‘Oi, you.’ Moira nudged Roisin as she recalled her sister’s flushed face and coy expression upon answering her phone last night. ‘Who was that you were speaking to last night. I know it wasn’t Colin because you always get this screwed up expression on your face like you’ve got the piles when you talk to him, and I know it wasn’t a friend because your voice went all sort of low and Macy Gray like. My money’s on Mr Hot Fiddle.’
Roisin hesitated, she didn’t want to share her phone call with her sisters. She wanted to keep her exchange with Shay tucked away to bring out in private to mull over. Not that privacy was a big feature on her trips home! Every time she recalled the melodic timbre of his voice, heat shunted through her core and the feeling that evoked was not one she wanted her family privy to for obvious reasons. It had taken her by surprise, him calling so soon after she’d arrived back in Dublin, his obvious interest only adding to the thrill of listening to him ask how life in London was treating her. She’d seen her sisters’ curious glances as she told him she’d found work, and a new flat for her and Noah. She’d glared over at them before turning her back on her all-seeing, all-hearing family.
They hadn’t talked for long, he was due to go on stage in a few minutes having left the rest of the band warming up and it was the first chance he’d had all day to give her a call. The way he’d said ‘stage’ conjured an image of his rangy body clothed in a blue plaid shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up, the buttons undone to reveal a smooth muscular chest, and his faded Levi’s battered and worn with a brown leather belt. The cowboy hat was dipped low over one eye and his thumbs were hooked through his belt loops. She realised she’d seen a book cover not dissimilar to the scenario she was envisaging at Mammy’s and quickly banished it. He played Irish folk music and rock not country and western and he was not the type of man to walk around Dublin with a cowboy hat on.
Standing there in the kitchen she’d suddenly wanted to see him performing more than anything. To sit down the back of the crowded pub he was gigging at and just watch him. A door had banged then and she’d heard music and shouts of laughter in the background. He’d said he had to go but before he hung up he asked her if she’d like to catch up for a drink or dinner before Christmas, whatever she could squeeze in because he knew it was short notice and she’d be busy given the time of the year. She could manage dinner tomorrow evening she said, hoping she hadn’t sounded too eager.
She was already imagining the feel of his knee as she accidentally on purpose grazed hers against his under the table. They’d said their goodbyes with him arranging to pick her up from O’Mara’s at seven. She was certain Mammy or one of her siblings would have Noah although she didn’t relish telling them where she was going. She’d held the phone to her ear for a few more seconds after the call had disconnected, putting the parts of herself that had disassembled at the sound of his voice back together before joining the others in the living room once more.
Now, standing in the heaving book shop, Moira nudged her again. ‘Well, was it, Shay?’
‘Ow, don’t do that.’
Aisling moved closer to hear what Roisin had to say.
‘Who’s Shay, Mummy?’
She shot Moira a look. ‘He’s an old friend of Mummy’s.’
Noah was nonplussed but Moira took the hint for the time being and dropped the subject.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, tensions outside Santa’s grotto were running high and even Patrick was beginning to make noises of dissent. ‘Could we not just gather outside on the street and ask someone to take a photograph, Mammy?’ he asked.
Maureen was aghast. ‘With no Father Christmas?’
‘We could get one of those random Santas that stand on the street corners.’
The withering look Patrick received saw him back down. He winced and rubbed his temples as a toddler somewhere in the midden began to screech, ‘No, Santa. No like! NOOOOO!’ A baby, fed up with the waiting and startled by the sudden outburst, began to shriek and the mammies, all determined to get a photograph of their precious offspring with Father Christmas, were beginning to look in need of gin.
The line they’d found themselves in shuffled forward every now and then and Roisin watched enviously as a victorious mammy herded her four immaculately dressed children past. Each was sucking a lollypop and clutching a balloon. She didn’t have to turn around to know the victorious expression would have been wiped clean from her face when a loud pop made them all jump. It was followed by a howl that suggested the ended of the world was nigh. ‘My balloon! I want another one. Mammy, I want another one. It’s not fair! Eva, Connor and Mary have all got theirs.’
Oh yes, she thought, Christmas was a precious time for families.
Mammy swung around and jabbed at Moira, ‘I remember you putting on a holy show like that when your balloon popped the year I took you to meet Father Christmas at Brown Thomas. Mortifying it was.’
Moira was unrepentant. ‘Well, I’d say you’re getting payback now, Mammy, wouldn’t you?’
‘Mummy,’ Noah tugged on Roisin’s sleeve. ‘I can smell poo.’
Ah Jaysus, Roisin thought, her son was to the number two what David Attenborough was to the animal kingdom. He was getting obsessed and it was all down to Colin trying to get one up on her with the gerbil. She sniffed the air cautiously and at first all she could smell was too many women wearing too many clashing perfumes which mingled cloyingly together. Hang on, she thought, sniffing again and this time hit with the unmistakable smell of filled nappy. Oh, dear God, could this afternoon get any worse!
‘Can you smell that,’ Moira nudged her. ‘Sure, it’s worse than Mammy when she’s been at the Brussels.’ She deliberately said this loud enough to turn heads.
‘I heard that,’ Maureen said. ‘Don’t believe a word of it, Cindy. She’s a one for making things up.’
This was a living nightmare, Roisin thought, shaking her head and wondering when she’d wake up.
At last, after forty-five or so minutes of unspeakable noise and smells, Santa’s helper, who was keeping guard at the entrance to the grotto, came into their line of sight. She was a fierce looking girl with a frizz of red hair who looked as happy with her short red dress with white fur trim and matching hat as Aisling did with her blouse. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and stout, black-booted legs assumed the stance of a nightclub bouncer as she stood squarely in the entrance to the glittering cave where the end to their torment lay. Mechanical reindeer were positioned on either side of the grotto, heads bobbing slowly to the incessant Christmas carols being piped through the building.
‘Would you look at the face on her,’ Mammy hissed over her shoulder. ‘Sure, she’d put the fear of God into you so she would.’
‘Shush, Mammy, she’ll hear you and send us to the back of the queue,’ Aisling hissed back.
Roisin looked at her brother and Cindy, who were almost catatonic with the jet leg and the ordeal they were suffering through. Poor, poor Cindy, she’d put money on Patrick not having warned her what she was in for by coming to visit his family.
And then at last, like the parting of the red sea, the fierce one stepped aside and gestured for them to enter Father Christmas’s inner sanctum.
Chapter 13
‘Ho-ho-ho and who’ve we got here,’ boomed Father Christmas from his gilt throne. A feeling of calm descended over the O’Mara group as they ducked through the glittery entrance and emerged into a peaceful Christmas bubble. The air felt fresh, thanks to the little fan blowing gently in the corner of the grotto. Faux presents were stacked up on either side of the big man’s chair and a Christmas tree laden with red baubles dominated the small space. Roisin peered closely at him wanting to see if he was a nice, plump, jolly Santa or one of those skinny ones who looked nothing like your man. This one obviously liked his food, she thought, spying the crumbs stuck in his beard. It bode well; they were off to a good start after the nightmare of the shop floor outside. A young woman stepped out from behind a camera tripo
d. She was dressed identically to the fearsome helper on the door but looked much nicer insomuch that she at least mustered a weary smile even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Mammy was the family’s self-appointed spokesperson. ‘Ho-ho-ho yourself, Father Christmas, we’re the O’Mara family.’
‘The Waltons,’ whispered Aisling, and Roisin choked out, ‘G’night John-boy.’ They erupted in giggles and Maureen shot them both a death stare.
‘My son, Patrick here, has just returned home from Los Angeles with his girlfriend, Cindy.’
‘Just for the week, Mammy,’ Patrick was quick to interject lest she get any ideas and Cindy waved at the snowy-bearded man enthusiastically announcing in a breathy voice, ‘I love Christmas.’
Father Christmas’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as her bosom bounced along with her hand.
‘It’s the best present a mammy could have, so it is, having all her children around her and I want to capture the moment for prosterior.’
‘Posterity, Mammy,’ Patrick corrected her.
‘And what a fine-looking family you are too in your matching tops and trousers.’ Father Christmas’s twinkly currant eyes were still firmly fastened on Cindy’s chest.
‘Aul perv, I’m not sitting on his knee,’ Moira whispered.
Maureen carried on, ‘Now then, I’ve a picture in my mind as to how I want my photograph to look.’ She hustled Santa’s helper out the way as she pulled Noah over to sit up on Father Christmas’s knee. ‘Upsy daisy, there you go, you perch yourself up there, Noah.’
Desperate to get home and get out of his sweater, Noah clambered up onto the solid red knee and began reeling off a list of things he’d like to find in his stocking on Christmas morning. Father Christmas’s eyes never budged from where they’d lodged on Cindy’s bosom as he nodded and muttered, ‘Well now, you must have been a good boy.’
‘Patrick, Cindy,’ Maureen ordered, ‘I want you two to stand behind Mr Claus on either side with your hands resting on his shoulder, like he’s an old pal. Off you go.’
Maureen kept an eagle eye on her son and his girlfriend as they arranged themselves, before huffing, ‘No, Cindy, stand up straight, shoulders back, you’re not doing a Marilyn Monroe. Cop on to yourself.’
Fair play, Roisin thought. Cindy had leaned over Father Christmas’s shoulder, pouting, and while Father Christmas was all for the Marilyn pose, it wasn’t the stuff of the family portrait. Noah was supposed to be Father Christmas’s focal point and the poor love was trying to tell him about Mr Nibbles but Cindy’s cleavage was getting in the way.
Satisfied she now had Cindy in a suitably chaste pose, Maureen pointed to Roisin, Aisling and Moira, ‘Right you three, you’re on.’
‘It’s like being in a stage musical, so it is. She’ll be telling us to break a leg next,’ Aisling muttered as she was instructed to kneel beside the chair, hands clasped and resting on her lap, Roisin was next to her.
‘Moira, you’re on the other side, same pose please.’
Moira rolled her eyes but did as she was told, while Roisin looked at her mammy wondering where she was going to sit. A thought occurred to her, ah Jaysus, she wasn’t going to perch herself on his other knee, was she?
‘And I’m going to kneel next to Moira. Patrick I might need some help getting up again.’ Maureen smiled at Santa’s helper. ‘I think that’s us.’
Roisin half expected the girl to say, ‘Thank feck for that.’ She was a professional though, and assuming her position behind the tripod she said, ‘On the count of three, say cheese. One, two, three...’
‘Cheese!’
There was a satisfying click and the family was herded from the grotto by the helper lass. They stood blinking in the bright light of the store. The photograph wouldn’t be ready to collect for another ten minutes or so, and Patrick and Cindy announced they were off to tackle the crowds and finish their Christmas shopping. Moira, Aisling and Roisin planned on doing the same, once they’d seen the photograph, and Noah was to go home with his nana, who’d another bracing pier walk with Pooh planned.
‘I’m going to have a look around while we wait,’ Roisin said, ensuring her son’s hand was held firmly by his nana before moving away from the milling mammies and children waiting to meet Father Christmas, in order to browse the book aisles. She could see a small gathering by a stand at the other end of the store and, curious, she moseyed closer as she realised a book signing was underway. A poster behind the table at which the author sat revealed it to be for the book she’d read the review of in the paper yesterday, When We Were Brave.
The author Cliona Whelan had silvered hair, pulled back in a loose bun. Stray tendrils escaped to frame her face, which was animated as she chatted to a woman around the same age as her. She had the face of a storyteller, Roisin decided, and she was what Mammy would describe as a handsome woman with inquisitive grey eyes framed by tortoiseshell glasses. She was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt with a jauntily-tied scarf in the same shade of grey as her eyes. Roisin couldn’t see what she was wearing on her bottom half as she was hidden by the table she sat at, but she was guessing it would be tailored pants. The type with little pleated nips and tucks around the waistband. Her style gave her the manner of someone direct, someone you didn’t pussyfoot around, someone used to moving in a male dominated world. She had been a journalist after all. Her pen was poised, ready to sign the book the woman she was talking to had thrust in front of her.
The queue was nothing like the one she’d just endured and it was a grand opportunity to get the gift she planned on buying for Aisling personalised, Roisin decided. She sidled up to the stand of books next to the table and took one from it, handing it to the girl who was working the till at the end of the table before joining the line.
‘Hello.’ Cliona greeted Roisin with a smile that must have been getting tired around the edges. ‘Have you a special message in mind?’ Her pen was poised over the book.
‘Hello,’ Roisin was suddenly shy. It wasn’t every day she was face to face with an author whose book was storming the charts. ‘Erm could you say, Dear Aisling—’ she went blank.
‘How about, “Dear Aisling, I hope you enjoy this book?”’
‘Grand.’
Cliona signed her sentiment with flourish and Roisin remembered her manners, thanking her and wishing her a Merry Christmas before sliding the book back in the paper bag. She put it in her bag and looking around for the others, decided the photo should be ready by now.
She found them at the main counter. The picture was being placed inside a festive red, cardboard wallet which Maureen took from the young girl with her Santa hat who was in charge of the developing. ‘C’mon, Mammy, let’s go outside to look at it. I’m desperate for some fresh air,’ Moira said linking her arm through her mammy’s and herding her toward the exit. Aisling, Roisin and Noah pushed their way out after them.
They all took grateful gulps of the carbon monoxide filled air on O’Connell Street and clustered around Maureen under the awning of a nearby shop. Noah clung to his nana’s leg, tired and fed up, as she eked out the drama by pretending to be interested in the Christmas message on the cardboard wallet.
‘Get on with it, Mammy. Put us out of our misery,’ Roisin urged, mindful of her son who’d obviously had enough.
Maureen opened it and inspected the glossy print. Her face was unreadable as the sisters craned to see for themselves but Maureen snapped it shut before they could get a look, muttering, ‘Sweet Mother of Divine.’
‘Let me see,’ Moira snatched at it but Maureen held it out of reach, shaking her head so her dark hair swished back and forth, her face a picture of misery.
‘No.’ She played the guilt card. ‘All I wanted was a family photograph. A memento to pull out on those long afternoons when you’ve all gone back to your busy lives. Something to proudly show off to my friends. Was that so much to ask?’
Roisin draped her arm around her mammy’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
‘No, of course it wasn’t, Mammy, and it can’t be that bad.’
‘It’s going in the bin as soon as we get home, so it is.’
‘Ah no, not after what we went through to get it taken. C’mon now, Mammy, let us have a look,’ Aisling said. They were burning with curiosity but Maureen was not going to be swayed easily and she unzipped her handbag making to put it away, sniffing all the while.
‘We’ll treat you to tea at Bewley’s.’ Aisling knew she’d hit on a winner by bribing her mammy with a cuppa at her favourite tearooms, when she zipped her handbag up.
‘Well don’t expect me to pitch in,’ Moira said. ‘I’m a student.’
‘A sticky bun, too?’ Mammy eyed Aisling.
‘Alright, a sticky bun too, now hand it over.’ She took the wallet from Maureen, and her sisters leaned in expectantly.
She opened it and stared, in horror, at the sight of them all immortalised in their red tops and blue jeans.
‘Jaysus wept, it’s the fecking Addams family alright.’ Moira was the first to speak, her two sisters rendered speechless as they soaked up the scene. Cindy had blatantly disobeyed Mammy’s instructions and her heaving chest was resting on Father Christmas’s shoulder. Patrick was staring at her assets with an expression of lust and consternation on his face. Father Christmas had obviously jumped, startled by the bosoms that had landed on his shoulder, and poor Noah was holding on to his leg for grim death like he was on a horse just off the starter blocks. Roisin’s hair, thanks to the damp Dublin day, was a bushy frizz about her face—give her a top hat and she’d look like yer Slash man from Guns n Roses. Moira had her eyes shut and looked like she’d been doing the drugs while Aisling appeared to have grown a black mole on the side of her mouth. ‘Why didn’t any of you tell me I had a chocolate chip stuck there?’
The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2 Page 9
