The Misremembered Man (8 page)

“Lord save us, that’s a good one!” cried Jamie in amazement.

“Aye. Y’know, my Paddy said the selfsame thing, sez he: ‘Lord save us, I never knew you could do that with a rollin’ pin, so a didn’t.’”

Rose reached for another scone.

“Now where was I, Jamie, afore I went down the side-road with the rollin’ pin and the ram? Another wee drop a tea?”

She didn’t wait for an answer but sloshed more into Jamie’s mug.

“The photo, Rose.”

“Och, I wouldn’t worry about a photo just yet, Jamie, not unless she asks for one, and to my mind a serious-minded woman wouldn’t be askin’ for a photo. A young one might be interested in a body’s looks, but a woman of your own age would have passed that stage long ago, because as I always sez to my Paddy, neither he nor me would a won any beauty contests in our day—and still wouldn’t, truth be told—but me mother, God rest her, would always say that God give you the face you have on you because He thought it went with the rest of you—and better a bad-lookin’ face than no face at all. Isn’t that the way of it?”

She sipped more tea and finished off her scone while Jamie ingested all this. He thought Rose a tremendously wise woman and did not doubt her sincerity when it came to matters of the heart.

“And y’know, Jamie, I’m not sayin’ you’re a bad lookin’ fella—far be it from me to be sayin’ such a thing—but I would say with a nice suit and a good shirt and tie, you’d look like royallity, so you would. A good white shirt and maybe a nice red tie and a starched hankie in a breast pocket would take a man anywhere. So if I were you, I’d buy meself an outfit in Harvey’s, Purveyor’s of Ladies’ and Gentlemen’s Fashions. Mr. Harvey gives very good discount if you’re not afraid of spendin’ a bit. But that’s time enough until you’re meetin’ her, like.” She got up to stir the soup. “My Paddy’ll go with you to pick one out if you like. Paddy knows what suits a man, so he does.”

“Aye, that would be the thing, Rose.” Jamie drummed his fingers on the pig-patterned tablecloth, at once excited and petrified with the speed with which Rose was conjuring up his future. There was a need in him to hold back; holding back and never taking a risk was where safety lay. Suddenly he caught sight of his grossly distorted head—a troll with the mange—in the belly of Rose’s silver teapot. “But then what about me hair? I wouldn’t want to be wearin’ a cap when I’d be meetin’ her like and without it I wouldn’t look so well or—”

“Well, y’know, Jamie, there’s them that wear them teepees or wigs or whatever it is you call them. I see them adverted in the
Exchange & Mart
now and again, meself. What about tryin’ one a them?”

“God, Rose, I don’t know. D’you think it’d be the thing?”

“Well y’know, Jamie, as I always sez to my Paddy, they wouldn’t be advertin’ them in the paper if they weren’t successful, because if the people weren’t buyin’ them, there’d be no point in the advertin’ and sellin’ of them, so there wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I know what you’re sayin’, Rose, right enough,” Jamie conceded, a trifle disquieted that Rose was lifting all the obstacles he was encountering before him on the road to marital bliss and tossing them so effortlessly over the hedge.

She now stooped to a magazine rack beside Paddy’s armchair—a rack made from pipe-cleaners, lollipop sticks, toilet-roll tubes and ribbon—fished out a copy of the periodical in question, and thrust it into his lap.

“There you go, Jamie. Take that home with you and have a wee look. I think the wigs is between the whalebone stays and the women’s briefs, if I mind right, but God-blisses-an-save-us, isn’t me mind sometimes like a colander betimes, so I can’t be sartin’.”

Jamie took the magazine with heartfelt thanks. He was beginning to warm to the idea of the exalted vision Rose was painting. A proper suit from Harvey’s. A wig from
Exchange & Mart
. One thing was for sure, he’d be looking well when he met this lady, which might be half the battle won.

He got up to go, his imagination bubbling as much as the broth in the pot.

“Well, I’ll not keep you any longer, Rose.” He returned the pad and envelopes to the string bag, and put the sealed letter carefully in his inside pocket—the pocket next to his heart. “Thank you very much indeed.”

Rose removed her glasses and returned them to the gawping lips of the guppy, turned and smoothed down an apron that showed a flock of sheep grazing serenely over her generous bosom.

“Not atall, Jamie. Anything to help you on your way. And if you want another one a them letters writ, just you let me know.”

“Right ye be, Rose,” he said, making for the door.

“Right ye be, Jamie, and may the sun always rise on your pig,” she said, turning back to stir the broth.

And with that, Jamie was on his bike and off up the road, a brandy-ball in his gob, bright thoughts in his head, and his heart light with the vision of maybe a happy future after all. A future in which he could see a tidy house like Rose’s, a table with a nice spread, a garden filled with flowers and a woman in the bed.

Well, maybe not in the bed. In a chair by the fire, anyway.

E
ighty-Six could not sleep. He lay on his stomach in the grim darkness. He did not know what time it was but guessed that it would be dawn soon. He dreaded the light as much as the dark because each could hold an equal weight of terror. The burdens he carried in daytime became the demons he fought at night.

He could not turn over on his back; the agony would be extreme, and he remembered with a sudden and terrible certainty that he’d wet the bed.

Around him the other little ones snored and writhed, trapped in their anguished dreams. Soon Sister Veronica would sweep through the dormitory, agitating the big triangle with a furious ringing. Soon she’d be hauling back the blankets for signs of “inappropriate bedtime behaviors,” as she called it. Soon, he knew, he’d be wearing the wet sheet for the rest of the day or washing it in the tin bath outside. It depended on her mood.

Then, all at once, he’d entered the bleak vision he’d imagined. Eighty-Six was springing to attention and standing beside his bed, his heart pounding and his throat parched. Along with the other boys he trembled with the awareness of another day dawning, a day in which the misery of every minute, every hour, would be stretched and felt and borne.

The nun was moving up the row of beds; bending over to inspect and sniff, her pointed nose twitching, her cane landing ten times on the backside of the offending boy. She paused at the bed next to his.

“You again, Eighty-Four! Third time this week. You will never learn, will you? Out here!”

With the cane she indicated a spot at the end of the bed. Eighty-Four lifted his nightshirt over his head and dutifully bent over to receive his punishment on his bare behind.

The others stood silent as the blows fell, trying not to look, staring straight ahead. Each boy counted and suffered each stroke; each boy knew the indignity of wetting his own bed and frequently endured the humiliation dealt out by the merciless nun. One morning a boy woke up on a dry, spotless sheet, relieved; the next morning he woke up wet. There was nothing he could do but pray it wouldn’t happen.

“What’s this, Eighty-Six?” Sister was pointing at the bloodstained sheet.

“Don’t know, Sister,” the boy stammered.

He kept his head down as always, his eyes fixed on his bare toes, which had turned blue on the cold floor. Outside, a raven tore at the howling wind.

“Bend over. Let me have a look.” He had not expected this. Would have done anything than have her inspect him. He could already hear the name-calling laughter at the breakfast table. He wished that she’d just beat him and be done with it. Faced with this predicament, he did the only thing he could. He started to cry.

“Eighty-Six, I will not ask you again. Out here,
now
.”

She whacked the stick against the foot of the bed. He jumped to it immediately, clumsily bunched the shirt in both hands and held it up. The nun bent down to have a look. She winced on seeing the series of bloody lacerations on the child’s backside. The raven cawed again as if mocking him. He shivered in his nakedness and prayed for it to end.

“All right.” Her voice was no longer harsh. He automatically bent over and waited for the cane to fall, clenching his painful muscles in readiness.

But nothing happened.

“No, Eighty-Six. You got your punishment last night, I see.”

He did not see the fret of pity in her eyes as he lowered the nightshirt. He did not look up with the shame of what he’d just endured.

“Now gather up your sheet for washing.”

She moved to the next bed.

Of the twenty boys who had wet their beds, seventeen were made to tie their wet sheets about their waists and wear them as punishment for the rest of the day. The remaining three were more fortunate, inasmuch as they got to wash theirs. They stood by the pump in the cold backyard; their sins lay before them in a sodden heap in the tin bath.

Sister Veronica pumped the water in—a blustery gush to wash away their wickedness. They set to the task, small hands slipping the bar of carbolic soap back and forth, rubbing their knuckles raw on the coarse cloth.

The bloodstains were hard to shift, so Eighty-Six was last again; last to hoist his dripping sheet up on the barbed-wire barrier that fenced the graveyard, last in the queue for the spoon of cod-liver oil and the meager breakfast.

He did not care. He could not eat.

The cod-liver oil was dispensed from the same metal tablespoon, coating ninety-six offered tongues, each of whose owners longed to spew it back in Sister Mary’s face. Eighty-Six had learned to swallow it quickly. Not to think too deeply; to proffer his bowl for the ladle of lumpy gruel and carry it directly to the nearest vacant place at the long refectory table.

He attempted to sit, lowering himself gingerly onto the wooden bench. When he made contact with the hard seat, pain shot through him; pain so brutal and burning, that it was as if he were back there in Keaney’s room, sprawled over the fusty bed, suffering the same violence again. He shut his eyes tight against the torment, his head down, hunched over the bowl, his backside half raised off the seat, and struggled to eat, his tears falling into the gruel.

His fellow offender, Eighty-Four, was seated in like manner beside him. He wore the emblem of the chronic bed-wetter: the wet sheet tied around his middle. He was a small boy with large eyes, and a birthmark like a red ink spill soiling most of his pale neck. They might be the same age—who was to know?—but they had the same mannerisms, and had suffered the same punishment. Master Keaney liked them small and weak. They could not speak out. They sat locked inside their frightened selves.

Sister Mary patrolled the hall like a great crow, her black robes grazing the floor, her eyes alert for dropped food and foot-fights under the long tables. She could tell, just by looking down the serried rows of lowered heads, which of the boys had suffered Keaney’s “attentions” in the night. They did not want to eat; they sobbed into their hands and swapped their bowl with the nearest little glutton, one who would see in their raw pain his own fat reward.

She spotted Eighty-Four and Eighty-Six trade their bowls with the boys opposite them, but did not intervene. Just as she did not intervene in the affairs of the men. After all, these children were the products of sin, and did they not, in a way, deserve all they got?

L
ydia Devine, having ensured that the coast was clear, closed the bedroom door quietly and opened the large envelope marked “Private.” For although her mother was safely out of sight, in the parlor watching
Green Acres
, she could not trust her to stay put for its half-hour duration. Sometimes the appearance of the hapless, bumbling character of Hank Kimball—whom Elizabeth felt was “a talentless gype” and lowered the show’s appeal—could cause her to turn down the volume and make a cup of tea. Worse still, she might decide to switch off the set completely and go on the prowl to see what Lydia was up to.

However, at that point, Lydia could hear the burbling television down below and felt confident that she was safe for the time being at least.

The big envelope contained three smaller ones, each bearing her box number. The first letter was on yellow paper, with two pink hearts entwined before a rising sun—very forward, thought Lydia—and the writing was practically indecipherable. She tried to squint her way through it, but gave up when her head began to ache at the wobbling script and careless spelling. A man who could not manage the word “because” and who omitted his definite articles (not to mention his punctuation) was either a slow learner or a foreigner, or, God forbid, both. A resounding three out of ten, thought Lydia, and resisted the urge to take her red pen and write “Please try harder” across the bottom.

The second one she opened was a marked improvement. The handwriting was regular and legible. The envelope and paper were in matching bond with a fetching scalloped border. She was impressed.

Lydia settled back more comfortably against the pillows. Full marks already for the use of the word “perusing,” and more brownie points for taking the trouble to spell out the word “advertisement.” That dangling participle was, of course, something else again, but she was prepared to forgive it. Here was obviously a man who believed in doing things properly.

She thought he must be psychic to read such depth in such a small ad. Still, she was flattered—and the proper use of the subordinate clause was impressive.

Lydia shifted uneasily. What on earth was he talking about? She looked up from the letter and studied the ceiling lamp. The tv still babbled happily down below. Thank heavens, she thought; it must be a Kimball-free episode. Now, “items for the ladies” and “fulfilling a ladies needs” sounded a bit odd. But perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps she’d solve the puzzle by reading on.

And, thought Lydia, raising an eyebrow, the
Mid-Ulster Vindicator
is a quality broadsheet?

My word! thought Lydia, returning the letter to the envelope; educated certainly, but a bit of a show-off. Let’s see what number three has to offer.

She ran her silver sword letter-opener—a thank-you present from Emily Bingham on the occasion of passing her eleven-plus examination—along the crease and unfolded the single blue page. She was glad it was short and to the point. She began reading, but had barely finished the first sentence when she saw the doorknob turn. She tensed, stuffed the letters under the pillow and sat up on the edge of the bed.

“What were you doing there just now?”

Mrs. Devine stood in the doorway, pointing her malacca cane at Lydia’s pillow.

“Mother, really! How dare you barge into my bedroom without knocking?”

“I don’t need to knock on doors in my own home.”

“Well, believe it or not, it’s called manners and having respect for other people’s privacy.” Lydia stood up, her anger rising. “Even if that other person is
only
your daughter. Now I’d be grateful if you’d go back to
Green Acres
and leave me in peace. I was resting.”

“I’m finished watching it. That idiot Kimball appeared.”

“I thought as much!” Lydia snapped.

“Anyway, you weren’t resting.” Elizabeth eyed her daughter suspiciously, her knotty fingers gripping the panther head of the cane. “You’re up to something. I can always tell, you know.”

“I was not up to anything.” She put a hand to her brow and sighed. “Good Lord, it’s like living with a child!”

“If it’s nothing, why’s your face all red?” demanded Elizabeth.

“Let’s have a cup of tea and a slice of Beattie’s chocolate sponge, shall we?” Lydia said the first thing that came to her, hoping it would distract her mother from the pillow.

“What chocolate sponge? Beattie never gave me a sponge.”

“Oh, but she did!” She took her mother’s arm and led her out the door. “It must have slipped your mind. If we don’t eat it soon, the birds will get it.”

“Is that so?” said Elizabeth, confused, the pillow already forgotten.

Before retiring for the night, Jamie stood in his bedroom, angling the broken piece of mirror, taking a critical look at his full-bellied self. The letter had been sent. In fact, the anonymous lady would probably have already read it, and with a bit of luck, might be wanting to take a look at him very soon. Jamie realized that drastic measures would need to be taken to make himself appear more presentable. After all, Rose had said that a good suit and shirt could take a man anywhere. But be that as it may, he felt a lot more was needed to improve his chances of winning a wife.

As he stood now in the fading light, he was none too pleased with the image the glass threw back. He did appreciate that wearing bedraggled long Johns with a pair of grubby bare feet poking out of them did little to enhance his appearance. Nonetheless, the fact remained that he was a bit overweight, prematurely bald, and had a face like a seed potato left too long in the pit. But what could a man do about it?

He set the broken mirror on the windowsill and stepped back to obtain a more accurate reading. He turned from side to side, inhaled deeply, pulled in his stomach, straightened his posture—and was immediately struck by the difference the simple exercise made. But what of it? He could hardly turn up to meet this woman holding his breath and belly in, and clenching his buttocks, for an indefinite period of time. Jamie winced at the very thought, sighed and let his shoulders drop to their habitual comfortable, slouched position. He stared at himself dejectedly.

He was a man of forty-one who, because of his lifestyle and outlook, was going on
sixty-one
. There was nothing he could do—or was there? He remembered Dr. Brewster advising him on several occasions to lose some weight.

“Your blood pressure is far too high, James, which puts undue stress on your heart, and you don’t want to come down with a stroke or heart attack at your age. Cut down on the fries and cigarettes; that’s my advice.”

But how could he? Jamie thought of his frying pan: the weighty iron-bottomed pan that had been passed down the generations; thought of how he loved to see the sausages and bacon shrivel to a curl in the sizzling lard. He was unaware, however, of how many spluttering, fat-soaked feasts had been served up from that very utensil, or indeed of how many lives it had claimed. A whole line of male McCloones with furred arteries and slowed hearts had fallen into early graves with strokes and aneurisms, oblivious to the fact that the humble pan had put them there.

Dr. Brewster had passed a paper across to him. “Here’s a diet sheet and some guidelines. Three weeks on that and you’ll be a new man.”

Jamie had taken the diet sheet but not the advice it contained. Sure a man who had nothing much in his life didn’t have much incentive for prolonging it. And if you took away the fries and the smokes and the wee drop of drink, sure what would be the point of getting outta the bed of a morning atall, atall?

“
Ah, but now there is a point
,” a little voice whispered in Jamie’s ear. “
Your whole life could change for the better. But it’s up to you
.”

At that moment he regretted not having taken the good doctor’s counsel. But maybe there was still time.

Inspired, he rushed to the drawer of the glass case in the kitchen and unearthed the diet sheet from beneath a pile of bills, coupons, tax returns, parish bulletins and St. Brigid’s Church monthly stipend envelopes. He lit the oil lamp and proceeded to read through the formidable list.

And Dr. Brewster had added, humorously, in his own hand:

Jamie turned out the lamp, lay down on his bed and thought: Well, no man is gonna call
me
a mouse. Not even Dr. Brewster—and there and then he decided to change himself.

That night, as he drifted into sleep, this desire for betterment took an almighty hold and began burning in him with a passionate force, as a banked fire, suddenly poked, might glow red and flame under the sucking roar of a violent chimney updraft. Yes, he’d cut down on the fries, give up the drink—or maybe take a wee drop less—take more exercise, ride his bicycle more vigorously and often into town.

And he could see the new man emerging in that new suit from Harvey’s Fashions. Saw himself in a pair of knife-crease trousers that did not require suspenders, held in place by a belt of fine leather that did not demand an extra hole or two punched with the aid of a hammer and a six-inch nail. Under the suit, he saw a shirt of some whiteness, its stiff-rimmed collar making his neck feel important. To set it off, a paisley print tie in shiny red, and on his feet a pair of glossy shoes, polished to a conker’s gleam.

And ultimately he envisaged himself meeting his future wife; he, James Kevin Barry Michael McCloone, a man of fine standards and high morals. A proud man with a flat-enough middle and a straight-enough back.