The Old Jest Read online

  ‘Ah!’ was all he said. He lifted the glasses. ‘The last rose of summer left …’

  ‘Oh Grandfather!’ she muttered angrily, and went back to her book.

  The rain eased off during the afternoon. The sun came out eventually and cast black shadows over the flowerbeds and lawn.

  The bell rang.

  Someone pulled the brass handle by the hall door and the bell danced on its spring high up on the kitchen wall.

  ‘Now who would that be?’

  Bridie looked up at the bell over the top of the paper she was reading.

  ‘God knows!’

  Nancy was at the bread and jam again. It was as if she knew that never in her life would bread and jam be so good again.

  The bell jangled again.

  ‘Whoever it is hasn’t much patience.’ Bridie rattled the paper up in front of her face again. Her chair creaked around her comfortably. ‘You’ve young legs.’

  ‘Oh blow!’ said Nancy, shoving the last bite into her mouth. ‘It’s bound to be someone awful, or nuns.’

  Normally the only people who bothered to use the bell were those collecting for some charity or other; almost everyone else just opened the door and yoo-hooed their way into the house.

  It was Maeve.

  ‘Oh hello.’ Nancy blushed. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘The rain stopped and I felt like a little walk, so …’ The ends of the yellow scarf tied round her hair moved gracefully in the wind. ‘I just thought I’d come up and see if you were all right. Had recovered.’

  ‘I just didn’t feel well, all of a sudden. Sick … a bit dizzy … I didn’t want to make a fuss … so I …’ As she gabbled out the lies, her finger picked a little knob of paint on the door jamb.

  ‘Did you go home to bed?’

  ‘Fresh air … you know how sometimes what you really need is fresh air. I walked a bit. Anyway I do apologise. Will you come in?’

  Maeve hesitated.

  ‘Or we could sit in the garden. It always smells so nice after rain.’

  ‘I can’t stay long. I have to go up to town.’

  Meeting Harry no doubt. Pink lampshades. Wine. Bangles clinking across the table as they held hands.

  ‘Have you had tea?’

  ‘I never say no to a cup of tea. If it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘No, no,’ muttered Nancy vaguely. ‘You go on round the back. You’ll find deckchairs on the terrace. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  She ran down the passage to the kitchen.

  ‘Any tea left in the pot?’

  Bridie remained behind the paper.

  ‘Who’s wanting tea?’

  ‘Blooming old Maeve Casey. I never say no to a cup of tea.’

  ‘You’d better make some fresh.’

  ‘I’ll just put some more water in the pot.’

  Bridie dropped the paper on the floor.

  Four killed in ambush.

  ‘Make the girl a cup of tea and don’t have her saying she got nothing but stewed tea in this house. And there’s cake in the tin, if you haven’t eaten it all when my back was turned.’

  ‘Fuss, fuss, fuss. You’d think she was the Queen of England.’

  Nancy emptied the clogged tea leaves into the sink and rinsed the pot out with boiling water.

  ‘Let’s hope no English Queen, nor King neither ever passes this threshold.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Bridie, you know perfectly well if they ever came to Dublin, you’d rush up in your best clothes to cheer at them.’

  Sniff.

  ‘I wouldn’t. I’m a republican.’

  ‘You and your big words. Hurry up with that tea or Mademoiselle from Armentières will have gone home.’

  Bridie pulled a magazine out from under her behind and began turning the pages with her first finger and thumb. ‘Don’t forget the sugar.’

  ‘Why don’t you read proper books instead of those old lavatory paper magazines?’

  ‘You write a book as good as one of these and I’ll read it. There’s very good stories in this. True stories. And knitting.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’ Nancy put two cups on the tray. ‘And I’ll put you in it. The true story of Bridie Ryan.’

  ‘That’ll give the world a laugh.’

  The two girls sat on slightly damp deckchairs, one on each side of the wrought iron table. Maeve refused a piece of cake. She put two lumps of sugar into her tea and in spite of the kitchen teapot and cups, her little finger crooked elegantly as she drank. The scent from Aunt Mary’s rosebeds was everywhere. The drawing-room window had been opened and the weary voice of the old man sounded intermittently.

  ‘Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day …’

  ‘Does he do that all the time?’

  ‘He’s old.’

  ‘I know … but sing like that? All the time?’

  ‘We hardly notice it.’ Some obscure loyalty made her lie.

  ‘How gorgeous the garden is looking! How many gardeners have you?’

  ‘Well, we have Jimmy …’ She tried to make it sound as if he were the first of a long line of gardeners. This is Jimmy, our head gardener.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘He’s getting on a bit now. He’s been here since he was fourteen. His father used to look after the horses … years ago that would have been. Jimmy never does what he’s told, but he’s sweet. As Bridie says, he has his little ways. I don’t know what we’d do without him.’

  ‘Just Jimmy?’

  ‘Aunt Mary gardens. She likes it. She knows the names and habits of all the flowers and trees. I always find that amazing. She can cut little bits off things and stick them in the ground and they’ll grow.’

  Maeve wasn’t listening.

  ‘Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes …’

  ‘It must be a lot of hard work for her. And she’s not getting any younger.’

  ‘She’s not old.’ Nancy spoke sharply. She thought of her aunt’s weathered face and how, when she was tired, her eyes paled to an almost washed colour, losing for a while their brightness, their challenging look. ‘Not nearly old.’

  Maeve put her teacup down on the table and laced her hands behind her head, leaning back in the damp deckchair, preening herself slightly as she looked down the slope towards the roses. Yellow, red, pink, the ground beneath the bushes was littered with a patchwork of colours.

  ‘I presume your aunt has told you …’ her voice was casual, as if she were discussing the price of shoes, ‘that my father is negotiating with her … with her … to buy this place. I suppose you know.’

  Bewildered, Nancy looked at her in silence.

  ‘… its glories pass away …’

  ‘Which place?’ She asked after a long time.

  ‘Here. Ardmore. This house, these …’ She gestured towards the roses.

  ‘Negotiating?’

  ‘Yes. With your aunt. He wants the land for development. You must have been told surely?’

  Nancy began to laugh. When in doubt, laugh.

  ‘He always thinks up such great ideas. He thinks this is just the sort of place people will want to live in. More and more they’re moving out of the city. You can understand that, with the trouble and everything. They’ll need nice houses and gardens. Tennis courts, all that sort of thing. And there’s the sea and the golf club, and it only takes half an hour in the train to get up to … Nice people. Professional people and business people … Why are you laughing?’ Away across the field a man climbed up the embankment and began to walk along the line. Nancy stopped laughing and followed him with her eyes as she tried to collect her thoughts.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  The distant figure disappeared behind the trees.

  ‘It’ll be a great thing for everyone. Not just him. I wouldn’t like you to think … For you, everyone. He’s a great man for ideas.’

  ‘Oh Thou who changest not abide with me.’

  ‘Sing. Yes, sing,’ said Nancy.

 
; ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Nancy. ‘I don’t know why I said that.’

  ‘You see, he would build your aunt a bungalow, down at the bottom of the hill somewhere, near the village. No stairs, that sort of thing, make life easier for her as she ‥ gets … on.’

  She unlaced her hands and sat up straight in her chair. She traced an invisible pattern on her silk skirt. Her nails shone with careful polishing, and were neatly shaped, but short so as not to interfere with her piano playing. Over the rosebeds the swallows were playing their evening game, swooping and soaring, almost brushing the leaves with their quivering wings.

  ‘This house …?’ Nancy couldn’t ask the question.

  Maeve leant over and touched her knee.

  ‘You needn’t worry. We won’t pull it down. It needs money spent on it. He’ll do that all right. A house like this should be looked after.’

  ‘Charles Dwyer Esquire, late of the County of Cork.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had relations in Cork. My father’s sister is married and lives down there.’

  ‘He left Cork in sixteen something and began to build the house … I mean, it’s not like it was then, lots of people have fiddled around with it since. He just came into my mind. Aunt Mary’s the last Dwyer left … apart from Grandfather.’

  ‘No one to carry it on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you see … it’s no great tragedy. Is it?’

  ‘No great tragedy.’

  The orange cat walked carefully along the wall and sat down with his back to them, his sleepy orange eyes watching the movements of the swallows.

  ‘Does Harry know all this?’

  Maeve got up from the chair.

  ‘Would you look at the time. I must fly. I have to change. Thanks a million for the cup of tea. Don’t move. I’ll just cut across the field.’ She stood looking down at Nancy. ‘I’m glad you weren’t …’

  ‘It was just a passing dizziness. Thanks for calling.’

  ‘You must come over soon. You and your aunt. We’d like that. I’d really like to get to know you better.’

  ‘Thank you …’

  ‘Tooraloo.’

  Maeve moved away. Down the steps and along the winding path through the roses, the yellow scarf lifting gently as she moved. At the gate into the field she turned and waved. Nancy didn’t wave back.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Why on earth?’

  They were sitting in front of the fire in the little study behind the drawing room. The curtains were not pulled and they could see dim shadows of themselves against the black sky.

  Aunt Mary had returned from the races gaily intoxicated by several wins, several drinks and the undemanding good humour of her friends. She had pushed the old man round the garden in his chair, talking animatedly, her eyes shining, her hands never still, punctuating sentences, describing, tweaking the dead heads from the roses, stroking lovingly, from time to time, the sleeve of his jacket. He presumably enjoyed the attentions, but never spoke, except at one moment to make some fretful remark, pointing as he spoke, with a trembling finger, towards the railway line. After they had eaten their dinner, Aunt Mary wheeled him off and helped him to bed. Nancy sat by the fire and listened to the rising and falling of her voice and the little tremors of laughter that burst out from time to time. She loved the precise sounds of evening and night time, when every tiny noise had its own significance and clarity. At last her aunt had come into the room and closed the door.

  ‘Tra la!’

  She went over to the corner, where some bottles and glasses stood on a table, and poured herself a large whisky, and then, the energy draining away visibly from her face, taking with it the colour that had given it gaiety before, she sat down by the fire and leaned her head against the back of her chair.

  ‘Why on earth!’

  Aunt Mary frowned down into her now empty glass.

  ‘Pet …’

  She got up slowly and went and poured herself another drink.

  ‘ … I suppose I didn’t want you to worry … brood perhaps over something … something about which you could do nothing.’

  ‘You mean it’s a fait accompli!’ She wondered if they were already sitting in someone else’s room.

  ‘No …’ Aunt Mary shook her head. ‘I am still turning it over and over in my mind. Pringle is advising me. I always meant to tell you before anything …’

  ‘What is he advising you?’

  ‘Sense, dear. Mr Pringle is a very sensible man. I’m afraid the sensible thing to do is …’

  ‘Is?’

  ‘Sell. I’m afraid so.’

  ‘It can’t be.’

  Aunt Mary smiled.

  ‘It’s really a question of making ends meet.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘As bad as that?’

  ‘I’m … well … it all boils down to five people, if you count Jimmy, and we have to count Jimmy really, all living off money that doesn’t exist any longer. What comes in is far less than what goes out. Mr Pringle did explain it all. You see, since Gabriel was killed … I suppose we should have done something earlier.’

  She took a drink from her glass and held the liquid in her mouth for a long time before letting it slide down her throat. Nancy watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed.

  ‘It’s been a little like those people pursued by wolves who throw everything out of the sledge until there’s nothing left. I’ve kept going by selling things. Silly, I admit. Now there’s nothing left.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve never been much good at facing reality. Gabriel wouldn’t have let this happen. He was practical and quick-witted. I’ve never been like that. Long ago there didn’t seem the need … I suppose in a way we’ve been lucky to have things to sell. I don’t even know about that. One ought to face reality. Really ought to.’

  Nancy got up and went across to the window. She found the darkness there oppressive; she couldn’t bear their reflections another moment. She pulled the curtains.

  ‘Perhaps if I’d thought about all this thirty years ago, or even twenty, I would have been able to cope … make something credible … not just drift. It’ll be all right though. It’s the people that matter, nothing else. Father and Bridie and poor old Jimmy. They’ll be all right. And you’re young. You will only notice a small irritation in your life. You won’t mind for long because too many other things will be happening to you. You will be starting to live. Perhaps it will even prevent you from making a lot of similar silly mistakes.’

  ‘Couldn’t we keep the house?’

  ‘We’ll get a cottage somewhere. A nice old cottage.’

  ‘Maeve said he’d build you a bungalow.’

  Aunt Mary laughed.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool. We’ll get a cottage up in the hills somewhere, looking over the sea, and that damn railway if possible. Father has to have something to look at with his blooming glasses. You can get digs in Dublin and come out and visit us at weekends.’

  She had it all worked out.

  ‘I only hope …’ she ran a finger round the rim of her glass and it sang, a long high-pitched note that took a long time to die ‘they won’t be too precipitate … you know … he will miss the trains … and things. I wouldn’t want him to be discomforted.’ She smiled. ‘Not discomforted at all. I suppose it would be best if he were just to … I hate to think like that.’

  ‘Is it very terrible being grown up?’

  A burst of laughter.

  ‘Pet, I wouldn’t know. I don’t think it’s ever happened to me. Perhaps now.’

  ‘You never answer important questions.’

  ‘I try not to create confusion.’

  ‘We could stay on though? Sell the rest and stay on ourselves.’

  Aunt Mary shivered slightly and stretched out a hand towards the fire. ‘No, no. I don’t think it would work. It would just be another half-measure. Anyway I have enough … oh I don’t know what you’d call it … foolish pride perhaps not to w
ant to see the houses and the tennis courts squeezing up around us. Know that critical eyes were assessing us from behind white curtains, watching us pushing the dust under the carpets or only polishing the bottom halves of the windows. Maybe it’s wrong to think like that but that’s the way I am. Anyway this house is part of the deal. I suspect they want it for themselves.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘It’s years since any money was spent on it. I’d like to see it receiving the attention it deserves. You’ll be all right. I promise you that.’

  The fire muttered and a slim blue flame quivered in the darkness at the back of the chimney.

  ‘What can I do?’ Nancy spoke suddenly after a long silence. ‘I’d like to know if there was something I could do.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Aunt Mary’s voice now was blurred with drink and tiredness. She giggled slightly, and then began to speak very rapidly, almost as if she didn’t want Nancy to hear what she was saying. ‘Yes. Of course. Yes. Everything’s changing. You must realise that. I suppose it’s for the best, but I don’t imagine I will ever know for sure. Change takes time. You must be part of that. That’s important. You must move, re-energise. Don’t just drift as I have always done. Your grandfather’s dead and I am dying. Not,’ she held up a hand to stop Nancy speaking, ‘that I have ever lived. I’ve been happy, calm and useless most of the time. The great thing to remember is that there is nothing to be afraid of. You learn that as you get older. We live in a state of perpetual fear. All the horrible things we do to each other, all our misunderstandings, are because of fear. All our terrible mistakes.’ She giggled again. ‘I think I must be terribly drunk.’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter one way or the other. Bridie’ll be angry with me. She’ll know when she brings me up my tea in the morning that I’ve had too much to drink and she’ll click her tongue and give me the cold eye.’