I didn’t tell Mary-Margaret that I had lost my job—that wouldn’t have been her standard at all—but with so little money in my bank account, I began to worry how I would pay my rent when the first of the month came around. Not wanting Albert to ask me any awkward questions or for either of the Hogans to wonder why I was still at home during daylight hours, I left the Chatham Street flat at the usual time every morning and wandered aimlessly around the city until the cinemas opened. A few pence could gain me access to an early show and if I hid in the toilets afterward, I could go back in once the lights went down and stay for the rest of the afternoon.
“There’s something not quite right with you at the moment, Cyril,” said Mary-Margaret on the night of her birthday, when I used what little funds I had to take her out to dinner. I had brought her to a new Italian restaurant on Merrion Square that had got excellent reviews but after examining the menu she said that she had more respect for her stomach than to eat foreign food and stuck to pork chops, potatoes and a glass of tap water. “Are you not feeling yourself?”
“I am,” I said. “Quite regularly, actually.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “No, I’m fine. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“But sure what kind of person would I be if I didn’t worry?” she asked in a rare moment of empathy. “I’m very fond of you, Cyril. You should know that by now.”
“I do,” I said. “And I’m very fond of you too.”
“You’re supposed to say that you love me.”
“All right,” I replied. “I love you. How are your chops?”
“Undercooked. And the potatoes are very salty.”
“You put the salt on yourself. I saw you.”
“I know, but still. I’d say something to the waiter but, as you know, I don’t like to cause a fuss.” She put her knife and fork down and looked around, lowering her voice. “Actually, there’s something that I want to discuss with you. I hate to bring it up when we’re having such a lovely night out but you’re going to find out sooner or later anyway.”
“I’m listening,” I said. To my surprise, I could see that she was close to tears, a condition to which she never succumbed, and something in me softened as I reached across to take her hand.
“Don’t, Cyril,” she said, pulling away from me. “Have a little decorum.”
“What did you want to say?” I asked with a sigh.
“I’m a bit upset,” she told me. “But if I tell you, you have to promise that nothing will change between us.”
“I’m pretty certain that nothing will ever change between us,” I said.
“Good. Well, you know my cousin Sarah-Anne?”
“Not personally,” I said, wondering why her family felt the need to double-barrel all their daughters’ names. “I think you’ve mentioned her once or twice but I’m not sure if we’ve ever met. Is she the one who wants to be a nun?”
“No, of course not, Cyril,” she said. “That’s Josephine-Shauna. Do you know what your problem is?”
“That I never listen?”
“Yes.”
“So which one is Sarah-Anne?” I asked.
“The one who lives out in Foxrock. She’s a primary-school teacher, which always struck me as a bit odd as she can’t do long division and is practically illiterate.”
“Oh yes,” I said, recalling a girl I’d encountered at a garden party once who had flirted shamelessly with me. “A very pretty girl, am I right?”
“Pretty is as pretty does,” said Mary-Margaret with a sniff.
“What does that even mean?” I asked. “I’ve never understood the phrase.”
“It means what it means,” she said.
“Fair enough.”
“Well, we’ve had a bit of bad news about Sarah-Anne,” she continued.
She had my attention now. This wasn’t the type of conversation that Mary-Margaret usually entertained over dinner. She generally preferred to discuss how little decorum the young people had in their standards of dress or how that loud rock ’n’ roll music was like the Devil screaming in her ears.
“Go on,” I said.
She looked around again to make sure that she couldn’t be overheard and then leaned in. “Sarah-Anne has fallen,” she said.
“Fallen?”
“Fallen,” she confirmed, nodding her head.
“Did she hurt herself?”
“What?”
“When she fell? Did she break something? Was someone not there to help her up?”
She looked at me as if I had gone mad. “Are you trying to be funny, Cyril?” she asked.
“No,” I said, baffled. “I just don’t know what you mean, that’s all.”
“She’s fallen!”
“Yes, you said, but—”
“Oh for pity’s sake,” she hissed. “She’s going to have a baby.”
“A baby?”
“Yes. Five months from now.”
“Oh, is that all?” I asked, returning to my lasagne.
“What do you mean, is that all? Is that not enough?”
“But sure lots of people have babies,” I said. “If there weren’t any babies, there wouldn’t be any adults.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cyril.”
“I’m not being ridiculous.”
“You are. Sarah-Anne isn’t married.”
“Ah, right,” I said. “I suppose that puts a different complexion on things.”
“Of course it does,” said Mary-Margaret. “Her poor parents are beside themselves. Auntie Mary is under twenty-four-hour supervision because she threatened to stick a carving knife into her head.”
“Into whose head? Hers or Sarah-Anne’s?”
“Both, probably.”
“Well, does she know who the father is?”
Her mouth fell open in disgust. “Of course she does,” she said. “What kind of girl do you think she is anyway? You must have a very low opinion of the Muffet family.”
“I don’t even know her,” I protested. “I don’t have any opinion on her at all.”
“The father is some buck from Rathmines, if you please. Works in a linen factory, which wouldn’t be my standard at all. Of course, he’s agreed to marry her, so that’s one thing, but they can’t get a church date for another six weeks and by then she’ll be showing.”
“Well, at least he’s doing the right thing,” I said.
“After he did the wrong thing. Poor Sarah-Anne, she was always such a good girl. I don’t know what got into her. I hope you don’t get any ideas, Cyril. You better not think that I’m going to indulge in that level of behavior.”
“Believe me, I don’t,” I said, setting my knife and fork aside now, my appetite slipping away at the very idea. “The last thing in the world I want to do is seduce you.”
“Well, you can put the seventeenth of next month into your diary. That’s the wedding day.”
“Right so,” I said. “What are you going to give her?”
“What do you mean?”
“As a wedding present. I suppose something for the baby would be useful.”
“Ha!” she said, shaking her head. “I will not be giving her a present.”
“Why not?” I asked. “What kind of person shows up to someone’s wedding and doesn’t bring a gift?”
“If it was a normal wedding, then of course I’d get them something,” she told me. “But it isn’t, is it? I don’t want to signal my approval. No, they made their bed. They may lie in it now.”
I rolled my eyes and felt a prickle of perspiration at the back of my neck. “Do you always have to be so judgmental?” I asked.
She looked at me as if I’d just slapped her. “What did you just say to me, Cyril Avery?”