CC 67: Woodland Mother

She was wearing a red knit jumper dress with a rolled neck and warm black leggings and brown mountain boots like a wealthy mother of the woodlands.  It was a look I hadn’t seen on her before, but I liked it, even though I couldn’t see the slender neck I loved; knowing it was under there tantalised however.  With Emer, and Emer only, I was a fashion lover – never paid much notice to the clothes anyone else was wearing (unless they were going out of their way to look like arseholes, but then again we all noticed the ones doing that).  I didn’t often express the pleasure I got from the way she dressed – I’d certainly give it my husbandly best with the compliments like ‘looks good’, ‘that’s nice’, ‘looks great on you’, and this would make her happy, but it never came out as ‘Wow, the patterns on that blouse make me think of delicate Japanese art, babe.’  I never went so far as to outline the strong responses I had within about her changing styles – the fantasies her combinations stirred in me.  Maybe I should have done that more.  She liked clothes.  Maybe that’s where I went wrong.

‘Wow, I like this look,’ I said. ‘It’s like….Punk rock riding hood.’

I’m a fucking idiot, truth be told.  Punk rock riding hood.  Jesus.

‘Thanks,’ she laughed.

‘Maybe that’s the wrong way to say it….I don’t know….talking shit….just never seen you dressed this way before.  Not even when you used to go hiking.  These look like hiking clothes.  Stylish hiking clothes.’

‘So you’re saying I’m dressed like I’m out wandering in the woods like Grizzly Adams?’

Shit.

‘No, I don’t mean it like that.  It’s just the style, you know.  I don’t know.  Looks great though.’ 

 ‘Don’t worry,’ she smiled.  ‘I know what you mean.  Just messing with ya.’

I caught Paidi looking over at us.  He’d shifted up beside the local fantasy writer (Albert Devlin, The Ninefold Quadrant, Books 1-23) and they were chatting about something or other.  I saw then additional scribes worth noting in the room.   Geary and Jane had found the local celebrity biographer and media blogger (Anthony McEligot, Everything You Always Wanted To Know About The Corrs – But Were Afraid To Ask), and were having a good laugh with him, and my father-in-law was engrossed with the local crime journalist (Ross Young, ‘Man in Court Today for Smashing Windows of Kebab House’  and ‘Paedo Teacher Photographed Standing Outside Town Hall Looking Around’); I’m sure the sententious pair were in their element discussing the scum and lowlife of the area. 

As he was nodding along to whatever the fantasy writer was saying, Paidi sometimes stopped and turned, and sent these odd looks over to me and Emer.  I’m sure that whatever the flash harry had failed to see in the situation when first he’d started going out with my wife, and again when he met me earlier that evening, was now hitting him hard, breaking his halcyon privilege.  I could see his looks turn to anger shortly after, and I quite enjoyed it; this bastard was getting jealous – I was usually the one on that side of the room. 

‘He doesn’t look happy over there,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ said Emer.  (giving Paidi a quick look, and then turning back and saying)  ‘Ah, he’s grand.’  (A short solemn silence followed, which she was fast to swallow before saying) ‘You know, Pascal, eh…..you know, I’ve been seeing Paidi recently.’

‘Ah, sure I know.’

‘Really?  How?’

‘His oul man.  I see him all the time in Murphy’s.’

‘Murphy’s.  Ah.  I forgot about that place.’ (chuckling)

‘Don’t worry.  I don’t mind.  It’s your business now.  We can talk about the other stuff another time.  (choking a little) I know it must be weird me turning up like this.  I’m glad you’re not bothered because I’m not bothered either. (choking a little more as I lied to myself)  It’s just really good to see you.’

‘Thanks.’ (smiling)  ‘It’s good to see you too.  Wait, I’ve said that already, but I’ll say again because I really do mean it, you know.’

Our glasses tinkled with a Cheers, and we drank, and the chardonnay stung going down; there was a gentleman in me now that maybe hadn’t surfaced before, and now had come to shame me for past arrogance.

I was in the woods with the woodland mother again.  I’d been looking for her.  She knew these woods better even than the most resourceful fox spirits.  She watched over the wind as it tried to manage the sobbing leaves in Autumn.  And she could drink too.  Oh yeah.  She loved a glass of chardonnay once in a while deep in grey forests where only philosopher trees could share her wisdom.  I’d found the woodland mother; and an aspiring gentleman too.