WHEN MOLLY OPENS THE front door, she is shocked to see how the years have wrung at Davitt Junior’s face, how downy and ashen his hair has gone. He’s her Aoife’s age, isn’t he? Not much older, anyway, for she remembers them playing together at ten or eleven – he red-nosed and fish-boned and dangly on the arms, and Aoife taller and stouter, the way girls can sprout up at that age quicker than boys.
‘Well, Davitt!’
‘Hello, Mrs Kearney, how are you?’
‘You’re very good to come, Davitt. You know I saw you through the window, standing on the step there, and I thought it could be your father.’
Molly’s fingers rush to her lips – stupid old halfwit why did she say such a thing?
Davitt Senior was a decent man, but he could be very harsh on the young fellow. She can remember calling to his office in Dalkey one day, when Young Davitt had just joined the practice and she could see by the look of the boy that he was swallowing down the tears. Molly had smiled at him, Well how are you getting on DJ? and the father whipped around in his fancy spinning chair, eyes all aflash – That boy is a bloody eejit Molly! I can tell you I don’t know what they taught him in his high-and-mighty university at all. I’m sick of the sight of him.
*
‘It’s not too much trouble for you, Davitt? Taking you out of the office…’
‘No no, Mrs Kearney!’ Davitt Junior shakes his head. There’s a sorry look about him, standing there on the doorstep with big shades blanking out his eyes; the sun coming in from behind to light the shiny head he has now, the halo of duckling fluff on it. ‘Delighted to get out to be honest!’ he says.
The father had a lot of hair, if Molly remembers rightly. Any time she saw him it was with a great crop on top.
‘You know you can always call me and I’ll come out to you… Never a problem at all, Mrs Kearney.’
He smiles at her like a boy, but no, there is a gauntness to him now certainly, furrows like claw marks down his cheeks. He thrusts one fist into his pocket and with the other he gives a little jiggle of his briefcase. He is wearing a fine-quality shirt buttoned tight at his hairless white wrists, and no tie and no jacket with it.
‘Well, come on in Davitt, I have the kettle on. Don’t you look the part in your shades? Everyone wears them now in the summer, don’t they? Used to be only crooks wore shades.’
‘Is that right?’
He steps into the hallway, takes off the sunglasses and folds them, looking at them quizzically, as though they belong to someone else.
‘They must be very useful, are they? That’s what my Freya says, that they’re very useful for driving on a bright day.’
‘Oh they are, yes. They are.’
*
Molly leads him into the good sitting room. It’s warm and smells fresh because she’s had the windows open since seven this morning, and then an hour ago she shut them and drew the heavy curtains closed, and put the heating on.
‘Sit down there, Davitt. Make yourself comfortable. Tea or coffee?’
‘Oh, tea please, Mrs Kearney. Thank you…’
‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
To save time and fuss, Molly has already scalded the teapot, and set the tray with two Delph cups in their saucers, and the milk and the sugar bowl and a plate of generously buttered Rich Tea biscuits. She has even filled the kettle already, so it’s only a matter of bringing it to the boil and pouring it into the pot. At the last moment, she adds some pink wafer-and-icing fingers to the biscuit plate.
When she enters the room, young Davitt is standing with his back to her, hands clasped at his flat bottom, looking at the snow scene that Dinny liked so much (they paid a lot for that, it seemed a lot at the time, anyway). After closing the curtains this morning, she switched on the little pipes of light that run along over each of the pieces in the room. It’s rare that she does that, and it’s nice to look at them all again, lit up like they deserve. Davitt turns away from the painting and hops to get the door for her. Still gangly in the legs, the way he was as a boy. ‘Stay where you are, Davitt,’ she says, nudging easily around the door with her hip and elbow and sliding herself in, still holding the tray steady. ‘I’m not such a helpless old biddy just yet! Sit down there, Davitt.’
There are some large envelope files of salmon pink and dirty yellow stacked on the coffee table, and Davitt moves them aside to make room for the tray. The couch and the matching armchairs are very low-set, and his sharp knees push up higher than the little coffee table. Molly takes the straight-backed armchair, which feels a little unseemly, because it makes her sit higher than him, but if she was to sit in the low chair she’d have trouble getting herself up out of it again. Davitt leans forward between his legs, and begins to pour the tea out before it’s had a chance to draw.
‘Oh, leave it a minute I think, Davitt…’
He nods and puts it back down in one little movement. ‘Pink wafers!’ he says, lifting one up and smiling at it. ‘It’s years since I’ve had a pink wafer. I’d forgotten they existed!’
He doesn’t take a bite, but holds the wafer like a cigar between two fingers. With the other hand, he pats the stack of files. ‘So I brought all the files pertaining to the will, Mrs Kearney.’
‘Did you? Lovely, thank you, Davitt.’
‘How is the family, Mrs Kearney?’
‘Wonderful Davitt – you’ve met my great-grandson, have you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Jem, such a character… a fine child. A really magnificent child. A little monkey. There he is on the cabinet there. That’s about a year ago now. He’s shot up since…’
‘He’s the eldest great-grandchild, is that right?’
‘Freya’s little one, yes. He’ll be six soon. You know Freya, do you? Eileen’s youngest.’
‘Yes…’ Davitt gives a queer little blink, as though something has splashed him in the eye. ‘So, tell me, Mrs Kearney, how can I help?’
He takes a bite of the biscuit, and she can see he is enjoying the light sugariness of it. He could use a little building up, poor man. The wife is a nothing cook; she remembers Mrs Dunlin telling her that. They melt in the mouth, those biscuits. The children go mad for them.
‘Well now, see what you think of this Davitt – you know Dinny and I worked very hard for a long time, before we really had a penny, and our three girls, well—’
‘Is there someone at the door, Mrs Kearney?’
‘Oh, well, there shouldn’t be, Davitt. Freya said she’ll be out all day with the little fellow, I don’t know what it is she said they were doing…’
‘I’m sure I heard something.’
‘My Aoife comes at twelve on a Monday after her beautician, and what time is it now?’ She glances at the big silent grandfather clock that Dinny put there to blunt the harshness of that corner. ‘Only half ten, is it?’
‘I thought I heard someone at the door. Would you like me to go and check just quickly?’
‘There you are, Mammy!’
Her eldest daughter is leaning heavily on the open door, one fist tight on the handle, the other bent in on her hip, and a frown on her of such stormy fury that Molly almost gasps.
‘Well, Fifi darling, you’re early!’
‘My ears were itching.’ Aoife purses her lips, all eyebrows and jowls. She is in one of her moods. She nods at Davitt. ‘Hello, Davitt.’
Her hair has been coloured since last week. It’s brushed neatly and the too-long fringe has been clipped up off her forehead, but the rest of it hangs down very straight either side of her face. It’s a new shade, far too dark and reddish for her daughter’s pale complexion. Best to allow the grey, sometimes. Her painted lips drag on her face.
Davitt lays the rest of his wafer on the tea-tray and puts his hands on the armrests to push himself up. ‘Aoife.’
‘Davitt. Sorry to disturb you, Mammy, my appointment was cancelled and I didn’t know you’d have a visitor.’
‘You forgot to ring the bell, darling.’
‘The bell.’ She rolls her eyes for Davitt’s benefit. ‘Yes, the bell, Mammy, the bell… Mammy likes us to announce ourselves, Davitt, she has a special ring she likes us to do. Isn’t that right, Mammy?’
Davitt is standing now, rubbing his palms on the front of his thighs. ‘How are you, Aoife? How is Brendan?’
‘Oh, you know yourself, Davitt. Small-town solicitor – it’s ten jobs in one.’
‘Sure, I know only too well, Aoife, only too well… And the kids… or, just the one, isn’t it?’
‘Valerie. She’s great. Doing very well in London… and how’re your boys?’
‘Oh great, yeah. Derek’s just finished his finals…’
‘Law, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. So now, hopefully now you know, he’ll be keeping the family business alive!’
Aoife approaches, bends and kisses Molly’s cheek, then squats at the low, soft chair beside her, as though to sit. But she changes her mind suddenly, and stands so close that Molly has to strain very much to look up at her. She nudges her chin at Davitt’s papers.‘Well, may I ask what this is all in aid of?’
‘Oh, Davitt is helping me sort out some things, Aoife. You go on into the kitchen now, darling, will you? And make some coffee for yourself. I’ll be in in a little while.’
‘Mammy, I told you Brendan will handle the properties. You don’t need to be bothering Davitt about those things.’
‘No, of course you’re right. Go on now, darling, we’ll just finish up here and we’ll be in now in a minute…’
‘What’s this about, Mammy?’
‘I’ll explain it all to you now in a few minutes, Aoife. Go on now, Fifi.’
Aoife shakes her head, her cheeks puffed out in a big sigh. ‘See you in a minute Davitt,’ she says, turning and swaggering from the room. It saddens Molly to watch the graceless cut of her as she goes. She has always been hefty, especially her bottom. Nothing wrong with a heavy girl, but Aoife never could accept her shape. Molly had hoped that she might grow into herself in her middle years, but she’s only more awkward in her skin now, lugging her body about like an inconvenience. It is Molly’s doing, perhaps; perhaps it is she who has given Aoife that wrong feeling about herself. She was a shock to Molly, when she came. The colour and the shape of her, and her face a stranger’s.
Aoife leaves the door ajar. Molly looks at Davitt and raises her eyebrows.
‘She who must be obeyed,’ she says, grinning. Davitt nods, brushing crumbs from his lap.
Molly says, ‘We can pour out the tea, I think,’ her voice low and a wink to show him that she is in charge and he’s not to worry.
‘We might keep our voices down a bit, Davitt…’