Edith’s Epiphany
written by: Veronica Lynch
I was sipping tea when a beeping sound disturbed our peace.
“Do you hear that?” I put my cup down.
“Mmm.” Brian didn’t look up, reading emails on his phone as he ploughed through his porridge. I got up and went through to the front room, just as a removal truck reversed past the bay window.
“Brian,” I called, as it parked outside the house next door, “there are people moving into Gracie’s place.”
He didn’t reply but I could hear him rifling through the kitchen cupboard where he kept his vitamins.
I tweaked the net curtain as a couple stepped from a car parked in front of the truck.
The woman was wearing a floaty dress with a plunging neckline that barely restrained large breasts and her bleached hair had ribbons threaded through it. Her companion’s shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, the grey-streaked, red hair and beard giving him a leonine appearance. When he picked her up and carried her up the path, I snorted. “Love’s young dream.”
“Move away from the window.” Brian was in the doorway, patting his suit pocket, taking out a tissue. “They’ll see you watching.” He blew his nose with a trumpeting sound, and I knew without looking that he was examining the handkerchief contents. “I’ll be home by six.”
“See you later.” I straightened the couch cushions, waiting for him to complete the ritual of checking his tie in the hall mirror, smoothing his hair over the bald patch that was becoming more and more difficult to conceal.
I stood beside the window as the overalled men, hefting a purple velvet couch up the path, greeted Brian. There was no sign of the couple. I had a feeling they weren’t going to be like quiet, unintrusive Gracie and Hugh. At least there weren’t children. Even though I liked the sound of them playing, their shrieks of joy and exhilaration, they made me feel melancholy, and wonder what might have been.
The moving men lumbered to and from the truck, parading a succession of gilded mirrors adorned with cherubs, flimsy faux period chairs, and an assortment of frilly canopies that seemed to belong to the various beds.
I sniffed. “Tacky.”
At nine a.m. I washed up our breakfast things, wiped the kitchen table and swept up crumbs. Taking my laptop from the dining room, I moved a vase of dried flowers from an occasional table in the front room corner and set up there.
Logging on, I began to list the tax-deductible outgoings of the catering firm whose accounts I was presenting, when a burst of laughter outside brought me back to the window. The woman had uncorked a bottle of champagne and was pouring it into paper cups, passing them to her companion and the removal men. They toasted each other, then raised their cups to the house and cheered. The couple kissed.
“Dear God.” It was like watching a pantomime. I couldn’t believe their utter abandonment, drinking and celebrating, when they had an entire house to sort out.
I tried to work, but struggled to concentrate, listening constantly for further signs of our new neighbours’ decadent behaviour. The morning slipped by in a steady cadence of footsteps and thuds, punctuated by words of encouragement. Finally, around one p.m., the truck moved off, facing the boreen that led to the main road.
I ate a chicken sandwich at the kitchen table, then peeled potatoes, carrots and onions for dinner. It was stuffy but when I opened a window, the room filled with strange music; chanting underlaid with a thrumming drumbeat.
Closing it hurriedly, I took two painkillers from our medicine cupboard and was filling a glass of water when the doorbell rang. I paused for a moment at the kitchen sink. They might assume no one was home and go away. But if I’d been seen peering out earlier it would seem terribly rude to ignore them.
When I opened the door, the woman almost fell in. ‘Whoops.’ She giggled. ’Came to introduce myself. I’m Lynn.’
‘Edith.’ I didn’t invite her in. Better to maintain a polite distance, particularly when ours were the only two houses at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. I didn’t want her to think she could call whenever she felt like it.
‘This place is amazing.’ She threw her arms wide to capture the surrounding fields and trees lit golden by the sun. It seemed to illuminate her too; the mane of hair I now saw was naturally white with age, the scattering of freckles across her face, a turquoise pendant on a silver chain dipping into her wrinkled cleavage.
‘Not so much in winter,’ I said, cautious. ‘The boreen becomes a swamp.’ She needed to experience every season here to truly know this place.
She laughed, unfazed. ‘Maybe I’ll hibernate for the winter then. But the moment I saw the house, I fell in love with it; the huge old fireplaces, the lattice windows. That magical secret garden.’
‘Yes.’ I moved from behind the door, disarmed by her exuberance. ‘Hugh and Gracie loved their garden. When he died we helped her look after it. And when Gracie was gone, we took care of it in their memory.’
She put a hand to her heart. ‘That was kind of you. I thought it looked cared for.’
‘We just cut the grass, did a little weeding.’ I tried not to stare at a tattoo above her left breast, of a bird in flight.
She touched it gently with beringed fingers then leaned closer for me to examine it. ‘An eagle. It’s a symbol of freedom.’
Something about the fading indigo ink on her puckered skin, the tone in her voice when she spoke about it, made me pause. ‘That’s meaningful.’ We were vastly different, yet at that moment I felt a kinship with her. She was a contemporary, who had lived for more than half a century too; and had likely suffered loss, grief, trauma in her life.
‘It is.’ She studied me with lively green eyes for a moment. ‘We’re having a housewarming party tonight. The house is a mess but our friends won’t mind. Do come. And your husband, of course.’ And before I could step back, she hugged me, smelling of coconut oil and a trace of something I couldn’t quite identify, possibly patchouli.
When I went back inside, the cream painted walls and neutral soft furnishings seemed spartan, the fresh linen air freshener I sprayed every day, vapid.
Brian came home at six, double locked the front door, hung his jacket on the coat stand and used the downstairs toilet. He came into the kitchen as I was mashing potatoes, sniffing the air appreciatively. I’d finished the tax return and had a beef bourguignon simmering in the oven.
‘Our neighbour called.’ I nodded towards next door as we set the table together in the dining room. ‘She invited us to a party tonight.’
He dropped cutlery with a clatter. ‘On a Tuesday?’
‘They’re a bit unorthodox.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘They’re nothing like Gracie and Hugh, that’s for sure.’
Frowning, Brian wiped the fork with a serviette, set it carefully on the table. ‘I hope our peace here isn’t going to be disrupted.’
‘I know.’ It felt as though it already had been.
Over dinner, he talked about the number of mortgage applications he’d been forced to refuse, how difficult it was for young people to get on the property ladder, all the while hoovering up mouthfuls of food. I thought about the warmth and generosity of Lynn’s embrace. I’d forgotten how much comfort a hug could give.
‘You’re very quiet.’ He glanced up from loading another forkful.
‘I’ve got one of my heads.’ I pushed my food around the plate, the red meat and congealing gravy repelling me. It was too heavy for August, but was Brian’s favourite.
After dinner we watched ‘Prime Time’ in the sitting room. I closed the drapes even though it wasn’t dark. We didn’t comment on the car doors slamming, the footsteps on the path, but I couldn’t focus on the current affairs programme. I pictured Gracie’s panelled living room and arched ceiling resounding with merriment, and regretted not challenging Brian’s assumption that we weren’t going.
At ten p.m. Brian brushed my cheek with his lips and went to bed. Overhead, the toilet flushed, floorboards creaked. I waited a few minutes before peering between the drapes. Cars were parked haphazardly, one even jutting across our drive. I caught a distant hum of laughter, chatter and music.
Going upstairs I undressed and climbed in beside Brian, but my head spun with distorted thoughts, while he snored gustily beside me. The luminous display on my bedside clock glowed one a.m., when all at once the music and soft voices were closer. Getting carefully out of bed I moved a padded stool to the window and knelt on it to peer out at the garden beside ours.
Within the high stone walls, a courtyard merged onto a long lawn and beyond that was an intentional wilderness filled with rampant perennials and night scented stock. The moon was shining onto a couple dancing barefoot on the lawn. It was Lynn, in the arms of a dark haired, strongly built man. When the music ended they walked hand in hand to the end of the garden and he moved out of my line of vision. Lynn lifted the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head, then peeled her underwear off. Covering my mouth with my hand, I glanced at Brian, still asleep. When I turned back she was standing among the flowers, stretching high as if saluting the moon, her skin rendered a soft pearl by its forgiving light. Her companion returned, spread a rug on a grassy patch between the flowerbeds and Lynn crawled onto it, her breasts swinging free. He cupped one as they kissed and she lay back, reaching to pull his clothing down. When he straddled her, I put my hands against my hot cheeks and breathed slowly. More people had come into the garden, dancing under the lanterns that had been strung across the courtyard, others sprawled on the weathered rattan furniture, but I gave them the briefest glance. I was mesmerised by the rhythmic coupling that seemed to blend with the swaying fronds, the nodding lilies and hibiscus.
Next morning I was late to breakfast, my thoughts sluggish and blurred.
‘You’re pale,’ Brian said, stirring his tea.
’I didn’t sleep very well.’ My body thrummed with a myriad of titillating sensations I’d almost forgotten.
‘I hope that party didn’t keep you awake.’ Picking up a spoon, he cracked a precise circle around the top of his soft-boiled egg with such concentration that I wanted to snatch it from the eggcup and mash it into his earnest face.
‘I think they’re swingers,’ I said, just as he spooned egg into his mouth. It might have been an illicit assignation, but I had a fleeting memory of other guests entwined together on the garden furniture; hardly a typical middle-aged party.
Brian spluttered and coughed. ‘Is that meant to be some sort of sick joke?’
He hated references to intimacy, switching the channel the moment there was a warning of ‘scenes of a sexual nature’. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d witnessed, and how completely congruent with nature they’d seemed.
‘I’m serious,’ I said. ’Lynn, the woman I met yesterday, had sex in the garden with a man who wasn’t her husband.’
Before I could explain that it hadn’t looked as sleazy as it sounded, he stood, scraping his chair on the ceramic floor tiles. ‘I’m not listening to this.’ A flush was spreading from under his shirt collar, suffusing his face. ‘I’ll be home by six.’ Moments later the front door slammed; he’d forgotten his tie and hair routine.
I checked regularly all day, but the only sign of our neighbours was a glimpse from the bedroom window of two pairs of naked feet jutting from under a large yellow parasol that had been opened above the patio furniture.
That evening Brian was solicitous, as if I was recuperating from a disorder, asking if my headache had reoccurred, suggesting a weekend break. We discussed possible destinations, agreeing our preference for the west coast, Galway or Clare, making me recall an idyllic weekend we’d spent in a wind swept coastal cottage years earlier.
I didn’t mention the neighbours again, still trying to order my fluctuating emotions.
Over the next few days I continued to organise clients’ accounts and cook our meals, but I also unearthed filmy lingerie and a peacock blue silk robe I’d worn on our honeymoon twenty-five years ago. I massaged scented oil into my skin and sat in the garden with my toes curled into the grass, imagining I was on the other side of the high, ivy covered walls. When I wore the robe at breakfast Brian didn’t comment, but seemed to entomb himself deeper in the Financial Times. And when I climbed naked into bed, he shrank away, as if I was suffering from something contagious.
Our neighbours were busy with various workmen coming and going. Lynn waved from a window when I was carrying groceries into the house on Thursday but our paths didn’t cross until Friday morning, when I opened the front door to accept a parcel from a courier.
‘Morning.’ Lynn and the red haired man were by the low wall separating our gardens.
‘Good morning.’ I stepped outside, conscious of how little I was wearing under the robe.
Lynn glowed with vitality, an earth goddess in a flowing sky blue dress and amber beads. ‘You haven’t met Gary.’ She put her arm around the man beside her. ‘Gary, this is Edith.’
He reached his hand across the wall to me, his smile widening to a grin as we shook hands. ‘I believe we have you and your husband to thank for looking after our beautiful garden.’
‘It was our pleasure.’ He held my hand gently in his, as if he sensed I wasn’t accustomed to being touched very much anymore. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy here.’
‘I think we will be.’ His smile widened, crinkling his eyes. He exuded warmth and a calmness that contrasted with, and complemented, Lynn’s exuberance.
They told me they’d travelled the world for years but had decided to settle down in West Cork. ‘In as much as we ever will settle,’ Lynn said, with a laugh.
‘I’m sorry I missed your party.’ All the excuses I’d prepared deserted me, leaving only honesty. ’I think I would have enjoyed it.’
‘I think so too.’ Lynn reached to touch my robe. ‘This is really beautiful,’ and somehow both of them were each holding one of my hands across the garden wall.
‘As a matter of fact we’re having another party tonight. Will you come?’ When she squeezed my fingers lightly, I pulled my hand away.
‘I’m not sure.’ I clutched my robe to me, trying to contain a sudden trembling, exhilaration and terror combined.
‘No pressure,’ she said. ‘People do whatever they want to do at our parties. That’s the whole point.’
Gary was still holding my hand, but lightly, in case I wanted to let go.
And all at once I saw a different future for myself; full of love, laughter and new experiences.
I waited until we’d finished dinner to tell Brian about the party.
‘Christ.’ He rarely swore. Maybe he’d been feeling the turbulence of the last few days too.
‘I want to go,’ I said.
‘Are you mad?’ He pushed his plate aside so violently that some leftover peas rolled off, crossing the table and dropping onto the floor. We left them there.
‘Why don’t you come with me?’
His expression was incredulous. ‘They’re aging hippies with no moral compass whatsoever.’ He stared at me with wide eyes. ‘You said they’re swingers.’
I shrugged. ‘I’m not sure they can be defined in a specific way, except that they’re open and accepting.’
He threw his serviette on the table and stood. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, Edith. I’m worried about you. I know women of a certain age can become unstable.’
I didn’t bother rising to that remark; it reeked of denial and panic. I was sad for him, how he’d allowed his inhibitions to dominate him, and for the empty life we’d been living for so long. ‘We’re in such a rut,’ I said. ‘We need to step out of our comfort zones or we’ll gradually become the next Hugh and Gracie.’
‘So what if we do?’ He said.’ They had a good life.’
‘More like half-lives.’ Even when we moved here twenty years ago, they’d been reclusive, only leaving their house for errands, rarely interacting with anyone else, until a frail Gracie had been forced to accept help. I no longer wanted my world to reduce a little more with every passing day.
Going upstairs I put on the dress the courier had delivered that morning, smoothing the delicate voile over my hips with a flutter of anticipation.
Downstairs, Brian was slumped in front of the television, his expression defeated. ‘Are you leaving me?’ he said.
I kissed his cheek gently. He was a kind man and probably a little lost too. But this unexpected clarity was about much more than our atrophying relationship.
‘Don’t wait up.’ I unlocked the door and stepped outside.
- Edith’s Epiphany - November 15, 2024
