by Marian Keyes
In shower of dirt from van wheels, we parked in Disabled space right outside Welfare Office. Boss rooted around on filthy floor, produced Disabled sticker and threw it on dashboard.
I didn’t want go into Welfare Office. Had all made perfect sense last night, when drunk. But was sober now.
Not that I thought myself above claiming welfare. Oh no. Simply wearied by futility of what lay ahead.
Claiming welfare, like twelve labours of Hercules. Should be simple – had paid contributions, had lost job, had tried without success to get another one, was skint. But obstacle course. Fill in this form. Fill in that form. Produce last year’s accounts, this year’s accounts, utilities bill, proof of Irish citizenship, letter from last employer…
If, by monumental effort, produced everything, it still wouldn’tbe enough. More requests, progressively more challenging. Photo of my first pet. Three white truffles. Tom Cruise’s autograph. First pressing of ‘Lily the Pink’. Bottle of limited-edition Vanilla Tango (trick task, as Vanilla Tango only ever came in cans). Charcoal illustration Zinedine Zidane’s bottom. Brass rubbing of Holy Grail. If I did them all, would then get letter saying, ‘We have found other query. You are not entitled to any dole, you will never be entitled to any dole, but bring us 10 grams of powdered unicorn horn in a nice box and we will see if can make discretionary payment.’
If people ever get payment from Welfare Office, it is not because they’re entitled to it. It is a reward for tenacity, for sheer bloodymindedness, for enduring Kafkaesque pettiness of their requests and not blowing up and shrieking, SHOVE YOUR SHITTY LITTLE PAYMENTS! I’D RATHER STARVE!
10.45
As expected, given short shrift (what is that exactly?).
‘You are new claimant?’
‘Yes.’
‘You need assessment!’
‘Okay, can I have assessment?’
‘You cannot just waltz in expecting assessment. You need appointment.’
‘Okay, may I book appointment?’
(Wouldn’t have bothered if hadn’t been for Boss and Moss crowding around me, saying, ‘Go ON, Lola! It’s your RIGHT, Lola.’)
‘Actually have appointment free this morning.’
‘What time?’
‘… Now.’
10.46
Grim back room, with assessor man. Don’t mean to be unkind, but could see why he wasn’t front-of-house person. Looked all… pointy. Like fox. Sharp, inquisitive features, nose, chin. Fox-like colouring, reddish hair in ponytail at nape of neck. Wearing the special glasses that all interrogators seem to wear. Ones with narrow silver frames, which light glints off in manner intended to unsettle. The Silver Frames of Suspicion.
‘A stylist?’ he asked, full of contempt. ‘What kind of job is that?’
‘I source clothes for people.’
‘Source?’ he asked, making fun of the word. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I… find… clothes for people. If someone has to go to a fancy red-carpet do, I get designers to send over a selection of dresses. Or if someone is very busy, I call in stuff and they try it all on without having to traipse around shops.’
He gave me strange look.
‘Look,’ I said defensively, ‘I know it’s not a very worthwhile job. Not like being a nurse or… or… aid worker in Bangladesh. But there is a demand for it and someone has to do it and I like it and it might as well be me.’
‘Not much call for it round here,’ doleman said.
‘I know. That’s why I’m here. I looked for jobs in all the bars in Knockavoy, but end of season, nothing doing.’
He asked, ‘Why have you come to live in Knockavoy?’
‘Personal reasons,’ I replied, trying to keep voice steady. Lip started its mad twitch, like it was trying to send a message in Morse code.
‘You’ll have to do better than that! No secrets here.’
‘Okay,’ I said, blurting it all out. ‘My boyfriend is getting married to someone else. The shock has had bad effect. Have messed up every job I’ve done. Have been sort of sent into exile to get over it before I destroy my business completely. Having to pay my assistant and her cousin while I’m away. No jingle left for me.’
‘Okay,’ he said, writing it all down. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Wondered which way they’d block my claim. Almost curious. Would it be because I was self-employed? Or should I be claiming in Dublin? Or was this ill-health, rather than unemployment per se, so should I be claiming disability benefit? Oh I knew all their tricks.
19.22
On my way to Mrs Butterly’s for soap-watching, passed the Dungeon. Heard, ‘Hey, Lola!’ Three eager fizzogs were beaming out: Moss, Boss and the Master. They’d been watching for me.
Called from street, ‘Going to watch Coronation Street with Mrs Butterly.’
‘Come in for one!’
‘One quick one!’
‘Will come on the way back, when all the soaps are over.’
They seemed quite disappointed.
19.57
While waiting for EastEnders to start, I said, ‘Mrs Butterly, you know the house next door to me?’
‘Rossa Considine’s? Nice lad. What about him?’
‘You know how he was supposed to be getting married?’
‘To who?’
‘He’s not any more, but he was going to…’
‘No, he wasn’t!’ Mrs Butterly quite categorical. ‘He’s been footloose and fancy-free this last eight months since he broke the heart of Gillian Kilbert. Nice girl but terrible ferrety look about her.’
‘… Yes… but…’
Vacillated. Should I ask her about the woman in the wedding dress? Vacillated small bit longer, then got bored vacillating. Limited enjoyment potential, vacillating. (Don’t think I could ever take it up as hobby, vacillation. Imagine putting it on speed-dating form. Or job application. ‘List interests.’ ‘Fashion. Billy Wilder movies. Yoga. Vacillating.’)
Anyway I digress (and actually that is something I do enjoy). EastEnders was starting and Mrs Butterly was elderly lady. Possibly senile. I let Rossa Considine’s mystery woman go.
21.40
The Dungeon
I was greeted like homecoming queen. A high stool was found and brushed clean, drinks were set in front of me, also KitKat. Turned out the Dungeon housed not one but two Alco’s Corners. Bitter enemies. The other Alco’s Corner had a dog. Boss’s one had me.
I said, ‘Tell me about the couple living next door to me.’
‘No couple,’ Boss said. ‘Just a man. Rossa Considine. Single gentleman.’
‘Nothing suspect about that, though,’ the Master chimed in. ‘Not like in times past, when if man didn’t take a wife, everyone would say was a woofter. Sociological shift.’
‘But Rossa Considine had a girlfriend?’ I asked. ‘Until a couple of weeks ago? They were getting married.’
Chortles of laughter, indicating I couldn’t be more wrong if I tried.
‘But,’ I protested, ‘I’ve seen a woman in his house.’
‘A man is entitled to some R and R!’
‘What kind of woman?’ the Master asked. ‘Small, blondey, has the look of a ferret about her? Gillian Kilbert. All the Kilberts have the same ferrety cast. They get it from their father’s side.’
I considered. ‘No,’ I said, ‘nothing ferrety about her. And she was wearing a wedding dress. Standing at an upstairs window, staring down at me.’
The three men shot each other alarmed looks and Boss went quite white, no mean feat with the vast network of red veins littering the landscape of his face. Then they turned their startled gazes on me.
‘Why… why… you staring at me like that?’
They said nothing. Just kept on looking.
‘You have the Sight,’ Boss said.
‘… What? You mean, you think… the woman I saw was… a ghost?’
Involuntarily I shuddered. I remembered her white dress and her dark hair. Then, just as quickly, I got
a grip. That was no ghost dress Firestarter had been burning on his bonfire. But for some reason I didn’t want to tell Alco’s Corner about that. Just felt it was… I don’t know… Firestarter’s business.
Boss furrowed brow. ‘Did this woman look anything like Our Lady?’
What lady? ‘Who?’
‘The MOTHER OF GOD. You are a crowd of pagans above in Dublin.’
‘No, nothing like the mother of God,’ I said.
‘Think hard,’ he said. ‘Blue frock? Halo? Small child?’
‘No, I’m sure.’ I could see where Boss’s make-a-quick-buck brain was going with this. Trying to talk me into having had a vision of the mother of God, so he could set up Knockavoy as a new site for Catholic pilgrims.
‘Leave it,’ the Master advised. ‘There were no witnesses. Rome would never buy it.’
‘Bloody sticklers,’ Boss muttered. ‘Anyway, yes, Rossa Considine, nice fellow apart from forever climbing up the side of a mountain or swinging on ropes into potholes. Works for Department of Environment. Something to do with think tank on recycling. A proper job. I remember when people had proper jobs. In the bank. Or civil service. Now it’s all web designers and… and… cognitive behavioural therapists and your thing. Stylists. Useless, fecky, meaningless jobs.’
I said nothing. But was affronted. Felt like saying, At least have a job. Unlike you trio of drunken layabouts.
Then remembered actually didn’t have job.
Sudden change of mood. One of the men from competing Alco’s Corner called, ‘Give us a recitation, Master!’
Transpired the Master knew vast reams of terrible poetry. Without further encouragement, he cleared his throat, rolled eyes back into his head and gave ‘recitation’ of something called ‘The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God’.
It went on for fearsomely long time.
Wednesday, 24 September 8.01
Woken by slamming of front door (not mine). Hopped out of bed and into front bedroom to stare down on Firestarter Considine leaving for work.
Whole thing very odd. Firestarter Considine having a woman in his house, fine. But woman in wedding dress? And no one in town knowing he was getting married? Then him burning the dress on big bonfire?
Wild thought – had he kidnapped and killed her? But that was absurd. If she’d been kidnapped, she wouldn’t have been twirling around in a Vera Wang dress. When she saw me in road, she’d have banged window and mouthed, ‘Help me! Being held against will by environmental man!’
Mystery. Undeniable mystery.
Thursday, 25 September 11.27
Mobile went. Local number. It was the foxy dole-bloke. (Not foxy as in attractive, foxy as in fox-like. Vulpine, if you will.) He wanted to see me.
‘Which obscure bit of paperwork you want me to bring?’ I asked.
‘No, want to see you outside work,’ he said.
Foxy doleman fancied me! Cripes! I’d have to sleep with him if I wanted any dole!
Once I thought about it, didn’t really care. So long as could just lie there.
‘Look, Mr Doleman –’
‘– Noel, call me Noel.’
Noel from the dole. Okay, should be easy to remember.
‘Noel,’ I said, ‘I’m just out of relationship, I’minno fit state –’
‘That’s not why want to see you.’
Oh?
‘Will explain when we meet. In meantime, watchword is discretion. We cannot meet in Ennistymon. Walls have ears.’
‘Come to Knockavoy.’
‘No –’
‘Walls have ears here too?’
Was being sarcastic, but he just said, ‘Copy.’
Copy? God’s sake!
He asked, ‘You know Miltown Malbay?’
Miltown Malbay, town further along the coast from Knockavoy.
‘Meet me tomorrow night, ten p.m., Lenihan’s, Miltown Malbay. Don’t ring this number.’
He hung up.
Friday, 26 September 8.08
Woken by ‘bip’ of car horn. Propelled self from bed, into other bedroom, to look out front window. Some manner of filthy four-wheel-drive vehicle gunning engine outside next door. Men within. Hard to see because of mud-flecked windows, but impression of roistering machismo.
Sound of front door slamming. Rossa Considine appeared in stampy boots, rucksack and black North Face fleece. Coils of rope were slung over his shoulder, small metal things dangling from them.
He strode towards the soiled charabanc and called some early morning manly greeting. (Something along the lines of ‘Didn’t expect any of you girls to be able to get out of bed this morning after great feed of pints we had last night.’ Didn’t catch exact wording but divined message from tone.)
Suddenly, as if intuited he was being spied on, his head turned to look back over his befleeced shoulder at Uncle Tom’s cabin. Jerkily I withdrew from sight. But too late. Had been spotted. Rossa Considine did lopsided Caught you, you spying oddball smile, gave sarcastic-style wave, wrenched open the door of the vehicle, vaulted in and screeched away in shower of mud.
22.12
Lenihan’s, Miltown Malbay
Noel from Dole was sitting in alcove, pointy knee crossed over other pointy knee, pointy elbows resting on table. He looked around and gave me full 180 of his pointy foxy features. If toppled on top of him, could sustain quite nasty puncture wound.
He leapt up, summoned me into alcove and whispered, ‘Did anyone see you come in?’
‘I don’t know. You didn’t tell me to sneak in.’
‘Yes, I know, but this is highly confidential.’
I waited.
‘It’s about your job,’ he said. ‘Being a stylist. You ever help people track down clothes in difficult-to-find sizes?’
That was it?
‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘Actually my speciality. Worked for wife of investment banker who had to go to unmerciful number of gala dinners, but, unusually for wife of investment banker, was a size fourteen. Rarely come in such a large size.’
‘What about accessories?’
‘I do everything. Shoes, handbags, jewellery, underwear.’
‘I have this friend, you see,’ he said. He sounded nervous. Suddenly he declared, almost in anguish, ‘Look, I’m married! And I have a friend.’
‘A lady-friend?’
He nodded.
Married and with a girlfriend? Just goes to show, looks aren’t everything. Perhaps he is very good at telling jokes.
‘My girlfriend. I like to buy her nice things. But she has trouble getting nice shoes in her size. Can you help?’
‘I’m sure I can. What size feet has she?’
After perplexingly long pause, he said, ‘Eleven.’
Eleven! Eleven is HUGE. Most men aren’t even size eleven.
‘… Is quite large size, but will see what can do…’
‘How about some clothes for her?’
‘What size is she?’
He stared. Stared and stared and stared.
‘Wha – at?’ I asked. He was beginning to scare me.
He exhaled with abnormal heaviness, as if he’d made decision, then said, ‘Lookit.’ Expression of intense distress. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘Oh God,’ he groaned into his hands. ‘Oh God.’
He looked up at her and to her surprise his face was wet with tears. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. You’re the best thing in my life, the only thing of any goodness. Forgive me, for the love of Jesus say you’ll forgive me. It’ll never happen again. I don’t know what happened. Stress at work, been building for ages, but to take it out on you, of all people –’
He broke down into proper shoulder-jerking crying. ‘What kind of animal am I?’ he moaned.
‘It’s okay.’ She touched him with tentative fingers. She couldn’t bear to see him so prostrate.
‘Thank you! Thank God.’ He grasped her to him and kissed her hard, and although her split lip was raw to the touch, she let him.
&nb
sp; Grace
Dad opened his front door and asked, ‘What happened to your face?’ Then he looked over my shoulder, an automatic reflex to make sure I hadn’t stolen his parking spot. ‘What have you done with your car? I can’t see it.’
‘That’s because it’s not here.’ I followed him down the stairs to the kitchen. ‘As we speak, my car is on the Tallaght bypass, burnt to a crisp.’
‘Stolen?’
‘No, did it myself last night. Nothing good on telly. Of course stolen!’
‘Ahhh dear, dear. “When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.” ’ That’s what Dad always says. That’s because Dad’s an intellectual. ‘Hamlet. Act four, scene five,’ he informed me.
‘Where’s Ma?’
‘With Bid.’ Bid is my mother’s sister and has lived with my parents since before I was born. ‘Collecting her from her chemo.’
I flinched. Bid had been diagnosed with lung cancer ten days ago. It was taking some getting used to.
‘God, it’s perishing in here.’ Even when it’s the height of summer, it’s always stone-cold in that house. It’s big and old and has no central heating.
Down in the kitchen I clung to the Aga. I would have sat up on it if it wasn’t for the danger that I’d fry myself. (An Aga! I ask you. In a city.)
‘Do you want to hear what other sorrows are going on?’ Dad asked.
‘You mean there’s more?’
‘Ma says we have to give up the fags. All of us.’ He glared to emphasize his point. ‘Not just Bid. All of us. And I’m very fond of my fags,’ he added wistfully.
I knew how he felt. I couldn’t imagine a life without nicotine.
I stared out of the window, lost in a cigarette reverie. In the back garden, Bingo was chasing a late-season bee. Eagerly leaping and lolloping and tripping over his legs, his russet ears swinging, he looked mentally ill.
Dad caught me looking. ‘I know he’s a handful, but we love him.’
