a lecturer. Her pale blue eyes looked thoughtfully at the menu and weighed the merits of each dish, and she asked his opinion at intervals. Kate idly wondered if she herself might resemble this woman in twenty years time, or more to the point whether she might resemble Bernie, since the bride would by then be in the business of running of the hotel, pub and cafe.
Strange place the café. All crowded and overly lit. Three tables where really only one would fit. The bar, backed by a large mirror and lots of ornaments, had high stools but not really room for anyone to sit there in comfort. A limited range of liquors, and a staff of one lady who was intermittently absent at the public telephone outside in the rain. The old man and woman sat at a table too close to the other tables for intimate chat to take place, and pretended to be unaware of the two strangers sitting near them now and unbuttoning outer coats slightly wet with the weather and exchanging polite but familiar laughing remarks about their respective journeys. Two strangers in a strange little place. Under the glare of too much light it was uncomfortable for any close exchange of personal information. A handy topic for conversation was afforded when Bernie Boyle, the waitress, brought the cutlery and side plates and, with a cheery word about whether sauce or salt was needed, she disappeared again into the kitchen. The wine list they brushed aside without a glance. Sandwiches and one tea and one coffee were mentally selected, in anticipation of the waitress’s return.
“Ready to order…?” she called from the bar counter.
Almost without waiting for answers to the perfunctory question, she disappeared again into the darkening evening outside, rummaging in her apron pocket for small change to use the public telephone outside .
“I wonder what her urgent call is about…?” Ian advanced the conversation along what he felt would be a useful, amusing and harmless road in an attempt to get closer to his tablemate.
The Ford driver approved of him trying to get closer, as she approved of almost everything about him, almost as if by a decision she had made long since. His forty year old brown hair was thinning and cut short, and his slim businesslike appearance pleased her. But she could easily see through this disguise to the fun-loving, quick witted original thinker inside. He made joking witty remarks about each item read from the menu. He exuded self-confidence, and certainty seemed to imbue all that he had to say, whether it was an opinion on the table wine or the state of the national economy. His clothes matched hers in that they were fuctionally neat and lacked status as indicators of personality. Nevertheless he was attractive looking, and certainly not sloppy. The cleanshaven jaw carried no heavy after-shave lotion, only the understated scent of the one she herself had given him for christmas. As Stephanie showed him an item on the menu, he slipped on a pair of steel-rimmed glasses fished smoothly from his coat breast pocket and scanned the document with affected interest. Picking up an overlooked beer glass from their table and leaning over, Ian placed it on the polished bar, being careful not to remove his other hand from her firm hold. He liked the way she touched his palm and admired his long fingers, and she liked him stroking her soft inner wrist.
In the drizzle Bernie Boyle fumbled with the change to make her call, the third of the evening to the same number. Pressing home the two coins she listened anxiously for the ringing tone, let it repeat ten times, and then regretfully put down the receiver and collected her coins as they were returned by the machine. With a puzzled frown and a click of the tongue Miss Boyle slowly pushed open the glass door of the phone box and shielded her newly-done hair against the rain as she dashed for the door of the café once more.
Back in the narrow corridor Miss Boyle flicked away raindrops from her tightly-turned curls of hair and wiped her spectacles, stepping to one side to allow a smiling young man in formal wear to pass by in a hurry. The carnation in his lapel was a little crushed though she could still smell its fragrance after he disappeared around the corner towards the hotel dining room.
“Well, Malachy, I hope you’re not up to any mischief on this special day now…” she called softly after his disappearing form, hoping to inject a warning along with her respect for his privacy
“Oh, I’m in a terrible hurry now Bernie, I’ll catch you later…” he half-turned his head, avoiding eye contact, as he went.
A brief wave of noisy laughter and the sound of a four piece band tuning up reached the old lady’s ears as he pushed open the dining room door. Forgetting Malachy for a moment, she smiled as if in anticipation of something of delight about to happen, not a surprise but a planned occurrence. The music and swirling excitement of the wedding party seemed to infuse her eyes with sparkle. The grey hair now sufficiently dried and placed in order Miss Boyle adjusted her spectacles and stepped from the corridor into the brightly lit café. The bell pinged lightly.
“Everything all right here for the moment?” she called, glancing in the bar-mirror to check her hair.
“We’ll have a toasted ham sandwich, a tea and a coffee please, when you have a moment,” he announced quietly with a smile.
Her greying hair still glistening here and there with the rain, she stood listening to their reply, eyes dancing with genuine interest in them now that her immediate task was done. She scribbled down the items quickly and efficiently. Her tortoiseshell-framed glasses were still slightly misted over with the air of the warm room on the cold lenses, which gave her eyes a touch of mystery and an attractive appearance, suggesting how pretty she must have been thirty years earlier. Small earrings of pearl and a hint of lipstick completed her attempt at disguising the effects of aging. She was well-built woman, not at all plump, but the floral print pinafore over her pale blue dress made her look somewhat overweight. A woollen cardigan kept the night air from chilling her too much, but once inside the cafe it made her too hot and she murmured constantly to herself under her breath about the heat of the room. In between murmurs she kept up a steady, happy-go-lucky singing and humming to herself, as she kept working all the time, like a busy carefree bee, a serious plotter and builder capable of seeing a thing through over years to a successful end with optimistic good nature. Her movements were quick but well-timed so that she never faltered or spilled anything. As she headed for the kitchen with their order her trained hands silently replaced glasses on the shelf in front of the mirror, next to her framed Certificate of Merit from the Irish Countrywomen’s Association and Teacher’s Diploma. The couple recognised the Minute Waltz as she hummed out the melody in snatches. She was full of enthusiasm and perfectly content to be working in complete isolation without distraction. She almost seemed to be waltzing as she worked, and they smiled in shared happiness with her.
The aging waitress turned around with the written order, and glanced cheerily across to the old woman’s table.
“Don’t worry, Mrs Coleman, I haven’t forgotten you and your special sandwich with no mayonnaise…. it’s coming. I’ll just pop in the kitchen now and check to see when it’s ready. I bet you thought I’d forgotten…. but you know me, I never forget.” Her hand instinctively found the door as she looked in their faces.
“That’s all right, Bernie, I know you these twenty years and I’ve never known you to forget an order. Sure - you’ve kept this wee place running in spite of…. himself….. sure old Quinn never shows his face here. It’s you who keeps the place in the black…”
“Oh well, he has been good to me, you know…” She pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen.
Phshttt noises hissed from the lips of the locals in disagreement and contempt at “himself”. “Sure he’d be lost and in the workhouse only for you…”
“Oh away with the pair of you now, you’ll be making me forget me orders from the two visitors we have here, and them big spenders I’m sure,” She nodded with a wink in their direction and was glad to catch their eye to see that they felt included in the quasi-public discussion... “and you’ll be making me forget me own wedding!” She laughed in a way that no one could take offence at, certainly not the pair of newcomers who were obviously enjoying her antics, and she disappeared like the white rabbit into the kitchen and the door swung closed behind her.
The newcomers smiled and nodded in return as she sailed through the door with an extra busy air, trying to conceal what had surely been a disappointing episode in the phone box. Bernie collected the mayo-free sandwich in its brown bag from the kitchen and, returning quickly, passed it without a word to the two locals, and the old man slipped it into his pocket. Then she delivered Stephanie and Ian their long-awaited sandwiches and tea and coffee. “ I’m sorry it has no side salad .... the kitchen is almost closed..” The coins jingled in Bernie’s pinafore as she fussed about the bar, polishing and cleaning away imaginary dust in case a sudden rush of customers should descend on the place, and looking every few moments at the big clock above the bar. The two locals eyed her for a long moment and judging the time right they offered a goodbye announcement to the back of Miss Boyle’s freshly permed hair.
“Well, we’ll be off then so Bernie,… and if you bump into us later we might have a chat ?”
“Yes, yes, no later than half past ten, er after I close up here. Bye bye now, mind how you go”
The Colemans murmured a final farewell and nodded and smiled to the couple as they brushed sideways past their table towards the door.
“Rain looks like it’s easing, Bernie!” was their last contribution, and they were gone into the night air.
Bernie hadn’t heard them and she made no attempt to respond, busying herself instead with polishing and dusting and collecting the single glass that interrupted the glossy wooden perfection of the counter. She listened as the band picked up with familiar tunes next door, and she began to hum along with the watzes and foxtrots of the dance now under way with the wedding party. The pair of newcomers munched their food and began to enjoy the music too and murmured approval and touched heads as they leaned towards each other in delight at their own company. They were both music fans.
“Be nice to dance wouldn’t it, Stephanie?”
“Mmm yes, but we can’t gate crash the wedding, and there’s hardly room in here to swing a cat…”
They both laughed genuinely, as Bernie glanced at the clock once more and noted with a grunt of satisfaction that twenty minutes had elapsed. She made her way to the glass door, for another attempt on the phone and noted with some relief that the rain had stopped for the moment and that the stars were out. The door swung open, the bell pinged, and she disappeared again into the night.
She pressed her coins home in anxious anticipation…..brrr brrr
“Michael? At last!….Where have you been all evening my dear man?”
There was a long interval of her nodding and murmuring assent while the speaker on the other end of the line explained something evidently of great interest to Bernie. She suddenly burst into a huge smile and said with a sigh, “Well, thank God you’ve got it all sorted out finally…those solicitors have made you wait and by God they cost a pretty penny, but Michael it means that we can get on with it at last, isn’t that the truth my love?”
Again a long wait, while Michael added further detail.
“Well I can only say thirty years is a great long time and we have both had patience without limit.... and now the poor soul’s gone she can have no complaints about us.”
Michael evidently agreed for she laughed at his remark and raised her hand to knit back a wisp of grey hair, and in so doing she spilled the small change from her hand all over the concrete floor of the phone booth. It didn’t matter to her at all now. She ignored the spinning coins as the cars outside the glass door moved to make room for a limousine trying to get close to the kerb.
“All right, in about half an hour then…. there’s only a couple of people in there, and sure they’ll be gone and finished in a wee while…. I’ll see you then Michael. Mind how you drive, and remember the passenger side window isn’t safe…. Don’t bang it too hard like last week…. No accidents now, after such a long wait,” she tittered self-consciously. “Uh–huh, yes, about half ten,….. mmmm, bye now,” Bernie sighed with relief.
Replacing the phone, she gathered up the coins from the floor, pushed them into her pinafore pocket, and dashed again into the café. She stood for a moment in the corridor smiling broadly and humming to herself, and turning the phone conversation over again and again in her mind. Unconsciously, she knitted up the wisp of her hair and murmured out loud, “Now, let’s see how these two are getting along.” Ping.
The toasted ham sandwich was gone and the drinks were low in their cups. She automatically offered a refill…. and they gladly accepted.
“You’re very happy woman …. have you won the lottery or something?” he enquired as he sipped his refill.
“Oh better than that. Michael and myself have just seen our way clear to get married soon after easter - in the church just up the road from here.”
“Well congratulations, …. and who is the lucky Michael?”
“Oh, Michael? He’s a farmer, you know, from two miles out on the Athlone road…he has a few acres and dairy cows you know….. we couldn’t do it till now you know because of the business of his land inheritance, but it’s sorted out now and we are doing what we’ve planned to do these thirty years….”
They both nodded in approval, and sipped away at the extra coffee and mentally filled in the thirty year gap in the story…a familiar enough tale in that part of Galway.
“As a matter of fact we are going up to the priest’s house along the motorway tonight when Michael gets here so we can arrange the exact date for our wedding…. I’m so excited…. Oh, you must think I’m awful silly. We’ve been waiting for this for a long time and now it all seems to be worked out…. please forgive me for leaving you so often when I had to phone.”
Ian suspended his long sip at the drink and touched Bernie’s wrist lightly, “Oh please, it was no trouble at all…. it’s lovely to see someone so happy and to see something work out well in today’s troubled world, you know…” The couple turned to each other, half closed their eyes, and nodded and smiled in agreement. “We’re actually finished now so if you’d like to take payment for the sandwiches we’ll let you get on your way to your meeting at the priest’s,” added Stephanie thoughtfully.
“Oh there’s no rush…. he won’t be here for half an hour or so…… take your time”
“No…. we’d like to have a look in at the wedding dance next door before we go”
“They wouldn’t mind if you joined in the dance, you know. Sure, lots of folk from the village come along to these dances after weddings and join in,” her voice dropped to a confidential whisper and her eyes rolled slowly in the direction of the music.
“That might be nice,” they looked at each other, widened eyes and smilingly nodded in agreement at the idea.
Money was exchanged and Bernie pointed the way to the room where the dancing was taking place. They paused hand-in-hand before following her finger gesture.
“I’m not really dressed for dancing, Ian. And I don’t really have a lot of fancy clothes …. Can’t afford it because of the house and single income you know. Just keeping the boys at school is a drain on my income….especially after losing the other house,” Stephanie confided to him in a whisper.
He was understanding and supportive, and showed it in nods and murmurs of assent. “I know it’s not ideal…but we can just have a look in - mmm? I’m not dressed for it either, but I just love dancing…. “She”….er…. never used to like to go dancing you know, Stephanie…. matter of fact she was never that interested in music at all....one of our main disagreements,” he laughed lightly in self-mockery.
“Well, why not?” they both tittered quickly and, leaning towards each other, touched heads and kissed lightly.
Further down the passage they pushed open the door and a wave of loud music hit their ears. A chaotic polka was halfway through and most of the couples had stripped off coats and shawls and were sweating profusely as they tried to keep out-of-shape legs in time with the over-fast music. The newly-weds were dancing together, for the first time that evening, and the red-haired bride was feeling somewhat content at last, and she was enjoying being in the arms of her young man.
“ She must have tracked him down in the bar with his mates….” observed Ian confidentially, “…looks like it’s all finally going smoothly…..hmmm?”
“…For the moment at least…. ” concluded Stephanie, in one of those loaded remarks that women are so expert at throwing in, apparently without thought.
Ian and Stephanie stood to one side for several minutes, hand-in-hand, watching and tapping their feet till the dance appeared to be losing its momentum and people began to drift away from the floor. At last, judging that their street clothes would more or less blend in with the semi-dressed informality which now prevailed, they joined in a slower waltz and a two-step which followed. Their eyes caught Bernie linking arms and chatting animatedly with a tallish broad shouldered man in a bulging tweed jacket in a quiet corner of the room.
“No doubt that’s the lucky Michael, Steph,” he nudged her with a smile which captured their joint pleasure at seeing the older couple so happy. She turned her head as they moved around the floor and smiled broadly in response.
Only a few dances passed , then the proceedings started to draw to a close with the band announcing the last waltz, to the relief of most of the non-regular dancers, who could thereafter go back to serious drinking till the early hours, more their usual practice at weddings. Stephanie and Ian decided enough was as good as a feast, and stepped off the floor. The newly-married couple disappeared from the room, and by the time the waltz had ended, they reappeared in travel clothes. The time had come for the new husband and wife to depart, even though they were only bound for a hotel on the Galway Road, a few miles away. They were pressed and glad-handed by the noisy crowd towards the street door of the hotel.
The shiny white limousine hired for weddings locally had pulled up to the kerb near the phone booth and the couple stepped up. Turning back, Kate threw her bouquet as she went. One of the bridesmaids caught it amid screams of delight. Then, hugging the others as if it was the last opportunity for a lifetime, even though they would see them next week as usual, the couple moved to step into the car. Distracted by the laughter and clamour of friends, Malachy forgot to open the door for her but the chauffeur did it with a professional flourish . Then ducking and stepping inside to the white leather seats they looked picture-perfect through the windows, just like in magazines and movies. He put his arm around his pretty bride and they waved as the door was closed by the chauffeur, who then trotted smartly round to the driver’s door and settled into the seat. They were waved off by the small crowd, jostling good-naturedly after slightly too much to drink and over-exhaustion at the fast polkas. At the front of the group was a smiling bridesmaid who held the groom’s gaze just too long, as she had held his hand just too long at the reception greeting line. Darkness had descended now. The previously starry sky was clouded over and promised changeable weather. The limousine started to pull hesitantly away and Malachy waved a last farewell through the window to the crowd, especially to the chief bridesmaid and her special smile. The wave of the red-haired bride disguised the thoughtful glance she gave towards the smiling young woman she had known since school.
On the wet footpath, watching the limousine depart, Ian and Stephanie made tentative arrangements to meet the next day and kissed and hugged warmly over and over again. They got into their respective cars with repeated waves and farewells. With an anxious glance at the tyres to check whether they had suffered from the building site’s nails, he inserted the key into his passenger door and leaned across inside to lift the little locking knob inside the window on the driver’s door. The key did not work in the broken lock on the driver’s side. Stephanie smiled as she saw what he was doing. It was so normal, so human, she thought. She liked it. She liked him - very much. Then she opened her blue door, freshly washed at the carwash that afternoon, and got gracefully into the driver’s seat. The Ford pulled slowly away , and the Audi driver beeped at her as she started to roll down the hill, and she smiled and dropped her eyes in embarrassed shyness. With her indicator flashing she waited a moment at the main crossroads for the light to turn green, and then she turned right and slowly, carefully picked up speed to the west and Priorstown. Ian pulled out of the cleared building site and dodged into the thickening traffic flow, accelerating rapidly up the hill and out of Portaisling , trying to catch a glimpse in his mirror of her yellow indicator lights as she turned for Proirstown.
The mirror also showed the limousine pulling free from the small crowd and gradually diminishing in size. The small crowd of watchers kept it in view until the road bent, as if it was the last time they would see the pair. In a few moments the sleek white vehicle turned the bend where the road left the row of terraced houses and disappeared in the glare of the bright motorway lamps. As his own car ascended the hill Ian could catch glimpses of the lights of the limousine as it wove its way towards the hotel away in the dark countryside.
Bernie and Michael left the hotel door humming just as the limousine freed itself from the crowd. They got into a Mini parked next to where the Audi had been on the building site. The old teacher opened the door for Miss Boyle, who fussed over his lack of an overcoat on the cool night and then got in, all-a-fluster and laughing, and held the window firmly while closing the door firmly without a bang. Up hill they went slowly, in a straight line for the motorway. Heavy trucks roared along the link road and over the concrete bridge to the motorway as Miss Boyle and Michael swung the Mini down the sliproad towards the priest’s house. Michael took care not to join the traffic too fast…his eyes weren’t as up to night driving as they had been thirty years ago. Bernie slipped her hand lightly on top of his as he held the gear stick, and he turned momentarily towards her and smiled. They joined the main traffic stream.
Along the winding road west and under the concrete bridge carrying the motorway, a blue Ford ducked out of sight on its way back to Priorstown twelve miles away. In the starry darkness the grey Audi left the motorway and turned its back on the roar of trucks speeding east. He put his foot down and the speedometer quickly showed fifty five, and flicking on the music of the radio , the driver settled into the hour’s journey home. Portaisling returned to its quiet traffic-free self as if nothing had disturbed it for decades.
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