Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  *

  Be here when she arrives. Mother’s words. She’s been using them on me every day for the past week. ‘What for?’ I said this morning, warming up my best innocent face. ‘You know perfectly well what for. To welcome her home,’ mother said. ‘What for?’ I said again, going into full I-know-nothing mode, and mother gave me the frown she saved up for when I went one step too far. I smiled pleasantly and told mother I was a busy bee. ‘What has you so busy?’ she then wanted to know, accompanying her words with that little chuckle of hers I don’t always care for, and then tried to make me promise to stick around. ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘What do you mean you can’t?’ she gasped, and I muttered something about a doctor’s appointment. I was tempted to make up an elaborate yarn about having to be at the theatre, a proposal that on account of what had happened a year and a half ago – the crisis, to use a word a couple of mother’s friends seem to like – would have had mother tearing out clumps of her higgledy-piggledy hair.

  ‘You’re busy!’ she blurted out again. ‘Pull the other one, it plays Jingle Bells,’ she said, offering me her leg. And I was thinking oh-so calmly: I’ll show you. One of these days I’ll surprise you. Then we will see whose turn it is for a mocking tune.

  Tuesday came and went. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. But the expected arrival did not show up. ‘Where is this phantom?’ I demanded to know in my best couldn’t-care-less voice while mother fretted at her phone.

  At some point over the weekend – late on Friday night, I think – the phone sounded and mother ran to it and clutched it, nodding her flustered head. ‘Tomorrow,’ mother said, when she put the phone down. ‘She’ll be here tomorrow. Make sure to stick around tomorrow.’ And like a top-of-the-class fool I did stick around, all the way into early Saturday evening, and I stood tap-tapping my foot off the floor while mother nodded her head through another late-night phone call communicating another no-show. ‘Her flight has been delayed,’ mother said. ‘Weather problems.’

  ‘What sort of weather problems?’ I wanted to know.

  Next day, Jennifer telephoned from the airport. ‘She has landed,’ mother said, lighting up like a flare. ‘She is in the country.’

  ‘Whoopideedoo,’ I said, and stood there while mother nodded through what seemed to be a series of instructions which soon had her shuffling restlessly about the place, muttering to herself. ‘Her bags haven’t come through. And her VISA card isn’t working. We have to get her a bus ticket.’

  All this took so long that Jennifer missed the last bus over and she had to find a hotel room for the night. Which had mother calling out her VISA number again. Meantime, Jennifer’s bags had ended up on another flight. And lo-and-behold, the following day, the bus she managed to catch broke down about halfway across the country. ‘Why don’t we send a limousine?’ I suggested, mother scowled, and in her flustered state, hung up before Jennifer had a chance to say another word.

  Then she decided the spare room needed another cleaning.

  ‘What has gotten into you?’ I said. ‘You never want to clean anything.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see her,’ was all mother had to say, when she finally tired of her sweeping brush and vacuum cleaner and had emptied a third or fourth toilet duck and had sat down at the kitchen table, a cup of tea resting beside the little bundle of taxi money she had ready for the imminent arrival.

  ‘Remind me again who she is,’ I said.

  ‘It’s Jennifer!’ mother said, in her excitement not realizing I didn’t require an answer to my question. ‘Your sister, Jennifer!’

  Then mother’s phone went off again. ‘Oh my God, you poor thing,’ I heard her say. There was plenty more, but by then I had heard enough. I let myself out, crossed the road and perched myself on the flat-roofed boathouse from where I witnessed Jennifer’s reception (arms, hugs, kisses, tears), and saw her and her boy tucked safely away inside our end-of-terrace house.

  I am in no hurry rushing home to greet her. I have important things to do today and, sister or no sister finally arrived all the way from the other side of the world, I fully intend to do them.

  First things first, then. Swing by the medical centre – aka the Goldmine. Check in with the Doc, collect my meds.

  4

  I message Fleming to meet me at the Goldmine, take a drag of my rollie and allow myself get distracted by a pair of terrorists. A man and wife pairing in yellow, who must have decided on their wedding day, or at some such vital point in their lives together, that from here out they were going to buy the exact same walking boots and wear the same colour raincoats and plant atop their noggins ridiculous and identical beanies. They mooch about on the quay, fiddle with a top-of-the-range camera, point into the harbour waters, remark to each other in their twang and drawl accents. A couple of full-sail Hookers catch their attention and click-click-click goes the camera. A flotilla of swans emerges and so excited is she that for a second I think the woman is going to dive into the water in order to get a close-up view of this all-white procession. Oh goodie, I think to myself, blowing a plume of smoke in their general direction. First we have Cleopatra announcing herself. And now the swans.

  I take a last pull on my rollie, flick the butt in the direction of the teapots in raincoats, clamber down the back wall of the boathouse, duck around the side and join the terrorists on the pier.

  I drift among the snap-happy legions as the harbour birds swoop, dive and soar away again. ‘Watch out, be on guard,’ I say to a cluster of camera-wielders as I jostle into them. ‘Vultures everywhere,’ I say, pointing skywards and fish with my fingers inside a coat pocket, grip and slide up my sleeve the third purse I have claimed this week. ‘Vultures, vultures,’ I call out as I step away.

  Further on, a couple of swans have waddled out of the water and up the boat ramp, and are beaking the ground for stray crumbs and of course everyone is falling over themselves to get the perfect picture. ‘Come on, swans,’ I say, imploring them with outspread arms, ‘smile for the camera.’ One or two people look at me and I give them my full-beam smile and they smile uncertainly back and return their attention to the waddling swans.

  I wander down the boat ramp, stand at the water’s edge, look right and left, and fetch the purse from its temporary abode and shove it in the front pocket of my skirt. I take out my phone and am about to message my man Fleming when the lad in the yellow raincoat asks me to take a photograph of him and his darling wife.

  ‘Do you know something I don’t?’ I say to him.

  ‘What’s that?’ he drawls.

  ‘Ach-so! You speaka ze English,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, already taking a half-step back. ‘I am American. As in, the United States.’

  ‘Oh, Amerrrrrrica! Land of the free and all that jazz. Well, silly me,’ I say, raising my hand and slapping my forehead good-oh. ‘And there I was thinking all along you were a sauerkraut.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Where in America are you from?’ I ask. ‘Wait. Don’t tell me. Boston, Massachoooosetts.’

  ‘No. We’re from—’

  ‘Wait. I’m guessing here. Chicago the Windy City?’

  ‘Not Chicago.’

  ‘Baltimore? We get a lot of people from Baltimore in our little city.’

  ‘Not Baltimore either.’

  ‘Just as well. Riddled with gangsters and no-goods, that place – so I hear. How about Miami? You’ve got great skin. Must get a lot of sun where you live.’

  ‘We’re not from Miami.’

  ‘You’re not from California, I hope. Please say you’re not from California.’

  ‘We’re not from California.’

  ‘That is such a relief. I hear in California they lock you up for thirty-five years just for stealing a vegetable.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far.’

  ‘How far would you go?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Jail in California. You wouldn’t go that far. So?’

&nb
sp; ‘So what?’

  ‘So how far would you go?’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t blame you. I’m a mystery, me. A mystery wrapped up in an enigma shrouded by a riddle, me. Now tell me more about this loofah-face tangerine thinking of moving into the White House. He seems to be infatuated with the word tremendous.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You want a photo, right? With the white bird?’

  Half-heartedly, he hands over the camera and joins his dressed-just-like-him missus who, from a safe distance, is in the process of making a series of strange-sounding squawks, peeps and coos at the unheeding swan. For the camera they pose as a love-dove couple wearing sunglasses. They stand wrapped around each other right at the water’s edge while I pretend I am an expert camera operator. I should tell them that taking off their ridiculous raincoats will make the shot even more romantic. ‘A little to the left,’ I say instead, and they shuffle accordingly. ‘A little to the right,’ I say, and they shuffle back again. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I say, ‘could you take off your hat. Please, a couple of steps back,’ I say to the woman. ‘That’s right. Just one more step, please.’ And splash! She has stood into the water, a fact she makes known with one more bird-like squeak. ‘Watch out,’ I say. ‘The tide is high this week. Wouldn’t want to see you swept away. OK then,’ I go on, raising the camera they have entrusted to me, ‘on the count of three, everyone say Cryptosporidium. Five, four . . .’ But they have had enough out of me. The man has already untangled himself from his love-bird, who is shaking her foot as though it has picked up something contagious after its brief contact with the tidal water. Meantime, her knight in shining armour stomps right up to me, all huff and puff as he reclaims his camera. ‘What, no photo?’ I say, shrugging my arms at him and putting on my best I-don’t-understand face. Then I lean in close to him, hand shielding my mouth. ‘What say you and me throw horse-face to the swans and get ourselves warmed up under the covers in your hotel?’

  He cold-eyes me, rejoins his foot-soaked other half and the two of them walk quickly away.

  ‘By the way, did you hear the news?’ I call after them. ‘They jailed a man for stealing anti-wrinkle cream. That’s the bastard judge in this town for you. He’d do well in America, I’d say. Hey! You never told me where you’re from.’

  5

  The crisis. Another reason for my stardom being delayed. I prefer the word mishap. Opening night at the Town Hall. Eighteen going on nineteen months ago and counting. I was playing the part of Honey in a Khaos production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? It was my first decent part. Mitchell the Imbecile was directing. I was so nervous, hadn’t slept or eaten in the better part of a week, which I had convinced myself might be useful as my part required some histrionics. Just before my first scene I couldn’t remember my lines. Not a single one of them. It’s OK, Laura, I kept telling myself as I retched into the bucket while waiting in the wings. This happens to all the greats. As soon as you get out there you’ll be fine. My cue arrived. On I walked. By now I was trembling. And all I could hear was the heart clapping away inside me. The other actors were looking my way. And then I couldn’t breathe. It felt as though every organ inside me wanted out of my body at the same time, and now there was a logjam in my throat. I gulped. And gulped again. Had to bend over. Grabbed myself with both arms and tried to heave out of me whatever it was that was blocking my airways. I started to hyperventilate. I felt the strength go out of my legs. And down I went.

  One thing I think I remember is the gasp from the audience when I dropped to the floor. It’s all right, I wanted to call out. It’s something the character does. But any last-ditch energy had drained out of me, and then all I could see was a bunch of faces staring down at me. After that I just wanted to sleep.

  I woke up in a bed in a room that for the few days I was in it took turns reeking of sour milk and gone-off goat’s cheese. The people in St Jude’s said I needed to rest up and for as long as it would take. A doctor came. He asked some questions, prescribed a course of meds for nervous anxiety, and by the end of the week suggested I think about a break. The theatre isn’t going anywhere, he said. It will be waiting for me until I am ready to return. Mother nodded, and from her Skype laptop somewhere in the Amazon jungle, Jennifer wholeheartedly agreed. Eighteen months later and I have done precisely as I was told. I have taken a break. Rested up. Been by-and-large dutiful with my medication. As of right now, though, as of the very moment I read about this new production, I know the time has come for me to return to the stage.

  Isn’t that right, Laura?

  Why, yes, Laura. Indeed it is.

  *

  I am barely halfway across Tone Bridge when my phone chimes. Pausing, I lean onto the bridge wall to check. Where are you! Mother again. No doubt she is filling home-at-last Jennifer’s head with all sorts of wonderful stuff about the pining sister who cannot wait to see her after all this time and hear all about her world-saving adventures. Ha! Ha! Like hell she is. And she needn’t bother holding her breath for a reply from me. Instead I start tapping out another message to Fleming and allow my gaze drift to the rough-and-tumble river making its way into the harbour.

  ‘Look who it is,’ the Beggar Flynn’s familiar voice snarls up at me from his sit-down back-to-the-wall perch.

  ‘The one and only,’ I say, without looking down.

  ‘You make your first picture yet?’

  ‘I didn’t, Beggar. You make your first million yet?’

  ‘I didn’t. What’s keeping you?’

  ‘I’m biding my time, Beggar. Waiting for the right part to come along.’

  ‘Let me guess. You want to play the good witch of the north?’

  ‘Ah, Beggar, I don’t think I have the sensibility for that role.’

  ‘Fancy yourself as more of a killer queen, I suppose.’

  ‘What other part is there? Anyway. It just so happens my agent was in touch. He has the perfect part for me. The lead in a forthcoming production and it is going to catapult me.’

  ‘Catapulting, is it?’

  ‘That’s right. You have it from the witch’s teat.’

  Beggar grunts and I watch the surging water, grimy and petulant, roaring its troubled way into the harbour, the currents and everlasting wind generating waves, ragged and higgledy-piggledy – not unlike mother’s hair – and with no clue as to the direction they should be taking.

  ‘Hell hath no fury like this one, Beggar.’

  ‘And you’re an expert, I suppose? Tell me, can you see Dolores?’

  ‘Would that be Dolores Taaffe from the Fair Green who reckons she can walk on water?’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘I can’t see her, Beggar. When is she due?’

  ‘About sixteen years ago. I’m not budging until she shows.’

  ‘I can see Pisser Kelly under the Spanish Arch. Is he any good to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I hear you, Beggar. Can’t say I fancy Dolores’ chances on these waves. I was listening to music on the street the other night and guess what the singer said in between his songs? Go on, guess.’

  ‘I’m not guessing.’

  ‘He said our river is the fastest-flowing river in Europe. There. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I wish some of the skinflints using my bridge would jump into the fast river. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Things that bad?’

  ‘Things are fine, thanks for asking. I just don’t like certain people on my bridge.’

  ‘You’re a codder, Beggar. I so enjoy our little talks.’

  And I fetch the purse from my skirt pocket and drop it into his cap.

  *

  I’m almost at the Goldmine when her next message lands. Don’t forget to collect your meds. Mother, mother. More and more I’m convinced she thinks my river doesn’t run all the way to the sea. Especially since her new fancy man appeared on the scene and started putting notions in her head. I tend not to
pay attention to her. Fleming aside, I tend not to listen to anyone. If you can’t improve on silence, keep your trap shut. That’s another one of the philosophies I’ve heard in my life to date, and one of the better ones at that. No doubt she is fretting as to how I will greet Jennifer, wants me on my best behaviour. All happy face and it’s so good to see you, sister. That’s OK, mother. I can be all that. I can switch on my charm and good manners smile. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk with my doctor.

  His name is Harper, but I just call him the Doc. The Doc is a good talker, has eyelashes worth fighting for, and when it comes to the Golden Age of Cinema, is sometimes willing to indulge every utterance that leaves my mouth. Every two weeks I’m supposed to swing by his den, where he greets me with a warm smile, some fresh and hearty chat, and a prescription upon which he scribbles what it is my shaky system requires. As far as my meds go mother keeps on my case. I suppose she’s right, but of late I have been an obedient girl.

  After the crisis I was put on a course of mirtazapine to quell my anxiety. Olanzapine to give me an appetite. Mogadon to send me to sleep, but I like the quiet hours of the night and so at times haven’t gotten along so well with that one. Altogether then, the pills allow me participate in the world. Maintain my equilibrium. I suppose you could say that when it comes to the hurly-burly of life, they are my centre of gravity.

  Usually, I make sure I have a nine o’clock appointment. It is the first available appointment and getting in first means I never have to spend time in the waiting room in the company of some old wheezebag suddenly turned yellow-green, or some precious mother with her non-stop cry-baby six-year-old, or some drama queen of a man whose life has come to a complete and irreversible standstill because he has a sore leg or runny nose or some other ailment a shoe up his asshole wouldn’t cure. A nine o’clock appointment means I get in, get out and get balanced all in the space of a few minutes. Today I am running several hours late, but at least I know who I can blame. (That right, sis?)