Wise Follies (17 page)

‘No.’

‘Does Alice have a penis, Mummy?’ Josh interjects.

‘No, dear,’ Annie replies patiently. ‘Only boys and men do.’

‘So he has a penis!’ Josh is pointing at Liam, who’s obviously heard Josh’s exclamation and is trying not to smile. I have a sudden desperate need to talk about my amaryllis plant.

‘My amaryllis did really well this spring,’ I announce. ‘It had four beautiful blossoms.’

‘How nice,’ says Annie. ‘Have you told Eamon you’re not going to marry him yet?’

‘No…would you like a cutting from my begonia? I could make up a nice hanging basket for you. It would look great on your patio.’

‘Thank you, Alice, but I think I’ll pass on that one. I sometimes forget to water that geranium you gave me as it is.’

‘I know. I have to give it a good soak every time I visit. I think you should know, Annie’ – I take a comforting sip from my big bright mug of cappuccino – ‘that I can’t help being slightly suspicious of people who forget to water their plants. Don’t you hear their plaintive little squeaks?’ I smile as I say this, but I am not entirely joking.

‘I do water it, Alice,’ Annie protests mildly. ‘Just not quite as often as I should.’

‘I’ve got some spare nasturtiums I could give you. They’re fairly easy to keep and they self-seed. You can even eat the flowers – add them to a salad or something. They make a wonderful garnish.’

‘Oh, Alice.’ Annie regards me with tender exasperation. ‘Do stop casting nasturtiums at me. Just tell me here and now that you’re not going to marry Eamon. It’s been worrying me.’

I am aware that Liam is listening to our conversation. He is camouflaging this fact by gazing too studiously at his book which happens to be
Howard’s End
by E. M. Forster, who is one of my favourite authors. I frown at him and lean towards Annie, almost whispering. ‘Look,’ I say pleadingly, ‘let’s not talk about all that men stuff now.’

‘I know what it is, you’re just broody at the moment, Alice,’ Annie replies airily. She’s one of those disconcerting people who never believe other people overhear. ‘There’s piles of sperm around if you really want it. You don’t have to have Eamon’s.’

‘Sperm! Sperm! Sperm! Sperm!’ Josh repeats happily, as usual picking up the one word I would have preferred him to ignore. Then, as I squidge up my last bit of brownie and munch it, he starts to make loud swishy noises with the straw he’s using for his fizzy drink.

I glance at my watch. ‘Look, I have to go,’ I say. ‘I promised Mrs Peabody I’d buy Cyril a cuttlefish bone and I simply have to get to the garden centre before it closes.’

‘Give that neighbour of yours a nice smile before you leave,’ Annie is leaning towards me conspiratorially.

‘Please keep your voice down, Annie. He can hear you.’

‘Of course he can’t. He’s just your type, I can tell. He’s even reading E. M. Forster.’

‘He’s far too young for me,’ I hiss.

‘No, he isn’t.’

‘Yes, he is. I’ve tried the younger men thing and it’s never worked.’ Neither has the older or same age men thing, of course, but I don’t mention this. I lean towards Annie irritatedly and whisper, ‘Anyway, he has a girlfriend.’

‘You could still be friends,’ Annie replies stubbornly. ‘Some of the best relationships start off that way.’

‘Yes, that’s what Eamon says,’ I comment slyly. I rise from my chair and reach for my handbag. ‘You’re most unfair about Eamon, Annie,’ I add reproachfully. ‘He’s a very nice man and I’m getting tired of the way you go on about him. It’s just not fair.’

Annie just sighs and looks forlornly at the table.

‘Bye then,’ I say, then I add, ‘Goodness, where’s Josh?’

Josh has snuck away from the table, as he often does in cafés. I notice that he is now standing beside Liam. They’re chatting away in a very friendly manner. I decide to exit the café swiftly and as I do so I overhear Josh asking Liam something.

He’s asking whether fizzy lemonade and chocolate chip cookies ever fall in love.

Chapter
15

Eamon has sent me
a postcard. It features a llama who looks a bit pissed off. ‘Dear Alice,’ he’s written in his tidy hand:

‘Thank you so much for your letter. I was very pleased to hear that you may take up golf. Maybe we could even do a bit of golfing on our honeymoon – if you say ‘yes’ to my proposal, that is. There are some wonderful golf courses in the Algarve. By the way, I’ve bought you a nice sweater made from llama wool – hence this choice of card. It’s hand-knitted and in a very simple, but pleasing design. Looking forward to seeing you again. Love, Eamon.’

I read through the postcard again at least four times. I’m trying to read between the lines, as I so often do in our conversations. I must admit I was expecting him to send me a letter. Oh well, he’s probably very busy. I’m not sure I like his suggestion of a golfing honeymoon, but perhaps it’s sensible. I know a lot of people spend their honeymoon mooning over each other, but I don’t think we’d be that kind of couple. Still, the Algarve sounds nice. I could get a tan and bring my sketchpad with me. We’d probably dine out in wonderful restaurants. Eamon has highly developed culinary tastes. In fact, he’s already done a draft menu for the wedding reception, if we have one…

Our wedding – dear God – what a very strange thought.

I always thought that if I got married Dad would be there to ‘give me away’. That he’d be standing beside me smiling protectively, as he so often did through the years. ‘The kind of man you need to find, Alice, is one who will appreciate you,’ he often said. This was nice because it implied I had virtues that required recognition.

When I reached thirty my father never implied that I should grab the first half-decent man who would have me. An option some of my female relatives only half- jokingly suggested. ‘Marry marriage, Alice,’ Uncle Sean would sometimes add. ‘People change but the institution itself can be quite desirable.’ He always smiled knowingly when he said this while Aunt Phoeb looked like she’d like to take a good swing at him with a sand iron. Even my mother, who had once been extremely finicky about men on my behalf, reached the point when race, creed, colour and even love didn’t seem to matter that much. ‘Company, Alice,’ she’d say. ‘Company. There’s a lot to be said for it.’ I suppose you could say they worried about me, and their worries became my own.

Over and over again marriage was offered to me as a solution, though the problem it might solve was never clearly stated. ‘Marriage is about compromise, Alice,’ Aunt Phoeb often said and Mum looked at her in warm agreement. For by then my single state seemed to be regarded as just plain stubbornness. They were growing old. It really wasn’t fair of me to keep them waiting.

Dad didn’t take part in these conversations, but he talked when I needed him to. All through my childhood he had been encouraging. For example, he tended to say ‘very good’ about samples of artwork I showed him – even drawings that I myself was not entirely satisfied with. Because of this I began to suspect that he was without discernment. A harsh judgement which I saw later was unfair, because he believed people need encouragement. Even now when I paint huge, unlikely landscapes, I draw some comfort from the knowledge that Dad, at least, would have liked them. He was on my side long before I was. Long before I even knew I had a side to be on. If he was here now what advice would he give me about Eamon? I so wish I knew.

Talking of advice, Mrs Peabody’s handyman, Willy, has told her that she should find a mate for Cyril. ‘He’s lonely,’ he told her authoritatively the other day. ‘Budgerigars are gregarious creatures.’

Mrs Peabody has become determined to find a partner for Cyril, and has asked me to help her. In fact, I am now in a pet shop with her and am scrutinizing Cyril’s potential Significant Others conscientiously while she fidgets eagerly by my side.

‘What are they like? Oh, I do so wish I could see them better,’ she keeps saying. ‘Old age is such a bugger.’

Mrs Peabody is not known for her expletives. I register a mild surprise and continue my inspection. ‘I think Cyril would like a cheery mate, don’t you, Mrs Peabody? A bird who’d take him out of himself.’

‘Maybe.’

‘What about her?’ I look in at a yellow and green beauty who is darting us coy glances. Mrs Peabody squints into the cage.

‘She is definitely a she, isn’t she?’ she asks the assistant.

‘Yes, she is.’

‘Does she talk?’

‘Not yet, but I’m sure she will, given time,’ he replies. ‘She’s got an affectionate temperament. Good breeder too I’d bet.’

‘What do you think of her, Alice?’ Mrs Peabody is peering at me earnestly.

‘Well, Mrs Peabody,’ I reply, ‘she’s definitely the most alluring budgie here.’

‘We’ll take her,’ Mrs Peabody announces. As she snaps open her purse I begin to mooch around the shop. I do not go over to the tropical fish, though I feel drawn in their direction. Instead I look at the huge array of doggie gifts, and this reminds me of Berty the Yorkshire terrier and his sad adoration of Aunt Phoeb. How the mystery of the cupboard to the left of the back door enthralled him. For it was there that all the love gifts for him were stored. He often stared at this, his secular shrine, most thoughtfully. Sometimes he even barked at it, hoping perhaps that it would dispense its goodies direct and he could thus dispense with Aunt Phoeb’s perplexing intervention. Berty looked at that cupboard the way we humans often look for God.

‘Feck the terrapins.’ This announcement comes from a gruff female voice behind me and somehow does not sound unfamiliar. ‘I’ve told you to get rid of them. I’ll flush them down the boghole. I really will.’

I turn slowly. Warily. A man with blond hair and a tattoo is leaning over a large tank and Laren MacDermott, that is Laren Brassière, is scowling furiously beside him.

‘One more terrapin and I’m leaving.’ Laren’s voice has turned into a growl. ‘I really will leave you this time, Malcolm. I mean it.’

‘You always say that, honey,’ Malcolm drawls. ‘Now shut the feck up.’

‘You shut the feck up yourself, dickhead!’

Mrs Peabody is staring, gobsmacked, in the direction of this interchange. ‘Don’t listen to them,’ she’s telling Cyril’s prospective mate. ‘I don’t want you picking up rude words.’

As the assistant transfers Cyril’s partner into the small cage we’ve brought with us I dart wary, excited glances at my old schoolmate. She’s grown quiet, thoughts of departure evidently themselves now gone. She looks rather resigned and bored as Malcolm lifts the small creature he’s selected and its legs thrash the air desperately. Then they both suddenly turn towards the counter and I find myself facing them.

‘Hello, Alice!’ Laren beams. She looks astonished but genuinely pleased to see me.

‘Hello, Laren,’ I smile back. What on earth am I going to say to her?

‘How strange that we should meet each other here, in a pet shop,’ she announces, as though the location somehow pleases her.

‘Indeed,’ I agree politely.

‘Remember how you used to love my aquarium?’

‘Yes, absolutely,’ I reply. I don’t know why I added ‘absolutely’. It’s a word that’s frequently used in the office lately. It implies such complete agreement that people change the subject, which is probably what one wanted.

‘So, Alice, what are you doing now?’ Laren asks.

‘I’m a journalist.’

‘That sounds interesting.’

‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ I reply.

‘I’m a singer.’

‘Yes. So I’ve heard.’ I look at her guardedly and wonder if I should tell her I’ve been to one of her concerts. No. It would be best not to mention it. She might wonder why I hadn’t spoken to her afterwards.