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Una sipped her tea, and her eyes flicked to the younger O’Mara sister who was sitting across the dining room from her. Mrs Flaherty was fussing around her, clearly fond of the girl. She was pretty that was for sure, with her flashing dark eyes and shiny hair. A real head-turner, but then so was Aisling the manageress. They certainly weren’t peas in a pod though. If Una were a betting woman, she’d say there’d been lots of jokes about the milkman having come-a-calling over the years. Although, stealing another glance over if you looked closely you could tell the two were sisters. It was in the shape of their faces and the tilt of their noses.
It was also apparent from the younger sister’s greenish tinge, she was under the weather. Out on the sauce last night no doubt, serves her right, Una who never touched a drop was prim. The younger generation were far too fond of getting on the, what did they call it? She searched for the word she’d overheard the two young lads use on the train. Lash that was it.
Una liked to listen in on young people’s conversation. She’d tune in as she stood in the queue at the Tesco’s or when she was waiting at the station to catch the bus. The bus and the train were also good places in which to catch snippets of banter. She was out of touch with their generation in a way when she was young, she’d never have dreamed possible. Language was a funny thing the way words came and went like hem lengths over the years. So was age, she thought eyeing the liver spots on the back of her hand.
She wondered if this young lass who under Mrs Flaherty’s watchful eye was dipping her toast into her egg yolk, knew what it was to have her heartbroken. Or, was she the one who did the heartbreaking?
She’d been a pretty girl once too. Leo used to tell her she was beautiful. He used to tell her she made his heart sing. He was a man of hearts, and flowers was Leo. Why then if he’d thought her beautiful and made his heart sing hadn’t she been enough?
She sighed and put her teacup down in the saucer. It was all such a long time ago but if she shut her eyes, the pain was as fresh as the day it had been inflicted. Her mind was prone to drift and she’d find herself back in that moment. Why was it so hard to remember if she’d put the cat out before she went to bed of a night, but the events of April 12, 1950 were as vivid as a film being projected onto the big screen?
She could hear the rustle of fabric as Mrs Flaherty made her way over, pulling her from her thoughts as she nodded her greeting. The cook’s smile was tight as she asked if everything was to her liking. Una felt a pang. She didn’t want to be this awkward old woman whom people tiptoed around. It was a role however she’d begun to play with such tenacity she’d forgotten how to let her guard down.
‘It’s fine thank you,’ she replied pleased she’d had the foresight to order the Continental today. She’d managed the small bowl of cereal she’d helped herself to from the buffet as well as a slice of wholemeal toast. She could have complimented the woman on the marmalade which she was certain was homemade, but she remained tight-lipped. Mrs Flaherty looked as if she’d liked to say something but thought better of it, taking herself off to the kitchen instead.
Today Una vowed she’d knock on Aideen’s door. She wouldn’t while away the hours sitting in the park across the road from her sister’s house. Sitting on the bench like some sort of stalker as she watched the comings and goings— trying to catch a glimpse of her nephews. They’d be approaching middle-age now with children who were no doubt at that age where they had their parents tearing their hair out. What a thought! Her a great-aunt.
The problem was once she got to the street on which Aideen had spent the last thirty or so years of her life, she couldn’t bring herself to knock on her door. She’d told herself that she’d brazen it out yesterday and the day before. Time was running out, but each day sitting on that hard bench she’d felt like she’d gazed at Medusa’s face and been turned to stone.