Another Kind of Cinderella and Other Stories Page 3

  Prunella hadn’t felt like arguing. She had sat on a kitchen chair, one stocking an ignominious roll beneath her knee, watching Audrey savagely dab the bloody patch. The children hugged her goodbye, said they hoped they would see her soon. She had given them a box of chocolates, which afforded Audrey the opportunity for a familiar lecture on children’s teeth before hurrying them away. Prunella hadn’t seen them since then. Audrey was carrying out her threat. This was her punishment. Drink: and no grandchildren. Deprivation of the two people who gave her most pleasure on earth, these days. She was a callous monster, Audrey. How could she have given birth to one of so little compassion?

  But this silly feud had gone on long enough, Prunella thought, at dawn the autumn day of the call she eventually forced herself to make. She must put an end to it. She must swallow pride and anger, apologise, make promises not to touch a drop before the children arrived or while they were there: promise anything. She must compromise herself in a disgraceful way. But any form of humiliation was worth it to see the grandchildren.

  At eleven o’clock she drank two cups of coffee without their usual addition of brandy. This daily booster, she had found, gave the necessary strength for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, Audrey’s antennae were so acute she seemed able to tell if her mother had put so much as a dash of sherry in her trifle, just by her voice over the telephone. So this morning, wanting to take no risks, Prunella had denied herself fortification. Without it she was feeling very shaky. The receiver of the telephone danced at her ear. Sweat frosted the back of her neck. Her heart was leaping like a young lamb.

  ‘One more chance, then,’ said Audrey at last, in her tight little voice. ‘You know the conditions.’

  ‘I know the conditions. Of course I—’

  ‘Just lunch and the afternoon. I’ll drop them at twelve. And no chocolates either, please.’

  ‘Poor mites! Very well, no chocolates. I’ve missed them so much. They must wonder why they haven’t been for so long.’

  ‘They haven’t said anything.’

  Prunella knew Audrey was lying. She was able to detect her daughter’s lies on the telephone every bit as distinctly as Audrey could detect her own small indulgence of alcohol. But this morning she didn’t care. The main thing was she had won the battle. The horrible waiting, the isolation, was over. She would see the children in just two days. Dear George, gallant beyond his years: Anna of the laughing eyes. Prunella poured herself a third cup of coffee, laced it with a fierce shot of brandy.

  She was determined to take no risks. After breakfast on the day of the children’s visit, she put the bottle of brandy in the dining-room cupboard – a cold, deserted room she scarcely visited – and locked it. She put the key in the pocket of her apron, hoping she would forget where it was. Back in the warmth of the kitchen she placed a tea cosy over the bottle of gin. The smile of its white label stretching across its elegant green shoulders was the temptation evenings, afternoons, that she could not resist So long as it was hidden, she would be quite safe.

  The hours passed so fast in busy preparation of the children’s food that Prunella did not stop for her usual cup of coffee, let alone brandy. At twelve, everything ready, the table laid, Ribena poured, she remembered this and smiled to herself. Sometimes, it was so easy. When you were happy, there was no need for a booster. Maybe she’d leave the brandy in the cupboard. Not touch it tomorrow, either. Make a real effort. Sling out the grinning gin. Reform, as Audrey would say. Though what would Audrey know about the near-impossibility of such a thing?

  The bell rang on the dot of twelve-thirty. Audrey was always punctual, and superior with it. She gave a hurried smile, trying to disguise the twitching of her nostrils, the mean detection of drink on her mother’s breath. Hoping to catch me out, the bitch, thought Prunella. But it didn’t matter. With George and Anna wriggling under each arm, she felt bold, strong.

  ‘Do I pass the breath test?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Mother. I’ll be back at five.’

  Once Audrey had gone the children burst from strait-jackets of polite demeanour – always worn in the shadow of their mother – and hugged their grandmother so hard she was almost knocked over. She managed to brush aside any answers to their questions about why they had not seen her for so long with the promise of small presents awaiting them in the kitchen. She produced shiny black pencils with their names engraved in gold, with notebooks to match – ‘For your secret thoughts,’ she said. The children laughed. They were always delighted by the quaintness of their grandmother’s presents, so carefully chosen. At home, they were rich in computer games, Walkmans, miniature televisions – quick, easy, expensive presents which could be bought with no trouble. Spoiled in this respect, they still appreciated real worth: their grandmother’s presents were of especial value.

  Prunella’s kitchen, where she spent most of her time, blazed with signals of her life. Old photographs, lists, theatre posters, half-finished pieces of tapestry were either stuck to the walls or piled on the floor or chairs. It was not uncommon to find grated carrot in a pair of satin evening shoes that had lodged by the stove for the past twenty years, or a rusty trinket in the fruit bowl. The children, accustomed to the white Formica sterility of their own kitchen at home, loved the room. It bulged with memories of happy afternoons since their earliest childhood, and was always full of the warm expectation of exciting things to come. Occasionally they would venture into the large, cold, unused rooms of the house, deserted since their grandfather had died. But they thought of them as sad, dead rooms, that made shivers run down their backs, and would quickly hurry back to the life of the kitchen.

  As usual, they ate hungrily of their grandmother’s food, made promises not to tell about the chocolate pudding. They listened enchanted as she told stories about her intriguing past, which had been a very glamorous time, and indeed she had been very famous. A dancer, a singer, a bit of both – and only twenty years ago some television company had come and persuaded her to talk about her past: they had seen the recording over and over again. She was a star, their grandmother, they could tell from the many photographs of a beautiful face that smiled from the mists of the old photographs on the walls. And even today she was a star, bright red hair – the children didn’t believe it when their mother said it was a wig – long gipsy earrings, scarlet nails, silver eye-shadow. But for the wrinkles, she could be mistaken for a rock star, they thought. And underneath her apron she wore velvet dresses of crimson or purple or sapphire that flashed a patchwork of light, and she smelt of face powder from a bygone age.

  ‘And what shall we do today?’ she was saying. ‘How best shall we pass the afternoon, little ones?’

  ‘Dressing up,’ they said.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Prunella. Of all the old-fashioned activities she thought up for them, dressing up was the favourite. ‘I brought down some new things from the attic.’

  In a trice they had leapt upon the huge cardboard box waiting under the window. (It had taken three whiskies, last night, to give Prunella the strength to drag it down from the attic.)

  ‘How did you get this down all by yourself, Gran?’

  ‘Easily!’

  ‘You’re brilliant, Gran,’ said Anna.

  Prunella, dumping dirty plates into the sink to be washed at some future time she had no wish to think about, beamed. She listened to the small cries of amazement and amusement as the children plucked pantomime clothes from the box. They would pull something on, then, more strongly attracted by something else, pull it off before it was in place.

  The dishes cleared, Prunella sat at the table giving advice and encouragement. She panted a little, felt a little lightheaded. Well, the children’s visits were dizzy times, stirring up the stale old quietness till the kitchen became a place she could hardly recognise. Besides, she had worked so hard this morning, never a moment off her feet.

  What she wanted was a drink.

  The children were ready at last. George was a small laughing cava
lier, ostrich feather swooping from his velvet cap right under his chin; Anna was a shepherdess with a laced bodice and yellow silk stockings.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Prunella clapped her hands. ‘You look real professionals.’ This, they knew, was her highest compliment: she had been the most professional professional in her time. ‘Now for acting.’

  ‘Not without you, Gran.’

  ‘What, me? Dress up too?’

  This moment of mock surprise was a small charade enjoyed every visit. Prunella would feign reluctance, then find herself persuaded.

  ‘Well,’ she would say, as she did now, ‘if that’s what you want. . .’ And they would shower her with myriad things to choose from till she, too, had become a character, a star from some world-famous theatrical show.

  Prunella stood up. Knees shaky. She fended off the gust of scarves and jackets they threw at her.

  ‘Just a moment, darlings. Gran just needs a . . . to keep her going. Put on some music, George, why not? Let’s begin with our old Blackbird to put us in the mood.’ She opened the fridge, took out the bottle of white wine. She poured herself a tumbler.

  George, child of the technological age, always had some trouble with the workings of the maplewood box his grandmother called the radiogram. But eventually he persuaded the old table to spin the 78 record – Bye Bye, Blackbird. They had known all the words for years.

  ‘When somebody says to me

  Sugar sweet, so is she

  Bye bye, blackbird . . .’

  Within moments, Prunella found herself pumping the old power into the song. The once-famous voice trembled poignantly on every note, drowning the thinner voices of the children. She drank a second glass, picked up her skirts, pointed a velvet shoe with a diamanté buckle.

  ‘Now, off we go. Follow the silly old bat, won’t you? Bye, bye, blackbird . . .’

  ‘You’re not a silly old bat, Gran.’

  The children knew the rules: copy every movement precisely. This afternoon Prunella was full of invention. They skipped around the table waving their arms as if carrying invisible boughs. They grabbed apples from the bowl and threw them high. They flicked their fingers under a running tap at the sink. They – and this was their favourite part – climbed up a chair on to the table, creaking the old pine top as they twirled between bowls of hyacinths – and then leapt down the other side. Those brief moments high on the table felt like being on a stage.

  ‘Oh, happy chorus line, darlings,’ Prunella sang. She downed a third quick glass. ‘Up we go again, why not?’

  This time, on the table top, she did a few steps of the can-can. Amazed by their grandmother’s high kicks, the children gave up trying to copy her. They watched, entranced.

  ‘Not the right music, of course, but I can still kick a leg, can’t I? Let’s see if I can’t find a can-can record.’

  Prunella, jumping ambitiously back down on to a chair, missed her footing. There was a crack, a thud and a dignified whimper, all muffled by the music as she flung one fat arm dramatically behind her.

  ‘Gran? – Quick, George,’ shouted Anna.

  George slithered off the table, laughing. He bent over Prunella on the floor.

  ‘Are you doing your dying scene, Gran?’

  Anna prodded a vast velvet hip, its lights twinkling less brightly in the shadow of the table. She could see, so close to Prunella’s eyelids, the smudges of silvery blue were thick and uneven. The lids looked like wrinkled blue worms lying side by side. When her eyes were open, you didn’t notice this. Anna wished they would open now. The record slurred to the end. Now the only sound was the running tap.

  ‘You can get up now, Gran,’ she said.

  Think she’s dead?’ asked George.

  ‘I suppose I’d better feel her heart.’ Anna was top in biology at school. She ran a reluctant finger over the left velvet breast, feeling the warmth but no distinctive heartbeat.

  There’s stuff coming out of her mouth,’ observed George, ‘and isn’t she a funny colour? Maybe she’s unconscious.’

  ‘I’ll ring for an ambulance.’ Anna’s coolness in a crisis had been rewarded by making her a prefect. All the same, the telephone jittered in her hand.

  ‘Better not say she’s dead,’ said George, ‘or they won’t hurry.’

  One of the ambulancemen removed the scarlet boa from Prunella’s neck and quickly plunged down, locking his mouth on to hers.

  ‘Kiss of life,’ Anna explained to George.

  ‘Wouldn’t fancy that,’ George giggled. The ambulanceman sat back on his heels, frowning. ‘You’ve got lipstick all over you.’

  ‘Pipe down, young chappie. What about you two?’

  ‘Our mother will be here any minute,’ said Anna.

  That’s good, because we’d best get a move on.’ He was helping the second man to attach a drip to Prunella’s arm, still stiff in its last flourish.

  It was a struggle to lift her on to the stretcher. One of her shoes fell off. The boa left scarlet feathers on the ambulancemen’s uniforms. George deplored the sight of his grandmother’s knee, suddenly revealed, that only moments ago had been so impressive in its kicks.

  ‘Poor old Gran,’ said Anna. She hated the sight of the shock of copper hair tipped sideways, proving her mother was right about a wig. She hoped George would not notice.

  ‘If she’s not dead, then it’s her best ever dying Juliet.’ Tears of admiration ran quietly down George’s cheeks.

  Audrey, hurrying punctually down the path, found her way impeded by the ambulancemen and stretcher. In the second she paused, she saw the multi-coloured mound of her mother, clown-white face smudged with blue eyebrows, powdery blobs of salmon pink ironic on the old cheeks. She screamed.

  From the front door the children watched her livid journey.

  ‘Cool it, Mum. Gran had a fall.’ Anna herself felt a strange calm.

  Audrey swivelled round at the slamming of the ambulance doors.

  ‘You idiots! Of all the stupid . . . Quick, we must follow her.’ She ripped off George’s hat and threw it nastily to the ground. ‘What happened?’ George retrieved his hat. He had no time to answer before Audrey ran into the kitchen, saw the empty bottle, the up-turned chair. Again the children watched her from the door.

  ‘Christ! I can’t believe it. Never, ever again . . .’ she shouted, exploding eyes glassy with tears.

  Anna hitched up her skirt with pitiless hands.

  ‘No use threatening us,’ she said. ‘Gran may be dead.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said George, ‘it may just be one of her best dying scenes.’

  He knew about the sweetness of revenge from his history books, and the power it could engender. With a solemn look he replaced his feathered hat, tilting it in just the way his grandmother had assured him, light years ago, was appropriate for a laughing cavalier.

  The Day of the QE2

  Nothing very much ever happens in Ballymorning, a small town of little significance on the Irish coast. While the folk who live there are proud of its tranquillity, they do sometimes wish that a quiver of excitement would bestir the peace that lies flat, heavy, stifling, over its uncrowded streets and shops of unfashionable gentility. Even the pubs afford little gaiety, except on the occasions of a wedding party or a funeral wake.

  The young of Ballymorning usually leave for Dublin or Cork as soon as they are able, there being no work and no temptations to keep them at home. If they feel any nostalgia for the town of their birth when they have gone, this is not reflected in the number of occasions they visit their homes. Once departed from Ballymorning, resigned parents know, there is little likelihood of their offspring returning. There is a familiar pattern, discussed by many a mother who has done her best, of contact with grown-up children becoming more infrequent. It is the penalty, perhaps, for such peace and quiet.

  Some years ago, a few of Ireland’s tourists began to discover the limited attractions of Ballymorning. The view from its harbour is the thing they like best. You can see th
em standing there in little groups, identifiable by their anoraks the colours of nursery rhymes, polystyrene beakers of coffee in hand, gazing out beyond the curve of the giant harbour wall, allowing their gaze to follow the North Sea to the horizon. Sometimes they sit on the coils of tarred rope. Eyes strained by the abstract contemplation of the sea, which tells them nothing, they seek relief in the seagulls bouncing in the air above them, their orchestrated shrieks making contemporary music that shreds all contemplation. They point their cameras this way and that, these tourists whose delight is to notch up places on film, and go on to somewhere better supplied with amusement.

  The older inhabitants of Ballymorning do what they can to take advantage of this new, albeit thin trade. Irene O’Connor, in the Post Office and General Stores, has initiated a sideline in homemade soda bread and scones. She’s up half the night baking, but the profit, in the summer season, is worth her effort. Her neighbour Jack Riley, formerly a tinker, applied himself to the renovating of his old pony trap. He spent three months polishing, painting, mending, oiling. Then he clipped his old piebald cob, long since retired from the shafts, and advertised rides in the trap down to the harbour and back. This proved popular with visitors longing to be free of their children for quarter of an hour. One look at Jack and his quaint transport, and trust reared its cautious head. There was no doubt the children would be in safe hands. And they were. Jack made them laugh with stories of his past life on the road. Word of this entertainment travelled. Takings are now good. The pony cart rides cause a seasonal ripple in Jack’s retirement. The benefits of initiative have come to him just in time to enliven his old age, and he is able to offer more copious rounds of Guinness in the pub. He feels quite proud.

  Tom Deary, retired teacher and part-time barber, is another of Ballymorning’s inhabitants to have been inspired by the thought of making profit from the tourists. Tom is a character who commands universal respect in the town: so kindly and mild a man there never was. He is said to have come from some minor aristocratic family, about which he is modestly vague. This belief was strengthened in 1952, when an uncle bequeathed to Tom his almost new Armstrong-Siddeley. A suitable garage was built for the wondrous car, which had only travelled 130 miles in its five years of life. Tom, perhaps inheriting a reservation about mileage in his genes, has only added some eighty-four miles to that number in the last forty-five years. Those miles were most reluctantly agreed to: on one occasion he allowed the Armstrong-Siddeley to be used as a wedding car for his niece Sheila, who then took the further liberty of asking Tom to drive herself and her husband to their honeymoon hotel some way to the south. This caused Tom many traumas concerning the lodging of confetti on the carpeted floor, and in the difficult places between the leather seats. The second occasion for the car’s outing was a charitable cause. A neighbour’s daughter, crippled by an accident, requested a trip in a fairy-coach for a birthday treat. Her desperate mother reckoned Tom’s car was the nearest Ballymorning could get to the desired coach, and set about her persuading. Tom found himself in a morally weak position. He could hardly say no to such a request, and wondered at the reluctance of his heart. He agreed with a smile which he hoped would disguise his feelings. And once they were on the road, mother and daughter on the back seat full of praises for his careful driving, his amorphous fears vanished. He had taken the precaution of covering the seat (against what, he could not say, even to himself) with sheets of plastic and several rugs, and in the very slow covering of seven miles, much to Tom’s relief, nothing untoward happened.