Scarlet Feather (2 page)

‘Up to you, Mrs Mitchell,’ they had said cheerfully, in the knowledge that plenty of other people would be glad to have their house cleaned on a day like this. She gave in speedily. Things were definitely not like they used to be. Still, it had been worth it, the house looked very well, and at least she wouldn’t have to lift a finger. That Cathy with all her grand notions
was
in fact able to serve a presentable meal. She would be coming shortly in that big white deplorable-looking van: even the women who came to clean the house twice a week travelled in a far more respectable vehicle. She would come into the kitchen huffing and puffing and throwing her weight about. Poor Lizzie’s daughter, behaving as if she owned the place. Which, alas, she probably would one day. But not yet, Hannah reminded herself with her mouth in a hard line.

Hannah Mitchell’s husband Jock stopped on the way home from his office to have a drink. He felt he needed one before facing Hannah. She was always nervous and tense before a party but this time it would be magnified many times – she so hated having Neil’s wife Cathy doing the catering for her. She had refused to accept that the couple were happy, well suited and unlikely to leave each other no matter how she schemed. Cathy would always be Poor Lizzie’s daughter, and somehow a villain who had seduced their son in Greece. She had always believed that the girl had got pregnant deliberately to trap him, and been most surprised when this had proved not to be the case.

He drank his single malt Scotch thoughtfully and wished that he didn’t have to worry about this as well as everything else. Jock Mitchell had been severely disturbed by a conversation with his nephew Walter today. Walter, an idle layabout, the eldest son of Jock’s brother Kenneth, had revealed that all was not well at The Beeches, his family home. In fact, things were very far from well. Walter said that his father had gone to England just before

Christmas, and had left no indication of his whereabouts. Walter’s mother, not known to be a strong character, was reacting to this turn of events by a heavy reliance on vodka. The problem was their nine-year-old twins, Simon and Maud. What was happening to them? Walter had shrugged; he really didn’t know. They were managing, he implied. Jock Mitchell sighed again.

As she arrived at Oaklands, Cathy heard her mobile phone ring. She pulled in and answered.

‘Hon, I’m not going to be there to help you unload,’ he apologised.

‘Neil, it doesn’t matter, I knew it would go on a bit.’

‘It’s more complicated than we thought. Listen, ask my dad to help you in with all those crates, don’t go dragging and pulling just to show my mother how wonderful you are.’

‘Oh she knows
that
,’ Cathy groaned.

‘Walter should be there…’

If I were to wait for Walter to help me unload and set up, the party would be halfway through… Stop fussing and go back to what you have to do.’

Cathy told herself that there were only six hours or so of this year left, only six hours or so of being nice to Hannah. What was the very worst that could happen? The very worst was that the food was awful and no one would eat it, but that could not happen, because the food was terrific. The second worst thing was that there wasn’t enough of it, but there was enough in this van to feed half of Dublin.

‘There are no problems,’ Cathy said aloud as she looked down the tree-lined drive to the house where Neil had been born. A gentleman’s residence, a hundred and fifty years old, square and satisfying somehow, with its four bedrooms above the large door and the bay windows on either side of it. Ivy and Virginia creeper covered the walls and in front lay a huge gravelled circle where tonight twenty expensive cars would be parked. A house as different from St Jarlath’s Crescent as you could imagine

.

Shona Burke often stayed late in her office up on the management floors of Haywards – she had her own key and code to get in and out. She had listened to the programme on the radio and was wondering if she really and truly had a choice about how she would spend New Year’s Eve. Long ago in a happier life there would have been a celebration, but not in the last few years. She had no idea what her sisters and brothers would do, and if they would go to the hospital. Shona would make the hospital visit out of duty, of course, but it was pointless, she wouldn’t be recognised or acknowledged.

Then she would go to Ricky’s party in his studio. Everyone liked Ricky. A pleasant, easygoing photographer, he would gather a lot of people and make a buzz for them all. There would be a fair crowd of poseurs and empty-headed types dying to see themselves in the gossip columns… She was unlikely to meet the love of her life or even a temporary soulmate, but still Shona would dress up and go there simply because she did not see herself as the kind of person who would sit alone in her apartment in Glenstar.

The question nagged her, what would she
really
like to be doing tonight? It was so hard to answer because everything had changed so much. The good days were over, and it was impossible to imagine doing something that would make her really happy. So in the absence of that, Ricky’s would do fine.

Marcella was painting her toenails. She had new evening sandals which she’d bought at a thrift shop. She showed them proudly to Tom. They had been barely worn; someone must have bought them and found they didn’t suit.

‘They must have cost a fortune new,’ she said happily, examining them carefully.

‘Are you happy?’ Tom asked.

‘Very,’ she said. ‘And you?’

‘Oh, very, very,’ he laughed. Was that strictly true? He didn’t want to go to this party at all. But just looking at her did make him happy. He couldn’t really believe that such a beautiful girl, who could have had anyone she wanted, really found him enough for her. Tom had no idea that he was attractive, he thought he was big and clumsy. He honestly believed that all the admiring glances they got as a couple were directed at Marcella alone…

I heard a radio programme saying people were never happy,’ she began.

I know, I heard it too,’ Tom said.

I  was just thinking how lucky we were; poor Cathy and Neil can’t do what
they
want tonight.’ Marcella stood in her thong and picked up a tiny red garment from the back of a chair.

‘Yeah, Cathy will be there now, at her mother-in-law’s house, laying up the tables. I hope she keeps her temper.’

‘Well she’ll have to, it’s work, it’s professional. We all have to at work,’ said Marcella, who had bent over too many imperious hands already in her life, and wanted her day in the sunshine, walking down the ramp as a model.

‘Neil will be there and that pup of a cousin he has, so she should be all right.’ Tom still sounded doubtful.

Marcella had put on the red outfit. It was actually a dress, short and tight, clinging to her and leaving nothing to the imagination.

‘Marcella, are you really wearing that to the party?’

‘Don’t you like it?’ her face clouded over immediately.

‘Well of course I like it. You look beautiful. It’s just that maybe I’d like you to wear it here, for us, not for everyone else as well to see you.’

‘But Tom, it’s a party dress,’ she cried, stricken.

He pulled himself together at once.

‘Of course it is, and you’ll be the success of the night.’

‘So what did you mean… ?’

‘Mean? I meant nothing. I meant you were so gorgeous I didn’t want to share you with people… but take no notice. I didn’t really mean that at all.’

I thought you’d be proud of me,’ she said.

I am so proud you’ll never know,’ he reassured her. And she
was
a beauty. He must have been insane to have had that sudden reaction.

Hannah Mitchell stood in her navy wool dress, her hair hard and lacquered from her New Year’s Eve visit to Haywards. She always dressed as if she were going out to a ladies’ lunch. Cathy never remembered her wearing a pinafore or even an old skirt. But then, if you did no housework, what was the point of wearing things like that?

Hannah watched Cathy carry in all the boxes and crates, one by one, standing in her way and fussing and blocking her journey. She offered to carry nothing at all. Instead, she was hoping the crates wouldn’t mark the wallpaper, and wondering where would Cathy put the van so that it would be out of the way when people came. Grimly, Cathy marched to and from the kitchen of Oaklands. She turned on the ovens, laid her tea towels on the backs of chairs, placed her bag of ice in the freezer and began to sort out the food. It would be useless asking Hannah Mitchell to leave her alone, to go upstairs and lie down. She would stay put, fuss and irritate until the guests arrived.

‘Will Mr Mitchell be home shortly?’ Cathy thought she might ask him to help her unpack the glasses.

‘I don’t know, Cathy; really, it’s not up to me to police Mr Mitchell about what time he comes home.’ Cathy felt her neck redden in rage. How dare this woman be so offensive and patronising. But she knew she stood alone in this resentment. Neil would shrug if she told him. Her mother would beg her not to annoy Mrs Mitchell any further. Even her aunt Geraldine, who could normally be relied on for encouragement and support, would say what the hell. It just proved that Hannah Mitchell was an insecure nobody, not anyone to waste time worrying over. Cathy began to peel the foil from the dishes she had prepared.

‘Is that fish? Not everyone eats it, you know.’ Hannah had her very concerned face on now.

I know, Mrs Mitchell, some people don’t, which is why there’s a choice, you see.’

‘But they mightn’t know.’

‘I think they will. I’ll tell them.’

‘But didn’t you say it was a buffet?’

‘Yes, but I’ll be behind it serving, so I’ll tell them.’

‘Tell them?’ Hannah Mitchell was bewildered.

Cathy wondered was there a possibility that her mother-in-law was actually a halfwit.

‘Like asking them would they like fish in a sea-food sauce, or herbed chicken, or the vegetarian goulash,’ she said.

Mrs Mitchell tried but found it hard to find fault with this.

‘Yes, well,’ she said eventually.

‘So will I just get on with it now, do you think?’ she asked.

‘Cathy, my dear, may I ask who is stopping you?’ Hannah said with her face hard and unforgiving at all this confidence in Poor Lizzie Scarlet’s girl.

Neil looked at his watch. Every single person in this room had some kind of New Year’s function to go to except the student that they had all gathered to protect. They would be finished soon, but nobody must be seen to hasten away. It would be terrible for the man whose future hung in the balance if he thought that the civil rights activists, the social workers and lawyers were more interested in their own night’s fun and games than they were in his predicament. He was trying to reassure this young Nigerian that there would be justice and a welcome for him in Ireland. Neil would not let Jonathan spend the dawn of a New Year on his own. 

‘When we’re through here, you can come back to my parents’ house,’ he said. He was already late, but it couldn’t be helped.

The big sad eyes looked at him. ‘You don’t have to, you know.’

‘I know I don’t have to, and a barrel of laughs it won’t be, but my wife is doing the catering so the food will be good. My parents’ friends are… well, how will I put it… a bit dead.’

‘I’m okay, Neil, truly, you’re doing so much for me and all this has delayed you from it already….’

‘We’ll go through it once more,’ Neil said to the meeting, ‘then Jonathan and I will go and party.’ He saw them look at him in admiration. Neil Mitchell really went the distance. He felt a bit guilty at not being there to help Cathy as he had promised, but this was much more important – she’d understand. Cathy would be fine. His father and his cousin Walter would be there to help her by now… Everything would be fine.

Hannah still hovered, which meant that Cathy had to talk, answer inane questions, pat down unnecessary worries and even bring up topics of conversation, lest she be considered moody.

‘It’s nearly seven-thirty, Walter will be here any minute,’ Cathy said desperately. She could have got things done far faster had she not been under the scrutiny of the most critical eyes in the western hemisphere. Fingers could have been used more often than they were, things could have been flung into places rather than placed elegantly.

‘Oh, Walter! Like all young people, I’m sure he’ll be late.’ There was a sniff of disapproval and resignation.

I don’t think so, Mrs Mitchell, not tonight. It’s a professional engagement, he’s being paid from seven-thirty until twelve-thirty. That’s a five-hour booking. I’m certain he won’t let us down.’

Cathy wasn’t at all sure of this; she had no evidence that Walter Mitchell was reliable. But at least it was going to be known what his terms of business were. And if he didn’t turn up, then his own relations would have been made aware of his shortcomings. She heard someone outside.

‘Ah, that must be Walter now,’ she said. ‘I knew he’d be on time.’

It was in fact Jock Mitchell, who came into the kitchen rubbing his hands.

‘This looks just great, Cathy. I say, Hannah, isn’t this an amazing spread?’

‘Yes,’ said his wife.

‘Welcome home, Mr Mitchell. I thought it was Walter. He’s actually working for me tonight,’ Cathy said. ‘Did he leave the office at the same time as you, by any chance?’

‘Ages earlier,’ her father-in-law said. ‘Boy keeps his own time. I’m getting a bit of stick from the partners over him, as it happens.’

Hannah Mitchell hated family business being discussed in front of Cathy.

‘Why don’t you come upstairs and have a shower, dear? The guests will be here in half an hour,’ she said crisply.

‘Fine, fine. Don’t you want any help, Cathy?’

‘No, not at all. As I say, my wine waiter will be here shortly,’ Cathy said.

‘And Neil?’ he asked.

‘At a consultation. He’ll be along when he can.’

She was alone in the kitchen. So far she was surviving, but it was only fifteen minutes before eight o’clock. There were hours and hours to go.

Ricky’s party was only starting at nine, and they would go much later, so Tom Feather had plenty of time to go up to his parents and wish them a Happy New Year. He caught the bus from outside the door of Stoneyfield flats, and it went directly to Fatima, his mother and father’s house, weighed down with statues and holy pictures. He longed to call Cathy and ask how it was all going, but she said she had better not bring her mobile into the house – it seemed to irritate Hannah Mitchell beyond all reason. She would leave it in the van. Cathy would not appreciate being telephoned and called to the hall at Oaklands. He would have to leave it.