Wise Follies (10 page)

‘I am infatuated with Alice Evans. I simply must share this with you.’ How wonderful those words sound, only James Mitchel isn’t saying them. He’s standing near the door and is solemnly informing us that he is moving to West Cork. He’s opening a pottery studio there.

I’m gobsmacked. I just stand there trying to keep my expression calm, while emotions go off inside me like popcorn. Then I start to smile idiotically, as though absurdly pleased.

‘West Cork is such a lovely place,’ I sort of squawk.

‘Yes, it is. So picturesque,’ people agree as they head calmly, unbrokenly, back to their clay. Someone says they have brought in chocolate digestive biscuits for the tea break as a special treat. They’ve all just accepted it, like it’s no big deal. But I can’t accept it as I pretend to study my newly glazed vase with an expression so rigid with sadness, so expressionless, it makes my cheeks ache.

By eight-thirty I’ve worked myself up to it. ‘James,’ I say, softly, tremulously, as he passes. ‘James, I’d like to buy you a drink after class. You’ve been such a good teacher.’

‘Oh, Alice.’ James gives me his gorgeous smile. ‘That is really very kind of you, but I’ve arranged to meet someone later.’

‘Oh.’ I try not to look too disappointed. ‘Oh, well, maybe another time then.’

‘Yes.’ James looks at me most kindly. ‘Yes, maybe another time.’

‘Why don’t you suggest another time?’ I think. ‘Oh, James, please do.’

But he doesn’t. Instead he says, ‘These are very nice,’ as he gives my pottery an end-of-term inspection.

I stare at the pottery too. Eventually I manage to speak. ‘It’s kind of you to say that, James,’ I mumble dejectedly. ‘But Mildred’s jug is far nicer. Look, my ashtray’s got hardly any sides to it, the mugs don’t have proper handles. The dish is too heavy. And the vase doesn’t look like a vase at all. It’s a kind of humiliated bowl.’ And as I say this I realize I sound a bit like Laren used to when she enumerated her perceived deficiencies.

‘But what about your coil bowl?’ James asks.

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s OK,’ I mumble.

James smiles. ‘You set yourself rather high standards, don’t you, Alice? Perfectionism and happiness don’t sit too comfortably together. Be easier on yourself. These things take time.’

I look up at him adoringly. These are precisely the kinds of words I need to hear. James Mitchel is perfect for me. He can’t go now. He can’t. I look deep into his beautiful eyes hoping to see some loneliness. Some longing. I don’t.

But as he moves away he touches my shoulder. Gently but, it seems to me, with a definite poignancy.

I had a very strange dream last night. I dreamt that Eamon and James Mitchel got married. I was at the wedding. Eamon’s dress was a big billowy satin job with a long train and lace veil. James was wearing a morning suit and a wide smile.

‘You can’t marry Eamon,’ I told him. ‘I love you. You must marry me.’ He just laughed. A long and hollow laugh.

‘What about your proposal?’ I then hissed at Eamon, who was fiddling around with a bow.

‘You spent too long prevaricating about it,’ he replied sharply. ‘And anyway, James knows how to do massage.’

‘I could learn massage.’ The organ music had now started and I was running up the aisle after them both. ‘I could. I really could. Let’s make it a threesome. A ménage à trois.’

They ignored me. I slunk into a pew and sat down rebelliously. And when the vicar appeared he looked remarkably like Laren Brassière.

I’ve been having a number of strange dreams lately, since James announced his departure. Occasionally I am a Los Angeles-based ‘romance guru’. From the vantage of my high podium I urge women to only date men who give them organic vegetables as love tokens. ‘On the first date he should give you a parsnip,’ I tell them authoritatively. ‘On the second, broccoli, and on the third, lettuce. The fourth date is the big one. If he brings a cauliflower I would strongly advise marriage.’

Sometimes I dream that I am resitting an important exam – one I know I’ve already taken. ‘Look, I did this years ago. I don’t even know the current curriculum,’ I tell the stern scrutineer.

‘Go to your desk, Miss Evans,’ I am told, which I do, most despondently.

I am despondent these days. ‘James Mitchel would have had that drink with me if he really cared,’ I think. ‘It was all so one-sided. I’ve been such a fool.’ When I get home from work I slop around the house in ancient clothes and haven’t even bothered to mow the lawn. I’ve been eating far too many take-aways and have let the washing-up pile high in the kitchen. I have known for some days that I should wash my hair. It’s as though something shiny has gone, leaving just a slight, shimmery marking in its wake. In fact if James Mitchel wasn’t a Wonderful Man, he could almost be a snail.

Added to all this angst is guilt, because pining for some man I hardly know is, of course, dreadfully politically incorrect. I’m supposed to know that if you put Mr Wonderful on a pedestal even he will probably expect you to give it a good rub over with Ajax. And anyway, these days us women are supposed to be ‘the men we wanted to marry’. I’m simply going to have to work on my ‘male side’, along with my ‘female side’, my ‘higher self’ and of course my ‘inner child’. If I do marry Eamon he’ll be gaining a whole community.

Now it’s Tuesday evening and I’m listening to the radio. A man is talking about some monkeys who put their hands into a grid containing peanuts and then got trapped. ‘And the strange thing is they weren’t really trapped at all,’ the man is explaining. ‘Because if they’d stopped clenching the peanuts in their hands they could have pulled free.’ As he says this my doorbell rings.

It’s Matt, an old friend from university. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages, Alice. Where have you been hiding?’ he exclaims.

‘Oh, I’ve just been sort of– mmmm – busy,’ I answer.

‘I met Mira the other day,’ Matt says as he follows me into the sitting-room, which is looking dreadfully unkempt. ‘She told me that you’ve “received a proposal of marriage”.’ He smiles delightedly at the formality of this sentence. ‘She wouldn’t go into the details. She said you’d tell me yourself…if you wanted to.’ He looks at me hopefully.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I reply.

‘Yes. That would be lovely.’ Matt picks up a stack of old Sunday papers from the sofa and sits down.

I go into the kitchen and plug in the kettle. ‘Still not taking sugar?’ I call out.

‘Yes, I have my Hermesetas with me,’ Matt answers smugly. ‘But I wouldn’t mind some biscuits if you have any. I only had a salad for lunch.’

I reach into the cupboard and extract some chocolate digestives. Matt is slightly chubby and has been trying to lose weight for some time now. This seems to mainly involve not taking sugar in his tea and does not prevent him, for example, getting through an entire tube of Pringles crisps in one sitting. As I place four biscuits on a plate and make the tea Matt peers in at me.

‘Need some help?’ he asks.

‘Yes, you can carry the milk and the mugs.’

‘This is an unusual shape,’ he comments, picking up a mug I made at pottery class. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘It’s an Alice Evans original design,’ I sigh. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll use it. You can have a proper one.’

‘You made this mug yourself? Well, you clever little thing.’

‘Yeah, but the handle’s not on right. It’s all skewy.’

‘Well, I find its skewiness rather pleasing,’ Matt says solemnly. ‘In fact I insist on using it myself.’

I look at Matt gratefully. One of the lovely things about him is that he tends to find flaws endearing. This may be because for years he thought he was skewy himself. His schoolmates used to call him a ‘Spaniel’ because of his blond curls and docile nature. They couldn’t understand why he hated rugby and spent hours reading about the Renaissance when they were reading Biggles.

He couldn’t understand it himself for years. In fact, he began to believe he was a complete aberration until he discovered there were other people like him. Boys who looked at other boys with fascinated shame and yearning. It was called being ‘gay’ apparently, even though it didn’t seem that jolly initially.

He’s come to terms with it now though. He’s had some very nice boyfriends but, like me, he hasn’t met his Mr Wonderful. Sometimes I wonder if we should both just forget about romance and move in together. We’re very comfortable in each other’s company.

I can tell by the way Matt is drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa that he’s just itching to find out who proposed to me. He’ll be patient about it, though. He won’t press me for details until he feels I’m ready to broach the matter. Matt notices things. I’m sure he has noticed that I am looking a bit miserable, but he hasn’t mentioned it. He’s not the kind of person who feels impelled to point that kind of thing out.

‘So, Alice, when did you take up pottery?’ he’s asking.

‘Oh, I did some evening classes,’ I reply dully. ‘I’m not that good at it really. I wanted to do painting but it was booked up.’

‘You must do a painting for me one of these days,’ he replies. ‘I’d buy it from you.’

‘Would you?’ I sit up in my seat more brightly.

‘Yes, of course I would.’

‘What sort of painting would you like?’

‘I’ll leave it up to you,’ Matt replies.

‘Oh, OK,’ I mumble, already beginning to feel a bit doubtful. I’m not as confident about my painting as I would like to be.

‘So you got that framed. I’m so glad.’ Matt is looking at a seascape I did some time ago. It’s hanging by the French windows. The way Matt has steered us on to the subject of painting is a measure of how well he knows me. He seems to have an uncanny sense about what will cheer me up. He stands up and goes over to look at the painting more closely. ‘I love the colours,’ he enthuses. ‘If you could do something like that for me I’d be right chuffed.’

Matt occasionally uses north of England expressions because he studied architecture in Manchester. Before that he did a degree in English at Trinity, which is where we met each other. I think what first drew us together was our earnestness. We felt rather intimidated by the big books we pored over in the library. We spent too much time in that library actually, scribbling and reading and trying to understand. We underlined too many sentences. It all became too important. Eventually we realized this and, as we learned the art of fecklessness, we felt as euphoric as Mole in
The Wind in the Willows
when he deserted his spring cleaning.

We used to talk for ages in the college canteen, holding on to our mugs of coffee as the cleaners tended to grab them. The lugubrious observations of certain foreign intellectuals seemed to cheer us. We rolled their names around sensuously on our tongues. We were sure we’d end up somewhere foreign, since we already felt expatriates. We thought this made us special, until we found out it was as common as muck. We joined societies. In ‘Improvisational Drama’ we spent whole evenings pretending to be trees. ‘When you leave here you will be on a higher level of confusion.’ That’s what various lecturers told us. It sounded like a joke at the time.

I really could do with more clarity now. I wonder how I should go about finding it. ‘Matt, do you still go to those meditation meetings?’ I ask as he returns to the sofa and reaches for the last chocolate digestive.

‘I do when I have time. I find it quite helpful and I particularly like the cat.’

‘The cat?’ I repeat, wondering if this is a branch of feline meditation I haven’t heard of. I certainly find looking at my own semi-stray cat very soothing, especially when he’s sprawled out in a blissful manner on his cushion.

‘The owner of the house we meet in has a Burmese cat,’ Matt explains. ‘He miaows very loudly when we chant. Even when he’s put out of the room we hear him downstairs. He seems to have an affinity with Sanskrit.’