Miss Nell Howe
The girls at Wood Park School thought that Miss Howe was ninety when she retired. She was actually sixty. Same difference. It was old. They didn’t pause to think how she would spend her days, weeks and months afterwards. Old people just continued to boss and grumble and complain. They had no idea how much she had dreaded this day, and how she feared the first September for forty years when she wouldn’t set out to begin a new school year full of hope and plans and projects.
Miss Howe had been there as long as anyone could remember. She was tall and thin with hair combed straight back from her forehead and held there with an old-fashioned slide. She wore dark clothes under an academic gown. She had taught the mothers and aunts of these girls in the past but in recent years, as headmistress, she had been rarely in the classroom and mainly in her office.
The girls hated going to Miss Howe’s office. For one thing, being there always meant some kind of disapproval, complaint or punishment. But it wasn’t just that. It was a place without soul. Miss Howe had a very functional and always empty desk: she was not a person who tolerated chaos or mess.
There was a wall lined with inexpensive shelving holding many books on education. No handcrafted bookcases, as might have seemed suitable for a woman whose life had been involved for decades in teaching. Another wall was covered in timetables and lists of upcoming functions, details of various rosters and plans. Two large steel filing cabinets – presumably holding the records of generations of Wood Park girls – and a big computer dominated the room. There were dull brown curtains at the window, no pictures on the walls, no hint of any life outside these walls. No photographs, ornaments or signs that Miss Howe, Principal, had an interest in anything except Wood Park School. This is where she interviewed prospective pupils and their parents, possible new teachers, inspectors from the Department of Education and the occasional past pupil who had done well and had returned to fund a library or a games pavilion.
Miss Howe had an assistant called Irene O’Connor who had been there for years. Irene was round and jolly and in the staffroom they always called her the ‘acceptable face of the Howe office’. She didn’t appear to notice that Miss Howe barked at her rather than spoke to her. Miss Howe rarely thanked her for anything she did, and always seemed slightly surprised and almost annoyed when Irene brought tea and biscuits into what was likely to be an awkward or contentious meeting.
There were no plants or flowers in Miss Howe’s office, so Irene had introduced a little kalanchoe in a brass pot. It was a plant that needed practically no care, which was just as well as Miss Howe never watered it or apparently even noticed it. Irene wore brightly coloured t-shirts with a dark jacket and skirt. It was almost as if she was trying to bring a stab of colour into the mournful office without annoying Miss Howe. Irene was quite possibly a saint, and might even be canonised in her own lifetime.
She worked in a little outer office which was full of her personality, as indeed was her conversation. There were trailing geraniums and picture postcards from all of Irene’s friends pinned to her bulletin board; there were framed photographs of her on the desk. On her shelves were souvenirs of holiday trips to Spain and pictures of herself wearing a frilly skirt and a big sombrero at a fiesta. Here was a record of a busy, happy life, in contrast to the bleak cell that was Miss Howe’s pride and joy.
She went home every day at lunchtime because she had an invalid mother and a nephew, Kenny, who was her late sister’s child. Irene and her mother had given Kenny a good home and he was growing up to be a fine boy.
In the staffroom they marvelled at Irene’s patience and endless good humour. Sometimes they sympathised with her, but Irene would never hear a word against her employer.
‘No, no, it’s only her manner,’ she would say. ‘She has a heart of gold, and this is the dream job for me. Please understand that.’
The teachers said to each other that people like Irene would always be victimised by the Miss Howes of this world. What did Irene mean, ‘it was only her manner’? People were their manner. How else were we to know them?
Miss Howe was rightly named Her Own Worst Enemy. They giggled over the cleverness of this, and somehow it tamed her. She was less frightening when they could call her this behind her back, though they made very sure that the children never got wind of their name for her.
In the year before Miss Howe retired there was much speculation about her successor. None of the current staff appeared to have the seniority or authority to replace her. That was the way Miss Howe had run things, with never a hint of delegation. The new appointment would most probably be someone from outside. The staff didn’t like that idea either. They were used to Her Own Worst Enemy. They knew how to cope and they had Irene to soften the edges. Who knew what the new person might want to introduce? Better the devil you know than the entirely new and imposed devil that you didn’t know at all.
They also wondered about Irene. Would she stay and serve the new Tsar? Would she find excuses for the next principal and her manner? Suppose the new person didn’t want Irene?
It was change. They feared change.
Then there was the matter of the presentation to Miss Howe. None of them had the slightest clue as to where her interests lay. Even desultory conversation at the beginning of term had failed to discover anything. Miss Howe had no holiday story to tell, nothing like that was ever mentioned, or any family gathering, or repainting of a house, or digging of a garden. Eventually they had given up asking.
But what could you give to this woman to celebrate all her years at Wood Park? There was no question of a cruise or a week in a spa or a set of Waterford Crystal or some beautifully crafted piece of furniture. Miss Howe’s taste had been seen to be completely utilitarian: if it functioned, it was fine.
The teachers begged Irene to come up with an idea.
‘You see her every day. You talk to her all the time. You must have some notion of what she would like,’ they pleaded.
But Irene said that her mind was a complete blank. Miss Howe was a very private person. She didn’t believe in talking about personal things.
The parents’ committee was asking Irene the same question. They wanted to mark the occasion and didn’t know how. Irene decided that she really must stir herself and find out more about her employer’s lifestyle.
She knew Miss Howe’s address, so the first thing she did was go and look at her house. It was in a terrace of houses called St Jarlath’s Crescent. Small houses once thought of as working-class accommodation, which had later been redefined as townhouses and were now, of course, dropping in value again because of the recession. Most of the small front gardens were well kept, many with window boxes and colourful flower beds.
Miss Howe’s garden, however, had no decoration. There were two flowering shrubs and a neatly mowed lawn. The paint on the door, gate and windowsills needed to be refreshed. It didn’t look neglected, more ignored. No hints there.
Irene decided she must be brave and get to see the interior. With this in mind, the following morning she slipped Miss Howe’s reading glasses into her own handbag and then called round to the house to deliver them, pretending that she had found them on the desk.
Miss Howe met her at the door with no enthusiasm.
‘There was no need, Irene,’ she said coldly.
‘But I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to read tonight,’ Irene stumbled.
‘No, I have plenty of replacements. But thank you all the same. It was kind of you.’
‘May I come in for a moment, Miss Howe?’ Irene nearly fainted at her own courage in asking this.
There was a pause.
‘Of course.’ Miss Howe opened the door fully.
The house was clinically bare, like the office back in Wood Park. No pictures on the walls, a rickety bookcase, a small old-fashioned television. A table with a supper tray prepared with a portion of cheese, two tomatoes and two slices of bread. Back in Irene’s house they would be having spicy tomato sau
ce and pasta. Irene had taught Kenny how to cook, and tonight he would make a rhubarb fool. They would all play a game of Scrabble and then Irene and her mother would watch the soaps and Kenny, who was now eighteen, would go out with his friends.
What a happy home compared to this cold, bleak place.
But since Irene had come so far she would not give up now.
‘Miss Howe, I have a problem,’ she said.
‘You have?’ Miss Howe’s voice was glacial.
‘Yes. The teachers and the parents have asked me to tell them what would be a suitable gift for you when you retire this summer. Everyone is anxious to give you something that you would like. And because I work with you all day, they wrongly thought I would know. But I don’t know. I am at a loss, Miss Howe. I wonder, could you direct me . . .?’
‘I don’t want anything, Irene.’
‘But Miss Howe, that isn’t the issue. They want to give you something, something suitable, appropriate.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they value you.’
‘If they really value me then they will leave me alone and not indulge their wish for sentimental ceremonies.’
‘Oh, no, that’s not how they see it, Miss Howe.’
‘And you, Irene. How do you see it?’
‘I suppose they must think I am a poor friend and colleague if I can’t tell them after twenty years’ working for you what would be a good farewell present.’
Miss Howe looked at her for a long moment.
‘But Irene, you are not a friend or colleague,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s a totally different relationship. People have no right to expect you to know such things.’
Irene opened her mouth and closed it several times.
When the teachers in the staffroom had railed against Miss Howe and called her Her Own Worst Enemy, she had stood up for the woman. Now she wondered why. Miss Howe was indeed a person without warmth or soul; without friends or interests. Let them buy her a picnic basket or vacuum cleaner. It didn’t matter. Irene didn’t care any more.
She picked up her bag and moved to the door.
‘Well, I’ll be off now, Miss Howe. I won’t disturb you and keep you from your supper any longer. I just wanted to return your glasses to you, that’s all.’
‘I didn’t leave my glasses on my desk, Irene. I never leave anything on my desk,’ Miss Howe said.
Irene managed to walk steadily to the gate. It was only when she was a little way along the road that her legs began to feel weak.
All those years she had worked for Miss Howe, shielded her from irate parents, discontented teachers, rebellious pupils. Tonight Miss Howe had told her face to face that she must not presume to call herself a friend or a colleague. She was merely someone who worked for the Principal.
How could she have been so blind and so sure of her own position?
She held on to a gate to steady herself. A young woman came out of her house and looked at her with concern.
‘Are you feeling all right? You look as white as a sheet.’
‘I think so. I just feel a little dizzy.’
‘Come in and sit down. I’m a nurse, by the way.’
‘I know you,’ Irene gasped, ‘you work at St Brigid’s heart clinic.’
‘Yes; you’re not a patient there, are you?’
‘I come with my mother, Peggy O’Connor.’
‘Oh, of course. I’m Fiona Carroll. Peggy’s always talking about you and how good you are to her.’
‘I’m glad someone thinks I’m good for something,’ Irene said.
‘Come in, Miss O’Connor, and I’ll get you a cup of tea.’ Fiona had her by the arm and Irene sank gratefully into a house that was so different to Miss Howe’s that it could have been on another planet. Between them, Fiona and her two little boys provided tea, chocolate cake and a lot of encouragement.
Irene began to feel a lot better.
Always discreet and loyal, she resisted the temptation to unburden herself to this kindly Fiona, who must know her difficult neighbour and might even be able to give her words of consolation.
But old habits die hard.
Irene felt that you could not be someone’s assistant and bad-mouth them to others. She said nothing at all about her upsetting encounter with Miss Howe. She assured Fiona that she felt strong enough now to get her bus home, but at that very moment a man called Dingo arrived at the house delivering topsoil and trays of bedding plants. The Carrolls were going to have a gardening weekend, they told Irene. The boys were going to have a flower bed each.
‘Dingo will drop you home, Miss O’Connor,’ Fiona insisted, ‘it’s on his way.’
Dingo was perfectly happy with this suggestion.
‘They’re a delightful family,’ Irene said to him as she settled into his van. ‘Are you a family man yourself, Dingo?’
‘No, I’ve always been a believer in travelling solo,’ he said. ‘Believe me, Miss O’Connor, not every marriage is as good as Fiona and Declan’s. Some of the couples you meet are like lightning devils. You never married yourself then?’
‘No, Dingo, I didn’t. I did have a chance once but he was a gambler and I was afraid, and then my mother needed me, so here I am.’ She realised she sounded defeated, which was not her normal response. Miss Howe had done this to her today.
Dingo drove on, unconcerned.
‘My uncle Nasey is just the same. He says he fancied someone years back but missed his chance. He’s always asking me to look out for someone in their forties for him. Are you in your forties, Miss O’Connor?’
‘Just about,’ Irene said. ‘Don’t ask me next year. I’d have to say no.’
‘Right, I’ll tell him about you now before it gets too late,’ Dingo promised.
Irene went home and prepared the supper. She never mentioned the events of the day to her mother or to Kenny. They could have no idea that all Irene’s work for Miss Howe had been dismissed in one cold, cruel sentence.
Nor did they know that at the very moment they sat down to supper, efforts to find Irene a husband were under way. Dingo had called to see his uncle Nasey with the news that there was a very pleasant woman of forty-nine on the market. And he was so convincing, so persuasive, that Uncle Nasey was very interested in finding out more about Irene . . .
Over the next few weeks, the teachers at Wood Park School noticed that something about Irene had changed. She became shruggy rather than eager when they tried to discuss what kind of leaving ceremony they could arrange for Miss Howe, and what gift should be chosen.
‘I don’t think it matters, really,’ Irene would say, and change the subject. Possibly she was worried about her position there, they thought. Maybe the next Principal would want to choose her own assistant.
Irene continued to do her work as reliably as always but without any warmth and enthusiasm. If Miss Howe noticed, she gave no sign of having seen anything amiss. Irene stopped serving tea and biscuits at awkward meetings. She retrieved the little kalanchoe, fed it plant food and nursed it back to glowing health in her own office. Gone were the days when Irene would tell cheerful tales of the world she lived in.
But now Irene had a social life of which Miss Howe was totally unaware. Nasey had called, and said that his eejit of a nephew had spoken very highly of her, and perhaps she might accompany him to the cinema on the odd occasion. Then they went bowling and to a singing pub. His real name was Ignatius, he explained, and at least it was better than being called Iggy, which another lad at school had been named. He worked in a butcher’s shop for a Mr Malone, who was the most decent man ever to wear shoe leather.
He took to calling at Irene’s house and bringing best lamb chops, or a lovely pork steak. Irene’s mother Peggy loved him and lost no opportunity to tell him what a wonderful woman Irene was.
‘I know that, Mrs O’Connor. You don’t have to sell her to me. I’m hooked already,’ he said, and Peggy was pink with pleasure about it all.
Nasey came from the West of Ireland an
d had little family of his own in Dublin. He had two nephews: Dingo Irene had met already; he drove a van and did odd jobs for people. There was his sister, Nuala, and there was his sister’s boy, Rigger, who had been unfortunate in his life and spent a lot of time at reform school. He’d been sent away to the West of Ireland, and it looked as though he’d fallen on his feet over there. He had found a nice girl, grew vegetables and kept chickens. He had a job as a sort of manager for a place that was just setting up; a kind of small Big House, if you could understand that. It was perched on a cliff and the view would take the sight out of your eyes. Nasey promised that one day he would drive Irene and her mother to see the whole set-up. They’d love it.
Kenny liked having Nasey around too, and was always on hand to keep an eye on his gran if the two lovebirds, as he called them, wanted to go out on the town.
Then, just before the end of term, after six months of courtship, Nasey proposed to Irene. A small wedding was planned, and when she told him, Kenny offered to give his aunt away. But Irene had something else on her mind. She waited until Peggy had gone to bed.
‘I have something to tell you, Kenny,’ Irene began.
‘I’ve always known,’ he said simply. ‘I knew you were my mother when I was nine.’
‘Why did you never say?’ She was astounded.
‘It never mattered. I knew you’d always be there.’
‘Do you want to ask me anything?’ Her voice was small and she started to cry.
‘Were you frightened and lonely at the time?’ he asked, sitting down next to her and putting his arms around her.
‘A bit, but he wasn’t free, you see. Your father was already married. It wouldn’t have been fair to break up everything he had. Then Maureen died in England and so we pretended you were hers. For Mam’s sake. Mam got her grandchild, I got my son – we all did fine.’ By now Irene was smiling through her tears.
‘Does Nasey know?’
‘Yes, I told him early on. He said you had probably guessed, and imagine, he was right.’