The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2

by Michelle Vernal

  ‘I’m sure he will, Donal,’ she said, spying Pooh licking his chops, his dinner finished as he moseyed toward her. ‘What do you think about coming along with me to the puppy training class next week? It might help.’

  ‘I’d be honoured to accompany you.’

  Again, Maureen smiled, hugging the sound of his jovial voice to her before inquiring as to what he’d spent the day doing.

  ‘I had a grand morning looking after my Gaby’s little Keegan.’ They whiled away a half hour chatting about the delights of being a grandparent and then, glancing at her watch, Maureen realised she needed to think about getting ready. She had a big evening ahead of her.

  ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow then, Maureen. I’m looking forward to hearing all the craic of the hen night,’ Donal said.

  ‘It will be down to me and Bronagh to keep an eye on proceedings. We’ll make sure things don’t get out of control,’ she informed him before ringing off and floating her way over to the kitchen. She flicked the kettle on and popped a teabag in a cup before sitting down at the table to wait for the kettle to boil. Her mind flitted back to Donal and she played over, as she’d done so at least one hundred times or more, the yacht club Christmas dinner where she’d first met him.

  She’d set such high store on the evening but the night was promising to be a flop and she was regretting all the effort she’d gone to having her hair and nails done. Rosemary Farrell had agreed to be her plus one for the evening, even though she didn’t belong to the club, and Maureen was grateful to her for agreeing to accompany her. She’d learned since Brian had passed a lot of married women didn’t take kindly to a widow joining them at their table. She imagined it would be the same for the newly divorced. Rosemary however had managed to wear her gratitude at keeping her company thin by the time they’d finished their, pre-dinner drinks with her complaining about her clicking hip.

  Maureen had sat down at their allocated table for the meal and two men she’d met a handful of times while taking her sailing lessons had swooped down to sit either side of her. Rosemary and her clicking hip never stood a chance. Instead, her rambling club friend sat down across the table next to a woman who worked for the council. Rosemary, Maureen had seen glancing over, was in her apple cart at having an ear to bend about the state of some of the public walking ways. She’d gotten particularly strident as she informed the council woman how she was sure the shoddy paths had played a part in giving her a dicky hip in the first place. Maureen felt sorry for the woman, knowing she was in for a blow by blow account of Rosemary’s hip replacement surgery over their entrees.

  So it was, Maureen found herself sandwiched between Grady Macaleese, an aging playboy who had a penthouse overlooking the harbour here in Howth. He’d droned on and on about his boating prowess in a manner which had made her wonder whether he was talking about boating at all. He’d kept mentioning things like his big rudder and his ramrod boom. On her right was Rory Power, a wet-lipped, ruddy-cheeked man with an appalling combover who’d not been able to avert his eyes from her bosom all evening. It was a miracle how his fork had managed to find his mouth during the main course.

  Yes, she’d been wondering why she’d bothered coming and she’d been so looking forward to the evening too. She liked mingling with the boatie types, just not these two boatie eejits. As the plates were cleared away and Grady began to tell her about how he liked to manhandle his keel, she looked toward the stage and her mood brightened. The band was about to start. At least she wouldn’t be able to hear him over the music. She interrupted him, past caring if he thought her rude. ‘What sort of music are we in for?’

  Grady looked flummoxed at having to answer a question not directly related to himself. Rory, eyes still firmly attached to Maureen’s right breast, informed her it was to be a Kenny Rogers tribute band. ‘The club’s director of entertainment is a country and western fan, that’s him prancing around in the cowboy boots, over there.’ He pointed toward the stage.

  Oh yes, Maureen thought, spying the gentleman in question, all he was missing was a piece of straw to chew on. She liked the sound of some Kenny Rogers though. The Gambler usually got everyone on their feet.

  It had too, she thought now, getting to her feet as she heard the kettle begin bubbling away. She’d managed to escape the clutches of Grady and Rory by taking herself off to the bathroom and when she’d reappeared, she’d attached herself to a large group who’d taken to the dance floor. She’d felt a little like a teenager as she caught the eye of the singer who did indeed have a look of your man Kenny with his thick thatch of salt and pepper hair and matching beard. It was his twinkling eyes that won her over though and when he asked if he could fetch her a drink while the band took their break, she was very happy to accept. Rosemary’s nose had been out of joint when she’d spotted Maureen in conversation with the lead singer whose name, she’d since found out, was Donal. She’d limped over to say she was calling it a night because there was no show of her being able to manage the dancing, not with her hip clicking.

  Maureen poured the boiled water into her cup and waited for the tea to brew. She wondered what her children would make of Donal’s retirement hobby. Sure, she decided, they’d be won over like she’d been if they got the chance to hear him sing Lucille. Satisfied her tea was just the right shade of tannin, she flicked the bag onto the little saucer she kept beside the kettle and then carried her drink over to the table. Pooh began to whine as she burst into the Dolly part of Islands in the Stream. It was something she’d been doing ever since she’d met Donal.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Moira O’Mara, I can see your knickers!’ Maureen said. She was perched on the edge of the sofa in the living room of the family apartment in between Bronagh and Ita. They were all awaiting the appearance of the bride-to-be. She’d opted for a slimline tonic, mixed with the gin her eyes had migrated to when she’d arrived, and it was going down a treat. Bronagh, who’d poured herself into a deep pink dress, which she told Maureen she’d had a sod of job trying to match a lipstick with, informed her she’d brought the gin along. The hidden calories in those pre-mix lolly water drinks all the young ones were so keen on knocking back would make your hair curl, she’d said, thinking herself hilarious given Maureen’s curls. She was still chortling to herself as she reached forward to help herself to the cheese and crackers. It was the second time Maureen had had to slap Bronagh’s hand away, telling her she’d regret her poor snack choices in the morning.

  Nina had also joined them for the evening and was looking forward to a rare night out. It wasn’t often she got to be a young woman with no responsibilities or cares and she intended to have fun. Mrs Flaherty had declined Aisling’s invitation on the grounds of her bedtime being nine pm these days and young Evie who worked the weekend evening shift on reception, was precisely that, young.

  ‘You can’t,’ Moira said, craning her neck to look back over her shoulder. She’d been standing by the dining table chatting to Aisling’s old work friends when Maureen had caught sight of her skirt and nearly spilled her G&T.

  ‘I can. They’re purple and barely cover that arse of yours.’

  ‘Well it is a hen night, Mammy. We’re supposed to cause all sorts of trouble around the town. And what do you call the get-up you’ve on?’

  ‘The only trouble you’ll be getting, my girl, is the back of my hand on your bare legs. Now go and put something suitable on. I’ll not have a daughter of mine flashing her knickers to all and sundry.’ Maureen flicked her hand in the direction of the hallway, shooing her off.

  Moira ignored her, knowing it would take too much energy for Mammy to get up from the sofa to smack the back of her legs. Her glory days of being fast as lightning with the wooden spoon were over. She took in her mammy’s white cowboy boots and her eyes travelled upward. ‘Jaysus, Mammy, please tell me those aren’t rhinestones on your blouse.’ She was wearing a black skirt, nothing wrong with that. It was a perfectly respectable knee length teamed with a long-sleeved silky bla
ck blouse which revealed a tad too much cleavage in Moira’s opinion. One Cindy in the family was enough. It was the sparkly, swirly pattern across the chest she took umbrage with. It looked very much like rhinestones. All she needed was a big fecky off, cowboy hat, big blonde hair, enormous boobs, a smaller waist and the ability to hold a note, and she’d be like an Irish Dolly Parton.

  ‘They’re diamantes not rhinestones.’

  ‘You’re like a grandmotherly version of Madonna changing your look every fecking few minutes,’ Moira muttered.

  Maureen lunged forward and Moira scooted around the other side of the table, smirking as she saw Mammy was all hot air. She hadn’t managed to make it out of the seat.

  ‘Enough of the language on your sister’s special night,’ she said, settling back on the cushions and giving her gin and tonic, the attention it was due.

  Ita looked down at her carefully chosen black dress with its white polka dots, bought specially for this evening from River Island. It had cost her nearly a week’s wages and she’d teemed it with black knee-high boots as the shop assistant had suggested. She’d felt a million dollars when she’d left home earlier, her mam’s voice ringing in her ears. ‘Be sure to remember me to Maureen, now Ita.’ She’d wanted to impress the O’Mara sisters who only ever saw her pushing a cleaning trolley about the place. She felt certain they looked down their haughty noses at her and she’d planned on showing them she scrubbed up as well as the next girl. Now though, looking at Moira in her tiny scarlet skirt she felt frumpy, as though she were off to a church social and not on a hen night. Her stomach knotted in the way it always did when she was around the O’Mara sisters.

  Bronagh put in her penny’s worth. ‘Moira, if you prance around the city streets in that skirt, you’ll be offered money in return for favours. Mark my words.’

  Moira frowned, not sure what Bronagh was on about, her mammy’s message had come across loud and clear though. ‘What I want to know, Mammy, is why it’s alright for you to swan around the city in your yoga pants showing everyone your bits but I can’t wear a short skirt when I’m in the prime of my youth.’

  ‘The yoga pants are very good for the mobility so they are. I can bend and stretch and get in and out of the car and remember, young lady, you’ll still be my daughter when you’re sixty and past your so-called prime. Besides, I’m after getting a new pair. It won’t be me flashing my undergarments to anyone who cares to take a look.’

  Roisin looked up from where she was scooping paté onto a cracker over by the kitchen worktop. ‘What do you mean you’ve got a new pair?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Mammy, have you been nosing in my suitcase?’

  Nina was sitting in the armchair near the windows and her head swivelled back and forth, like a tennis ball being thwacked across the court, between the sisters and their mother. She would never answer back to her madre the way these girls did theirs but she envied their easy relationship with her too.

  Maureen had a shifty expression on her face but before Roisin could grill her further, Leila appeared looking glamorous in a silver halter neck dress.

  ‘Leila, you look a picture, so you do,’ Maureen exclaimed, grateful for the diversion.

  ‘Thank you, Maureen, but wait until you see our bride. Aisling,’ she called.

  Aisling came striding out with her hands on her hips as though strutting the catwalk. Roisin whistled and Maureen and Bronagh clapped. Aisling’s two girlfriends from her resort management days, Rowena call me Ro-ro and Tina-Marie like Lisa-Marie Presley only it’s Tina-Marie Preston, cheered. Aisling was stunning in a sage green chiffon strappy number with impossibly high Louboutins and a fluffy white veil pinned into her hair. A drink was pressed into her hand and she took a seat alongside her old friends as Moira took charge.

  ‘Has everyone got a drink?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the chorused reply.

  ‘Good, because we’ve a few presents there on the table for Aisling to open and then I thought we could play some games before our limousine whisks us away. I thought we’d start with Bridal Bingo.’

  ‘I love that,’ Ro-ro squealed turning to Tina-Marie. ‘It’s great craic. I played it last month at Stephanie’s hen night. Aisling you should sit at the head of the table to open your presents.’

  Aisling pulled out the chair and dutifully sat down.

  ‘Go and change that skirt, Moira,’ Maureen bossed.

  Seeing she was going to get no peace until she did, she told the expectant hens she’d be two ticks before racing off to the bedroom. She reappeared with a skirt that came down to the middle of her shapely thighs. ‘Better, Mammy?’

  ‘Much better.’ Maureen was appeased. She was also enjoying her gin and tonic. It had been years since she’d tippled on that particular mixer. ‘Bronagh, how’s your drink there. Shall I top us up?’

  ‘A grand idea, Maureen.’ Bronagh said. ‘Help me up would you, Ita?’

  Ita took her hand and heaved the receptionist up from the sofa. They all gathered around the table, Maureen watching the proceedings from where she was sloshing tonic into a generous measure of gin.

  ‘Open this one first, Aisling,’ Roisin said, sliding a large shiny wrapped package toward her sister. ‘It’s from me and Moira.’

  Aisling tore the paper off and stared at the wedding advent calendar inside. Little bags of varying sizes in different girly pink fabrics were pinned to the board in a two-week countdown between now and her big day. ‘Did you two make this?’

  The sisters nodded beaming. ‘All the little bags were sewn by hand,’ Roisin affirmed.

  Aisling blinked back tears not wanting her mascara to run. ‘It’s fantastic, thank you. When did you get the time?’

  ‘We’ve been making the bags for weeks and sorting the little gifts inside, but we put it all together when you shot off to see Quinn after we’d been to the Bridal Emporium yesterday.

  ‘Well, I love it.’

  ‘Open number fourteen,’ Moira bossed, and Aisling delved into the pink gingham bag accordingly. Inside was a voucher. ‘It’s for a pedicure, ah thanks, Moira, Rosi.’ She got up and hugged her sisters. ‘That’s not all we got you, open this one.’ Moira picked up a small, soft package and passed it to Aisling.

  She ripped off the paper, in the swing of things now, and found two pairs of knickers, one in red lace the other black. ‘Jaysus wept,’ she said holding them up. ‘They’re tiny so they are.’

  ‘And what do you call those? There’s no gusset in them. Sure, what’s the point?’ Bronagh said taking the gin and tonic Maureen handed to her and slurping on it.

  ‘Crotchless panties, Bronagh. Which is exactly the point.’

  Bronagh spluttered on her gin, making the others laugh.

  ‘And I made you this.’ Maureen gave her the scrapbook chronicling her daughter’s life to date. She’d spent many a happy evening tripping down memory lane putting it together for Aisling, having done the same for Roisin when she got married.

  ‘I’ll treasure it, Mammy, thank you.’

  Leila began to leaf through it exclaiming over Aisling in her first communion dress. ‘Sure, your dress reminds me of Princess Diana’s wedding dress.’

  Aisling ploughed through the rest of the gifts which ranged from a bottle of Tahitian massage oil to a box of pink champagne truffles which she duly passed around.

  Moira cleared the wrapping paper from the table and said, ‘Aisling, can you fill this sheet out with words related to your wedding. Everybody else, did you fill in the cards I gave you earlier?’

  There was a collective ‘yes’ and Aisling got busy writing. ‘Finished,’ she said, and Moira checked the group was ready with their pens before telling her to start calling out what she’d written.

  ‘Cake,’ she said, hearing the frantic clicking of ballpoint pens before carrying on with the rest of her random wedding words. It was when she called, ‘Garter belt,’ that Ita jumped up and shouted, ‘Bingo!’

  Moira handed her a decorative bottle stopper as her pri
ze.

  Maureen and Bronagh’s competitive streaks put in an appearance during the ensuing game of Prosecco Pong with Maureen demonstrating an uncanny talent for getting the ping pong ball in the cup.

  ‘We’ve time for one last game,’ Moira said checking her watch. ‘What shall it be, ladies? The Cocktail Quiz or True or False.’

  The Cocktail Quiz won.

  It turned out Nina had an extensive knowledge of cocktails, thanks to her background in hospitality. She was gifted a canvas pouch which Leila told her was for keeping life’s little necessities in.

  ‘I haven’t had a cocktail in a good while. The pina colada was always my go-to. I wouldn’t mind one tonight.’

  ‘Mammy, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried a Cosmopolitan,’ Moira said, glancing at her watch and announcing the limousine would be pulling up downstairs in approximately five minutes.

  There was a flurry of last-minute organisation on the part of the bride-to-be and her flushed-cheeked guests in the form of lip gloss application, calls of nature, and the checking of bags for keys. Sorted, they made their way toward the door only to find Moira blocking the exit as she held up a large shopping bag. ‘Before we go,’ she said, ‘I need you all to wear these.’

  There was laughter, especially when Maureen announced if it was anything rude like willies bobbing about on a headband, you could count her out.

  ‘Me too, I’m not wearing the pink, glittery willies on my head at my age,’ Bronagh said, backing her up.

  ‘It’s traditional for the hen party to wear sashes or badges, or even crowns, not willies on headbands, Mammy and Bronagh. However, Leila, Rosi and I have gone one better. Close your eyes everybody,’ Moira ordered, and they did so, wondering what on earth she was going to come up with.