The Matchmaker (19 page)

His bag was packed and ready. He glanced around his house one more time: the expensive gold carpet, the polished mahogany bookcase and side table and chairs, the Adams fireplace and the comfortable high-backed wing armchair where he normally sat. He took a breath, steadying himself as he heard the car pull up outside his front door. He pulled himself upright and fixed his navy cravat in the mirror, considering his grey hair and lined face, admitting for the first time in a very long while that he was scared. Scared to leave this house, scared of what lay ahead, scared of being alone.

Lying in bed in his hospital room, Oscar had to admit that underneath his seemingly dignified manner he was more than scared: he was almost paralysed with fear. Despite his own medical background and training, hospitals alarmed and unsettled him. All he could do was try to forget about his upcoming operation.

The nurses were kind and charming, fussing about him; a red-haired girl from Mayo called Mary checked his blood pressure and temperature to ensure he was fit for tomorrow’s surgery.

Outside the window, the seascape of Dublin Bay beckoned; the tide was turning as the waves rushed towards the coastline between Blackrock and Booterstown; a crazy dog chased after a seagull that took flight, gliding in the currents of air as it wheeled out seawards; the crowded green Dart train travelled up and down the track in a loop between Bray and the city.

‘Are you all right, Mr Lynch?’ asked a different nurse, a beautiful young Filipina, coming to check on him.

‘Grand.’ He smiled, just wanting to be left in peace and not be a bother to any of the staff. He had ordered plaice and chips for his tea and from then on would be fasting. His affairs were in order. He’d been in touch with his brother James in Sydney and his cousin Gloria in Belfast to tell them of his hospital visit, in order that they were aware of his medical condition if the need should arise. He was as comfortable as could be expected and engrossed himself in a copy of P. G. Wodehouse, the antics of Bertie Wooster and the reliable Jeeves the perfect antidote to boredom as he awaited the arrival of Mr Moore.

In a haze of unconsciousness and morphine, he had dreamed about Elizabeth who looked radiant and beautiful and had stroked his brow, and called him darling. He had woken instead to discover Nurse Mary beside his bed, checking the monitor and fluid drip and drains and reassuring him the operation had gone well and that Mr Moore would be in to talk to him later. Relief washed over him as he gave into pain and anaesthesia and drifted back into a deep unbroken slumber.

The new titanium hip would seem to be doing the job and after two days he was back on his feet – well, crutches – trying to get mobile again. For the first time in his life Oscar felt old and weak as he negotiated bed to chair, chair to bathroom and made a short sortie supported by two nurses along the fourth-floor corridor, which seemed to his feeble body like an immense marathon. He knew he had immense willpower, but he still wondered how he would manage to negotiate simple day-to-day routines once he left the confines of the Blackrock Clinic.

‘We’re delighted with the outcome of your surgery,’ his doctor, Tom Moore, had said reassuringly after checking him over. ‘Another few days here with us in the clinic and then we’ve organized for you to have two weeks’ convalescence.’

‘Thank you,’ he responded. ‘I’m most grateful for all the excellent medical care and attention that I’ve received.’

‘So everything has gone very well thus far,’ continued the doctor from his bedside. ‘You are on track to make a very good recovery. Most patients, with a good deal of support at home and regular physiotherapy, see a vast improvement in mobility. However, I did see in your notes that you live alone, which is a concern. For that reason I would suggest that you consider moving to a nursing home or a retirement home.’

‘A nursing home!’ blustered Oscar at the young man, who looked barely forty with his pink round face and honest eyes. ‘I am very grateful for all you and your medical team have done for me but I have absolutely no intention of checking into one of those godawful places. The road to recovery is, I assure you, my own home in Pleasant Square.’

‘But you do know that you must take things very slow and easy when you get home,’ warned the surgeon. ‘All healing takes time.’

‘Of course,’ promised Oscar, already exhausted from the effort of arguing as he contemplated his ability to cook and clean and wash and iron and manage in the rather large three-storey house he inhabited on his own.

Maggie had a small bunch of roses, cut from the garden, a jar of mint humbugs which she knew Oscar was partial to, the latest issue of the
Phoenix
magazine and a pair of new blue men’s pyjamas that she had purchased from Marks & Spencer in Grafton Street, which she could return if not suitable. A discreet glance at Oscar’s hot press had illustrated what she considered the need for fresh pyjamas for his hospital stay. She also had his post, a get-well card from herself and one from Evie which was done in garish pink and purple crayon and showed a purple whale and a pink fish jumping in the air. She was just in time for visiting and walked along the hospital’s upper corridor and asked at the nurse’s station where her friend could be.

Oscar had a private room with a magnificent view of the sea. She was glad to see he was getting some recompense after years of paying into an expensive health plan which he had never used.

‘Maggie, my dear, how good to see you,’ he welcomed her warmly from the high-back winged chair that he was sitting in. ‘I do appreciate your coming to see an old renegade like me.’

Despite being rather pale and tired he still managed to be his usual gallant self and she gave him a quick hug as she fussed around with his post and presents, putting the new pyjamas in the locker near his bed.

She listened as he told her about his operation and the engineering precision needed to fit his new hip. ‘The miracles of modern medicine and technology are astounding!’

‘How much longer do you think they will keep you here in the clinic?’ she asked, delighted that Oscar’s operation had been such a success.

‘Only a few more days,’ he confided, ‘then they’re talking about me going to a convalescent home for a couple of weeks before I can even consider going home.’

‘Well, that’s probably for the best, they wouldn’t recommend it otherwise.’

‘Mr Moore even had the audacity to suggest that I should consider moving into a nursing home or one of those retirement places,’ complained Oscar, suddenly getting upset and agitated. ‘I am well able to manage on my own at home.’

‘Of course you are, Oscar.’ She knew what an independent man he was, always set on doing things for himself. She remembered one time he had tried to prune the big cherry tree next door and had got stuck up near the top of it. Luckily Sarah had spotted him and she’d rushed in and held the ladder for him, saving him from a nasty fall. ‘But you will be on crutches for a while and I’m sure that you’ll need to take it easy.’

Why was it that men were such bad patients, she wondered, and hated words like ‘rest’ and ‘taking it easy’ so much!

‘Will I put these roses in water for you?’ she offered, trying to change the subject. ‘I’m sure the nurses must have some vases outside somewhere.’

After a quick search of the corridor she found a nurse at the station who fetched her a glass vase.

‘How’s Oscar doing?’

‘Fine.’ The young sister smiled. She had kind eyes.

‘I live beside him,’ Maggie explained. ‘We’re neighbours as well as friends and I’m keeping an eye on his place until he comes home.’

‘He doesn’t have any family?’

‘No. Not really. A brother lives in Australia; his wife Elizabeth died a few years ago.’

‘Poor man. He talks about her all the time.’

‘She was the love of his life; they were a great pair.’

‘Then it must be lonely for him now.’

‘Yes,’ confided Maggie, who understood only too well the loneliness of being widowed.

‘Mr Moore, his surgeon, has suggested Mr Lynch consider moving to a nursing home. A gentleman his age recuperating from major surgery would usually need a long period of total convalescent care before returning home. Even then the hospital would need to know that there would be the necessary home help and support provided to enable Oscar to manage at home eventually.’

Maggie didn’t know what to say.

‘Oscar’s very independent, so you can understand him wanting to go home to his own bed and house.’

‘Of course,’ said the nurse. ‘It’s just that following his convalescence he’s still going to need help over the next few months.’

Maggie thanked the nurse and returned with the vase.

Oscar was dozing. He’d been a handsome man, like one of those old Shakespearian actors. He looked older, she thought, his thin face racked with exhaustion, mouth open, snoring lightly. Silently she filled the vase with water and fixed the roses, setting them on the locker near his bed. Elizabeth and Oscar had been good neighbours to her over the years, helped out numerous times when there were calamities with the children or the car had broken down, and even one time when the washing machine had gone on fire insisted on them using theirs for five days until they could find a replacement model and a plumber to fit it. Elizabeth had been a wonderful cook and hostess and they’d enjoyed great hospitality with numerous meals and drinks under the Lynches’ roof over the years. Now it seemed poor Oscar was expected to try to manage at home on his own after an operation. Well, she’d help out as much as she could, but there must be a solution to it. There had to be. Bending over she kissed Oscar lightly on his forehead as she grabbed her handbag from the chair and left.

Back in Dublin, Anna immersed herself in work. She managed to avoid Philip on campus as much as possible, with the exception of an awkward night when they were both asked to the book launch of Michael O’Shea’s new volume of poetry in the Arts Club. It was laughable really, both of them with glasses of wine in hand trying to keep to the side of the room furthest from the other.

She found herself missing the cottage, missing the peace of the mornings watching the cormorant diving from the rocks on the beach and the near-empty landscapes, and as the final few weeks of term approached and the students began to study for their exams she decided to take a break on the bank holiday weekend, filling the boot of the car with folders and files, her boxes of books and her precious laptop and returning to Roundstone.

Anna could feel herself relax as she turned the final bend in the road and saw the dark grey slate tiles and chimney that signalled the roof of Gull Cottage. It was almost like a mirage after the hurly burly of the city and the pace of life in Dublin. She slowed down the car to take in the view of the sea and that first proper glimpse of the house. No wonder her grandmother had insisted on spending so much time here in her later years. Stopping the car she took a deep breath of fresh air, relishing the peculiar tang of salt water and seaweed that the breeze carried in to the shore.

Grabbing her backpack she opened the door and let herself in, almost giddy with excitement as she ran around and checked the place. She smiled, noticing immediately that the roof tiles were fixed, and that the ugly damp patch in the sitting room had been freshly plastered. The window was done, the tap in the bathroom sink for once actually worked and the grass was cut, and checking the shed she discovered the mower back in its correct place. Rob must have managed to fix it all. She must be sure to pay him for everything before she returned to Dublin.

It was windy outside and, grabbing her jacket, she decided to head down to the beach for a walk after the long drive. The strand was deserted and she ran and jumped and messed around like a little kid, chasing the waves, screaming and running back and forth, her shoes and socks in a pile as she paddled and splashed, her jeans absolutely soaked. Her hair was all over the place and she even had sand in her ears.

Reluctantly, after about an hour and a half she headed back to the house as the first cloak of rain blew in off the ocean, running towards the house as it began to fall heavily. She threw off her wet clothes, pulling on her warm pyjamas and a fleece sweatshirt as she flicked on the radio. She had no interest in traffic news or what was going on in the financial markets and quickly switched it off, slipping on Simon and Garfunkel instead. Their mellow sounds filled the pine kitchen as she made herself a vegetable stir-fry with rice, curling up on the couch to eat it as the light changed and the sun slowly sank below the horizon.

That night she sat down prepared to work, to write about the women in W. B. Yeats’s life: his mother, his wife, the woman he adored, his sisters, his patron; about a man nurtured by the love of many others who were satisfied to simply be part of his genius. The blank screen with its paltry sixteen lines of text mocked her as she searched for the right words and phrases to describe the intimate relationship that existed between the poet and his muse, the beautiful Maud Gonne. She reread her notes and scribbled on a rough paper pad, but no matter how much she tried to get the rhythm of the words that filled her brain on to the page she realized she could not convey her thoughts adequately. She who berated her students for their lack of depth and understanding was now unable to recreate the world of the poet she adored and respected.

‘Forget it!’ she said to herself, reaching instead for a book on her grandmother’s bookshelf about the lighthouses of Ireland. She read for two hours and then, after making a mug of milky coffee, went to bed. The wind howled through the night but, wrapped snug in her quilt, she slept.

The next morning the beach was scattered with streels of seaweed and flotsam washed ashore, the tide was out, the water calm once more. After breakfast she decided to drive to the shops to get a paper and some milk.

Looking around at the crowded shelves and fridges in Foley’s supermarket-cum-post office she was tempted to buy more. She picked out rashers and sausages, some free-range eggs and a loaf of wheaten bread, a few slices of baked ham and tomatoes and butter. Funny, but the air up here always made her hungry; when they were kids they were always starving and Granny and her mum would spend their time cooking up fries and barbecues and picnics for them.