Half an hour and a pint and a half of fizzy wine later my ears are ringing as I wait my turn to exit the back of the lorry, arms sore from waving and feeling like maybe I played in Croke Park yesterday. A hand comes up to help me down and it’s John’s. I take it and give him a warm smile. ‘That was some craic. Thanks a million.’
‘Ah, thank you, Aisling. We couldn’t have done any of it without you, sure.’
And he’s reaching up again and manoeuvring me out of the way and Megan hops down behind me. He slings an arm around her shoulders and she gives a wave and they head towards Maguire’s.
I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, suddenly exhausted by the emotions of the day, the hectic past few weeks at BallyGoBrunch, and the late nights at James’s. There’s a text from him to say he’s gone home and to join him if I fancy it. There’s a photo from Majella from inside Maguire’s. Pablo’s wearing a sombrero in the county colours and Sharon is dancing on a chair. I debate following John and Megan in. I debate going to James’s. But, really, I just want a bit of peace and quiet so I go home, to my own single bed.
4
The following night Mammy is sitting at the kitchen table with a fresh blow-dry, wearing a new blouse I’m pretty sure is straight out of the window of Geraldine’s Boutique. I’m immediately suspicious, especially as she’s been so busy with the eco farm and has barely even brushed her hair in the past few weeks. Mammy and Constance Swinford, formerly of the Garbally Stud, have gone into business together, turning a large part of our family farm into a modern petting-zoo-cum-boutique-campsite complete with farm shop that sells everything from jam to fresh-pressed apple juice to beeswax candles. Heavy on the notions. They’re currently in tortuous negotiations with an unreliable Mongolian yurt consultant who’s dragging his heels on delivery. Constance is like a force of nature; she ran the stud for years after her husband died and up until she and Mammy got thick as thieves was known as ‘The Posho’ in our house. Now, Constance has sold the stud and she and Mammy are rejecting retirement to welcome tourists and hen parties and school tours to stay in their yurts and pet their piglets and sample their farm produce. More power to them.
‘Are you going somewhere after, Mammy?’
‘God, no, love. Where would I be going at nine at night on a Tuesday?’ She holds up a beslippered foot to prove her point as I flick on the kettle.
I’m still feeling fragile from yesterday’s celebrations and have a light dose of The Fear, even after slipping off so early. Not everyone-hates-me levels, more a vague feeling of dread that even two sausage baps and a bag of twice-cooked crisps earlier couldn’t help me shake. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. Sometimes you just can’t put your finger on it.
‘It’s just … you look very done-up to talk to Paul. That’s all.’
My younger brother has been living Down Under for a couple of years now. Although he Skypes regularly, this is the first time I’ve seen her get dressed up for the occasion.
‘Aisling, he’s met someone!’ she says, looking positively giddy. ‘He said she might be there the next time he Skypes.’
So that explains the sweep of green eyeshadow and the fact that Mammy appears to have dusted the entire kitchen. It’s big news, to be fair.
‘Have you the computer on?’ I say with a sigh.
It’s alarming the number of times she’s told me Paul can’t get through to her on the Skype and I’ve found her looking at an inky black screen like she’s staring into the abyss.
‘I do,’ she huffs. ‘Haven’t Tessie and myself started a new course over in Knock Town Hall? Introduction to Computers. Although, I told Tessie I already know as much as I want to about those yokes, but she gets a discount if she brings another person so muggins here was drafted in.’
Even I have to admit that the older I get the more baffled I am by computers and the like. It took me a good week to get the hang of the little card reader I had to buy for the café, and the teenager in the shop specifically told me it was ‘idiot proof’ (his words). I can’t imagine what I’m going to be like at Mammy’s age. Oh, to be a fly on the wall at Introduction to Computers when the instructor tries to explain the difference between Wi-Fi and Google, but I suppose I should be supportive.
‘Fair dues, Mammy. I’m sure it will come in handy with the business.’
I’m about to ask her if there might be a free spot in the class when the familiar bing-be-boo-bom-bom tone of an incoming call makes the pair of us jump and That Bloody Cat screeches across the room and out the door like greased lightning. I hit Accept and watch as Paul’s big dopey head fills the screen. Then I adjust our camera so he can see us and not just the bockety ceiling light.
‘G’day, lads,’ he says, waving around a fork with a piece of black pudding hanging perilously from it. ‘What’s the craic?’
‘Hiya, pet,’ Mammy says with a wave. ‘Is it just yourself? I was hoping …’
Paul smiles. ‘It’s not, actually. I have someone here that I’d like you both to meet.’
Mammy gasps and instinctively places her hand on my forearm to steady herself. She was worried Paul would never find love again after he had a bad break-up with the left back from the BGB Gaels camogie team a few years ago. I did suspect there was a Sheila on the scene, especially after his weekly WhatsApps about how to cook steak (seven minutes each side, just to be safe) had started to taper off. But I didn’t think it was serious enough to be introducing her to the family.
He looks off to the side of the screen and starts beckoning frantically. Mammy’s grip on my arm increases to the point where I have to pry her fingers out of my flesh.
‘Mammy, Aisling, this is Hannah,’ he says proudly, moving up on the couch and patting the empty cushion beside him. Hannah, a little slip of a thing with long curly blonde hair, sidles on to the screen and waves like a deer caught in headlights. She looks a bit like Kylie in her heyday, minus the gold hot pants.
‘Hannah!’ Mammy screeches. ‘Paul has told me so much about you! I’m so delighted to finally set eyes on you, love.’
Paul has always been her favourite – she lets him ring the landline and reverse the charges sometimes. They’ve obviously been chatting about his love life on the sly.
‘Hiya, Hannah,’ I say, raising my mug of tea at the camera. ‘And sorry for your troubles.’ I wink at Paul so he knows I’m only messing. He’s not a bad brother, to be fair to him, and I know heading back to Oz after our first Christmas without Daddy last year was hard on him. Of course, he has the GAA club to keep his spirits up, and if Facebook is to be believed, himself and his housemates are taking their continued mission to drink the Irish pubs around Melbourne out of Bulmers as seriously as ever, so I can’t let him off too easily. Hannah laughs nervously.
‘So where did you two meet?’ I ask.
‘Hannah manages the Tricolour around the corner. It’s kind of like our sitting room.’
‘Paul got five numbers in the pub lottery. I had to ring and tell him he’d won himself twelve pounds of Clonakilty Black Pudding. He was delighted,’ Hannah explains in an unmistakable Cork accent. Mad – I had her pegged as an Aussie. She could easily pass for one with that healthy glow and the big white teeth.
‘Talk about my dream woman.’ Paul throws his arm around her shoulders. ‘We’ve been together ever since.’
‘Ah, isn’t that lovely.’ Mammy beams. ‘Isn’t it, Aisling? Like something out of a film.’
‘It is,’ I say. ‘And you’re from Cork, is that right, Hannah?’
‘I am,’ she says. ‘Cork city. The true capital!’
Oh, here we go. I’ve only really been pally with a few people from Cork – two of the receptionists when I first started at PensionsPlus, and a cousin from Bantry I met at Martina Cloghessy’s hen who was able to mould a penis out of Play-Doh with her eyes closed – and they were all pure obsessed with the place. I thought nobody could love their county more than me but I was wrong.
‘A beautiful part of the country,�
�� Mammy says with a smile. ‘Maybe we’ll get a chance to go down there sometime –’
I tap her bare ankle with my foot to cut her off. Christ, they’ve only been going out a couple of months and she’s already angling to meet Hannah’s family.
‘Have you been in Australia long, Hannah?’ I say, changing the subject.
‘Coming up to a year now. I’ll have to head off and do six months of regional work soon, but it should be good craic. Me and the girls are going to rent a camper van. Some of them are already panicking about not being able to bring their straighteners.’
I notice a shadow passing over Paul’s face and I’m surprised. He knows the rules with the visa – he did fruit picking himself. He’s obviously head over heels.
‘Maybe I’ll convince Philser and the lads to go too.’ He laughs. ‘Be nice to get out of the city once it gets hot.’
‘Paul, you’re only in the new house a few months,’ Mammy says. ‘And didn’t you sign a year-long lease? I don’t want you to go losing my deposit, now.’
‘I won’t, I won’t,’ he says. ‘It was just an idea. I’d be mad to leave the promotions company, anyway. We’ll be flat out at events once summer comes.’
Paul’s main source of income has been dressing up in a Mr Tayto costume handing out bags of crisps. The Aussies are, by all accounts, gone mad for the stuff, and his authentic Irish accent is a big draw. Myself and Majella are counting down the days till Alf Stewart appears in the Summer Bay bait shop with a bag of cheese and onion.
‘I suppose you heard all about the big homecoming yesterday, did you?’ I say.
‘Jesus, yeah.’ Paul picks up Hannah’s hand. ‘This one had to talk me out of booking a ticket home for it. John said at one stage Mikey Maguire was letting people pull their own pints.’
‘When were you talking to John?’
‘Last night. God knows what time it was there – he was well on.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Not much. He rings the odd time.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘You two were going out for, like, forever, Ais. Ye might have called it a day but myself and himself are still friends.’
‘Hannah, John was Aisling’s ex-boyfriend,’ Mammy says quietly by way of explanation. ‘A local lad. Centre forward on the hurling team.’ And then she lowers her voice a whisker. ‘You’d miss him around the place.’
I shoot her a look but Paul keeps talking. ‘He said he’s giving up the selector job? One season was enough and he has work and the girlfriend to factor in.’
‘Ah, that’s a shame,’ Mammy says.
That’s the first I’ve heard of it. It’s weird to be getting information about John second hand from Paul like this, and from the literal other side of the world. I’m not sure how it makes me feel. Jealous, a bit. His stories aren’t my stories any more, though. That’s life, I suppose.
‘Are your parents missing you, Hannah?’ Mammy interrupts.
Hannah and Paul exchange a sad smile. ‘Well, my dad died six years ago this July, so it’s just my younger sister and my mam.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, love,’ Mammy says gently.
‘Cancer,’ Hannah replies and we all just nod silently.
Then Mammy gets her second wind. ‘It’s an awful thing. God love you all. Tell me, how hot is it at the moment? You’re making sure to wear factor 50 every day, aren’t you, Paul? Even when it’s cloudy?’
Mammy’s obsession with the Australian weather continues. She’s forever looking up the UV index and emailing Paul articles about the danger of skin cancer. She’s convinced he’s living in an oven, even though I’ve tried to explain that the climate in Melbourne isn’t that extreme.
Paul reassures her that he’s an adult and has figured out how to work a hat, and then Mammy launches into a barrage of updates about the yurts and the new beehives and how Constance Swinford is training as a yoga teacher so they can offer retreats and how all the stretching and bending has done wonders for her arthritis. Before we know it, we’ve been talking for an hour and it’s time for Paul to transform into Mr Tayto and head off to work.
Once we say our goodbyes and the laptop is securely closed, I turn to Mammy. ‘It’s nice to see him in such good form, anyway.’
‘I’m made up for him, Aisling. She seems like a lovely girl, and the head of hair on her too. I haven’t seen him this happy in ages. Long may it last.’
Mammy takes off upstairs and I sit in the silence for a while, thinking about Paul’s big smiley face. It’s a mighty feeling, that rush when you first meet someone. Like there could be an apocalypse happening around you and only the two of you would survive in your love cocoon with your tins of soup and what have you. I think of James and feel a pang of guilt for leaving him last night, especially after he texted me three times today. I’ve definitely enjoyed being in the cocoon with him this past while. I make myself really sit with the thought for a while. How will I feel when the bubble is burst and he’s gone? I think one of my favourite inspirational-quote accounts was giving me a sign earlier when I was scrolling through Instagram on my brief lunch at BallyGoBrunch. It said something like ‘You need to let one summer and one winter pass before you let love in again.’ It spoke to me. The bubble will burst, and I’ll let it. I just don’t think I’m quite ready to let it in yet.
5
I have a standing appointment with Sharon in Strong Stuff for a blow-dry every Saturday morning. It’s the most glamorous thing I’ve ever done. Me! A standing appointment! Even though Saturday is BallyGoBrunch’s second-busiest morning (we can barely keep up with the demand for sausages and potato farls on a Sunday), Carol insists that she can manage with the extra help from our part-time waitress, Paula, and Karla’s extremely capable people-herding skills.
It was always my dream to be pally with a hairdresser, to walk into a salon and for everyone to know my name instead of looking me up and down and then trying to sell me a €30 bottle of shampoo. And, sure, you can’t say no after they shame you about your split ends.
No, Sharon’s approach is much more relaxed. She has no problem with my devotion to Herbal Essences as long as I let her put in some kind of conditioning masque once a month. She’s also opened my eyes to the wonders of a good wax down below, so, really, coming in for a blow-dry once a week is the least I can do.
‘Hiya, Aisling. Sharon is just finishing up with a client in one of the treatment rooms. She’ll be about ten minutes.’
Caitriona, one of the young Ó Súilleabháin twins, is manning the reception desk wearing something with fishnet sleeves and looking like she could pop into a nightclub at any minute. It’s hard to believe we survived without a beauty salon in Ballygobbard for so long. Between hair, waxing, tanning and nails, Sharon now has three employees and is tipping along nicely.
‘No problem, Caitriona,’ I say, helping myself to some magazines and waving hello at Deirdre Ruane who’s getting her upper lip waxed across the room.
‘Actually, some of those are a bit old,’ Caitriona says with a smile, taking a stack from one of the hair stations and passing them to me. ‘These are all this week’s. Now, it’s Slimline milk and two sugars, right?’
‘That’s right.’ I nod happily. Sharon also offers tea and coffee with a Lindor on the side. (Two Weight Watchers Points each – I looked it up the second she told me she was getting them in. She wasn’t a bit interested but it might be vital information for some of her clients.) She also does Prosecco after four at weekends. Truly a class act.
I’m flicking through Dáithí Ó Sé’s holiday pictures in RSVP magazine – Dáithí on a boat wearing a captain’s hat, Dáithí in chinos leaning against a Vespa, Dáithí looking wistful at sunset – when Caitriona interrupts with my cuppa.
‘Ooh, have you seen who Emilia Coburn is going out with? I nearly choked on my Lindor.’ Sharon did mention she’s haemorrhaging Lindors alright.
Emilia Coburn’s granny was from BGB. Well, if you’re tal
king to someone from Knocknamanagh they’d tell you she was from Knock. The truth is, the farm Kitty Coburn owned before she died straddles both townlands. But the actual house is definitely on the BGB side, so we’ve claimed her. They might have two ATMs and the new cinema, but we’ll always have Kitty Coburn. Long story short, Emilia used to come here on her summer holidays as a child and now she’s one of the world’s hottest actresses after popping up in the new Star Wars. She’s hounded by paparazzi and is rumoured to be a shoo-in for an Oscar next year for some period drama she’s in with Keira Knightley. The whole village is very proud, despite the fact no one really remembers her. Everyone still has an Emilia story, though, and it remains the most exciting thing to have happened to the parish since Mad Tom went viral for mowing the word ‘shite’ into a hay field and it was picked up in a satellite photograph and printed in the Bangkok Post.
Caitriona takes the magazine from my hands and deftly flicks to a page that contains a handful of incredibly grainy photographs. It’s hard to make out what exactly is going on in them, but if the captions are to be believed, it’s Emilia canoodling in a French hotel swimming pool with Ben Dixon. As in, Ben Dixon the new James Bond!
‘Ben Dixon!’ Caitriona squeals, jabbing at the pics with a pink ombre jewel-encrusted nail. For all intents and purposes, the blob in the picture looks like a Friesian calf but I know RSVP wouldn’t lie to us.
Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling Page 4
