Chapter Eleven
MARTHA
I began the afternoon by scrubbing the toilet. Madame Bowden had invited some of her old theatre friends around for dinner, or supper as she called it, and she wanted the house to ‘sparkle’。 There was an edge about her that I hadn’t seen before. She was always a bit of a fusspot, but now nothing seemed right for her. She came back from the hairdressers in a black mood, insisting that they had deliberately set her curls too tight to make her look older than she was, and I left her at her dressing table, brushing them furiously into fluffy balls of frizz.
‘MARTHA!’ She screeched my name and I dropped the toilet brush, expecting to find her collapsed on the bedroom floor.
‘What is it?’ I said, breathless.
She was sitting at her dressing table wearing a nude colour slip and a silk dressing gown. My eyes were drawn to her neck and chest where the skin was puckered and mottled like a dead turkey at Christmas. I recalled an old nun at school saying that you couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear and I finally knew what she meant.
‘I’m missing my pearl earring!’ Her eyes openly accused me.
I looked on her dressing table at the jumble of jewels emptied out of their box and back at her. She had one pearl earring in her ear and the other was in her hand.
‘It’s in your hand, Madame,’ I said flatly.
‘I know it’s in my hand, you halfwit, I’m looking for the other one!’
I took a deep breath. If I didn’t need the money so badly, I’d tell her where to shove the other one.
‘It’s in your ear.’
She reached up, feeling nothing but soft flesh.
‘Your other ear.’
I leaned against the door frame. I had all the time in the world.
She felt the cool pearl and gave what could almost be described as a look of shame, if you didn’t know her better. Madame Bowden had too much pride for that.
‘Well, now that you’re here, you can help me get dressed. Don’t forget, the caterers are coming at four, so be sure to give them a hand. And you did put the silverware out and give it an extra going over?’
No apology for basically calling me a thief; not that I had expected one. I took the dress off the hanger （a silver sequin gown that looked like it belonged to Liberace） and ended up bending my body for her to lean on, like a climbing horse, as she stepped into it. I could feel the shakiness in her arms vibrating through my frame. She had a sharp tongue and a quick mind, but her body was letting her down. I felt some sympathy for her then. It was strange to see her like this. She always gave the impression of being too fabulous to care. Perhaps she was a talented actress after all. Eileen Bowden was just like everyone else. Afraid.
Following a stand-off over what I should be wearing for the event, in which she produced an actual maid’s outfit, I wore my new blouse and a black pencil skirt that she happened to have in her wardrobe. It was probably the dullest thing she owned. It was too big for me, so I borrowed a large red patent belt as well, which matched my hairband and pleased her enough to let me answer the door. As I had expected, three pension-age women stood gossiping and preening on the doorstep like a couple of old hens. They barely gave me a passing glance as they swept past me in a flurry of feathers and noise. I shook my head and smiled. When I thought of all the days I’d sat in the gloom of my kitchen, staring out at the fields that offered nothing but maybe the odd glimpse of a hare or the bright colours of a pheasant before some farmer shot it, it was hard to imagine that people were carrying on like this. Having fun. Eating well. Getting caterers. It was another world.
I stood with a frozen smile on my face, acting as a human coat hanger. Who even wore fur any more? Finally, it was time to serve the meal and I carried out my duties like someone who had worked in service all their lives – an invisible figure. That was when I realised someone was, in fact, invisible. Madame Bowden. Her place at the table was unoccupied. The women ate and gossiped and laughed at other people’s expense, not seeming to have noticed.
‘Will Madame Bowden return before dessert?’ I asked a little uncertainly.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said a woman whose neck was of such girth that she was in danger of being choked by her own pearls, which she now clutched. They all gave each other pointed looks and then, rather rudely in my opinion, began to laugh. Had this happened before? Madame Bowden not showing up for her own party?
‘And where did she find you?’ asked the other one, in a slim black dress that threatened to fall off her scrawny shoulders. I stopped mid-stretch as I was clearing the table, thinking of all the things I’d like to say. On the bottom of her shoe! Where did she think?
‘She put an ad in the paper for a housekeeper and I responded.’
‘Wonders never cease. What possible use would she have for a housekeeper?’ said the third woman, who was clearly the alpha female of the group. She lounged like a cat and smoked a thin cigar.
‘I should get myself a nice country girl too. They’re less likely to run off after their dreams or whatever it is. Know what side their bread is buttered,’ she said, speaking as though I wasn’t even there.
I nearly dropped the tray. I was used to people looking down their noses at me, but you’d swear I was Cinderella.
‘Actually, I’m working here to fund my way through university,’ I said defiantly.
‘Is that so?’ said pearl lady. ‘And what are you studying?’
What was I studying? Why had I opened my mouth! My hands started to feel sweaty. I decided to pretend I hadn’t heard the question.
‘I’ll bring some brandy through to the parlour when you’ve finished.’
I was seething with anger and shame. She knew I wasn’t good enough to make something of my life. They all did. I’d blown everything, made all the wrong choices and landed here, bowing down to these pretentious old biddies. But there was nothing I could do. This was my home now. I couldn’t just walk out without a plan. I wished I could, but the shame I felt at being a victim always tripped me up first. It was always there, I felt branded by it. I left them playing cards and getting rip-roaring drunk.
I went downstairs to my little apartment and tugged off my outfit before having a long, hot shower. Wrapped in a towel, I lay down on my bed and saw the continuing education leaflets from the library on the kitchen table. It felt pointless now. Whatever burst of energy I’d had earlier was completely gone. What hateful women they were. No wonder Madame Bowden did a runner. With friends like that, who needed enemies? A feeling bubbled up from somewhere deep inside of me – I just wanted to be held. I missed being held. The only person I’d spoken to since arriving in Dublin （besides my annoying employer） was Henry. Little did he know, he was the only thing I had that resembled a friend. And I couldn’t even count on that because he didn’t even live here. He’d be gone as soon as he found his manuscript, or whatever he was looking for.
Why was I thinking about him anyway? I felt guilty, or wrong in some way, to be thinking about a man at all after everything I had just been through. But Henry was the polar opposite to Shane; to any man I’d ever met. The way he told me that story about the author carrying his heavy suitcase across the border, his passion for rescuing lost or misplaced things, there was something so endearing about it. And even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself, he really was attractive. Sometimes when he looked at me with those hazel eyes, I found it hard to catch my breath. But then I would think, what would he ever see in a woman like me? All he was interested in was the bookshop. Nothing more.