Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  For a while I thought it was fun being on the side that gets to choose who gets to set foot inside our door. Plus, I liked it that mother sounded me out, it was something we were in together, a conspiracy. That is until she started to realize that my opinions had a tendency to veer somewhere between oh my God please say you are not going out with him (Damien, Manus, Steve and Bruce) and bring that man inside this house and I will not be held responsible for what happens (Brian, Paul and Brendan). There were one or two I will admit to being vaguely curious about. But by then it scarcely mattered because mother had started – via Skype of course – to involve Jennifer in her deliberations.

  And, la-di-dah, enter Peter Porter.

  To look at him you would not think his name is Peter Porter. He is tall, and angular, with large inquisitive eyes, and he seems to propel himself forward via the use of his knees – as opposed to his feet. Though he has little hair, he likes to use a comb. According to his profile he used to play table tennis and had a walloping forehand. These days, he works in a camera shop on Shop Street and likes showing mother the latest ‘photograph of the week’, whether it is a photograph he or someone else has taken he doesn’t say. To me, he is more Philip than Peter. More Phibbs than Porter. And leaving and entering rooms do have a tendency to present him with difficulties. Last time he was here, he went upstairs to use our bathroom and, moments after he had excused himself, mother and me could hear this persistent rattling sound. He then reappeared, holding in his hand the handle of our bathroom door, and enquiring as to the existence of a second toilet. Still. He and mother get along well together – at least they have for the four or five months they have known each other. He calls by on his days off. Once or twice I have bumped into him tiptoeing out our front door late into the night. This is the first time we have crossed paths at breakfast. And recently he has ramped up his mission to haul mother out of the country. Whisk her away from it all. What I should do is get him to take some profile shots of me. I’m going to need them where I’m headed.

  Isn’t that right, Laura?

  Yes, it is, girl. Yes, it most certainly is.

  ‘So what is going down, Laura?’ he says to me when I show up in the kitchen. For some reason he likes addressing me as though he is an edgy rock ’n’ roll promoter, and I am his protégé all set to conquer the world. To be fair to him, he is not a million miles away.

  ‘You tell me, Peter,’ I reply. ‘You look as though you are ahead of the day.’

  Peter smiles. I smile. He combs over some rogue strands of hair. I drum the table with my middle and index finger. Peter reaches for the cutting knife.

  ‘Would you like a slice of cheese?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’ he says, a look immense disappointment suddenly taking over his face.

  ‘Don’t eat cheese,’ I say. ‘It complicates my dreams.’

  He cuts a slice for himself. I am about to leave when he clears his throat.

  ‘Laura, can you help me with something?’

  ‘Me?’ I even sound surprised to myself.

  ‘Mary – your mother – has never been outside the country.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘If she was to go somewhere – outside the country – where do you suppose she might choose?’

  ‘Paraguay,’ I say, without blinking an eye.

  ‘Paraguay!’ Peter Porter did not expect that answer.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I say, summoning as much earnestness as I can. ‘She dreams about the jungles of Paraguay all the time. Has she not said anything?’

  ‘No. No, she hasn’t.’

  ‘We’re such a secretive family. Meet us in an elevator and we won’t tell you if we’re going up or down,’ I say, and leave him to his uncertain pondering.

  19

  I do what Fleming has told me to do and square things with Jennifer. He’ll stay on my case if I don’t and no doubt mother will get wind too. I’m sorry for bringing up Alonso like that, I say when I seek her out. Steering the conversation that way was cruel and childish, and I suppose I was a little jealous of all the attention Fleming was giving you and wanted to get at you somehow. I shouldn’t have done it and I am really, really sorry. She looks at me, wary, suspicious even, for a few seconds I honestly can’t say which way she is going to fall, will she accept my humble words or throw them back in my face? Then she makes a beeline for me, tells me it’s all right, let’s put it behind us, from here out we are going to be the best of friends, and once again I find myself wrapped up in those arms.

  To further extend the olive branch I offer to cook a meal for everyone. Myself and Jennifer and Little Juan. Mother and Peter Porter. Jennifer thinks it a great idea and of course feels it ought to be a joint effort and so offers some suggestions. No, no, no, I insist, I have it all under control. Then I message Fleming to get himself over here. And bring something nice to cook, I tell him, it’s time to deliver on a promise made the very first time we met.

  *

  Later that same day Fleming turns up with a purple eye, a shopping bag of ingredients, and announces he is taking over cooking duties. He is holding aloft a tin of tomatoes and a packet of spaghetti, and what happened this time I am about to ask, trying not to look at his eye, when Jennifer reaches around me and drags Fleming inside. Purple eye or not, she is delighted to see him, and now she, too, wants in on the cooking, is already examining what Fleming has arrived with. Then Little Juan appears, and Fleming makes a huge spectacle out of their first meeting. Well, well, well. Who have we here? No, let me guess. And he proceeds into listing out an increasingly ludicrous-sounding batch of boys’ names that aren’t boys’ names or girls’ names or any kind of names for that matter. Is your name Snickers? Is it Scallion? Sun-dried Tomato? Wait. I think it’s Bean Sprout. Yes, that’s it. Come along, Bean Sprout. After an initial bout of shyness that has Little Juan cling to his mother’s skirt, it is only a matter of time before Fleming has the little fellow in stitches. ‘Oh, and did you hear about the magic tractor? It turned into a field.’

  As soon as he has stacked up the ingredients, he enlists Little Juan into the cause. ‘I am Big Chef,’ Fleming says. ‘And you are Little Chef.’ He even produces two paper hats, one for each of them. And the little fellow is only too happy to muck in. ‘First things first,’ Fleming declares. ‘A pair of cocktails for the chefs.’ And he produces some fruit juice and sparkling water and gets busy pouring and shaking and spilling stuff everywhere. Little Juan giggles and covers his face with his hands. Jennifer squeezes her boy and points at Fleming. ‘Who is that silly man making a big mess? Who is that man calling you Bean Sprout?’ I can think of a few answers I’d like to offer, but now a food fight has commenced and already I have been zapped in the face by a clump of Branston pickle, banana peel and wedge of bitter lemon.

  Fleming and Juan and Jennifer chop and peel and cut. Mother and Peter Porter appear and insist on joining in. Something gets bunged in the oven. Peter Porter pours the wine he has managed to magic up. An hour or so later the six of us are gathered around the kitchen table. Mother and Fleming are already talking television.

  ‘Have you seen The Wire?’ she asks him.

  ‘Of course,’ Fleming replies. ‘What’s your favourite season?’

  ‘I like the one where they go into the schools.’

  ‘Yep. It’s a class act. I follow David Simon on Twitter.’

  ‘Who is David Simon?’

  ‘The writer. The creative genius behind The Wire.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Fleming thinks TV is where it’s at, mother,’ I say. ‘He has his own ideas for shows.’

  ‘Oh, really? Have you seen House of Cards, Fleming?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Fleming says. ‘Every bit of it. You need to see The West Wing if that’s the sort of thing you’re after. The Aaron Sorkin ones.’

  ‘Who is Aaron Sorkin?’

  ‘He’s another creative genius,’ I say. ‘Isn’t that right, Fleming?’

  ‘I have the
entire boxset. One hundred and fifty-six episodes. I’ll bring it around.’

  Mother is thrilled and, suitably encouraged, Fleming segues into a lengthy sermon on the merits of The West Wing over House of Cards. Bored now, I turn to the others.

  Peter Porter is grilling Jennifer as to what her stomping grounds have to offer the intrepid traveller. ‘What about Venezuela?’ Peter asks. ‘I’d love to see the Angel Falls. Or the Salt Flats in Bolivia. Or Buenos Aires. I hear that’s well worth a visit.’

  ‘And don’t forget my suggestion, Peter,’ I say, with an elbow-and-wink.

  ‘And what was that?’ Jennifer wants to know.

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid it’s top secret,’ I go on. ‘ A surprise. That right, Peter?’

  Peter smiles. ‘What about Mexico?’ he asks.

  ‘Don’t get her going on Mexico,’ I say, and from mother receive a please-don’t-start look. But Jennifer’s already had enough out of me. She gets up from the table and switches on the kitchen television. Flicks through the channels.

  ‘Leave that on a minute,’ Fleming says when something about the upcoming US presidential election pops up.

  ‘Who do you think will win?’ Peter Porter asks of no one in particular, and at once and in unison Jennifer, Fleming and mother pile in with their opinions.

  ‘Who do you think will win?’ I say, turning to Little Juan. And the two of us proceed to make faces at each other, at the others, and with the others, especially Jennifer, distracted by the television, we polish off the last of the Curly Wurlys and Stinger bars Fleming has brought for dessert.

  A short time later everyone has eaten their fill. I’m not sure exactly what it is we have eaten – I doubt anybody is – if the empty plates and bowls are anything to go by, Big Chef and Little Chef have done a good job. Bean Sprout, I say to Fleming after the little fellow has been put to bed. You think that’s good, he is fast to say, we decided to call you Chipsticks.

  Later again, after Fleming has elaborated on what happened to his eye (brothers, fists, yet again) and, courtesy of the Mogadon he was suddenly curious about, has fallen asleep on my bed, and Peter Porter has done likewise in the sitting room (without Mogadon), I notice mother and Jennifer talking quietly together in the kitchen. It’s more Jennifer than mother and I move closer to the half-open door in order to catch what is being said. To my amazement she begins with an apology, and I am just in time to hear Jennifer tell mother how sorry she is for not making it home more often. Summertime. Christmas. The occasional birthday. She is so sorry. Sorry is the last word mother wants to hear out of Jennifer’s mouth. ‘You’re here now, and that is all that matters,’ mother says, squeezing her older daughter’s shoulder. ‘My life is a mess,’ Jennifer says next. ‘What are you talking about?’ mother says. ‘Look at what you have done. Look at all the good work you are doing. Look at Juan. And speaking of birthdays,’ mother is fast to add, ‘a certain someone has a big day coming up. A certain significant birthday. And we should do something to mark it. Something special.’

  Big day or not, Jennifer sounds like she is going to need more persuading. Her faraway bank now maintains that Jennifer Cassidy does not exist. And her luggage is proving impossible to trace. Jennifer shakes her head and berates the pair of fools she has earlier spent an hour talking to. Soon the entire Mexican nation is getting it from her, whatever its unfortunate involvement in this ever-deteriorating situation. Nor has she been able to get through to her boss. She needs to sort out a start date for her new contract, and every time she tries to get hold of Ultan (Jesus!) she either gets a leave-a-message, which she proceeds to do in her best phone-call accent but doesn’t hear back, or a strange-sounding dial tone, which has her suspect that either the service provider is playing games with its customers or the phone itself is damaged. To cap it all there has been no word from Alonso. Throughout all of this, mother sits opposite Jennifer, listening intently to every detail. Presently the waterworks are turned on, their arrival immaculately timed and in beautiful harmony with the dramatic preamble. All in all it is a remarkable performance, deserving, I for one feel, of a round of ecstatic applause. Brava! Brava! Mother, though. She doesn’t see things this way. She has grasped one of Jennifer’s hands, while the other offers a hankie that Jennifer uses to dab her sniffling nose. And more and more I am thinking: this one is good. Really, really good.

  And cue mother pulling out all the stops to cheer up Jennifer. And this is when I make the startling discovery that this imminent birthday mother has earlier alluded to, this so-called significant special big day she wants to put together, is not for Little Juan after all. It is Jennifer she has in mind. It is Jennifer’s birthday that is just around the corner. Her thirtieth birthday.

  How remiss of me to allow it slip my mind.

  When I half-tune in again, all I can hear is talk of the great evening in store. With plates of this and platters of that and I’ll get Peter to bring his guitar, mother says. And Yoohoo Lucy Garavan might help with the food. Fleming too. We can invite some of the crew from the neighbourhood. And we’ll take a spin around the shops for something nice to wear. Laura might come with us. It’ll be fun, Jennifer. Little Juan will have fun too.

  If mother will be looking to me for this plan to grow some feathers and fly-me-to-the-moon wings, she can think again. And quick as a match I skedaddle to my room.

  20

  I narrow down to two the scenes I want to do (Blanche tells Mitch of her first love and of how she betrayed him; Blanche, knowing she now has nothing to lose, reveals her sordid past to Mitch) and in my room take turns practising both of them. Mother and Peter Porter sit in the kitchen and over tea, wine, and other assorted treats, the one painstakingly tries to alight on a mutually agreeable place to visit and the other heatedly throws her arms into the air and repeats the words no, no and no! Jennifer commandeers the sitting room and spends her time on the phone alternately trying to locate Alonso, get through to her boss, describe the contents of her luggage, and let the Mexicans have it for the great job they’ve done denying she exists. Meanwhile, Little Juan passes his time trotting from room to room with varying combinations of amusement and perplexity as he witnesses the women he is related to in varying states of emotional disorder.

  When it gets too much I make myself scarce. I stride around the harbour. Along the river. The canal. Waterside. The quieter parts of town, at less busy times of day. On a couple of occasions I haul myself as far as Barna Woods. I check in with the trees, perform my best lines for them. Eventually, I take a break and reach deep inside the hollowed-out oak and flick through the scrapbook, pausing here and there when something of interest catches my eye.

  On the bridge, I chat with the Beggar about storms that come and go, and storms that outstay their welcome.

  I swing by the Goldmine and collect my meds.

  I do an extra shift or two of tour-guide duty. I take a busload of Americans through the Saturday market, spin yarns about potatoes (potatoes from Kerry are the most expensive. Longford, Leitrim and Roscommon potatoes are going for a song. Potatoes from Dublin are given away). I bring a bunch of unusually impressed Germans inside St Nick’s and share all my info about the ancient church. I show a collection of curious Asians the Cathedral and delight in their over-the-top enthusiasm for my graphic descriptions of all things squalid that happened inside the women’s prison that stood on this very site. So pleased am I that I haul them to the Town Hall on the off chance I’ll get to perform one of my chosen scenes for Stephen’s benefit.

  I pick my spot outside the building and have the tour group gather round. I explain to them that I am to be the lead in a forthcoming production and that I like surprising my director with impromptu teasers from the part I am playing. Then I produce my Streetcar paperback, flick it open, and have hit my stride, declaiming poetically about long, rainy afternoons in New Orleans as I summon my young prince out of the Arabian Nights to move willingly closer, when the doors of the Town Hall swing open.

  Ala
s, it is not a prince who presents himself, willing or otherwise. Camilla the Hun appears on the steps and wants to know in no uncertain terms precisely what I think I am at. The sour head on her. The officious hands. In her spare time she probably strangles kittens. ‘Ah, go chase some apes in hell,’ I spew at her and usher my faithful troupe well out of harm’s way.

  *

  Home again and mother is taking tea with Fiona French, Odd Doris, Dolores Taaffe and home from Spain Yoohoo Lucy. Jennifer has joined them too. But it is Lucy who is holding court. Laying it all on about her recent trip to Alicante, and the eating habits of the Spaniards. How, apart from a couple of hours shut-eye in the afternoon, they eat all the time. Except they don’t make sows of themselves like we do around here. No. What they do is nibble. A bowl of olives here. A plate of sardines there. Perhaps a saucer of pigs’ tongues. The most divine stuffed mushrooms. The sweetest cherries. The juiciest oranges. And as for the ham . . . three words, ladies, three words. To die for.

  ‘Hello, Laura, and how are you today?’ she takes time out to say as I pass through, while at the same time giving me her head-to-toe once-over so as that she will later have something to offer on one of her pet subjects – how I have been doing since my little incident on opening night – and how recovery from something like what I went through takes time, especially when the cause is probably a little more deep-rooted than mere performance anxiety. Yoohoo Lucy has the knack of always sounding like an expert. I will say that for her. ‘Hello to you, Lucy,’ I reply without stopping. ‘I hear you flashed the nipples in Alicante.’

  I have already exited the kitchen and am about to continue up the stairs when Jennifer starts in on our little rendezvous at the cemetery, and instantly I am listening for her to tell about the audition. Instead – ha! – she relays how she overheard me talking to daddy. And this acts as a signal for mother to share some more of her concerns. My spells in bed. Sometimes for days. With the curtains pulled. ‘She wanders through the house at night when she thinks I am asleep,’ mother says. ‘She doesn’t stop boiling the kettle. She doesn’t stop smoking in the sitting room. She goes through phases of not eating. Then she binges. In her room a mountain of dirty clothes. Sometimes I think it never ends. One night I heard her downstairs in the kitchen. And I got out of bed and went down to see. The kitchen door was ajar and I looked around and there she was. Sitting in the chair by the window. Sobbing quietly to herself. I’ve lost count of how many nights she has spent like that. And not being able to do anything. Not knowing what to do.’ And mother reminds Jennifer about my time in St Jude’s. And how good the doctors had been or tried to be, and how uninterested I had been in anything they tried to say or do, until it got to the point where they had no choice but to send me on my way, there were other patients in need, others more appreciative of the resources. And not a word out of mother about why I hadn’t quite seen eye-to-eye with one of the doctors there, especially after it emerged he would not be happy until he started multiplying the number of things wrong with me and had them all rolled up and packed tightly inside little me so that he really didn’t know where to start. She continues on about how I’ve been for the past couple of years and she talks about my appearance and how do you think she looks, I hear her ask Jennifer. And Jennifer is straightaway into talk about my pallor and my skin, and the importance of a good diet, and she yammers on about those mung beans and chia seeds, and cultured vegetables and activated almonds, and I cannot tell what mother makes of this yak, but she tells Jennifer a story of my finicky eating habits, my phase of avoiding eggs because I got it inside my head that they were bad news. And there is a little chuckling at that. And mother mentions the theatre again, and how she knows how important it is to me, but that at the same time how she wishes I could move on with my life. She seems stuck, Jennifer, I hear her say. And I wait for Jennifer to tell mother about the audition. Go on, I dare you. But she doesn’t say a word about it. ‘Does she still keep the scrapbooks?’ I hear Jennifer ask. ‘Scrapbooks?’ mother says. ‘What sort of scrapbooks?’ ‘Oh,’ Jennifer says. ‘They were full of stuff about movies and actresses. Stuff dad used to tell her. Stuff she would find out for herself. You know, where they were born and how they were discovered and what they got up to in their spare time. And she had pasted in photographs. And newspaper clippings. What’s this she had written across the cover? Laura Cassidy’s World of Movies. Something like that. She wouldn’t let anyone see it. But she didn’t hide it very well. And the letters she used to write to the stars. She would put them in envelopes addressed to Hollywood. What was it she would sign at the end of them? Oh, God. I still remember the day she caught me looking through them . . .’