‘She’s already baked two apple tarts and his electric blanket has been on for hours,’ I reply.
‘Jesus, he must be in a bad way.’
‘You know Mammy, any excuse to mollycoddle him.’
‘Still,’ Majella goes sympathetically, ‘it’s hard being newly single at Christmas, especially since all his friends are still Down Under.’
‘I know,’ I say, as Cliodhna nearly takes my scalp off with her acrylic nails. ‘I offered to pick him up from the airport but he said he’d get the Timoney’s bus and not be putting me out.’
Paul sounded fierce sorry for himself on the phone so I think he was being a martyr. I let him off because I’ve enough to be at and I’ve hardly time for the blow-dry even. Carol is doing up the last of the Christmas hampers at the café and operating a cold-food-only menu for the day, thinking it would be quiet enough with people out doing their Big Shops and Last Bits. She texted me half an hour ago to say we were out of pâté already and there was a queue nearly out the door for coffees. I must remember that for next year, assuming we’re still there. Right now, the thought of making it to another Christmas at BallyGoBrunch seems like climbing a fifth flight of stairs when the previous four have burnt the lungs out of your chest.
James hit the road early this morning, not even batting an eyelid when I asked him had he booked his airport parking, declaring that he’d just ‘find something in short term’. And him not back until New Year’s Day. The legs nearly went from under me. I was half-expecting him to ring me to say he was still driving around Dublin Airport five hours later, but all I got was a text of a picture of a pint and a ‘see you in six days’, smiley face.
Cliodhna is massaging the conditioner into my hair with what feels like knives when Lisa Gleeson opens the door, letting a blessed blast of freezing-cold air in.
‘Curly blow-dry, is it, hun?’ Sharon calls to her from where she’s examining what’s going on under Majella’s tinfoil, and Lisa nods in the affirmative, clocking Majella in the process and making a beeline for her. Cliodhna sits me up and wraps a towel like a vice around my head, absentmindedly asking me have I any holidays planned as she leads me to the chair beside Maj.
‘I’m actually going abroad for New Year’s …’
But she’s already gone back to the sinks to torture someone else.
‘I still can’t believe you’re ringing in the New Year in a lad’s house.’ Majella’s tone is a mixture of awe and disgust. This is the second year in a row I’ll be missing our traditional night out in the Vortex but, to be fair, we were both at Elaine and Ruby’s wedding last year. And anyway, maybe we’ve grown out of the Vortex. We’ve been going there since we were seventeen and Jocksy Cullen let us in even though he knew well we were underage. Daddy had slipped him a tenner in Maguire’s and told him we were good girls and he’d rather we were in there dancing to Justin Timberland than out drinking vodka in a field.
‘I can’t either, to be honest.’
Mammy took the news well. At least I think she did. It can be hard to tell sometimes.
‘Sure isn’t that alright, love? I’d expect you to be going out with him anyway.’
‘No, I mean I’m going to spend it with his family. In England.’
She went quiet for a second and I couldn’t read her face. But then she smiled. ‘Well, isn’t that lovely for you. You’ll have to take some local honey from the farm shop with you for his mother.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind me going?’
‘Of course I don’t, pet. Whatever makes you happy. Now bring me down your nice pyjamas and I’ll iron them so you don’t make a show of us.’
‘What are you going to wear? Will you be going out?’
Majella’s face has started to turn puce under the halo of tinfoil, and the noise in the salon has cranked up another notch between Cillian’s yelps and the two hairdryers on the go. I shrug at Majella and make a pained face. ‘James said they have a party every year – in the house.’
‘Ah, shite. You can’t even escape. Good job you’re good with mams.’
As if on cue, the door opens and John’s mother, Fran, walks in. Behind her trots Megan, who must be going with them to Midnight Mass. She has the family stamp of approval so. Fran clocks us straight away. ‘Hello girls,’ she says with a nod and a tight smile. ‘Looks like we all had the same idea.’
‘Bad hair day!’ I blurt out, desperate to say something. Fran’s eyes narrow and she pats the back of her hair, which is cut short in that classic do that mams love.
‘Thank you, Aisling,’ she says curtly, turning to Megan, while I mutter, ‘I meant my own,’ and try to sink as low as I possibly can into my chair. Why can’t I just be normal around her?
‘Majella,’ Fran says sharply. ‘You might tell your father the Christmas tree he provided for the church altar has already dropped every needle and a bird’s nest fell out of it this morning.’
Majella nods obediently, her tinfoil wig rustling. Megan gives us a sweet smile and Cliodhna leads them to the waiting area and takes their tea order, which if it’s anything like mine will be delivered catastrophically wrong. Thank God for the Lindor, although we’re all supposed to be getting Trim for Tenerife. It was Maeve’s idea – something to keep us on the straight and narrow over Christmas, she said. ‘Don’t tell on me now,’ I say to Sharon, horsing into my third Lindor. She purses her lips and reaches for a comb but doesn’t say anything. They must be costing her a fortune.
‘Majella,’ Lisa says matter-of-factly, ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about meaningful poems to break up the speeches.’
I’ve told Majella I have a folder of those on my laptop. Lovely Poems. So handy.
‘Well, I came across one you might like.’ She picks up her phone and swipes through her notes. Maybe I’ve underestimated her. ‘Feck, I thought I had it here,’ she says, putting back down the phone and sounding frustrated. ‘You know the one, girls. He says something about stopping the clocks. And giving the dog a juicy bone?’
Me and Maj look at each other at the same time.
‘Does that one not mention mourners and coffins, Lisa?’ I ask tentatively. ‘I think it’s about funerals?’
‘Fairly sure it’s about funerals, hun.’ Sharon has momentarily stopped all the hairdryers to correct her.
Lisa looks confused and turns to me and Maj, who nods sagely. ‘Funerals, Lisa. Definitely funerals.’
Lisa goes back to the phone, furiously adding to her notes.
Sharon has me in the chair and six big curly brushes already in my hair before I know it, God bless her. I was afraid I was going to have to make small talk with Fran and Megan.
‘This will last you to Stephenses Day,’ she roars over the hairdryer.
I haven’t the heart to tell her I won’t be going out. It’s been such a hectic lead-up to Christmas that any plans for socialising have gone by the wayside. Plus, I’ll be working. No rest for the self-employed. I’m looking forward to my lie in tomorrow, though. Me and Paul used to get up at the crack of dawn when we were small, with Daddy roaring at us to go back to bed for an hour, although we could tell he didn’t mean it.
‘Enjoy your turkey and ham, hun.’ Sharon pulls the last section of hair into a perfect coil and combs through with her fingers. She whips the cape off and up I get, squeezing past Fran and Megan to get my coat.
‘Sorry now, happy Christmas. Sorry there.’
Sharon already has Lisa in the chair and is instructing Cliodhna to get Megan under the taps as I open the door, waving goodbye to Majella.
I step out onto the relative quiet of BGB’s Main Street, shake out my curls and relish the silence in my ears. Another stellar job by Sharon. I sneak a look in Marty Boland’s window and try to picture myself in the Matthewses’ ballroom or wherever their party will be.
‘Hiya, Ais.’
His voice sounds different. It’s been only on the phone or on Skype for so long. I turn and Paul is standing on the street, mas
sive GAA hold-all over his shoulder, black circles under his eyes. Beside him is John, shuffling his feet in the cold and jangling his car keys.
‘John passed me at the bus stop outside Heuston. Thanks, lad.’ He shakes John’s hand and John gives me a nod and I sort of lurch towards him and we awkwardly half-hug, so quick that it’s like we’re each made of scalding oil.
He steps back, nods at Paul again and gives him a little dig on the shoulder. ‘Mind yourself now. You look like a boiled shite. Go on and get a good night’s sleep and some home-cooked food.’ Paul manages a watery smile as John turns his attention back to me. ‘Are you all finished up yourself for the Christmas, Ais?’
‘I am, yeah. We’ve been flat out. I’m dying to get home.’
‘Let me guess – new pyjamas ready to go,’ he says, giving me a gentle nudge with his elbow. Of course he knows this, given he used to be the one buying them. He always had a good eye for nightwear. Cosy and functional, just the way I like it.
‘Old habits,’ I reply quietly. ‘You can’t be waking up on Christmas morning in old pyjamas.’
‘Pablo says you’re away for New Year’s.’
‘That’s right, yeah. Bit of a change of scenery.’
‘I suppose I’ll see you next year so,’ he says.
I’m no stranger to a late December ‘see you next year’ gag myself, but coming from John it feels weird.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I say. And with that he’s gone into the salon and straight over to Megan.
Paul is next for the awkward hug, and with that out of the way I gesture with my head. ‘Come on. The car is over here. He’s right, you do look wrecked.’
22
Christmas Day passes in a blur of post-mass visitors and little drops of Baileys and just the one alpaca escape. I nearly choked when James texted me from the Pig and Poddle to say he missed me and was looking forward to my visit. Imagine going to the pub on Christmas Day? The English really are a law on to themselves. After dinner I fell asleep in front of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Mammy admitted she put a spoon under my nose twice to make sure I hadn’t died of a Quality Street overdose.
After all the weeks of stress and worry, I’m actually feeling more like my old self when I find Paul sitting at the kitchen table staring into space on Stephenses morning. Maybe all I needed was a good rest?
‘Hellooo? Anyone home?’ I say, waving him out of his trance and moving some files over to the counter. The table has been doubling as Mammy’s office and there are letters and sheaves of paper everywhere. ‘Where’s Mammy?’
‘Out in the farm shop. She said something about marking down chestnuts.’
Bloody Constance Swinford and her notions. She had Mammy convinced BGB was ready for them. ‘Marian, chestnuts are simply diviiine in stuffing!’ she had brayed, insisting she put in a big order from my Brussels sprouts contact. ‘We won’t be able to keep them on the shelves.’
Well, Constance was wrong. People around here don’t stray far from sausagemeat or the classic sage and onion, unless under strict instructions from Neven Maguire. And Neven hasn’t okayed chestnuts in stuffing yet. I wonder could Carol do something with them for the Garbally canapés? Would they keep that long? And then I stop myself. No, Aisling. You’re not to panic about work stuff until you get back after New Year’s Eve. January is for panicking – it’s still party season. Xposé says so.
As such, I’m considering adding a few Roses to my Special K when Mammy appears in the kitchen, shaking raindrops off her anorak.
‘Alexa, you rip, I thought you said it was going to stay dry for the day!’ she shouts. There wasn’t a teapot to be bought in the entire county when I eventually found the time to go looking for one so I had a brainwave and got Mammy a fancy talking speaker instead. She had no problem setting it up on Christmas morning but learning how to work it has been another story.
‘I don’t understand,’ Alexa calls back. I can see Mammy take another sharp breath so I decide to intercede. If not, they’ll be here arguing all morning.
‘Jet lag still bad, is it?’ I say, sitting down opposite Paul.
‘Something like that,’ he replies quietly. He’s barely said two words since he got home. All he does is check his phone and sigh periodically. He even turned down a slice of Mammy’s Christmas cake, which I know she made and iced with a little snowman in a little snowscape especially for him. She’s putting his Quiksilver and Rip Curl T-shirts to air on the Aga but I can tell she has one ear on us. She’s barely left Paul’s side since he arrived in with a face like a slapped arse and not a single Christmas present for anyone.
‘Have you heard anything from her?’ I half-whisper.
‘No.’
‘Did you text her?’
‘Yeah.’
Another sigh.
‘Do you fancy some fresh air? I’m not opening the café till twelve.’
We’re standing under my Totes umbrella in the lashing rain looking at Daddy’s grave. There’s a fresh holly wreath with a big red bow on the headstone with a handwritten ShayMar Farm label hanging off it.
‘You have it looking well,’ Paul notes. ‘Although you missed a bit of bird shite there.’
‘We do our best.’ I give him a little dig. ‘The tree is the problem.’
‘You must be here all the time, are you?’
‘A good bit. I come and talk to him.’ I’ve never told anyone else that, not even Mammy. But it’s true. I fill him in on my bits of news, keep him up to date with what’s happening in Home and Away, the score of the last match. That kind of thing. ‘It actually helps, I think.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have gone back to Oz. Maybe I should have stayed.’
‘Not at all, he wouldn’t have wanted that.’
‘I suppose.’
‘What do you think he’d have made of the eco farm?’ I say.
‘I’m not sure. He’d miss the livestock, but I think he’d like dealing with the customers. He loved the chats, didn’t he?’
‘He did.’
‘I can’t believe how well Mammy’s looking. It’s really given her a new lease of life.’ There’s just the hint of a smile on his lips, but it’s definitely there. ‘All he ever wanted was to make her happy.’
‘That’s true. Do you remember the time he wrapped up the deep freeze and tried to get it under the tree?’
‘Jesus, I thought she was going to go for him.’ He does his Mammy impression: ‘“Seamus, there’d better be a necklace or a bracelet inside that freezer or That Bloody Cat’ll be getting your turkey dinner.”’
I laugh at the memory of it. ‘She was delighted with the frozen side of beef, all the same.’ I clear my throat. ‘You have to snap out of it, Paul. She’s fretting about you.’
‘Me and Hannah have only been broken up a few weeks.’ He sounds annoyed but I keep going anyway.
‘I know it’s tough. Sure, I was in bits after John. But it won’t last forever.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Mammy is flat out now between the farm shop and the yurts. She doesn’t need to be waiting on you hand and foot on top of it too.’
‘I’ve only been home three days. Will you get off my case, Ais?’
‘Only if you promise to cheer up a bit for us.’
‘I promise I’ll cheer up a bit.’
‘But you have to mean it.’
He sighs and digs at a weed with the toe of his runner.
‘There’ll be other girls. You should see the style around these days. The new beauty salon has done wonders for the village.’
‘I’m not interested in meeting someone new.’
‘Well, neither was I, and then James came along.’
‘And let me guess, this is the happiest you’ve ever been?’ His tone is bitter and accusatory. I can’t tell if he thinks I’m smug or full of it.
‘Something like that.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Can we go home, Ais? My feet are getting soaked.’
I’m flying on t
he thirtieth and Majella and Sharon come over the night before to ‘help me pack’, which is a thinly veiled excuse to finish off the last of the Christmas chocolates.
‘Was that John I just heard coming in the back door?’ Majella enquires on her way back from the bathroom. I heard him coming in too and had to stop myself from getting annoyed. He and Paul are pals, but it’s still deeply awkward to have my ex-boyfriend walking around the house.
‘Yeah. I think Paul mentioned going for a pint.’
‘Any luck with the dress yet, Majella?’ Sharon asks.
‘Oh yeah, I found the perfect one but it costs about the same as second-hand car,’ Majella wails. ‘I’m so sickened.’
‘Remember what Sadhbh said?’ I say. Then I turn to Sharon. ‘The designer does great reductions but you have to jump on them.’
‘Your mother actually showed me how to set up Google Alerts, Ais,’ Maj says. ‘So say a prayer.’
Just then there’s a blast of ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ from downstairs so loud that Sharon falls off the bed and knocks several of my carefully rolled pairs of knickers onto the floor. Rolling is the only way to go when you’re packing. Sadhbh sent me a YouTube video about it and the girl in it was like Mary Poppins the amount she got into the case. My heart was broken earlier trying to roll up my footies. They can be very fiddly.
There’s a roar from Mammy. ‘Alexa! Stop playing!’
The music stops abruptly.
‘Jesus, that thing is very sensitive,’ Majella whispers. ‘Do you think it can hear us from up here?’
There’s another roar from Mammy. ‘Alexa! What are the opening times for Mc. Daids. Hard. Ware?’
Without missing a beat, Alexa blasts out ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ again. Poor Mammy. The music stops again and I hear John laughing, that deep belly laugh of his I haven’t heard in so long. Mammy must have him cornered about putting goalposts in the Far Field. She wants them there for when school tours come and said John would be just the man to help her source them. I really wish she’d come to James for things, but I suppose in this instance John is something of an expert, what with his GAA connections.
Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling Page 16
