Liz Nugent - Lying in Wait

Bridget introduced me. ‘Granddad, this is Laurence, my boyfriend.’

But Granddad never even turned his head to look at me until we were leaving and then, out of nowhere, he turned towards me, stared for a few seconds and then looked back at Bridget. ‘I don’t like him. There’s something wrong with him.’ A pause and then, ‘Where’s Peter? Are we going home now?’

Bridget laughed it off. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’ Actually, he did.

Afterwards, I suggested taking a short tour of the town myself, but Bridget insisted that her dad was going to give me the tour next morning, and slipped her arm through mine. There was no getting away.

That evening, at tea, or dinner, I chatted cordially and was careful about how much I ate. Everybody tried hard to hide their relief. They were relaxed enough to start asking more personal questions.

‘Exactly how long have you been going out together?’ asked Maureen.

‘It’ll be two years in September.’ I was surprised when Bridget said that. Had it really been that long?

Josie started to hum ‘Here Comes the Bride’ . This time, everyone ignored her. Mr Gough went to the pub for his two routine Saturday-night pints and a game of darts, and the rest of us settled down to watch television with tea and biscuits. I restrained myself once again.

The next morning, we were woken early to go to Mass. This was treated like a big occasion. The girls had been up early doing their hair, and Mrs Gough was polishing all the shoes, including mine. She tried to hide her disappointment that I hadn’t brought my suit, but I placated her by wearing one of Mr Gough’s nylon ties. According to tradition, we weren’t allowed to eat before Mass. By the time we got to church at 10.30 a.m., I was starving. And the journey to and from the church had been a group one. My mood deteriorated.

On the way home, the women of the family rushed off together and I was left with the taciturn Mr Gough, who offered to show me around the town. I could hardly refuse, but felt ambushed. We walked up and down the grey streets and across the Shannon while he pointed to things in between long silences. ‘That’s the library… that’s the castle.’ Mr Gough was not a natural conversationalist.

Having pointed out his local pub on the riverbank, he said, ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like to ask me?’

‘Sorry?’

He sighed heavily. ‘Is there anything you want to ask me about Bridget?’

With horror, the realization dawned on me that he was expecting me to ask for Bridget’s hand in marriage. They all were. I dissembled. ‘When did you say the barracks was built?’

He ignored my feigned ignorance. ‘Mrs Gough and I were married at your age.’

I never found out their first names. They consistently referred to each other as Mam and Dad or formally as Mr and Mrs.

‘But I’m only twenty-three.’

‘Still, if you find the right girl, you needn’t hang about.’

Unsure how to answer, I opted to say nothing. We were standing by the lock gate at the weir. He kicked at the ground with both shoes for no apparent reason, scuffing the toes. I recall thinking that Mrs Gough’s earnest shoe-polishing had been for nought.

‘Bridget is an unusual-looking girl, and she’s not the brightest, but she has a kind heart and a sweet nature. And she’s my daughter. If you don’t want to marry her, you should let her go, so she can find someone who will.’

He was surprisingly eloquent. I could feel his embarrassment as it stretched invisibly from his reddened face to my crimson one.

‘I don’t mean to hurt her, Mr Gough –’ but he strode ahead. He had said what he was primed to say, and the ‘chat’ and tour of the town were over. That would have been my opportunity to go off and post the letter, but I was so blindsided by what had just happened that I scurried after him.

The atmosphere at dinner was awful. It was obvious that the women had been primed for celebration on our return. An ashen-faced Bridget claimed a headache and went upstairs to lie down. She didn’t join us for food. Mr Gough was completely mute. I was starving and ate everything put in front of me. When Mrs Gough offered more, I took it, until there was nothing left. If nobody had been looking, I would have licked all of the plates.

‘There’s something wrong with his metasism,’ said Josie helpfully.

Mrs Gough kept up the banter. ‘Did you see Una Crawley at Mass? Wasn’t her hair lovely? Though I don’t like the way she goes up to the front pew. It’s far from the front pew she was reared, and she only married into that family six months. They always thought they were better than they were. She’ll want to be having a baby soon, the Farrells will be wanting a son to carry on the name in the town…’

Maureen interjected occasionally to point out how old-fashioned her mother’s attitudes were, and Josie stared at my plate, nudging her sister every time I reloaded it.

It was almost time to go to the bus station. Mrs Gough went up to see if Bridget was all right, and I went to gather my things from my bedroom. I could hear Bridget sobbing through the thin walls and her mother talking to her sternly.

I waited in the kitchen until Mrs Gough appeared to say that Bridget wasn’t feeling well and would stay at home for the time being. She apologized that she wouldn’t accompany me to the bus stop this time, as she had visiting to do. She shook my hand but did not meet my eye while I thanked her for her hospitality. Maureen waved from the top of the stairs. Mr Gough’s handshake was limp, but he mumbled a ‘Goodbye and good luck now’, relieved, I think, that his part in the drama was over.

Josie followed me out to the street. ‘You’re not good enough for her anyway!’ she said, and then burst into tears and ran inside.

I posted the letter beside the bus stop and boarded the bus, grateful that the ordeal had come to an end.

When I got home that afternoon, there was a car in the driveway that I didn’t recognize. I let myself into the house and saw Mum standing in the hall with a man.

‘Hello, you must be Laurence.’ Tall, late fifties, well dressed in a casual yacht-club style, he was debonair and confident.

Mum introduced him. She seemed upset. ‘Laurence, meet Malcolm.’

There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I couldn’t place him. I was courteous and polite, but it was awkward standing around in the hall. He left after five minutes’ conversation about the weather and the Anglo-Irish Agreement.

‘How was your weekend?’

‘How was yours?’

‘Fine, lovely, Malcolm and I went out to lunch.’

‘Out?’

‘Yes, well, it was very lonely here without you.’

‘And how do you know Malcolm?’

‘He… he’s a friend. I met him in… St John of God’s.’

‘What?’

‘He’s a psychiatrist. He was here in a personal capacity, as a friend.’

That’s why he looked familiar. I had met him once or twice when Mum was in the psychiatric hospital. I was reassured. She smiled one of her best fake smiles. She was clearly uncomfortable talking about him and diverted quickly.

‘Did you post the letter?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘No, it was fine.’

I went to the kitchen to turn on the kettle for tea and noticed the window blind was gone.

‘We can’t live in the dark for ever, darling. We must move on,’ said Mum, standing behind me. She ruffled my hair fondly, like she used to when I was a boy.

‘Your granny is coming for dinner. You should go and freshen up, darling. I can smell the turf fire on you. How primitive!’

The phone rang at about six o’clock. It was Bridget.