Maeve Binchy - Evening Class

As a date it wasn't a great success so far. They went to a film which neither of them enjoyed. Then came the problem of what to do next.

'Would you like pizza?' he offered.

Fiona nodded eagerly. 'That would be great.'

'Or would you prefer to go to a pub?'

'Well, I'd like that, too.'

'Let's have a pizza,' he said, in the tone of a man who knew that if any decision was ever going to be made it would have to be made by him.

They sat and looked at each other. The choosing of the pizza had been a nightmare. Fiona had said yes to both the pizza margherita and the pizza napoletana , so Barry had eventually ordered them a quattro stagioni each. This one had four different fillings he said, one in each corner. You could eat them all, no further decisions would be called for.

He told her that at the Italian class Signora the teacher had brought in pizzas one evening. He said that she must spend all the money she earned on bringing them gifts. They all sat there eating and chanting the names of the various pizzas aloud, it had been wonderful. He looked boyish and so enthusiastic about it all. Fiona wished she could have that kind of life in her face and her heart. About anything.

It was of course all her mother and father's fault. They were nice kind people but they had nothing to say to anyone. Her father said that 'Least said soonest mended' should be tattooed on to everyone's arm at birth and then people wouldn't go round saying the wrong thing. It did mean that her father hardly said anything at all. Her mother had a different rule to live by. It had to do with not getting carried away over things. She had always told Fiona not to get carried away by the Irish dancing class, or the holiday in Spain, or anything at all that she got enthusiastic about. That's why she had no opinions, no views.

She had ended up as the kind of person who couldn't decide what film to see, what pizza to eat, and what to say next. Should she talk to him about his mother's suicide attempts, or was he just trying to have some time off to forget about it? Fiona frowned with the concentration of it all.

'I'm sorry, I suppose I'm a bit boring about the Italian classes.'

'Oh no, heavens no you're not,' she cried. 'I just love hearing you talk about them. You see, I wish I cared about things like you do. I was envying you and all the people who bothered to go to that class, I feel a bit dull.' Very often, when she least expected it, she appeared to have said something that pleased people.

Barry smiled from ear to ear and patted her hand. 'No, you're not a bit dull, you're very nice and there's nothing to stop you going to any evening class yourself, is there?'

'No, I suppose not. Is your one full?' Again she wished she had not spoken. It looked too eager, chasing him, not being able to find an evening class of her own. She bit her lip as he shook his head.

'It wouldn't be any good joining ours now. It's too late, we're all too far ahead,' he said proudly. 'And anyway, everyone joined for some kind of reason, you know. They all had a need to learn Italian. Or that's the way it looks.'

'What was your need to learn it?' she asked.

Barry looked a bit awkward. 'Oh well, it has to do with being there for the World Cup,' he said. 'I went with a crowd but I met a lot of nice Italian people and I felt as thick as a plank not being able to speak their language.'

'But the World Cup won't be there again, will it?'

'No, but the Italians will still be there. I'd like to go back to the place I was in and talk to them,' he said. There was a faraway look on his face.

Fiona wondered whether to ask him about his mother but she decided against it. If he had wanted to tell her he would have. It could be too personal and private. She thought he was very, very nice and would love to see him again. How did these girls who were great with fellows manage it? Was it by saying something witty? Or by not saying anything at all? She wished she knew. Fiona would love to have said something that would make this nice kind boy realise that she liked him and would love to be his friend. And even more in time. Why was there no way of sending out a signal?

'I suppose we should be thinking of going home,' Barry said.

'Oh yes. Of course.' He was tired of her, she could see.

'Will I walk you to the bus?'

'That would be nice, thank you.'

'Or would you rather a lift home on my motorbike?'

'Oh, that would be terrific.' She realised she had agreed to both things. What a fool he would think she was. Fiona decided to explain. 'I mean when you offered to walk me to the bus I didn't know that there was a chance of a lift on the bike. But I would prefer the bike actually.' She was shocked at her own courage.

He seemed to be pleased. 'Great,' he said 'You'll hang on to me tight then. Is that a promise?'

'It's a promise,' said Fiona, and smiled at him from behind her big glasses. She asked him to leave her at the end of the road, because it was a quiet place where motorbikes didn't often travel. She wondered would he ask to see her again.

'I'll see you,' Barry said.

'Yes, that would be nice.' She prayed that her face didn't look too hopeful, too beseeching.

'Well, you might run across me in the supermarket,' he said.

'What? Oh sure. Yes. Easily.'

'Or I might see you in the hospital? he added as another possibility.

'Well, yes. Yes, of course, if you were passing by,' she said sadly.

'I'll be passing by every day,' Barry said. They've kept my mother in. Thank you for not asking about her… I didn't want to talk about it.'

'No, no of course not.' Fiona held her breath with relief. She had

'

been within a whisper of leaning on the table in the pizza place and asking him every detail.

'Goodnight, Fiona.'

'Goodnight, Barry, and thank you,' she said.

She lay awake in her bed for a long time. He did like her. And he admired her for not prying into his life. All right, she had made a few silly mistakes, but he had said he would see her again.

Brigid called by the hospital to see Fiona. 'Could you do us a favour, come up to the house tonight?'

'Sure, why?'

'Tonight's the night. Crania's going to tell them about the Old Age Pensioner. There should be fur and feathers flying.'

'What good will I be?' Fiona asked anxiously.

'They might tone it down a bit if there's an outsider in the house. Might .' Brigid seemed doubtful.

'And will he be there, the old man?'

'He'll be parked in a car outside in case he's needed.'

'Needed?' Fiona sounded fearful.

'Well, you know, needed to be welcomed in as a son-in-law, or to come in and rescue Crania if Dad beats her senseless.'

'He wouldn't do that?' Fiona's mouth was an O of horror.

'No, Fiona, he wouldn't. You take everything so literally. Have you no imagination?'

'No, I don't think I have,' Fiona said sadly.

During the day Fiona made enquiries about Mrs. Healy, Barry's mother. She knew Kitty, one of the nurses on the ward, who told her. Heavy stomach-pumping job, second time. She seemed determined to do it. Kitty had no time for her, let them finish themselves off if they were intent on it. Why spend all that time and money telling them they were loved and needed? They probably weren't. If they only knew all the really sick people, decent people who didn't bring it on themselves, then they'd think again.

Kitty had no sympathy for would-be suicides. But she said Fiona wasn't to tell anyone that. She didn't want to get the reputation for being as hard as nails. And she did give this bloody woman her medication and was as nice to her as she was to all the patients.

'What's her first name?'

'Nessa, I think.'

'What's she like?' Fiona asked.