Good Behaviour by Maggie O'Farrell, Molly Keane Page A
Authors: Maggie O'Farrell, Molly Keane
Ads: Link
distance in our childhood, separating children from
adults, was bridged. He was dependent, the taker; we the givers.
CHAPTER TEN
This recovery and reinstatement were a way back for him to his separate life, where all his charm and wandering habits found
other adventures and intimates to whom Temple Alice was only a distant name, and Mummie a dim legend. The fitting of his wooden
leg provided endless occasions for short stays at the Cavalry Club, which meant, as often as not, a night spent not at the
Club but with some friend’s sleek and willing wife. It was the day of the shingle and straight pailletted dresses and huge
pearl chokers; gardenias in velvet boxes; white ladies before dinner; and a night-club afterwards. Dancing was beyond him;
but that melancholy uncomplaining stare of his, far into the eyes of his partners, never failed him of his purpose. The wooden
leg and the wonder of his recovered horsemanship added interest to the encounters between him and his women.
He would return to Temple Alice battered and exhausted. ‘Were your doctors very savage?’ Mummie would ask, giving him a look
both indulgent and sly, before she went pleading to the cook for some special effort; then back again to herpainting until he was recovered by early nights and Mrs Lennon’s superb cooking.
Mrs Lennon was middle-aged. She had worked for us for fifteen years, on a wage of £30 a year. She was only Mrs Lennon in
token of her office. Now she got cancer and died. Her death made a dreadful change, a real chasm in one of his greatest pleasures,
a weakening of one of Mummie’s unspoken influences. Mrs Lennon’s secrets died along with her, for she despised receipts and
the ignorant and mean-minded who cooked by them; she never wrote anything down and, if possible, shut the door against any
inquiring kitchen maid while she composed her greatest dishes. No inheritance was left from her years in office. She could
not speak the language of her skill (nor did she wish to). ‘Partridges Mrs Lennon … ’ some friend might say years after her
death, and Papa’s eyes would drop and his face darken. He would not answer, only sigh.
Her successors came and went; they were more expensive and none of them had a vocation. Mummie’s aimless half hints about
the Major’s pleasures and displeasures carried no weight. She herself could not have told one of them in plain language how
to boil an egg, and Mrs Beeton and Mrs Marshall had hardly more effect. At that time the standard of cooking in Irish country
houses was lower than abysmal. Mrs Lennon had been a great exception. Papa did not complain, or not out loud. He had his own
ways and means of expressing disappointment, even disgust. He would smile apologetically when his uneaten food was carried
away, and ask gently for Bath Olivers and milk. Into the milk would go whisky – quantities of it. He grew fatter and his discontent
was sad for Mummie to see.
His wooden leg and alterations to its contrivances sent him oftener, and for longer times, to London, where the Dorises and
Dianas, Gladyses and Enids, and the two Joyces took their glad toll. All right – confusion was in their numbers. The outings
and matings were immaterial, unconfessed, accomplished within a code of manners. Papa’s love affairs were run on his own terms.
Divorce was something Mummie must never be asked to imagine. She was his escape, his freedom. Temple Alice was an island where
a strange swan nested, a swan who never sang the fabled song before her many deaths.
While, as though in duty bound, Papa was hunting, fishing, and shooting in their proper seasons, at Temple Alice money poured
quietly away. Our school fees were the guilty party most often accused. Then came rates and income tax and the absurd hesitations
of bank managers. Coal merchants and butchers could both be difficult, so days of farm labour were spent felling and cutting
up trees – the wood
adults, was bridged. He was dependent, the taker; we the givers.
CHAPTER TEN
This recovery and reinstatement were a way back for him to his separate life, where all his charm and wandering habits found
other adventures and intimates to whom Temple Alice was only a distant name, and Mummie a dim legend. The fitting of his wooden
leg provided endless occasions for short stays at the Cavalry Club, which meant, as often as not, a night spent not at the
Club but with some friend’s sleek and willing wife. It was the day of the shingle and straight pailletted dresses and huge
pearl chokers; gardenias in velvet boxes; white ladies before dinner; and a night-club afterwards. Dancing was beyond him;
but that melancholy uncomplaining stare of his, far into the eyes of his partners, never failed him of his purpose. The wooden
leg and the wonder of his recovered horsemanship added interest to the encounters between him and his women.
He would return to Temple Alice battered and exhausted. ‘Were your doctors very savage?’ Mummie would ask, giving him a look
both indulgent and sly, before she went pleading to the cook for some special effort; then back again to herpainting until he was recovered by early nights and Mrs Lennon’s superb cooking.
Mrs Lennon was middle-aged. She had worked for us for fifteen years, on a wage of £30 a year. She was only Mrs Lennon in
token of her office. Now she got cancer and died. Her death made a dreadful change, a real chasm in one of his greatest pleasures,
a weakening of one of Mummie’s unspoken influences. Mrs Lennon’s secrets died along with her, for she despised receipts and
the ignorant and mean-minded who cooked by them; she never wrote anything down and, if possible, shut the door against any
inquiring kitchen maid while she composed her greatest dishes. No inheritance was left from her years in office. She could
not speak the language of her skill (nor did she wish to). ‘Partridges Mrs Lennon … ’ some friend might say years after her
death, and Papa’s eyes would drop and his face darken. He would not answer, only sigh.
Her successors came and went; they were more expensive and none of them had a vocation. Mummie’s aimless half hints about
the Major’s pleasures and displeasures carried no weight. She herself could not have told one of them in plain language how
to boil an egg, and Mrs Beeton and Mrs Marshall had hardly more effect. At that time the standard of cooking in Irish country
houses was lower than abysmal. Mrs Lennon had been a great exception. Papa did not complain, or not out loud. He had his own
ways and means of expressing disappointment, even disgust. He would smile apologetically when his uneaten food was carried
away, and ask gently for Bath Olivers and milk. Into the milk would go whisky – quantities of it. He grew fatter and his discontent
was sad for Mummie to see.
His wooden leg and alterations to its contrivances sent him oftener, and for longer times, to London, where the Dorises and
Dianas, Gladyses and Enids, and the two Joyces took their glad toll. All right – confusion was in their numbers. The outings
and matings were immaterial, unconfessed, accomplished within a code of manners. Papa’s love affairs were run on his own terms.
Divorce was something Mummie must never be asked to imagine. She was his escape, his freedom. Temple Alice was an island where
a strange swan nested, a swan who never sang the fabled song before her many deaths.
While, as though in duty bound, Papa was hunting, fishing, and shooting in their proper seasons, at Temple Alice money poured
quietly away. Our school fees were the guilty party most often accused. Then came rates and income tax and the absurd hesitations
of bank managers. Coal merchants and butchers could both be difficult, so days of farm labour were spent felling and cutting
up trees – the wood
Similar Books
