by Sharon Owens
David and Michael sang ‘Dignity’, by Deacon Blue, to calm the nerves of the happy couple. Jack turned the lights down and set the screen in front of the fire. He prayed the night would be a success. They all waited for any sign of life on Maple Street and, just before seven thirty, they could hear the welcome sounds of happy chatter echoing down the alley. Then the first of the guests arrived at the door and Jack ushered them in. The brothers sang a Madonna song, and Clare and Peter stole a quick kiss, Martini glasses of Red Witch in their hands. The new arrivals greeted them warmly and presented them with gifts and cards.
‘Oh, gosh, I wasn't expecting presents,’ said Clare, hugging her old friends. ‘You shouldn't have, honestly.’
‘Nonsense,’ said one. ‘We missed the wedding in New York but we'll make up for it tonight.’ Then there was another knock at the door and suddenly the tavern was full to the brim with delighted guests in fancy dress. Most of them had made a terrific effort to dress up in 1980s outfits for the occasion. The rest had never changed their style from the first time round. Dynasty shoulder pads, big hair, plastic jewellery, woolly leg warmers and even studded dog collars were everywhere. Clare produced a bag full of cameras and the flash bulbs were popping almost constantly. The turkey wraps disappeared within minutes, as did the rest of the party food. Daisy brought down the vanilla custard in a big pottery jug, and the infamous anniversary cake was quickly sliced up. With a serving of rich fruitcake and hot custard inside them, the guests were finally full up and ready to begin the dancing. Clare picked up the wedding-cake decoration and put it in a folded napkin in her handbag. When she got home to New York she would wash off the icing and keep the tiny couple safe for ever in a little glass box.
Lily saw Clare looking for the groom's missing arm underneath the garland, and had to bite her lip to stop herself from demanding the trinket back. Clare had earlier told Lily that fate had kept herself and Peter apart for seventeen years. (They had met briefly in Belfast, as students, but then went their separate ways.) She said that Lily and Jack were very lucky, getting married when they were both so young. And it was true. Lily convinced herself that she would get over the loss of the decoration, in time.
‘I'm sorry about the little arm,’ she told Clare. ‘It was already missing when we opened the box from the gift shop.’ It was the truth, although it had happened twenty years ago.
‘Never mind. I loved the cake,’ Clare said kindly, and she snapped her handbag shut. Lily's heart skipped a beat with anguish, and she had to go and put some more turf on the fire as a distraction. Clare told the barmaids they looked fantastic when she went to the bar for a refill.
Lily nipped upstairs to change into her Sade-inspired outfit and have five minutes of rest. She needed to be alone for a moment. She was surprised to see Bridget still sitting at the kitchen table, her white ringlets making her pale face look even more ghostly. She had applied lots of blusher in an attempt to look cheerful, but the powder seemed to float in two round spots in front of her cheeks.
‘Shouldn't you be on your way to the airport?’ Lily asked gently, her rage at Bridget for ruining the cake ebbing away.
‘The flight was delayed,’ said Bridget. ‘They rang from Heathrow to tell me. I re-booked the taxi for nine.’
‘Are you going to be okay, pet?’ asked Lily, pouring them a small cup of tea each. She added milk and took a sip. ‘Oh, I needed that. You don't know how tired you are until you sit down. Isn't that the truth?’
‘They had such little lives,’ said Bridget sadly. ‘Such small, little lives. They just sat at home waiting for their dole cheques and blaming other people for their misfortunes. I should have helped them more.’
‘Oh, Bridget.’ Lily sighed. ‘You were only a child.’
‘Half the time, they didn't eat enough, or Mum forgot to take her heart tablets. I should have done something.’
‘What could you have done?’ Lily patted her arm. ‘Alcoholism is a terrible affliction. Didn't Father Damien say the neighbours kept an eye on them?’
‘I walked out on my sisters, Lily. They were only kids at school when I left home. They cried their eyes out, the day I packed a bag and moved in with some eejit of a boyfriend. I hardly knew him but he had a lovely clean flat.’
‘Bridget, don't torture yourself, please. You were only a kid yourself. What age were you when you moved out? Sixteen? They weren't your responsibility.’
‘But the guilt is killing me, Lily. It feels just as bad now, as it did then. That's why I never kept in regular contact with my sisters.’
‘But they managed, didn't they? They got by?’
‘I think Father Damien persuaded one of the neighbours to wash their school uniforms for them at the weekend. That poor man is a living saint.’
‘He is.’
‘I can't face them, Lily. I just can't face them. They probably hate me for bailing out like that. They could have been burnt alive in their beds, the way Mum and Dad carried on. Chain-smoking and falling asleep in the armchairs.’ Bridget cried a couple of silent tears. The fat drops rolled down her face, leaving white tracks through her blusher.
‘They'll forgive you, Bridget. They'll understand.’
‘Even so. I can't forgive myself.’
‘Look, I'll come with you to the airport. This is too much for you to handle on your own.’ Lily stood up and yawned. ‘I'm too tired to serve at the party and I'm sure they'll manage fine without me.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, most of the food is gone and it's a self-service buffet anyway, and there're only ninety or so guests. There were a hundred and twenty people here last night. Jack and the girls will cope.’
‘I'd really appreciate it, if you'd come with me,’ Bridget said, sniffing. ‘Thanks, Lily. Thanks for everything. I'm an awful bother to you. Don't think I don't know it.’
‘You are not a bother, Bridget. And you never were. You've helped me in ways you can't imagine. You took me out of myself and I'm very grateful to you. I was far too removed from everything. Sitting here like a bird in my nest all these years. Fussing over material things. Hoping nothing bad would happen to Jack.’
‘What do you mean?’ Bridget asked.
‘He was close to a bomb, once. He got over the shock but I never did. In that split second, when I heard the bomb go off, my whole life changed. Nothing mattered to me then, except Jack. I loved him already, of course I did, but I didn't know just how much I loved him until that moment. If he'd died, well, I think I might have died too, of a broken heart. I couldn't have faced the future without him, always knowing what could have been. I'd have been eaten up with bitterness and hatred for the bombers.’
‘I know what you mean.’ The younger woman nodded her sympathy.
‘So you see, you're not the only one with regrets. That stupid bomb made Jack and me both too inward-looking, too fearful. We should have travelled more, learned to drive, made more friends. Anyway, we're making up for lost time, now, aren't we? With four lodgers in the house.’
‘I thought you didn't like me,’ Bridget said in a small voice. ‘I thought you were only being kind when you said you did. Although I did appreciate your kindness.’
‘Silly!’ Lily gave Bridget a hug. ‘I'm going to miss all four of you dreadfully when this is over. Just let me get changed into something smarter. I'll tell Jack I'm going out, and I'll be right with you. We'll pick up your sisters, go somewhere quiet and have a nice bite of supper.’
‘I am rather hungry, now you mention it. I didn't eat much since, well, you know…’ Bridget looked at her watch. She looked smaller than ever in her new black suit. She'd decided to wear her funeral outfit tonight, in case her sisters thought she was not taking the death of their parents seriously enough.
‘Honestly, you'll make it up with them, Bridget. I'm sure you'll be surprised at how much they've missed you. And at how well they're getting on in England.’
‘We'll see. Let's have another cup while we're waiting,’ said Br
idget. She set her handbag and gloves on the sideboard and filled the teapot again.
Nobody noticed the two women slipping out through the back door when the taxi depot rang to say the car was waiting at the end of the alley. Jack and the girls were serving cocktails and pints by the dozen, and the last of the food was rapidly disappearing. When each song came to an end, there was a huge round of applause. As the night wore on, Jack gave the Devaneys a break, and played his old scratched 45s. His gold suit was a great talking point, as the guests danced in the spaces between the tables. Jack almost enjoyed himself, and by the end of the night he was announcing the dedications with ease. But even though the party was a roaring success, Jack knew this was the one and only night of his entire life when he would be DJ Nostalgia.
Clare had one too many glasses of Red Witch, and she had to sit down on the doorstep outside and wait until her head stopped spinning. But she wasn't disappointed about feeling unwell. In fact, she was quite pleased about it.
‘It reminds me of the night I passed my A levels,’ she said, hiccuping loudly. ‘I got wasted drunk and fell asleep in a flower bed on the Lisburn Road. Thank God, my friends carried me home or I might be lying there yet!’ Peter shook his head, and asked Daisy for a glass of water for his intoxicated wife.
‘She's a very emotional person,’ he said, as he kissed Clare's forehead. There was a look of such devotion on his face that Daisy had to turn away.
20. Anyone for Gravy?
Christmas Day
Lily blinked awake and heaved a loud sigh that the four girls could have heard in the room below, had they not been sleeping soundly. The bedside clock told her it was eleven in the morning. She turned to look at her husband. His long black eyelashes were flickering slightly. She knew he was on the verge of consciousness. She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Merry Christmas, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘My DJ superstar!’
‘Oh, stop! That was a one-off! Merry Christmas, sweetheart. A day off at last! Thanks be to God,’ he murmured. ‘I'm not getting out of bed all day.’
‘Haven't you forgotten something? We have a funeral mass to go to, and anyway we missed Midnight Mass because of Clare's party,’ his wife said gently.
Jack groaned for about twenty seconds. He was so tired he would have given his beloved tavern away to a tinker for a few hours of peace and quiet. Then he reached for Lily's hand and held it, caressing her fingers softly. He realized sadly that their Christmas morning lovemaking tradition would have to be cancelled also.
‘It went clean out of my mind, the funeral,’ he said, turning to face Lily. ‘How could I forget a thing like that? And, of course, we have guests coming to lunch as well.’
‘Exhaustion helps,’ Lily replied. ‘Don't worry about it. The party was fantastic last night, wasn't it?’
‘Yeah, I think it was the best night we ever had in here. Right! Let's get up and get our funeral weeds on. The poor O'Malley girls! What on earth will the priest say about them?’
‘I'm sure he's had plenty of experience with difficult funerals. I said a prayer for them both last night as I was falling asleep. I didn't know whether to say God bless them both, or just good riddance. I was appalled for thinking that, Jack. But how could they have given themselves up to the drink so completely, when they were blessed with those four lovely daughters?’
‘The need for the drink was stronger, I suppose? Isn't it a miracle they weren't born with brain damage or something?’ Jack was shaking his head in wonder.
‘Bridget said her mother only got really bad after the children were all born. I suppose that's something to be thankful for.’ Lily threw back the covers.
‘Aren't we lucky that we didn't have a weakness for it, ourselves? They say it's an addiction you can be born with,’ Jack added.
‘Maybe their mothers put whiskey in their bottles to make them sleep?’ pondered Lily. ‘There must be a reason why they went mad for it like that.’
‘There you go again, looking for reasons. I told you, it's chaos out there, and we're only specks of dust in a cosmic hurricane.’ Jack shivered as he stood on the bare floorboards.
‘Wow, did you come up with that line all by yourself?’ she teased him.
‘Yeah, I'm not just a pretty face.’ He threw on his jeans. ‘I could murder a cup of tea before I tidy myself up. God, it's really cold in here today. Is the window open?’
‘No, pet. It's December! I'll wake the girls. The service is at twelve thirty.’
‘Wait,’ said Jack. ‘Let me nip into the shower for two minutes first. I haven't had a hot shower since Bridget moved in here.’
‘Okay.’ Lily smiled. ‘I'll put the kettle on.’ She found her furry slippers. Jack preferred to go barefoot. He believed it kept him young. Slippers, scarves, caps and gloves were for old men, he said.
‘What are we doing for lunch?’ he asked, with his hand on the doorknob. ‘We don't usually leave home on Christmas Day. I take it there's no turkey roasting in the oven?’
‘I'm going to cheat this year. I've got a turkey breast from the supermarket and I'm just going to slice it up and fry it on the pan. Everything else will be a cheat too.’
‘How so?’
‘Leftovers. I'm sorry, Jack, but I haven't the strength for another session in the kitchen. I've postponed the traditional feast.’
‘I think that's a fantastic idea, and I'll tell you what else I'd like to postpone. The party tomorrow night! Firm of builders, I didn't like them much.’
‘Jack, they'll sue us!’
‘I'm only joking, although I think we all deserve to have tomorrow off. Right, give me two minutes and then you can rouse the sleeping beauties.’
‘By the way, Jack, we're giving out the presents just before lunch. I thought we would leave it till then as a mark of respect.’
‘Fine by me,’ he said, rather disappointed that he would have to wait another few hours to give Lily the fabulous silver necklace that he had bought her. A moment later he came hurrying back into the bedroom to tell Lily that it had snowed during the night. They both went to the front window of the tavern to look out. Maple Street had been transformed into a strip of pristine white.
‘I told you it was freezing,’ he said. ‘Don't these old buildings look fantastic with the snow collecting in all the architectural details? There's a gargoyle on the roof across the street that you only notice when it snows.’
‘Quick,’ said Lily. ‘Get the camera and take some pictures of it all before it melts.’
‘It won't melt for a few hours yet. I can feel it in my bones,’ he said, hopping about on the cold floor. Jack thought it might be time to rethink his anti-slipper policy. As he was hunting for some warm socks in the bureau, Bridget slipped into the bathroom and bolted the door firmly behind her.
Liam Bradley opened his eyes and tried to focus. His vision was badly impaired and there was a searing pain in the side of his head. It took him a few minutes to realize he was lying on the base of a broken wine glass. The sheets on the bed were soaked in spilt champagne, and there were two empty bottles standing on the bedside cabinet. He could hear a rustling noise but had no idea where it was coming from. He wondered what day it was, what time it was? His empty stomach rumbled in protest at his neglect of it.
‘Get up, get up,’ he told himself. ‘Get up off this bed and order some food.’ With a huge effort, he rolled over and forced himself into an upright position. The racing blood in his head almost made him pass out. But then, he knew that drinking two bottles of champagne was never going to be a good idea. His mouth was so dry his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He staggered up on his feet and tottered into the bathroom. He held the ceramic light-pull in his hand for twenty seconds before pulling on it weakly.
‘Here goes,’ he said. ‘Be brave, my old son.’
He turned to face the mirror. No less than seven spotlights beamed down on him, showing every line, crease and wrinkle in his colourless face. The strong shadows made hi
m look much worse than he really was. Those evil spotlights, he thought. Who designed them to be so unforgiving? At least he knew now what the rustling noise was. There was a cheque from Perry Shaw taped to his forehead. He must have done that himself although he had no memory of doing it. He peeled it off gently and read it again.
‘Pay Mr Liam Bradley five hundred thousand pounds only.’
The events of the night before came back to him in second-long flashes. He had been attending a Christmas party in London. His new UK publisher had invited Liam and Perry to the celebrations, and Liam had drunk until he couldn't stand up. Free booze, the whole evening. He hadn't bothered with the food; he'd wanted to get pie-eyed instead. There'd been one particularly pretty waitress. Liam had asked her to spend the night with him. She'd slapped him across the face. Everyone had seen. He'd thrown up in the Gents afterwards with pure shock. He hadn't been prepared for such hostility from a common serving girl. He'd gone around the room later, telling people he was an author from Belfast. But not to worry, he wasn't going to shoot anybody. He didn't have any stones in his pockets, he'd kept saying. Why had he done something as bizarre as that? He had no idea.
Thankfully, Perry had shoved him out into the street before the speeches began. It had been raining heavily, and he'd walked up and down the streets of central London feeling sorry for himself. Letting the rain soak into his clothes and his shoes. He'd had a fantasy he might be knocked down by a London bus and buried in St Paul's Cathedral. Weren't there some famous writers in a crypt or under the floor, he wondered. Not too many from Belfast, though. He'd decided to go home. Somehow, he'd fallen into a taxi and made it to the right gate at the airport. He'd drunk some weak tea to settle his stomach and feigned sobriety long enough to board the plane. Once safely in his seat, he'd lain his head on a miniature pillow and slept soundly throughout the flight. The stewardess had had to shake him awake when the plane landed in his home city. He'd remembered, with a jolt, that it was the same stewardess he had slept with some years before, coming back from Ibiza. He'd smiled at her. She hadn't recognized him. When he'd walked down the steps onto the runway it had still been raining like a monsoon.
