Read Online Chestnut Street by Maeve Binchy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maeve Binchy
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rock of good sense and fund of good advice. Those are the exact phrases, I think.… Ask anyone.”
Nessa Byrne’s aunt Elizabeth knew all about everything and she was never wrong.
She came to visit them in Chestnut Street every June for six days, and because she had high expectations, they cleaned the house and tidied up the garden for about two weeks before her visit.
Aunt Elizabeth’s bedroom was emptied of all the clutter that had built up there in the year since her last visit. They touched up the paintwork and lined the nice empty drawers with clean pink paper.
Nessa’s mother often said with a weary laugh that if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth’s annual vacation the whole place would have been a complete tip.
But then Nessa’s mother should not have felt guilty; she had neither the time nor the money to spend on house renovations. She worked long hours in a supermarket and supported three children without any help from her husband. Nessa never remembered her father going out to work.
He had a bad back.
Aunt Elizabeth was her father’s elder sister. She had immigratedto America when she was eighteen. She worked there as a paralegal. Nessa wasn’t quite sure what it was and you never asked Aunt Elizabeth a direct question like that.
Nessa’s father smartened himself up when his sister arrived. No sitting in his chair looking at the races on television, and he helped with the dishes too. He always seemed very relieved when Elizabeth left.
“Well, that passed off all right,” he would say, as if there had been some hidden danger there that none of them would have been able to avoid.
Aunt Elizabeth would be out all day, visiting places of culture. She would go to art exhibitions, or the Chester Beatty Library, or on a tour of some elegant home.
“All that matters is seeing places of elegance, places with high standards,” she would tell Nessa as she trimmed and clipped the brochures to paste them into a scrapbook. Nessa wondered who would see these scrapbooks year after year. But again, it wasn’t a question you would ask Aunt Elizabeth.
There was no call for jolly happy family pictures. Certainly not at Nessa’s home. And not at a picnic out on Killiney Beach or on Howth Head, where Nessa’s mother would have packed hard-boiled eggs and squishy tomatoes to be eaten with doorsteps of bread. Aunt Elizabeth wouldn’t want to record this, no matter how much the sun had shone and how heartily they had all laughed during the day.
But on one evening during her yearly visit Aunt Elizabeth would invite the whole family for a drink at whatever she had decided was the new smart place to go in Dublin.
And it
was
a drink, not several drinks, orange for the children, a red vermouth with a cherry in it for Nessa’s mother, a small Irish whiskey for her father and the house cocktail for Aunt Elizabeth herself.
They all had to dress up for this outing and a waiter was usually invited to take a snap of them all blinking in whatever unfamiliarbackground. Presumably, when the picture was developed, it would be inserted in the scrapbook.
“All that matters,” Aunt Elizabeth would say, “is that we are in the right place.”
Nessa wondered why this was so important. But Aunt Elizabeth looked so smartly dressed and confident. She must be right.
Aunt Elizabeth often went to a big newsagent’s shop in O’Connell Street with a small notebook. Nessa sometimes went with her.
“What are you writing down?” she asked once, and then felt guilty and anxious. You didn’t ask Aunt Elizabeth direct questions. But, oddly, there seemed to be no problem.
“I’m looking through the magazines and writing down the names of people who go to art gallery openings and first nights. It’s amazing how many of the same names turn up over and over.”
Nessa was confused. Why should anyone care about who went to what? Even if they lived here? But if they lived three thousand miles away? It was insane. Her face must have
Nessa Byrne’s aunt Elizabeth knew all about everything and she was never wrong.
She came to visit them in Chestnut Street every June for six days, and because she had high expectations, they cleaned the house and tidied up the garden for about two weeks before her visit.
Aunt Elizabeth’s bedroom was emptied of all the clutter that had built up there in the year since her last visit. They touched up the paintwork and lined the nice empty drawers with clean pink paper.
Nessa’s mother often said with a weary laugh that if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth’s annual vacation the whole place would have been a complete tip.
But then Nessa’s mother should not have felt guilty; she had neither the time nor the money to spend on house renovations. She worked long hours in a supermarket and supported three children without any help from her husband. Nessa never remembered her father going out to work.
He had a bad back.
Aunt Elizabeth was her father’s elder sister. She had immigratedto America when she was eighteen. She worked there as a paralegal. Nessa wasn’t quite sure what it was and you never asked Aunt Elizabeth a direct question like that.
Nessa’s father smartened himself up when his sister arrived. No sitting in his chair looking at the races on television, and he helped with the dishes too. He always seemed very relieved when Elizabeth left.
“Well, that passed off all right,” he would say, as if there had been some hidden danger there that none of them would have been able to avoid.
Aunt Elizabeth would be out all day, visiting places of culture. She would go to art exhibitions, or the Chester Beatty Library, or on a tour of some elegant home.
“All that matters is seeing places of elegance, places with high standards,” she would tell Nessa as she trimmed and clipped the brochures to paste them into a scrapbook. Nessa wondered who would see these scrapbooks year after year. But again, it wasn’t a question you would ask Aunt Elizabeth.
There was no call for jolly happy family pictures. Certainly not at Nessa’s home. And not at a picnic out on Killiney Beach or on Howth Head, where Nessa’s mother would have packed hard-boiled eggs and squishy tomatoes to be eaten with doorsteps of bread. Aunt Elizabeth wouldn’t want to record this, no matter how much the sun had shone and how heartily they had all laughed during the day.
But on one evening during her yearly visit Aunt Elizabeth would invite the whole family for a drink at whatever she had decided was the new smart place to go in Dublin.
And it
was
a drink, not several drinks, orange for the children, a red vermouth with a cherry in it for Nessa’s mother, a small Irish whiskey for her father and the house cocktail for Aunt Elizabeth herself.
They all had to dress up for this outing and a waiter was usually invited to take a snap of them all blinking in whatever unfamiliarbackground. Presumably, when the picture was developed, it would be inserted in the scrapbook.
“All that matters,” Aunt Elizabeth would say, “is that we are in the right place.”
Nessa wondered why this was so important. But Aunt Elizabeth looked so smartly dressed and confident. She must be right.
Aunt Elizabeth often went to a big newsagent’s shop in O’Connell Street with a small notebook. Nessa sometimes went with her.
“What are you writing down?” she asked once, and then felt guilty and anxious. You didn’t ask Aunt Elizabeth direct questions. But, oddly, there seemed to be no problem.
“I’m looking through the magazines and writing down the names of people who go to art gallery openings and first nights. It’s amazing how many of the same names turn up over and over.”
Nessa was confused. Why should anyone care about who went to what? Even if they lived here? But if they lived three thousand miles away? It was insane. Her face must have
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