Читать книгу Three Wise Men - Martina Devlin - Страница 17

‘House sharing at thirty-odd is no joke. Here I am in my thirty-third year and I can’t even call the roof over my head my own. It’s unnatural. By this age you’ve developed your little oddities, hence the name. You’re not thirty-even, as in living on an even keel, you’re thirty-odd as in just plain set in your ways and getting more solidified by the week.’

Gloria pauses to draw breath and Kate hastily rearranges her face into a sympathetic expression.

‘I have a theory about thirty-odd,’ continues Gloria, with the determination of someone who’s saved up a week’s worth of resentments and is determined to off-load them. ‘By this stage you’ve taken out a mortgage on a house or flat you can’t abide any more, bought matching pottery jars marked tea, coffee and sugar, as though you’re so mentally deficient you can’t remember which container is used for what, had passionate debates about colour schemes in some desolate warehouse of a DIY centre … turned into somebody you were mocking only a few years earlier. And what’s worse, you like it. You parade your eccentricities with pride, talk about them in the third person, lend them genetic credibility by tracing them back to grandparents.’

Gloria adopts a Tipperary accent, for no other reason than it’s the only rural one she can manage: ‘“I’m a divil in the morning, you can’t hold a conversation with me till I’m on my second cup of coffee – my mother was the same.” “The house can go to rack and ruin just so long as I’m able to keep the garden looking tidy – my grandfather spent every spare second outdoors himself.”

‘Now here I am, suddenly required to house-share. Pitched back into buying small loaves of bread because a large one goes stale before you can finish it. Back in the dark days of noticing and objecting (but detesting myself for it) when your friend drinks all the milk and never replaces it. Complaining, too, but feeling like a wrinkly, at her habit of playing the radio at full blast as she showers in the morning.’

Kate decides it’s time to intervene. ‘Call this a wild guess but are you finding life as Eimear’s lodger the teensiest bit stressful?’

Gloria nods and bites savagely into the cheese-on-toast lunch Kate has rustled up for both of them – it’s her stock in trade, her cooking doesn’t run to anything else apart from scrambled eggs. Solidified to concrete consistency in the microwave.

‘Mind you,’ Gloria carries on more moderately, ‘I can’t seem to please Eimear either. I daren’t set anything down, it’s “Don’t leave your mug on the cream carpet – if it spills I’ll never erase the stains.” So I tell her, fairly mildly considering the decibel level I’ve been subjected to, that if there was any space at all on the table I’d use it.

‘She chooses to interpret this as criticism of her plants – and while it’s true, as you know, Kate, she has foliage clambering over every available surface, spilling from ceramic strawberry pots and terracotta troughs, on their own they wouldn’t be so bad. The melee is compounded by the bowls of potpourri, the vases of flowers, both dried and fresh, the candlesticks with candles she never lights because wax is so messy and the coffee-table books she never opens in case she creases the pages. But try telling Eimear this, she’s in full flow about the therapeutic value of greenery.’

Gloria subsides, Kate heaves a sigh of relief, but then Gloria recollects another grievance.

‘And don’t get me started on Eimear’s feng shui fixation: she shrieks if you leave the bathroom door open – apparently it means your money will trickle away. Or does that happen when you forget to close the l00 seat? – I end up so confused.’

‘I wish I had a spare room to offer you, Glo,’ says Kate, wishing nothing of the kind because she doesn’t want her friend’s disapproving features on hand when Jack’s in the vicinity.

‘Wearing ear plugs to block out the noise as you and your fancy man cavort about the flat? Do me a favour, Kate. Just because I’m keeping your grimy secret doesn’t mean I approve of you two. Although I’m starting to see that Jack may have some justification in kicking up his heels, life with Eimear is so regimented.

‘I can’t even talk to her about it. The trouble is, it’s her house and that gives her the upper hand. Unspoken, but hanging in the air, every time you handle a plate cavalierly or leave footprints on the kitchen floor, is the reproach that it’s her china you’re risking and her floor you’re muddying. I can’t leave a scum ring on the side of the bath overnight any more, even when fully intending to clean it in the morning. I’ll find her on her knees with the Jif in her hand and a martyred look on her face. I can’t dump a few dishes in the sink or a pile of ironing in the utility room, everything has to be done at once. It’s her religion. Tomorrow is never another day.’

Kate is delighted to hear Gloria wade into Eimear, it makes her feel even more justified in pursuing this relationship with Jack. But Gloria’s resentment is already ebbing.

‘Then again, Eimear gave me a home when Mick and I decided we needed time out. Actually it was me who decided it, Mick was opposed to the idea – he said couples who separate never solve their differences. They just find they can live without each other. I suppose he’s right: even if you return to the marital home there’s a sense in which something has been smashed.

‘You’ve acknowledged the reality that the marriage might not be permanent, that maybe you won’t live happily ever after, and the genie is out of the bottle. Marriage starts on the basis of two people saying they want to be together always, right? Now one or both of them are prevaricating: “Wait a minute, I need to think about this again.’”

Gloria’s head sinks on to her hand. What a shambles their lives are reduced to; she suspects Eimear’s glad of the company, despite chafing at her untidiness. Eimear’s been rattling around in her show-house since she and Jack had the mother, father and second-cousin-once-removed of all bust-ups when she discovered a packet of condoms in his wallet. He moved into rooms at Trinity College; he wanted to rush straight over to Kate’s but for once the woman showed a smidgen of sense and suggested they let the dust settle first.

Gloria looks Kate in the face. ‘Eimear misses Jack, you know.’

Kate immediately turns defensive. ‘I didn’t ask him to move out – we’re not even living together. His decision to leave Eimear had nothing to do with me.’

Gloria sighs. It’s a pickle fit to make your heart break – if it wasn’t already cracked between the jigs and the reels. She half-smiles, that’s a saying of her father’s.

‘Would you give my head peace, it’s turned with the lot of you between the jigs and the reels. I’m off to Mulholland’s for a bit of peace and quiet,’ he’d complain.

Their mother rounded on the children when that happened.

‘You see what you’ve driven your poor father to? Sending him out on a night like this to a public house, when he has a decent fireside of his own to sit at.’

They never dared point out it was her nagging he was running from, not their cowboy and indian shoot-outs.

It was her father who insisted she should be called Gloria. That’s a Protestant name in her part of the country – it doesn’t take a fidget out of them in Dublin where nobody worries if you’re from one side or the other unless it’s northside/southside of the city. The only sides now are financial … tiocfaidh ar bank balance. But names are logos in Tyrone, markers of identity; of division too. Eimear and Kate – safe choices, no problem working them out, but Gloria’s a puzzle. Mallon says something and Gloria contradicts it. It’s not clearcut, people feel uneasy.

Gloria’s father named her after Gloria Swanson and her sister Marlene was named for Marlene Dietrich – he loved those old Hollywood black and whites. There’s also a brother called Rudolph and it has nothing to do with being born at Christmas.

‘You may not grow up glamorous, girls, but at least your namesakes had it oozing from their fingertips,’ their father would tell Gloria and Marlene.

Not much of a vote of confidence from the man supposed to be your biggest admirer but he meant well.

Where’s the allure in names like Bernadette or Teresa or those other beacons of purity they were supposed to be modelling themselves on, Gloria wonders. Agnes was another name the nuns approved of – apparently Saint Agnes was stripped naked by her pagan jailers but God sent angels from heaven with a piece of cloth to preserve her modesty.

Agnes Kearney, who sat in front of Gloria, would cringe every time that story was mentioned. She counts back: there were two Teresas and three Bernadettes in her class, including Bernadette Lynn, who did everything humanly possible to prove she had no aspirations towards canonisation – to the delight of half the fellows in the youth club.

Gloria inspects Kate with heightened interest across the toasted cheese crumbs. There must be something magnetic about Jack to send Kate off her head like that. There has to be an overwhelming reason why she couldn’t retain herself, like her innate sensuality responding to his incessant demands and leaving her in a haze of intoxicated befuddlement.

‘Stop it, stop it, stop it,’ Gloria shrieks mentally, sidling off to use Kate’s bathroom. ‘I’m getting myself all worked up speculating about a friend’s love life, it’s indecent.’

Anyway, it’s all conjecture because she’s never encouraged Kate to discuss her sheetside shenanigans – but everyone who knows her agrees she’s a goer. ‘A ride and a half,’ as Mick puts it. Although how he’d know is beyond her.

Mick was only insistent about sex before they married. There was a noticeable sliding off after their grand day out and her ectopic pregnancy was the straw that broke the camel’s hard-on. Left it limp, anyway; it may not be permanently inactivated but she’s not the girl to fix it.

‘Woman,’ she corrects herself, leaning on the hand basin. ‘I must stop referring to myself as a girl, if only on the grounds of accuracy.’

They’ve made love four times since her ectopic; that’s four times in five-and-a-bit months. A rate of not even once a month. According to Gloria’s February issue of Image magazine, couples who’ve been together for a few years settle down to an average of twice a week. So someone, somewhere, is getting all her turns. She was never that bothered about jiggery pokery until she realised she wasn’t going to have it unless there were twenty-eight days in the month. ‘Enjoy this, my pet, it’ll have to keep you going for the rest of the year.’ The less she’s allowed her conjugal rights the more she feels entitled to them.

She’s not even sure you can count all four sessions since he lost his erection halfway through the last effort. Effort was the operative word, his heart clearly wasn’t in it and neither, as it transpired, was his lad. She broods. It’s not a pleasant experience to find your husband has lost his erection halfway through work in progress. There you are, legs akimbo, having quite a nice time really, when you suddenly get that shrinking feeling followed by the sinking one. He pumps on for a while, as though neither of you have noticed anything unusual, but eventually he concedes defeat.

Then of course he’s desperately upset, manhood compromised, so you end up cuddling him and saying it doesn’t matter when it does. Especially as he doesn’t offer to distract you. Especially as you’re not convinced he’ll be ready to play house with you in the foreseeable future. Not on his track record.

After that, Mick seemed to operate a sexual shutdown. Gloria considers. It’s entirely possible he takes himself in hand after she’s fallen asleep but she’s discovered no evidence of it.

‘Let’s see a counsellor,’ she suggested.

He slammed the door on his way out.

‘Mick, we need expert help,’ she insisted.

He slammed the door on his way out.

‘I’m at my wits’ end,’ she pleaded.

He slammed the door on his way out.

‘I’m leaving you,’ she threatened.

He slammed the door on his way out.

So here she is in Donnybrook with Eimear, sleeping in her spare room on cream linen sheets and eating her meals off primrose pottery. Gloria misses her own embroidered duvet covers and her own willow-pattern plates. She ran away with nothing more than her make-up purse, some clothes and her pillow. She can’t sleep on any other pillow, this goes everywhere with her.

Gloria wanders back along the hall to Kate, stacking dishes in the kitchen sink.

‘Any word from Mick?’ Kate calls over her shoulder.

‘Not a dicky bird.’

She’s been staying with Eimear for a fortnight and Mick has only contacted her once. That was the night after she moved out, when he rang up and ordered her to get a grip, she was mentally unbalanced and she should come straight home and stop dragging friends into their problems. Now who could resist an invitation like that.

Kate turns around, drying her hands on a teacloth. ‘Maybe he feels contact should come from you, Glo – after all you’re the one who jumped ship.’

Gloria focuses on the jet earrings set dancing by the way Kate’s holding her head. She’s watching Gloria with an expression of affectionate concern but Gloria doesn’t notice as she ruminates on Kate’s suggestion. It’s forcing her to consider her motivation more narrowly than she’s allowed herself.

Does she genuinely want to save her marriage or is Eimear and Jack’s split the equivalent of the butterfly’s fluttering wings in Ballaghadreen that spark an earthquake in Bombay? Not to mention a marital severance in Ranelagh.