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Deceptions- By June Considine

Prologue

Dublin is a city with eyes, a gossiping great-aunt who sees around corners, peers through the walls of quiet pubs and dimly-lit restaurants—and so the Oakdale Arms, buried in the seclusion of the Wicklow hills, has become an oasis in their busy lives. Its old-fashioned appearance is due to neglect rather than a contrived nostalgia and, with no stylish attribute that would lift it from the mundane, it remains a hidden place where none of their friends or acquaintances would dream of staying. They are familiar with the narrow corridors and thread-bare carpets, the flocked wallpaper that no longer has any discernable pattern, and the grandfather clock in the lounge which, on the hour, gives forth a doleful boom, reminding them that time may only briefly be stolen.

   The bell jangles when they enter the lobby and a porter, stooped and worn as a cliché, insists on carrying their overnight bags to their room. Over the years they have laid an affectionate claim on him, as they would to a favourite pet, and have named him Igor. He exists in their minds only for the length of time they stay at the Oakdale and is as much part of the furnishings as the curtains that drape with tired indifference from brass hoops or the faded paintings of fox hunts adorning the walls.

She showers and dresses for their evening meal. Satin and lace lingerie are concealed beneath a  sheer silk dress of midnight-blue. She pirouettes before him, laughing in mock-protest and pointing at her watch when he tumbles her onto the bed. They tussle, not seriously, the night is only beginning and they are at an age where anticipation is more enjoyable when it smoulders across a restaurant table. His mobile phone rings as they are about to leave the room. His shoulder is hunched when he answers, his voice lowered, as if protecting her from the intrusion.. 

She closes the door behind her and walks towards the lift. The smell of turf smoke, pervasive and homely, reminds her that an open fire burns in the lounge. Later, after they have eaten, they will relax in the shabby chintz-covered armchairs with a glass

of brandy before retiring for the night.  A tour bus has arrived and the lobby is filled with big-boned American men in easy shoes enquiring about the availability of ice making machines. Their wives, an authoritative twang to their accents, busily supervise the removal of luggage to their rooms.

She has reached the restaurant when he calls her name, an apologetic sound, and catches up with her. Their waiter, deferential in black, greets them without a flicker of recognition and leads them to their favourite window seat. Weary-wise in the ways of illicit passion, and armed with a generous tip, he will forget their existence as soon as they walk from his table.

   The food on offer is as unimaginative as ever, an emphasis on roast meats and over-boiled vegetables. The dessert menu reminds them of childhood treats: Banana Splits, Knickerbocker Glories, strawberry jelly and ice-cream. While they eat, their conversation skims over the names of forgotten toffee bars, sweets and biscuits. They regale each other with food horror stories, remembering their most hated meals and the tactics they used to avoid eating them. On holidays in Trabawn, she says, her uncle gathered mushrooms in the morning and fried them in butter for breakfast. Disgusting. They reminded her of slugs sliding down her throat. She makes a slight moue of disgust and traces her index finger across the rim of her wine glass. This is a trivial conversation yet preferable to long, torturous discussions that move in a widening but nowhere circle. Surrounded by noisy tourists demanding iced jugs of water and a detailed analysis of the menu in case allergies lurk among the overcooked vegetables, they can relax and touch hands, lean over the table and gaze into each other’s eyes, whisper words that promise much in the hours ahead.

    Their meal is almost over when an elderly couple enter and are led to the only available table at the opposite end of the restaurant. Casually dressed in slacks and chunky sweaters, their sturdy boots well-worn and dusty, they have obviously been hill walking. The shock of their arrival is so instantaneous that her hand freezes as she raises the wine glass to her lips. She remains in that position, her gaze locked on the couple who accept the menu, listen intently while the waiter describes a certain dish. Her companion has not yet noticed them. He continues talking until she quietly utters their names. His cutlery clatters against his plate. She winces, imagines the sound strumming across the room, can almost feel the jolt of disbelief between them and the couple should their eyes meet.