Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  ‘Howdy,’ he says when he has turned towards the bar again. He has no idea who I am.

  ‘Howdy,’ I reply.

  ‘So what’s hot in this town?’ he asks me while trying to catch Gerry’s attention.

  ‘I am,’ I say, and he starts laughing.

  ‘That’s funny. I’m going to remember that one.’

  He grabs his drinks and returns to his wife. Gerry slaps my change onto the counter.

  ‘You bothering my customers again?’

  ‘I’m the only customer you need to worry about, Gerry.’

  ‘I wonder what planet beamed that notion into your noodle.’

  ‘Keep talking like that and I won’t let you keep the change.’

  ‘I’m just happy if you pay for the occasional drink.’

  He tosses a couple of bags of crisps at me and turns to serve someone else. I pocket my change and am about to pick up the drinks when I feel the tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Where did you go for those?’

  Before I have a chance to claim them, Fleming has grabbed two glasses, marched them swiftly to the snug. I grab my own drink, the crisps and, by the time I have rejoined the boozers, Fleming and Jennifer are the best of friends.

  ‘And I hear you do good work in the poor countries,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, I try to make a small difference here and there,’ she replies.

  ‘Here and there!’ Fleming says, almost spilling his drink. ‘I’d hardly call the places you’ve been to here and there. And how dare you say small difference? People like you are in short supply, let me tell you. People like you make all the difference. Laura, we are in the presence of a modern-day miracle worker.’

  Listen to him. Miracle worker! And look at her. Lapping it all up. Every ridiculous bit of it.

  ‘And I hear you have a little boy.’

  ‘Yes. Five years old next birthday.’

  ‘Wow,’ Fleming says to that. ‘I’d love to meet him.’

  ‘Here, I have a picture.’

  Jennifer sets down her glass, reaches for her purse and plucks out a photo which she passes over to Fleming.

  ‘There’s a good-looking fellow. Takes after his mother.’

  ‘Not to mention his father,’ I add.

  ‘Of course,’ Fleming says, still looking at the photo. ‘Laura mentioned him. What’s this you said his name was, Laura?’

  ‘His name? Oh, I can’t think. Help us out here, Jennifer.’

  ‘Alonso,’ she says, quietly. Very quietly.

  ‘Sorry, can’t hear you,’ I say, shielding my ear.

  ‘Alonso,’ she says again, some of the wind gone from her sails.

  ‘Alonso! That’s the one.’

  Fleming is beaming. He grabs the drink in front of him and takes a hearty gulp. ‘You know, this is great,’ he says, setting down the glass. ‘We should make a plan to do something together. The three of us. There’s lots of stuff happening. Hey! We could do something with Juan. I’d love to meet him.’

  ‘You said that already,’ I say, giving Fleming my best glare.

  ‘I think he’d like that,’ Jennifer says, warming again to Fleming’s enthusiasm.

  ‘So tell us, Jennifer,’ he says next, giving all his attention to my sister. ‘What’s Alonso up to these days?’

  Jennifer freezes, her glass poised at her lips. She takes a sip, and without watching what she is doing, she sets down the glass on a bag of crisps. The glass topples over and the stout spills everywhere.

  She’s on her feet again, steering clear of the spillage. Fleming hurries off to get a cloth. And a refill. ‘No need,’ she says, eyeing me. ‘I have to go now.’ By the time he gets back she is ready to leave.

  ‘I hope you’re not leaving on account of a spilt drink,’ Fleming says.

  ‘No . . . no. I . . . I need to get to the bank,’ she says, and hurries out of there.

  Fleming sets down his own drink, spreads out his arms and looks to me as though to say, What just happened?

  16

  Quay Street is packed. Terrorists are tucking in at outside tables beneath the restaurant awnings. The madman of Druid Lane leaps out of doorways, calls out randomly and clamps his ears to cracks in walls. The woman in black zigzags her mongrel dogs towards the harbour. Goodtime Ray has pitched himself and his fiddle at the bottom end of the street, near the bridge. Seabirds squawk over the Claddagh.

  ‘I wish you’d said something, Laura,’ Fleming is saying. ‘About Alonso. Hang on. You didn’t do that on purpose, did you?’

  ‘No harm done,’ I say.

  ‘No harm done? Your sister was practically in tears. I think you should call her.’

  ‘That I will not be doing.’

  ‘Well, if you’re not going to, I am.’

  Before I have a chance to ward him off, Fleming has snatched the phone out of my hand, is scrolling for the number. Half-heartedly, I make an effort to retrieve my phone. But he manages to keep me at arm’s length.

  ‘She’s not answering,’ he says, giving up and handing over the phone. ‘Not that I blame her.’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘She always is.’

  Fleming looks at me and shakes his head. By now we have reached the bottom of the street, where it opens out into the harbour.

  ‘I want you to apologize to her,’ Fleming says again. ‘Apologize to her from me. Promise me you will.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Laura. Come on. That wasn’t nice back there.’

  ‘OK. OK. I’ll apologize.’

  ‘You better.’

  ‘Jesus, what is this? I said I would.’

  ‘What did you do that for anyway? It can’t be easy for her, Laura. Especially if she’s been left to bring up a little fellow all by herself.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you the shining knight all of a sudden.’

  ‘I’m just pointing out the obvious.’

  ‘Well, point somewhere else. I’ve had enough for one day.’

  I check my pockets for more cash, feel for the fifty recently pressed upon me. I turn around and start back in the direction we have come from, reaching Little Mary’s just in time to greet the terrorist from Virginia Beach.

  ‘Howdy,’ I call out.

  ‘Howdy,’ he says back, taking a good gander at the outside tables.

  ‘Looking for something?’

  ‘Yeah. My wife.’

  ‘Lost her, eh. That tends to happen to wives in this place.’

  Back inside I go.

  *

  A few hours and several drinks later, I have retraced my steps back to the harbour and am crossing Tone Bridge.

  I pause halfway across, greet the Beggar Flynn and look out into the harbour. The sun is dipping, shadows drift across the Claddagh, and the city seems suspended between the hustle and bustle of daytime and its panoply of after-dark allure. For once the west wind has called it a day, the swans are out and the harbour water appears as a sheet of glass reflecting the colours of the Claddagh and the Long Walk.

  A calm before the storm.

  ‘Isn’t that right, Beggar?’ I say, without averting my gaze.

  ‘Isn’t what right?’

  ‘Storms, Beggar. I’m talking about storms.’

  I turn away from the water just in time to see him hiss after a pair of suited men who take turns stepping over the cap placed in the middle of the footpath. The first of the men then tosses an empty cigarette box over the bridge wall, and I follow its progress as it lands and then settles on the surface water before the current carries it away.

  ‘Did I ever tell you what happened to my daddy, Beggar?’

  ‘Did I ever ask you to stop calling me Beggar?’

  ‘Ah, Beggar, when have you and I ever done what we are asked?’

  If Beggar has anything to say to that he is keeping it to himself. I tip the remains of the fifty into his cap, continue across the bridge, turn left and stroll towards Nimmo’s Pier, not stopping until I reach the raised wall along the windward side o
f the pier-end.

  I loved coming out here with daddy when I was little. Especially in the autumn and winter months. The days were shorter and colder and wetter, there were fewer people around, at times we had the pier and the west wind all to ourselves. Whatever the weather we always walked to the very end and then stood side by side, wordlessly taking in whatever we could see. Swans. Fishing boats. The occasional Hooker, ever graceful on the water. The wind did its best to blow us hither and thither, and eventually daddy would motion for us to head back. Sometimes he might gather me up and haul me, kicking and squealing with delight, until he put me down again. My favourite moment was when the pier lights came on, whereupon daddy would hunker down beside me, wrap one arm around me and with the other point to the blurry lights. Look, Laura. Can you see it? The Walk of Fame.

  It was during autumn and winter that the Claddagh Players would put their shows together. I can see them all, gathering for an evening of rehearsals in the hall they used. Cajoling each other. Arguing over who should play what part. The names I heard them call each other. The faces I saw. Greece McLoughlin. Kilala Joyce. Billy the Lush. Chopper Fallon. Jinx Fahy. These were the ones I remember most. The stalwarts. The ones that insisted the show must go on and, for a while anyway, made sure it did. There was a flaming Rita Hayworth-style redhead that turned everybody’s head whenever she chose to turn up. Her name was Josephine Blake. All Josephine had to do was hint that she’d like to be involved and there would be a part for her. After rehearsals everyone would sit around and talk plays and scripts, big up all the shows they were going to put on, all the theatre adventures they were going to have. National tours. Festivals. And after that – who knew? At some point daddy would drag everyone back to the house and they would settle in the kitchen for a long night of drink and song and banter. The longer they sat up the larger the adventures became. They would take turns telling stories, sing songs and fill their glasses with wine and beer and whiskey, and on and on into the little hours of the night they would go. Sometimes, if it was clear, they would take the party outside, into the front garden, guitars and drinks and song and dance going until first light. Sometimes, I joined them. Other times, I was content to watch them from my bedroom window. Always, I wanted to be a proper part of their troupe, and time and time again I swore to myself when my time came I would be just like them.

  Every autumn they chose a play. They talked about the best way to stage it, they built their own sets, cobbled together old clothes, learned how to rig up the lights. They rehearsed until they knew their parts back to front.

  Best of all was opening night of their chosen show. Didn’t matter what it was. Juno and the Paycock. The Playboy of the Western World. Philadelphia, Here I Come! A Streetcar Named Desire. Death of a Salesman. The hall was packed. The place buzzing with anticipation. Along with Josephine Blake, daddy played the lead role in Streetcar. Stanley Kowalski. On stage he looked like he had been dipped in a barrel of grease. I was riveted to every minute of it. I couldn’t wait for the school play. I couldn’t wait to grow up.

  After daddy’s accident I would still come out here. Every day I would walk to the pier-end and stand at the very edge – just like I am right now – replaying back to myself that early speech he had given me. Hollywood. Starry lights. The Walk of Fame. One day it will be your turn, Laura. But no matter how often I come out looking, no matter how hard I peer, since daddy died the lights never seem as starry as they were when he was with me. Can you see it, Laura? Can you see it?

  17

  It’s late by the time I get in. I can hear talking and laughter in the kitchen. Mother and Peter Porter are sharing a bottle of red wine. Jennifer is sitting at the table with them, a small heap of discarded hankies in front of her. Peter Porter is holding court, regaling his audience with what sounds like a humorous story from his working day.

  I am in no way tempted to join them. Alas, mother has spotted me heading upstairs, and has excused herself to follow me, pulling the kitchen door closed after her.

  ‘She’s very upset. This Alonso business. You didn’t mention him, did you?’

  ‘Me? Haven’t said a word.’

  In my room I lie down on my bed, grab my paperback copy of Streetcar and have a think about the scene I could do for my audition. I start to read. An hour later I have several candidates. Blanche’s speech near the end about spending the rest of her life at sea might go down well. Stephen Fallow might appreciate all that water stuff, now that he has landed himself on our wind-battered coast. Or maybe I should give him a bit from the famous scene just before the brute comes out in Stanley and he finally forces himself on Blanche – the part where the fantasist in her has really kicked in and she tries to convince everyone that a rich and dashing admirer has just been in touch to invite her on a cruise of the Caribbean. And the deliberate cruelty bit – after Stanley confronts her with all he has found out about her. That might work. Then there is the ending itself. The doc and matron have arrived to cart her away to the funny farm and so deluded is Blanche that she thinks it really is the dashing admirer with his pockets on come to whisk her off on his yacht. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. That always goes down a treat. Then again, maybe not. Everybody else going for the part will have thought along those lines. I even go back to the very beginning, where Blanche arrives at her sister’s place in New Orleans, just so as I can say all those stations along the tramline. They told me to take a streetcar named Desire, and then transfer to one called Cemeteries and ride six blocks and get off at – Elysian Fields. Then I read over the scene where Blanche goes on a date with Stanley’s best friend, Mitch, especially the part when they return to the empty apartment and Blanche gets to telling Mitch of her early love and what happened to him and why, and something mysterious happens, something fragile, that seems to reveal itself in the dark-of-night moment Blanche and Mitch share together. It reminds me of what daddy said to me all that time ago: life is just a few moments when it all comes down to it. And, yes, I think. This scene might be the one.

  Happy with what I am resolved to do, I message Fleming to let him know, ask can we hook up so as I can try out my scene, but all he is interested in knowing is have I apologized to Jennifer. Tomorrow, I message back, and that is the end of the conversation.

  I’m about to toss my phone when I notice the message from Imelda. It’s a friendly link to Stage & Screen, and of course I cannot resist clicking on it, and when I do it loads up the glossy cover image and lo-and-behold I am face to face with my acting buddy of yore. It’s a flattering image, photoshopped good-oh (way too much gloss, Melly dearest, way too much) and there is an extract from the interview she has done for the illustrious arts magazine. Her answers are far too lengthy and so I just read the questions, a medley of gushing invitations to explain her appeal, list the parts she was born to play, her advice for budding starlets, current state of mind, finest accomplishment to date. Imelda, everything seems effortless to you. What is the secret? Yes, Imelda, do share with us the secret of your success. Raw talent? Incessant toil? A special diet only you are privy too? And lastly, Imelda, in your own words, how would you like to be remembered? Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

  The women on the wall are not going to let me leave it at that, however. What are you at, woman? You’re every bit as talented as Imelda Ebbing (what sort of a name is that!). If she can do it, you can too. Come on, now. Snap out of it. Then, as though suddenly seized by some momentous thought, Gloria stirs herself, angles her face in my direction, unfurls a braceleted arm, and with a curling index finger motions me towards her. Closer, Laura. Closer. The cameras are turning. They’re waiting for the star. Are you ready? This is your life. It always will be. There’s nothing else. Just you and the camera. And all those wonderful people out there in the dark.

  That comment, though – the one about everything being so effortless – reminds me of something I remember hearing Billy the Lush say to daddy all that time ago. You make it look so easy, Frank, Billy
had said, still shaking his head hours after an opening-night performance of Streetcar that had brought the audience to its feet. And I remember daddy freezing to the spot where he was standing, and then staring intensely at something only he could see. Being on stage is easy, he finally said. It’s the real world, getting through the days hours minutes, that’s the difficult part.

  I hear you, daddy. I really do.

  18

  Peter Porter is in the kitchen the following morning. He and mother met on a dating site – after, it must be said, she had considered and in her own way auditioned several non-starters. For a time I had even chipped in my tuppence worth – when asked, of course. Amongst those most vivid in my memory include Damien the archivist, Manus the dentist and Steve the insurance broker. Mother liked that Damien was involved with printed matter. I wasn’t gone on his height (six feet six), his looks (think Freddy Kruger meets pretty much any of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz) nor his keenness for arching his eyebrows in surprise every time mother said something (boo! I said, and he didn’t even blink). Oh, look, mother said upon perusing Manus the dentist’s profile, he’s offering free check-ups. Mother, I said, backing away from the garishly real tooth on the screen before us, allow that man inside your mouth and I will set your hair on fire. Then came (and quickly went) Steve the insurance broker (drooling mouth, noisy nose, goodbye Steve); Bruce the estate agent (Bruce, mother, Bruce!); Brian the auctioneer (going once, going twice, and keep, keep going until well out of sight, Brian) and Paul ‘To be honest after all this time I’m still not sure what it is I’d like to do with my life but right now I’m really into bees – it’s time we all started thinking about the bees, right?’ If you say so, Paul, now please – buzz off. Early promise was shown by primary school teacher and father-of-four Brendan (soft spoken, kind eyes, wife killed in a car crash). Then we met the four (little Hitlers) and I told mother that I would never speak to her again if she did not at once take out an irreversible restraining order. Jerome the plumber looked good – so long as the looking was confined to his online pic. In the flesh he was a bit of a let-down. Actually, he reminded me of the American presidential candidate – orange on the outside, hollow on the inside, get rid before anything has a chance to happen.