Issue 4: Summer 2009
The Cards Are Laid Out
Peter Murray
Fruitcakes and Furrycollars was an exhibition curated by Sandra Minchin at the Bridge House Bed and Breakfast in Skibbereen, West Cork. This multi-disciplinary show, presented by Cork Film Centre, featured numerous Irish and international artists and took inspiration from the distinctive Victorian Gothic décor of this very particular bed and breakfast. Visits took the form of guided tours. It ran from February 12th - 15th 2009.
Excuse me, I said to the woman standing outside Eldon's Hotel. Could you direct me to Mona's house? The woman looked at me for a moment, then turned and pointed across the street.
That's Mona's there, over the road, she said. It's called the Bridge House.
I crossed the street, stopping before a red door. A small sign was inscribed, in shaky handwriting, ‘Furrycollars and Fruitcakes'. Clearly a code of some sort. I rapped on the knocker. Inside, there was the sound of footsteps, then a coloured maid appeared. You must be Mamie I said, smiling. She looked at me with wide white eyes. Are you the brat? she demanded, holding the door firmly, barring my way. Startled by her greeting, I stuttered a reply. I'm not sure Miss Mona is going to let you in, she added, we were warned about you. Mamie was dressed in a dark blue dress. She wore a white scarf around her head. Yes, I admitted, I am the brat - but now I'm a reformed character. Mamie continued to regard me with deep suspicion. Don't try any of your tricks here, she said, you better behave. I will, I promised her, but please do me one favour. Don't put any good china in front of me or I might break it. I'm in a mood for smashing fine china, and furniture too, come to think of it.
Mamie shrieked in horror and fled, crying help, help, I'm going to find Miss Mona, the brat is in the house. She disappeared down the corridor.
I strolled from the entrance hall into the drawing room, and found myself standing beside a beautiful young woman. A group of people sat around a table. They were playing a game involving a cigarette, a paper napkin, a coin and a glass. I introduced myself. I'm the brat, I said. The group of people laughed nervously, and returned to their game. The young woman beside me radiated self-confidence, but with a slight shadow of vulnerability. It was an appealing combination. She lit a cigarette. The smell of Turkish tobacco filled the air. I turned to her. Have we met before? I'm sure I remember you from somewhere. Were you at Fredericksbad last summer? Standing by a balustrade, resting your hand on the parapet. Oh, no, she laughed, I don't think that could have been me. I was in Ballybrophy all summer. Her careless laugh almost convinced me, but there was something about her profile that stirred a memory. That's disappointing. I thought it must have been you that caused a stir at the Chemin de Fer table. Losing all that money - and then unable to pay. What is your name? They call me Audrey, she said. I looked at her closely. Do you drive a sports car? A woman had overtaken me on the road earlier, hair blowing in the wind. She must have been doing over a hundred. It was you, I'm sure of it. Audrey looked at me appraisingly, pleased that her driving skills had been noticed.
Nice rear axle. What is it?
De Dion, holds the road beautifully.
I'm afraid I couldn't keep up with you in my old banger, I said. I was afraid of blowing a gasket.
Do you often blow gaskets? Audrey asked.
Oh all the time, but tell me, what brings you to Skibbereen?
My friend Sandra. She thought it would do me good to come to West Cork. I'm divorced, and looking for a husband. Audrey spoke with admirable candour. She was certainly forward in her line of conversation, but she seemed in earnest. I'm thinking of setting up a poultry farm, she added. I had to laugh. And would I do for a husband? We could go into the chicken business together.
She looked me up and down. Are you single?
Yes, as it happens I am single. . but I am certain we have met before. You were wearing the same perfume. I'm sure, it was two years ago, at Marienbad. Oh, Audrey replied, you have a good memory. I was with my husband. He was such a bore. There was trouble brewing even then.
Where is he now? I asked.
Gone. Took off with his secretary. Irma. They live in Switzerland. He's doing some research, on allergies. I hope he gets a rash, she added bitterly.
Did you have a joint account?
Yes.
So who got to clean it out?
Oh you needn't worry about that. She laughed merrily. There was a delightful tinkle of expensive cut glass in her voice.
I looked at Audrey with admiration. Whether it was the Turkish cigarette smoke, her beauty, or the talk of rearing chickens, I suddenly felt lightheaded.
I remember you at Marienbad . . you stood on the terrace. It was dusk. There was someone else, admiring the gardens. . . You didn't see me at first.
Then I told you how real you seemed, but you just smiled.
Audrey gazed at me. I have no memory of that place. I was like a ghost there.
You were leaning on the stone balustrade, looking down the avenue.
Audrey shivered, and turned suddenly to look out the window. That's all in the past, she said. I'm in West Cork now, looking for a husband. I plan to start a poultry farm, and become a trophy wife. That's all that matters. She reached into her handbag, took out a photograph, and showed it to me. The picture was of a woman in a swimsuit. She was covered in gold paint.
That's me, she said laughing. Auditioning for the role.
I'm sure you'll have no difficulty, I replied.
I turned away, looking across the room. Apart from the group sitting at the low, circular table, it seemed the only other people in the hotel were staff. The room was adorned with framed paintings and other works of art. Audrey was clearly familiar with the art. This is by Paul Laroque, she said, and this photograph is by Amanda Coogan. This is by Bernadette Cotter. As we admired the art, a tall, elegant young woman circulated among the guests, pouring tea with great politeness. She was dressed in the Antique style, the coils of her hair adorned with strings of pearls. She spoke with a French accent. That's Letitia, said Audrey. She hopes to study art. She's from Toulouse. Mamie then entered the room, still eyeing me with suspicion. She cried, everyone pay attention now, for Miss Mona. A woman dressed in opulent fin-de-siecle style swept into the room, radiating charm and smiles. She carried a gilded Pierrot mask, like those used by partygoers during Carnivale. Through the open doorway, I could see chandeliers and mirrors. Audrey stubbed out her Balkan Sobranie cigarette onto an exquisite ashtray. I turned over the ashtray, carelessly spilling the ashes onto the carpet. Mamie gave a shriek of horror.
Carrigaline, I said. Miss Mona has taste.
Suddenly, my mobile phone beeped. Audrey shot me a fierce glance. Don't you know that mobile phones are not allowed here? I ignored her, flipping open my old Nokia, and reading the message. I groaned.
Is it love? asked Audrey.
No, work, I replied shortly.
Miss Mona sat with the group around the table, and joined in the game. I looked around, admiring the décor. Audrey continued her tour of the art collection, this is by Breda Lynch, she said, and this by Aideen Barry. And this row of heart-shaped sculptures is by Sandra Minchin. A painting above the fireplace, a snow scene with two horses pulling a sled, caught my attention. Outside the window, there was the bright daylight, but the room was softly lit by lamplight. I looked at a group of photographs, by Sarah Iremonger, montages with what appeared to be tornados contained in the very rooms in which we stood. I showed Audrey my mobile phone. There was a blurred image of two figures, one surrounded by a halo. I took this photograph on the terrace that night, I said, and never deleted it.
It doesn't prove a thing, she said, peering at the screen. That could have been taken anywhere. Hotels, statues and gardens, they are all so alike nowadays.
Do you not recognize the person in the photograph? I asked.
No, she replied quietly.
I remember you were waiting. I saw you in the mirror when I pushed open the door.
You are making it all up, said Audrey.
He had just left your room. You had had a row with him.
No. Please be quiet, Audrey said, her voice breaking. You are completely mad.
Audrey suddenly broke away from this reverie. I must go upstairs, she said. She left the room quickly, her dress of blue silk a bright flash, like a kingfisher hovering over an orchid.
Mamie came up to me. I sure hope you are not upsetting Miss Audrey, she said. I know why they call you the brat. Miss Mona says you're to come with me. She wants our artist to do a portrait drawing of you.
Who would want a drawing of me? I wondered.
Probably the police, said Mamie.
I entered another room suffused with shadows. In a pool of light in the corner sat a young man, dressed formally, with a black frock coat and high collar. From his accent, I could tell he was French. He introduced himself as Sebastian. On the table in front of him were drawing materials and a sketchpad. I sat down on a red plush couch. Please look straight ahead of you, he said. I did as bid. Audrey came downstairs, and stood near the door, looking at the artist and the sitter.
Isn't it marvelous, I said, by way of conversation, how everyone here is playing their role so perfectly.
Sebastian looked at me, and then glanced across at Audrey, with a puzzled expression. What do you mean, he asked.
All this acting out different roles, I said, it's most entertaining. You are all brilliant.
Audrey and Sebastian looked at each other again. She made the slightest of movements with her eyes, motioning towards the hallway. Excuse me for one minute, said Sebastian, and he went out to the hallway. I could hear the murmur of voices, then he returned, and continued work on his sketch.
He broke the silence first.
I will tell you the story of my life, he said. I will tell you how I came to be here. And then you can tell me if you believe it. . .
I listened to his long story, of pursuits and evasions, of nights in the jungle, in silence. Was it true? It seemed plausible. But then many things in Mona's house seemed plausible, yet were clearly artifice. After a few minutes, Sebastian announced that he had finished the drawing. He tore off the sheet of paper and passed it over to me. My god, I said, you have talent. With your pencil, Sebastian, you show a true human being. Sebastian modestly shrugged. It is nothing, he said.
Audrey motioned me to follow her. We walked along the corridor, and entered a room that seemed like a conservatory. Through a circular window, I could see across a brightly lit courtyard, to another building. There was a monkey hanging by his arm from a branch. Behind the monkey, a window was crowded with a great many bright-eyed children, each dressed in the costume of times past, each with brown curly hair. But I saw that they were dolls, with china faces and painted eyes. A small group of guests and visitors had assembled in the conservatory. We were then invited, one by one, to enter a tiny bathroom and admire an exhibition of porcelain statuettes, some entertaining frottage, and a series of etchings.
I fell into conversation with a man in the conservatory. He said he lived nearby. His partner was just behind him. She had a thin face and wore a tall knitted hat that reminded me of Alice in Wonderland.
Are you an artist? I asked.
No, he said, I am a plant.
I pondered his reply for some minutes. What could he mean? Was he one of the actors, playing a role, or was he a bona fide guest. It was impossible to tell. Later I learned that he was a gardener, growing exotic plants in the sub-tropical climes of West Cork. I wondered had he come to identify with his work too closely.
Mamie appeared again, and announced that tea was served. We filed through to yet another elaborately decorated room. There were two circular tables, one with six chairs around it, the other with four. I sat at the smaller table. Audrey came and sat beside me. So when do you think we should get married? she said, gazing into my eyes. No reason to hang about, I said, how about this Wednesday. Brilliant, she cried, clapping her hands in delight. A buzz of excited anticipation ran through the room. Mamie appeared with a fly swatter, and waved it at me threateningly. Now you take care, she said. This is Mona's tea party, and we don't want no cups or plates broken. And we don't want no hearts broken neither. Letitia appeared again, moving with exquisite grace, serving tea and small fancy cakes. I wolfed down three cakes in rapid succession. I noticed everyone else was delicately nibbling theirs. I grabbed a fourth.
We can get married on Wednesday, I shouted, spraying Audrey with cake crumbs, and go to Venice on our honeymoon.
Audrey raised her arms above her head, her long white gloves reaching almost to the elbows. I admired her figure. When we're married, she said, I hope you won't want children, I do want to keep my slim figure. Would you mind terribly? I looked at her exquisite figure, weighing up the pros and cons. It is quite possible there are enough children in the world at present, I ventured. Oh splendid! Audrey cried, and we leaned forward and kissed. But when our lips should have met, I found myself kissing the air beside her left ear, and on a second attempt, I found my lips kissing the air behind her right ear. I do so love chickens, she said softly. Soon I will look after my chickens, and give them special care.
It's agreed then, she stood up quickly, and cried happily to the assembly. We are to be married on Wednesday. Oh Happy Valentine's Day!
We were ecstatic. It's a miracle us meeting like this, cried Audrey. We explored Mona's house, moving from room to room. How the green shoots of optimism spring from the bitter onions of divorce, I exclaimed. How true, Audrey said, and the short-dated garlic sends out new and tender shoots. We linked arms and walked together up the stairs. In one of the bedrooms, there was a beautiful wedding dress by Christina Todesco Kelly. At first glance, it appeared to be made of exquisite lacework, but on closer inspection, I could see it had been made by stitching together lace knickers. Around the walls were more knickers, of similar design, individually framed. They were like beautiful butterflies. How practical, I cried, and how beautiful. What genius has sewn together this testament to love? It's brilliant, said Audrey. I'll wear this dress when we are married. We wandered into another bedroom. This artwork is by Chris Hurley, Audrey said. There was an Elvis movie playing, projected onto the ceiling. Elvis was in Hawaii. Everything was just perfect.
"The Brat" is sponsored by the Irish Poultry Breeders Assocation. The part of Audrey was played by Linda Conroy, Harold Offeh played Mamie, and Simon Bennet played the artist Sebastian. The parts of Mona and Letitia were played by the themselves, as was the brat.
Photographs courtesy of Sarah Iremonger
Peter Murray is Director of the Crawford Art Gallery, Cork.