Heart and Soul (30 page)

Clara agreed and said it had been a long journey to where she was, and now that she had got there she spent an inordinate amount of time talking to Frank the Crank in hospital administration, who spent his working day trying to thwart them at every turn.

“He is so penny-pinching, so desperately the-letter-of-the-law rather than the spirit of it that we spend our time trying to think up
equally petty ways to deal with him.” She laughed. “Ania and Hilary and I have a ten-minute session every morning to fight him over who pays for the toilet paper or the tea bags. I don't care—it's so juvenile—I just want to get on with it.” He looked at her admiringly: she was full of passion and enthusiasm. Just then he noticed that most of the people were leaving and the waitress was approaching their table.

“Would you like to have your coffees in the bar?” she asked politely.

“No, we're fine here,” Clara said before Peter had time to answer. “Aren't we?” She looked at Peter for confirmation. But it wasn't there.

“The bar would be nice, I think,” he said.

“Whatever you say.” She seemed surprised.

“You see, I booked an Early Bird dinner, so they will need our table for the next sitting.”

“Oh, of course,” she said hastily.

“I mean, it makes sense. It's almost half the normal menu price,” he said defensively, and somehow some of the light went out of the evening.

“Dervla, is it too late?”

“Of course not, Clara, it's only nine-thirty. I thought you were going out on a date.”

“I was and I did but I'm back home again.”

“That sounds like speed dating,” Dervla said.

“Yes, it does.”

“So—did you enjoy it?”

“I did actually—until the end when I realized he had taken the Early Bird option in Quentins just because it was cheaper.”

“Oh, Clara—that's not like you, judging people by what they spend. And anyway he'd have had to spend a fair whack in Quentins no matter which menu it was.”

“I don't know … I just felt it was a bit… I just don't know …”

“You didn't like him. Did he grope your knee?”

“No, I did like him, and there was no groping. I had been thinking of inviting him to Sunday lunch; the girls are rarely around at the weekends.”

“And did you ask him?” Dervla wanted to know every detail.

“No, I didn't. I thought I'd let it wait a while.”

“Just because he bought you a bargain meal?”

“I know it sounds idiotic, that's why I rang you.”

“Oh, invite him. Tomorrow. First thing.”

“Why exactly?”

“Because we always regret what we
don't
do, rarely what we
do
do.”

“Who said that?”

“I can't remember. Was it Mark Twain?”

“Shouldn't I get out now, quit when I'm winning?”

“But you're not winning, Clara, that's the point.”

“Oh, Lord, Dervla, what would I do without you?”

“You might work yourself to death,” Dervla said and hung up.

“Was it a good evening?” Ania asked next day.

“It was very nice, Ania, very nice, beautiful food and very elegant …”

“But?” Ania said.

“That's just it—he was very charming, very polite. I'm just being silly.”

“It was that handsome Mr. Barry from the pharmacy, you said?”

“Yes, do you think he's handsome? Really?”

“Yes—he is like a film actor, I think.”

“Yes …maybe.”

“And will you see Mr. Barry again, do you think?”

“I think so—I am going to ask him to lunch on Sunday.”

“Oh, good …”

“Why do you think it's good?”

“Because romance is always good,” Ania said simply. She thought about Carl and smiled to herself.

Clara reached for the phone before she could change her mind. “Peter, thank you so much for last night.”

“Oh, good, Clara. I enjoyed it too, greatly.”

“Would you like to come to lunch with me in my house on Sunday? I could cook for you …”

“That's very nice of you—and will your daughters be there?”

“With any luck they won't. I'll e-mail you my address. Is one o'clock okay?”

“Thank you so much, Clara,” he said, and his voice was warm.

Dervla had of course been right. Now she was pleased to be seeing him again, instead of just sitting here grumbling about a date that had turned out to be slightly less than perfect.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Amy?” He was pleased that she had telephoned.

“You know the way you always complain when I don't tell you things?” She would ring, of course, when he had three people waiting for prescriptions.

“Yes, well, what are we talking about here?”

“I'm going away for the weekend.”

“We could talk about this later.”

“There is no later, Dad. I'm going today. Back late on Sunday night.”

“Where exactly?”

“To London. They want me to see some of the shows that shops like ours do so that I could organize evenings like that in Dublin.”

“And who are you going with?” he asked weakly.

She never answered. “See you Sunday night.” And she hung up with the air of one who had solved everything and was now free to head off to England and explore the world of bizarre sex and fetishes.

•   •   •   

Adi and her boyfriend, Gerry, were going on a protest march over the weekend, something about preserving trees, so they wouldn't be around. All Clara had to do was to find out Lindas plans.

Linda said she wasn't sure of her plans. Nothing was firmed up.

“Well, can you firm them up now, please?” Clara asked.

“Why?” Linda sensed that she was being got rid of. She might settle for a posh lunch out if Clara were to finance it. It had worked with her father. “I thought I might just stay here,” she said, testing the ground.

“Well, then, whatever you buy for yourself perhaps you could have it in your bedroom,” Clara suggested.

“Buy for
myself
?” Linda was horrified.

“Well, yes, Linda, you haven't paid anything towards this household for two weeks despite our arrangement. I know you will get a part-time job and contribute very soon, but in the meantime you won't expect me to cook for you.”

“No, but if I don't have a job how can I buy food?” To Linda it was a mystery.

“Ah, yes, that's the trouble. It will sort of concentrate your mind,” Clara agreed.

“What arej
you
doing on Sunday?” Linda said mulishly.

“I'm having a friend to lunch here.”

“As if I'd want to hear you and some other fuss-fuss old woman talking about the heart clinic.”

“Good—we'll take it that your plans have firmed up, then, Linda.”

“All
right,
Mam, and by the way, there's no need to strip the fridge bare in case I drink
your
milk or eat
your
bacon …”

“I always think it's better to avoid any gray areas,” Clara said cheerfully.

Peter arrived with a bottle of wine.

“That's nice of you. Will you open it for us?” Clara handed him the corkscrew.

“I'm afraid it's a screw-top. They're on sale at the off-license, but I gather they're very drinkable,” he said.

“Sure. Personally I think all wine should be screw-top,” Clara said as she laid out some smoked salmon on brown bread.

“I think there's a lot of nonsense in the wine business,” Peter said. “People buy just according to price; if it's dear it must be good. That's like the Emperor's New Clothes, really. Some wines like this are very good and they're half the price of some of the so-called good wines.”

She wished he would stop talking about money. They were middle-aged, middle-class people. She was a doctor, he was a pharmacist, they owned their houses—they could afford a bottle of wine, for God's sake. But she knew she must beat down this small irritation.

Again the conversation was easy. He admired her home: it was bright and airy, and the garden was secluded and full of color. She told him that the trick in gardens was to have big, colorful bushes that did all the work for you and needed no care. They took their glasses of wine and strolled around the small garden as she pointed out this plant and that.

“Do you grow them from seed?” he asked.

“No, I haven't got a greenhouse or cloche frames or anything. You'd need to be in the whole of your health to get into that kind of thing.”

“But isn't it a fraction of the price?” he asked.

“Not if you had to buy a greenhouse and spend all day and all night pricking out seeds,” Clara said with spirit.

“No.” Peter was thoughtful. Friends of his had told him that having a garden was a great drain on your money, and he had consoled himself with this as he went upstairs to his apartment.

“If you come here again during the summer we could sit out and have our lunch in this corner,” she said.

“I hope we'll still be friends in the summer,” he said simply.

They had steak and kidney pie for lunch and cheese afterward. Clara opened a bottle of red wine. When he asked her where she had got it and how much it had cost, she lied and said she didn't
know, it had been a gift. She couldn't bear to tell him that she had gone into a wine shop and asked for something full-bodied and classy, a Burgundy perhaps, and had paid accordingly. Peter would have found that a great sin, not a generous, hospitable gesture.

He talked about the reps from the drug companies who came to sell their wares. Clara told him that it was very encouraging to see people living so well with heart failure. Patients who had come in a few short months ago in a panic, seeing the clinic as some kind of anteroom to the next world, were now confident and able to manage on their own. He told her that they had had a drug addict in his pharmacy during the week. A boy totally out of his mind, demanding to be given access to morphine and antidepressants. He carried the leg of a chair as a weapon; he was thin and covered with scabs. Peter had brought him into the back and shown him the safe and the locked drawers. He had told the boy that they needed three keys to open them and one of the staff was on lunch break.

“What did he do?”

“He believed me. He began to cry and shake. I knew the others had called the Guards, so all I had to do was keep him there. I gave him a couple of tranquilizers and talked to him. He thought we were waiting for someone to come back from lunch—then the Guards came. It was very upsetting.”

“He's somebody's son, you mean?” Clara asked.

“Yes, someone had great hopes for him, gave him the full-cream milk at the top of the bottle. And look at him now …” He seemed genuinely concerned.

“I know, but we can't play God. I had a man in the other day, dizzy spells and irregular heartbeat, so Declan and I decided he needed to wear a Holter monitor for twenty-four hours, to check on his heart rhythms. So we strapped him up and told him to come back the next day. When we printed out the report, we could see it had been turned off just before midnight. ‘Well, why did you turn it off?’ I asked him. ‘I got lucky, Doctor. I picked up a fine dame and
went home with her. You couldn't expect me to wear that bloody thing. She'd think I was a weirdo …

“Can't have been all that much wrong with his heart if he could score and bring someone back to his bed by eleven-thirty!” Peter said.

“Yes, well, we don't know whether it did him any good or not. He took offense that we were so cross with him and he hasn't been back!”

“What will you do?”

“Declan is the diplomat. He'll find a ruse one way or another to get him back, believe me.”

They talked about their daughters. Amy off learning about bondage garments in London, Adi hugging trees and Linda sulking and mutinous. It wasn't what either of them had expected when they had first become parents.

“Will you come to the theater with me during the week? There's a new play at the Abbey,” Peter asked suddenly.

“That would be great. I was just reading about it this morning,” she said.

Dervla rang her that night. “Has he gone?” she whispered.

“Oh, hours ago,” Clara said.

“I forgot he was Mr. Early-to-bed,” Dervla said.

“Well, it was lunch I invited him to.”

“Right, right—now the third date, has it been mentioned?”

“The Abbey Theatre, Wednesday,” Clara said.

Dervla gave a yelp of pleasure. “So it's more than a whirl then?”

“I don't know.” Clara was cautious.

“And a fling? It's not really a fling.” Dervla was searching for a definition.

“I'm a bit old for a fling,” Clara said.

“Right—will we call it a thing? Clara is having a thing with Peter …”

“Really, Dervla, you are an idiot!” Clara said, but she laughed.

“It's a
thing,”
Dervla cried. “It has now been officially designated a
thing
…”

•   •   •   

Amy came in from the airport exhausted.

“Were they interesting, the clothes you saw?” her father asked. He and Clara had decided they must assume some kind of enthusiasm for their daughters’ lives or they would lose them altogether.

“Oh,
Dad, please.”
Amy seemed to think he was pathetic.

But he plowed on. “You're my daughter, Amy. You've taken up a new career. Is it so bad that I be interested?”

Amy was still suspicious. “You're only going to say what a waste, how I threw away my opportunities and all that.”

“Well, no, I wasn't going to say that. I was just wondering did you see things you might import? But if it annoys you, let's just leave it.” His voice was different somehow.

Amy spoke slowly. “It was interesting, yes, but I think it might be risky spending big money on some of the things they have—a lot of leather, restraints, dominatrix gear, if you know what I mean.”

“I know.” Peter nodded gravely.

“It's not that there isn't a call for it. There is, but most of our customers almost
prefer
to go to London, to be anonymous. That's what I think, anyway. I may be wrong.”

“That's intelligent, to notice that. So it wasn't a wasted trip?”

“No, not at all. And I met a lovely guy on the plane coming back tonight. We're going out tomorrow.”

“Is he in the same line of business?”

“Ben? Oh, no. Ben is an embalmer.”