Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  ‘Can you believe it?’ Sharon teeters across the salon in her signature six-inch heels and draws me in for a hug. ‘I’m shaking, hun. Apparently they’ve been together on the sly for months. Ben Dixon knows we exist!’

  Sharon is originally from Waterford but since opening Strong Stuff has taken to being a BGB local like a duck to water. Next thing she’ll be on the county council.

  ‘Fair dues to Emilia, alright,’ I say. ‘I didn’t even know himself and Ariana Grande were over.’

  ‘Oh, that was ages ago,’ Sharon says, holding the magazine under a light and studying it carefully. ‘Jesus, the arse on him. He’s unreal in those swimming shorts – you can tell he does all his own stunts.’

  ‘Er, hello?’ Caitriona goes, raising her eyebrows. ‘What about Cyclops?’

  At the mention of his name, Sharon smiles. After everything she went through with her ex, Frankie, it’s been pure life-affirming to see how Cyclops worships the ground she walks on. And if her unbroken record for attending Rangers matches is anything to go by, the feeling is mutual.

  ‘You can tell your brother that if Ben Dixon ever shows up in BGB he might have some competition,’ she says with a smirk.

  Caitriona laughs. ‘Another Lindor, Ais?’

  Three hours later I’m pulling in to the BallyGoBrunch car park, admiring my curly blow-dry in the rearview mirror – Sharon always gets a great bounce into it – and I’m surprised to see James’s jeep parked in its usual spot. When I left him this morning, he said he’d probably be working late but I could call over tonight if I wanted. A booty call, Majella’s waggling eyebrows would call that. And, sure, why not? Carpe diem – isn’t that what Sharon’s wrist tattoo says? I’ve decided to enjoy him while he’s still here, even though his revelation last night that he’s never buttered a Marietta biscuit had me truly shook. He’s never even heard of a Marietta biscuit! I’ve been keeping a little mental tally of reasons why we would never work to make things easier when he goes, and that definitely went on the list.

  The jeep door swings open and his tall frame emerges.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ he says as I open my car door.

  I can barely meet his eye. He was only kissing me goodbye a few hours ago. ‘You’re finished early.’

  ‘A few of the lads have been struck down with man flu so I decided we should all call it quits. We’re already a good bit behind on the landscaping and paths – what’s an extra day or two?’

  His brown curls are shining in the sunlight, and I’m delighted my hair is looking so well, I must say. And I have on my CC cream, which is a new thing Sadhbh sent me. Tinted moisturiser I’d have called it, but what do I know.

  ‘Do you want to …?’ He nods his head in the direction of the apartment entrance, around the side of BallyGoBrunch’s main door.

  ‘Ah no, I’m just dropping a few things off and then I’ve to go up to the New Graveyard and do Daddy’s grave.’

  Mammy is tied up viewing a timber climbing frame in the shape of a combine harvester for the eco farm’s all-weather playground, so I’ve been dispatched with hoes and planters and strict instructions to shine the headstone until I can see my face in it.

  ‘Oh?’ He looks confused.

  I haven’t said much to James about Daddy, apart from the obvious. I might start crying and there’s just no need for that. Best to keep my emotions in check. I don’t want any rivulets down my CC cream.

  ‘Do … what to his grave, exactly?’

  ‘Clean it up. It has to look its best for the Blessing of the Graves.’ I was already forced to explain the Leaving Cert results mass, the Blessing of the Schoolbags and the Prayers for the New Succulents House in Knocknamanagh Garden Centre after James got hold of the parish newsletter and had a few questions. He still looks a little perplexed, though. ‘It’s on next weekend. There’s an open-air mass and the whole village will be there. Sure, everyone has someone who’s dead. Competition is fierce around here when it comes to grave maintenance.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Important work then!’ I can’t tell if he’s amused or not. Grave pride is no laughing matter. ‘Well, I’m not doing anything – let me help. I’ll bring a few tools.’

  He already has the boot of the jeep open and is transferring a shovel and some gloves into the boot of the Micra before I can object. It feels a bit intimate or something to be bringing him to see Daddy, but I’m just too tired to put up a fight – I was on my feet for about twelve hours yesterday after Karla got a bit of chilli in her eye and had to go home early. The perils of spice.

  James folds himself into the passenger seat of the Micra and I head out of the car park and turn left, away from BGB and towards the graveyard. I always get a lump in my throat on this drive, thinking about the same journey we took two years ago. It’s a short trip but already silence has filled the tiny car, and it feels a little claustrophobic. What do you talk about to the man you fancy and are sharing a bed with, and who is very nice to you but is leaving town in a few weeks, when you’re on your way to clean your dead father’s headstone? I’m not sure Colette Green, or anyone else for that matter, has any advice for this specific problem.

  I reach for the radio dial, and James pipes up. ‘Was he religious then, your dad?’

  I think for a second, surprised at how delighted I am to be asked about Daddy. With every day that passes I feel like he’s thought about and talked about less and less. ‘Not especially, no,’ I admit.

  ‘Oh.’ I can tell by that ‘oh’ that James is slightly confused. I wouldn’t blame him, really, what with this preparation for the Blessing of the Graves.

  ‘But he went to mass sometimes and I think he had some faith. And so does Mammy. And so do I, maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay. Sounds fair.’

  Silence again. And I’ve never met a break in conversation I didn’t feel the need to fill.

  ‘Are your family religious?’ I ask James, aware once more of how little I know about them and how little he mentions them.

  He looks out the window and shrugs. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I mean, I had to go to church at school, but my parents weren’t into it or anything. They …’ He trails off and I lean forward slightly, willing him to say a bit more. Instead, he points at the sign as I slow for the turn. ‘Why is it called the New Graveyard? I got the latest parish newsletter in my letterbox and it said it’s celebrating thirty years this year.’

  I’m frustrated by the change of subject. There are things about James that confound me and block him off from me – not just his fancy accent and the way he pronounces ‘scone’ and the Marietta-biscuit revelation, but also this reluctance he seems to have to tell me anything about himself when he knows so much about me. I really just don’t know him at all.

  ‘The New Graveyard name just stuck,’ I say.

  ‘So where’s the old graveyard then?’

  ‘There isn’t one. There’s just one graveyard. Before this, everyone was buried in Knock.’

  ‘What would happen if I just called it “the graveyard”?’ He’s smiling now.

  ‘Well, I suppose nobody would know what you were talking about.’ I smile back as I pull into the car park.

  There’s already a swarm of people in the graveyard with wheelbarrows and bags of manure and watering cans, flat out. And is that …? It can’t be … Yes, that’s Attracta Boyne with a power washer. Her poor husband is about to be blasted to kingdom come, God rest him.

  James is packing the trowels and compost and cleaning materials from the boot into the big blue IKEA bag I brought for this very purpose. You’d nearly make the trek to IKEA just to get the bag. So versatile.

  Daddy is buried on the newer side of the New Graveyard so it’s not too tightly packed. There’s a lovely tree bending over his grave and it’s looking in good shape. Mammy comes regularly enough to pick out any weeds that would dare to show their faces. It needs a few new bedding plants and a good wipe down, though. I lead James towards it alo
ng the criss-crossing paths between the plots, pointing out any of particular interest.

  ‘That’s Shamey Filan. He was the first man to have a mobile phone in BGB. Oh, and that’s Maureen Kelly. Killed by a donkey.’

  We reach Daddy’s grave and James takes in the granite headstone silently. ‘He was young,’ he says then, quietly.

  ‘He was.’

  We stand there for about thirty seconds and I can tell James doesn’t want to move until I do, so I instruct him to put the bag down on the path and I start unpacking my bits. James does as he’s told but then stands there a bit uselessly, which is odd for a man who is usually so capable.

  ‘You could wipe the bird shite off the back of the headstone, maybe? The tree looks lovely but it does have its downsides.’

  I hand him a soft cloth and the special cleaning mix William Foley, who helps Mammy on the farm, made up for me. I didn’t ask what’s in it but he did say it would take the paint off the car so I instruct James to put the gloves on too. He looks grateful to have a job and sets to work. I start pulling out the few weeds that have escaped Mammy’s eagle eye and make some little hollows for new plants. I’m not green fingered and it’s always been a great trial to me. I can’t even make a poinsettia last to New Year’s Day. Hopefully these pansies will take.

  It’s quiet, awkwardly quiet, despite the busyness of the graveyard. The sound of Attracta’s power washer is far enough away to be just background noise. I feel like James is gearing up to break the silence but he doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘Hiya.’

  Another awkward voice breaks it for him. A voice I know well. I spin around. ‘Hiya, John.’

  He smiles and nods at our equipment, lifting up the watering can in his own hand.

  ‘Doing the grave?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yeah, I’m just giving Mam a hand.’ He jerks his head in the direction of the older section of the graveyard where his mother, Fran, is giving Attracta evils. ‘Getting some water from the tap. For the flowers. Obviously …’ He trails off. Jesus, this is painful.

  ‘How are you doing, mate?’ James takes off a glove and holds a hand out to John, who has to switch the watering can to shake it. What is it about men shaking hands? They must have done it back when they were in the caves or something. It’s so primal.

  ‘Good, man. Not bad at all.’ John scuffs his feet on the ground, and a three-second silence hangs in the air like three centuries.

  ‘Just home for the weekend, are you?’ My insides recoil as soon as the words are out of my mouth. He comes home every weekend, Aisling, you enormous clod. He’s come home every weekend for the last ten years since he moved to Dublin. Fran would go through him if he missed mass.

  ‘Ah yeah. Bit of training. Mass. You know yourself.’ He has the good grace to humour me.

  ‘Paul was saying you’re finishing up with the county team already.’

  John’s eyes flick downwards. ‘Yeah, I am. I was spending all my time driving between Dublin and here. I was wrecked from it all.’

  ‘Oh. That’s a shame. How’s work going?’

  ‘Grand. Busy. We have a new microchip coming out in the New Year so it’s fairly manic. You remember what it was like the last time,’ he says with a smile.

  I do. It was about four years ago. He worked twelve-hour days for six months with the rest of the team to get it done, and when the company turned a seventy-billion-dollar profit, all they got was a bag of fudge each and two extra days’ holidays. John was livid but I enjoyed it. Fudge is very underrated, and we went away to a hotel in Longford with a hot tub.

  James is still just standing there. It’s so excruciating that I silently pray for the ground to open up and swallow me, but there’s no such thing as a free burial in BGB. Father Fenlon expects a generous donation to the parish development fund or he’ll mention you’re stingy from the pulpit.

  ‘Megan must be delighted you’ll be around more, so.’ I don’t know why I feel the need to bring her up, but I do. Just to keep her very real.

  ‘Ah yeah, she’s happy out. She’ll be down later – sure, you might see her if you’re out.’ He nods first towards me and then James. God, imagine the four of us out together. My toes curl at the thought.

  James’s phone goes in his pocket, saving him from standing there like a spare. ‘Pardon me.’ He looks at the screen, frowns and strides four or five graves away to answer.

  ‘Are you–?’

  ‘Have you–?’

  John and I start talking at the same time, coming up with more idle chit-chat in an effort to bring this painful interaction to a close. We laugh, and suddenly it’s nice.

  He tries again. ‘How’s the café going?’

  ‘Yeah, great. Business is definitely up since the final. The BallyGoBrunch jerseys really did the trick.’

  ‘Jooo-ohn.’

  Fran’s shrill voice frightens the bejaysus out of me as she marches up the graveyard path behind me. I notice her taking in James but it doesn’t break her stride. I was in her good books for so long. I bought so many of her Mother’s Day and Christmas presents. I think I bought that scarf she’s wearing, actually. When in doubt, a floaty scarf in neutral colours will always save the day. Or a Clarins hand cream. Fran’s a nurse so I was always buying her notiony creams to save her dry hands from the constant washing. She’s a terrifying nurse, I’d say. Rumour has it she once ran four men who dared to sit down in the waiting room of the maternity wing. Ran them out of the hospital completely. They probably didn’t even dare to come back for the births. She’s mad about God too, and scandalised by me, no doubt. Here I am with the English fella in the paint-stained trousers doing Daddy’s grave. I feel ashamed and I don’t even know why. I feel like a stranger to her.

  ‘John, will you get a move on? Hello, Aisling. How’s your mother?’

  ‘She’s great, thanks, Fran. And how’s yours?’

  I nearly get sick as soon as the words fall out of my mouth. Sure aren’t we only standing 20 feet from where her mother is buried? My eyes flick up to John’s face and I can tell he’s struggling to keep from smiling. I’m reminded of the time I accidentally called her shepherd’s pie ‘dry’, thinking it was one she’d bought ready-made in Tesco. Fran’s eyes narrow but she doesn’t acknowledge it.

  ‘The watering can, John?’ she directs him, and he passes it to her before she strides off.

  ‘I’d better go and give her a hand,’ he says, a cheeky smile breaking out as soon as her back is turned.

  ‘Tell her I said sorry, will you? I forgot. Christ. And stop smiling!’

  ‘I’ll tell Granny you’re sorry too, will I?’ And he laughs and I can’t help joining him. His granny was even more terrifying than Fran.

  John waves to catch James’s attention and bids me a ‘bye’ as he heads off back towards his granny’s grave. James looks frustrated and barely acknowledges it. I’ve never really seen him looking cross, I realise. He’s been pacing while he’s been on the phone and is too far away for me to hear what he’s saying, but he looks thick as a bull. I tear my eyes away from him. None of my business, really. I take a deep breath to dispel the laugh that’s still inside me after the Fran fiasco and get out the scrubbing brush and start working my way around the letters of Daddy’s name, clearing out the tiny bits of moss and dirt that have made their home in the crevices. It’s soothing. I kind of forget where I am and get a fierce fright when James’s voice suddenly booms beside me.

  ‘You’re doing fine work there.’ He sighs deeply, shoving the phone into one of his many pockets.

  ‘Is everything okay, James?’ He looks like everything is far from okay.

  ‘Yeah, it was just Cel– my mum,’ he says awkwardly before rearranging his face and saying a bit more brightly, ‘being a mum. Am I wearing a coat – that sort of thing. You know mums.’

  I do. I bloody do.

  6

  I’m sitting in my little office in BallyGoBrunch looking at the growing list of catering orders for next
week and trying to make space from nothing on my desk when I hear the familiar rat-a-tat-tat of a key against the window. I know before I even look that it’s Majella, and I’m glad of the distraction. The workload is getting on top of me this week, even though I’m now setting my alarm for 5.30 every morning. I’m loath to turn anything down in case our customers start going elsewhere. It doesn’t help that I’ve spent every evening since Majella broke the news about the wedding date working on ideas for the hen party. Sometimes I wish there was another bridesmaid to delegate to, but I suppose I’ll be glad it’s just me when there’s no one to compare myself to in the pictures. And Maj has her own problems too, of course. It’s a tight squeeze upstairs in the apartment, especially the way Willy the Jack Russell marks his territory, so she’s taken to coming down to me of an evening for a bit of a breather and to reel off the day’s complaints.

  I nip out and open the back door. She’s got an open box of Black Magic – the lowest form of chocolate – in her hands and her mouth is full.

  ‘That bad?’ I go, stepping back to let her in.

  ‘Um muum mmumfh fummh fummf, fummf.’

  ‘Come again, Maj?’

  ‘I’m fit to be tied, bird,’ she says with a gulp. ‘Mammy and Daddy were supposed to be heading into Maguire’s for a drink tonight to give us a bit of space, but Daddy’s refusing to go now because the bloody Late Late Show country-music special is on. Pab cried. He actually cried. Now he won’t come out of the en suite. Fuck Philomena Begley anyway.’

  ‘Ah no. Ah God, that’s very annoying.’

  She stuffs in another chocolate – one of the coffee ones, I think. Things must be very bad. She turns and looks me in the eye.

  ‘I bet you and James are still riding every night, are you?’

  ‘Maj!’ She’s always fairly forthright, to be fair, but she could at least have bought me a drink first. I did drunkenly tell her when James and I first got together that things were pretty hot and heavy, and she’s been gently slagging me about it ever since. Now, though, she looks distraught.