William Trevor - Two Lives

‘I’m getting round to it,’ her aunt said, her tone betraying her failure to find the heart for the task. ‘I don’t come in here much.’

Mary Louise wouldn’t have changed the position of a single thing, not a book or a scribble or a drawing. She wouldn’t have moved by an inch his armchair by the fire. In winter she’d have lit the fire again and kept it going every day.

‘It’s nice you want one,’ her aunt said when a drawing of winter trees had been chosen. ‘Have anything else you’d like.’

Mary Louise looked about her, and the urge not to disturb returned.

‘Maybe these,’ she reluctantly suggested, indicating the three books.

‘Of course you must have them.’

They left the room and in the kitchen had another cup of tea. For a moment they did not speak. Then her aunt said:

‘Your mother said I could live at Culleen. What would you think of that, Mary Louise?’

Her Sunday visits to this house would become known was what Mary Louise thought: daily contact would see to that. But what had mattered in his lifetime didn’t matter now. Even if her revelation of today led in time to the dawning of suspicion in her aunt’s mind, it wouldn’t matter. She only wished she had known, that last Sunday, that she loved her cousin with the passion death had made apparent.

‘It’s lonely for you here, Aunt Emmeline.’

‘Well, that’s what they believe. And yes, it is. Just now it is, though perhaps I’ll get used to it.’

‘It’s sensible.’

‘Yes, it’s sensible. If Letty marries Dennehy there’ll be that bedroom.’

The Bank of Ireland owned more of the house than she did, she added. Getting rid of it would be a weight off her mind. The west side of the roof leaked, gutters needed to be replaced, lead was perforated.

‘I’m fond of James,’ she said. ‘It would be nice to see something of a young person again.’

Mary Louise could discern what was in her aunt’s mind, and in her parents’. The notion there had been – accepted almost as fact in the farmhouse – that Letty and James would see their way into old age together, now that Mary Louise had married, no longer appeared to be valid. More likely, now, it seemed that Letty would marry the vet and James would one day marry also. With a bedroom to spare, in such circumstances it was the natural thing to offer a home to a lone aunt.

‘But I’m not sure, Mary Louise. I’m not sure I wouldn’t be an intrusion.’

Mary Louise shook her head. That was the last thing her aunt would be, she reassured her. If the idea had been put to her the whole family would have discussed it. Her father would have agreed, and so would James. Letty must have made up her mind about Dennehy.

‘Privately between us, I believe she has,’ her aunt said.

‘I didn’t know.’

‘It’s always kept quiet for a while, news of a mixed marriage. Dennehy’s priest will be having a go at Letty.’

‘Letty would never turn.’

‘The priest’ll want the children though.’

Mary Louise felt that none of it concerned her. In the past Letty would have ages ago told her everything. They would have lain awake in the bedroom that soon was to be empty and Letty would have gone through every development in her romance, the nature and circumstances of the proposal, and the persuasion of the parish priest. When Gargan had been taking her out she’d come back to the bedroom at night with all sorts of information, often waking Mary Louise up to tell her: what Gargan had tried on, what he’d confided to her about his boyhood desires, revelations made about the customers at the bank, who was solvent and who was not. Now, apparently, her sister was going to marry a man Mary Louise had only spoken to once or twice and about whom Letty had told her nothing whatsoever. After the wedding everything in the farmhouse would be different – Aunt Emmeline would occupy the bedroom that had been theirs, James might marry the Eddery girl or someone like her. None of it was any longer Mary Louise’s world. Her world was the drapery and the house above it, her sisters-in-law, her husband, the attic rooms, the memory of her cousin’s love. The town she had so longed to live in was hers, its air odorous with turf smoke, its people interested in her seemingly barren state.

‘The priests always have a go for the children,’ her aunt said. ‘Well, understandably, I dare say.’

‘I must get back.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a photograph to spare of Robert?’

For the first time her aunt appeared surprised. Then she went away and returned with an album in which a dozen or so photographs were loosely caught between the pages. None was pasted in. ‘The ones of Robert are precious to me,’ she said. ‘There’s none of him grown up.’

Mary Louise looked at one after another: Robert as a baby, Robert at three or four, Robert in an overcoat and cap, much as she remembered him from their childhood. She handed them back.

‘We didn’t go in much for the camera,’ her aunt said.

There were other photographs and she was shown them – of the house and of people she didn’t know, of her aunt when she was a girl, and Robert’s father, with a moustache.

‘Thanks for showing me, Aunt Emmeline.’

Soon after she turned out of the avenue she heard an echo of her cousin’s voice.

‘One hot summer day in 1853 two young men lay in the shade of a tall lime tree by the River Moskva, not far from Kountsovo…’

Mary Louise was correct in imagining that the townspeople were interested in her childlessness. As well, it was considered that she was becoming strange, and often a connection was made. Women coming into the shop noticed what they agreed were oddities, and remarked upon them to one another. They said so in the other shops – in Renehan’s next door, in Foley’s, and elsewhere. They said so chattily, inquisitively, forebodingly, depending on who they were. The young wife was abstracted, they said; you addressed her and often she didn’t hear you. You asked for Silko and she turned round and reached down the silk samples. She wasn’t as friendly as she’d been; sometimes she hardly smiled at you, and then remembered and smiled effusively.

One day Letty came to the shop to tell her sister that she was engaged to Dennehy. She was immediately struck by what she afterwards described to her mother as ‘Mary Louise’s peculiar manner’. She had asked if they could go upstairs for a few minutes and Mary Louise led her to the big front room, a room Letty had never been in before. They sat on either side of the empty fire grate. Dennehy had bought the farmhouse and the yard of outbuildings to which so often they’d driven in search of privacy. Letty tried to remember the rooms, measuring them in her mind to establish if any was as large as this one. She extolled her fiancé’s virtues, and his devotion, and all they had planned for the future. She turned her head away when she said she was head over heels with him, and had been from the first time he took her out. He was anxious to know Mary Louise better, she passed on.

‘She didn’t speak a word,’ Letty reported later. ‘She sat there hardly changing her expression.’

There was some exaggeration in this, but the statements none the less conveyed an accurate reflection of the truth since they also took into account Letty’s own considerable surprise.

‘Is she sick?’ Mrs Dallon asked.

Letty shook her head. Her sister wasn’t sick. It was nothing like that.

‘Oh, I’ve noticed something,’ Mrs Dallon said, recalling her visit to the Quarrys at the time of her nephew’s death. Thinking that over afterwards, she had reached the conclusion that Mary Louise’s behaviour had to do with not yet being pregnant. Increasingly, her younger daughter’s moodiness – despondency transformed into elation, and then the grim mournfulness of the last couple of months – had appeared to Mrs Dallon to be an outcome of this fact. Neither she nor her husband had ever found it necessary to discuss, or even to mention, the known fact that for generations the Quarrys had taken the marriage step as a necessity rather than a desire. Mary Louise had wanted to be in the town, she had chosen to go out with Elmer Quarry. The Dallons, in the privacy of their bedroom or alone in the kitchen when James was out playing cards and Letty was out with Dennehy, did not openly progress from these facts to wonder aloud about Mary Louise’s subsequent happiness. They had not used that word to one another before the marriage; they did not after it. It was not a word that naturally belonged in their vocabulary. They would have felt easier if Elmer Quarry had been younger, or even been someone else altogether and more of a companion for the girl. But other factors had to be taken into consideration. It was pure ill fortune that, as yet, there was no pregnancy.