that what I’d heard in the staffroom about Connie was probably not exaggerated after all. At the age of fifty-seven, her mother, it appeared, still treated her like a child. Each morning she got up at 6.30 a.m. to light the fire and see to her mother’s needs before she left for school. After school, she did the shopping and the housework. At weekends, Mother liked to be read to and taken for drives in the countryside. Of all this, Connie never spoke, though just occasionally she would refer to ‘Mother’ in excusing herself from an evening engagement.
‘A great admirer of yours, Mrs McKinstry. I’m sure you’ll miss her when she goes.’
‘Oh, I shall indeed. She’s been so kind to me since I came to Queen’s Crescent.’
‘So, it is true.’ He nodded to himself and looked quizzically at me over the curious half-glasses he always wore in the office. ‘Another new face, perhaps? Or perhaps not. Perhaps a face I know very well?’
I blushed. For all his rather formal manners and old world air, Mr Cummings missed very little.
‘Perhaps, Mr Cummings,’ I began awkwardly. ‘You’ve guessed, of course. She is going. I have been offered the Department. Miss Braidwood wants to advertise right away, so I’ve got to decide this weekend. It’s not an easy decision.’
He looked so puzzled that I wondered if he’d forgotten about young couples and families.
‘It would be a big responsibility indeed,’ he offered finally. ‘But very rewarding, I’m sure,’ he went on quickly, as if he were happy to be back on firmer ground. ‘With the new building, I expect you’d have all kinds of resources.’
I nodded and told him about the English workshop and drama areas already planned for the new building on the outskirts of the city. He listened attentively, but when I finished he reminded me that a Department is only as good as the people who run it. He said he was sure he knew who Connie would want.
‘The trouble is,’ I began uneasily, ‘I’m not a free agent. Everyone talks about equality, and women pursuing their own careers these days, but attitudes don’t change that quickly. As far as most of my family and relatives are concerned, we might as well be living in eighteen sixty-eight as nineteen sixty-eight,’ I said, a sharpness in my voice that quite surprised me. ‘Of course, my husband’s very understanding,’ I corrected myself hastily. ‘But his family’s a different matter. It’s a touch of Dombey and Son, you see. Or rather Grandson, to be precise.’
Suddenly, I was aware of time passing. I stood up abruptly. Mr Cummings rose too.
‘It’s hard, Mrs McKinstry, I know it’s hard,’ he said as we shook hands. ‘But remember, you’ve only got one life to live. You can’t give your best if your heart’s not in it.’
He looked so incredibly sad that I stopped where I was, ignoring the press of customers around the entrance to his tiny cubicle.
‘I needn’t talk, you know. I did what others wanted of me. But there’s a price to pay. It can cost you dear for the rest of your life.’ He released my hand, suddenly aware he was still holding it, long after the handshake could properly be said to have ended: ‘If you take the job, I expect I shall have to call you Madam,’ he added, with an awkward attempt at lightness.
‘If I take the job, Mr Cummings, you’ll have to call me Jenny,’ I replied.
He went ahead of me to the main entrance. At the door I put my hand lightly on his arm. ‘Thank you very much for your advice, Mr Cummings,’ I said firmly. ‘If I do take the job, I’ll need every friend I’ve got. I’ll let you know on Monday.’
I turned away quickly and didn’t dare look back at him. I couldn’t trust myself not to burst into tears.
The mizzling rain was heavier now. The dim light of the afternoon had faded further towards dusk. From the square-cut ledges of the City Hall came the squabble of hundreds of starlings as they began to roost for the night. Double-deckers swished past the office workers who poured in from the roads and avenues around the city square. I made my way towards the long queue for the Stranmillis bus.
‘Jenny.’
I stopped in my tracks, puzzled and confused, so far away in my thoughts I didn’t recognise the familiar voice.
‘Keith!’ I exclaimed, as my eye moved up the worn duffle coat and discovered the familiar face of my brother-in-law, smiling and brown after his vacation job.
‘The very man. How’s yourself?’
‘Fine, fine. When did you get back?’
‘Only last week. Job was great, paying well, so we stayed as long as we could. Heard things were moving here. Come on an’ we’ll have a coffee. Colin won’t be out for half an hour yet, will he? Tell us all your news.’
‘I’d love to, Keith, but I can’t. Colin’s in London with William John and I’m due up at home at five thirty. I’m running late as it is and you know what that means.’
He reached out for my briefcase, dropped his arm lightly round my shoulders and turned me away from the bus queue.
‘Surely I do. I’ll run you up. Bella’s on a meter round the corner. Come on. We can talk on the way.’
It took me all my time keeping up with Keith’s long strides. He wasn’t much taller than Colin, but put together quite differently. While Colin was fair like his mother and moved as if he had all the time in the world, even when he was in a hurry, Keith was dark and spare and full of edgy tension. In the last year, he’d grown a beard. Now after a summer in Spain he was deeply tanned and there were fine lines etched round his eyes. His face had lost its youthful look. Though still only twenty-two, it was Keith who now looked the older of the two brothers.
‘Keith, what’ve you done to poor Bella?’ I asked as we stopped by his ancient Volkswagen.
‘Isopon,’ he replied briskly as he searched in his pockets for his car keys. ‘I was afraid the rust molecules might stop holdin’ hands. Bella’s going to have to last a long time. No company car for the prodigal son, ye know.’
There was not a trace of malice in his voice despite the fact that Colin had had a red Spitfire for his twenty-first. You’re a better person than I, Keith McKinstry, I thought, as I settled myself on the lump of foam rubber he’d used to mend the collapsed passenger seat. He accelerated as the lights changed and overtook the crawling traffic ahead.
‘How’s your father, Jenny?’
‘Pretty good, thanks. He’s still managing to go into work two days a week though sometimes he lets Gladys Huey collect him and bring him home.’
Keith nodded easily. He and my father got on well. On the few occasions the two families had been together they talked agriculture and politics. They had ended up with a considerable respect for each other, even where they had to disagree.
‘And your dear mother?’ he continued, raising an eyebrow.
I sighed. ‘’Bout the same. Bit worse, perhaps. I think she’s been seeing a lot of your mother. You know how I feel about that. When they’re not trying to score points off each other they just reinforce each other’s prejudices.’
‘You’re right there,’ he
