A Week in Winter(82)

Miss Howe’s garden, however, had no decoration. There were two flowering shrubs and a neatly mowed lawn. The paint on the door, gate and windowsills needed to be refreshed. It didn’t look neglected, more ignored. No hints there.

Irene decided she must be brave and get to see the interior. With this in mind, the following morning she slipped Miss Howe’s reading glasses into her own handbag and then called round to the house to deliver them, pretending that she had found them on the desk.

Miss Howe met her at the door with no enthusiasm.

‘There was no need, Irene,’ she said coldly.

‘But I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to read tonight,’ Irene stumbled.

‘No, I have plenty of replacements. But thank you all the same. It was kind of you.’

‘May I come in for a moment, Miss Howe?’ Irene nearly fainted at her own courage in asking this.

There was a pause.

‘Of course.’ Miss Howe opened the door fully.

The house was clinically bare, like the office back in Wood Park. No pictures on the walls, a rickety bookcase, a small old-fashioned television. A table with a supper tray prepared with a portion of cheese, two tomatoes and two slices of bread. Back in Irene’s house they would be having spicy tomato sauce and pasta. Irene had taught Kenny how to cook, and tonight he would make a rhubarb fool. They would all play a game of Scrabble and then Irene and her mother would watch the soaps and Kenny, who was now eighteen, would go out with his friends.

What a happy home compared to this cold, bleak place.

But since Irene had come so far she would not give up now.

‘Miss Howe, I have a problem,’ she said.

‘You have?’ Miss Howe’s voice was glacial.

‘Yes. The teachers and the parents have asked me to tell them what would be a suitable gift for you when you retire this summer. Everyone is anxious to give you something that you would like. And because I work with you all day, they wrongly thought I would know. But I don’t know. I am at a loss, Miss Howe. I wonder, could you direct me . . .?’

‘I don’t want anything, Irene.’

‘But Miss Howe, that isn’t the issue. They want to give you something, something suitable, appropriate.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they value you.’

‘If they really value me then they will leave me alone and not indulge their wish for sentimental ceremonies.’

‘Oh, no, that’s not how they see it, Miss Howe.’

‘And you, Irene. How do you see it?’

‘I suppose they must think I am a poor friend and colleague if I can’t tell them after twenty years’ working for you what would be a good farewell present.’

Miss Howe looked at her for a long moment.

‘But Irene, you are not a friend or colleague,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s a totally different relationship. People have no right to expect you to know such things.’

Irene opened her mouth and closed it several times.

When the teachers in the staffroom had railed against Miss Howe and called her Her Own Worst Enemy, she had stood up for the woman. Now she wondered why. Miss Howe was indeed a person without warmth or soul; without friends or interests. Let them buy her a picnic basket or vacuum cleaner. It didn’t matter. Irene didn’t care any more.

She picked up her bag and moved to the door.

‘Well, I’ll be off now, Miss Howe. I won’t disturb you and keep you from your supper any longer. I just wanted to return your glasses to you, that’s all.’

‘I didn’t leave my glasses on my desk, Irene. I never leave anything on my desk,’ Miss Howe said.

Irene managed to walk steadily to the gate. It was only when she was a little way along the road that her legs began to feel weak.

All those years she had worked for Miss Howe, shielded her from irate parents, discontented teachers, rebellious pupils. Tonight Miss Howe had told her face to face that she must not presume to call herself a friend or a colleague. She was merely someone who worked for the Principal.

How could she have been so blind and so sure of her own position?

She held on to a gate to steady herself. A young woman came out of her house and looked at her with concern.

‘Are you feeling all right? You look as white as a sheet.’

‘I think so. I just feel a little dizzy.’

‘Come in and sit down. I’m a nurse, by the way.’

‘I know you,’ Irene gasped, ‘you work at St Brigid’s heart clinic.’

‘Yes; you’re not a patient there, are you?’

‘I come with my mother, Peggy O’Connor.’

‘Oh, of course. I’m Fiona Carroll. Peggy’s always talking about you and how good you are to her.’

‘I’m glad someone thinks I’m good for something,’ Irene said.

‘Come in, Miss O’Connor, and I’ll get you a cup of tea.’ Fiona had her by the arm and Irene sank gratefully into a house that was so different to Miss Howe’s that it could have been on another planet. Between them, Fiona and her two little boys provided tea, chocolate cake and a lot of encouragement.

Irene began to feel a lot better.

Always discreet and loyal, she resisted the temptation to unburden herself to this kindly Fiona, who must know her difficult neighbour and might even be able to give her words of consolation.