Benjamin Black - Elegy For April

“Yes,” he said, “and the world is my china shop.”

She squeezed his arm again, pressing it to her side, and through her coat he felt her warmth and the delicate curve of her ribs. They were silent again, and he could feel something gathering in her. Then in a tight, small voice she said, “Quirke, where are we going?”

“Where are we going? Well, we’ve passed the Wellington Monument, and the zoo is over there.”

“Do you think this is funny?”

“I think we’re both grown-up people, and we should behave accordingly.” He had not meant it to sound so harsh. She let go of his arm and strode on quickly, her hands thrust in the pockets of her coat and her head down. He quickened his pace and caught up with her and took her by the elbow, making her stop. She tried to pull her arm away from him, but his grip was too strong. “I told you before,” he said, “I’m no good at this kind of thing.”

She looked up into his face; tears stood on the lowers rims of her eyelids, quivering and shiny, like beads of quicksilver. “ What kind of thing?”

“ This kind. You, me, swans in the moonlight-”

“Swans in the-?”

“I mean I don’t know how to behave, that’s all. I never learned; there was no one to teach me. People, women”- he made a chopping motion with the side of his hand-”it’s impossible.”

She stood there, close in front of him, gazing up, and he had to force himself not to look away.

“Listen to me,” she said, in a new voice, rapid and sharp-edged. “I haven’t asked anything of you, no promises, no vows, no commitments. I thought you understood that; I thought you accepted that. Don’t start taking fright already, when there’s nothing to be frightened of. Do me that courtesy, will you?”

“I’m sor-”

“And please , no apologies. I told you, few things are as dispiriting as a man mumbling about how sorry he is.” Suddenly she lifted herself up on her toes and seized his face between her hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. “You idiot,” she said, drawing back. “You hopeless idiot- don’t you realize you could be happy ?”

IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME THEY GOT TO DUN LAOGHAIRE, AND A three-quarters moon white as lightning had hoisted itself over the harbor. It was not so cold out here by the sea, and the road was blackly agleam with thawed frost. When they stopped at Albion Terrace they did not get out of the car at once but sat side by side listening to the engine ticking as it cooled. Quirke lit a cigarette and rolled down the window beside him an inch and flicked the spent match through the opening. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come,” he said. “I could bring you to the hotel back there, and you could wait for me, if you like.”

Isabel was looking at the moon. “I’m glad you did ask me,” she said, without turning. “You should ask for things more often. People like it. It makes them feel needed.” She reached out blindly and took his hand. “Oh Lor’,” she said, with a quivery little laugh, “I think I feel another tear coming on.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know… isn’t it awful, the way we cry for no reason?” Now she did turn, and he saw her eyes, how large they were and shining. “I can’t imagine you weep much, do you, Quirke?” He said nothing, and she gripped his hand more tightly, giving it a rueful shake. “Big strong man, no cry, eh?” A shaft of moonlight shone on her hand holding his. Out in the darkness unseen sea-birds were calling and crying. “I’m as lost as you are, you know,” she said. “Couldn’t we just- help each other a little along this hard way we’ve been set on?”

He took her awkwardly in his arms- the steering wheel was in the way- and kissed her. He kept his eyes open and saw, beyond the pale concavity of her temple, one of those birds come swooping suddenly out of the darkness, swift and startlingly white.

They walked up the pathway between glimmering lawns, the damp gravel squeaking under their tread. She had taken his hand again. “You’ve met before, haven’t you, April’s mother?” she said. “You know we’re all afraid of her, of course?”

“Who is ‘all’?”

“April’s friends.”

“Right,” he said. “April’s friends. I met one of them this afternoon. A reporter.”

“Jimmy Minor?” She was surprised. “Where did you meet him?”

“He came to see me at the hospital, asking about April.”

“Did he? What did he say?”

“He was poking about, looking for information, the way they do.”

“I hope he’s not thinking of writing something about her in the paper.” They came to the front door. A light was burning in the porch. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. What is there to tell?”

He rang the doorbell; they heard its distant chime. Isabel was looking out over the blackness of the garden, thinking. “I wonder what he’s up to,” she murmured. “He can be mischievous, can our Jimmy.”

Marie the red-haired maid opened the door to them. Quirke she remembered, and said yes, that he was expected. She gave Isabel a look; he did not introduce her.

They were led along the hall to a small, square room at the rear of the house. There was an antique desk with many drawers, and two armchairs and a small sofa upholstered in worn red velvet. Dim, sepia photographs of bearded gentlemen and ladies in lace crowded the walls, and in pride of place above the desk there was hung a framed copy of the 1916 Proclamation. “As you can probably guess, this was my husband’s room,” Celia Latimer said, indicating another photograph in a silver frame standing on the desk, a studio portrait of the late Conor Latimer, looking impossibly smooth, with his head inclined and holding a cigarette beside his face; he had the smile of a film star, arch and knowing. “His den, he called it,” his widow said. Her hair was drawn back from her forehead, and she was wearing a tartan skirt and a gray wool jumper and a gray cardigan and pearls; she looked at once frumpish and vaguely regal, more the Queen Mother than the Queen. She had risen from her chair to greet them. Quirke introduced Isabel Galloway, and she smiled frostily and said: “Yes, I saw you in that French play at the Gate. You were the- the young woman. I must say I was surprised by some of the lines they gave you to say.”

“Oh, well,” Isabel said, “you know what the French are like.” The smile grew frostier still. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Isabel glanced at Quirke. He said, “Isabel is a friend of April’s.” “Yes? I don’t think I heard her mention you. But then, there are many things that April doesn’t mention.”

She gestured for them to sit down, Quirke in an armchair and Isabel on the sofa. There was a fire burning, and the air in the room was close and hot. As they were settling themselves the maid came in bearing a tray with tea things on it and set it on a corner of the desk. Mrs. Latimer poured the tea and sat down again, balancing a cup and saucer on her knee.

“I’ll come straight to the point, Dr. Quirke,” she said. “My son tells me you’re still asking questions about April’s whereabouts. I want you to stop. I want you to leave us alone, to leave us in peace. When she’s ready, April will come back from wherever she is, I have no doubt of that. In the meantime it does no one any good to keep on harassing my son and me in the way that you’ve been doing.” She glanced at Isabel, sitting very straight on the sofa with the teacup and saucer in her lap, then turned her attention on Quirke again. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I always think it’s best to come straight out and say a thing rather than hemming and hawing.” Before Quirke could answer her she turned again to Isabel. “I take it, Miss Galloway, you haven’t heard from April?”