When All Is Said(65)
‘Ach, Maurice,’ she said turning to me, ‘I promise, he’s a wee dote. He’ll just love you, how could he not?’
‘I’ll go then. To meet this “wee dote”.’
She smiled and nodded; and I kissed her, the rest of that journey to Annamoe, you know.
* * *
But today has been about trying to make amends for the many times after that great beginning when I stole that smile from your mother’s beautiful face; for all the things I never did or half did and for the many promises I made and broke.
Like the honeymoon suite for instance, where I’ll lay these exhausted bones down tonight. Remember how I promised to take her there on your wedding night but never did? Or how about the dinner in The Estuary restaurant today? Oh yes, I dined like a King. Stood at the ‘please wait to be seated’ sign of Duncashel’s award-winning restaurant, bold as you like, pressing down my wispy white hair, looking at the white-linened tables, the shining knives and forks, three deep, the lilies tall and erect, sniffing out the interloper, until Felix arrived, whisking me away from my demons and my guilt to the exact table I’d asked for over the phone when I’d made the reservation – the one your mother always said she wanted to sit at, when we passed in the car and she looked in.
And then there is the matter of the tea.
I don’t need to tell you about my reluctance to buy a cup of tea when dining out. Why waste the money when there’s a perfectly good kettle at home? In all our years of Sunday carveries, Sadie went along with me on that one. I’d have even gone so far as to say she wholeheartedly supported my approach. But on reflection, perhaps she chose her battles wisely. After all she’d managed to bring about one of the biggest coups in our house back in the nineties. Can’t even remember exactly when she said those fatal words: ‘I’m done with roasts.’ But I didn’t buck, despite the shock. Just knew to pay the money of a Sunday and say nothing. But not long before she died she fairly told me what she really thought of my tea policy.
We were sat over in Murtagh’s, our empty plates in front of us. I had just leaned over to get my coat from the seat beside Sadie when her hand arrived to stop me with a strength I never knew she had. I stared at the puzzle of her fingers: arthritic worn joints bent at the top – she couldn’t get her rings off by the time she died, did you know that? Her wedding finger was permanently strangled by our love. Now that I think of it, those rings were the only jewellery I ever bought her. Instead, I handed her money when birthdays and Christmases came round. She could buy what she wanted then. Everyone won that way.
‘Tea,’ she said to me that Sunday, loud and clear, staring straight ahead of her. ‘Earl Grey.’
Always Earl Grey. Not that she was born into it, mind; the McDonaghs were Lyons people like the rest of us. ‘You can blame Dublin for that one,’ she had told me years before. She’d been given it by accident in a tearoom on Grafton Street. I can’t remember the name of the place now. It’ll come to me. ‘It was like a tingle on my tongue,’ she said, ‘I was an Earl Grey convert from then on.’ There was always a box of Earl Grey to be found in our house, do you remember? At first it was leaves and then, as time went on and the wheels of industry turned, it became bags. Being the more expensive, she only ever had it for her elevenses. The rest of the day she slummed it with the rest of us on the bog standard.
‘Give me my coat so, woman,’ I said, still trying to release it from her hold, ‘and we’ll go home and get one.’
‘And I’d like it here, no matter what it costs, no matter how long we have to wait. I want it here, served by someone else. And what’s more I’m having dessert. Banoffi.’
I looked at her wondering what I was to do with that information. In the edgy silence, I realised she expected me to go off and find the waitress. I rose, knowing full well it would be impossible to waylay a girl in Murtagh’s at that hour when all and sundry were out for the carvery after twelve Mass, and so queued again at the counter, dragging my annoyance, pace by pace, until I stood in front of the dessert fridge.
‘I’ll have that yoke,’ I said, pointing my finger at the plate of banoffi behind the glass.
‘Anything else with that, sir? Ice cream?’ the young lad asked. Sadie loved ice cream. I gave him my best stare, considering his offer.
He followed behind me carrying the tray with her banoffi and her rattling teacup. When we arrived at the table, I placed the dessert in front of her.
‘No ice cream, no?’ she asked, looking at the plate.
‘No,’ I said. ‘They’re out.’
I knew the lad was staring at the back of my head but I didn’t flinch as I turned to take the tea things. I didn’t give two hoots what he or my poor long-suffering wife thought of me. When I sat, I watched the couple at the next table trying to feed their young toddler a carrot rather than looking at Sadie taking her time eating her pudding. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her measure every spoonful with equal amounts of cream and caramel and banana. Savouring it in her mouth like she was sucking a mint. After each swallow she reached for her teacup. Holding it like a chalice. Nestling in, all snug on the couch, looking around at the other diners. Not caring for one second that the Sunday game would be about to start on the telly at home with Mícháel ó Muircheartaigh’s commentary keeping pace with the speed of those young bucks. But I refused to be riled and continued to watch the couple next door, locked in battle, with his nibs.