In general conversation, these same subjects cropped up when the Protestant families in the neighbourhood greeted one another at St Giles’s church on Sundays: the Goods, the Hayeses, the Kirkpatricks, the Fitzgeralds, the Lyndons, the Enrights, the Yateses, the Dallons. In 1955 they recognized that their survival lay in making themselves part of the scheme of things, as it was now well established. While they still believed in the Protestants they were, they hung together less than they had in the past.
‘You’d need the patience of Job,’ Mr Dallon had confided more than once after the Sunday service, referring to his efforts to teach his son to farm. It was James who mattered. It was he, not his sisters, who would continue to tease a living out of the twenty-seven indifferent acres, and to trade animals at the cattle-fairs: on his success depended the survival of all three of them. ‘Pray to God he doesn’t go marrying some flibbertigibbet!’ This worry of Mrs Dallon’s was voiced, not in the churchyard, but to her husband when they were alone. James being James, any marriage he proposed would naturally be foolish, but if you hinted as much when the time came the chances were that he’d have the thing done in some out-of-the-way parish without anyone knowing. A flibbertigibbet could be the ruin of Culleen, and of Letty and Mary Louise with it – unless, of course, Mary Louise discovered in the meantime the advantages of marrying into the drapery. No word could be said in that direction either, no pressure applied. These days – more than ever before, Mrs Dallon considered – a family had to put its trust in God.
‘Your cold cleared up,’ she observed in the kitchen when she and Mary Louise were making bread a fortnight or so after the outing to the Electric Cinema. ‘I thought we were in for ‘flu.’
‘Yes, the cold went off.’
Mary Louise sounded low, her mother noted, and said to herself that that wasn’t a bad sign. It suggested that her pride had been disturbed because Elmer Quarry had failed to display his disappointment over the cancelled engagement. With a mother’s instinct she guessed that Mary Louise was regretting her hastiness.
When Elmer entered the billiard-room the caretaker – Daly the church sexton – was sitting close to the fire that blazed between the glass-fronted bookcases. In a respectful manner he immediately stood up, pushed back the rexine-covered armchair and replaced on the magazine table the Illustrated London News he’d been perusing. He remarked on the continuing severe weather. He’d be back to lock up, he added, and indicated that there was plenty of coal in the scuttle.
It puzzled Elmer that hardly anyone but himself came in for a game of billiards or an exchange of views by the fire. He couldn’t understand why others didn’t find some attraction in the shadowy billiard-room with the powerful, shaded light over the table, the coal pleasantly hissing, the flames changing colour and causing the mahogany of the bookcases to glow. No refreshments were served in the billiard-room, but that didn’t seem to Elmer to matter in the very least, since refreshment could be taken in your own dining-room, and if you cared to smoke – which he didn’t himself – you could do so endlessly. Daly, a small, elderly man with a limp, was invariably ensconced with a magazine when Elmer arrived, but always rose and went away. It sometimes occurred to Elmer that the caretaker lit the fire and kept it up for his own comfort and convenience.
He chalked a cue and disposed the billiard-balls to his liking, preparatory to an hour’s practice. The day had been a profitable one: seven yards of oilcloth, the tail-end of a roll that had been in the shop for fifteen years, were sold by Matilda to the Mother Superior at the Sacred Heart convent. A coat had been sold to a farmer’s wife, and an overcoat to her husband, both purchases the fruits of a legacy apparently. The traveller from Fitzpatrick’s had shown him a new line in carded elastic with a mark-up that was the most attractive he’d been offered for years. He had ordered a dozen boxes, and a hundred of Fitzpatrick’s Nitelite nightdresses. Rose had sold ten yards of chiffon for Kate Glasheen’s wedding-dress. You didn’t often have a day like that.
Taking aim, Elmer closed one eye. He paused, then slid the cue smoothly forward. Ball struck ball, the resulting motion precisely as he’d planned. He would continue to wait, he reflected as he moved around the table: one day, sooner or later, she would walk into the shop and he would see what was what from the expression on her face. Rose and Matilda were pleased at the latest turn of events, but events that turned once could turn again. The glimpse of her stockinged calves in the light from the street lamp flashed into Elmer’s consciousness, like a moment from the film they had seen. The Dallons weren’t much of a family: she would walk into the shop.
Mary Louise did so twelve days later, and Elmer came down from the accounting office, solicitous about her cold. The older of his two sisters – showing her a cardigan at the time – was far from pleased when he approached them.
The cold had cleared up, Mary Louise said; it had been heavy, but it had cleared up. The cardigan wasn’t quite right, she added. Attractive though it had seemed in the window, under closer scrutiny the shade wasn’t one that suited her.
‘Wasn’t that the powerful film?’ he remarked while Rose was returning the garment to the window.
‘Yes, it was.’
‘A grand evening.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Well, that unfortunate cold was a nuisance! In fairness to yourself, I think I owe you another visit to the pictures.’
He smiled. His teeth were small, she saw, a fact that previously had escaped her.
‘Oh,’ she began.
‘Would Friday interest you? Or Saturday? Would Saturday be better?’
She chose Friday. They saw Lilacs in the Spring.
3
Arrangements are being explained to her: she doesn’t listen. The words are no more than a gabble, a sound like a dog grieving in the distance or the wail of wind through branches. Jeanne d’Arc worked a plough like a man; she wasn’t a mimsy thing like Possy Luke with her cracked spectacles. Miss Mullover said Jeanne d’Arc’s courage was beyond all comprehension.
‘Good of you to come over.’ Miss Foye has returned. Her strict tone interrupts the visitor’s drone, still going on about the way things are now being done. There is a smile on Miss Foye’s plump face. Forty-two she is, a known fact. Courted by a road surveyor.
‘We’ll take it easy,’ the man remarks, lowering his voice. ‘We won’t rush our fences.’
They glance at her, both of them. She introduces a vacancy into her eyes, staring over their heads, upwards, at the ceiling.
‘It’ll be a saving for you,’ Miss Foye observes.
He shakes his head, implying that that isn’t a consideration. ‘All I want to do is the right thing. Will the house close down, Miss Foye?’
‘We have fourteen to place elsewhere, fourteen that can’t go back where they came from. The house’ll put up its shutters then.’
‘You’ll be OK yourself?’
‘To tell the truth I would be finishing with it anyway.’
Miss Foye looks coy. A month ago a ruby stone appeared on her engagement finger. Miss Foye is to become the wife of the road surveyor, an autumnal romance if ever there was one. ‘There’s juice in the old girl yet,’ Dot Sterne remarked when the news spread. ‘Isn’t that one bold for her age?’