Doctor's Wife (14 page)

    “No, I was in all morning.”

    “Oh, they’re hopeless, these hotels. Look, can you
meet me at a café called the Métropole in the rue Auber? Say, in
half an hour. At one.”

    “All right.”

    Mrs. Redden went upstairs. He was waiting at the bar
and had ordered two draught beers. “I’ll come with you,” he said,
when she told him.

    “No, I’d better go alone.”

    “Well, let’s finish our beer and we’ll take a Métro
and I’ll wait for you some place in the area.”

    “All right. But I can’t drink any beer. I feel
sick.”

    •

    When Mrs. Redden walked into the Métropole, Peg
Con-way was drinking a Pernod in a booth at the back of the
restaurant. “I know what you’re thinking,” Peg said as Mrs. Redden
sat opposite her. “But, I need this drink. What about you?”

    “No, thanks, I feel a bit sick.”

    “Sheila, I’m afraid I’ve made an awful bloody mess
for you.”

    Mrs. Redden put her head down. “Are you all right?”
Peg asked.

    “Yes. Go on.”

    “Well, to cut a long story short, after you and I
talked on the phone on Sunday I went out with Ivo, and the upshot
of it is, I haven’t been back at my flat since. I’m sorry. I forgot
all about Kevin.”

    “Did he call?”

    “Yes. Both nights.”

    Mrs. Redden lowered her head again. “I knew it.”

    “Anyway,” Peg said. “I finally went home about eight
this morning because I had to change before I went to the office.
And the phone rang and it was him. So I said, very nicely, that you
weren’t here. I said I had other people staying with me and we
didn’t have a bed for you, worse luck, and that you were staying at
this little hotel, and I gave him the number. And then he said,
‘You have people staying with you, do you?’ And I said yes, I had.
And he said, That’s funny, I rang six or seven times last night and
the night before. I even phoned twice in the middle of the night.’
Well, what could I say, it was stupid of me, but I got all
flustered and I said, ‘That’s right, I wasn’t here either night.’
And then he said, ‘I thought you said you have people staying with
you.’ I tell you, Sheila, it was like being in the witness box. So
I said, ‘Well, the truth is, these people were supposed to stay
both nights, but actually they didn’t show up.’ So, he seemed to
digest that for a minute or two and then he said, ‘Peg, I’m very
worried about Sheila. I’ve been worried sick the last forty-eight
hours about not being able to get in touch with her. Tell me the
truth. Is there something wrong?’ So I said to him, of course not,
you were in grand form. ‘Look, Kevin,’ I said, ‘the truth is,
Sheila wants to spend a few days on her own and she told me you’d
be angry if you knew she was staying at a hotel, after her saying
she could stay with me. That’s the real truth.’ Well. Dead silence
on the other end of the line. And then he asked, ‘What was that
hotel number again?’ So I gave him the number. And then— here’s the
part I’m worried about—when I got to my office I thought I’d ring
you and warn you. So I phoned the Balcons. And wait till you hear.
I asked for Madame Redden. And they said you weren’t in.”

    “But I was. I was in all morning!”

    “They said you were out. They said, ‘
Monsieur et
Madame sont sortis
.’ I asked if they were sure and they said
yes. I asked if a gentleman had called a little earlier and they
said yes. An Englishman? I said. And they said yes. And did you
tell him Monsieur and Madame were both out? I asked them. And they
said yes, they did. Does Kevin speak French?”

    “Yes, a bit.”

    “Well, you see what I mean, don’t you?”

    “
Monsieur et Madame
.”

    “Exactly.”

    For a moment both women sat in silence. Behind them
at the bar two Frenchmen began a loud discussion about the money
made by the Brazilian soccer star Pelé. “Look,” Peg said, “I’d
better eat something, I have to get back to the office. Do you want
something yourself?”

    “No thanks.”

    Peg called the waitress and ordered a ham sandwich.
“Listen,” she said, “just tell Kevin the hotel made a mistake.
They’re always making mistakes in these little places.”

    “But, Peg, what if he went straight to the airport
and got on a plane and is on his way here now? And what if he goes
to the hotel?”

    “I know,” Peg said. “Why don’t both of you move into
my flat? You’d be safe there, you don’t have to answer the door.
And if he doesn’t show up, next time you phone home tell him you’ve
moved in with me. And I’ll just move in with Ivo.”

    “Oh, but I couldn’t do that to you.”

    “Why not? Go on. Here, take the key.”

    “But I couldn’t put you out.”

    “You can and you will. Actually, I love staying at
Ivo’s place and you’ve given me a good excuse. Why don’t you move
into the flat right away.”

    Mrs. Redden took the key. “It’s awfully good of
you,” she said. She began to cry.

    “Ah, now, stop worrying,” Peg said.

    “I’m thirty-seven. And you know what age Tom
is.”

    “So what? And today is Tuesday and tomorrow will be
Wednesday.”

    The waitress brought Peg’s sandwich and eyed Mrs.
Redden, curious about her tears. Ravenous all of a sudden, Peg
began to eat. “He’s a very nice boy,” she said. “Sensible too. And
bright. Hugh Greer wrote to me that he was one of the best students
he’s ever had. Ah, Sheila, don’t cry. This sort of thing happens
all the time. Monogamy’s a thing of the past. Relax and enjoy
yourself.”

    “I know,” Mrs. Redden said. “It’s the only time I
ever had.”

    What does she mean by that? Peg wondered, but as the
tears were beginning to stop, she thought it better to let it pass.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’m sure it won’t occur to Kevin that
something like this could happen so fast. You’ve only been away a
week.”

    “But I can’t go on telling him lies.”

    “Why not? There are times in life when a lie is a
kindness,” Peg said. She looked at her friend. Do you ever really
know another person? Sheila Deane, of all people, a big shy thing,
always with her head in a book when I knew her, always worrying if
she would find some man tall enough, and you just knew when she did
she would let him boss her, turn her into a housewife, waste the
hard work and the studying she did to get her degree. Sheila Deane.
Still, isn’t it the quiet ones who surprise you?

    “Madame Chicot, the concierge, has her own key,” Peg
said. “She lets herself in to clean. So if anyone else knocks, you
don’t have to answer. I’ll come by for some clothes around six this
evening and then you’ll have the place to yourselves. I must run
now. And stop worrying, promise me?”

    “All right,” Mrs. Redden said. She had dried her
eyes. “You’ve been so good to us.”

    “Oh, don’t be silly,” Peg said and got up and went
out, shaking her head to herself. The messes some people get
into.

    •

    When Mrs. Redden came out of the Métropole a few
minutes later, Tom Lowry was waiting for her across the street.
They took a 95 bus back to the Left Bank and went straight to the
hotel, where they spoke to the woman at the desk. The woman said
there had been no telephone calls. “Are you sure?” Mrs. Redden
asked. The woman said she was sure. But how could you believe
her?

    They checked out. At five o’clock they went around
to Peg’s flat with their belongings. The concierge said that Madame
Conway had phoned to say if they were going out, they should leave
the key under the carpet runner. She would come by at six for her
clothes. On hearing this, Mrs. Redden said, “Let’s go and shop. I’d
just as soon not be here when she comes.”

    So they went out, exploring the narrow back streets
of the
quartier
. They watched men cook exotic dishes in
the front windows of Greek and Tunisian restaurants, inspected the
stills outside small cinemas, then, having ordered a cooked chicken
from the butcher, they bought vegetables and wine in a neighborhood
market and queued for fresh bread at a bakery. By the time they
picked up the chicken and got back to the flat, Peg had been and
gone, replacing the key under the carpet runner.

    “Perfect,” Mrs. Redden said. “Now, let me cook the
vegetables and get dinner on the table. I’ll put the chicken in the
oven to keep warm, and you open the wine, will you?”

    As she went into the darkened kitchen to find the
light switch, she saw him enter the living room and squat over a
pile of Peg’s records, his tight blue jeans straining at his waist
to reveal the bare skin of his back down to the beginning of the
cleft of his buttocks. Peg’s big tabby cat came up beside him,
leaning against him, rubbing its back along his leg. The music came
on: baroque. Kevin hated “classical” music. A moment later she
watched him get up, come into the kitchen and pour the wine, hand
her a glass, then wander off toward the bedroom. She stood
abstracted, chopping carrots, her mind filled with him and with the
music until, at last, in sudden guilt, she turned to look at the
clock on the kitchen table. Kevin would have had his supper by now
and be watching the telly; Danny would be lying on the floor of the
den, doing his homework with Tarzan, the dog, lying beside him.
Kevin she could imagine leaning back in the big wing-tip chair,
newspapers strewn about, the telly on full blast. It would be rainy
out, and beyond the brick wall at the end of the garden the dark
looming mountain peak called Napoleon’s Nose, rising in the night
over Belfast Lough. In the center of the city it would be quiet,
nobody about except the police and army patrols. She put the
carrots in a saucepan of water and turned the gas on, hearing a
slight explosion. It was a lie to imagine that Kevin was sitting at
home, content in front of the telly. Who could be content after two
days and nights of trying to get through to your wife in France,
not knowing what she was up to? There’s no excuse for not phoning
him. And now is the time to do it.

    She went into the dining room, searched the
sideboard drawers, found cutlery and napkins, and set the table. In
the living room the record ended, the needle making an ugly
scraping noise. He came out of the bedroom and put on a new record.
The music came up. Vivaldi, was it?

    Her older brother Ned liked classical music.
Tonight, Ned would be in Cork, alone in his bachelor digs. Her
other brother Owen would be at home in Belfast with his family. Her
sister, Eily, would be helping her sons with their homework in
Dublin. All of them, back there in Ireland living their lives out
as if nothing had changed. She wondered if Kevin had been in touch
with Eily or Owen. She thought not.

    I
must
phone Kevin. But first I’ll serve
the dinner. No, I must phone now, it’s terrible not to do it. I’ll
phone him after dinner, when Danny’s asleep.

    A new record came on, a popular one, Françoise Hardy
singing a song that everyone in Paris seemed to be singing this
year. She went into the living room and he was standing by the
window. He took her in his arms and, in time to the music, danced
her around the room, the pair of them beginning to sing snatches of
the lyrics. He has a nice tenor singing voice. I didn’t know that.
What else do I not know about him, this boy of mine? She stared up
at his face with its high forehead framed by the dark lion’s mane
of hair, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. Who did he make love
with before me, what woman made him so skillful? Does he still
think of her, whoever she is, or does he forget, as I forget?
Imagine if I could forget my past forever. My past, that small
story which is my life. That story which began in my mother’s big
brass bed on the top floor of 18 Chichester Terrace, November 7,
1937, and went on through First Communion and Verse-Speaking
Contests and National School and Convent Boarding at Glenarm and
four years at The Queen’s University, Belfast. We always seemed a
crowd at home, we four children and Daddy and Kitty and the two
maiden aunts, the house always lively, all of it gone now, quiet as
a memory, its only souvenir a few photo albums and old wedding
announcements and examination certificates stuffed into the top
drawer of the little escritoire in the drawing room of our house in
the Somerton Road. And the drawer gets fuller. I added Danny’s
baptismal record, my strange baby born by Caesarian section, a fuzz
of black hair on his head, his tiny face white and composed
because, Dr. O’Neill said, he was cut neatly out of my stomach, not
dragged through my vagina. Remember that holiday in Connemara when
Danny fell off the pony in Clifden, the bone sticking up white out
of the broken skin of his little leg, how frightened I was, worse
than my two miscarriages. My son. He is what I did in life. Apart
from him, my life will disappear like the lives of my parents, a
few more documents will be stuffed in that drawer, and someday the
escritoire may be moved to some other house, maybe Danny’s, just as
I remember it being moved to ours, the day Kevin and I picked it up
with the other pieces from Kitty’s place and brought them to our
new house in the Somerton Road. I remember the movers taking it out
of the van and leaving it on the pavement; it looked so shabby I
thought all the grand new neighbors would be looking through their
windows at it. I wanted the men to hurry up and bring it in off the
street. Then it didn’t fit with the other furniture in our drawing
room, but I insisted it stay there. And there it is. My past. My
past in a drawer.

    •

    At nine o’clock she served their dinner in Peg’s
dining room. He began to tell her funny stories about the summer he
worked as a forest ranger in Maine, and she laughed and listened
and did not think of anything else. She was offering him some fruit
and cheese when suddenly, loud in the living room, the phone
rang.