Time Present and Time Past (6 page)

‘It wasn't really dangerous where we were, out in the country.'

‘So there was nothing at all? Absolutely nothing?'

Fintan thinks for a moment.

‘There were soldiers around,' he says. ‘Quite a lot of them at times; we used to get stopped at checkpoints when we were out in the car with my uncle. Once we were caught up in a bomb-scare.'

‘And you're telling me', Niall says, ‘that you would let Lucy go to a place like that?'

Fintan stares at his son.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' he says. ‘Of course I wouldn't. Not in a million years.'

‘Poor old Granny,' Niall says again. ‘Everyone's always so unfair to her.'

Now they can hear Colette downstairs, calling them to dinner. As Fintan stands up, Niall hands him the two photographs, with a last lingering glance at the sepia portrait and a somewhat wistful laugh.

‘
Où sont les neiges d'antan
, eh Dad?'

 But Fintan has no idea what he is talking about.

 

As she drives across town, Colette remembers walking down Grafton Street with Fintan all those years ago, and him suddenly saying, ‘Let's go in here a minute,' and dragging her into Switzers. She didn't know why – generally he hated shopping, and she was more baffled still when he walked purposely through to the cosmetics department, heading for the counter of one particular concession. Colette had felt ill at ease then, had wanted to leave, because she found such places intimidating, with their perfectly groomed and condescending staff; was always afraid of being bullied into buying an expensive pot of face cream that might help her complexion, but would ruin her modest budget.

Fintan walked fearlessly up to a sales assistant of exceptional beauty. She was wearing a white coat, with the name of the brand she was selling embroidered on it in red. Before Colette had a chance to read the name on the small gilt name badge, pinned above the embroidery, the woman spoke, and she recognised the inflection of her voice, the familiar tones, and was astonished to realise who this must be. Fintan confirmed it immediately.

‘Colette, this is my sister Martina; Martina, Colette.'

What did Colette expect? Amused pity. But it wasn't what she got, although Fintan told her later, years later, that he too had feared that that might be the response. When they were teenagers, sabotaging his chances with girls had been a favourite pastime of Martina's: sniggering when he brought home his latest crush, pulling faces and crossing her eyes when the object of his affection had her back turned, and generally undermining his virtually non-
existent
love life in the way only a younger sister can.

‘I like your scarf,' Martina said to her, surprising Colette that she might admire anything about her attire. ‘It's real silk, isn't it?'

‘I think so. I got it for Christmas.' As soon as she said this she thought herself foolish; it was like something a child might say, but again Martina didn't choose to be condescending.

‘It's a great colour, very unusual. Anything here I can interest you in?' and she gestured to the display of creams and cosmetics before her. ‘Anything you'd like?'

‘Oh no, I never wear make-up,' Colette replied and at this Martina did give a sly smile.

‘I suppose Fintan told you he doesn't like women wearing make-up, eh? All men say that and it's guff. They don't realise that you are wearing make-up, if you put it on properly. This stuff really is good, and you have to have a few little treats, I insist.' She took a small carrier bag and pulled out a drawer below the counter, started to select what seemed to Colette like a great many samples and sachets, which she dropped into the bag.

‘How are things with you anyway, Fintan?' she asked as she worked at this task. ‘How's college? Have you taken Colette over to meet our lovely mother yet?' Even Colette, whose purity of heart had inured her against most irony, even she could sense the subtext here, and she saw for the first time on Fintan's face a look with which she is familiar to this day: the narrowed eyes and the wry set to the mouth, the look he uses to silence and to warn, most usually when Niall or Rob say something in front of Lucy which he would rather that she did not hear.

‘Not yet,' he said evenly, ‘but we did call to see Christy and Beth a couple of Sundays ago.'

And with that it was Martina who suddenly appeared childlike, looking up from the drawer, all irony gone. ‘I love Christy and Beth!' she cried wholeheartedly. ‘And isn't their house just the nicest place ever? All those funny woolly pictures, and the cat, and that thing for the music with the big golden horn? And they always make you tea, and even if you're fed up when you go there, you're always happy by the time you leave. Oh they're just the best! I'm glad you met Christy and Beth.' She pushed the drawer in with her hip and handed the carrier bag to Colette. ‘I have stuff here for men too,' she said to Fintan, ‘but you're a lost cause, you fat old badger.'

Oddly enough, Martina was mistaken in this; or at least, Colette thinks, Fintan has changed a lot in the years since then. He has become very particular about grooming, with a taste for expensive aftershave, and an impressive collection of cufflinks about which his sons rib him all year, but to which they add at Christmas and on his birthday.

When she arrives at the shop today Martina is serving someone. Another customer is browsing through the rails, and there is someone behind a curtain in one of the changing rooms. Sitting on the counter is a turquoise carrier bag, tied shut with a dark-brown grosgrain ribbon, and with the name of the boutique, Chocolat, written in the same colour on the side of the bag. The customer is tapping the number of her credit card into a machine, and Martina takes advantage of this to smile over in greeting at Colette, who smiles back and turns away to look at a rack of dresses, to indicate to her sister-in-law that there is no rush.

Colette has no great confidence that she will find something that suits her, as least not without help. She knows that Fintan thinks she always puts comfort above looks, but that isn't strictly accurate. She has never felt at ease in her own body, has never seen it as something to adorn and enjoy, as Martina clearly does. Colette may see clothes and accessories that she likes, scarves and pieces of costume jewellery, but she does not know how to put them together as a ‘look'. This is strange, given how good she is with her domestic space, for in another life she might have been an interior designer or a stylist. She has an unerring instinct for what might look right in a room, for choosing furniture, lamps, rugs and pictures which all enhance each other, to create something elegant and harmonious. But when it comes to dressing herself, all that skill and taste mysteriously vanishes, and she succumbs to clashing colours, to garments that are in themselves perfectly fine, but the cut or fabric of which is unsuitable for her build or complexion.

The only time Colette has been fully at ease in her own body was when her sons were born. She had felt like an animal then, but in a good way. Even when Lucy came along it hadn't been the same, because she hadn't wanted a third child. This is something she doesn't like to admit to herself, even now. But with Rob, and then Niall, she had felt like a thing in a lair, in a nest; instinctive, elemental; and she thinks that it would hardly have surprised her then had she found her whole body covered in thick fur: certainly it wouldn't have bothered her. Sometimes, even now, she looks at Beth and Martina's tabby cat, poised and sculptural, and she envies it its neat coat, the fan of fine black lines in the fur on the top of its head, the elaborate tortoiseshell markings on its curled and sleeping back. What need of clothes when one looks so fine in one's pelt?

The first customer has left, and the browsing
woman
approaches the counter with several garments over her arm: a skirt and two blouses. As Martina wraps them in tissue paper for her the woman praises the shop. She says it is the first time she has been there and asks if it has been open for long.

‘A good few years now,' Martina says. ‘I lived in London for a long time. I was a buyer there, in one of the big stores, and then when I moved back to
Ireland
I started this place.'

When the customer has left the shop, Martina is at last free to come out from behind the counter and greet Colette properly. She is wearing a grey
linen
dress over a white blouse. The dress is a rather complicated garment, with many layers, tapes and fastenings, and a ruched hem; the sort of thing which requires a certain style and confidence to carry it off properly. It looks casual but also elegant and sophisticated. She also has a grey and white scarf tied around her head, and her long hair is piled up within it, with a few loose strands escaping. She habitually wears her hair like this at work, and it reminds Colette, bizarrely, of small cakes she remembers from her childhood, that were baked within a straight-sided paper wrapper, with the cake piled up deliciously within. For all that, Martina's hair looks great, Colette thinks. It is a style she admires so much that she had tried once to emulate it at home, with a hilarious lack of success, her curls standing straight up above the scarf so that it looked as if she had her finger in the light socket; so that Lucy banged on the door of the bathroom where Colette had closed herself away for the experiment: ‘Mummy, why are you laughing so much?'

‘How are you?' She kisses Colette. ‘And the kids? And that brother of mine?' Colette asks after Beth and they chat for a moment. Martina produces the two linen jackets about which she had spoken to Fintan, and the existence of which he had dutifully relayed back to Colette. One is blue and one is pink: ‘A nice shade of pink,' Martina remarks, ‘kind of raspberry,' and then she laughs. ‘It's a good thing Fintan isn't here,' and then they both laugh, for they know that the way they talk about colours bewilders and annoys him, Colette proposing paint that isn't quite stone-coloured, more of a mink; and Martina describing garments with a terminology that is to him obscure and weird: magenta, teal and tobacco.

Colette tries on the pink jacket. It feels a bit stiff to her in its newness, but she does like it. The colour has strength without being too bright, and she knows that the linen will soften up with wear.

The curtain of the occupied cubicle is suddenly drawn back and a woman emerges. She is exceptionally pale, and the beige slip dress she is wearing drains from her complexion what little colour there is. The low cut does her no favours either, making her breasts look like two unappetising blancmanges. The silk clings to her body; the outline of her big knickers is clearly visible. Colette stares at her. Even she can see that this is all wrong. This is car-crash fashion; this is a masterclass in how not to dress.

‘What do you think?' the woman asks Martina. Martina stares at her for a moment with narrowed eyes and then she says, ‘The first one was better. The purple one.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Definitely. You looked marvellous in it.'

‘I liked this one on the hanger,' the woman says, looking at herself sideways in a long mirror, ‘but now that it's on, I'm not so sure. Maybe you're right. The other one sat better, didn't it?'

‘It did, and the colour was perfect on you.'

‘Very well then,' the woman says, ‘I'll take the purple one.'

She retreats to the cubicle and pulls the curtain closed again. Martina mouths silently to Colette:
I told her! I told her!
Colette fights the start of a fit of the giggles, and Martina puts her finger to her lips, winks at her and then talks aloud about the possibilities of the raspberry jacket, of which clothes already in Colette's wardrobe might go with it, of pieces she might like to consider for the future. Martina is leading her across the shop to look at some dresses when the door opens.

A woman with a baby in a buggy attempts to come in, but no sooner are the front wheels over the threshold than Martina is there, friendly but firm: ‘I'm so sorry, we don't allow buggies in the shop.' The woman is slightly disgruntled, but says she will park it outside, and just bring in the baby. ‘I'm sorry, that won't be possible either,' Martina says, still firm but no longer friendly. ‘It can't be allowed; I've had too much merchandise damaged in the past.' Colette is afraid the woman with the baby is about to start a fight, but although she is clearly annoyed now she is timid too, and yields to Martina, who holds the door open so that she can extricate the buggy. She thanks the woman formally, wishes her good day.

‘Sticky little hands grabbing at my best stock: I don't think so,' she mutters to Colette as she resumes her fashion counsel. The woman emerges from the cubicle with the beige and purple dresses over her arm. Martina goes to the till and serves her, then Colette pays for the pink jacket and for a grey linen skirt she has also chosen on Martina's advice, and by that stage there are more customers in the shop. They promise each other that they will meet again soon for coffee, for a proper chat; and the bell on the door of the shop clangs as Colette leaves with her turquoise carrier bag.

Martina's boutique stands in a little parade of shops, all of them rather chic. There is an independent wine merchant's, a fishmonger's, an interior design shop which Colette forces herself not to enter, and a cafe, to which she does yield. The barista is banging coffee grounds out of the machine; there is a strong smell of vanilla. Colette orders a cappuccino, and from a series of thick glass jars on the counter she chooses a cookie, a thick pale cookie with Smarties embedded in the top of it. The barista puts it on a plate for her, and says that a waitress will bring the coffee to her table.

Colette installs herself next to two women, similar in age to herself but more
soignée
. Who isn't? she thinks. As is so often the case in this circumstance, one woman is dominating the conversation while her companion listens and nods. On the rare occasion when she does speak, the second woman's voice is softer and lower than that of her friend. There is music on in the background, and the barista is still banging away.

Colette's cappuccino arrives. She cannot yet bring herself to eat the cookie. With its brightly coloured sweets it reminds her of the kind of thing she sometimes bakes with Lucy on rainy Sunday afternoons: cakes made of broken biscuits and melted chocolate; iced buns sprinkled with edible stars. Colette particularly enjoys these moments with her daughter, because they balance out somewhat the quotidian chores of child-rearing, the homework and the
parent
–
teacher
meetings; and the thought of which had made her resentful when she had found out that another baby was on the way. Then when it turned out to be Lucy, everyone said how nice it would be for her to dress a baby girl, after two little boys, and that was a laugh, wasn't it, when she could hardly dress herself?