Foreign Affairs (52 page)

She watched him go. He turned once, to wave, and then he disappeared around the curve of the duty-free and she burst into tears. Gulping and hiccuping into her hanky, she struggled for control.
Making a show of herself wasn’t going to help anyone, especially Ronan. She blew her nose and headed in the direction of the coffee bar. She didn’t feel like going home just yet. When
Jennifer was feeling miserable she liked to be on her own. Unlike Brenda, who loved to share her woes with the world.

She bought herself a cup of coffee and sat at a table overlooking the apron. Planes taxied to and fro. She could see the enormous jumbo jet Ronan would soon be flying across the Atlantic in,
fuelling up. She felt so sorry for him. He’d gone through a very rough time in the last couple of months. His mother’s sudden death had been a terrible shock. She, Paula and Beth had
gone to the funeral. It had been desperately sad. His poor sister Rachel had been hysterical. Ronan introduced Jennifer to her, but the poor girl was far too shocked to make much of a response.
She’d met the father too. She hadn’t liked him. He was very curt. Jennifer knew he was probably in shock and that was understandable, but the cold angry look he’d directed at
Ronan when he’d introduced Jennifer to him chilled her. She said how sorry she was for his trouble and made to shake hands but Mr Stapleton ignored her. He told Ronan in a very sharp voice
that this wasn’t the time or place to be standing chatting to girls and to kindly get on home to greet the callers to the house. Poor Ronan was disgusted but Jennifer told him not to worry.
She understood that his father was upset, she assured him, and anyway, she whispered, she and the girls had just come to the funeral to offer their sympathies.

‘But you can’t go home without a cup of tea. It’s a horrible day and you got drenched at the graveside,’ he protested.

‘Don’t worry about us, Ronan, we’ll be fine.’ Jennifer wanted to put her arms around him and hug him but, of course, she couldn’t do a thing like that with his
father only a few yards away.

A week later Ronan met her in Emma’s restaurant, their favourite haunt. Over coffee and a pizza, he told her that he was going to America despite his father’s overwhelming
opposition. William Stapleton was furious with his son.

‘If I let him dictate to me over this I’ll never be free of him. I’ve got to make my stand sometime. It might as well be now,’ Ronan told her, and his voice was very
firm.

Mr Stapleton had allowed his only son to fly off to America and he wouldn’t even bring him to the airport. That shocked Jennifer. How could a father do that to a son? His sister Rachel
should have defied her father and come to see him off. Family life could turn out to be the fiercest battlefield, Jennifer thought glumly as she drained her coffee. Ronan and his father were
estranged. Look at Grandpa Myles and her aunt. They hadn’t spoken to each other for years. He’d never seen his two granddaughters from that side of the family. And it looked as if he
never would. All through bitterness and pride.

She’d never meet Ronan’s mother now, she thought sadly. She’d sounded like a very nice gentle woman from the way Ronan spoke of her. It was hard to know how she could have
married someone like his stern dominating father.

The big 747 started moving very slowly away from the terminal. Jennifer felt a lump come to her throat. Poor Ronan, she could imagine what he was feeling. Jennifer made a hasty exit. She
couldn’t bear to stay and watch the take-off. The airport was crammed, the holiday charter nights were taking off every ten minutes. Everybody seemed full of cheer and good spirits. But the
airport seemed the saddest, loneliest place in the world to her at that moment.

An hour and a half later, Jennifer let herself in through the front door. She’d been waiting ages for buses.

‘Jenny! Is that you?’ she heard her mother call over the banisters.

‘Yeah, it’s me,’ she called back. Kit came down the stairs.

‘How did it go? Your father wouldn’t have minded giving Ronan a lift, you know that, don’t you?’ her mother said gently, putting an arm around her shoulders.

‘I know that, Mam.’ Jennifer was very grateful. Her parents had been more than kind. They’d allowed Ronan to stay with them the night before. Her dad had offered to give him a
lift to the airport but Ronan had politely refused the offer. He wanted to go away with as little fuss as possible. Jennifer felt that her father’s presence at the airport would only have
underlined the contemptible behaviour of Mr Stapleton.

‘There was a phone call for you while you were out,’ Kit said, her eyes twinkling. ‘I think it might cheer you up.’

‘Who was it?’ Jennifer didn’t feel anything would cheer her up. Unless it was a call from Ronan to say he’d changed his mind and had got off the plane before it took
off.

‘Sister Bartholomew.’

‘Barty!’ Jennifer was horrified. She was finished with St Theresa’s. She’d never heard of Barty phoning anyone at home before.

‘What did she want?’

‘Mother Andrew wants to see you this afternoon.’ Kit smiled at her daughter’s dismay.

‘What!!’ she shrieked. ‘Holy Divinity, what have I done to deserve this? What does she want to see me for? Did she tell you?’

‘Look, Jennifer, go and see the woman. Listen to what she has to say and come home and tell me,’ her mother insisted firmly.

‘Couldn’t you have said that I was away or something?’ Jennifer moaned.

‘Jennifer, go!’ Kit ordered.

The school looked very empty as she ran up the steps and rang the doorbell. It was strange not to see hordes of girls chatting and laughing and bustling to and fro. The last time she’d
been here was to do her Leaving Certificate exam a few weeks ago. She hadn’t expected to be back so soon, she thought wryly as she pressed the doorbell again. A young maid answered the door.
Having ascertained Jennifer’s business, she ushered her into a small side parlour.

Waiting in the quiet, old-fashioned room, Jennifer inhaled the familiar scent of wax polish. It was a smell she always associated with school. The parquet floor shone, polished to within an inch
of its life. The antique sideboard and bookcases hadn’t a speck of dust. Jennifer started to feel nervous. This is ridiculous, she told herself. But she just couldn’t help it. The urge
to run was getting stronger by the second. The eerie stillness of the school was broken only by the muffled sound of a bell ringing in the convent.

As silently as she had left, the young girl reappeared. ‘Mother Andrew will see you now,’ she said softly. Jennifer followed her down St Anthony’s corridor until they came to a
big oak door. Jennifer’s eyes widened. That was the door that led to the convent. None of the pupils had been allowed to enter it. Once, Miriam Brennan had gone through it for a dare, while
the rest of them waited, giddy with excitement, to find out all about what it was like in the Holy of Holies. Unfortunately Miriam had managed to penetrate only a few feet into the citadel before
she was rumbled. The escapade had caused uproar and been the talk of the school. Miriam was suspended from school for a week and the entire school were warned at Friday assembly that any other girl
caught repeating the act would be expelled.

In spite of herself, Jennifer felt a spark of excitement as she walked through the door that the maid held open for her. She found herself in a long hallway painted in a warm shade of peach.
Arched windows overlooked the nuns’ rose-filled garden. Vases of flowers stood on the window-sills, their fragrances intermingling with the whiff of polish. A huge statue of St Theresa, the
Little Flower, for whom the school was named, rested on a white lace-covered altar. A votive lamp burned steadily beneath it. Exuberant sprays of gladioli made a dramatic display. Somewhere,
Jennifer could hear the sound of laughter. The calmness and serenity about the place was very soothing. It was not at all what she’d expected. It was lovely. White doors lined one side of the
corridor. The maid paused outside one of them and gave a gentle knock. Jennifer heard Mother Andrew bid them enter.

She was standing facing the door in a pretty primrose-coloured sitting-room. Sun streamed through the window. The furniture was simple and modern. Two chintz-covered armchairs were separated by
a small coffee table which was set with a tray containing delicate china, a pot of tea, a plate of paper-thin ham and cucumber sandwiches, a plate of fresh scones lavishly topped with jam and cream
and a plate of rich fruitcake.

‘Jennifer, dear, thank you for coming. Please, sit down and have tea with me.’

‘Thank you, Mother,’ Jennifer murmured as the headmistress poured a cup of tea and handed it to her.

‘Now dear, eat up. So I won’t feel guilty at tucking in myself. Watching one’s weight is such a scourge, isn’t it?’ Mother Andrew’s eyes sparkled. Jennifer
laughed. Funny how she’d never noticed the laughter lines around Mother Andrew’s eyes. Today, in the pretty sitting-room, she seemed so . . . so human. Not the austere, humourless
figure known as ‘The Head.’ The pupils had had little communication with their head nun, unless, as in Paula’s case, they were in trouble. She was a distant fear-inducing figure,
far removed from their orbit. It was strange to think of her as an affable, slightly plump middle-aged woman who liked scones dripping with jam and cream. It was a most pleasant surprise.

‘Did your mother tell you what I wanted to talk to you about?’ Mother Andrew enquired, holding out the plate of sandwiches. Jennifer took one and shook her head.

‘Take a few, dear, they’re very small, one bite and they’re gone,’ the nun urged. They were delicious, Jennifer decided. She was rather hungry, come to think of it. She
hadn’t eaten much breakfast and she’d missed lunch. She ate another sandwich with relish.

‘I have a proposition to put to you, Jennifer,’ Mother Andrew declared, patting the side of her mouth with a linen napkin. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about who would be
most suitable for my requirements. And you, my dear, are the perfect candidate. I do hope you’ll agree to what I have in mind.’

Jennifer sat with sandwich poised in mid-air.

‘Jennifer,’ she heard Mother Andrew ask. ‘How would you like to travel?’

Chapter Forty-Seven

‘Pardon, Mother?’ Jennifer wasn’t sure if she’d heard right.

‘I said, how would you like to travel?’ Mother Andrew smiled. ‘Let me explain. My niece is married to a wealthy businessman. She has two young children. They have the loan of a
villa in Spain for two months. She is looking for an au pair. Someone who can speak Spanish, and someone who would be good with children. Her own girl has left her in the lurch, and she needs
someone in two weeks’ time. She asked me if I could recommend someone.’ Mother Andrew paused and looked Jennifer straight in the eye. ‘She wants someone reliable and trustworthy
and with a sense of responsibility. I think you fit the bill in every way.’

‘Oh!’ Jennifer was stunned. ‘Paula can speak better Spanish than I can,’ she blurted out, saying the first thing that came to mind.

Mother Andrew’s eyes grew cold. ‘Perhaps, but Miss Matthews is a bit too fond of the boys. I couldn’t possibly recommend her.’

You idiot! Jennifer cursed herself. What was wrong with her? Here she was, being offered the chance of a lifetime and she’d just recommended Paula for the job. She needed her head
examined.

‘Am I to take it you wouldn’t be interested in the position?’ Mother Andrew raised an eyebrow and studied Jennifer intently.

‘Oh, I would. Certainly I would,’ Jennifer said hastily. This was one time in her life when she couldn’t dither. If she didn’t take the job there’d be plenty more
who would. Paula would jump at it. Being an au pair in Spain for the summer was a far more exotic prospect than working in a hotel in Waterford. Mother Andrew relaxed. ‘Splendid,’ she
beamed, taking a bite out of a scone with relish. ‘It will give you an excellent opportunity to improve your Spanish as well as broadening your horizons. It’s very interesting to study
another culture. We can be a little bit insular on this small island of ours. There’s a whole big world out there, Jennifer. Before I became headmistress of St Theresa’s I worked in our
convents in Africa and Latin America. They were the best times of my life.’ Mother Andrew’s deep-set blue eyes had a faraway look in them before she remembered herself.

‘Now,’ she said briskly. ‘Your mother has no objections, nor does she think your father will have any. So I can tell my niece I’ve found the perfect au pair and give her
your phone number? You can make your own arrangements with her from there.’

‘Thank you, Mother,’ Jennifer said. ‘And thank you very much for recommending me for the job. I’m very grateful.’

‘Just do a good job, dear. Enjoy yourself. And always remember you’re a St Theresa’s girl!’ the headmistress replied.

Twenty minutes later, Jennifer was walking down the steps of the school, still in a daze. In two weeks’ time, if Mrs Curtis approved of her, she was going to be on her way to the Balearic
island of Majorca, to spend the summer in a luxury villa. It was like a dream.

This had been a day of such contrast, she mused. Misery at the airport this morning. Huge excitement and anticipation this afternoon. She’d been due to start holiday work in the jam
factory the week after next. It was a relief not to have to do that for the rest of the summer. Going to Majorca and spending two months in the sun would be a great way to pass the time until she
got her exam results and could start looking for a job.

Jennifer remembered something. She had arranged to spend a week in St Margaret’s Bay with Paula. That would have to go by the wayside. Maybe she’d go for a weekend, but she’d
never fit in a week. She’d have a lot to do. She’d need a passport and pesetas and some suitable clothes. She’d need suntan creams and moisturizers. Excitement bubbled. Calm down,
she told herself. She had to do her interview first to see if Mrs Curtis liked her. Jennifer very much hoped she would.

‘Aunt Josie tells me you have good Spanish and are most reliable.’ Gillian Curtis ran long fingers through her highlighted ash blond hair and took a long drag on a
slim white menthol cigarette.