It was Magda McCorn’s custom to holiday alone. There was not much choice in this matter, but even if there had been she would probably have preferred it that way. She was well acquainted with the many conveniences of the solitary holiday and in the bad moments (which she would scarcely admit to herself, let alone anyone else) remembered to appreciate them.
Last year Mrs McCorn had gone to Sweden. The year before, Norway. Now, she was sick of fish, and twilight afternoons. A yearning for her late husband’s country of birth had assailed her one April afternoon, admiring the bilious sweep of King Alfreds in her Cheltenham garden, and within the week she was booked into a first-class hotel in Parknasilla, Co. Kerry.
Mrs McCorn did little at random, and it was only after thorough research that she chose Parknasilla. As her efficient eye swept through the brochures, the name came back to her with a sparkle of nostalgia. It was not her husband, Patrick (born in the shadow of Croagh Patrick, a charming Co. Mayo man), but Commander Chariot, eligible bachelor on a spring cruise to the Canaries some years back, who had recommended the place most warmly. They had been drinking sherry at the ship’s bar: the scene was an indelible picture in Mrs McCorn’s mind. Commander Chariot wore his panama, despite the overcast skies, while Mrs McCorn had undone the top button of her floral bolero, which would indicate, she felt, a nice distinction between normal reserve and long-term possibility. But if the subtleties of his companion’s dress made any impression on the Commander, he did not show it. His bleak grey eyes hovered on the horizon which tilted a little perilously, for Mrs McCorn’s sherry-flushed stomach, through the window behind the bar. He chatted on in his charming, impervious way, about Parknasilla (often visited in July) and other places he had enjoyed over the years. All the while calling her Mrs McCorn.
But then the Commander was a not an easy man to get to know. The very first evening aboard, Mrs McCorn, well-trained antennae highly tuned for potential companions, sensed his reserve. Reserve, however, was a challenge rather than a deterrent to the good widow. On many occasions she had found herself quite exhausted from exercising her sympathy on shy fellow holiday-makers and often, as she wore them down, she had recognised the breakthrough, the light, the reward: sometimes it was the offer of a drink or a game of bridge. On other occasions there were confidences, and it was these Mrs McCorn liked best. For in persuading a stranger to ‘unwind his soul’, as she called it, she felt of some real use, and the satisfaction kindled within her in the bleaker months of the year between holidays.
She had worked very hard upon Commander Chariot, trying to put him at his ease, to draw him from his shell, with the delicate lift of a sympathetic eyebrow, or an almost indistinguishable pat on the arm by her softly padded hand. And indeed, by the last night, amid the coloured rain of paper streamers, she had persuaded him to call her Magda. But she knew he had only complied to her wishes out of politeness. The name had not burst from his lips in a rush of warmth and natural friendliness, and Mrs McCorn had felt disappointed. It was some consolation, of course, to know the other passengers were firmly convinced a shipboard romance had flared between herself and the handsome Commander, and she would not give them any indication that the truth was quite different. She returned to Cheltenham with the Commander’s Suffolk address and the promise to ‘drop in for a cup of tea if ever she was that way’ (which, one day, she would most certainly arrange to be). The Commander made no such promises in return. In a brief farewell, he mentioned – in a voice that was almost callous, Mrs McCorn thought later, considering all the trouble she had taken – that Gloucestershire was not a part of the country he ever had occasion to visit. They did exchange Christmas cards, and Mrs McCorn rather boldly sent postcards from Norway and Sweden – by great strength of will managing to refrain from saying ‘Wish you were here’. But her greetings from abroad remained unacknowledged and in terms of development, Mrs McCorn was bound to admit, the Commander was a failure.
But hope is often confused with inspiration, and on the journey to Ireland Mrs McCorn could not but help thinking that Fate may have planted the idea of Parknasilla in her head. On the aeroplane she bought herself a small bottle of brandy to quell the feeling of pleasant unease in her stomach: a glittery, excited feeling she had not experienced for many years. But the brandy’s medicinal powers had no effect on a state which no medicine can cure, and by the time she set foot on Irish soil Mrs McCorn was as dithery as a girl, her heart a flutter, her cheeks quite pink.
She walked into the lobby of the Great Southern Hotel mid-afternoon on a fine July day, accompanied by her family of matching suitcases. She moved with head held high, bosom thrust forward, knowing that should her entrance cause a rustle of interest, then those who looked her way would take her for someone. She had persuaded her cautious hairdresser to be a little more generous with the Honey Glow rinse than usual, and by great effort she had lost two pounds through cutting out her elevenses for the last month. She felt she exuded health at this, the beginning of her stay, which is more than can be said of most people, and it was with a symbolic flourish of well being that she signed her name at the reception desk.
Then Magda McCorn, glowing in oatmeal dress with tailored jacket to match, and a butterfly brooch (made from a deceased Red Admiral) sparkling on the lapel, tripped up the wide hotel stairs behind the friendly Irish porter. She admired the high Victorian passages, with their thick and shining white paint, and the ruby carpets. Commander Chariot was a man of taste, of course: he would only recommend the best in hotels. Should he not appear, then at least she would still have benefited from his recommendation and would thank him in a single sentence on the left-hand side of this year’s Christmas card.
In her fine room overlooking the bay, the porter relieved himself of all her suitcases and asked if there was anything Mrs McCorn would be requiring. Mrs McCorn paused, smiled, fumbled in her bag for a tip, to give herself time. The only thing in the world she wanted was to know whether Commander Chariot, regular visitor to the Great Southern, was expected. The porter would surely know. But Mrs McCorn was not a woman to indulge in questions that might bring forth a disappointing answer, and after a short, silent struggle, she decided to shake her head and give the man a pound. He could be useful in the future, should she change her mind.
When the porter had gone, Mrs McCorn surveyed what was to be her room for the next two weeks with great satisfaction. Then she went to the window and looked out at the grey waters of the bay. There were palm trees in the hotel garden, reminding her this was a temperate climate and, more distantly, wooded slopes that went down to the sea. I am going to be happy, here, she thought, and sighed at the idea of such a luxury.
Some hours later – having furnished the room with small touches that made it more her own (crochet mat on the bedside table, magazines, travelling clock) – Magda McCorn returned downstairs. It was time to perform her first important task of a holiday: establish her presence. This she did by arming herself with a small glass of sherry, then drifting round the lounges (three of them, with open fires), nodding and smiling with fleeting friendliness in the direction of anyone who caught her glance. The idea was to stamp a firm image in the minds of the other guests: they should instantly understand that here among them was a middle-aged widow of considerable attractions, alone, but in good spirits and certainly not a case for sympathy. While her smile was calculated to indicate enthusiasm, should anyone wish to offer her to join in their conversation or their games, her firm choice of a chair near the window, and apparent engrossment in a book, conveyed also that she was a woman quite happy with her own resources. Her establishing over, her search for the Commander thwarted, Mrs McCorn set about hiding her disappointment in the pages of a light romance.
In the magnificent dining-room of the Great Southern, Mrs McCorn had a single table by the window. There, she enjoyed a four-course dinner cooked by a French chef, and drank half a bottle of expensive claret. Nearby, at other tables, families with children, and several young married couples, chattered their way through the meal. Mrs McCorn did not envy them: it was her joy silently to watch the sun – which put her in mind of a crabapple rather than a tangerine, but then, as Patrick used to say, she was an original thinker – sink into the silver clouds which, if she half shut her eyes, looked like further promontories stretching from the bay. Her measure of wine finished, Mrs McCorn’s thoughts took a philosophical turn: the frequent lack of clarity between boundaries (sea and sky, happiness and melancholy) struck her with some hard-to-articulate significance that sent a shiver up her spine. In fact, it had been to Commander Chariot that she had tried to confide some of these private thoughts – as the sun then had been setting over Santa Cruz – but he had shown a lack of response that Mrs McCorn had quite understood. It wasn’t everybody who was blessed with such insights, and after all they were of no practical use and the Commander was a wholly practical man.
After dinner, to continue the establishing process, Mrs McCorn made her way to the lounge where the life of the hotel seemed to have gathered. There, an elderly lady wrapped in a mohair shawl, the occasional sequin twinkling in its furry wastes, played the piano. The prime of her piano-playing years was evidently over and, accompanied by a dolorous young man on the double bass, their rendering of fifties tunes lacked spirit. It was as if the music was emerging from under a huge, invisible cushion, oppressed. But it was good enough for Mrs McCorn. In her time she had had quite a reputation on the dance floor, although partnering her husband Patrick there had been little opportunity to show off her prowess at the quickstep. It would have been disloyal to complain, and she never did: although for all the happyish years of their marriage, Magda McCorn secretly deplored the fact that her husband was such a lout on the dance floor. But her feeling for the dance, as she called it, never left her and here, suddenly as of old, she felt her toes privately wiggling in her patent pumps in time to the steady thump of ‘Hey, there! You with the Stars in Your Eyes’ which, she recalled with a stab of nostalgia, had been played every night on the cruise to the Canaries.
Mrs McCorn chose herself a tactful armchair. That is, it was within reach of a middle-aged Norwegian couple, should they choose to talk to her: yet far enough away to make ignoring her within the bounds of politeness if that was how they felt. She gave them a small signalling smile and was delighted, though not surprised, when immediately they drew their own chairs closer to hers and began to converse in beautiful English.
Due to her holiday in Norway, Mrs McCorn was able to tell them many interesting things about their country, and to captivate their interest for some time. Occasionally she allowed her eyes to glance at the dance floor, where she observed the deplorable sight of unmusical men shunting around their wives with not the slightest regard to the beat of the tune. The long-suffering expressions of the wives did not escape her, either. She felt for them, poor dears, and envied them, too. Varicose veins a-twinkle, at least they were on their feet.
Something of her feelings must have registered in Mrs McCorn’s eyes, for the Norwegian gentlemen was standing, offering her his arm, asking her to dance. Taken so unawares, Mrs McCorn hardly knew whether to accept or refuse. But she saw the friendly smile of the Norwegian wife urging her, urging her, and knowing everything would be above board, with the clinical Norwegian eyes of the wife following their every move, Mrs McCorn said yes.
On the small floor, they lumbered round in imitation of a foxtrot. Mrs McCorn, confident that the delicate tracery on the back of her own calves was well hidden by her Dusky Sunbeam tights, gave a small shake of her hips to encourage her partner.
‘You dance very well,’ this spurred him to say, and Mrs McCorn began to enjoy herself. Should Commander Chariot come in now, he could not fail to observe the way in which people were drawn to her wherever she went, and surely he would be moved to admiration.
Mrs McCorn’s two-week holiday passed happily enough. She befriended many of the other guests in the hotel, and every evening found herself in the desirable position of joining in games, drinks and conversations. Her new acquaintances included many foreigners, and Mrs McCorn was able to let the fact be known that she was a much-travelled woman herself, for all her quiet life in Cheltenham – with quite a flair for Continental cooking and with some talent for making herself understood in French.
The pounds of flesh that Mrs McCorn had so industriously lost before coming to Ireland were soon regained, and indeed increased, by her indulgence in the delicious food. But Mrs McCorn did not care.
Realising that Fate had slipped up and been unkind in its choice of dates, and there was little hope Commander Chariot would appear, she sought consolation in cooked breakfasts in bed (beautifully arranged trays, flat grey water unblinking in the bay outside her window), hearty lunches and enormous dinners. But as her plumpness did nothing to diminish her evident popularity, so she saw no reason for cutting back until she returned home.
On the last day of her visit, Mrs McCorn – who for the most part had spent sedentary days – decided to join a trip to the Skellig Islands. She was all for a little adventure, and felt the breath of sea air would be of benefit to her complexion.
It dawned a disappointingly grey and misty day, a light drizzle swirling so weightless through the air you could not see it all. Mrs McCorn contemplated abandoning the trip, but then felt that would be faint-hearted, and cheered herself with the thought that Irish weather was wonderfully changeable, and at any moment the sun might drive away the cloud.
And indeed, by the time she was seated snugly in her poplin mackintosh and silk scarf on the fishing boat, along with some dozen foreign students, the gloom had begun to lift and the sun threw a first pale rope of light along the horizon. Mrs McCorn did not much like the bucking motion of the boat as it lumbered over the waves, but she sucked on her boiled sweets and concentrated on the feeling of enjoying the proximity to young foreigners. Widening her horizons, she was, she felt. Perhaps before the day was over she would find the chance to make herself known to them, although for the moment she could detect no openings. They were a dour lot: unwashed, unshaven, dirty clothes and unhealthy skin. But then Mrs McCorn, who was sensitive to the hardships of those less fortunate than herself, supposed they could not afford to live on anything but fish and chips on their camping holiday, and was not surprised. She could have wished they had appeared friendlier, more willing to talk: a little conversation would have been agreeable, but perhaps they kept their interest for monuments rather than people.
After an hour of bumping over the grey sea, Mrs McCorn and the other sightseers were rewarded by the sight of the first island. It loomed out of the misty sea like a single tooth. The fanciful thought came to Mrs McCorn that the whole Atlantic Ocean was a vast, grey tongue, hissing and snapping and drooling with white-spittle foam, armed with its one hideous giant tooth. And the sky was a grim upper lip. The vast and dreadful mouth, made from the elements, only waited for the right time to swallow the boat-load with a single flick of its lapping tongue … Mrs McCorn sucked harder on her raspberry drop and listened to the wail of forty thousand gannets, who fluttered round their island thickly as a snowstorm. Occasionally one of them would swoop quite close to the boat, dismissing the passengers with its beady red eye, then diving into the waves to snap at an invisible fish.
The second island, their destination, came into sight. It was another monster rock, sheer and black and menacing. Waves thundered round its base, thousands more gulls screamed their indignation at having to live in such a God-forsaken spot. It was here that seven hundred years ago a small band of monks chose to build a monastery on its summit. To climb hundreds of steps to see the remains of this monastery was the aim of the expedition.
The boat moored at a small concrete pier. Mrs McCorn looked about her in dismay. She had imagined it would be quite primitive, of course: a simple tea shop, perhaps, and a small cluster of cottages. But there was nothing. The petulant gulls were the only inhabitants, balancing on the edges of precarious rock nests, screaming all the while. Close to, the rock was no less intimidating. While the waves pounded upwards, other water streamed down the jagged sides, gleaming, oily. Mrs McCorn was afraid.
Gritting her teeth, remembering she was British, she followed the students up the dangerous little flight of steps. There, they abandoned her with peculiar speed, scampering up the steep path with an eagerness Mrs McCorn found herself unable to share. She followed them slowly, tucking the lunch box the hotel had given her under one arm, and telling herself she must persevere, however undesirable the climb may seem.
Although Mrs McCorn’s progress was very slow – students from another boat passed her with uncaring speed – she soon became out of breath and listened to her own panting against the dimmer noise of waves thudding far below. She was forced to conclude that she should have to rest before the top, or she might risk a heart attack. And who, then …? She chose a small, flat rock at the edge of steps, sat down, and unbuttoned her mackintosh. The hotel had provided her with an unimaginative lunch, but she found comfort in the sliced-bread sandwiches, tomatoes, biscuits and cheese. Her breathing returned to its normal pace, and after a while she began to feel cool again.
When she had finished eating, Mrs McCorn looked about for somewhere to bury her empty lunch box. There were no litter bins, of course, and the sea was much too far away to throw the wretched thing over the edge. Mrs McCorn scrabbled about the springy green stuff that grew among the rocks, and eventually managed, by squishing it quite small, to hide the box. Plunging her hands into the greenery gave her a nasty turn: its cold sliminess was surprising. But she completed the job to her satisfaction, and turned for another look at the bewildering expanse of grey Atlantic before continuing on her way.
The sky was whitish-grey, mists swirled blotchily about the sheer sides of rock. In the distance, the sea kept up its perpetual snarl, and the gulls their angry screeching. Mrs McCorn had never felt so alone. To lift her spirits, she thought of the ordinary things of her life: her small, neat garden, her well-Hoovered carpets, her Silver Jubilee tin of biscuits, always full, in the kitchen, her cat Tibby, the absolute regularity of the Parish Newsletter – things which sometimes she found lacking in excitement, but which now she appreciated with all her heart. Then, for the first time that day, she thought of Commander Chariot.
As she did so, Mrs McCorn stood up. No point in dwelling on the unlikely, she thought, and at that moment a small chink of sun appeared in the sky, making the wet rocks glint. An omen, thought Mrs McCorn, and at once forced herself to abandon the idea as silly. But, trudging slowly up the rough steps once more, she could not cast aside the Commander. He filled her being in an unaccountable way: she longed for his presence. With him this day on the island would be an agreeable adventure, instead of the frightening experience it was in reality. Alive in her mind, the Commander then spoke to Mrs McCorn in a voice so real he might have been at her side.
‘Ruddy masochists, those monks must have been,’ he said (‘ruddy’ was his favourite adjective), and Mrs McCorn smiled.
Somehow, she got to the top. It was no great reward. A cluster of stone-built cells, gently rounded structures, putting Mrs McCorn in mind of house martins’ nests. Very uncomfortable, they must have been, with their slit windows and damp floors, the mists and rain flurrying about outside, and nothing to comfort in the sight of the grim Atlantic sea. Mrs McCorn ventured into one of the cells: it smelt wet and spooky. When her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, she noticed three of the students sitting on the floor in a corner. They passed an evil-smelling cigarette between them, and gave her an unfriendly look. Mrs McCorn hurried out.
She was quite cold by now, and thought with longing of the hotel bath and her warm candlewick dressing-gown. Only a few more hours … And it would, of course, be a good story to tell friends at home, not that she’d ever be up to describing the strange sense of horror that the island of rock had given her.
Before returning to the path to descend, Mrs McCorn leaned over one of the ruined stone walls and looked down, down at the spumy sea battering for ever the base of the rock, and she listened to the endless evil screeching of the gulls. It was then it came to her why the silly old monks had chosen such a place to live: they had wanted to confront the devil head-on and this was the perfect spot. There was no grain of comfort, of soft or easy living on the rock land or the monster sea. The gannets were devils incarnate, the brief flashes of sun a simple mockery. On this island was the rough face of God – quite unlike the God Mrs McCorn was acquainted with in the church at Cheltenham with its carpeted aisle and central heating. On this island, you’d have to be tougher than she, Mrs McCorn, to go on believing.
Physically weakened by such thoughts, and by the day’s exposure to relentless elements, Mrs McCorn put the last of the boiled sweets in her mouth and began her slow descent. She found her knees were shaking and she was sweating quite hard into her poplin mackintosh. But for all the loneliness, she was glad there was no one here to witness the way in which the island had unnerved her – that is, except for Commander Chariot. He would have scoffed at any talk of devils and talked knowledgeably of the breeding habits of gannets, which would have been very cheering. As it was, he was far from Ireland, or this place, with no thought of her. Mrs McCorn shuffled down the steps, one foot always forward like a small child, praying for the bottom.
Three hours later, in the safety of her hotel room, Mrs McCorn, although much happier, still found herself somewhat shaken. She packed her suitcase, so as to be ready for her departure in the morning, and it took her twice as long as usual. In her confusion she found she had put soft things at the bottom, and had to start all over again.
As it was her last night, Mrs McCorn felt it unnecessary to make quite the same effort she had made on previous evenings. She wore her plainest dress – very tight, now, across the stomach – and brushed half-heartedly at the mess the Skellig Islands had made of her hair. Somehow, she couldn’t face drinks in the lounge – no energy, as yet, to recount the adventure of her day. She waited in her room until eight o’clock, then went straight into the dining-room.
She saw him at once. Commander Chariot was sitting at the window at a single table next to her own. Mrs McCorn’s instant thought was to flee – to unpack her turquoise Lurex and change into that, and to have another go at her hair. But she was too late. He had seen her. He smiled, slightly.
Mrs McCorn followed the waiter to her table. She sat down and quickly ordered her dinner and half a bottle of wine. Then she allowed herself to look at the Commander, who was halfway through a plate of elaborate chops.
‘Why, hello there, Mrs McCorn,’ he said.
‘Magda,’ she said, with warmth and humour.
‘Well I never, running into you here of all places.’
‘It was your recommendation, you may remember.’
‘Was it? Was it, now? Can’t say I do remember. Anyhow, here for long, are you?’
Mrs McCorn gave herself time to think before answering. Perhaps it would be possible to make new arrangements after dinner, to extend her stay for a few days. But there was the question of money (she had spent every penny of her holiday budget) and getting another flight back – too many complications.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow morning, actually,’ she said.
‘Well, well, what a ruddy shame.’
The Commander hustled a forkful of cauliflower into his mouth, shifting his eyes. His expression just might have been one of relief.
But this paranoid thought was quickly dispelled from Mrs McCorn’s mind by the next turn of events: the Commander suggested he might join her at her table, seeing as they would have only one evening together.
Scarcely able to believe her good fortune, Mrs McCorn signalled to the waiter. He moved the Commander’s place to Mrs McCorn’s table, picked up the bottle of wine, and lifted an eyebrow at Mrs McCorn. Her heart thumping, Mrs McCorn nodded. The waiter poured the Commander a glass of the wine: the Commander did not protest.
Outside, there was an orange sky over the bay, and a small hard gold sun. Mrs McCorn wondered if she should put to the Commander her funny idea about a crabapple sun. But she thought better of it, and said instead:
‘It’s been quite a few years, hasn’t it? And you haven’t changed at all.’
‘No. Well. I manage to keep myself up to scratch.’
Indeed, it was true he had not changed: no more grey hairs, no new wrinkles, the same handsome combination of angular bone and fine-drawn skin. Mrs McCorn found herself gazing at him in wonder and in disbelief. The only pity was the cruel timing. But she would not let herself think of the sadness of the morning. There was the whole night: time in which to play her cards with skill.
To keep a clear head, Mrs McCorn let the Commander drink all her wine, and ordered him another bottle. She delighted in his pleasure in the stuff: the way he sipped and swirled and sniffed with such expertise. They talked of their various trips, and the Commander acknowledged her cards from Norway and Sweden.
‘I’m so glad they reached you. I thought that maybe – you know the foreign posts.’
‘Oh, I got them all right. Should have written back, but I’m not much of a dab hand when it comes to letters myself.’
‘I know just how you feel.’ (This was a permissible lie. Mrs McCorn had no idea, as a great letter- and postcard-writer herself, how it must feel not to have the constant desire to keep in touch.)
By the end of dinner, the Commander had a bright pink spot on both cheeks (crabapples, again, thought Mrs McCorn). He was friendly and seemingly happy, but not exactly lively. There were long pauses between each comment he made, and the comments themselves were not of the stuff that remains for ever in the romantic memory. Mrs McCorn, remembering his long monologues about fishing and the Navy, wondered if there was anything troubling him. Given the right moment, she felt she should make a gentle enquiry.
‘It’s really quite lively here, evenings,’ she said. ‘Shall we take our coffee in the lounge?’
The Commander followed. She led the way as far as the quiet room where the less lively guests read their papers round the fire, and the Commander indicated they should occupy the free sofa. But Mrs McCorn shook her head determinedly, and kept going till she reached two vacant chairs at the side of the dance floor. With a look of barely concealed pain on his face, as if the pianist’s rendering of ‘Stardust’ hurt his ears, the Commander lowered himself into one of the chairs. Mrs McCorn, meantime, was smiling and waving to nearby friends in some triumph: they had all heard about her friendship with the Commander, and to be with him on this, her last night, was a proud occasion. So engrossed was she in acknowledging the waves and smiles – yet at the same time not wanting to encourage anyone to draw so near as to deflect the Commander’s interest from herself – she was quite unaware that her own choice of seat was disagreable to her companion. With the elation of a girl, she summoned the waiter.
‘Let’s be devils, shall we, Commander, and treat ourselves to Irish coffees?’
She knew, even as she made the suggestion, the treat would be put on her bill, and she did not care. What did strike her, with a brief iciness of heart, was her own word devil. She remembered the lugubrious island of evil gulls she had so recently visited. But the dreadful experience seemed wonderfully far away, now. She was back where she belonged, in a place of warmth and sentimental tunes and safety.
The Irish coffees came. Mrs McCorn sat back, revelling in the warm froth on her top lip as she sipped the sickly drink, one foot tapping the floor in time to the music. In truth, it would have been hard to have a conversation against the noise of the band, and the Commander, Mrs McCorn observed, was sunk in that pleasurable silence that is permitted between those of understanding. The broad-hipped dancers swayed about, sometimes giving their bodies a small flick, to show some vestige of youth still lived under the middle-aged clothes.
Mrs McCorn prayed the Commander would ask her to take the floor, to join them, to show them, but he did no such thing. And despite her vague sympathies for women’s liberation, she felt it would not be quite the thing to make the proposal herself. She waved airily at one of the dancers, disguising her disappointment.
‘I’ve made a lot of friends here,’ she said. Commander Chariot nodded. They had a second Irish coffee. The Commander, making much of his gallantry, paid with a lot of small change out of his pocket. The pianist struck up, by wonderful chance, ‘Hey there! You with the Stars in Your Eyes’. Mrs McCorn could restrain herself no longer.
‘Do you remember, Commander?’ she asked. ‘Our tune? On the cruise?’
The Commander looked at her blankly. ‘Can’t say I do. Music’s all the same to me. Wouldn’t mind if I never heard another note in my life.’
Her ploy having failed, Mrs McCorn ordered two further glasses of Irish coffee – the Commander made no attempt, this time, to pay – so that he should not be aware of the deflation she felt.
They spent the next hour drinking Irish coffee, unspeaking, except to agree to another order. By eleven o’clock, Mrs McCorn felt both reckless and sick. The Commander, she noticed, had a cluster of sweat on both temples, and was flushed. Time, she thought.
‘Well, I must be turning in, Commander. Early start tomorrow, for the plane.’
Her words sounded thick as whipped cream. The Commander heaved himself up out of the deep chair and helped her to her feet.
‘Jolly good idea,’ he said.
Very slowly, Mrs McCorn made her way to the stairs. The pillars through which she threaded her way spun like acrobats’ plates. When she tried to smile at various friends, her mouth slithered about in an uncontrollable way, and the feeling of nausea increased. But at last she achieved the foot of the stairs, and felt the mahogany bannister solid beneath her liquid hand. She paused, turned carefully to the Commander, whose eyes were at half-mast, and whose mouth sagged.
‘So it’s au revoir, but not goodbye,’ she slurred.
‘Au revoir but not goodbye.’ The Commander, too, held on to the bannister, his hand only an inch away from Mrs McCorn’s. The repetition of her own words gave her courage: in the floundering feather globe of her mind, she realised it was her last chance.
‘Nightcap, Commander? Just a small one?’
A long pause. ‘Why not?’ answered the Commander eventually.
They negotiated the stairs, climbing each one as if it was a separate challenge, drifted like slurry along the moving ruby carpet to Mrs McCorn’s room. There, the Commander dropped at once into the velvet armchair. Mrs McCorn hastily hid her peach Dacron nightie – nicely laid out by the maid – under the pillow, and telephoned for two more Irish coffees.
In her own room, she felt better. The sickness seemed to have passed, her head rocked rather than span. The coffees came. Once more, she and the Commander plunged their mouths into the comforting warm froth of cream, and sipped, without speaking. Mrs McCorn lost all sense of time. Her legs felt as if they were cast in swan’s-down, her heart beat wildly as it had in all her imaginings of this climactic scene, and she realised it was no longer possible to continue her life without the Commander.
The next thing she knew she was on the floor by his chair (one shoe had fallen off), her hands running up his trouser legs. A strange moaning came from her lips.
‘Commander! Commander! You are my life, I am your slave, your obedient servant, your slave for ever!’
She was dimly aware of her crescendoing voice, and the Commander’s bony fingers trying to unlatch her hands from his grey flannel thighs.
‘Get off, Mrs McCorn! Get up, Mrs McCorn! Don’t be so ruddy stupid.’
Through the humming in Mrs McCorn’s ears, he sounded as if he meant to be stern, but the words lacked vigour.
‘How can you say such cruel things to one who is your life, to one who has waited for you like Patience on a – ’
‘Get up, I say, Mrs McCorn. You’re ruining the creases in my trousers.’
Mrs McCorn rose awkwardly as a zeppelin, poised above him for the merest second, then dropped on to his outspread knees, curling into a foetal position. Before he had time to protest, she had grabbed his jaw in one of her hands, squeezed his mouth into an open hole, and thrust her creamy lips on to his. For a blissful moment, she managed to taste his Irish coffee and feel the small points of his teeth. She heard him moan, and lashed his tongue more wildly. But then she felt vicious fingers in her ribs, and drew back, crying out with pain.
‘Get off, you silly old baggage! What the ruddy hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Magda! Call me Magda …’
‘I’ll call the manager. Rape!’
The word struck Mrs McCorn like a blade. She unfurled herself, holding the sore ribs. Stood.
‘You don’t understand, Commander.’
‘I understand only too well, Mrs McCorn.’
‘You’ve taken this all wrong.’
‘You’re blind drunk and disgusting with it.’
Somehow the words had little impact. They fell on Mrs McCorn’s ears without wounding, but she felt it was incumbent upon her to protest.
‘Commander! That’s no way to speak when all I wanted – ’
‘I’m getting out of here.’
The Commander rose. His mouth was smeared with Mrs McCorn’s Amber Fire lipstick, his sparse hair stood up in spikes. She felt sorry for him. He looked wounded, misunderstood. Mrs McCorn would have liked to have put a gentle hand on his head, smooth the hair, and say, There, there, it’s all right now: it’s all over. But she resisted.
The Commander moved to the door. He seemed both cowed and fed up.
‘I’m sorry if I caused you any offence, Mrs McCorn,’ he said quietly, in his normal voice, ‘but a man has to protect himself from attack.’
‘Quite.’ Mrs McCorn nodded. She would have agreed to anything at that moment.
‘And I realise you were overcome. Not yourself.’
‘I’m sorry. Quite overcome. Not myself at all.’
‘Well, I’ve survived worse things at sea.’
Gentleman to the last, thought Mrs McCorn.
‘And now I must go to bed. You’re not the only one with an early start. Tomorrow I’m off on a trip to the Skellig Islands.’ He reached for the door knob.
Mrs McCorn had been aware of her spirits rising as the Commander made his apology. All was not lost. But with this fresh, final piece of news, they fell to a place so deep within her she had not previously been aware of its existence.
‘The Skellig Islands?’
‘Always wanted to go there. Well, goodnight.’
He left very quickly. When he had gone, Mrs McCorn fell back on to the bed. Too weak to analyse the failure of the evening, too disheartened even to chide herself, she cried for a while, and then fell asleep.
The maid who brought her breakfast found her next morning, still dressed, on top of the bed, one shoe still on, make-up awry. Somehow, Mrs McCorn roused herself and overcame this little embarrassment with considerable dignity, and even a joke about the effects of Irish coffee. Then she hastened to repair herself, and finish her packing.
Downstairs, she looked about for the Commander, but then she remembered the time of her own departure to the Skelligs yesterday and realised he would already have gone. When she was given the bill, she smiled at the huge sum the Irish coffees had amounted to, and with soft gentle fingers touched the headache that braided her forehead. Various friends from the hotel were there to see her off, and said how much she would be missed. Their declarations touched Mrs McCorn: at least she had made an impression in some quarters.
On the aeroplane over the Irish Sea, she found herself imagining the Commander retracing her own steps of yesterday, or a million years ago, or whenever the thoroughly nasty day had been. But she imagined he was enjoying it, and she admired him for that. He was a man of vision in some ways but, unused to much contact with women, could be sympathised with for not recognising true worth when he saw it. Her conclusions about the Commander thus neatly parcelled in her mind, Mrs McCorn searched in her bag for a boiled sweet. And as the coast of England, dear England, came into sight, she decided that on this year’s Christmas card she would simply add, Did you enjoy the Skelligs? Thereafter would follow months in which she could look forward to an answer, and life in Cheltenham would continue to be lived in hope.
