The Misremembered Man (15 page)

J
amie had given scant attention to his preparations for the sojourn on the coast. The letter had already been written and sent to Miss Devine, and his mind dwelt on not much else but the thought of meeting her. When he pictured Lydia, the image of his long-lost mother would merge with that of his dear Aunt Alice, to create the perfect woman, as radiant as a sunburst in heaven. He saw a smooth oval face, eyes as blue as robin’s eggs and a dazzling, Hollywood smile.

In two hours’ time Paddy would collect him and ferry him to the station in Killoran to catch the two o’clock bus. He had already fed the animals and himself; still conscious of his diet, he’d swapped the fry-up for tea and toast. Now, he reminded himself, he had to pack a case, because that’s what most people did before going on vacation. His last vacation had been some fifteen years before. He and his uncle had spent a couple of days in Portaluce with Mick’s sister Violet, who’d had a lovely house overlooking the promenade. But sadly she was now at her eternal rest, and her house had been turned into an ice-cream parlor called The Snowy Cone.

Back then, however, Uncle Mick had known what to do concerning the packing and suchlike. But now Jamie was at a loss as to know what to include in his case or bag (or whatever it was a body carried on these expeditions). He sat in the armchair nursing his mug of tea, smoking the end of a Woodbine and wondering whether he should mount the stairs and take along that case of Aunt Alice’s that was under Mick’s bed. But on second thoughts it was a bit big, and what would he need to be taking with him anyway?

He’d given himself a good scrub down the night before in the tin bath by the fire. After such a rare event, he could get a fortnight—if not a good month—out of his underwear. So Rose McFadden’s bag of clean inner garments, which sat on top of the glass case, would not be needed for a while yet. He looked down at his feet, and thought: Maybe a change of socks, because he’d be walking a lot, not having access to his bicycle.

He went to his bedroom in search of a pair. He knew they were in another bag somewhere; he rummaged in the chest of drawers, found a decent looking black pair and sat them on the bed. He took his black suit from the closet—it was the only decent outfit he had—and laid it on the bed alongside the socks. The suit was a cast-off of Mick’s, a bit short in the leg maybe and a wee bit tight about the armpits, his uncle having been more low-set and much thinner than himself. But sure he only ever wore it for the hour of a Sunday at Mass. Two days by the ocean was maybe a different matter, he thought now. But he’d cross that river—or bridge or road or whatever—when he came to it, as Rose McFadden might say.

The black socks would match the suit right enough, but what about the shoes? His best pair was a custard yellow, bought in Harvey’s sale at tremendous discount, due to their color and unusual style. The toes were pointed, and curved up like bananas, but Mr. Harvey had insisted they were the new Western style and that they were “the whole go in America.” Jamie had bought them with the intention of dyeing them black, but like Procrastination’s brother—“Och, I’ll not bother now; time enough with that”—had never got round to it. He sighed at this small setback, but he had no time (or dye) to be footering with them now, so they would have to do. He placed them on the bed beside the socks and the suit.

His shirts were lapped on three hangers on the closet door. The white one looked decent enough; since he hadn’t been to Mass for three weeks, it had suffered no wear and tear from Rose’s last wash.

Jamie looked at his watch and decided to dress. It took longer than expected; he had to dig for a belt and root for a tie, two items he rarely had cause to wear in the day-to-day run of things.

When he’d finished he paused, and realized that he was standing up in everything he was taking with him. So what need had a body to pack a bag atall, atall? But then there was his comb, his Brylcreem, his shaving things, and that extra pair of socks and maybe the toothbrush and toothpaste—used only of a Sunday morning—which sat curled up in a cracked mug by the kitchen sink.

He was wandering about the house, checking if there was anything else he might need to take, when his eye fell on the two books on the table. Maybe he would have time to read a bit. Of the two,
Riders of the Purple Sage
looked the least battered; its spine was still intact, even if the corners were bent back a bit.

He noticed also, on the windowsill, a half-f bottle of Blue Adonis aftershave. It was Mick’s and had been sitting on the sill for about a year. Now and again Jamie had considered throwing it out, but thought maybe it would come in useful at some stage. And wasn’t he glad he hadn’t dumped it, for now that stage had come. He wiped the cobwebs off it with the lining of his jacket.

He pitched all of these items into a Scully’s Around-a-Pound shopping bag and checked himself in the broken mirror on the bureau. It only afforded him a view from the waist up, which was probably just as well. He studied his reflection, knew there was something not quite right, until it suddenly dawned on him that he was still wearing his cap. He had already ordered his Sandy Brown toupee from Rose’s
Exchange & Mart
, but unfortunately it had not arrived in time for this particular expedition.

A man could hardly keep an oul’ cap on with the good suit, he told himself. Jamie sighed at the mirror, quickly arranged his comb-over with the Brylcreem, his comb and a practiced hand, tossed the cap into the shopping bag and considered himself to be all set and ready for action. No sooner had he done so when he heard the guttural rasping of Paddy’s Morris Minor as it labored up the hill.

Jamie instructed Paddy on the various jobs he had to do: fodder and milk the Ayrshires, feed the pig and the hens, collect any eggs, and give a scrap or two to Shep. Paddy understood, being a farmer himself; he nodded patiently and assured Jamie that all would be taken care of. He handed him a crumpled paper bag.

“Rose sent you down a couple a them…a couple a them rock buns for the bus.”

“God, she’s awful good, Paddy! Tell her thanks very much.”

Jamie stole a quick look into the bag, and his eyes welled up at the thought of Rose and all the help she’d given him so far. He appreciated the deep significance of this heartfelt gesture; it was only a wee bag of buns, he told himself, but at the same time he was touched. Someone was thinking of him; someone cared. This small kindness meant so much; he’d had such rare flashes of affection in his early life.

“Time’s going on, Jamie,” Paddy said then, interrupting his thoughts. “Maybe…maybe we should make a…make a…”

“Move?”

“Aye, a move…maybe we should make a move.”

“Aye, I suppose we should.” Jamie reached down to stroke Shep, who sat looking forlornly up at his master. “You be a good boy now.”

“Sure we can take the wee dog with us.” Paddy scratched his ear and rubbed his chin, sensing Jamie’s sadness. “It’s not often…not often he gets a…gets a…”

“Wee run out?”

“Aye, a wee run out.”

So Shep leaped into the back of the Minor and off they went, Jamie’s cottage receding and disappearing in the rear window as they struggled up the hill in first gear.

Paddy’s driving was erratic at the best of times, due in part to his poor eyesight, his inexperience—he could only drive the mile or so to and from the village, could only park safely in an area the size of a barley field—and the fact that he’d never in his life sat a driving test. His relationship with his motorcar was therefore a curiously one-sided affair. He knew how to drive it (just about) but not how to care for it. Water and oil were rarely replenished, and as for brake fluid and coolant—well, they’d maybe take care of themselves.

Every car Paddy bought came sooner rather than later to resemble a wounded warrior clinging on valiantly to life; tires bald as a baby’s bottom, fenders dented from ill-judged parking maneuvers, wing-mirrors and wipers hanging on with “that-boy’ll-maybe-hold-her-for-another-wee-while” duct tape. When Paddy drove off with his various revitalized purchases from J & B O’Lynchy’s “Good As Nu” car lot, the dealer knew with certainty that their imminent deaths were assured. There was a God’s acre of such clunkers and wrecks in the McFadden backyard. To his head-scratching bafflement, each vehicle had ground to a halt with a sudden bang, and “for no divil of a raisen” that Paddy could think of “atall atall, begod!”

The Minor in which the trio now rode was his fifth in three years. The car jerked and rocked its way over the tortuous country roads, groaning and grinding as Paddy’s erratic gear-shifting produced wailing overtones. Nearing Killoran, he decided, rather unwisely, to take a shortcut down Pothole Lane, aptly named inasmuch as it hadn’t seen a resurfacing since the Norman Invasion of 1169. On this final leg, both men discovered that conversation was impossible, and the dog went berserk. With every jolt their breath was taken away as they were thrown about, the words bouncing out of their mouths with a “Jezsis boys!” and “That’s a fierce frigger of a—” getting lost in the suffering spasms of the car.

When finally they arrived at the bus station, Shep had collapsed and lay panting on the back seat, ears lying flat, tongue lolling. Both driver and passenger were speechless—Jamie, clutching the bag of rock buns, fearing he must have broken most of them, and Paddy promising himself that he’d never take that bugger of a shortcut again.

Lydia Devine was relaxing in the plush Ocean Spray drawing room, idly scanning an old issue of
Woman’s Own
she’d found in her aunt’s magazine rack. It was a lovely, tranquil afternoon and she felt at peace in the elegant room with its splendid view of endless sky, sea-leveled sands, and ocean.

It was day four of her vacation, with three more to go, and as she sat back in the velvet recliner, Lydia reflected that, despite its rocky start, this impromptu break was turning out to be very enjoyable after all. In fact, since that little difference of opinion between the sisters concerning the Reverend Perseus Cuthbert and the question of her Christian name, things had, for the most part, remained relatively calm and trouble free.

Lydia knew that it was she who had brought about this level of equilibrium, through her diplomatic maneuvers, by keeping Elizabeth and Gladys apart as much as possible. So she took walks with her mother when Gladys was busy, and had long talks with her aunt whenever her mother was napping. That way, she fulfilled her function as the dutiful daughter and attentive niece—and as such was a bridge and conduit for both.

She had also insisted on their having their main meals in the dining room with the other guests. That way, her aunt got to show off her skills as proprietor and host, a role she, like the consummate actress, reveled in so much that sister and niece were reduced to the minor parts of extras at a table in the corner, and all but forgotten. This situation seemed to suit everyone admirably: Gladys got to exhibit her charm, Elizabeth got to pass cynical comments out of earshot, and Lydia got to enjoy her meal without interruption.

Lydia smiled as she nonchalantly scanned the magazine, enjoying so much being left to her own devices. If I’d had a sister, she wondered, would our relationship have been quite so fractured and restive as that of my aunt and my mother? Perhaps, she mused, we never really stop being the children we once were. Some essential part of us remains wedded to the tantrums of the playpen and the schoolyard.

Soon Aunt Gladys would be joining her for an aperitif whilst Elizabeth had a nap before dinner. She noticed that her mother was eating rather less and sleeping rather more than she did at home; Lydia did not know whether this was a ploy to escape her sister or whether the ocean air was to blame. Either way, the rest was doing Elizabeth good, which was really all that mattered.

The door opened, cutting short her musings. In walked Gladys, looking majestic in a tight-fitting, coffee-colored satin two-piece.

“Now, little Lily, time for our drinky-poos before things get busy.”

Before her niece had time to respond, she strode to an elaborate cocktail cabinet and decanted generous measures of Cockburn’s ruby port into two lead-crystal flutes. Lydia accepted one hesitantly.

“Gladys, you know I don’t really drink.”

“Nonsense.” The aunt sat down carefully on the Grecian sofa. “It’s time you started living a little, dear.” She raised her own glass. “Cheers. Here’s to my little niece finding herself a nice man and settling down.”

“Not much chance of that now, is there, Gladys?” Lydia sipped the port and winced.

“Poppycock! You simply don’t send out the right signals. Men like to know that a woman is available.”

“Yes, but I’m not like you, Gladys.” Lydia looked at her aunt’s generous décolleté with its rich brocade trim, her silk-stockinged knees on show below the scalloped hem—and thought she looked like a woman on her way to bed, or indeed the whorehouse. “It’s not in my nature to be extrovert.”

Lydia set the glass on the coffee table, wondering how she could get rid of it without offending her hostess. These conversations with Gladys always made her feel uncomfortable because they invariably involved men, of whom Lydia knew so blessed little.

“Shall I be frank, dear? You need to become like a taxi.”

“A
what
?”

“A taxi, dear. How do you know when a taxi’s free?”

“Erm…the light is on?”

“Exactly! You need to show men that your light is on. That you’re available.”

“And how do I do that?” Lydia tried to sound interested. She knew that she must humor her aunt.

“Well, I’ll let you in to a little secret….” Gladys paused and took a cigarette from an ebony box on the coffee table. She reached for a gem-encrusted cherub and pressed its cheeks. To Lydia’s astonishment, a flame shot from the top of its silver-curled head and lit the cigarette. She waited, as her aunt puffed the cigarette into life, wondering what could be of such importance that it merited this nicotine fix preamble.