Chestnut Street (7 page)

“Yeah, wait until he does something heavy trying to get a fellow for you,” Suzanne grumbled.

But she combed her hair and put on a little more lipstick, and when Finbarr suggested a walk along the canal she was ready to show him the way.

“What are you doing for Christmas Day, Fay?” her uncle asked when the others were gone and the two of them sat and had a cup of tea together to end the Sunday ceremony.

She was surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s not going to be a Sunday, you see, and I wonder would our arrangement extend to us having a Christmas dinner together? I have enjoyed these Sunday lunches, you know. It’s worked out from my point of view very well.”

“Sure, of course, Jim.”

“And you, do you think the arrangement is working?” He seemed anxious for her approval.

“Certainly I do.”

“But you’d like a fellow of your own?” Now he sounded even more anxious.

“Well someday, yes, Jim, not today necessarily.”

“But you’re not rushing away? Not this minute?”

“No, of course not, now that you’ve fixed my brother up with Suzanne, I’ll sit on with you for a bit.”

“Good.”

They sat there amicably, and an hour later a man knocked on the door. He was Billy Young, a financial adviser. He seemed delighted to meet Fay. Her uncle had spoken about her a lot, and had said she was a rock of sense.

“You’re very pretty for a rock of sense,” he said admiringly.

“Thanks, Billy,” Fay said.

“Well, I’ll get back to being an adviser,” Billy said with a grin that broke her heart.

She went up to her room and remembered that she had to call Nurse Williams tomorrow for the regular check about whether it had worked out well or not. Had it been a success?

She lay on her bed and looked out over Chestnut Street. It had been a success. How dull that looked when written on an official form.

I was sick to death of those Fifth Form girls confiding in me.

“You’re so understanding, miss,” they would say in a treacly tone that always won me over. Of course I was understanding, nicer, more liberal than their parents, younger, more interested in them than the other teachers … no wonder they loved me. Full of good, hearty advice about everything.

“Well, if he didn’t dance with you last night, Susie, perhaps he’s got something else on his mind, exams maybe. No? He danced with other girls. I see—well, it could be that he hasn’t the courage to ask you; boys can be shy too, you know. He’s not shy—he’s a bit of a showoff. I see. Well, perhaps that’s an extreme form of nervousness. He’s a teenager too, and we all show nervousness in different ways. Why don’t you pretend that you don’t mind at all, and dance with other people happily; if he sees you looking happy and relaxed, he might pluck up courage …” And then, weeks later: “I am glad it worked. No, don’t thank me—it was only your own common sense …” And weeks later: “Well, I suppose boys change their minds the same way as girls do … No, Susie, I don’t think that your heart is actually cracking; I think it would be very foolish to be a nun just now. I know it would show him, but think
of all those years as a nun and the getting up early on cold mornings and the funny clothes you’d have to wear. Much wiser to be an academic—he’d be really pissed off over that.”

And the same in the staff room. Never a problem of my own, always somebody else’s. “I know, I know, Miss O’Brien, it
is
very hard, of course it is, but you know I get the feeling that Mr. Piazza would be more upset than relieved if you arrived at his house and told his wife everything. Oh, I do see your point about total honesty, but Mr. Piazza might have thought of that one evening as something more … well, not so much casual … but something lovely just to happen once, to be a beautiful memory. It would change from being a beautiful memory into a problem if you were to tell Mrs. Piazza about his having said he had loved you for years. No, don’t cry, Miss O’Brien, please. I’m sure he did and does love you, but there are different degrees of love, especially to an Italian music master. I think his love for you is more the admiring-you-as-you-take-the-girls-out-to-hockey type of love than the leaving-his-wife-and-seven-children-and-renting-a-small-room-with-you sort.”

When would I have a problem of my own? Not amongst my friends out of school either; they had too many that had to be dealt with first. There was Lisa, who had this white, drawn look for ages and we all knew she had some dark brooding secret, but while that’s all everyone else was ever to know, I was the one who had to hear about the man in the bank who had discovered the foolproof way to transfer money out of other people’s accounts into Lisa’s, so that they could eventually have a small fortune and run away and live in a white house beside the sea on a Greek island and cook kebabs at night and drink wine and make love on the beach for the rest of their lives. It was a case of “Well, of course it sounds idyllic and we all have a right to happiness, and I know there is hellish inequality in the world and that grabbing what you can is one way of dealing with it, but you know those cases of people who are found out and who go to gaol. Well, certainly
he’s very clever and brilliant and fired by love and all that, but who exactly is he taking it from? I mean, won’t somebody notice that they’re being robbed? Oh, Lisa, stop crying. I didn’t say he was a robber, I just said it’s not without its pitfalls.”

And there was my great pal Donal, so good-looking that he had a problem every week trying to disentangle himself from yet another situation and get into a further one. “Donal, of course I agreed with you that she is being unreasonable to want to get engaged after such a short time, but on the other hand you did make her leave her own flat and move into yours. She has to say something to her mother, you know, just some kind of hopeful words. I see, well then you should be very honest, shouldn’t you? Remember the last times you were so honest, you were always glad afterwards. I know, I know, but women do get upset about things. No, I know I’m different, but then I’m your friend, I’m not one of your girls, but listen to me. There’s no point in telling her you have consumption, and it wouldn’t be fair to her; she’ll agree to it anyway and swear to stay and nurse you for the rest of her life. You’ll have to say it was all a mistake and you’re sorry, and you’ll have to help her find another flat. No, I don’t think she’d find a revolting liver ailment a turnoff either—remember that actress, the one you told that you had gout. She still sends you telegrams at work saying ‘ratfink.’ Come on, it’ll only take a weekend to do it, and then you’ll both be free for the rest of your lives.”

It seemed to be years of helping other people have pregnancy tests done, abortions arranged, cover stories created, years and years of inviting certain people to parties so that other people could pounce on them, centuries of being asked to go over and distract some girl who was showing too much interest in someone else’s man, a lifetime of giving sound middle-of-the-road, unpaid agony column advice.

So one Thursday afternoon at four o’clock when school broke up, I decided that I would get a giant-size problem of my own. I would plunge myself wholeheartedly into a situation that would
be so terrible and insoluble that at least half a dozen of my friends would have to hold consultations about it, would have to take me aside for serious conferences, would have to take me out of myself to get me over it. Somebody else was going to have a sleepless night or two over me, and I was going to behave unreasonably throughout the whole thing … consistently asking for advice, and then never listening to it, let alone taking it.

It was hard to think of a desperate situation to enter as I was walking down the leafy road from the school with exercise books under my arm. Where did everyone else find them? Often they were a result of some happy drunken gathering, so I supposed I could begin there. But it was a bit early to get drunk, so I went home and planned it out on paper the same way that I would have organized a history teaching schedule for the year. First I made a list of places that I could get drunk in that evening. Selectivity was the problem since pubs there are in plenty. I chose about four where I thought there might be actors, or writers, or artists, or public relations men, which a lifetime of listening had taught me to recognize as problem men.

Then I made another list of the kind of clothes I should wear. Not the gray skirt, gray jumper and white blouse that always seemed fine for school and the gentle evenings out that I was used to. It had better be something problem-creating, so I tried on a blouse that was too small, a skirt that was too tight, jewelry that was too flashy and perfume that was too perfumey, and put all the makeup I had on my face. In honesty I thought I looked very silly indeed but perhaps it was the kind of appearance that would attract some married homosexual who had robbed a bank to put me in a position where I might be expecting twins, about to be arrested and hiding from gangs who were pledged to destroy me.

In the first bar the barman said inexplicably, “Is it raining outside?” This gave me a lot of cause for thought in case it might be a code or something, and what he really meant was the man in the corner would like to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse about
white slave traffic. What he really meant was that my mascara was running in six black lines down my face and my skirt looked as if it had shrunk in a sudden shower. I cleaned my face, which made me look as if someone had beaten me up, but that was fine too, because at least it looked adventurous and not comfortable. I didn’t want to look comfortable, under any circumstances. But nobody came over and lit a cigarette for me and nobody said anything except to ask was the seat beside me taken. So I moved on.

In the next bar there seemed to be a livelier lot. At least there was a great argument going on between some howling drunks about the words of “The Listeners.” It seemed ideal as a situation to include myself, and serendipity that I knew the words. Inch by inch I got nearer, as drunkenly they criticized each other’s versions, and almost accidentally I seemed to get included in their rounds. The only thing they wouldn’t do was let me speak. Each time they ordered they said, “A gin and tonic for the lady,” but I never got any words in at all. I filed it away as a useful way of becoming drunk cheaply because nobody asked what I was doing there, but, unflatteringly, nobody seemed to have the slightest interest either. I offered to buy a round, hoping to earn some hearing or at least attention this way. “Never let a woman pay,” they all chorused, and I took it as some kind of bonus that they at least realized that a woman I was.

It was getting late and they were buying beer to take home with them. It was going to continue in some flat, so I’d better stay with it, I thought. I bought half a dozen and they were put in a brown paper bag, and I tagged along hopefully with them to the bus stop. There, unfortunately, they hailed a taxi, and as I was getting in too, they shook their heads. “Can’t take you with us,” they said.

“I’ve bought my beer and everything,” I said tearfully.

“Simon wouldn’t like it—must never take another man’s woman, first rule,” they told me.