Foreign Affairs (23 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Rachel couldn’t believe that the Leaving Cert was finally over. The relief of it. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from her. She felt quite buoyant as she left
the library for the last time, having handed up her last exam paper. She hadn’t done too badly once she’d got over her nerves. She would surely get enough marks to go to college in
Dublin.

Mary Foley and Eileen Dunphy and some of the others were discussing the exam in the middle of the Blue Corridor.

‘It was a disaster,’ wailed Mary. ‘I know I’ve failed.’

Rachel couldn’t help feeling a bit smug. She’d had no difficulties with the paper. If Michelle Butler had felt she’d done badly, Rachel would have been sorry for her. But it
was good enough for Mary Foley. Rachel still felt bitter about the way Mary had dropped her like a hot potato once they’d started school and she’d made new friends. Mary Foley was as
two-faced as they come. Rachel wasn’t going to waste any sympathy on her.

‘Forget about it,’ Eileen urged. ‘We’re free at last, let’s think about the joy of leaving this dump for ever. There are much more important things to discuss than
a bloody exam. The Debs, for instance,’ she said briskly. Rachel’s heart sank. In the hectic worry-filled days coming up to the exams, she’d almost forgotten about the next big
ordeal. The Debutantes’ Ball. The Debs Ball was a big occasion. All the sixth years were invited to attend. Gowns had to be bought or made. The girls would call in to the nuns to show off
their finery on that special night, before setting out for the hotel. But you had to have a fella if you wanted to go to the Debs Ball.

Rachel sighed as she heard Mary say excitedly, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I can’t wait. Gerry’s going to come with me.’ There was a babble of excited chatter from the
rest of them.

‘I’m on the organizing committee. And I want to get cracking. I’d better start asking who’s coming so I can begin arranging the tickets,’ Eileen said crisply,
rooting in her satchel for a notebook.

Oh God Almighty, Rachel thought in panic. She quickened her pace. Why had Eileen Dunphy picked the moment she was walking down the corridor to start organizing the blasted Debs Ball? To say you
weren’t going to the Debs because you hadn’t got a fella to take you was an admission of complete and utter failure. If it had been two minutes later Rachel would have been out the
door. And she’d never have to see Eileen Dunphy again. She’d only have to put up with Mary Foley as she also lived in Rathbarry.

Trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, Rachel edged her way along the corridor past the knot of girls standing in the middle of it. The stairs leading to the main front door were
in sight. She didn’t have to collect anything from the cloakrooms, she would just slip out as quickly as she could. Rachel walked faster, feeling a faint sense of relief that she’d
almost made it.

‘Rachel! Rachel Stapleton!’ Rachel’s heart plummeted as the imperious tones of Eileen Dunphy echoed down the corridor after her. She turned reluctantly. They were all looking
at her. Grinning. Rachel could see the smug, superior expression on Eileen’s face.

Eileen Dunphy was small, wiry, with bushy curly hair. What she lacked in stature, she made up for in loquaciousness. Eileen had an opinion on everything. If you said something was black, Eileen
would say it was white. She couldn’t argue a topic quietly. Eileen liked confrontation, the more heated the debate the better. Rachel always kept out of her way.

‘Come here,’ Eileen ordered. Rachel was furious. Who did Eileen Dunphy think she was, talking to her like that? She badly wanted to stay where she was and make Eileen walk to her,
but timidity got the better of her as usual. With leaden feet she retraced her steps.

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, Eileen,’ she muttered, feeling like someone who was being led to the gallows.

‘This won’t take long,’ Eileen retorted. ‘I’m just making a list of people going to the Debs.’ Some of the others tittered. ‘Will you be coming?’
Eileen stood, pen poised over a notebook. Rachel’s cheeks flamed. She could see Mary Foley and her cronies grinning. Enjoying Rachel’s discomfiture. Rachel cringed inwardly. The cruel
bitches. How she hated them. How she longed to turn on them and tell them exactly what she thought of them. Why couldn’t she be as fluent and articulate as she was when she was in the privacy
of her bedroom? There, she would make smart cutting answers to the mirror, and pretend she was talking to them. Why couldn’t she think up a smart answer right now? When she was sitting by
herself on the bus home to Rathbarry she’d have no trouble thinking of a crushing retort.

She took a deep breath and stared at Eileen. A madness seized her and Rachel threw caution to the winds. ‘Of course I’ll be going to the Debs. Put me down for two tickets,’ she
said offhandedly as if it was no big deal. Several jaws, including Mary Foley’s, dropped. Much to Rachel’s satisfaction. ‘I have to go, I’m in a rush. See you,’ she
said hastily to the now silent group. Rachel marched down the corridor with her head held high. Fuck them, she thought defiantly. She could always pull out of it later.
If
she
couldn’t get anyone to go with her. Harry, Ronan’s best friend, would be home at the weekend. Her Sir Galahad from that snowy day long ago. She fancied Harry like mad and as far as she
knew it was all off with Ciara Farrell. Maybe she’d pluck up the courage to do something brave just this once and ask Harry to be her partner at the Debs. If she appeared on the night,
escorted by Harry Armstrong, that would knock the smirks off their faces.

But would she have the nerve to ask Harry? And would he agree, or would he say no and be embarrassed that she’d asked him? The heavy weight was back on her shoulders. Another ordeal to
endure, she thought despondently as she waited at the bus stop. Rachel decided to start praying even harder to St Jude.

Chapter Twenty

Rachel lightly rubbed margarine and flour between her fingers. She was making a tart for tea. She already had made two dozen fairy cakes and a dozen scones. It was a Sunday
afternoon, about a month after the fateful encounter with Eileen Dunphy. In that month she had not had sight nor sound of Harry Armstrong. He hadn’t come home the weekend he’d been
expected. He was working as a barman in Dublin for the holidays, according to Ronan. He needed the money to help put him through law school.

Rachel wished that she could ask him about the Debs and get it over with. At least if he said no, she’d know that was the end of that, she was going to lose face in front of the others. It
was the not knowing that was the unsettling thing. Mary Foley had accosted her on the street the other day to tell her that Eileen was looking for a booking deposit.

Bully for her, Rachel felt like saying but she just made some non-committal reply and rushed on. Was there to be no peace from them, ever?

She’d hurried along to Healy’s Tea Rooms, where she was working for the summer holidays. Rachel liked working for the Misses Healy. The Tea Rooms opened for the summer and Rachel had
been working as a waitress there for the last two years. They opened at ten in the morning to catch the daily Mass-goers. Sometimes Theresa came in to have a scone and a cup of coffee with Sergeant
Roach’s wife. Tourists dropped in to enjoy the delicious pastries that the two sisters baked. But their main customers were the seasonal workers from Doherty’s fruit and veg farm, where
Ronan was working for the summer. They came for the freshly made soups and sandwiches and rolls that the Misses Healy served for lunch. Rachel was usually run off her feet at lunch-time. But she
liked it busy, the day passed much more quickly that way and she always made much more in tips.

She would have preferred to go to work in one of the hotels or guest houses in Bray, but her father wanted her to stay near home. He thought it was ideal that she had a job down the road.

Of course he would, Rachel thought sourly as she slapped the dough out onto a floured board and began to knead it. William Stapleton had to be the most unadventurous soul in the world. He was
sitting in a deck-chair in the back garden listening to a hurling match on the radio and reading the Sunday newspaper. His usual and unvarying Sunday routine. Her mother was in bed, not feeling the
best. Rachel had made the dinner and cleaned up after it and decided to do some baking so her mother wouldn’t have to do it the next day. When she was finished she was going to take her book
down to the riverbank and relax in the sun. It was a warm sunny day. She was looking forward to getting out in the fresh air.

She was just taking the cooked tart out of the oven when Ronan poked his head around the back door.

‘Hi Rach, that smells fabbo, any chance of a slice? And look what the wind’s blown in,’ he announced, giving her a little wink. Rachel looked out from behind her steamed-up
glasses to see Harry walking in behind her brother.

Oh hell! she thought in dismay. How typical. Here she was, with her cheeks roaring red from the heat of the kitchen, her glasses fogged up, her hair all over the place and not a screed of
lipstick or mascara on. Could you have luck?

‘Hi Harry,’ she said shyly. ‘Excuse the mess, I was just doing a bit of baking for Mam.’

‘That’s what I call good timing,’ Harry said cheerfully, eyeing the plate of fairy cakes. ‘Can I have one?’

‘Sure, go ahead.’ Rachel laughed. Ronan was already putting on the kettle for a cup of tea. Harry scoffed the little cake in seconds.

‘Have another one,’ she invited.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Harry grinned at her and devoured a second cake. ‘You’re a lucky sod having a sister who can cook,’ he commented to Ronan, who was
making fast work of a scone. ‘My sisters couldn’t cook a tart to save their lives. Speaking of tarts,’ he teased, ‘do you want me to sample a bit of that one?’ He
indicated the golden tart that was cooling on a baking tray.

‘If you want to.’ Rachel was delighted her baking was such a hit. ‘I’ll just whip up a bit of cream for it.’ She whisked up the cream while Ronan made a pot of
tea.

‘Will I see if Mam would like a cup?’ Ronan said. ‘Here, I’ll bring her up one and a cake as well, she didn’t eat much dinner, she might be peckish.’ Rachel
felt her insides flutter. She knew Ronan was leaving her alone so she could ask Harry about the Debs. She had confided in her brother that she needed someone to go to the Debs with her. She’d
asked him if he thought Harry might oblige her.

‘All you can do is ask,’ Ronan declared firmly. ‘He who dares . . . wins. Ask and you shall receive,’ he teased. It was all right for Ronan to say ‘ask.’
Asking took courage and she was a notorious coward.

Ronan left the kitchen to go on his errand of mercy and Rachel felt her hands go sweaty as she held the whisk. In her agitation, she whisked even more energetically than before and splattered
cream all over the place. Harry came and stood beside her and dabbed his finger in a big blob of cream on the worktop and licked it. ‘Ronan says you’re happy enough with the
Leaving,’ he said.

‘It wasn’t too bad,’ she responded shyly, wishing she didn’t feel so tongue-tied. All the wonderful sparkling witty conversations she’d imagined with Harry and now,
of course, she couldn’t think of a word to say to him.

‘When you come up to Dublin the three of us must meet for a drink now and again,’ he said as she cut a generous slice of apple tart and put a huge dollop of cream on it.

‘That’ll be great,’ she enthused, handing him the plate. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. St Pat’s isn’t all that far from where Ronan’s
living.’

‘I don’t live too far from Ronan either, I’m on the North Circular Road. I’m in a flat. I asked Ro would he come and share but your dad wasn’t too happy with the
idea. Actually he put his foot down and said no,’ Harry said between mouthfuls of tart.

‘That’s no surprise,’ Rachel murmured.

‘It’ll be nice for you having a bit of freedom at college,’ Harry said diplomatically.

‘I know, I can’t wait.’ Rachel smiled as she poured herself a cup of tea. Do it! she kept telling herself. Do it now!

‘More tea?’ she enquired, chickening out.

‘No thanks,’ Harry replied.

‘Mmm . . . I was just wondering, Harry?’

‘Yes, Rachel?’ he said helpfully.

‘Aaah . . . aa . . . would you like a scone?’

‘Maybe I will,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t get treats like this when I’m cooking for myself.’

‘Mmm . . . Harry . . .’ she began again, her voice almost quivering. Ronan arrived back into the kitchen. He cast her a look of enquiry. Rachel gave a little shake of her head and he
threw his eyes up to heaven behind Harry’s back.

‘I’ll just bring Dad out a cup of tea, he might enjoy it,’ he said. ‘Although he hasn’t asked . . . he shall receive,’ her brother said pointedly as he poured
the tea and placed a fairy cake on the saucer. He went out into the garden to their father and Rachel took another deep breath. Before she had time to think about it, she just plunged in.

‘Harry, it’s my Debs in September and I need someone to go with and I was . . . I mean . . . I was wondering if you’d like to come?’

Chapter Twenty-One

‘I’d be delighted to go with you.’ Harry smiled. Rachel stared at him. ‘Just let me know the exact date.’

‘I . . . I don’t know the exact date yet,’ she stammered.

‘As soon as you find out, let me know,’ Harry said cheerfully. Rachel couldn’t believe it. Harry Armstrong was going to come to the Debs Ball with her. He hadn’t turned
her down. He’d said yes, just like that. It was amazing.

‘Have you any word about your interview for St Pat’s yet?’ Harry asked matter-of-factly. Rachel shook her head as her heartbeat began to return to normal.

‘I have to wait for my results first.’

‘That’s a bit of a pain.’ Harry sat back in his chair and drank his tea.

‘Yeah, it is,’ Rachel agreed happily. She was on cloud nine. Just wait until Glenda and Eileen and Mary got an eyeful of Harry. They’d be pea-green with envy. Harry was an
out-and-out hunk. There was no denying it. He had lovely black curly hair. Brown eyes. A very sexy smile, and a six-foot body that she could spend hours admiring. Harry played a lot of football. He
was very fit and muscular, not like Mary Foley’s Gerry, who was rather on the podgy side and no athlete.