William Trevor - Two Lives

After Mary Louise’s visit Letty’s concern didn’t lessen, but by now she was reconciled to the changes in her sister, accepting them because there was nothing else she could do. Then her baby was born and made demands on both her attention and her thoughts. She had expected that Mary Louise would ride out to see the infant, and felt aggrieved when she didn’t. Kevin Aloysius the child was called, Aloysius being a Dennehy family name.

Rose and Matilda bided their time. They were pleased that Mary Louise no longer served in the shop; the dining-room without her was almost like old times. Yet there continued to be the irritation of what Matilda had once described as her ‘smug face’, the agreeableness that spread into it when you addressed her but which didn’t last, being quickly replaced by a dead look, as though she couldn’t be bothered listening to you for more than a minute at the most. There was the irritation of her presence in the lavatory or the bathroom when they wished to use one or the other, and her half-witted confining of herself in an attic. Above all, there was the appalling toll she was continuing to take of their brother. Sometimes in the mornings his eyes were so bloodshot you’d imagine he couldn’t see properly. He had put on weight; his pallor was unhealthy; the next thing, he’d get the shakes in his hands, like old Crowe who came round with crab-apples every autumn. Not knowledgeable about the nature of addiction, the sisters believed that when the wife he’d erroneously married was either returned to her family or incarcerated in a suitable asylum, Elmer would revert to his normal self. He would call in at the YMCA billiard-room for the occasional game of billiards instead of spending his evenings in Hogan’s Hotel. He would go out for summer walks the way he used to. His interest in business matters, having noticeably declined, would revive. That the shop would see the present generation out and pass to distant relatives in Athy mattered as little now as it had before the whole unfortunate episode of the marriage. It was only a pity Elmer hadn’t been able to see that there was a natural threesome in the shop and in the house.

The sisters bided their time because they were certain that any day now there would be another occurrence similar to the theft of the money. On this occasion the culprit might not manage so easily to wriggle out of it. Both of them felt that since so much trouble had been caused it was only fair that matters should come to a head.

Mary Louise no longer broke down into fits of private weeping, as she had during the first weeks and months of her loss. It seemed to her that her own flesh and bones were so much lumber, real but without real interest.

‘Of course I haven’t,’ she replied again when her cousin asked her if she’d fallen asleep. ‘Of course not, Robert.’

Susan Emily , the moss-touched letters said, wife of Charles. Safe now in Heaven’s Arms. Peace, Perfect Peace . The words were there beneath a net of other words, belonging with the drone of bees. When she closed her eyes in the graveyard, towers and pavilions were etched against the green of parkland. A tablecloth was spread beneath old limes. ‘The coachman and a footman and a maid brought the baskets from the coach…’

His voice continuing, and hers embracing it, was their act of love. There was a purity in it that delighted Mary Louise, now that she had moved herself away from her sisters-in-law and her husband. All she wished for was her cousin’s watch to hang on her attic wall, on the nail that was already there, beside the fireplace. And if ever silence came in the house she would send out invitations – gold-edged, with her cousin’s name on them also, giving a date and a time, with RSVP on the bottom left-hand corner.

Mrs Dallon was surprised, and pleased, when James came into the kitchen to say that he’d just seen Mary Louise from the high field, riding out in their direction. She pushed the kettle on to the hot ring of the range, and asked James to go and tell his father. In weary defeat she had come to accept part at least of the Quarry sisters’ catalogue of accusations. There was nothing more that could be done, nothing more that could be said: everything would have been different, Mrs Dallon still believed, if a child had been born. Perhaps one day that would happen, but she felt more pessimistic than she had in the past.

‘Sit down, pet. It’s great to see you.’

Mary Louise took her coat off. In answer to her mother’s questions, she replied that she was well. Mrs Dallon cut slices of brown bread and put butter and lemon curd on the table.

‘The wanderer returns,’ Mr Dallon said, pulling his Wellington boots off at the door.

‘Letty’d love to see you.’ Mrs Dallon spoke with nervous haste, as though anxious to obliterate as soon as possible anything in her husband’s levity that might have caused offence. In their bedroom she had repeatedly voiced her fear that some time in the past Mary Louise had taken offence. They had maybe seemed hesitant when Elmer Quarry proposed. Letty had been too outspoken. These attitudes had perhaps rankled and, combining with the attitudes of two trouble-making sisters-in-law, were the cause of Mary Louise’s isolation. When Elmer began to drink the poor girl had felt she could turn to no one. Any girl would be ashamed when a husband took to drink.

‘I hear it’s quiet in there these days,’ Mr Dallon remarked, referring to the town. He crossed the kitchen in his stockinged feet. He sat down and reached for a slice of bread.

‘There’s not much doing,’ Mary Louise agreed.

He remembered her standing beside him in the yard when she was eleven or twelve, with some blackberries she’d picked into an old sweet tin. They’d give her a white coat when she went to work in the chemist’s, she said. He didn’t subscribe to the argument that she had taken offence. In his opinion this was – on his wife’s part – a search for some consoling factor, any explanation being better than none at all. But when the argument had been put forward he hadn’t dismissed it: if it gave some comfort, what harm was done?

‘It’s the times that are in it,’ he pronounced. ‘The people haven’t the money.’

It disappointed him that Mary Louise didn’t respond. In the yard that day she’d stood chattering for maybe a quarter of an hour, telling him about the window displays in the chemist’s, the scents and powders and lipsticks, Coty, Pond’s, Elizabeth Arden. A warm September evening, he recalled.

‘George Eddery’s gone to England,’ Mrs Dallon said. ‘Selling door-to-door apparently.’

This time Mary Louise did respond, slightly nodding, a shadowy smile altering the set of her features. A chemist’s shop had represented all of town life for her, her father reflected. She’d always been attracted by the town, ever since her first day at Miss Mullover’s. She’d always delighted in it, even when they drove through it on a Sunday and it was closed up and dead.

‘Aunt Emmeline’s not here?’ she said.

‘She’s over at Letty’s,’ Mrs Dallon said. ‘Your Aunt Emmeline’s making a garden for Letty.’

‘I wonder,’ Mary Louise began, and paused. They watched her changing her mind, leaving the sentence she had begun unsaid, substituting another. ‘I’d just like to look,’ she said, ‘at my room.’

Surprise flickered in both their faces. Mrs Dallon’s bewilderment became a frown that only gradually disappeared. Cutting in half a slice of bread, her husband was arrested in the motion for an instant and then, more slowly, proceeded with it.

‘Just for a minute,’ Mary Louise went on, already opening the door that led to the stairs. They listened to the latch falling into place behind her. Mr Dallon pushed his cup towards the teapot. Mechanically, Mrs Dallon filled it. Was there something, after all, in the idea that Mary Louise should return to Culleen? Did she need looking after? Had she herself said as much to her sisters-in-law? Was that why she wanted to see her bedroom again?