Alva and Irva - Edward Carey [4]
Down Napoleon Street, all those years ago, before the Benetton shop arrived, before the electric green crosses of the pharmacies flashed on and off, perhaps even before the advent of colour, yes, years ago when the world was black and white, was a time before Irva and me, a time when our father met our mother.
FATHER’S WAS not a happy beginning. Weak and dreamy orphan Linas Dapps, so the records state, was found one morning in the porch of the convent of Saint Inga on the outskirts of the city—in exactly the same manner as fifty or so other babies are found each year. The nun who found the baby named him Linas because Linas had been the name of her lover, who had loved her and spurned her but whom she had continued to love and who was the reason for her voluntary incarceration. She also named him Dapps, which of course is our name too; and also many other people’s name. Dapps is the most common surname in our country, it’s like Smith in Britain, Müller in Germany, Popescu in Romania, Suzuki in Japan. This nun must have wanted Father to fit in, to be anonymous in a crowd, to be just another person, just another Dapps. And so with these two names Linas Dapps, our father (long dead sadly), was sent out into the world. And it was these two names—signifying an earnest, nervous and tall man with a large head—that the postmaster was obliged, by certain civic authorities, to employ in the post office.
DALLIA GRETT, that’s Mother, worked behind post office counter number twelve. She was very young to work behind a counter, only nearing the end of her sixteenth year, and this made her early life at work somewhat strained. Some of the other workers were jealous and made unconvincing attempts to hide their jealousy. This meant that Mother had no friends at work and loathed the long day’s toil there. She had been awarded this job, as she was acutely aware, not by merit but simply because her father, our grandfather (sadly he’s no longer either), was the postmaster of our city and had decided, without consulting his daughter, that as soon as he could get away with it he would employ her in the post office. Grandfather was a frugal man and had determined, without consulting his wife, our grandmother (a bit part if ever there was one, long-long ago snuffed out), that he would have only one child. He was sure in his mind that his progeny would be male and would in turn become the next postmaster, and the moment Grandmother was confirmed pregnant he immediately ceased his nocturnal pokings. But fate is cruel, Grandmother’s efforts at bringing a life into this world proved too much for her (goodbye, Grandmother, sorry I never knew you), and it was with such a sad heart that Grandfather lifted the wriggling female lump from his stationary wife’s bedside in the hospital ward. He peeked between the tiny, plump legs. He sighed. No, there could be no confusion. A little slit. A girl.
But Grandfather soon cheered up (always an onwards-onwards sort of man our grandfather): an idea had come to him, and the idea made him smile. Grandfather was not a man of many ideas, and generally he did not trust such extravagances, but this idea, it seemed to him, was a good one. His daughter would be employed, at the earliest possible opportunity, in the post office, and once inside the post office he was sure that this daughter of his would trap a sensible young man and that sensible young man would be sure to marry his daughter