Still, though, the guilt sat in my stomach like a bowling ball. There’s me, shacking up in my lover’s nest (Majella’s words, all of them), leaving my poor widowed mother in the empty house. Well, Paul is there, but he may as well not be, the moping he’s doing.
‘I know you’re thinking about me, and I appreciate it, Aisling, but I’ll be fine, honestly. And isn’t James just the bee’s knees? You landed on your feet there,’ Mammy said as I followed her into the spare room where she pulled a clothes-horse out from under the bed and shoved in the cake in its place.
‘Actually, Mammy, about James, I was wondering …’ I saw my chance and went with it. ‘If you’ve jobs that need doing around the farm and William or whoever can’t manage, will you make sure you ask James?’
Earlier that day I had called into her and caught John just as he was leaving.
‘Thanks again for your help with the chicken wire, John. And I must photocopy that banana-bread recipe for you,’ Mammy had called out after him. ‘Megan loves banana bread,’ she said to me by way of explanation. I’m partial to a bit of it myself, truth be told. It’s practically like eating salad.
‘What was he doing here with chicken wire?’ I asked her, surprised at how annoyed I felt by all this cosiness.
‘We needed to go deeper with the wire around the coop because, I swear to Jesus, those foxes will dig down to Australia one of these days. Paul and William Foley couldn’t manage it between them so John gave a hand when he was down during the week,’ she replied, somewhat defiantly, picking up on my tone.
And so when I asked her to ask James instead, she was ready for me.
‘Isn’t James fierce busy, though, Aisling? And John doesn’t mind.’
‘Mammy, maybe you could not be as pally with John? James is my boyfriend now and it’s just a bit awkward. You had John here looking at a wonky sink in the yurt shower block last Sunday. What does John know about sinks?’
She looked ever so slightly ashamed, so I think she knew she’d been favouring John. I’d like to think it’s just because she knows him so well and she still thinks James is a bit like Prince William or one of the Downton Abbey lads. When she asked me about his family I was vague enough. I don’t need Mammy taking against Celine this early on.
‘Sorry, Aisling. I thought you were all friends. John has just been a great help with the online stuff and he and Paul are friends anyway so I thought there was no harm in it. And, sure, he’s like part of the family.’
‘Well, he’s not really any more.’
‘I know, love. Okay, message received.’ She thought for a second. ‘Actually, do you know what would be very helpful? I need a yoke – a scarecrow, I suppose – for the vegetable patch. Could James knock one up, do you think? He’s very handy.’
A scarecrow. That’s what she gave me to take to him. I sighed. ‘Alright, Mammy, I’ll ask him.’
Now, as she forces the clothes-horse onto me, telling me, ‘I don’t want to see you in a damp jumper,’ I hope she’ll be heeding my request and leave John out of things. After meeting Rose with her swishy ponytail and effortless laugh, I’m not sure I’d like her hanging around the whole time, and James deserves the same courtesy.
Majella’s been having a better time of it. She came roaring into BallyGoBrunch off the Timoney’s bus on Wednesday, waving her phone at me and repeating ‘oh my God, oh my God, oh my God’. It was quiet enough but she still managed to take the cream off Eileen Kelly’s scone as she whipped past with her coat flying and bag full of books and papers ricocheting off tables and chairs. It turned out the dress, the dress, the Krystal Ball one, was going to be on sale in a bridal boutique in Tipperary on Friday – a first-come first-served kind of deal. The second she told me, I could feel my adrenaline start to pump. It felt like a job I was always destined to do: get a 70-per-cent-off wedding dress out of the hands of some other thirsty wagon who wanted it too. I’d draw blood if I had to.
‘It’s this Friday, Ais. I know it’s short notice, but … can you come? I’m going to take a course day from school. I have to get this dress.’
I looked her dead in the eye ‘Majella, we are going to get this dress.’
‘These aren’t very nice, Ais.’
Majella rolls her tongue around in her mouth in distaste, shoving the packet of sweets into the passenger-side door pocket. ‘They’re very chalky. Wouldn’t be for me now.’
She swigs from her collapsible reusable coffee cup once and then again, before shrugging and digging the packet out a second time and tipping more into her mouth, turning the newspaper on her lap over and tutting at a headline about corruption in local councils.
‘I like your cup. It’s very earth conscious.’ I’m cruising along the motorway at a solid eighty-five and tut as a jeep as big as a tractor zooms past. ‘It’s a speed limit, not a speed target,’ I call after him. ‘Did you see that, Maj? Absolutely flying.’
‘Flying, Ais,’ agrees Maj, examining the back of the bag of snacks. ‘Is this recyclable, I wonder?’
‘God, you’re going to save the whole world at this rate.’
‘It’s school.’ She sighs. ‘The kids are up to ninety, panicking about global warming so we’ve made it a staff-wide priority to make a proper effort. There was a child crying in the corridor yesterday about the ice caps, and there was war in one of the fourth class parents’ WhatsApp groups about a child bringing a plastic straw in her lunchbox. I’m doing as much as I can to keep the peanuts out, Ais. I can’t be the straw police too, can I?’ She pours most of the rest of the bag into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. ‘They’ve grown on me. Very tasty.’
Traffic isn’t as bad as I had anticipated, and I think we’ll actually be at the dress shop well before it opens. ‘Did you check the website again this morning?’
‘I did. And it’s still there, in my size.’
It’s four months to the wedding and I won’t have her in anything bar her dream dress on the Big Day. If all goes to plan today, she’ll have saved over four grand on the Krystal Ball dress. It will still be eight hundred euro over her budget, but she and Pablo discussed it and he said he would pay ten thousand to see her in a potato sack, so that was that decided. I double checked with her last night that she didn’t want her mother to come with us, but Majella claims Pablo is rubbing off on her and she’d be too emotional. I also think that Mrs Moran has been agitating for Majella to just wear her old wedding dress, which might explain her absence. I’ve seen the pictures and, while she looked fabulous on the day in 1982, I don’t think puffed sleeves and lace up to her ears is really the look Maj is after.
I’ve ordered three more potential bridesmaid dresses online – one strapless, two with straps, so we have options. Melanie in the little post office in Filan’s told me she has no idea how I’m keeping track of them all. She’s actually become deeply invested in the search for the dress. Last time I was in she produced pictures she’d printed off the internet. Let’s just say I’m glad Melanie isn’t picking the dress for me. Of the latest ones I’ve ordered, the strapless one looks the nicest but I’m already having premonitions of hoiking it up all night. Last time I wore strapless was to my debs and I’ve my hands clamped to the top of the dress in every picture. I also don’t have the elegant neck required for strapless. Majella said she just wants me to be comfortable, but I won’t have her looking back on the pictures in five years and wishing I’d worn the pale pink rather than the lavender. She’ll be looking at those photos forever.
She’s so excited and I’m so happy for her that my eyes unexpectedly start to prick with tears and I have to give my head a little shake and focus back on the road. I’ve drifted over ninety kilometres an hour. Next thing you know I’ll be over the limit and hauled into court. Paul was forced to admit to me this week that he flew through a speed camera in the Micra just after Christmas, after a letter arrived to inform me I now have three penalty points. His licence lapsed while he was in Oz so now I have to live with the shame of the points
. I could barely look at him. It’s for the best I moved out last week. I slow down to a more respectable speed, ignoring the angry flashing lights of an impatient tractor behind me.
‘Do you need a hand with more of your stuff this weekend?’ Majella looks up from her phone where she’s checking the website and the shop’s Facebook page once again to make sure the dress hasn’t magically vanished since she last looked. We’ve been keeping track of the ‘likes’ on the picture to try to gauge how many bloodthirsty bitches might be gunning for the same one.
‘No, I’ll be grand. I’m not bringing that much for now. James’s place isn’t that big and, sure, I still have my room at Mammy’s. I’m only moving a mile up the road.’
‘How was she about the move?’
‘She was grand. Not a bother on her.’ This sticks in my throat a bit but, sure, I’m just being soft. ‘She’s mostly concerned with how I’m getting on living somewhere with no washing line. She’s been losing sleep over it, I can tell, so I’m bringing over a few things later to put in the hot press for an hour.
‘Actually, speaking of Mammy, stick on Skippy there. He’s giving away a weekend at the eco farm as a prize on the show and I want to hear who rings in.’
Majella jabs at the dial as I take my exit off the motorway and Garth Brooks fills the car. She throws her head back and bellows along to ‘If Tomorrow Never Comes’. ‘This is a contender for first dance, you know, Ais? It was number one the summer I was born! Pablo hadn’t a balls notion who Garth Brooks was a year ago but I caught him looking up cowboy boots on the internet last week. A convert!’
I can already imagine the weeping if he has to whisk Majella around the dancefloor in the Ard Rí to this. Maybe we can get The Peigs to learn it, although I’m not sure if Don Shields and co. might be as devoted to Garth as us. I still know every word to ‘No Fences’ and Maj and I once won a karaoke competition in Majorca duetting on ‘Unanswered Prayers’.
‘Ninety-seven-point-six FM. This. Is. Solas. Eff. Em. I’m Skippy Brennan and you’re tuned into the home of the Six Word Traffic Report sponsored by Hennegan’s Liver Fluke Blastex: Matty Kiernan, your headlights are on! Coming up we’ll be looking at the shocking number of people who’ve mistaken the cat treats given away with today’s County Chronicle for human treats. We’ll talk to one woman who says she might sue.’
Majella takes out the packet and examines it more closely and shrugs. ‘I’ve had worse.’ She tips the remaining few into her mouth.
‘What’s Google Maps saying there, Maj? We must be close now.’
‘It looks like ETA is twenty-five minutes, although there’s a red line not far ahead. What does that mean?’
‘Feck it. Traffic.’
We’ve transitioned quickly from three lanes to a narrow country back road and I’m struggling to imagine why there’d be a traffic jam ahead. And then I see it, the telltale sign: sheep shit. I know Majella’s seen it too because she’s shaking her head vigorously.
‘Ah no. No, Ais. No, it can’t be. If we’re not there by 9 a.m. someone else is going to get it!’
‘And we were making such good time.’
But I round the corner and there in front of me is a herd of sheep. At least a hundred head. Some of them in lamb too, by the looks of their low-hanging bellies. Within seconds the car is surrounded and we grind to a halt. Majella nudges her door open and stands on the doorjamb.
‘The oldest man in Ireland is herding them into a field,’ she calls back in to me. ‘Ten minutes, at least.’
That will have us cutting it very fine, but what can we do? Majella nudges a particularly nosy ewe out of her way and settles back into the car, jigging her legs with nerves and looking at her phone.
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mammy wanted me to ask you did you see Aunt Shirley’s message about her back?’
‘Oh, balls!’
‘On the WhatsApp, is it?’ Majella smiles and nudges me and then jumps as a sheep lets out a particularly loud bleat right beside her open window.
I did see Aunt Shirley’s message about her bad back but forgot to respond. In my defence, all it said was ‘Just lettin you know Aisling, I have a very bad back’ so I was at a bit of a loss and set it aside to reply later. I dig out my phone and swipe open the group, and then put it down again and turn off the car engine. You never know where there might be a guard hiding. Returning to the phone, I see that Aunt Shirley has already got a few sad face emojis in sympathy from the rest of the hens and one bomb emoji from Juana who I presume misunderstood the message.
‘No worries, Shirley,’ I respond. ‘I’ll keep it in mind for activities and let the hotel know.’
To be honest, I’m not sure if the Paradise Aqua is the kind of place that has a mattress or pillow menu, but anything to keep the peace. I follow it up with, ‘Thanks to everyone who already paid deposits. Here are my bank details again in case anyone misplaced them.’
I copy and paste them in and add a smiley face, smiley face, blessed hands, starburst so it doesn’t come off too aggressive.
‘We have movement, Ais! Go, go, go!’
I look up and, save for a few stragglers, the road is mostly clear. Quarter to nine. If I go now at a brisk but responsible pace we should make it. I turn the key in the ignition and set off, giving the obligatory wave to the ancient man as we pass. Straight on, around the corner, and another and …
‘Ah shite.’
Shite is right. A slurry truck. A glacially slow slurry truck. And we’re stuck behind it.
27
We peel into the little car park at seventeen minutes past nine, practically on two wheels. Majella has the door open before I even have the handbrake on and is flat out running for the entrance of Bridal Sweet. I race around to the boot and fish out the bag with the plastic champagne flutes and bottle of Buck’s Fizz. This could be the day Majella gets her dress and I don’t want to be taking chances that the boutique might not have any bubbly. Plus, the Buck’s Fizz is only 3 per cent alcohol so half a glass won’t hurt.
I make it to the door a good two minutes after Majella has disappeared inside, pulling it open and fully expecting to see a near-fatal crush. Maybe two women fighting over the same dress, ripping off sleeves. A bride-to-be sitting under the rails crying, possibly eating some doughnuts. A frazzled yet glamorous store owner with a clipboard, begging for mercy and order.
Instead, there’s just Majella, already methodically flipping through the hangers in the section marked ‘Sale’ in black marker on a heart-shaped cardboard sign. There’s not a sinner in the shop besides her and a bored-looking and distinctly unglamorous teenager sitting at the till painting her nails, the stench of the polish filling the small space.
‘Are we too late?’ I ask both of them, panic rising in my belly. The teenager looks up from her nails and smiles like her life depends on it. ‘Welcome to Bridal Sweet, where we make dreams come true,’ she drones, and then the smile drops like a lead balloon and her attention goes back to the lurid red nails.
‘We’re the first ones here, Ais!’ Majella calls excitedly from behind the sale dresses. ‘The only ones.’
‘Is it not the first day of the sale?’ I ask the teen, making her once again lift her head, which she does like she’s on her deathbed and being forced to open her eyes to say a final farewell.
‘We have a sale, like, every month. It’s never that busy.’
This is news to me. I used to be fairly well up on the comings and goings of all the bridal boutiques in a four-county radius, between keeping an eye out for my own theoretical Big Day and assisting various friends and acquaintances in finding The One. The one dress, that is. But I’m out of practice and Majella is new to the circuit so Bridal Sweets wasn’t on my radar. A hidden gem, I suppose I’d have to call it. I make a mental note to add that detail to my bridesmaid’s speech. I already feel sick at the thought of it, but Majella has begged me to do one – I think mostly because she wants the story of how she brought the entire town to tears
the time she performed ‘The Streets of Ballygobbard’ to the tune of ‘The Streets of Philadelphia’ at the Pride of BGB ten years ago. She was narrowly beaten by Simon Ruane who – to be fair to him – had trained his dog to say ‘hup BGB’, but it was a memorable day. I’m the only one who can truly do it justice and Maj knows that.
I drop my bags on the artfully banjaxed chaise longue. I recognise it as the same one I got for BallyGoBrunch in IKEA but someone has gone to the trouble of ageing the MDF frame with some gold spray paint and vigorous rubbing. It’s a technique I’m considering for the flower crowns I’m planning on making for Majella’s hen. I can forage for some pliable twigs and branches and fashion them into forty-eight crowns and boho them up with some spray paint and steel wool. I saw something similar on Colette Green’s blog and noted that Maj had given it a like. That reminds me, I must see about getting a bigger case. Between the flower crowns and the Prosecco pong and the hangover recovery bags I’ll be bursting at the seams.
Majella is still rummaging when I find her amid the layers of froth and lace. ‘You know the one, right, Ais?’
‘It’s seared into my brain.’ I start to pull back hanger after hanger.
‘No. Nope. No.’
‘Nope. Nope.’
We both work methodically, flip, flip, flipping through dresses. I almost go past it but suddenly the beaded neckline catches my eye and I backtrack. ‘Maj. I think I have it.’
She stops mid-flip and her eyes widen. ‘Go on so.’
I reach in deep and grasp the top of the hanger, pulling the fullness of the dress towards me, catching sight of the Krystal Ball tag. We both gasp as I reef it all the way out.
‘Oh my God, it’s gorgeous, Maj.’
‘It is,’ she replies tearfully, ‘it’s gorgeous.’
‘Gorgeous,’ the teen drones from her spot behind the counter, not looking up from the nails. I breathe in deeply through my nose to stop myself from roaring and turn my back on her.
‘Well. Go on. Try it on.’
Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling Page 20
