Chapter 25
THEN
It was a hot, blue-skied day. Daphne and I were lazing by the bay window of my bedroom, the soles of our bare feet pressed up against the glass. Platter Parade was on and Daphne was singing along, very badly, to the Everly Brothers.
“Dream dream dream,” Daphne droned, in her God-awful voice. It was so bad that I was more than a little grateful when I heard a rap on my bedroom door.
“Knock knock.”
It wasn’t like Cess to knock. Then again, it wasn’t like me to have the door closed. So much about my having a friend was unfamiliar. So much so that when Cess opened the door, I felt shy.
“Hello,” she said with an odd brightness. Ness was by her side. “We just heard you talking and thought Daphne might be here. You’ve been talking about her so much and we’d love to meet her.”
“Sure.” I glanced at Daphne. Daphne didn’t seem shy at all. She leapt to her feet.
“Hullo, Cess, hullo, Ness,” Daphne exclaimed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
The pause that followed confused and embarrassed me.
I understood, of course, that Daphne’s family was working class.
I saw it in her clothes, heard it in her accent.
I knew that her parents were the type of people my Mum and Dad would have called “salt of the earth” but not the type of people who would attend one of their infamous parties.
My school, being Catholic, was open to all the families in our parish, but the only people we socialized with were the ones whom my father deemed to be of good standing.
The people who came in our doors wore polished shoes, combed hair.
If I’d had more friends, I may have had a better understanding of this.
Cess wasn’t as judgmental as my father had been—or even my mother, for that matter—but she lived in their world. She wasn’t immune.
If Daphne noticed the pause, she didn’t show it. She widened her eyes. “Wow,” she said to Cess. “You look like Marilyn Monroe.”
Cess did look particularly glamorous that day. Her trousers, a soft pastel pink, had a sharp crease down the front, showing off the smooth lines of her slender legs. Her matching blouse, tucked neatly into her waistband, was a light floral print with tiny roses scattered across the fabric.
“And you,” she said to Ness, “are a dead ringer for Audrey Hepburn.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Daphne,” Ness said. She made meaningful eye contact with Cess to tell her to snap out of it. “A real pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Daphne said, with mock formality. “I’ve heard lots about you.”
“Can Daphne join us for dinner tonight?” I asked.
“Sure,” Ness said. “Cess has made chicken and vegetable pie with mash.”
Daph gave a little fist pump. I laughed. “Cess’s pies are the best.”
Cess was still staring at Daphne. I willed her to stop.
“Right then,” she said finally. “I’ll go set an extra place, shall I?”
We nodded, and they disappeared from the room, closing the door behind them.
Daphne beamed. “They’re so nice!”
“They’ve been best friends all their life,” I told her.
“Like we will be,” Daphne said.
“You think?”
“Heavens, yes,” Daphne cried. “Two little old ladies, wreaking havoc in the nursing home, you mark my words.”
Oddly I could see it.
“Sorry about the way they were looking at you,” I said.
Daphne scoffed. “That? That was nothing. Besides, for chicken and vegetable pie they can look at me any old way they want.”
To her credit, Daphne seemed unbothered. I hoped it was true. Besides, she made a good point. A lot of people would accept worse for a slice of Cess’s chicken and vegetable pie.
I went back to school a week before the doctor had suggested.
While I didn’t love school—show me a social outcast who does—I found I needed its structure.
I needed the day to be broken into segments, rather than the long, indistinguishable stretch between sunup and sundown that I’d experienced at home and at the hospital.
Besides, my arm was healing well and there was only so much wallowing around the house I could do.
That’s what I said to Cess and Ness, at least. The truth, of course, was that I went back to school a week early because I knew Daphne was going to be there.
St. Mary’s was a beautiful school. The main building was bluestone, with arched stained-glass windows, religious statues, and crucifixes at every turn.
Inside, children roamed the cavernous corridors while nuns floated after them, delivering prayers and reprimands as required to children they passed.
Each classroom was more or less identical: rows of worn, wooden, chewing-gum-pocked desks facing a blackboard, and of course, a framed picture of Our Lady.
Each lesson began with a sign of the cross and, in my case, a hope for the best.
On my first day back, Daphne was waiting for me behind the curling iron gates. “Maybelline! Hullo!”
I stared at her. “What did you call me?”
“Maybelline. It’s a nickname. You know? The makeup brand?”
We fell into step as we walked into the building, toward our lockers.
I couldn’t decide if Daphne was utterly mad or entirely delightful.
It was line-ball. “The story goes that Mabel Williams singed off her eyelashes in 1915 and then used the ashes and some Vaseline to make mascara. Her older brother Tom started the brand and he named it in her honor. Mabel and Vaseline, get it? Maybelline. Cool story, hey?”
I must have been staring at her because she looked at me, and said: “What? It’s a nickname, I thought you’d like it. Oh, forget it.”
The only nickname I’d ever known was Mad Mabel, and I was not fond of it at all. This felt different. Where Mad Mabel felt accusatory—unfairly so—this felt affectionate.
“I do like it.”
“Oh. Well, good. No guarantees I’ll ever call you that again though, I’m afraid. My nicknames tend to change.”
Daphne’s constant stream of chatter made me realize how quiet my life had been. How different it was, having her by my side.
We stowed our bags in our lockers, and collected our books. Before heading to the first class, I took a breath and steadied myself.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right beside you, okay? Every minute. If you feel sad about your mum, just squeeze my hand, okay?”
She slipped her hand into mine. I squeezed.
A few showed kindness that first day back.
Sister Margaret Mary, my home economics teacher, began class with a prayer for my family. Brother Ignatius, my math teacher, offered a solemn nod and a firm hand to my shoulder as I entered the room. Countless kids opened their mouths to lob insults, then seemed to think better of it.
But only Mr. Loukas said the words.
“I’m so sorry to hear about your mother,” he said after class.
I liked Mr. Loukas. He was one of the few lay teachers—non-religious staff who taught alongside the Brothers and Sisters.
He was young, maybe mid-twenties, beanpole thin, with a jelly roll haircut like Elvis.
He wore patterned shirts—birds, boats, and once, tiny Christmas puddings—with a bow tie, a waistcoat, and a jaunty Panama hat.
“Are you sure you’re ready to be back, Mabel?” he asked.
I shrugged. “What would I do at home?”
He nodded. “Not to hijack your grief,” he said gently, “but I lost my mother around your age. Long illness. I got to say goodbye. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The classroom was empty. That wasn’t unusual—when history bumped up against recess or lunch, I sometimes lingered by his desk, hoping to talk more about the day’s lesson. He always indulged me, even if it cost him his break.
He reached out, and for a moment, I thought he was going to hug me. Instead, he took my hand.
“I’m here for you, Mabel,” he said. “Night or day.”
It didn’t quite make sense—I only saw him during school hours—but the words landed like a life vest tossed into deep water.
That night, I lay in bed and fantasized about marrying Mr. Loukas.