bed and hum our child to sleep at the tail end of a playful afternoon. Sunshine dappled across our lazy bodies, hypnotizing us, and I would see what an extraordinary man he was to lullaby his wife and child on a summer’s afternoon, when other men might be gathered in the pub to drink themselves daft. Perhaps it was because he was a teacher, but he seemed to have a natural, easy way with Niamh that mystified me. How could you love somebody as completely and absolutely as we loved her and maintain such a detached fairness? I guess he was a more natural father than I was a mother. I had been surprised by my love for her but as Niamh’s personality developed, my relationship with her became fraught. She was feisty—like myself—and we were both willful and petulant. James became arbiter and confidant to us both.
When she was a small child, Niamh and I often squabbled in the kitchen, as I instructed her in making her favorite fairy cakes. Flour and butter would be everywhere; eggs dropped lethally on the polished flagstones. I would get frustrated when I realized that she was too young for instruction, but she was having too much fun for me to stop the lesson. James stood for a moment at the door watching me frantically wipe debris off the table, the floor, my face. And in his quietly observing me, I would see myself as he saw me: in my everyday apron, dark hair wound to the back, a swirl of flour dashed across my cheek. I knew that I was more beautiful to him then, as mother to his child, than I had ever been in the beguiling days of my youth.
I knew also that James was loving us both as he just stood there. That in his teaching, his digging for potatoes, his tending the cattle, his reading, in everything James did, was hidden a eulogy to his two “girls.” And I knew that I was a lucky woman to be able to take his protection and provision and paternal patronage for granted, and a blessed one for the luxury of all the little ways he found to love me.
At times like that, I would believe that perhaps loving James as a father was as good as loving him as a man.
17
I was on a creative buzz with my new kitchen.
I had designed and built kitchens for myself, for magazines, for friends, and for very rich people who wanted to pretend that they were going to cook in them. Kitchen companies employed me as a consultant; Tressa Nolan was—without wishing to sound egotistical about it—the living embodiment of the modern American kitchen. But the kitchen in Longville Avenue had taken my idea of the perfect cooking space to a new level.
It all started when I was flicking through some brochures trying to find the perfect Shaker look.
Dan had looked over my shoulder and said, “They look expensive.”
I told him that all the companies would give me a deal and he said “Oh, right—it’s just I thought you wanted to fix up this old stuff. There’s this carpenter guy I know...”
As he trailed off, I looked around at all the broken-down stuff we had been living with for the past few weeks. There was the fifties larder unit with the tin work-top, a broken-down sideboard we had been keeping the kettle on, a small square table with turned legs and a devastated peeling veneer top. All this scruffy old junk we had been living with since we had moved in which, despite my craving for a pared-down Shaker-style kitchen, I had grown quite fond of. Did I want to throw it all on the scrap heap and replace it with brand-new stuff?
“Is he good?” I asked.
“Oh—he’s good,” Dan said.
Dan knew that our kitchen was not only the most important room in the house, but also a really important part of my working life. Still, I was not sure about going eclectic. But I told myself that if it all went wrong, I could always call in the heavy guns. In my line of work, kitchens were frighteningly disposable.
So Dan made a call to a guy, who made a call to another guy, who got his tattooed biker buddy to come over.
I took one look at him and
When she was a small child, Niamh and I often squabbled in the kitchen, as I instructed her in making her favorite fairy cakes. Flour and butter would be everywhere; eggs dropped lethally on the polished flagstones. I would get frustrated when I realized that she was too young for instruction, but she was having too much fun for me to stop the lesson. James stood for a moment at the door watching me frantically wipe debris off the table, the floor, my face. And in his quietly observing me, I would see myself as he saw me: in my everyday apron, dark hair wound to the back, a swirl of flour dashed across my cheek. I knew that I was more beautiful to him then, as mother to his child, than I had ever been in the beguiling days of my youth.
I knew also that James was loving us both as he just stood there. That in his teaching, his digging for potatoes, his tending the cattle, his reading, in everything James did, was hidden a eulogy to his two “girls.” And I knew that I was a lucky woman to be able to take his protection and provision and paternal patronage for granted, and a blessed one for the luxury of all the little ways he found to love me.
At times like that, I would believe that perhaps loving James as a father was as good as loving him as a man.
17
I was on a creative buzz with my new kitchen.
I had designed and built kitchens for myself, for magazines, for friends, and for very rich people who wanted to pretend that they were going to cook in them. Kitchen companies employed me as a consultant; Tressa Nolan was—without wishing to sound egotistical about it—the living embodiment of the modern American kitchen. But the kitchen in Longville Avenue had taken my idea of the perfect cooking space to a new level.
It all started when I was flicking through some brochures trying to find the perfect Shaker look.
Dan had looked over my shoulder and said, “They look expensive.”
I told him that all the companies would give me a deal and he said “Oh, right—it’s just I thought you wanted to fix up this old stuff. There’s this carpenter guy I know...”
As he trailed off, I looked around at all the broken-down stuff we had been living with for the past few weeks. There was the fifties larder unit with the tin work-top, a broken-down sideboard we had been keeping the kettle on, a small square table with turned legs and a devastated peeling veneer top. All this scruffy old junk we had been living with since we had moved in which, despite my craving for a pared-down Shaker-style kitchen, I had grown quite fond of. Did I want to throw it all on the scrap heap and replace it with brand-new stuff?
“Is he good?” I asked.
“Oh—he’s good,” Dan said.
Dan knew that our kitchen was not only the most important room in the house, but also a really important part of my working life. Still, I was not sure about going eclectic. But I told myself that if it all went wrong, I could always call in the heavy guns. In my line of work, kitchens were frighteningly disposable.
So Dan made a call to a guy, who made a call to another guy, who got his tattooed biker buddy to come over.
I took one look at him and
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