Sometimes on Saturday lunchtimes when they closed the agency doors Lena congratulated herself that she had survived another week. Perhaps this was what the rest of her life would be like, unless of course her daughter could bear the strain no longer. Unless she was unmasked as living, alive if not well, in London. Living in the empty bed of a man who had left her just as she had left her own husband.
Some days were harder than others. There was a widow who came in looking for part-time work, saying she had to be home at four o’clock in the afternoon when her son got back from school.
“He’s thirteen, you see, and they really need their mothers at that age,” she confided to Lena.
To her surprise Mrs. Gray’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes, I expect they do,” she said earnestly. “Let’s try everything until we get you something suitable.” And Lena threw herself into the task. It was as if she could somehow reach out to Emmet by helping this woman to see her son.
She thought about Emmet a lot. Perhaps he might be less hard of heart, less quick to condemn than Kit had been. After all, he was blameless in every way. He had burned no note of explanation. Was there a way she could write to him, tell him she was alive? Or was this the way madness lay?
And then there was Martin. Martin, whom she had so sorely misjudged. Was it better, as Kit had said, that she remain dead? But suppose that Kit was not constant in her intentions? Might she not give in and admit everything? Would it be fairer to Martin to tell him now, tell him herself, rather than let him hear it secondhand?
She had given him her promise that she would never leave him without explanation, but he had not known. Was she telling him only because Louis had gone? Or would he think that this was the case?
Like mice the thoughts scurried around in her head while she was awake. And when she slept she dreamed often that Louis had come back. She would wake cold and cramped and realize it was not true. One night she dreamed she went back to Lough Glass, that she got off a bus outside the Mercy Convent and walked through the town, past the Lakeview Road which led up to the Kellys’ house, past the post office where Mona Fitz closed the door in her face. Tommy the postman tried to come out and talk to her but Mona called him back, and the curtains in the Garda station across the road twitched as they saw her but nobody came out to greet her. Mrs. Hanley had EARLY CLOSING written on the shop so as to avoid meeting her.
And a sullen crowd stood in the doorways of Foley’s bar. Sullivan’s garage was deserted, Wall’s Hardware people turned the other way, Father Baily hastened up Church Road so as not to have to see her, so she tried to come back up the street on the other side in case there would be someone to meet her but at Paddles’ the doors were closed and Mrs. Dillon didn’t speak. Dan and Mildred O’Brien in the Central Hotel avoided her eye.
And then she was at the pharmacy. “I’m home,” she called up the stairs. But there was no reply. Rita dressed in black came to the top of the stairs. “I’m afraid you can’t come in, ma’am, the mistress is dead,” Rita said solemnly. “I am the mistress,” Lena cried in her dream. “I know, ma’am, but you can’t come in.”
At that she woke up sweating. It was true. There was no life of any sort ahead for her. She might as well be dead.
Lena missed the letters terribly. There was no point in looking in to Ivy hopefully. There would never be a letter from Kit again. Never a letter overflowing with news to her mother’s friend.
Kit missed the letters. There was nobody to sound off to, no one to tell about all the things that lay ahead, the catering college, the doglike devotion of Philip O’Brien, the increasing bossiness of Clio. The Lena Gray she had written to would have been able to come up with some course of action about everything, everything, of course, except what was really wrong.
It was a great lacking, the letters. Not having Sister Madeleine slip her the envelope with the English stamp which she would take home and read in her room. Now the knowledge that these letters were all lies made them worthless. She could hardly bear to think of what they had said. She didn’t believe Lena Gray anymore. About anything.
There was a postcard from Philip. He was in Killarney.
Dear Kit,
I have a holiday job here in this hotel that you see on the front of the card. Imagine having a picture of your hotel on the card. How boastful.
I can’t wait to start the course, can you? We’ll be so much ahead of the others, after all we’re going out together. They’ll all have to find new friends.
Love,
Philip.
Dear Kit,
Your father tells me that you will be in the Mountjoy Square Hostel, which I am sure will be excellent for you while you are studying in catering college.
I also realize that some of the greatest joys of coming to Dublin center around the sense of freedom you have from home, and everything connected with your own place. I would like you to know that I have a very comfortable flat in Rathmines. If ever you would like to come and see me I would be delighted. But most of all I want you to know that I shall not be sitting at home waiting for you. I leave work at five-thirty and very often when the weather is good I go on the golf course an hour after that time. Often I go to the cinema, or to the houses of friends. Sometimes people come to my flat for supper.
I tell you this so that you will know I am not trying to seek for company, nor am I trying to keep an eye on you while you are in Dublin. But this is my phone number just in case you’d like to come for a meal sometime.
Yours affectionately,
Maura.
Dear Michael Sullivan,
This is from a well-wisher. You have been observed drinking the dregs from bottles outside various public houses in Lough Glass.
This must now cease.
Immediately.
Otherwise Sergeant O’Connor will be informed.
And Father Baily.
And most important your brother who will beat the shit out of you.
You have been warned.
Dear Philip,
Whatever else we are doing when we get to Dublin we are not going out together. I want you to know this from the very start so that there will be no misunderstanding.
Love (but only if you take it in the right spirit),
Kit.
“They want me to start soon in Dublin, Stevie,” Rita said.
“Oh Jesus! You run everything here like a dream.”
“It’s nearly time.”
“But your woman hasn’t moved in with Martin yet.”
“If you are speaking of Miss Hayes, they are very close friends. But you are right, there is no engagement…as yet.”
“I thought you’d stay with me and keep the garage afloat.”
“Your mother doesn’t approve of me, Stevie.”
“Don’t mind her. I don’t.”
“It’s not pleasant to be asked to empty the rubbish, scrub the pots, take in the washing…”
“But come off it, Rita, you don’t do any of those things. She just asks you, you refuse. It’s a game.”
“Not to me it isn’t.”
“I don’t believe this. There’s another reason…you’ve been offered a better job?”
“No, not really.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve come from nothing, I’ve made myself acceptable. I want to be somewhere that I am accepted.”
“I pay you well.”
“If I went on the streets I’d be paid even better. Money isn’t everything.”
“Okay, I’ve been working my arse off here. I agree I don’t have time to be polite to people.”
“You’re quite polite to customers, Stevie. And to the people who might get you a Ford agency.”
He looked stricken. “That’s true.”
“And to girls who catch your eye, and to people you want credit from, or those you think might be in the way of buying a new car.”
“You’ve had your eyes open.”
“Yes, and I don’t particularly like eve
rything that I see.”
“Jesus, Rita, I’m ashamed. That’s all I can say.”
“Funnily, I think you mean it,” Rita said.
“So will everything be all right now? I’ve learned my lesson, and I’ll be as good as gold.” He smiled his heartbreaking smile.
“You’re only a kid, Stevie. That won’t work with me,” Rita laughed at him.
“So what do I have to do?”
“Nothing really. Just a nice reference and I’ll be off tonight. Everything’s in apple pie order.”
“You’re never walking out on me.”
“More on your mother.”
“She’s nothing to do with this.”
“Then she has no business in your office.”
“Who taught you to be so tough?”
“Mrs. McMahon, the Lord have mercy on her.”
“I doubt if he will, she drowned herself.”
“You’ve a big mouth, Stevie Sullivan.”
“I’ll give you a lot more money. Stay, Rita. Please.”
“No, thanks all the same.”
“Who will I get?”
“An older woman, even older than me.”
“How old are you, Rita? You’re only a girl.”
“I’m a good five years older than you.”
“That’s nothing these days.”
“Get someone older. And someone who’ll frighten the bejaysus out of your mother.”
“What’ll I say in the reference you want from me?”
“I have it written here.” Rita smiled at him.
“I can’t believe this, Rita. I really can’t,” Martin McMahon said to her.
“It’s time for me to go, sir.”
“Is there anything I can say to make you stay?”
“Everything you did here was always for my good, but I could find you someone, sir. Someone to work in my place.”
“There’s no one that could equal you, Rita.”
“What I was going to suggest was a young cousin of mine. She might just work mornings, do the cleaning, ironing and wash the vegetables…you’ll probably be able to make your own arrangements and maybe want the house run in a different way.” It was as near as she could come to telling him that it was time he married Maura.
Maura Hayes opened the letter. It was typed and postmarked Lough Glass.
You may think this an extraordinary letter, Miss Hayes, and if you are offended by it then my judgment has been wrong.
Maura hastened to see who it was from. The signature Rita Moore meant nothing. Then she understood. The girl who had worked in Martin’s house was telling her that she was leaving. That there were two vacancies. Housekeeper, and in the office across the road.
“Is there an understanding between you and young Kit McMahon?” Dan O’Brien asked his son that night before the course began in Cathal Brugha Street catering college.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No I don’t, actually,” Philip said.
“Well, actually for your information, I meant do you and she intend to be boyfriend and girlfriend?”
“And suppose we did?”
“Suppose you did I want to warn you that she could be a bit flighty like her mother, and I wouldn’t want to think that you’d have your name up with someone like that.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Don’t take that tone with me.”
“What tone?”
“Mildred, speak to him.”
“There isn’t any point, is there? He’s determined to be like all the modern youth today.”
“Sister Madeleine,” said Kit. “There was a thing I was going to say about the letters from London.”
“What’s that now?”
“I think my mother’s friend will write to me in Dublin now, at the hostel.”
“Yes, of course…”
“I just didn’t want you to think I took things for granted, or was keeping things secret on you.”
“No, of course not…and often things that sound complicated are quite simple.” Sister Madeleine was lighthearted about her alternative postal service. “Anyway, Kit, when you’re as old as I am and half talking to the birds and the foxes and the butterflies that come in at the end of the summer, you’re not sure what you know and what you only dream…”
“Does everyone have a secret, do you think?”
“Certainly. Some are more important than others, of course.”
Kit looked at her. There was one more thing she wanted to ask. It was hard to know how to put it. “Suppose you knew something…something that should actually stop something…” The nun’s eyes were very blue and gave nothing away. “I was wondering if that were to happen to someone…should that someone try to change what was going to happen, you know, by saying everything, or would it be better to let things go ahead?”
“A very hard question all right.” Sister Madeleine was sympathetic.
“But you’d need to know more before you could answer it…is that it?”
“No no. Not at all. I couldn’t answer a question like that for anyone else. They’d have to find the solution all on their own. They’d know it in their hearts anyway.”
“They might know what they want but that needn’t be the right thing.”
“If it was the right thing that helped people and made them happy…” Sister Madeleine paused.
Not for the first time the thought crossed Kit’s mind that the hermit had an easy, simplistic view of the laws of God that might not be found totally acceptable to the more official wings of the Church.
LENA bought the paper every week. She read it from cover to cover, wishing there were more about Lough Glass and less about the surrounding countryside and villages in the area.
She read it first in fear. Fear that news of a great local scandal might be revealed. And then as the weeks went on she realized that Kit had not broken down under the strain of the knowledge she had come by. There were not going to be stories unmasking the great mistake that had been made in identifying a body all those years ago.
Lena read how two Lough Glass students had been accepted in St. Mary’s College of Catering. Kit was described as daughter of Martin McMahon, the well-known pharmacist, and his late wife, Mrs. Helen McMahon.
She read of the new drainage scheme, the improved roads, and the campaign for street lighting. She saw a picture of a bus shelter and read the outraged correspondence when it had been defaced.
And one day most unexpectedly she read that Martin McMahon, pharmacist of Lough Glass, and Miss Maura Hayes were to marry. She sat still for a very long time. Then she read it again.
Kit McMahon must be a strong girl to be able to take that in her stride. At her age she could allow her father to make a bigamous marriage. She knew that her mother was alive and she would have the courage to stand in a church and watch a wedding ceremony that she knew was a sham. She must be very courageous indeed to face the wrath of the Church or the State if it ever came to light.
Either that or she must hate her mother and have forced herself to believe that she was really dead.
Kit knew it was the right thing to do. She had no doubts at all. Sister Madeleine was right, you followed your conscience.
But she did have one worry. Suppose Lena found out. Suppose Lena wanted to spoil things. She might come at the last moment. It would be unforgivable if Kit was to let her father’s day be ruined, and have him and Maura made into a laughingstock. But she couldn’t write and ask a favor now.
She had left that day knowing she was doing the right thing. Her mother didn’t exist for them anymore in the way she once had. She couldn’t go crawling now, begging, pleading, asking her not to come back and haunt the happiness that had been so slow to come to this family. She would have to hope and pray that Lena would never hear about the wedding. How could she hear? She didn’t know anyone who lived in Lough Glass. It wasn’t going to be on the news or anything.
It was hard
to pray in conventional terms about this. Kit said big swooping prayers which skirted the issue of God’s law on marriage.
God was out for the best too, wasn’t he?
Lena thought about it for a long time.
Martin holding the hand of Maura Hayes and saying the words that couples said all over the world. Martin taking Maura home to his bed. Maura presiding at the table in the kitchen, going to Kit’s graduation, buying Emmet’s clothes.
She smoked late into the night. But what was another sleepless night? She had had so many of them.
By morning she had made up her mind. At lunchtime she took a bus to one of the smarter shopping streets and spent two hours choosing a dress. She had it wrapped for postage and took it to a post office. She addressed it to Kit McMahon, First Year Hotel Management Student, St. Mary’s College of Catering, Cathal Brugha Street, Dublin. And before she had time to change her mind she put in a note.
I thought you might like this to wear at the wedding. L.
And she left the parcel into their hands so that she could have no second thoughts.
She didn’t tell Ivy, not about the dress, nor even about the wedding. Somehow it was better if it wasn’t spoken about. It made her own position less vulnerable, less lonely.
She dreamed about the children every night. Emmet looking for her everywhere—behind rocks on a beach, behind trees in a wood, calling always “I know you’re there, please come out, come back, come back.” And of Kit wearing the dress, and standing stonily at the church gate. “You can’t come in, you must not come to the wedding, you’re buried over there. Remember this and go away.”
MAURA Hayes gave a lot of thought to the wedding.
It would be small but not hole-in-the-corner. It should be held in Dublin, far from the eyes of a too interested Lough Glass. Lilian would be her matron of honor, and Peter the best man. Or was that the wrong way? After all, Peter had been best man at Martin’s first wedding, when he had married Helen with all the hope that had been involved there. But if it wasn’t Peter who else would it be? Martin had no other close friend in Lough Glass or anywhere. It would be deliberate and wrong to exclude Peter.