The O’Hara Affair. Kate Thompson
in church, or in the doctor’s waiting room.
Daphne gave Dervla a frosty look. ‘I think that is not a joke at all. Or if it is, it’s a very silly joke. You should be ashamed of yourself, Christian, for telling such silly jokes. What age are you now?’
‘I’m forty-five, Mum.’
‘You’re never forty-five!’ exclaimed Daphne.
‘I sure am. And feeling every day of it.’
‘But are you my son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what age am I?’
‘You’re well over eighty, Mum.’
‘But I don’t want to be that old! That’s dreadful!’
‘Yes. But, sure – you’re as young as you feel.’
There was a pregnant pause as Daphne digested the news that she was eighty-something and Des O’Connor crooned over the speakers about Spanish eyes. ‘I’m carrying on the tradition of my family,’ she pronounced finally. ‘Living to a funny old age. My parents are still alive, you know. Aren’t they?’
Christian set down his fork. ‘What do you think, Mum?’
‘No.’ Daphne drooped a little. ‘It’s terrible when your memory deserts you.’
‘That’s what happens when you reach your age,’ Christian reassured her. ‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault.’
Dervla and Christian exchanged glances. A sudden sobriety had fallen on the dinner table. They continued to eat in silence for a while. Then Daphne looked curiously at Christian and said: ‘Did you marry someone?’
‘Yes. I married Dervla.’
‘Dervla?’ she said, turning to regard her. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, Daphne,’ said Dervla. ‘Christian, could you pass me the salt, please?’
‘Certainly,’ said Christian. ‘There you are.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Oh, this was awful, awful! Dervla felt as if she were spouting dialogue from a bad play. She couldn’t be spontan eous. She couldn’t just reach for the salt herself in case it looked unmannerly. She couldn’t burp and then go ‘Oops!’ She couldn’t say, ‘Look at that queer-shaped cloud.’ She couldn’t say, ‘I’m knackered.’ She couldn’t say, ‘How are you getting on with the new Patricia Cornwell?’ Because if she said any of those things, she’d have to explain to Daphne what she had said. She’d have to say, ‘There’s a funny-shaped cloud in the sky, Daphne. I was just pointing it out to Christian.’ She’d have to say, ‘I was just saying to Christian that I’m very tired.’ She’d have to say, ‘Christian is reading a book by an author called Patricia Cornwell, and I was wondering if he was enjoying it.’ And then Daphne would be bound to come out with something like, ‘Christian is not reading a book. He is eating his dinner.’ And then…And then?
Hell. She couldn’t allow this to happen to her. ‘Look at that queer-shaped cloud, Christian,’ she said, in a low voice.
‘Wow! It looks like the UFO from Close Encounters.’
‘That’s just what I was thinking!’
‘Why are you whispering?’ shouted Daphne. ‘You don’t want me to hear!’
‘We’re not whispering, Mum,’ said Christian.
‘Then stop giving each other private looks. It’s rude.’
‘But we’re married. We’re allowed to look at each other.’ He smiled at Dervla, and added in an undertone, ‘And do rude things.’
‘What do you mean, you’re married?’
‘Dervla and I were married last year.’
‘What? Why did nobody tell me? I don’t believe that the pair of you are married! Congratulations and jubilations!’
Christian started to sing along, then stopped abruptly, and slid Dervla an apologetic look.
‘It’s OK,’ she told him. ‘It really is.’ And, taking a deep breath, she joined in the song she had never been able to bring herself to sing before in her life because it was so damned naff.
‘There’s a bird!’ exclaimed Daphne, interrupting the singalong. ‘That was a bird, you know. I saw it land on the windowsill. And then it took off. It was a bird.’
There was another pause, then Dervla rose and started to clear away her plate. She wasn’t hungry any more. And then she tensed, waiting for Daphne to say it was rude to clear away before everyone had finished. But thankfully, Daphne hadn’t seemed to notice. ‘Would you like a bowl of ice cream for pudding, Daphne?’ she asked, in her children’s television presenter’s voice.
‘No. I would not like a great big bowl. I would like a dish of ice cream for pudding. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Well, that was a lovely dinner, wasn’t it?’ said Christian, putting his knife and fork together.
‘What did we have, again?’
‘Shepherd’s pie.’
Oh, God help us, Dervla thought, as she scraped leftover pie into the bin and went to fetch bowls – dishes – from the cupboard. Behind her, she could hear Daphne blowing her nose. When she went back to the table, a sheet of scrunchedup kitchen towel was sitting on her place mat.
That had been the first day. And now, sitting in the back of the car listening to Daphne singing about putting on her top hat and white tie and dancing in her tails, she thought the same thought again. God help us.
In the car park of Chez Jules Christian pulled up outside the door, and came around to the passenger side to assist his mother out of the car. There was nothing much Dervla could do to help: she stood there watching as Daphne was shoe-horned out of the passenger seat and hoisted to her feet.
‘I’ll take over now,’ said Dervla, taking hold of her mother-in-law’s arm. ‘You go and park.’
Daphne staggered a little as she redistributed her weight and clutched onto Dervla for support. Her bouffed-up hair had subsided, her American Tan tights were wrinkled round the ankles, and the lipstick that she’d put on in the car was lopsided, lending her the look of a badly made-up clown. Dervla suddenly felt a flash of pity for the old woman. To think that she had once modelled Balenciaga, conducted illicit affairs, and chucked diamonds down the loo! Had she ever imagined, as she’d stalked down the catwalk, that she’d end up like this?
A small boy was toddling across the car park, holding on to his mother’s hand. He stopped when he saw Daphne, and stared at her, mouth agape. ‘Old hag, Mammy!’ he said. ‘Look, Mammy – old hag!’
‘Shh, Jamie!’ said the woman in a terse undertone. ‘Mind your manners!’
But it was true. Despite Nemia’s attempts to style her hair and dress her up, Daphne did look like the kind of old hag you’d see in a storybook – beauty had turned into a beast.
As Dervla manoeuvred Daphne through the door of the restaurant, the maître d’ came forward, concern on his face.
‘Mr Vaughan’s party,’ said Dervla. ‘He reserved a table for three.’
The maître d’ smiled, and consulted his reservations book. ‘Ah, yes! Follow me, please.’
As he led the way towards a table in an alcove on the far side of the room, Dervla could see diners exchanging glances that said, quite clearly, Oh my God, I hope they’re not going to be seated at the table next to us…The table