however, like Mary to move in with him.
And Mary loved him so much and her mother was still so unaware of his existence, and Brenda was leaving town to go to London, that there really were problems.
‘Could you tell her the truth?’ I asked foolishly, because really it was a foolish question.
All right, so Mary was 26, she was entitled to do whatever she liked; she certainly didn’t love her mother enough to be deeply upset about hurting her. But then mothers are mothers and I can’t believe that four years ago a woman in her fifties would like her daughter to move in with a divorced man. I couldn’t believe for a moment that Mary’s mother, who was practically a law unto herself, would countenance it for a minute.
Selfishly I thanked heaven that I lived in Dalkey and there was no fear that Mary could ask me to pretend I was living with her, because there is no way you could say Dalkey was nearer her work than her own house was. What did the man say? Oh well, he said, it was up to her to arrange things and she was so desperately afraid that she’d lose him, and he did so need someone to get his shirts cleaned, and cook his supper, she couldn’t leave and there would have to be a way.
The way, when found, was so ludicrous and financially disastrous you will find it hard to believe.
Mary told her mother that she was going to do an evening course and would have to take a room in town. She rented a bedsitter and paid £6 a week for it, brought in some of her things. She now had clothes and possessions in three houses, her mother’s, her man’s and her new totally unused and useless bedsitter. Every Tuesday, which was her half day, she would bring in some more things from the pad to the bedsitter and ask her mother to tea. Mother was getting older, sadder and sourer. She couldn’t understand why Mary was paying £3 to her old home, £6 to a landlord, when she had a perfectly good home of her own, and, said the mother sinisterly, perfect freedom to entertain all her friends there. The house was now too big for mother. Tuesdays took on the nature of a nightmare.
Then there were the weekends. Mother couldn’t understand that Mary had suddenly joined An Óige and was going on winter and summer hikes, when she didn’t seem to know a thing about the organisation nor anyone in it.
I don’t know Mary very well, remember, but I think that the man loved her a lot. He certainly made her very happy and apart from all the deceptions at home and the effort and the covering up and trying not to meet people that might conceivably split on them, it was a good, happy relationship.
For nearly a year.
The man, it appeared, was a little mean. Mary was only taking home £22 a week from her teaching, and nine of that was gone on two other sets of accommodation already. He expected her to pay for half their housekeeping and he liked living well. He bought her nice presents of course, but Mary was getting into debt. He had pictures of his nippers all over the pad; and none of Mary. She thought that was a bit hard, but the price you pay for this kind of setup. He had to go to business dinners, and naturally couldn’t bring her along. So she spent long evenings looking at television, wondering what time he would come home. And she couldn’t ask her friends in because it wasn’t her place. So she would go out to a coin box phone occasionally and ring her mother, pretending she was phoning from the hall of the place she was meant to be living in, and her mother would have some other complaint. And she often went to the cinema on her own.
Then the doubts began. Was it a simple magazine case of letting herself go, did he find her less attractive now, had she moved in too easily, why were there so many business dinners now and hardly any at all six months ago? Was there someone else?
It couldn’t be that he was lonely for the children because his ex-wife had remarried and the children were living with her in Switzerland. He didn’t
And Mary loved him so much and her mother was still so unaware of his existence, and Brenda was leaving town to go to London, that there really were problems.
‘Could you tell her the truth?’ I asked foolishly, because really it was a foolish question.
All right, so Mary was 26, she was entitled to do whatever she liked; she certainly didn’t love her mother enough to be deeply upset about hurting her. But then mothers are mothers and I can’t believe that four years ago a woman in her fifties would like her daughter to move in with a divorced man. I couldn’t believe for a moment that Mary’s mother, who was practically a law unto herself, would countenance it for a minute.
Selfishly I thanked heaven that I lived in Dalkey and there was no fear that Mary could ask me to pretend I was living with her, because there is no way you could say Dalkey was nearer her work than her own house was. What did the man say? Oh well, he said, it was up to her to arrange things and she was so desperately afraid that she’d lose him, and he did so need someone to get his shirts cleaned, and cook his supper, she couldn’t leave and there would have to be a way.
The way, when found, was so ludicrous and financially disastrous you will find it hard to believe.
Mary told her mother that she was going to do an evening course and would have to take a room in town. She rented a bedsitter and paid £6 a week for it, brought in some of her things. She now had clothes and possessions in three houses, her mother’s, her man’s and her new totally unused and useless bedsitter. Every Tuesday, which was her half day, she would bring in some more things from the pad to the bedsitter and ask her mother to tea. Mother was getting older, sadder and sourer. She couldn’t understand why Mary was paying £3 to her old home, £6 to a landlord, when she had a perfectly good home of her own, and, said the mother sinisterly, perfect freedom to entertain all her friends there. The house was now too big for mother. Tuesdays took on the nature of a nightmare.
Then there were the weekends. Mother couldn’t understand that Mary had suddenly joined An Óige and was going on winter and summer hikes, when she didn’t seem to know a thing about the organisation nor anyone in it.
I don’t know Mary very well, remember, but I think that the man loved her a lot. He certainly made her very happy and apart from all the deceptions at home and the effort and the covering up and trying not to meet people that might conceivably split on them, it was a good, happy relationship.
For nearly a year.
The man, it appeared, was a little mean. Mary was only taking home £22 a week from her teaching, and nine of that was gone on two other sets of accommodation already. He expected her to pay for half their housekeeping and he liked living well. He bought her nice presents of course, but Mary was getting into debt. He had pictures of his nippers all over the pad; and none of Mary. She thought that was a bit hard, but the price you pay for this kind of setup. He had to go to business dinners, and naturally couldn’t bring her along. So she spent long evenings looking at television, wondering what time he would come home. And she couldn’t ask her friends in because it wasn’t her place. So she would go out to a coin box phone occasionally and ring her mother, pretending she was phoning from the hall of the place she was meant to be living in, and her mother would have some other complaint. And she often went to the cinema on her own.
Then the doubts began. Was it a simple magazine case of letting herself go, did he find her less attractive now, had she moved in too easily, why were there so many business dinners now and hardly any at all six months ago? Was there someone else?
It couldn’t be that he was lonely for the children because his ex-wife had remarried and the children were living with her in Switzerland. He didn’t
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