Average Sunday Afternoon by Pat Jourdan
Mrs Glynn: Yes, it’s clean gone out of my head. You don’t know how difficult it is. I promised her all sorts, and now there’s nothing.
Mr Glynn: She writes everything down. She’s taking our life away bit by bit. I know the situation there all right, her with her little gold pencil and her little notebook. Well, we can’t be evicted these days just because we can’t remember some old stories.
Mrs Glynn: That’s the least of it. It’s the shame. I’m racking my brain. Forgotten the lot. The legends, all gone. She and that Yeats man have collected up all the stories round here. What they’re doing with them all beats me.
Mr Glynn: What about the one about the fairy rath? Over on the hill there?
Mrs Glynn: No use. The O’Gradys told her that one last month. I met Mrs O’Grady’s mother and she said it was worth a bit of calf’s foot jelly. Lady Gregory was so pleased it was sent down specially from Coole Park. It’s really annoying, it’s desperate.
Mr Glynn: The O’Gradys and the fairy rath? – but sure, they don’t know anything about it. They never knew.
Mrs Glynn: Well they knew enough to satisfy her. Now we’ve got to come up with something just as good. And the Murphys got hold of that story about the little people and the dwarf king and the field.
Mr Glynn: How did they get hold of that?
Mrs Glynn: Stole it. A story’s worth a lot these days. It was the Healeys always told that story. There’s war going on in the top village now, you know, the Healeys against the O’Gradys, and the Murphys egging them on.
( A young woman appears at their door)
Young Woman: I got a message that you wanted me. Or did you?
Mr Glynn: We’ve sent out no messages. No-one has passed this door.
Young Woman: There’s ways of sending out the thought and I hear it clearly. You are hungry for stories, now, isn’t it?
Mr Glynn: You could say it was that.
Mrs Glynn: The problem is that we have a grand lady coming round soon and she wants stories.
Young Woman: I could tell you a story within a story inside a story. It was well over the other side of the hill, past the small line of trees, and it was early in the year many ages ago, before we were here or thought of being here. And a man was out hunting at night and he was with his old trusty dog, which was a black and white collie. Over in the woods, past the line of trees the dog led him and he heard the sound of singing in the distance. So the man and the dog worked their way through the pitch black towards the singing. And then, in a thicket they found a white-clothed man and a white-clothed woman sitting on a hillock with the moonlight shining directly on them.
They looked at the man and his dog and they seemed to smile, but sadly. And the man was struck with a deep dark sadness and his dog cowered at the couple’s feet.
“Good evening to you both” said the man.
“It may be a fine evening for such as you” said the White Man and the White Lady together, but they did not smile.
“Dear People,” he said, for he already expected them to be fairy folk, “Pray tell me who you are.”
“You will be changed forever once we have told you who we are,” they both said at once. “We are the spirits of all the animals you have ever killed in your nightly hunting. We are the rabbits, hares, pigeons, ducks and fishes that have been killed, and the spirit of all the frightened animals that hide and cringe from you each night.”
A shaft of light cut through the night clouds and the couple were gone. And the man looked at his dog and all its fur had turned totally white and when he got back to his home his wife told him his own hair had turned white overnight. From that time onwards he grew plants and vegetables and gave up hunting. His vegetables thrived and because of that he became a very rich man.
Mrs Glynn: Now there’s a story.
Mr Glynn: And a brand new one.
Young Woman: It’s hundreds of years old, don’t be mistaken.
Mrs Glynn: How can we thank you?
Mr Glynn: You’re very welcome to share our meal, though it will be sparse.
Young Woman: I have my own food. I don’t eat other peoples’. (She produces an apple). No, I will be going now. Perhaps I should not have been here. (She steps out of the door before they can stop her).
(A few days later, the same cottage).
Mrs Glynn: The fire’s gone out.
Mr Glynn: Quickly now, there’s still a spark. We can’t wait until all the hearths in the land are supplied with sacred fire.
Mrs Glynn: We’d perish before November. Anyway, our story will be taken up to the capital long before then, enough stories to fill up a cart with a strong carthorse pulling it all the way from here to Dublin.
Mr Glynn: Sending our myths and legends to people that don’t have any themselves, just to give them the illusion that they’ve got dreams and visions that they don’t rightly have. All gone ages ago.
Mrs Glynn: Perhaps we shouldn’t have done it. You know that fairies cheat – that young woman was definitely one. They can play strange tricks. I’m worried we’re going to have bad luck from now on. I’m going up to Coole Park and demanding our story back.
(Coole Park, the dining room, with Lady Gregory and William Yeats)
Lady Gregory: There you are, Willie, I’ve already written out some rough notes for you here. Well, pages and pages in fact. I’ve got a new book of letters by a Dorothy Wordsworth over in England. She wrote things for her brother William and he then worked them up, rather like you do, into poems. So sweet, to know there was another woman who helped genius when she saw it.
I’ve seen that The Irish Times has been ironed for you, and cook’s sent up her very best marmalade. But we’re fresh out of legends and myths, I’m afraid, so I’ve got to go down to one of the villages today, there’s hopes of another source. A very poverty-struck family, they will be glad of any reward.
William Yeats: I’ve received some correspondence here from an interesting young gentleman from Dublin. He says he is forging the spirit of the nation…quite a claim to make. Well I am building the entire smithy for all that forging to take place. The critics go on about the vague and imprecise imagery of my early work but now it is getting as strong as iron. And now I need some really good dialogue. Can you go out and get me some? You are always so good at that.
Lady Gregory: It is more difficult than you think, having to go round all the smelly cottages. The stinking poor, the rickety chairs, the jumping fleas. You don’t have to do it.
William Yeats: They will talk to you in an easier manner without me being there, you know that. It’s essential research, my dear. Now, where are my notes…..
(Lady Gregory goes out)
***
(Evening, the same room at Coole Park. Lady Gregory and Yeats are sitting at the dining table. Mrs Glynn bursts into the room)
Mrs Glynn: I want my story back, ma’am, sir. Back exactly how it was. To go back to the hillocks and hollows it came from. Back to the fairy forts. Not to be taken to the city and be destroyed by those who do not understand it. I want my story back now.
Lady Gregory: But you don’t understand …
Mrs Glynn: I do. It’s in that little notebook of yours. And then you feed it to him and it gets processed for those city people and foreigners. And then they are all going to come here and stare at us and poke us about and go tramping all over the secret places and frighten the fairy folk away. And it is us who will pay the price when the fairies get angry.
Lady Gregory: Don’t be upset now, they are not really as powerful as you may think.
Mrs Glynn: And that’s why I want it back. You city folk don’t believe in them now, you don’t respect their powers. They are just material to you, but we are tied to the land with them We know the value and we should not have sold it for some calf’s foot jelly. I’ve got it here. (She produces it from under her shawl.) It’s a bit used, for the baby, like, but you can have the rest back, with my respects, lady.
William Yeats: But
(Mrs Glynn rounds on him)
Mrs Glynn: Oh, you’re so convinced of it all aren’t you? It never crosses your mind that it could be otherwise! They were all lies. Lies. I made them all up!
Revenge
The side curtains were drawn, old-lady style, almost to the middle so that even at midday only a narrow stripe of light came through. It was like the slit windows of Norman castles; just enough light to keep from banging into the furniture, while being able to spy out if necessary. No-one could see in. This desire for privacy was because a dressing table took up all the space across the bay window.
An entire woman lay, in her constituent parts, all over the surface and inside the drawers, probably, though I never looked. A battalion of scarlet bottles of nail varnish stood, proudly, across half of the dressing table. Instead of looking glamorous, the grouped red bottles looked threatening, predatory, marching towards the front. They were not alluring or merry; they were vicious. An auburn wig lay, horrific, limping over one side of the mirror. Bottles, boxes, phials, powder-puffs, scarves, ropes of pearls, jewellery, discarded tights all mushroomed together in the gloom of a December afternoon.
This Christmas was just a gap between working days. Around us, the houses became festooned with lights, the nearest pub looked even more enticing and in the office some decorations had appeared mysteriously, probably from one of the filing cabinets. I had no real plans except survival into the New Year with the minimum of fuss.
“He’s down in the pub. Waiting for you.” Meg was putting more polish on her nails. There was a dress or outfit to match each bottle. Now even her hair was beginning to go vermilion.
Ben was my ex-boyfriend. We had been through three separate affairs and there was not going to be a fourth. We had reached the end. The Halfway House, however, was our nearest pub and Meg and I would be going there anyway. It was Christmas Eve and not a time to split hairs. So there was Ben, looking a bit sheepish, knowing he was all sorted for Xmas.
“He’s staying for Christmas dinner. You’ve got to invite him,” she hissed in my ear, before going to the bar. Meg was dressed in red from hair to toe – only by sitting on a barstool could all of this be properly displayed . Also, sitting at the bar meant first pick of any new men getting served. Meg was a man-eater.
Ben and I were at ease together, veterans.
“There’s a party tomorrow, I’m going to take you.” This was his calling card - someone else’s party. Reasons for parting coming back as clearly as ever. But let’s enjoy tonight. I’d have to pay a fiver extra with the rent, to pay for the festive dinner. Meg held court at the bar until her new boyfriend appeared, Pete from Swords. Not really her type and heaven knows where she met him. (Or when. Last week?).I no longer asked. Pete was obviously going to be around for Christmas dinner too. There was a large turkey already bought, and mountains of vegetables. I’d helped to carry them up from the shop.
The boys in the floor above had given Meg their key, with permission to use their flat over the holiday. This was riches. This was also the start of the trouble. Ben and I eventually went off to the bedroom previously shared by Meg and myself, with its two single beds. We wished Meg and Pete goodnight, as they would be going off to the upstairs flat as soon as the last bottle of whiskey was finished. In the dark, Ben kissed me expertly.
“Really, I don’t think we should get entangled all over again, after all we’ve been through,” I reasoned with his ear.
“O.K. Well, if that’s the way it is,” he patted my hair and like the gentleman he often was, turned aside and got into the other bed. I knew that if there was anyone better, he’d be with them; I was just a standby. We got up at midday, all helping with peeling, scraping and drinking, shoving everything into the oven and began eating. Pete and Ben got on well together, which was a mercy. Meg flirted and grew more and more drunk, added to last night’s drunkenness in an unbroken thread, while Ben got more and more uncomfortable and we were both off to our party by 6p.m.
“Phew!,” He said, leaning back in the taxi. “How do you stand it?”
“I didn’t know she was that bad. I just liked the flat – the view over the park and the lake and so on. Now I want my own grotty bedsit back.”
“I can see why.”
That was almost the last words we spoke together. As soon as we got into the party, and I don’t know whose party it was, or where we were, we separated in the crowd. My view was blocked by a tall fair-haired man wearing a perfectly white sweater. Golden-haired and dressed in white, like an angel from the top of a Christmas tree, he ended up coming home with me. Somewhere I might have said goodbye to Ben. I can remember a rueful smile, or perhaps imagine it.
We went back to the upstairs flat this time, as Meg shooed us up, out of her way, giving me the keys. Pete and herself were getting through another bottle of wine and did not want to be interrupted downstairs.
Steve told me that he had his shirts handmade; from the taxi he had pointed out a shop in Capel Street where he ordered them. He would be getting some new ones soon -he had just come out of Mountjoy.
“I was looking for a woman at that party,” he had said. By this time, however, we were in bed together. That is always when men tell you the worst. As a further surprise he also produced a silver alarm clock and put it by the bed. My own one was downstairs, being used by Meg and Pete, perhaps.
Steve had disappeared by St Stephen’s evening, writing down our phone number on the back of a bus-ticket. I was at work the next day. Being a civil servant again was calming, sheaves of paper, folders, envelopes – the quiet slither of paper, the accumulation of details. The day gently went past and the bus home was half empty. Some people were still on holiday.
Some people included Meg and Pete. They were sitting in the flat when I got in, both silent. They looked at me intently
“Something terrible has happened.” The smile dropped from my face.
“Sit down,” said Pete.
“Flu?” I asked.
“No. Worse. Crabs,” he answered. Meg looked at me sternly.
“You must be covered in them, “ she said, with a stark disapproval. I sat down. This was outside my range of experience.
“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” They had been drinking all the time I had been at work. Pete came a bit nearer and sat on the arm of another chair. Whiskey fumes drifted across.
“Crabs. Little red things that live in your pubic hairs and elsewhere. You went off and slept with Ben in there, and we used the same bed last night, and now we’re covered.”
“How do you know all this?” I was clever enough to ask.
“I used to go to sea. Sailors get them,” Pete said crisply.
“You better go into the bathroom and have a search,” ordered Meg, “We both have.”
No cup of tea. No welcome. I went along into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Stripping off every bit of clothing, I inspected it all gingerly and then got into the hot water. Nothing floated about, nothing moved. I shaved as much as possible, underarms as well and washed my hair afterwards in the sink separately to make sure. Inspecting the towel for any speck, moving or still, yielded nothing. Not feeling relieved yet, I went out into the living room where Meg and Pete sat like angry parents.
“Well,” I said brightly, “Unless they’re marching up and down the middle of my back in a straight line, there’s nothing there.”
“There’s got to be.” Meg looked really angry now.
“No. And I’ve remembered, (well, it hadn’t been important) that I didn’t sleep with Ben, or even really kiss him.” A near miss there.
“But you went off to bed together,” Meg accused. Pete was staring at me in a rather strange way. I looked at the bedroom door. “Just because two people go through a door, doesn’t mean they are going to sleep toget
“I slept in this one, and Ben slept in that one.” The empty sheets looked up, white and unliving.
***
I managed to creep round the flat, an ex-person, waiting to be rehabilitated. The boys upstairs were back in their own flat and Pete was staying on, and as I was in disgrace, one of the single beds was moved into the living room and at last we had separate bedrooms, now there was no man in my life, that is. I went to bed early. Meg and Pete went out to the pub.
In the middle of the night I was woken by shouts. A fight was going on in the hallway, which was through a doorway now blocked by my bed, in the new arrangement. Meg’s voice, hysterical, and Pete, slower and quieter. But now there were thumps and blows, feet stamping, cries and more shouts. I sat up in bed in the pitch black, as the light -switch was over in the other corner.
Then there was the crackling of breaking glass. Several empty milk bottles were lined up in the hall, mementoes of the holiday teas and coffees. I dragged the bed back and quickly unlocked the bedroom door leading to the hall. In the bright light Pete was pleading with Meg to stop, stop. Two milk bottles were crashed already. I opened the door wider.
Just let his face be all right. Just let there not be too much blood. I don’t like him, but let him be all right.
Pete staggered into the bedroom, a silhouette, with Meg whirling about, ready to smash another milk bottle on his head. But I snatched her by the wrist and she dropped it, dashing out of the front door, gabbling wildly. The discarded milk bottle rolled across the hall.
By now Pete had found the bedroom lightswitch and ran to the mirror. His face was completely untouched, though his hair stood up in wild tufts where she had been pulling at him. He scattered all the little bottles of nail varnish that were ranged across the dressing table. Instead of looking glamorous, the scarlet bottles looked like miniature blood specimens. The reds were not alluring or merry; they were vicious. Now they were rolling and falling onto the carpet like dead soldiers.