Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  One person who took full advantage of the situation was Maj’s father, Shem. The family were only back in their completely renovated bungalow a few hours when he shoved a double bed into the wooden shed at the bottom of their garden and listed it as an ‘artisan panelled dwelling’ with mountain views. It worked too, which inspired Dr Maher to chance charging €150 a night for the consultation bed in his surgery. When that got snapped up, every shed and outhouse within a twenty-mile radius was magically converted into a ‘bijou annexe’, and there was a queue of jeeps out the road when camp-beds went on special in the New Aldi. Mammy was up the walls trying to squeeze extra beds into every nook and cranny of the eco farm and had already asked Elaine and Ruby if they wouldn’t mind sharing the one yurt with Fionnuala and Mairead. I was mortified, but the girls said they didn’t mind, especially when Mammy said they could have it for free. The yurts were hot property and she was trying to get as many extras for the wedding weekend as Gantulga could supply. I tried to corner her one morning to see if she could recommend anything for my hives, but she was too busy trying to cajole Paul out of his room and into the farm shop. I know break-ups are hard, but Mammy said he’s barely getting out of bed most days. I feel bad that I haven’t had a chance to give him another of my pep talks, but there are only so many hours in the day.

  ‘If I were you I’d stick an air mattress in the office there,’ Carol had suggested while practising making her sausage-meat-stuffed button mushrooms completely symmetrical. ‘You could get €200 for it because there’s a lock on the door.’

  As if I had time to become a landlord on top of everything else! Majella was, understandably, bulling about all the commotion and rightly felt like her wedding was being somewhat overshadowed – although, I’m still at her beck and call and doing my best to protect her from it. I think she thought she might get her pictures into RSVP, what with the Peigs connection and all that, but that’ll hardly happen now. And I know she had her eye on the garden shed for one of Pablo’s sisters and her kids.

  And I still couldn’t tell her about the work I was doing for the Garbally ‘event’, as much as I wanted to. My stress levels were off the charts and, because James was working day and night to get Garbally ready, I didn’t have anyone at all to talk to. We’d just been falling into bed at night, and the last time we managed to sit on the couch together he’d snapped at me for scratching my hives, which are back with a vengeance. I felt like we were a couple who’d been looking at each other for thirty years, not a couple barely six months into a relationship. He’d said sorry and made me a cup of tea, and later in bed tried to get something going, but I just couldn’t unwind enough. He said, ‘I love you,’ but I pretended to be asleep already and waited until I was sure he’d drifted off to scream into my pillow. Maybe we need a holiday.

  They say time flies when you’re having fun, but it flies even faster when you’re trying to keep a seemingly infinite number of balls in the air. Before I know it it’s the last Saturday before the wedding and Majella has asked me to come over and help write out two-hundred-and-twenty names on two-hundred-and-twenty place cards. She and Pablo are going to stay on in the Morans’ apartment above BallyGoBrunch for a month or two at least so they don’t have to start married life sharing with the entire Moran clan, although the house is like new, to be fair. Two-hundred-and-twenty place cards doesn’t sound like a lot, but Maj has sent me a picture of them and all laid out like that it actually looks like a gargantuan task. I should never have told her I ordered that calligraphy pen from China. But it was so cheap. And Ruby said that writing in script was a great way to practise mindfulness and unwind, and I was desperate to get out of my head and away from my spiralling thoughts and ever-increasing number of hives.

  But first I’m dropping Mammy over a loan of my power washer. Apparently three goats and an alpaca escaped last night, trashing the place, and the all-weather playground needs some immediate attention before the influx of guests. I tried to tell her I barely have time to sit down at the moment, let alone drive around the country with power washers, but she’d already moved on to the latest speculation about who’s having the birthday party at Garbally so I just let her talk and quietly hung up.

  ‘Do you want a hand with that?’

  It’s John, coming out of the alpaca shed carrying a sprong.

  ‘Oh. Hi. What are you doing here?’ I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. He’s the last person I want to see when I’m like this, especially after what Majella said at the hen. I can’t stop thinking about it, despite the calligraphy.

  ‘The extra yurts are due this afternoon. Your mam asked me to help. It’s all hands on deck trying to get everything ready.’

  Mammy had actually sent me a text to tell me John would be helping since it was an emergency situation and asking me if that was okay. I didn’t even get a chance to reply.

  ‘Where’s Paul?’

  He looks at his feet. ‘He’s still in bed, I think.’

  I glance at my watch. It’s nearly half ten. The farm shop opens at eight. ‘Is Mammy in the shop?’

  ‘Yeah,’ John says. ‘Do you want a hand with that box?’

  I look down. I thought I’d taken the power washer out of the Micra but instead I’m carrying the box of porcelain teardrop spoons I had to get for Carol’s miniature pork belly bites. Apparently Ben Dixon is big into his pork belly.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I shout, furious with myself, heading for the car. ‘I’ll have to go back for the power washer,’ I add, scratching the hives on my shoulder.

  ‘Go inside and get a cup of tea, Ais,’ John says, jogging after me. ‘You look like you need it. I’ll come out for the power washer in a while, honestly.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ I say. ‘I’ve to run over to Maj for some wedding prep. Another all-hands-on-deck situation.’

  ‘Have a cup of tea. Go on.’

  ‘No time,’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘There’s always time for tea,’ he says and we both smile. He gave me a mug with that saying on it back when I started in PensionsPlus. It was a great mug – good and big, but not heavy. A reliable, sensible mug. No airs or graces. It was so popular I had to put an ‘Aisling’s mug – hands off :)’ label on it so people wouldn’t keep taking it. A few noses were out of joint over it, if I recall. While he was never flashy, John did give me a fair amount of really thoughtful presents when we were together. I wish I hadn’t been so focused on the one present he didn’t give me: the ring. But that’s all in the past now.

  I drop the box into the boot and follow him over to the house. Inside, he sticks the kettle on then opens the drawer where Mammy keeps the shoe polish and produces a twenty-four-pack of Penguin bars like a man who’s been successfully looking for Good Biscuits in this house for years.

  ‘Bingo,’ he says with a smile as I go to take out the mugs. ‘No, let me,’ he says gently. ‘You sit down there and chill out. How’s Majella?’

  ‘Mad busy. She’s coordinating a massive reading drive at the school and it’s taking up loads of time so a lot of wedding stuff has been left to the last minute’

  ‘Fair play to her. She really seems to have taken to the job.’

  He’s right. She has. She’s so capable. Something I feel anything but at the moment. ‘And Pablo?’

  ‘Currently trying to write his speech but he keeps having to take crying breaks so he’s not getting far,’ he says, sitting down and passing me the steaming mug. ‘You know the way he is.’

  ‘I do,’ I say quietly. ‘They’re some pair.’

  We both take sips of tea and I realise I can’t remember the last time someone made me a cuppa. I’ve never been so tempted to break the NDA. If I could just tell John what’s been going on he’d know exactly what to say or do to help me. I feel a lump forming in my throat so I take another deep sip to swallow it down and reach for a Penguin.

  ‘How’s Megan?’ I can’t help myself. I feel like if I don’t say her name I might get carried aw
ay.

  He looks momentarily startled and then relaxes again. ‘Great, yeah. Looking for a new job at the moment, actually. She’s subbing in a school in Donegal and can’t understand a word anyone is saying to her.’

  ‘Oh. I’ll tell Majella to keep an ear out. She gets the emails.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We take another sip. I can hear Paul moving around upstairs and I pray to God he comes down and interrupts us. John’s so easy to talk to that I’m half-afraid of what I might say – about Emilia Coburn’s wedding, about James, about everything. Then the toilet flushes and I hear Paul creaking back towards his bedroom.

  ‘Did you get a bite off something?’ John says, gesturing towards my neck. I instinctively put a hand over the latest cluster of hives to cover them.

  ‘No, no, I don’t think so,’ I say, trying to sound casual. ‘Just hives. According to Google I’m dying, but I think it might be just stress. Roll on next week.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Ais, but are you okay?’ He looks so concerned that my heart jumps in my chest.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’ I ask, clutching the mug with both hands.

  ‘You just seem to have a lot on your plate at the moment. Is it Paul?’

  ‘Paul? What about him?’

  ‘Well, he’s not doing great from what I can see.’

  I glance around the kitchen and my eyes fall on the freshly baked apple tart cooling on the counter. I feel protective and guilty at the same time. ‘Don’t worry about Paul. He’s being well looked after.’

  I scratch my neck again. I thought the hives were going down yesterday but they were as bad as ever when I got up this morning.

  ‘And who’s looking after you?’

  The question catches me off guard. Who is looking after me?

  ‘James, of course.’

  ‘Is he?’

  I laugh ruefully. ‘Since when were you so concerned about James? Last I heard you were throwing digs at him.’

  John looks embarrassed for a split second. ‘Is he looking after you, though?’

  ‘I’m grand.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m grand, John. I’m always grand.’

  40

  I can’t believe I’m going to Majella with more bad news, but as I’m heading over to her to work on the calligraphy, I get a call from Mikey Maguire to say he can’t accommodate drinks next Friday night before the wedding.

  ‘What?’ I shriek down the phone as he explains that the food safety people had been in and told him he had to have the seats reupholstered as they’re holding ‘noxious fumes’. We’ve been complaining about the smell of Guinness farts rising out of them for the past ten years, and now he’s decided that this Friday is the day he’s going to replace them?

  ‘It’s Majella’s wedding drinks, Mikey,’ I plead as I arrive at BallyGoBrunch and stick my head in to Carol to give her a thumbs-up. She smiles back at me and wipes a bead of sweat off her forehead. I don’t know how she does it – she’s been here day and night the past few days, working off a detailed spreadsheet. Apparently Mammy was able to give her a crash course in the basics of Excel and then off she went inputting times and amounts and everything we need to get these bloody canapés out the door. Just the sight of the kitchen has started to give me such anxiety about next weekend. Mikey isn’t budging about the drinks and I’m forced to give up. I only hope they’ll be able to squeeze us in at the bar in the Ard Rí.

  I knock on the door of Majella’s apartment and walk in. It feels so cavernous now that the other Morans and Willy have moved back to the bungalow. She’s sitting in the middle of mounds of cards, black ink all over her hands.

  ‘Oh, thank God, Ais, I keep making a balls of the Spanish ones,’ she says, getting up and stretching her legs.

  I drop my bag on the floor beside the door and take a deep breath. ‘I think you should sit back down, Maj.’

  Her eyes instantly widen and she reaches for the table to steady herself. ‘Jesus Christ, what is it now? I’m not able for any more bad news, Ais. I’m starting to think this bloody building is on an Indian burial ground or something.’

  ‘Well, it’s not good news,’ I admit.

  ‘Let me guess! The church is gone up in flames? My father’s broken his two legs? Pablo has cold feet?’

  I laugh. I just can’t help it. As if anything could stop Pablo from marrying her.

  ‘It’s not the wedding – it’s about Friday,’ I continue. ‘I was just on to Mikey Maguire. They’re closing for the night.’

  She twists her face in disbelief. ‘They don’t even close on Good Friday any more! What reason did he give you?’

  ‘He’s getting the seats done. Finally.’

  She sighs. ‘That’s something at least. The bang of farts can’t be healthy.’

  We set to working through her guest list and writing out the place cards as fancy as we can, mostly in silence with the low hum of Coldplay in the background.

  Majella sings along to ‘The Scientist’ absentmindedly, and I realise this is the calmest I’ve felt in weeks, maybe months. Ruby was right about calligraphy. I join in with her and we laugh.

  ‘We’re like larks,’ she says and I nod in agreement and we fall silent again.

  ‘Aisling?’ Maj says, interrupting my daze of lettering and ticking names off the list. ‘Are you okay? You’re nearly taking the arm off yourself.’

  I didn’t even notice how much scratching I was doing.

  ‘Helping with the wedding isn’t too much for you, is it?’ she asks. ‘I know the café is busy at the moment and you must have been months planning the hen. Don’t be afraid to say no to me.’

  I know Majella means this, but she also wanted the best hen in the world and I wanted to give it to her, same with the wedding. And she deserves the best too. She’s looking at me with so much concern in her eyes that I almost blab about Emilia Coburn and the food, The Peigs and everything.

  ‘Not at all, I’m grand,’ I say, sitting on my hands.

  ‘How are things with you and James?’

  How are things with me and James? Not great, if I’m honest with myself. I’m niggling at him about things around the house. The dishwasher. The way he keeps turning off the shower switch while I’m in the shower. He’s trying his best but there’s something off. It’s so hard to put my finger on it, though, because he’s so nice. My poor lost boy.

  ‘We’re okay,’ I say tentatively and shift awkwardly in my seat. ‘He’s been so busy I’ve barely seen him.’

  ‘You should book a holiday.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Nowhere near Buckleton, though. Christ, the thought of ever going back there again.

  ‘And the café?’

  I grimace.

  ‘Aw not that too?’ Majella looks concerned.

  ‘I’ve just started to dread it,’ I explain. ‘It’s nothing like I thought it would be. I love a spreadsheet as much as the next person, possibly even more, but I’m drowning in the admin. I feel like I’m sinking. Carol is so capable but I forgot to put payroll through last week. One of Karla’s standing orders bounced. She was bulling, and rightly so.’

  ‘You definitely need a holiday, bird. You need to get away from all this for a while. You’ll come back feeling way better, I swear.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ The thought of fleeing is actually blissful. I’m mad to take flight and have been fantasising about packing it all in. Even a light coma sounds appealing at this stage.

  ‘I was thinking,’ I say to her, trying to change the subject to something a bit more positive. She’s the bride, after all. ‘You have your something borrowed?’

  ‘The locket from Abuela Sofia,’ she confirms.

  ‘You have your something new and your something blue?’

  ‘Dress, and a corner from Pablo’s blue boxers sewn into the lining.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to give you your something old.’

  ‘Aw, Ais, really?’

&nb
sp; ‘Of course. I’m your one and only bridesmaid.’

  ‘Are … you going to tell me what it is?’

  ‘You’ll find out on the Big Day.’

  41

  ‘Aisling, can I just double and triple check some of these instructions from Mandy?’

  It’s the day before the weddings and Carol and I have been at BallyGoBrunch since 4 a.m. I’ll say something for Mandy, she’s thorough – she’s provided detailed lists and inventories for how each dish should be stored and plated and served. We’re actually learning a lot from her, but the way I’m feeling now it will be some time before I can truly forgive her or Emilia Coburn or Ben Bloody Dixon for steamrolling in on the weekend of Maj’s wedding. Double-oh-seven? Double-oh-bollox more like it. I won’t be at Garbally for the plating and serving so I’m determined to make sure everything is ready for Carol and Noel and Karla to send the food out when the time comes.

  ‘Go ahead, Carol. We need everything to be perfect.’

  ‘Okay, first thing is when she was in the other day she kept talking about “a-loo-min-um” and I just wanted to check …’

  ‘Tinfoil. It’s tinfoil.’

  ‘Okay, grand. And just so we’re clear, the small fries …’

  ‘Little cones of chips. Not tiny full Irishes.’

  ‘But then the chocolate chips …’

  ‘Not actually chocolate chips, but crisps coated in chocolate.’ Emilia wanted to recreate the taste of childhood summers with that one, apparently. The perfect mouthful of cheese and onion and a square of chocolate. I’m not normally into culinary fusion but this I can get on board with.

  ‘And then the Koran wrap …’