my dear dead sister’s namesake was actually here in Ireland.” She looked reproachfully at me. I found her sorrowful “dear dead sister” routine to be overdone.
“I’m pleased to meet you, but I’m afraid we’re in such a mess inside … unpacking, you know …”
“Not to worry in the least, my dear Irene,” and with that she brushed by me into the small hall.
It wasn’t entirely the surprise of encountering the twins which halted her forward motion. I knew that she’d never been in this house before. Score #1. The coup obscurely pleased me.
“Your children, my dear?” She was clearly astounded at the size and beauty of my offspring. Score #2.
“This way to the living room, Mrs. Maginnis,” I said, smoothly leading the way. Simon followed her, and Snow caught my nod and closed the half-open dining-room door, then brought up the rear of the procession.
“This is my son, Simon Stanford, and my daughter, Sara.”
Mrs. Imelda Maginnis was far more interested in her surroundings than in my introduction. She acknowledged them with a cursory bob of her head. She managed to look down a very short nose as if it were a Medici hook. I could see her mentally inventorying the value of the furnishings. When I urged her to take the small settee, she settled herself tentatively on the edge with an almost audible sniff, as if she expected dust to billow out. Then she asked Snow how old she was, in a condescending tone that made me want to spit.
I could see Simon closing his eyes and cringing as we both wondered how Snow was going to respond. She behaved herself, undoubtedly for some malicious purpose.
“My,” said Mrs. Maginnis in that arch tone, “you’re well grown for fourteen. And how old are you, Simon?”
“Fourteen.”
Mrs. Maginnis pursed her lips, uncertain whether she was being mocked.
“They’re twins, Mrs. Maginnis. Don’t let their looks or size fool you.”
“How very intr’usting!”
Good heavens, I wondered, didn’t “nice” people in Ireland have twins?
“Well, now, you’ve cousins the same age as yourselves who would be so glad to take you about while you’re in Dublin,” said their great-great-aunt, again insufferably patronizing. It was obvious that she felt we wouldn’t, or shouldn’t, be staying here very long.
I caught Snow’s eye warningly.
“Sure and we’d like that so very much,” said my dutiful daughter with an alarmingly Irish brogue. “We hope to do such a lot of sightseeing … while we’re here.”
“In fact, my dear,” and Mrs. Maginnis turned to me, shifting her buttocks on the slippery sofa upholstery, “my sisters and I would like to give you a little welcome party. At
my
house.”
So, her house was the best of the lot? I mumbled something appropriate and wondered how I could graciously decline. Then I realized that I was overreacting. They
were
my relations; Mrs. Maginnis was obviously trying to be hospitable, however much against her better judgment. And Aunt Irene had said that I should “do” something for the younger ones who’d been kind to her.
“It’s not proper, of course, to do much entertaining, like. With Irene gone so soon.” She sniffed pathetically as she eyed the carpet. Her nose wiggled to acquaint us with her low opinion of the thing. “Would Sunday suit? For tea?”
I was forced to say how kind she was, how thoughtful.
“We must do what we can to make you welcome while you’re in Ireland, even in such sad circumstances. And then too, my dear, you’ll need help settling and selling up the estate, won’t you?”
“Actually, Mrs. Maginnis—”
“Please, Irene—Auntie Imelda.”
I choked out the syllables as directed. “… I can’t do anything about selling until the will has been probated, you know.”
Clearly she didn’t, and her eyes went very round and dissatisfied.
“Oh, but of course,” she recovered quickly, with a nervous giggle. “Well, you’ll be able to rely on us, you know, because
“I’m pleased to meet you, but I’m afraid we’re in such a mess inside … unpacking, you know …”
“Not to worry in the least, my dear Irene,” and with that she brushed by me into the small hall.
It wasn’t entirely the surprise of encountering the twins which halted her forward motion. I knew that she’d never been in this house before. Score #1. The coup obscurely pleased me.
“Your children, my dear?” She was clearly astounded at the size and beauty of my offspring. Score #2.
“This way to the living room, Mrs. Maginnis,” I said, smoothly leading the way. Simon followed her, and Snow caught my nod and closed the half-open dining-room door, then brought up the rear of the procession.
“This is my son, Simon Stanford, and my daughter, Sara.”
Mrs. Imelda Maginnis was far more interested in her surroundings than in my introduction. She acknowledged them with a cursory bob of her head. She managed to look down a very short nose as if it were a Medici hook. I could see her mentally inventorying the value of the furnishings. When I urged her to take the small settee, she settled herself tentatively on the edge with an almost audible sniff, as if she expected dust to billow out. Then she asked Snow how old she was, in a condescending tone that made me want to spit.
I could see Simon closing his eyes and cringing as we both wondered how Snow was going to respond. She behaved herself, undoubtedly for some malicious purpose.
“My,” said Mrs. Maginnis in that arch tone, “you’re well grown for fourteen. And how old are you, Simon?”
“Fourteen.”
Mrs. Maginnis pursed her lips, uncertain whether she was being mocked.
“They’re twins, Mrs. Maginnis. Don’t let their looks or size fool you.”
“How very intr’usting!”
Good heavens, I wondered, didn’t “nice” people in Ireland have twins?
“Well, now, you’ve cousins the same age as yourselves who would be so glad to take you about while you’re in Dublin,” said their great-great-aunt, again insufferably patronizing. It was obvious that she felt we wouldn’t, or shouldn’t, be staying here very long.
I caught Snow’s eye warningly.
“Sure and we’d like that so very much,” said my dutiful daughter with an alarmingly Irish brogue. “We hope to do such a lot of sightseeing … while we’re here.”
“In fact, my dear,” and Mrs. Maginnis turned to me, shifting her buttocks on the slippery sofa upholstery, “my sisters and I would like to give you a little welcome party. At
my
house.”
So, her house was the best of the lot? I mumbled something appropriate and wondered how I could graciously decline. Then I realized that I was overreacting. They
were
my relations; Mrs. Maginnis was obviously trying to be hospitable, however much against her better judgment. And Aunt Irene had said that I should “do” something for the younger ones who’d been kind to her.
“It’s not proper, of course, to do much entertaining, like. With Irene gone so soon.” She sniffed pathetically as she eyed the carpet. Her nose wiggled to acquaint us with her low opinion of the thing. “Would Sunday suit? For tea?”
I was forced to say how kind she was, how thoughtful.
“We must do what we can to make you welcome while you’re in Ireland, even in such sad circumstances. And then too, my dear, you’ll need help settling and selling up the estate, won’t you?”
“Actually, Mrs. Maginnis—”
“Please, Irene—Auntie Imelda.”
I choked out the syllables as directed. “… I can’t do anything about selling until the will has been probated, you know.”
Clearly she didn’t, and her eyes went very round and dissatisfied.
“Oh, but of course,” she recovered quickly, with a nervous giggle. “Well, you’ll be able to rely on us, you know, because
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