It Was Only Ever You (15 page)

They had passed a pleasant evening. Tom liked the judge well enough. He was a good man, and between politics and their philanthropic interests, they had plenty to talk about.

Nessa, on the other hand, had found herself overwhelmed in such elevated company. Desperate to impress Judge Dolan’s wife, she was unable to stop herself from babbling, ‘Of course, we think of ourselves as “Educated Irish”. I much prefer to read than watch television, even though we have two sets. One of them is colour.’

Nessa was not stupid. She knew she was being gauche but the more magnanimous Donna Dolan appeared in the face of her ignorance, the worse she got. By the end of the evening Nessa was in bits. Not wanting to give up easily, she became determined to create an occasion that would show her family to be suitable for the lofty Dolans. And so she planned an Engagement Luncheon.

‘It gives the ladies an opportunity to discuss the wedding arrangements together.’

‘It gives you an opportunity to show us off as posh.’

‘Nonsense, we are every bit as good as the Dolans. In any case, it’s very important that Mrs Dolan and her daughter don’t feel left out.’

Ava had already sensed that Donna Dolan had very little interest in her son’s wedding. She had been polite enough to Ava on the few occasions they had met. But Ava only had to look at her high cheekbones, her black glossy hair tied up in a perfect elegant chignon and smooth olive skin to see she was disappointed in her son’s choice. In fact, Ava did not especially mind if her future mother-in-law did not fully approve of her. What she minded, very much, was her own mother’s insistence on seeking out that approval for her.

However, it was too late to worry about that now. The guests had begun to arrive. Nessa had staggered her invitation times so that everyone would be waiting when the Dolan ladies came in.

First was Bridie Flaherty, their neighbour, stalwart of their local Catholic church – she would add an air of quiet respectability. Then there was Nessa’s cousin Kitty, a widow. She could always be relied upon to turn up in a crisp blouse. Finally, there was Jean Brogan; Tom’s troublesome younger sister was thirty-five and a spinster, although she insisted on calling herself single. Jean wore trousers and had a degree. Nessa did not approve, but thought her sister-in-law’s presence would show them off as modern thinkers as PJ and his wife were intellectuals. Nessa placed her various friends and relations around the brown shagpile rug in a way that showed off the Formica surround on the fireplace to its best advantage. Just then the doorbell rang.

*

Patrick was a month in New York before he finally gave up on hearing back from Rose.

‘The father was trying to get rid of you, man! Any fool could see that.’

For the first couple of weeks he had believed that Dr Hopkins had made some sort of private arrangement with the owner so that he would be given an opportunity to sing. When the big Irish wedding came, Patrick had been assured that it was his big break. But that very evening he was back in the kitchen washing dishes.

His fellow dishwasher, Juan, had drawn him into a conversation about his past. Patrick was feeling lonely that night and told him about Rose. How madly in love she was with him and how he had come here on the generous patronage of her father to build a life for them both. Even as he said it out loud, scrubbing dishes, side by side with this Hispanic lad from a poor background, he realized he knew how absurd it sounded.

‘You been cheated, man. Man, that’s bad. Sending you away like that from yo’ true love. And he was acting quick too, getting you on a plane. Plane ride would have cost you rent for a year. He sure was in a hurry to get rid of you.’

Patrick went quiet. In his heart he saw it was true. He had been a fool. A stupid fool.

The next day he packed up his things and cadged a lift into town with one of the kitchen suppliers.

He didn’t tell anyone where he was going and he went to the only other place he had an address for: Tom Brogan’s. He had the price of a taxi fare from Manhattan out to the Bronx in his pocket, not much more. The house looked very grand, so Patrick brushed down his jacket, stood as straight as he could, and rang the bell.

Nessa opened the door with great flourish and her most charming smile, expecting to see the Dolan women, only to find a young man standing there. He was carrying a bag and had the apologetic look of one of her husband’s unfortunates. Young men like this called to the door looking for her husband’s help quite often – but today of all days! Tom was not due home for two hours. This was a disaster.

‘I’m looking for—’

‘I know well who you’re looking for and he is not here. He won’t be home for two hours – at least.’

The young man looked suitably mortified.

‘You’ll have to go home and come back later. After six o’clock this evening. He’ll be able to see you then.’

He had that haunted expression they all had when they landed on her husband’s doorstep. Broken dreams. Desperate pride. She felt bad but really – this timing was very unfortunate.

‘Grand so,’ the young man said. ‘I’ll call again later. Thank you, ma’am.’

Nessa looked anxiously up the road to see if there was any sign of the Dolan women. They weren’t due for another ten minutes.

The man turned, walked down the steps, and then moved slowly towards the path. It was apparent he had nowhere to go from here. He was going to wait out on the street. Nessa started to panic. He could be loitering around when the Dolans arrived. What would they think of the area if they saw a destitute young man sitting under a tree outside their house? And then – if Tom brought him in later and they were still there? That would look even worse.

‘Come back,’ she called after him. Signalling wildly for him to follow her around to the back of the house, she let him into the kitchen and gave him a bottle of Coke, a chunk of leftover corned beef, some crackers and Tom’s newspaper to keep him occupied.

Daisy, their maid, arrived at the back door just in time to serve the guests. She was in full uniform, but before she had the chance to apologize for being late, Nessa said, ‘Thank
God
you’re here. Arrange those chips around the onion dip and do not let him
move
out of here until Tom comes home. Ah! The door! That’s them...’

Patrick could see that this lady, presumably Tom Brogan’s wife, had the same fierce look of his own mother when she was intent on something. The big black woman in uniform now glaring at him was closer in age to his grandmother. He knew better than to cross either of them. For the first time since he had arrived in America, Patrick Murphy felt completely safe.

*

Ava picked out a red shift dress and cream jacket ensemble and teamed it with a pair of low cream pumps. It had caught her eye in her local boutique the previous week. Although she had developed an interest in clothes, and in presenting a smarter, more feminine image, she could still not quite bring herself to go into the large department stores on Fifth Avenue. She found the vast corridors of clothes and smarmy showgirls intimidating. In this smaller, friendly shop she was always able to find just one thing that suited her needs. She backcombed her hair at the roots, puffing it up into a wide bob, applied a little pink lipstick, and took a deep breath.

‘You can do this,’ she said to her reflection in the mirror, then looked back at herself quizzically. Why was she dreading this afternoon? This was a dream come true, surely? Dermot’s family were going to become her family. She was about to spend the afternoon talking about dresses and flowers, choosing the hotel where she would have her wedding reception. Her parents would give her anything she wanted in order to see her married to a man who was educated, Irish, charming and from a good family. They would give anything to see her happy. She shook her head at her own silliness and headed downstairs.

‘Here she is!’ Bridie said, waving a cheesy pineapple stick in her direction.

Everyone turned to look at her. A flutter of panic caught in her chest.

Her Aunt Jean waved across wryly and said, ‘Late for your own party in your own house, young Ava? I’m impressed. We’ll make a rebel of you yet.’

Ava inspected the gathering. Her mother- and sister-in-law- to-be were seated on either side of the new fireplace, immaculately turned out. Gloria had her handbag neatly settled on her lap and was removing her gloves. Donna was cautiously lifting a glass of champagne to her lips. Daisy was standing in the corner, almost hidden behind the orange velvet curtains, looking extremely uncomfortable in the ridiculous uniform her mother made her wear when she was entertaining. As usual, Nessa had left her with nothing to do except look the part.

This whole charade was for her. This was her engagement party. Ava was getting married.

‘Ava! At last.’ Her mother’s eyes flickered slightly in admonishment.

Cousin Kitty came over, grabbed her shoulders and gave her a big kiss. ‘I can’t believe you are getting married!’ Kitty had been at the onion dip and the smell of her breath, along with the feeling of panic that was now pounding in her chest, made Ava urgently nauseous.

‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ she said, and rushed towards the kitchen.

She ran through the swing doors and over to the double sink where she retched loudly. Nothing was coming, so she stood up, took a deep breath and reached for a glass to pour herself some water.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Jesus!’ Ava jumped, dropping the glass.

‘Sorry, sorry...’ Patrick got down from his spot at the counter where he had been wondering if he should make himself known, and began picking up the broken pieces on the floor.

‘Oh – it’s you...’

‘Patrick,’ he said, ‘from the club.’

‘Ah yes, I...’ She had been about to say she remembered him but, for some reason, stopped herself. Her stomach started twisting again. Whatever was the matter with her today? ‘Be careful – the glass...’

A drop of red fell on to the grey linoleum. Patrick had not noticed the cut. Instinctively, Ava reached across for his hand. She opened his fist, lifted the shard of glass carefully out of it as a pool of blood gathered in the crease of his palm. She reached for a tea towel and gently closed his hand around it. All the time his eyes, those endlessly deep blue eyes, remained steadily fixed on her face. Ava had never been looked at in that way before. She told herself he was simply trying to be brave, although the cut was shallow. Her hand held his. She tried to make him clench his fist to stem the flow of blood, but it seemed he would not. He did not tense his hand. She did not want to let his hand go.

‘What the
hell
is going on in here? I thought I told you not to...’

Speechless with fury at this tableau, Nessa said in an angry whisper, ‘Get back out there this instant, young lady, and entertain your guests.
You, boy
...’ she said, jabbing her finger into Patrick’s face, ‘get back up on to that stool where I left you and do not move an inch, or so help me God, I will put you back out on the street and you’ll not get near my husband this night!’

Ava was so embarrassed that she did not know how to react. Patrick quickly stood up and did as he was told.

At the door Nessa paused and, seeing her good tea towel in his bloody hand said, ‘I’ll send Daisy in to look after that and clear up this mess. Lord knows she looks as if she needs something to do...’ Then she swept out.

Now it was Ava’s turn to be angry.

‘How dare she speak to you like that!’ she said.

Patrick was smiling, more amused than offended. ‘She reminds me of Mam,’ he said.

‘You must miss your family.’

He smiled, gave a little shrug and said, ‘What’s the occasion?’

Why was he smiling? With a cut hand in a stranger’s house? Could it be her? She didn’t dare think such a thing.

‘It’s my engagement party.’

His smile faltered. ‘You had better get back out to your guests, so.’

Ava regretted telling him she was engaged, then remembered that in the club he had thought she and Dermot were married. Then, the fact that she had made note of it at all made her feel uncomfortable. She forced herself to focus on her mother’s terrible treatment of Patrick, who had, after all, come to their house, at her invitation, looking for her father’s help.

She had an idea. ‘Has your hand stopped bleeding?’

He checked his palm. ‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ she said, then she ran to the back door, picked one of her father’s smart hats off the coat shelf and threw it across the kitchen at Patrick.

He caught it, laughing. ‘What’s this for?’

‘Put it on.’ He did as he was told, cocking the expensive trilby over one eye and striking a Sinatra pose.

‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Now, follow me...’

‘I’m not moving,’ he said. ‘I’ve upset your mother enough...’

But Ava grabbed him by his sore hand and dragged him through the kitchen door and out into the drawing room.

‘Ladies,’ she announced. ‘I would like you to meet Mr Patrick Murphy – who I have invited along to entertain us with Irish songs this afternoon.’

Nessa’s eyes were flaming saucers of fury. Ava was momentarily delighted with herself then suddenly realized she was still holding Patrick’s hand. She let it go with a sweeping flourish, inviting him to take the stage in the centre of the room.

Patrick stood there, trapped in the glare of ten women. For a moment he wondered how he had found himself in this situation. The room was fancier, more opulent, than any he had ever been in before. But the lady of the house was Irish and her crazy daughter meant well in finding him an audience. So, Patrick did what he always did when he was uncertain, or nervous, or simply standing in front of a group of silent people: he opened his mouth and he sang.

‘Oh, Peggy Gordon, you are my darling, Come sit ye down upon my knee...’

As soon as the words began to flow out of his mouth, Patrick fell into the powerful trance of the born musician. The women found themselves mesmerized as his voice lifted their spirits and carried them off into the world of Irish romance.