Wise Follies (13 page)

‘Sorry?’

‘The women members wear grass skirts at meetings. It sounds fun.’

‘Well, yes, it certainly sounds…’ I leave the sentence unfinished and look at her ruefully.

For sometimes it seems to me that Mira may be taking her eccentric spinster thing just a bit too far.

Chapter
11

My walk takes me
past my new neighbour Liam’s house. I hear raised voices as I walk by and can’t resist glancing quickly at the front window. Liam is seated and a pretty woman is glowering at him…the same woman I saw helping him move in some weeks ago. She must be his girlfriend. She’s standing by the mantelpiece, her arms gesturing wildly in a Latin manner. ‘How could you!’ she’s shouting. ‘How could you lie to me like that when all the time you were with…with her!’ Her face crumples in anguish and she throws herself despairingly on to an armchair. I feel like rushing in and belting Liam with my handbag, but I don’t. Domestic squabbles are best left private, unless they get out of hand. That little bollocks Liam has obviously been unfaithful. I quicken my step and mutter ‘Men!’ to myself. ‘Life would be so much simpler if we were hermaphrodite, like snails.’

For some reason this observation reminds me of James Mitchel, but then a lot of things do. The
Home and Away
theme tune, my pottery mugs, American football jackets, blond hair brushed a certain way, almost anything really. I see the local Methodist church in the distance and start to scurry towards it as though I’m dashing for a bus. The argument I overheard when passing Liam’s house has discomforted me. The woman had seemed so anguished. ‘Maybe there’s an evening service on,’ I think. ‘I could do with some distraction.’

The pebbles in the church’s long driveway crunch in a comfortingly familiar manner as I walk towards the heavy wooden door. They evoke memories I thought I’d forgotten. Sunday mornings from long ago. In fact, as I enter the stone porch I almost expect to bump into Mrs Pemberly carrying her big hymnal.

One of the high points of church for me as a girl was when Mrs Pemberly played the organ. She was only allowed to do it once a month because she was ancient and a bit strange. She’d start off real slow so we had to drawl, then she’d speed up suddenly so we had to gabble. Sometimes she came to a complete halt for about five seconds and we had to try to carry on without her accompaniment. When she rejoined us it was never in the right place but at the right tempo, for a while anyway. It was wonderful. I giggled and giggled while the adults frowned and clenched their hymnals and struggled to sound spiritual. Sometimes I looked up at Jesus in the big window above the altar and saw that he was smiling gently. Probably at the Five Thousand, because they were with him in the window. But perhaps just a bit for Mrs Pemberly too.

After the service Mrs Pemberly would beam smugly at us as though she was Artur Rubinstein and no one disabused her. We’d nod and greet her politely and then leave. There seemed a tacit agreement that we would not rob Mrs Pemberly of one of her last illusions. I think I learnt more about Christian forbearance through Mrs Pemberly than through any sermon.

There is obviously not going to be a sermon in this church tonight. As I enter the large solemn building I see that it’s empty. In fact I’m surprised that it’s open at all. ‘Oh well, maybe I’ll just have a little sit down anyway,’ I think, wishing the wooden pews looked a bit more cosy. At least it has the familiar smell I remember from my childhood. Aunt Phoeb said it was old bat droppings, but I think there’s more to it than that. The smell of stillness, maybe – combined with a bit of old cologne, and sweat, and hope. I don’t know who plays the organ here. In fact I haven’t been to this church in ages, which is not to say I’m not interested in spiritual matters. I am.

I’ve read quite a lot about God and I’ve learnt people have an incredible number of opinions about him, or indeed her. Or it. Or them. Or us. Or nothing at all. I’ve prayed and meditated. I’ve danced in a circle holding hands and singing ‘The Earth Is Our Mother’. I like the way the Buddha smiles. I believe in the power of unconditional love, only I don’t seem to be much good at it. I’ve been told we all have Guardian Angels, and want to believe it. In fact I do sometimes believe quite a lot of this stuff – it’s just that there’s so much of it around. Believing there is someone up there watching over us is not always easy. But then, as Annie says, believing that there is nothing there at all is, in a sense, equally amazing.

Maybe I wandered into this church because I feel like talking to somebody. Spilling the beans. After all, Mira is in such an uncommunicative mood this evening that I might as well try Jesus. I haven’t done this for ages and ages – not since my late teens. I sigh and look up at the high-domed ceiling.

‘Jesus, I hope you don’t mind but I need someone to talk to,’ I mumble, somewhat embarrassedly, then I look around furtively. Good, there’s no one in the church to overhear. ‘I’ve been feeling a bit miserable for some time now and I’m not sure what’s causing it,’ I continue. ‘James Mitchel cheered me up for a while, but now he’s gone.’ As I say this, I sigh deeply and decide to kneel.

‘Why do I get these longings, Jesus?’ I ask, no longer trying to conceal my desperation. ‘Why do I sometimes grieve for things I cannot name and so often feel afraid? What am I here for? I’d really, really like to know.’

Jesus remains silent. It’s like speaking to a therapist but at least he doesn’t charge eighty euros an hour. I begin to doubt if he’s there at all, but I keep talking. It must be all that wine I drank at dinner.

‘I don’t understand death, Jesus,’ I continue. ‘I don’t understand birth either, and life and even my DVD player can be most bewildering. What are we supposed to be doing here? I know there’s a lot of goodness in the world, but have you looked at the news lately? Where does hatred and suffering and bigotry come from? Where’s all this love that you went on about?’ I stare up at the ceiling feistily, then I begin to feel a little guilty about my tirade. The art of cross-examination does not necessarily involve examining crossly. And anyway it is up to us to decide to love each other. No one can force us to do it. I decide to soften my tone.

‘Of course there is quite a lot of love around really, if you look for it,’ I say, trying to be more even-handed. ‘Love is an interesting word, isn’t it, Jesus? It seems to me there should be at least twenty words for it because there are so many different types. My father used to say romantic love only lasts four years and I think he may have been right.’

Jesus does not comment. It’s like talking to Eamon when he’s watching golf on television. I begin to feel a little impatient. ‘Look, Jesus,’ I say in a businesslike manner. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy but I’d just like to ask you one further question. Is it necessary to love the man you marry? Eamon says it isn’t. He says liking someone is more important. He says like can lead to love, but it doesn’t often happen the other way around. I’ve given men piles of love, Jesus, and sometimes they’ve just sprinted off with it. But I don’t think Eamon would sprint off with it. He only runs if he’s chased.’

I finger my pearl pendant. ‘People go on a lot about falling in love, Jesus, but in my experience it often feels like landing – landing on something a bit lumpy. I’ve got all this love sloshing around inside me, Jesus. Love that I don’t know what to do with. I’ve been waiting for ages for someone wonderful, like James Mitchel. It’s like a bus or something. You know how it is. The longer you wait for one the more reluctant you are to leave the stop. But if I was going to meet him – this wonderful man who’ll love me – surely he would have turned up by now.’

Silence. What on earth am I doing in this church? Why on earth have I been blabbing on like this? I seem to be getting just as eccentric as Mira. I rise from my kneeling mat and sit on the wooden pew and as I do so I suddenly feel desperately alone.

They hit me sometimes, these waves of grief. For some moments they’re almost unbearable, until they go away.

Because I’m not used to being as alone as I am now. I used to belong to something once. I was part of a family. There were people who had to take me in if I needed it. Put up with me. I still can’t quite believe that they are not around. As the damp sods landed on their graves I knew things would never be quite the same and I just wasn’t ready for it. People rarely are.

My parents died, with a small interval between leavetakings, when I was in my early thirties. My grandparents and Aunt Phoeb have gone too, though Uncle Sean is still an avid golfer. I often wish I had brothers and sisters, but I don’t. And I don’t want to think about all this here in this empty church. It’s just too sad and anyway I’m getting used to it. It doesn’t bother me so much now. I have my friends and my garden and my painting. And a job too – lots of people don’t have that. I can go to a therapist if necessary. Jesus doesn’t have to listen to me. Yes, I was silly to come into this church. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s obviously not here.

I feel a sob rising in my stomach. No, I mustn’t cry. It is entirely unnecessary. I must get a grip on myself and toughen up. Be less sensitive. I must become more like the kind of woman who could marry Eamon and be happy. I know I can do it if I try. It will mean giving up some dreams, but I think it’s about time I did that anyway. I lower my head humbly. Yes, Jesus was quite right not to indulge my middle-class whingeing. If he exists at all I’m sure he has more important things to do.

I pick up my jacket and leave the pew. I walk down the aisle slowly, looking around me, trying to at least appreciate the architecture. So many people have put work into this place. I look at the carved cornices, the stone plaques, the huge windows. They seem just another testament to human longing. Part of our huge wish for meaning. Almost endearing in their innocent faith. I sigh deeply and am about to pull the heavy wooden door open when my gaze is drawn back. The last rays of the summer’s evening are shimmering through the clear glass above the altar and I look up at them, surprised. For though it is nearly sunset, the light seems to be intensifying. Filling the high domed building with a deep and dappled peace. I get a distant sense of an infinitely gentle presence. A witness. And just for a moment it seems to me that I am not alone in this building after all. That something has heard my sadness and did not find it too meagre or ordinary or unimportant. That it is seeking to offer me some consolation in its own mysterious way. I stand there for a moment, comforted but uncomprehending. Is this just another dream, or something real and true? Am I as steeped in illusion as Mrs Pemberly at her organ?

I dearly wish I knew, as I step outside into the dusk.

Chapter
12

Liam and Elsie – I’ve
discovered that’s his girlfriend’s name – are giggling in their garden. ‘Put that thing down!’ Elsie is spluttering.

‘No way, José,’ Liam replies and then I hear the sound of running and water splashing and squeals of indignation and delight. He’s obviously chasing her with a hosepipe.

‘I’m soaked,’ Elsie is protesting. ‘Stop it, you brute, or I’ll throw out your Fats Waller tapes.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Oh, yes, I would.’

I hear scuffling sounds and shrieks of laughter. They’ve obviously patched up the argument I overheard the other day. ‘Got you!’ Elsie shouts triumphantly. And then they both start giggling again. Suddenly a jet of water shoots up over the boundary wall and lands, splat, on the front of my T-shirt.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I exclaim. Elsie and Liam are silent for a moment, startled.

‘Is that you, Alice?’ Liam calls out. ‘Sorry if we splashed you. We didn’t mean to. Honest.’

I don’t reply. Liam and Elsie are now talking in hushed tones. The hosepipe chase has obviously ceased. I hear them walking away and their back door closing. They must have gone into the house.

I start to remove some slugs from the geraniums. The small ones seem to be the most greedy, and they’re hard to find. As I do this I wish I hadn’t overheard Liam and Elsie. I don’t like these private glimpses into other people’s lives. Sometimes I feel like Alice in that children’s book, peering through a keyhole. I see or hear people laughing and playing in the distance and I so long to join them, but I just can’t open the door. And the silly thing is I think I must have locked that door myself. I don’t know why or when I did it, but it’s happened and now everything seems different.