Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  I was so excited I stayed up last night and watched Sunset Blvd three times. Oh, daddy! I do so enjoy Gloria Swanson. No one plays a former star looking to make a comeback quite the way she does. Have they forgotten what a star looks like? I’ll be up there again, so help me! That’s a line that could have been written for me. They don’t make them like they used to. That’s what Doc Harper says during our talks and I am not inclined to disagree. Which brings me to my second piece of important news. Imelda has been in touch. Remember her, daddy? Imelda Ebbing. She’s been treading the boards in London. And gone down a storm if her reports are anything to go by. I’ll say this for her – she’s well able to big herself up. A little too able, if you know what I mean. Memory loss seems to be a problem for her too – she has it inside that noggin of hers that I was once her understudy. Understudy! Now she’s making movies. She even mentioned something about me coming over to the premiere of her new one. I was just about to send my reply to that . . . thank you so, so much for the invitation, dearest Imelda, but sadly I will be unable to attend the premiere, you see, I have an acting career of my own to be getting on with . . . when mother turned up. At first I thought she had gotten up and come downstairs to let me know my night-time mooching about was interrupting everybody’s beauty sleep, and that I would have to cut short my time with Norma Desmond. But no. She just sat into the sofa alongside me and for a few minutes watched the movie with me. Then she rubbed my arm, said something about it being great that Jennifer is home and isn’t it great to finally meet her little boy. Which brings me to the not-so-important piece of news – I almost forgot to mention it. Your other daughter has appeared. All the way from Mexico she has come – little boy in tow. Mother – and pretty much everyone else for that matter – is falling over themselves to get close to her. You should see her. Lean arms, shining hair, brown as a slab of Dairy Milk chocolate. Actually, I have a photograph I can show you. Ah, here she is. I suppose she has a great face – a face for the big screen, as you would say. According to mother she’s home for a while. Won’t that be grand? Right, mother. With her listen-to-me jibber and I-am-saving-the-world swagger. Mother, along with everyone else, seems to think she has Glinda the Good Witch staying with her, but I am on to her little act.

  Anyway, home she may be after all this time, most likely I am not going to have much time for her – now that I have the role of a lifetime to get ready for. I’ve already got half an idea for my audition. It’s going to blow everyone away. I just know it is. Watch this space, daddy, you are going to be so proud.

  I am still holding the phone in front of me, am about to delete the photograph and pretend-feed it to the worms poking out of the ground when I hear her.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Same thing as you.’

  ‘Well, this is my time. Go find your own.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now. Is it OK if I stay for a little while?’

  I say nothing to that. Swing around. She can talk to my back if she wants.

  ‘I heard you talking.’

  ‘God bless your ears.’

  ‘I wasn’t listening. I just thought it a nice thing.’

  She moves closer to the headstone. Rights a vase of wilting flowers that has overturned. Replaces the flowers with some tulips she has brought. Picks up and looks at one of the black-and-white movie postcards set down against the gravestone.

  ‘Remember the two of you used to watch those old movies together.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘If you have time to spare, maybe we could see one together. A movie, I mean. Something at the multiplex.’

  ‘I don’t go to multiplexes. Anyway, I’m busy.’

  ‘Oh. And what has you so busy?’

  ‘You’re not the only person in the world with things to do.’

  ‘OK. Another time, then.’

  For a couple of minutes she stands graveside without uttering a word, then turns as though to leave again. Then she pauses and looks my way. ‘He was my father too, you know.’

  I bet she wishes she was here by herself. I’m sure she’d have plenty to say to daddy. All that wonderful-me-saving-the-world stuff. Tell him all about her little boy. I feel the blood stir inside me. Jennifer is speaking again.

  ‘What has you so busy that you can’t come to the cinema?’

  My blood is galloping now. She lingers for a moment, slow-turning around. I try not to, but she is giving me too much time. And there. I’ve done it.

  ‘If you must know I have an audition to get ready for.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what you heard. I’m practising.’

  ‘Practising?’

  ‘My lines. For the part I’m going for.’

  ‘In the theatre?’

  ‘It’s a fairly big part.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s why I came out here. You know, try to get inside my character’s head.’

  ‘OK . . . does mam know?’

  ‘No and I don’t think I want to tell her just yet. I want it to be a surprise.’

  ‘OK . . . but . . .’

  ‘So would you mind keeping it to yourself? For now, anyway. It can be our little secret.’

  ‘OK . . . but do you think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Dance first, think later. That’s my philosophy.’

  She doesn’t say anything to that. Have nothing else I want to say either. Instead, spin myself around so that I am no longer looking her way. Picking up on my attitude, she isn’t long gathering herself. My eyes follow her as she starts to move away. Keep going, I hiss, keep going until you reach the end of the world. And then step right off.

  And there! ‘Do you want to go for a drink?’ I hear myself call after her. She stops and turns around.

  15

  When her time came along Jennifer did a course in community support. Or was it How To Rescue the World in Five Easy Steps? Whatever it was called, she had no sooner graduated than she was anointing herself saviour of the developing world and had informed mother of her intentions to hightail it to the bowels of Somalia in order to feed a starving village. Once she had fed the initial village, she moved around the rest of the country. According to her own report, word soon spread of her good work and her services were in big demand. People in the remote jungles of Paraguay wanted her. The slums of Brazil. And the Mexicans. The Mexicans were lighting candles that she would show up. She didn’t need a second invitation and was soon making plans to travel to Latin America.

  Her plan was to start in Cuba, finish in Buenos Aires and rescue everywhere in between. A few weeks after she left we got the phone call about drama number one. His name was Felipe and he lived with his mother and pregnant sister. She bumped into Felipe on the streets of Havana. He had just lost his job and his pregnant sister was struggling. Jennifer tagged along with him to a cafe in a ramshackle neighbourhood so that she could meet the sister and hear the sad story in detail while she plied the unfortunate Felipe with cigars and mojitos. Presently, some more sad-luck couples joined the conversation and shared their tales of woe, and time and time again Jennifer was reaching into her money belt and fishing out note after note of the special high-value currency foreigners had to use. Naturally she was instantly popular and invited to take a little tour of the neighbourhood, and in each humble abode she was brought inside she was fed some rice and beans, and she in turn felt obliged to offer something by way of a gesture, and the people poured her glasses of local moonshine and she was the toast of the neighbourhood and the long and the short of it was that she woke up in her hotel room the following day with a splitting headache and an empty money belt. Mother didn’t need to hear another word. She went straight to the bank and waited until she was assured over and over that, yes, the money transfer was on its way into Jennifer’s account. As soon as she received it, Jennifer was on the next flight out of Havana.

  In Mexico she met a freedom fighter or revolutionary, some sort of activ
ist who also wrote poetry and had been in a Mexican film Jennifer was surprised we hadn’t heard of, and he had been a champion boxer, and had a bag of degrees in business and marketing, and he had even thought long and hard about becoming a philosopher and a monk, but instead had started several businesses that had him travelling here, there and everywhere, and Jesus Mary, I was thinking, when this report arrived, with all this going on how on earth did he have time for wu-wu with Jennifer. Maybe with all that becoming-a-monk stuff going on he was somehow going to manage an immaculate conception. I said as much to mother when Jennifer Skyped to share the amazing news that she was going to be a mammy. Immaculate conception or not, mother was delighted with Jennifer’s news, and when I had nothing worthwhile to contribute to the happy occasion, she scowled at me and suggested I have a long think about changing my attitude.

  Of course mother had plenty to contribute, didn’t need to be asked once let alone twice, was only too happy to toddle off to the bank and ensure another transfer was safely on its merry way into Jennifer’s account.

  The baba arrived, we met Juan over Skype, and mother wondered aloud when everyone would get to see each other in the flesh. The timing wasn’t good, however. Jennifer and Alonso had decided to move further south. Alonso had some important things going on, first in Ecuador and then in Bolivia and then maybe in one or two other places – it was all very vague.

  A couple of years later she was due home for Christmas. We – mother and me – bussed it up to the airport to welcome her home. So as to quickly spot her elder daughter appear with her luggage, mother had positioned herself in front of the arrival gates. That way, upon spotting Jennifer, she could let out a big whoop, rush through the waiting crowd and throw her arms around the homecomer. ‘I want to hear everything,’ mother practised asking Jennifer on the bus to the airport. If she didn’t say it once she said it a hundred times. Jennifer never made it that Christmas. We waited four hours at the airport, maybe seven. Turned out she’d had to change her plans. ‘A last-minute crisis,’ Jennifer told mother a couple of days later, among other things, when the call explaining her no-show had finally come through. She couldn’t make it the following Christmas either. Or the one after that – last Christmas. By then, she was busy helping forest clearers and seed planters in central Paraguay. That’s what she said when that call came through. Ask her is there anything she needs? mother said to me when I accidentally answered the phone to her. What for? I said. We’ll get a Christmas box ready for her, mother said. What is this we business? I said, not that it made any difference. And into the Christmas box went two night-lights, a bandwidth transistor and a pair of adjustable walking boots, as well as various pills to help ease constipation and diarrhoea, which essentially meant tossing extra boxes into the trolley when out shopping for mother that anxious Christmas week. Mother briefly contemplated sending out a batch of axe handles when Jennifer happened to mention how tough the work was and how poor the tools. Why don’t we just show up and clear the forest for her, I said back to mother, and received another of her milk-curdling looks.

  *

  We’re in Little Mary’s now, tucked away together inside the smaller of the two snugs. I’ve just set down a pair of drinks, two pints of not-quite-settled Guinness over which Jennifer is emphatically enthusing.

  ‘Oh, this was a good idea,’ she says, reaching for her drink. ‘Much better than going to the cinema.’

  ‘To much better ideas,’ I say, raising my glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ she says, taking a mouthful of the stout. ‘Oh, that is so good. Do you know, I can’t remember the last time I had a Guinness.’

  She lifts the glass and takes another gulp.

  ‘So tell me,’ she says, wiping the froth from her top lip. ‘What’s the audition for this time?’ Already, I’m sorry I mentioned it.

  ‘Streetcar,’ I say.

  ‘Streetcar? What sort of a name . . .? Oh wait, you mean A Streetcar Named Desire? Oklahoma Williams, right?’

  ‘Tennessee,’ I say, gritting my teeth.

  ‘Tennessee. That’s what I meant. I think I’ve seen the film. It’s about two sisters, right? And Marlon Brando. Yum-mee. Except he ends up not being very nice in it. Am I right?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Which of the sisters are you hoping to play? Wait! Let me guess. There’s Stella. She’s with Brando. And what’s this the other one is called? The one who arrives on the streetcar at the beginning. It’s a French-sounding name.’

  ‘Blanche.’

  ‘Blanche! That’s it. Blanche DuBois! What a great name for a character. She’s the scheming one, isn’t she? The one who isn’t what she appears to be.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that.’

  ‘Oh, then I’d say that’s the part for you.’

  She reaches for her glass again, doesn’t seem to see me glaring at her, or if she does, is paying no heed. This time she finishes the drink, reaches for her wallet and stands up.

  ‘Do you know what this Guinness tastes like?’ she says.

  ‘I think so,’ I reply.

  ‘It tastes like MORE. Tell you what. Let’s have another drink and you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to since . . .’

  ‘Since what?’ I say, but she is already on her feet, making her way to the bar. At once I get busy with a message to Fleming. In Little Mary’s. Help!

  Moments later, she is back with two fresh glasses.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says, setting down the glasses and reclaiming her spot across from me. ‘They say the first one is medicine. After that, who cares?’ With either hand she flicks back her hair and angles her head so that she has a better view of the barroom.

  ‘This place hasn’t changed a bit, has it?’ she says. ‘One or two familiar faces up there, too. Billy Gibbons is there. What’s this he’s called?’

  ‘Billy the Lush.’

  ‘That’s the one. It was really good of mam to look after Juan for the afternoon. Give us a chance to catch up like this.’

  ‘How long are you staying?’ I ask.

  ‘You know, I haven’t decided. Right now, I want Juan to get to know his granny and auntie.’

  ‘Ah. So that’s why you’ve been visiting non-stop since he was born.’

  ‘Listen to you! You couldn’t care less if you never see me.’

  ‘Think what you like.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  ‘Oh, Laura, I don’t want to fight with you. I want us to be friends. I want to root for you with this audition. I want things to be . . . Hey! Who is this fellow mother is seeing? He was there earlier, just before I left. Peter something or other, I didn’t catch his second name.’

  ‘Porter.’

  ‘Porter. Really? What an appropriate name. Well, then. Here’s to Peter Porter.’ And she raises her glass and holds it aloft until I have raised my own. We have just clinked when I hear the resounding greeting.

  ‘Hello!’

  Fleming. It never takes him long to reach the bar when he is summoned. But this must go down as some kind of record. I wonder what could have enticed him to get here so quickly. And here he is. All arms and legs, clambering in on top of us.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he says, elaborately wagging a finger in front of her. ‘You must be Jennifer. I’ve been hearing quite a lot about you.’

  ‘All good, I hope.’

  ‘Like I say, I’m hearing plenty.’

  Jennifer smiles and Fleming smiles, and space is made in the snug for the new arrival. Briefly, I wonder what would happen to those smiles if I were to grab each of them and mash their noggins together.

  ‘Aren’t you going to offer your friend a drink, Laura?’

  ‘Please. Call me Fleming. Do what your sister says, Laura. Get Fleming a drink.’

  ‘And I’ll have a refill, Laura. Thank you.’

  I leave them to it and make my way to the bar. I’m tempted to keep going, clear out of there altogether, but can’t st
omach the thoughts of them having a good time in my absence.

  The barroom is filling up. I spy a woman in the other snug reading The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. A merry-looking fellow has taken centre stage in the main bar area. ‘I feel like a bubble in the neck of a bottle of champagne,’ he says, over and over again. Spellman, the journo from the Advertiser, is in, a limpid, wiry thing with a ridiculous quiff. Hawkins from the Tribune, camera dangling from his chubby neck. A lad with a fiddle walks in. ‘I’m Goodtime Ray,’ he announces, plants himself in the corner by the window and begins to draw his bow. His woe-is-me lyrics quickly bring Fizzy Bubble’s jig to an end. Spellman and Hawkins move to the counter. ‘I wouldn’t like to hear Badtime Ray,’ growls a lad with a boiled head and beetroot neck.

  ‘Same again, Laura?’ Gerry the barman calls out when he spots me. I include the addition to the order, and while I’m at it nod to Billy’s near-empty glass and he silently consents.

  A familiar-looking couple enter the bar – the tourist couple from the pier, this time with identical baseball caps emblazoned with the words Virginia Beach. They sit themselves at the low table nearest the woe-is-me fiddle player. I am about to hail them when someone else clamps a hand onto my shoulder.

  ‘Hello!’ It’s the minuscule woman from Minnesota. ‘I never got to congratulate you on that performance during the walking tour,’ she says, and presses a fifty into my hand. ‘Keep it up,’ she continues, making for the door.

  ‘You have an admirer there,’ Gerry says, leaving down the Guinness to settle.

  Mr Virginia Beach stands up and has reached the bar before he turns around to his missus and in a heavy drawl wonders what she might like to drink. Without looking up from the selfie she is about to take, she mumbles something about soda water.