Wise Follies (8 page)

The thought seems so preposterous that I’m tempted to stop the car in a lay-by. Maybe I drank more this evening than I’d thought. Of course Laren Brassière couldn’t be Laren MacDermott, my meek, mild-mannered friend from school. The girl who cried every time Eric McGrath made the back of her bra ping open by pulling at it through her sweater. It’s just that she speaks like her, and they both scratch their elbows and have the same face and first name.

By the time I’ve parked outside the cottage I have pretty much accepted that Laren MacDermott is now Laren Brassière. I am still finding it very hard, however, to find any explanation for her mysterious metamor-phosis. As I walk up the pathway and Mira lurches after me, I recall that Laren never spoke about becoming a singer. The last time we met she was about to do a beautician’s course in Edinburgh. We were in Bewley’s Cafe on Grafton Street and shared a plate of chips. She did send me a postcard from Scotland. She didn’t write much on it. It was just a quick scribble to say she’d found a flat. She didn’t give me the address so I wrote to her care of her parents. She never replied. I was a bit disappointed, I suppose, but not that surprised. People do tend to drift apart after school.

As soon as we get into the cottage I fill a large glass with water and insist that Mira drinks it. She got through a considerable number of vodkas this evening. ‘You don’t want a hangover, do you?’ I fuss protectively.

‘Laren was wonderful, wasn’t she?’ says Mira, cradling her glass of water reverentially.

‘She certainly was unusual,’ I reply tactfully. I’ve decided not to tell Mira that Laren and I are acquainted. She’d almost certainly want me to invite her round to dinner. She’d probably arrive in a bodystocking or something.

‘I wish I’d spoken to her,’ Mira continues wistfully.

‘Well, I’m very glad I didn’t,’ I think, remembering that I’d wanted to ask Laren how she became what she is. If I had she might have asked the same thing of me – and I really don’t know what I would have told her.

I feel frightened suddenly. ‘Life is a narrow bridge,’ Aaron told me that once. It was a quote he’d heard somewhere. ‘Life is a narrow bridge and the important thing is not to be afraid.’ But I am. I wish I wasn’t. And even more so now that Mira has started to laugh beside me.

Loudly, and for no apparent reason.

Chapter
7

Laren MacDermott, that is
Laren Brassière, is the reason why I like neon tetras. They are small tropical fish with streaks of blue that flash iridescently, especially in certain kinds of light. She had an aquarium full of them in her bedroom. Laren was a ‘day girl’ at secondary school, but I was a ‘boarder’. I wasn’t allowed to leave the school grounds until fifth form, and when I did it was often to go to her house. I stared and stared at her small fish. In some way they seemed to represent hope and how it can flash at you suddenly, iridescently, at the most unexpected moments.

I loved Laren’s home. It seemed to me the home of someone who should be carefree and happy, even though she wasn’t. She thought her bum was too big, her nose too long and her hair too lanky. She didn’t even like her teeth, which were perfect, and was very keen on Leonard Cohen’s more lugubrious songs. When I visited her mum used to give us mugs of tea and biscuits. It made me feel like I was back on civvy street. Ever since I’d been thrust into boarding school at twelve I’d felt as though I was in the army – a reluctant soldier sent to some perplexing front. I felt a certain identification with the joke that went ‘her parents couldn’t afford to send her to boarding school so they locked her in the attic for a while.’ I would have far preferred to be in the attic actually. At least it would have been ‘home’. While Laren dreamed of meeting a ‘Wonderful Man’ – initially I simply dreamed of freedom.

Laren’s ‘Wonderful Man’ back then was Leonard Whiting, who starred with Olivia Hussey in
Romeo and
Juliet
. She even persuaded me to skip ‘games’ one afternoon and go to the cinema with her to see it. But, somehow, the headmaster found out about this misdemeanour and I was gated. Laren’s mum, on the other hand, was just glad she was taking an interest in Shakespeare. I cried and cried at the unfairness of it. And afterwards I stared harder at the neon tetras than ever. Luxuriating in the way they darted with such carefree competence, in their big, beautifully maintained aquarium – completely unaware, it appeared, of their restrictions. And as I did so, Laren’s dreams of meeting some ‘Wonderful Man’ began to grow on me. It seemed some way beyond my own high walls. At weekends I sometimes stayed with her and she took me to films. Films where some man saw some woman at an airport and their eyes met and that was It. And then some schmaltzy music swelled the cinema and I was so moved I couldn’t even chew my Milky Mint.

Laren said she was going to marry young and have loads and loads of children. As a teenager I didn’t mention marriage myself, but I did want to be in love. And paint. And travel. And wear skirts as infrequently as possible. I had no idea of the kind of life I might be leading when I was thirty-eight, but I’m sure I didn’t suspect for one minute that I would grow so very keen on horticulture. In fact I only bought my cottage in Monkstown, County Dublin, five years ago because it had a garden at the front and at the back.

Each of them is now brimful with seasonal blossoms. Tonight, as I walk back up the pathway after work, I pause in royal fashion before various plants and have a brief chat with the new scented geranium, saying that I hope she’s settled in. Then I hear my elderly neighbour Mrs Peabody calling ‘Cooee, Alice’ and go over to her. She’s standing at the wicker fence.

‘Sorry to ask, dear, but would you do me a small favour?’ she says. ‘Could you pop round to the corner shop and get me a loaf of bread? My knees are a bit stiff today.’

‘Of course I will,’ I reply. As I say this the man who’s moved in round the corner saunters by breezily and calls out, ‘Hello, Mrs Peabody,’ in a cheerful manner. Goodness, they know each other already. And he’s even stopping for a chat. He’s standing at Mrs Peabody’s small iron gate. As Mrs Peabody says, ‘Come here for a moment, Liam, I’d like to introduce you to my neighbour,’ he opens the gate and walks up the pathway. I study him with detached interest. It’s hard to tell what age he is but maybe he’s a bit older than I’d thought. Around thirty perhaps, though he could easily pass as twenty-five. His broad, calm face looks mature, almost philosophical, but there is definitely a youthful twinkle about his deep brown eyes. He is tall and dark-featured. In fact he looks a bit Jewish. I’ve always admired those sorts of looks but since I’ve met James Mitchel other men’s handsomeness does not seem to affect me. That’s just the way it is with love, I suppose.

‘Alice, this is Liam,’ Mrs Peabody tells me. ‘He’s just moved in to a house on Half Moon Lane.’

I’m about to say I know this, but then think better of it. It’s best not to admit to voyeurism to new neighbours. ‘So, how are you settling in, Liam?’ I ask politely, trying to look him straight in the eye.

‘Well, I still have piles of boxes lying around the place, but I’m getting around to them gradually,’ he replies, equally politely. ‘It’s a lovely area. And I like being close to the sea.’

I was right, he does sound slightly American. Maybe he spent a few months in New York once and brought the accent back as a souvenir. I pick up accents quickly myself. Only the other day I was interviewing someone from Manchester. After an hour I was beginning to sound like one of the Rovers Return regulars on
Coronation Street.

‘So, how’s the gardening going, Liam?’ Mrs Peabody asks, a trifle slyly it seems to me.

‘I’ve mowed the lawn but that’s about the extent of it,’ he replies, his calm face clouding suddenly. I recognize that bewildered, half-apologetic expression. It’s one of my own. ‘Gardening’s completely new to me,’ he continues, switching to a brave smile that’s almost as dazzling as Richard Branson’s. ‘The last place we lived in was an apartment. The only bit of greenery in it was a rather rampant cheese plant.’

‘Ah yes, there it is,’ I think. ‘He said the “we” word.’

Mrs Peabody doesn’t seem to notice Liam’s ‘we’. Instead she turns to me and says, ‘Liam and I met the other day when I was doing a bit of pruning. He asked me what the soil type is round here.’

‘It’s alkaline’, I reply automatically.

‘Yes, I told him that.’ Mrs Peabody looks at me approvingly. ‘Alice is a most accomplished gardener,’ she announces. ‘I’m sure she’d be glad to advise you about your garden, Liam.’ She turns to me and adds pointedly, ‘Wouldn’t you, dear?’

‘Mmmm,’ I nod, somewhat unenthusiastically. Liam seems a nice enough young man, but I have no particular wish to become acquainted with his garden. I have quite enough to do in my own.

Liam is looking at me carefully. ‘Some gardening advice would be most welcome,’ he says, ‘but I don’t want you to feel under any obligation…mmmm…’ He has clearly forgotten my name.

‘Alice,’ I prompt.

‘I can get some books about it,’ he continues. ‘I believe the basics are fairly straightforward, though by this stage I think my clematis may require counselling.’

As he says this Mrs Peabody’s telephone rings. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ she smiles, and starts to walk away stiffly.

I wish her telephone hadn’t rung just then. I don’t want to be left alone with Liam. What on earth am I going to say to him? I doubt if we have much in common. Though I may admire his appearance aesthetically, he doesn’t seem my type at all. I wish he’d just go home to his girlfriend. When he said ‘we’ he must have been referring to that pretty woman I saw wedging a picture through his front door the other day. I glance longingly at my own front door and fidget around a bit. I jingle my keys and even stifle a yawn. It’s been a long day and I want to watch
Eastenders.
But Liam is not getting the message. In fact he is now leaning languorously against Mrs Peabody’s fence. I am beginning to rather dislike him.

‘My house overlooks your cottage, doesn’t it?’ he says suddenly.

‘Yes, our gardens do adjoin,’ I agree a trifle primly, letting my gaze drift to Mrs Peabody’s roses.

Liam smiles. What is he smiling at? ‘So that must be your cat who sits on my wall sometimes,’ he observes.

‘Yes, probably.’ I say it rather wearily. I’m simply going to have to make my excuses and go. I glance at my watch. ‘Goodness – is that the time?’ I exclaim. ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Liam, but I’d better be off. I have to go to the shop for Mrs Peabody. She wants me to get some bread.’

‘I was just going to the shop myself,’ Liam replies. ‘I’ll get the bread for her when I’m there.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’ His offer has made me feel flustered. What excuse can I now give for my getaway? ‘Well, I’d better go anyway,’ I begin. ‘Because I have…I have…’

‘You have things to do?’

‘Yes. Yes, I have things to do,’ I agree quickly.

‘Bye then, Alice’ he says, as he turns to go. ‘It’s been nice meeting you.’

‘Yes, missing you already,’ I mutter sardonically to myself as I head eagerly for home. I’m just about to scurry into the cottage when I hear Mrs Peabody calling out ‘Cooee, Alice!’ again. I sigh and go over to her. ‘Liam’s getting your bread,’ I inform her. ‘He was going to the shop anyway.’

‘Oh, what a nice young man he is,’ she clucks approvingly. ‘Since you’re here, Alice, could you pop into my cottage for a moment? I’m sorry to impose, but I’m a bit worried about Cyril. I’d like you to have a look at him for me.’ Mrs Peabody doesn’t see things clearly up close these days. She obviously thinks she may have missed something.

As I go into her small cluttered sitting-room I see that Cyril is standing on his wooden perch, and is staring ahead stonily. Cyril is Mrs Peabody’s budgerigar. He got out of his cage the other day, and he hasn’t been the same since. Now he doesn’t like being in the cage, or out of it, apparently. He’s moping. He’s moping for the Australian outback, it seems to me. A brief flight around suburbia has not soothed him. I know just how he feels.

‘Hello, Cyril,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

He doesn’t reply of course. The only word Cyril knows is ‘bollocks’ and he only uses it on a good day. Mrs Peabody says he picked it up from her handyman. She keeps wanting Cyril to say ‘Who’s a pretty boy then?’ but he won’t.