All That I Leave Behind (7 page)

He turned up at Miss Marsh’s, a single rose in his hands, and demanded that the secretary fetch me out of my typing class. He told her he was my brother and that it was a ‘family emergency’ and her face was a picture: a mixture of anxiety and distaste as she said the words ‘your brother’. I almost said it then, ‘But I don’t have a brother,’ but something made me stay quiet, follow her out of the classroom and down the corridor and into the office, where he was sitting in a chair by the window. For a moment, I had no idea who he was – I’d only met him that one time before, after all, in the gloom of the Students’ Club, and even then we’d hardly exchanged a word, just watched the film together in near-silence – but then I remembered the way he’d looked at me when we’d said goodbye, right into my eyes, and he’d kissed me softly on my cheek. And then he’d just vanished – and now, six weeks later, here he was, sitting in the office of the secretarial school, pretending to be my brother.

I hovered by the threshold in my green jumper and my threadbare tweed skirt, my toes pinched in the white stilettos the school insists we wear ‘to aid posture’. He’d slicked back those black curls into a side parting, but they still rested on his shirt collar in a way that Mummy would describe as ‘scruffy’ and he was wearing a suit jacket that looked as if it was three sizes too small for him, and then he caught sight of me and his face split into a huge grin, a lopsided one that showed a set of large white teeth. He looked as if he had a black eye, a purple shadow around his left one, and I took in a deep breath at the sight. Has he been in a fight? I wondered. I couldn’t suppress a shiver of excitement at the thought. I’d never met a man before who’d been in an actual fight.

‘Well, have you nothing to say to your brother, Miss Spencer?’ Mrs McCarthy’s voice was sharp in my ear.

‘Oh, yes, what is it, William? I have class and you’ve interrupted my shorthand note-taking.’ I tried my best to look annoyed.

He coughed, to clear his throat, his hand over his mouth. ‘Yes, well, ehm … sister, you’re wanted at home. Grandad’s been taken ill.’

I had to feign alarm then, when all the while I wanted to howl with laughter. ‘Sister’? He didn’t even know my name! I bundled him out of the office as quickly as I could, thanking Mrs McCarthy profusely for her help, and ran out the door. Only when we had walked around the side of Trinity College, a good five hundred feet from the school, did I dare let out the laughter which had been bubbling up inside.

‘What on earth was “sister” all about?’

He grinned that big grin of his again. ‘I was improvising. I thought you’d be impressed.’

‘I am.’

‘Ehm, you see, I don’t know your name.’

‘It’s Michelle,’ I said. ‘Pleased to meet you again.’

He looked at my outstretched hand and then down at his own, as if he were deciding whether or not it was clean, and then he reached out and took mine, clasping it in his. He didn’t shake, just held it there and gave a little squeeze. I could feel my skin tingle. ‘John-Joe O’Connor.’

We ran all the way to Macari’s café on Talbot Street, the two of us nearly doubled over with laughter as we hopped through the puddles, and then we took a seat by the window, looking down onto the shoppers going in and out of Boyers department store. And now, here we are, sharing a big plate of chips and battered cod, and it feels good, hot and greasy and I lick my fingers, the salt on my tongue. No knives, no forks, no fine dining. Daddy would have a heart attack.

‘I suppose you’re wondering how I found you again?’ He’s leaning back on the seat, so far he threatens to topple backwards, rubbing his stomach, before he gives an appreciative belch. I cover my mouth, my eyes wide. In my house, a belch has never once been heard: people retreat into the privacy of the bathroom to do things like that, behind closed doors.

I giggle. ‘That’s very rude.’

‘But you like it.’ He smiles broadly. ‘You like a man who’s honest about these things. Who doesn’t pretend to be one thing when he’s really another.’

‘Hmm …’ I shrug my shoulders, because I have no idea what kind of man I like. The statement seems so odd, when the only men I’ve ever known are Daddy and a few of the boys at the tennis club. I couldn’t imagine Ivan, with his tweed jacket and pullover, his shirt and tie, letting a big burp out like that or talking to me like this man talks to me, directly, as if I’m not ‘a lady’, just, well, a woman, I suppose. Ivan is far too much of a gentleman – all that opening doors and insisting he drive, even though I know perfectly well how to drive myself. I look at John-Joe and I can tell he’s not a gentleman, but there’s something about that that I like: it makes me feel that I know him in a way I’ve never known a man before: as an equal.

‘I’ve been trying to look you up ever since we bumped into each other at the Students’ Club,’ he’s saying. ‘I went back a few times, but there was no sign of you. And then I remembered you talking about your “awful secretarial school”’ – he does a very funny imitation of me and I find myself giggling again – ‘and so I tried all of them until I found you. I had to stand outside for a week or so to see if you walked in the door, but it was worth it.’

I should be scared, I know. That a man – who, incidentally, hadn’t seemed terribly bothered about me at our first meeting
– should go to such lengths to find me. Me! But then I thought of Jean Seberg and Jean-Paul Belmondo in
À Bout de Souffle
and how they just found each other, without needing silly things like tennis clubs and respectability. It just seemed so romantic: that he would search the whole of Dublin just for me. And when he lays his brown hand on mine and gives it a little squeeze, my heart gives a little squeeze too.

‘How did you know my surname?’ The thought suddenly occurs to me.

He leans back in his seat again, a big grin splitting his face. ‘You have one of those labels sewn into the back of your coat, like a little schoolgirl. M. Spencer it said. I thought the “M” stood for “Miss”.’

I blush a bright red and try to stifle a giggle, thanking God for Mummy’s insistence on labelling all my clothes.

He leans forward then, his expression suddenly serious. ‘There’s a protest on next Saturday. About Vietnam. Fancy coming?’

My stomach flips, a mixture of excitement and nerves. I’ve never been to a protest before. ‘Will it be violent?’ I ask.

He looks as if he’s trying not to laugh. ‘You’re very sheltered, aren’t you? Of course it won’t be violent, unless the guards kick off,’ he spits. ‘Bastards.’ And then he coughs. ‘Excuse me. I forget that you’re a lady.’

I groan. ‘Not all that “lady” nonsense, please. Why can’t we just be equals?’

His eyes flash. ‘Oh, be careful what you wish for, Michelle. Women’s liberation can be a dangerous thing.’

‘Oh, really? How, exactly?’ I say smartly.

‘Well, it’s obvious. Men and women aren’t made the same. They’re different for a reason. Women are born to be mothers – they’re soft and gentle and they nurture their young, not like us men – and as for politics or the factory floor, well, it’s no place for women. It’s too aggressive. Women couldn’t survive that.’

‘And there was I, thinking that you weren’t like other men,’ I say tightly, pulling my handbag onto my lap. ‘It’s because of men like you that we’re all at home, chained to the kitchen sink. It’s because of men like you that we have no hope or expectation of equality,’ I spit. ‘Why shouldn’t we be doctors or astronauts or soldiers or anything else we want to be?’

‘And who’d look after the children then?’ he says, his face a mask of disapproval, before he leans back in his chair and roars with laughter.

‘You are mocking me,’ I say. ‘You horrible, horrible man. I’m going. I didn’t need to get dragged out of my class for this,’ and I pull myself upright, my chair scraping back on the floor so loudly everyone turns around to have a look. I’m about to turn around, when he grabs my hand, tight. ‘Sit down,’ he says. His expression has darkened and for a moment I feel afraid.

I have to pull myself together. ‘No,’ I retort. ‘Nobody orders me around.’

His face softens. ‘Sorry. Sorry, Michelle. Will you please sit down? I promise I won’t take the mick any more.’

Reluctantly, I perch on the edge of my chair and he reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a battered-looking black velvet box. ‘Here,’ he says, pushing it across the table to me.

‘What is it?’ I look at the box as if it is dangerous somehow. He sighs and pulls it back, opening it and taking out two rings, the same rough silver, the same knobbly purple stone in the middle. ‘I promised that if I ever found you, I’d give you this,’ he said, handing me the smaller of the two. The larger one, he slipped onto the fourth finger of his right hand, admiring it.

I hold mine in front of me, unable to work out what exactly he’s asking me. I look at it for the longest time and the place seems to fall quiet around us.

‘Well?’ he says, taking my hand and stroking my ring finger. ‘Will you wear it?’

I know if I get the answer wrong, I’ll never see him again, but it’s a risk I have to take. I can’t let him think he’s in charge here. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, and I get back up, put the ring into my handbag and close the catch. ‘Thanks for dinner.’ And I walk out of the restaurant without turning around.

T
he
cheap Prosecco was going to June’s head, her hand clammy on the glass as the three of them bunched up on the sagging sofa in the bridal shop. Mary-Pat’s Melissa was in the middle, chattering away about bodices and dropped waists, while she and Mary-Pat sat either side of her, like anxious terriers waiting for the fox to appear.

‘Jesus Christ, it’s warm in here,’ Mary-Pat was saying, her face red, two circles of sweat under her arms. She was wearing a bright cerise T-shirt and those awful cut-off cargo pants that every middle-aged woman June saw seemed to be wearing. June fingered her cream linen jacket and carrot-leg navy trousers – she couldn’t help herself, she felt that she looked good, even at forty-one. But she put a bit of effort into it. She hadn’t resorted to anything chemical, not like some of the girls, but she looked after herself: she ate well, avoiding red meat, drank a glass of red wine every night and did Pilates three times a week. It was possibly the most boring way God ever invented of spending forty-five minutes, but it kept all of her bits in the right place, and she supposed that it was worth it. She just couldn’t turn into one of those women who’d let herself go, she thought, eyeing her sister’s solid shoulders, the flab that hung over the waistband of her trousers. And trainers … she eyed Mary-Pat’s large white pair, complete with those awful neon ankle socks – no one over twenty-five should wear trainers.

‘What the hell is she doing in there,’ Mary-Pat was saying, ‘is she trying on every bloody dress in the shop? I’m baking alive here and I need something to eat.’

‘Mum, will you take it easy,’ Melissa said, ‘anyone would think you didn’t want to be here.’

Mary-Pat shot June a look, which June tried hard to ignore, examining the bubbles in her glass before taking another tentative sip. It was cheap and warm, but she’d have settled for anything just to get through this.

‘I mean, choosing a wedding dress is the most important decision she’ll ever have to make,’ Melissa was saying, ‘and she’ll want to get it just right.’ She had a dreamy look in her eye and June felt like hugging the girl – bless her, she was a romantic. If only she knew, June thought, that you had to have so much more after the romance had gone. Something that would bind you both together: friendship, loyalty, common interests, the kind of things that she and Gerry shared.

‘For God’s sake, Melissa, she’s not winning the feckin’ Nobel Prize, she’s just trying on a wedding dress,’ Mary-Pat snapped.

June shot out a warning hand and placed it on Mary-Pat’s shoulder. Mary-Pat shrugged it off. ‘Mel, why don’t you go and see what’s happening.’ June smiled. ‘Maybe Rosie wants a hand.’

The girl was off like a shot, bouncing off in the direction of the curtained area, behind which Rosie clearly
was
trying on every dress in the shop. Lovely Melissa – she was such a sweet-natured girl, in spite of the fake tan and the straightened hair and those spidery fake eyelashes. June thought of her two girls. Georgia would have loved this, if only she didn’t have extra violin after school, and so would India, but she’d told June that she was ‘up to her eyes’ preparing for her maths mocks. June was disappointed – she would have loved to have the girls with her, and it was ages since they’d seen their cousin, but she couldn’t argue with hard work. Gerry and she were always going on at them to put the effort in, so she couldn’t complain. Mary-Pat thought it was highly entertaining that she had two such studious girls, ‘seeing as you never did a stroke of work in your life,’ she’d joked. Georgia was a bit of a wild card, though, and June knew she’d have to watch her. She had something of Daddy about her, a twinkle in her eye and a sense of mischief, which June was determined to keep under control. Still, June was proud of them both. Mary-Pat was probably a bit jealous – and boy, could she be hard on Melissa.

‘MP, will you go easy on her, she’s just having fun,’ June said quietly.

Mary-Pat shot her a look. ‘Fun.’

‘Our baby sister is getting married and she’s including us in this … ritual.’ June chose the word for want of a better one. ‘Is that so bad? You were complaining last week that she didn’t want to include you.’

‘I know,’ Mary-Pat muttered. ‘It’s just …’

‘What?’ June said gently.

‘It’s just … it’s been a shock her coming back after all this time, Junie. I just don’t know what to think.’ Mary-Pat looked anguished and, not for the first time, June felt a flicker of irritation, which she masked. She knew that Mary-Pat was upset, but frankly, she was behaving as if the world were going to end just because her sister had come home after ten years to see them all. Yes, the visit made June feel a tad … uneasy, but she was pleased to see her sister. Delighted, in fact. She really must have Rosie and Craig over for dinner before the wedding, just the two of them, so that she could get to know him a bit better.