Laura Cassidy’s Walk of Fame

by Alan McMonagle

  I’m thinking I should go and speak to daddy, but it’s not that long since my last visit and he won’t want me pestering him again so soon.

  The rain comes down again and harder. The wind blows me every which way.

  *

  I am on my way back towards the Town Hall when I spot them in the street. The two of them huddled together beneath an umbrella. I call out his name. He looks up, and though I’m sure he has seen me, he doesn’t stop. He steers Mia across the street. I follow, waving my arms while calling out to him. He doesn’t seem to hear me. I call a little louder.

  ‘Stephen! Stephen Fallow!’

  This time he pauses. He and Mia have reached the junction of Cross Street and Middle Street. The rain seems to gather force as I approach them.

  ‘There you are. I thought there for a moment you had gone deaf.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Laura?’ he says, glancing at his wristwatch.

  ‘I’ll wait for you inside,’ Mia says, and she hurries into Little Mary’s.

  ‘It’s about Streetcar, Stephen. I want to let you know that I have decided to accept your suggestion. I will play the part of Eunice – the neighbour from upstairs.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The part you offered me. I accept,’ I tell him, adding, ‘I was a little rash before.’

  ‘Laura. It’s too late for that.’

  ‘Too late? What do you mean it’s too late?’

  ‘I mean I’ve already cast the part.’

  ‘What? But you said . . .’

  ‘I didn’t hear from you, Laura. I waited. But you . . .’

  ‘Is there someone else?’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Someone else. There must be someone else I can play. Is there? Anyone. A street vendor. The Mexican woman selling flowers. Flores para los muertos. The nurse at the end who helps escort Blanche to the nuthouse. Anything, Stephen. I’ll do it.’

  ‘I’ve cast all the parts, Laura. There is no one left.’

  ‘Stephen. Can I talk to you? Can I please talk to you about this?’

  ‘Here, Laura. Take these. I have to go now. Goodbye.’

  I stare at the already rain-damp theatre passes. Then watch Stephen Fallow at the door of Little Mary’s. He pauses to shake out and fold down his umbrella. One or two smokers engage him in small talk. Laughter and good cheer all round. For the first time I feel my sodden clothes sticking to me, raindrops dripping off the tip of my nose, the ends of my hair. A pair of youths skip drunkenly either side of me, continue down Quay Street, brazenly belting out the words of a vaguely familiar song . . . Oh the rain comes lashin’, splish-splashin’, down the town in a Galway fashion . . .

  Into Little Mary’s I stride. Straightaway I see Stephen. Carrying drinks to the corner table crammed with the theatre crew. One or two I recognize from audition day. Others I have not seen before. Stephen is soon holding court, the others hanging off every word coming out his mouth. I take a high stool at the far end of the counter. I turn towards Stephen and his animated crew. Some of the new faces I assume have been cast in the play. I don’t care to speculate as to which parts.

  From my pocket I remove my purse, unzip it and spill coins onto the countertop. Save for an oldtimer with a long face and small ears sitting further down the counter, I have it all to myself.

  ‘What can I get you?’ asks the not-so-old barman with a spade for a jaw and cut-glass cheekbones.

  ‘You’re not my barman. Where’s Gerry?’

  ‘Gerry’s on holidays.’

  ‘On holidays! Gerry never takes holidays.’

  ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Gimme a pair of whiskies, ginger ale on the side, and don’t be stingy, baby.’

  ‘Can I see some ID?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’ll serve you as soon as I see some ID.’

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  ‘No, and I don’t really want to know.’

  I have a good mind to rise off my stool, lean over the counter and – appealing or not – crack open this young teapot’s head. But something warns me off. Relax. Take it as a compliment. Show him what he’s asking for.

  ‘You can see anything you want,’ I tell him, warming up my flirty eyes and I root in my purse and toss him my medical card.

  ‘A pair of whiskies and ginger ale coming up,’ he says, handing back the plastic.

  ‘And a pint of Hooker while you’re at it. Send one of the whiskies down to the oldtimer.’

  I half-spin around on my stool, take in the gathered theatre troupe. I am tempted to let out a hearty growl, tell them all where to go. Then the oldtimer pipes up.

  ‘Haven’t seen you in here before.’

  I take up the little bottle of ginger ale and stare at it.

  ‘Every man has seen me before, somewhere. The trick is to find me.’

  Oldtimer cackles, swishes around his whiskey. Over my shoulder I can hear the others. They are in no hurry. That’s OK. Neither am I. I have all the time in the world. I turn to Methuselah at the end of the bar.

  ‘What are we drinking to?’ I say. ‘To feeling better? Is it desperate drinking in order to forget, be less ourselves? Or would you say it is something else entirely? Want to know what I think? Life is the search for the impossible via the useless. Bottoms up and down the hatch.’

  Oldtimer cackles again. He finishes the whiskey and I shout him another.

  ‘I’m an actress,’ I tell him. ‘I’m preparing for a role as we speak. And actually, my director,’ I say and jerk back my head for effect. ‘He’s right there. Want to hear some more lines?’

  Oldtimer looks to the barman and rolls his eyes. I get it. A hard-to-impress type. I should tell him something about myself no one else knows.

  ‘You know, with my brains and your looks, we could go places. Ah! That got a smirk out of you. Come on, then. Drink up and I’ll buy you another one. Hey! Bar boy! Garçon! Pour the man another.’

  The barroom fills up. Stephen’s entourage expands. Soon there is standing room only. Spellman from the Advertiser and Hawkins from the Tribune. Emily is there. She gives me a little wave when she spots me. Camilla the Hun shoves a drink at her. From his best-seat-in-the-house perch Stephen is talking and waving his arms with gusto.

  Mia is now on her feet, standing tall amongst the men gathered closely around her. She is gesturing as she speaks, throwing an arm here, touching a sleeve there, her big eyes and serene mouth providing all the dazzle her audience needs. They are smitten with every word that passes through her lips, totally under the spell she is casting. Not taking my eyes from the developing scene before me, I adjust my barstool, am just in time to hear Spellman wish Mia good luck and what a great choice she is. And Hawkins is busy with the dangling camera. And Stephen is smiling her way, as the others politely enquire if she is looking forward to the experience. Yes, I think I am, she replies in her smooth-as-silk voice. And she is fast into a speech about how excited she is to be playing the lead. A part like this doesn’t come along every day, she says. Blanche DuBois is most likely at the top of every actor’s wish list, she says. I wince when I hear her say the name. And a face on her that says, Look at me, I have won a trip to the stars.

  I need to set her straight. I need to set everyone straight. The part isn’t hers. It . . . belongs to . . .

  ‘Excuse me,’ I call over to them. ‘There is something I need to say.’ No one pays any heed. ‘Excuse me,’ I try again, louder this time, slipping down off my barstool, the pint of Hooker in my hand. Mia turns to face me, an expression somewhere between confusion and amusement. Stephen touches her arm.

  ‘Do I know you?’

  For a moment I stand opposite her, scarcely believing my ears. Do I know you? DO I KNOW YOU! And just when I need them most no words will come. I spin around and move as fast as I can out of the barroom.

  I stomp into the toilets. Stare at the graffiti written across the wall where the mirror should be.


  JUST ASSUME YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT

  I turn on all the taps, press down the stoppers, lean on the metal disc of the hand dryer. And I let loose.

  Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

  When I return to the barroom, Mia is getting cosy beside Stephen. On his lap she more or less sits. In her tinsel dress. Beaming. Legs confidently crossed. The glowing hair, which is given a two-handed flick every couple of minutes. Every part of her pointing the way ahead. She whispers something which has Stephen in raptures.

  Then the lummox starts singing.

  For Stephen’s benefit, no doubt. And, once again, there is a general hush around the bar, as she belts out the song’s melody. It’s a familiar song, I know I have heard it before, and don’t particularly care for it. I don’t particularly care for her singing voice either. It’s jaunty and slight, way too chirpy-chirp. Already, it’s making me dizzy. Everyone present seems to be in love with it, though, at least they pretend they are. Stephen most of all.

  I have heard enough. Dizzy I may be but up onto a barstool I stand, clutching my pint of Hooker.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have a song I would like to share. A story actually. A sad story. About a little girl who had a dream. A silver-screen dream, a dream of seeing her name written in bright and dancing lights. This dream was a gift from her daddy and the little girl was only too happy to accept it. And she kept it tucked safely away inside her every minute of every day of every week of every month of every year. Until she had her chance. Her moment has arrived. Opening night and she is all set to wow her audience. Except it doesn’t go the way she has always imagined it will. And she feels so bad for having messed it up. She feels bad for having let her audience down. For having let her daddy down. And how can I make it up to you, she wants to know. Then she has an idea. She will make another dream for herself. A comeback dream. She is to be the lead in a play. A play daddy himself had a starring role in. And this time she swears to herself and her daddy that she won’t cock it up. She will show the audience what they had missed out on last time. She will show the theatre world what she is capable of. She will make her daddy oh-so proud. And she pictures the look on his face come opening night. So happy. And this time nothing will go wrong. There will be no last-minute nerves. No sudden collapses. And that is precisely how it plays. Every moment of every scene . . . And there . . . See her when the curtain comes down. Hear her name reverberating around the auditorium. The calls for her to take another bow. The deafening applause . . .’

  Silence in the barroom. A cough or two. Someone snorts. I scan vaguely for Stephen, eager to see his face, detect some kind of reaction. But the dizziness has taken over and everything about me has become a blur.

  ‘If you have a song to sing, sing it for Christ’s sake,’ snarls a lad cradling a banjo. ‘I want to get home sometime this year.’

  The heart is clapping inside me now, I’m struggling to take in air. I summon a half-smile for my audience, raise the pint of Hooker, and with a brief bow and curtsy, up-end it over myself. Then I clamber down from the barstool and bolt for the door out of there.

  29

  On the street, a short ways down from Little Mary’s. The rain has eased. The streetlights reflected in the puddles about my feet. For company I now have a naggin of brandy. Pisser Kelly has joined me. I offer him the naggin and I watch him untwist the cap, and then gag down a mouthful. He hands it back and I wonder aloud where his dirty lips have been. ‘Where have your own been?’ he cackles back at me. ‘Touché,’ I say to that, raise the naggin in his honour, gulp down a neckful and present what’s left to him for keeps.

  I close my eyes, but as soon as I do an image of daddy at the end of the pier presents itself, and so I open them again. People, drunk and leery, leave the bars they have been inside. I allow them distract me. Boozy couples, all jibber-jabber and walking crooked lines. Clusters of young men and women. One woman is sobbing and another is pouring her heart out to no one in particular and another has chosen the wall I am leaning against to heave up her guts. I look towards Tone Bridge, can hear the river. Two youths are in the midst of yanking a bicycle away from the pole it has been locked to. They manage to get it loose, over the bridge wall it goes, and the ensuing splash is greeted with a loud cheer.

  At last they appear. Arm-in-arm. The one leaning into the other. Look at her. In her tinsel dress. Linking his arm and letting him steer her wherever he wants. All high heels and tittering. A peck on the cheek, a giggle, a squeeze of his fleshy parts. That’s OK. I can bide my time. For now she can have her fun.

  They lurch, giggling and wobbly together, towards where I am standing, towards the harbour. Then they pause, and turn around as though they have changed their minds and are contemplating returning up town. Then they continue towards me. Halfway down Quay Street, Stephen pulls her into Druid Lane. ‘Come on,’ I hear him say, as I narrow the distance between. ‘I want to show you something.’ As soon as they have disappeared into the alley, I follow.

  A couple of moments later they have emerged out the other end, have zigzagged their way, and are now standing outside the Story House, admiring the same letters I had earlier.

  Taking Mia by the hand, Stephen moves around the side of the building. ‘This way,’ I hear him whisper. After them I go.

  They are huddled together directly beneath the looming letters of the new theatre. Stephen spreads wide his arms and audibly gasps. Mia giggles and wanders out onto the road in order to better stare up at the building. Stephen joins her and they both stare together.

  Hush, Laura. They are talking.

  ‘You’ll be the toast of theatreland after this show.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve still got a lot to learn.’

  ‘You’re a natural. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’

  ‘I’m just stating the obvious. Now get over here.’

  Stephen is now leaning against leftover hoarding, against the poster announcing his imminent production, while Mia glides about, offering token lines, throwing her arms for effect, all of which has Stephen slapping his knees.

  ‘I’m travelling over to London after opening night. I’m seeing some important people. You should come along.’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  She slides past him, reaches down her arms and raises her dress a few inches up her thighs. Stephen lunges for her but she evades his reach, skipping a few steps away from him before offering a wiggle and beckoning Stephen towards her.

  ‘Come and get me, Mr Theatre Man,’ she says, all pout and quiver-lips. Stephen doesn’t need a second invitation. He reaches out with both arms and this time there is no evading his lunge and she allows him clutch her tight and then twist her around and that dress is quickly raised and his corduroys are dropping down, and for an anxious moment he is floundering about in his attempts to get at her.

  ‘Come and get me, Mr Theatre Man,’ I call out from my discreet spot.

  ‘What was that?’ Mia says, looking round her.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Stephen says, looking searchingly about him. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he says, and they are not long tidying themselves up and skedaddling.

  I’m on the street behind them. Arm-in-arm they are, the one leaning into the other, all love-dove and already into a fast stride.

  They cut down by Lynch’s Castle and make for the Weir Bridge, and then on towards the canal. They stop outside Stephen’s place, tugging at each other as Stephen looks for his keys. They disappear inside.

  I walk to the end of street, turn left and enter the laneway running along the ends of the houses. I pause at the back of Stephen’s place. Getting over the wall is a fool’s errand. I push against the wooden gate and at once it gives. I stumble through the dark and itty-bit garden. Reach the vague light thrown up in front of me. I peer through the window. I can see them on the sofa. A little laughter. A little canoodling. A sip of a drink. A f
ondle here, a nibble there. More laughter. With my fingernails I start tapping on the window. Then I stand back, look down at the ground. Pick up some stones and lob them at the window. Plink, plink, plink they go. No reaction from the lovebirds. I reach for larger ones. Stephen is walking across the room. I duck behind some wheelie bins. He pulls a curtain. Again, I move right up to the window. I can just about see. Stephen has his shirt off and is helping his guest out of her dress. His fingers, hands, lips, face smothering what passes for her fleshy bits. Again, I stand back and hurl another stone. His hand reaches in under her dress. His other is tugging open his corduroys. While Mia reaches over to lend a hand. I hurl another stone. But director man is in no mood to hang about. He slides fully out and rubs himself into Mia’s pelvis, his shiny buttocks rippling before my eyes. Not the best time to grab his attention, Laura. Ha! Ha! That’s OK. I haven’t planned on sticking around. I stand further back, reach down, pick up a rock and watch it crash through the window. Glass scatters. Mia screams. Somewhere a dog starts barking.

  *

  I make my way to the pier-end and stand at the very edge. I lean into the sea-breeze. Taste salt on my tongue. Listen to the water below.

  And look out there, Laura. Can you see it? Look. A cruise ship. Passing this way. Actually, it looks like it’s anchored down for the night. Passengers will want to be ferried ashore. Well, if they chop-chop they will be in time to catch one of my bespoke walking tours. I wonder where they all came from. The other side of the world, most likely. The always-sunny side. California. San Francisco and Los Angeles. Hollywood types! Yes, of course. Oh, where is Fleming when I need him? Because you know what we could do? When they come ashore we could cadge a lift out to the cruise liner. We could stash ourselves somewhere. Out of sight. Know what I mean? And when we look again . . . I can see it all . . . A warm sun greeting us when we arrive in Los Angeles, City of Angels. There will be some press commitments and my publicity people will be keen for me to show my face around town. A reception to attend, a gala banquet in my honour, and that’s good, we can make time for all of that. Can’t we, Fleming? But before any of that, you know what I am going to do? I am going to nab my driver – Conrad, his name will be – and his limousine for an hour, and get him to take me for a spin along Sunset Boulevard. A balmy evening and I roll down the window and angle my head and let the fresh breeze play with my hair. A warm feeling beginning at the base of my stomach ripples all the way through me. I will almost wish I was a singer. And for a few minutes I’ll think about the song I could write along this drive through movieland, how good it makes me feel. At some point we’ll happen upon a drive-in cinema. To my delight they are showing In a Lonely Place or maybe even Sunset Boulevard, and I plead with Conrad to pull in. Conrad tuts and points out the time and so I dispatch him to the busy popcorn stand while I sit up in the front seat of the limo for a better view of the screen. On our way back I’ll ask Conrad to pull over where Hollywood Boulevard meets Vine Street. I’ll step out, and for a block or two, pick my way among the star-studded pavement. At some point, perhaps because he has received a call summoning me back to base, Conrad will join me on the footpath. ‘Oh look,’ I can hear him say, pointing at a star I haven’t noticed. ‘It’s your star.’ And there I am. All over the path before me. My name among the stars. Won’t that be grand?