The Rose Garden. Maeve Brennan

mixes a martini for himself, and one for her, and maybe an odd one for the husband. Mr. Finch used to like to make his own. He had a special big glass he used to drink out of. He had a little song he used to sing when he’d had a few. He used to go off by himself in a corner of the living room, and he’d sing, very low—it wouldn’t bother you, except that he kept it up—he’d sing

       “You’re too nice, you’re too nice,

       You’re too nice for me.”

      “Is that all the words there was to it?”

      “That’s all. Then he’d get up and make himself another drink in his big glass, and he’d stand and look at the two of them, and sing it all over again, and laugh and laugh.”

      “And wouldn’t they say anything?”

      “No, because if they paid any attention to him, he’d point his finger at Mr. God and sing the same thing, over and over, except he’d say ‘He’s too nice, he’s too nice.’ It used to get on their nerves.”

      “Look at them now.”

      “What did I tell you. That’s the way it always is.”

      Leona and Charles were strolling arm in arm toward the house, carrying their almost finished martinis in their free hands. George, with the handbag, brought up the rear. George liked sweet Manhattans, and his glass was empty. Charles glanced over his shoulder at the river, and George stopped dead and looked over his shoulder, too.

      “Leona, darling, it’s exactly what I dreamed of for you,” Charles said. “And of course you’ve done exactly what I would have done. Do you remember how we used to talk and talk about it? Who would ever have thought it would all come true?”

      “Charles, darling, I hope it won’t ever rain again,” Leona cried in her dark, husky voice. “I want that poor dismal face to stay just as you painted it, to remind me that you are back at last, and to commemorate our first evening all three together.”

      Charles’s reply was unheard in the kitchen, because the three celebrants had disappeared around the side of the house, and would by now be arranging themselves before the living-room fire.

      Bridie turned away from the window. “I don’t know where she thinks she’s going to get the lawn from,” she said, “if she’s not going to let it rain. Would you ever think that only a month ago you couldn’t see hardly an inch beyond that kitchen window there? The kitchen here was as dark as a cellar, even in the middle of the day. There was a hedge out there almost as high as the house.”

      “They cut the hedge?” Agnes said politely.

      “Cut the hedge. God almighty, she couldn’t get it down soon enough. I thought she was going to go after it with her nail scissors, the way she was carrying on. I tell you, Agnes, the poor fellow was hardly out of bed the first morning after they got back from the honeymoon when she started screaming about the hedge. ‘The hedge must go!’ she kept yelling. ‘Down with the accursed hedge! I must have my view. Where is my wonderful, my promised view!’ Did you ever hear the like of that?”

      “Them and their view. You’d think it was a diamond necklace, the way they carry on about their view. Mrs. Giegler is just the same. The minute a person walks into the house, it’s me view this and me view that, and come and look at me view, and dragging them over to the window and out on to the porch in every sort of weather. Damp, that’s all I have to say about it. Damp.”

      “Oh, this one is a terror on the view. She’s had her eye on that view ever since I’ve been here. She was bound and determined to get that view.”

      “Well, and now she has it.”

      “Two people had to die before she could get it. First the poor old daisy who owned the cottage that used to be down there died in her sleep one night, and then, not two weeks later, doesn’t poor Mr. Finch go and smash himself up.”

      “And then she bought the cottage?”

      “Not at all,” said Bridie, rudely. “She couldn’t afford to buy the cottage. There were dozens of them around here after it, but she got herself on the inside first. Mr. Harkey inherited the cottage from his aunt. That was the old one who died. Miss Harkey. An old maid. They were all after that cottage. That’s why she married him in such a hurry, apart from the fact that she knew Mr. God would never show his face in the house till she had a new husband.”

      “Mr. Harkey got the cottage from his aunt, and then this one married him and made him pull it down.”

      “Pulled it down and carted it away as fast as I’m saying the words. Oh, she was in a terrible hurry about it. She had them out there marking the place for the lawn and planting the grass and putting up the statues before you could turn around. He never said a word, but I think he was sorry to see the cottage go. He said to her that it was the only thing he’d ever owned in his life.”

      “I would’ve thought he had money, from the looks of him.”

      “Not that fellow. Oh, he likes to look as if he was somebody, but he hasn’t a penny except what he gets from his job. The old aunt didn’t leave him any money, only the cottage. I don’t think she had much else to leave. She kept very much to herself. She hadn’t much patience with the crowd around here. Well, Mr. Harkey was all pleased. He came down here, just weekends, and began settling in, cooking little meals for himself and all, and the next thing you knew, there she was, charging down the road with little housewarming presents for him—little pots of patty de fwa, and raspberry jam I’d made, and a tin of green-turtle soup she paid a fortune for. She thought he might like the unusual flavor of it, she said. Oh, she’d never have looked at him, only for his view. It would have matched him better to have sold up the place and taken his money and run. She just took it out from under him. He never had a chance, once she took after him.”

      “The poor fellow.”

      “Oh, I’d waste no sympathy on that fellow, Agnes. Do you know what his job is? Well, now, I’ll let you guess. The lowest thing, about the lowest thing you can think of. Go on, guess. I’ll give you three guesses.”

      “An undertaker?”

      “No.”

      “A pawnbroker?”

      “No, but you’re close.”

      “A summons server?”

      “No. He’s a credit manager.”

      Agnes emitted a low, prolonged shriek and sat down on Bridie’s chair by the stove. Bridie smiled her satisfaction.

      “A credit manager!” cried Agnes. “A credit manager. Oh, my God, the lowest of the low. A credit manager. And to think I’m going to have to put his dinner in front of him. Oh, the dirty thing.”

      “At Clancyhanger’s,” Bridie said.

      “Clancyhanger’s. The worst bunch of thieves and knaves in the country. The persecutors of the poor. Oh, the way they hop off you when you haven’t got the money. Bridie, I’ve heard enough. I hope she cuts him up and eats him.”

      “Of course, she doesn’t say he’s a credit manager. That’s not good enough for her. She makes out he’s a junior vice president, if you don’t mind. But I heard him talking to her the first time he came in here for a drink, and that’s what he told her. He’s a credit manager, and that’s all he is.”

      “One of the ones that does the dirty work. When our Blessed Lord was crucified, he was standing there holding the box of nails.”

      “That’s the sort he is. No real good in him. Although to look at him you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Oh, he was all full of himself that first day he came in here. He had a girl he brought with him.”

      “A girl?”

      “She was staying with him in the cottage. And there was only the one bed in the place,