Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Dublin, November 1968
Maura
It’s a perfectly ordinary Saturday, mundane even, when a man walks into Switzers department store on Grafton Street and changes my life. I notice he is tall first. He is six foot if he is an inch. Next, I take in his clothes: an expensive trilby hat—the type my father wears, of that scratchy material that can’t be comfortable—and a long tan trench coat. We stock that trench coat in our menswear section. It costs thirty-two pounds and fourteen shillings—more than a month’s wages for me.
He walks up to the counter, looks me in the eye, and says, “Has anyone ever told you you are the spitting image of a young Doris Day?”
I blush, although I’m not sure why. People tell me I look like the famous Hollywood star all the time.
“Oh, Maureen, if she isn’t a mini Doris,” my aunt told my mother on my confirmation day.
“I know.” Ma nodded. “With Maura’s good looks she’ll catch herself a fine husband someday.”
I’ve made a conscious effort to style myself in Doris’s image ever since. I visit the salon once a month and have my already fair hair dyed a little blonder. I keep it cropped above my shoulders with just enough length to tuck behind my ears. And I never leave the house without dark mascara and ruby red lipstick. My mother says it makes me look like a harlot.
“It’s the sixties, Ma,” I tell her. “Women want to look their best these days.”
Besides, management insists all female staff wear makeup to complement our uniforms. Our emerald green pinafores must sit exactly above our knees—not an inch higher, and we must wear black shoes with a block heel. I spend almost half my wages on new shoes every month, and Ma says I’d better break the habit before I get married, because no man in his right mind would put up with that.
“Do you like Doris Day?” I ask the man in the trilby hat as he stares at me boldly.
“I think she’s the most beautiful woman in the world,” he says, with a confidence that makes my knees want to buckle.
My cheeks sting for a moment before I manage to spit out, “How can I help you today, sir?”
“A coat,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s my darling mammy’s birthday next week and I think a coat would be a fine thing.”
“Yes, indeed. Especially in this weather.” November has been particularly nasty so far. We had snow to start the month and there’s been hail almost every day this week. “Wool?”
He shakes his head. “Fur, I think.”
“Fantastic choice.”
I walk around from behind the counter to lead him toward some of my favorite blond mink coats that arrived in stock for Christmas.
His eyes drop to my legs and he makes no secret of the fact that he is studying me. I try to ignore the heat in my face as I lead the way and fetch a heavy coat from the rack. I drape it across my arms and turn it toward him.
“It’s wonderfully soft,” I say.
He strokes it and nods. “This will do nicely.”
He doesn’t ask how much, and when I ring it up on the till he opens his wallet and hands over the cash without batting an eyelid. I can’t help but imagine how wonderful it must be to have a life like that.
I fold the coat, wrap it up, and pass it to him, and wait for him to walk away. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Do you like Doris Day?”
“I like her films very much,” I say. “ Calamity Jane is one of my favorites.”
“Mine too,” he says with a toothy grin, and I notice how straight his teeth are. “She has a new film just released. I saw the poster outside the Savoy today when I walked by. Oh, what was it called…” He strokes his chin, thinking. “ With Six You Get Eggroll , that’s it.”
I’m smiling and I want to say something clever, or at least interesting, but before I have time to open my mouth, he says, “What do you say? Would you like to go to the pictures tonight?”
“Together?” I ask.
He laughs. “Well, yes.”
“Tonight?”
“It’s only playing for two nights. Last night and tonight. So…?”
“I don’t even know your name?”
“Christopher.” He extends his hand. “Christopher Davenport.”
I take his hand and shake it. “I’m Maura Flynn. And I would like to go to the pictures with you, Christopher.”
“Christy, please,” he says, with a charming smile. “Call me Christy. All my friends do.”
“You’d like us to be friends?”
“I would. Yes. Very much.”
There’s devilment in his sea-gray eyes, a sparkle of mischief that catches under the light, and I suspect life with Christopher Davenport is never dull.
“The film starts at six o’clock. Where will I pick you up?”
“You drive?” I say, my eyes round like two pennies.
He nods. “Your folks’ house? Is it here in town?”
“I couldn’t expect you to drive all the way to Rathgar. I’ll meet you under Clerys clock at five fifty,” I say, and it comes out confident and assured.
I see couples meeting under Clerys clock most evenings when I’m walking home from work and I’ve often wanted to be one of them. My belly fizzes with bubbles of excitement that tonight I will be.
“Five fifty at Clerys,” he says; then he takes my hand again, kisses the back of it, and walks away.
I’ve scarcely caught my breath when Geraldine, my colleague, appears from the stockroom shortly after.
“What has you smiling like the cat that got the cream?” she asks.
“I’m going on a date tonight.”
“Ah, Maura.” She jams her hands on her hips and shakes her head.
Geraldine, at twenty, is five and a half years younger than me. She’s a tiny thing, built as if a puff of wind could blow her away like a cobweb, but I’ve seen her lift boxes men would struggle with. She has fiery red hair and a personality to match. She wore flat shoes to work when she started, and she told our manager she had a sore big toe and he could like it or lump it. I’d never heard a woman speak to a man like that before. I have to admit, I secretly enjoyed it. And besides, Dick, our manager, is aptly named. Geraldine has worn flat shoes since. It wouldn’t surprise me if she turned up in a pair of trousers someday.
“Is he good looking?” she asks.
I nod.
“Tall?”
I nod.
“Rich?”
I nod.
“Marriage material?”
I laugh. “It’s a first date, Ger. Marriage might be pushing it a stretch.”
“That’s what they all say and within six months they’re giving up their jobs and moving in with their husbands. Next it’s a baby on your hip and another in your belly.”
I grin just thinking about it. I rub my empty stomach and try to imagine what it would be like to grow a baby inside me.
“Ah, Maura, there’s no hope for you, I see it in you. You’ll be married in no time and then you’ll have to give up your job, and who will I talk to?”
“You have all the other girls.”
Geraldine waves her hand as if she’s swatting the idea out of the air. “With the amount of engagement announcements in the place? Ha. Soon there’ll be no one left but me.”
“Maybe you’ll get married yourself someday.”
“Never,” she says, with firm determination. “Never ever. You couldn’t pay me enough to take in a man.”
I’ve heard the rumors, the whispers among the other girls behind Geraldine’s back. I can’t remember exactly what they called her, something beginning with L . It’s not a word I’d ever heard before, but I think they were implying Geraldine would rather kiss a woman than a man. I’ve told them to hush up more times than I can count. Talk of illegal behavior like that could get Geraldine in a lot of trouble. Besides, what business is it of theirs who she wants to kiss?
“You could stand him up, you know,” Geraldine says.
“Ger,” I balk. “That’s awful talk. He seems like a nice chap.”
“I’m only pulling your leg, Maura. Go. Have a great date. Just don’t get married too soon and leave me.”
“I won’t. I promise.”