‘Oh, yes?’ Rosemary was all ears. She was as fond of a bit of harmless gossip as the next woman.
‘I had dinner with Donal last night.’
‘Maureen O’Mara, if you’re going to tell me something that will make me blush—'
‘No, not at all, although we did kiss and very nice it was too. It’s like riding a bike, Rosemary, once you’ve got the hang of it you never forget how to do it.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Rosemary said tartly.
‘But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. He’s only after asking me to sing along with him at a birthday bash in Clontarf. He needs me to be Sheena and Dolly.’
‘But you can’t sing,’ Rosemary said, looking as though someone had just squeezed lemon juice on a papercut.
‘I can so.’ Maureen was affronted although she wasn’t surprised, she’d expected a touch of the green eye from Rosemary given she always sang along to the music when they were line dancing, very annoying it was too. She could be an attention seeker could Rosemary. Still and all, maybe she should have a few lessons between now and then to ensure her vocal chords were in top form. There was a woman in town here who gave singing lessons, she’d seen her notice on the wall of the library. Yes, she decided, she’d call in at the library on the way home and get her number.
‘Well we can’t stand out here all day, best we get inside,’ Rosemary said snippily. Maureen followed behind her, pausing to make sure Pooh wasn’t going anywhere as she tethered him to the rail outside the entrance. ‘Now you behave yourself. Howth’s a small town and your reputation precedes you. There’s a doggy treat in it for you,’ she said, before heading inside the hall.
She took her place up the front of the class, smiling and greeting the twenty or so group of women. Word was spreading, she thought. There’d only been fifteen of them a few weeks back. It wasn’t just good from a physical exercise perspective either. Laura, their instructor, who was in her thirties and had young children at home, had told them line dancing was good for memory and exercising the brain as well. She was very good was Laura. Maureen liked the fact she always wore a white Stetson to match her white boots and she was young enough to get away with a short skirt unlike Joan Fairbrother down the back there. It was important to look the part, Maureen believed, if you wanted to be taken seriously.
Laura had spent time in America in cowboy country as she called it and had fallen in love with line dancing while she was there. Maureen would have liked to have asked her why she hadn’t fallen in love with a cowboy while she was over there. You know, like the ones you saw on the covers of those romance books. The fellas who fill out their open necked shirts and jeans in a way not many Irish sheep or beef farmers ever would. Instead she’d come home and married Ned Perkins, a local real estate agent, who looked like he’d topple over in a gusty breeze.
Laura was intent on getting them to master her three favourite dances, the Tush Push, the Slap Leather and the Boot Scootin Boogie. Maureen could see why Rosemary struggled with the Tush Push. Personally speaking, her favourite was the Boot Scootin Boogie.
Laura clapped her hands but the chatter carried on and Maureen turned around and put a finger to her lips to shush everyone. Good manners were next to godliness. They finally quietened down and Laura introduced herself and gave the new attendees a run-down on who she was and what her credentials were to teach this style of dance as well as touting its health benefits. Then, she clapped her hands and said they were good to go before pushing play on her portable stereo. Today, they were starting off with the Tush Push. Maureen side-eyed Rosemary, she wouldn’t be happy with all the gyrating they were in for. Served her right, she thought, concentrating on her heel, toe, heel. She liked the music, Laura had chosen. It was that Shania one, singing about wanting to feel a man.
The class was over quickly and Maureen thought the high-fiving that Nuala and Fidelma did at the end was a little over the top. As for Pooh, he’d been remarkably well behaved throughout the hour-long class and she wondered if it was the country music. It seemed to have a soothing effect on him. ‘Thank you, Laura,’ she called to the young woman who was packing her things away.
‘Great job today, Maureen, you were on fire.’
‘Thanks very much.’ Ha, take that, Rosemary, she thought, still annoyed by her earlier comment.
She felt a tap on the shoulder as she was heading out the door. It was Nuala. ‘Maureen, I was admiring your moves in there. You’re a natural, so you are. Those trousers you’re after wearing look grand on you, too especially around here.’ She slapped her own bottom. Yes, Maureen thought, Nuala was getting very caught up in the American side of line dancing. Still and all, a compliment was a compliment and she was nothing if not gracious.
‘Thank you, Nuala. It’s the shape of them you see, they can turn a pear into a peach. My Rosi put me on to them.’ She pulled the fabric away. ‘Feel how soft they are.’
Nuala rubbed the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Lovely and soft. Fidelma, feel this.’
Fidelma did so. ‘They are,’ she agreed before adding, ‘I’m not getting on with these jeans.’ Nuala nodded her agreement. ‘Me neither. They ride up where they’ve no business going riding. Those trousers you’re wearing would do me nicely.’
‘Ah well, I’m sorry, ladies, I can’t help you there. Rosi buys them in London.’
Nuala pursed her lips in disappointment.
‘Can you not ask her to get us a pair each?’ Fidelma asked.
Maureen felt the stirrings of an idea. She untied Pooh who was definitely going to be getting a treat in a moment and said. ‘Listen, ladies, leave it with me would you, and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘You could put me down for a pair too,’ Rosemary said. ‘There’s no flexibility in these.’ She gestured to her dark denim jeans.
‘What’s that you’re all on about?’ Marian asked, joining them out the front, Mary and Agnes peering over her shoulder to see what all the fuss was about.
By the time Maureen set off for home she had ten orders for yoga pants and a business plan was beginning to form. She walked briskly, keen to telephone Rosi.
Chapter 6
Maureen conveniently forgot about her having told Moira just that morning not to be ringing Roisin when she was at work. She peered at the number scrawled in her telephone book and tapped it out waiting impatiently for her eldest daughter to answer. She wouldn’t normally ring London at this time of the day, what with it being peak rates, but this was important and besides, if things went to plan, she’d be able to claim the call as a business expense. Roisin’s dulcet tones reverberated down the line.
‘Rosi, it’s your mammy.’
‘Is everything alright, Mammy, you don’t normally ring me at work.’
‘Everything is grand. Now, I want you to listen carefully as to what I’m about to say.’
‘Mammy, you’re not a spy in the cold war.’
‘Don’t be clever, Roisin, this is important. I’m after having a brainwave.’
‘Did it hurt?’
Maureen ignored her. ‘I want to host a Tupperware party except instead of Tupperware we’d be selling yoga pants. What do you think?’
‘I think you’re mad.’
‘No, hear me out, Roisin. You told me you buy the yoga pants off a local market. Well, what you do is buy up big and bring them over here with you and we put a decent mark-up on them. I’ll have nibbles and drinks organised here to get the ladies in the mood for spending and when they’re nicely relaxed you can do a demonstration of your bendy yoga. They’ll be so impressed by the way you can lunge and touch your toes and things they’ll have to splash the cash. We split the profit and we’re laughing all the way to the bank.’
Over in London, Roisin was holding the phone away from her ear, looking at it with a frown on her face as she shook her head. Her family were mad the lot of them. She’d already had Moira on the phone last night worrying over where Mammy was and again this morning
going on about her having been on a dinner date with her man-friend. She’d prattled on about how Mammy had mentioned a luncheon where they were going to meet him officially. Roisin was looking forward to Aisling returning from her honeymoon so Mammy and Moira had someone else to annoy.
‘Come on, Rosi, I need you on board. I can’t do it without you bringing the gear in. I’ll take care of your airfares.’
Oh, for fecks sake, now Mammy sounded like she was organising for her to smuggle drugs in on Ryan Air. Then again, a free trip to Dublin to see Shay was not to be sniffed at. ‘What about sizes and things how would you know how many of each to order?’ She’d not thought this madcap idea of hers through properly.
Maureen visualised the line dancing ladies, the golfing ladies, the yacht club ladies, the water colour painting class ladies and the bowls ladies. ‘Large, and one or two mediums would do the trick.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Rosi hadn’t been nicknamed easy-osi Rosi by her family for nothing and she knew her mammy well enough to know she had the bit firmly between her teeth on this one and wouldn’t let it go until she got her way. ‘Alright, alright. I’ll do it.’
Chapter 7
Bronagh finished tapping the reservation, that had come through the fax machine two minutes ago from a German tour operator, into the computer. She was using far more force on the keyboard than was necessary, not that taking her current mood out on it was making her feel any better. She carefully noted down the reservation in the book she kept beside the Mac as backup because she refused to put all her faith in the computer, before opening her drawer. She retrieved the custard creams snaffling one down and then another. What did it matter if she put the weight back on she’d worked so hard to lose for Aisling’s wedding? Who cared? She could pinpoint the moment when she’d begun to feel out of sorts; not grumpy as such, well, a little yes but it was mingled with a malaise that was most unlike her.
This current frame of mind had descended when Moira had breezed through reception in a pair of boots Bronagh was certain didn’t belong to her. When she’d pointed this out, Moira had ignored the part about the boots not belonging to her and informed Bronagh this particular style was called a bootie, not a boot per se. She thought she was awfully clever now she was at the college, Bronagh had thought. Moira had attempted to con a custard cream from her as was her usual morning routine. Now, Bronagh was glad she’d only let her have one of the biscuits because she needed them more than Moira did.
Moira had put the whole thing in her mouth and perched on the edge of the desk, brushing the crumbs from her jeans before telling her what was on her mind. ‘I spoke to Mammy this morning.’
‘Oh yes? And how is your mammy, I haven’t seen her for the best part of a week?’
‘Well that’s because she’s busy with her new man-friend.’ Moira registered the look of surprise on Bronagh’s face with satisfaction. It was validation Mammy was indeed being secretive. ‘She’s not mentioned him to you either, then? I’m not surprised, she’s been very cagey about the whole thing. Although, she mentioned organising a lunch so Rosi, Aisling and myself can meet him and his daughters, which I’m taking to mean she’s serious about him. It makes me feel weird, Bronagh, to think of Mammy with anyone other than Daddy.’ Moira shuddered.
Bronagh had been sharper than she’d normally be with the youngest of the O’Mara girls but her tongue had taken on a life of its own. ‘Now listen to me, Moira O’Mara. You’re not to be raining on your mammy’s parade. Sure, you and your sisters are grown women with lives of your own and she’s entitled to some happiness. It doesn’t mean she loved your daddy any less if she steps out with someone new.’
Moira had been a little taken aback. She’d expected custard creams and a sympathetic ear not getting the head eaten off her. She’d tottered out the door in the heeled booties with a wounded air.
Bronagh had been banging about ever since and not even the half packet of custard creams she was chomping her way through was helping matters. She was happy Maureen had someone she was sweet on. It had been her shoulder that had been leaned on by her old employer and good friend after Brian’s death. It had nearly crushed her but she’d gritted her teeth and gotten on with things because that’s what you did. She was still a woman in the prime of her life so, why shouldn’t she have a second chance at happiness? She didn’t begrudge her it at all but what had her upset was knowing she’d never even gotten her first chance at happiness and Moira’s words this morning had brought back all those old feelings of resentment that did her no good whatsoever. Normally she kept a tight lid on them but they’d pushed their way out and she couldn’t seem to shove them back in their box. There was nobody to blame for the way things had worked out other than herself. She’d made her choices and sure she had a good life. It was only it had felt back then as if she’d had no choice. None at all.
Chapter 8
1970
‘Here we go, Mam.’ Bronagh put a cup of tea down on the tray table beside her mother. Myrna Hanrahan was sitting in the mustard coloured armchair with its white crocheted antimacassars protecting the fabric beneath its fat velveteen arms. Her sparrow-like frame was dwarfed by the plump cushions and she had a woollen patchwork blanket thrown across her knees. She was dressed and her dark hair which had more than a dash of silver running through it was curling prettily around her cheeks, the way it did when it had been freshly washed. These were good signs insomuch that she must have gone out despite being so poorly, hopefully to see their family doctor. Her green blouse was buttoned right to the top the bow done up and Bronagh could see the hem of her skirt in a paler shade of green peeking out from beneath the blanket. She had tights on and her feet were in her sheepskin-lined slippers, even though the sun was shining outside.
The chair had been Dad’s favourite when he was alive. Sometimes Bronagh imagined she could see him sitting there with his paper held open, puffing on his pipe. It was a glimpse of happier memories that were beginning to fade. If she leaned in close though, she could still catch a whiff of his Condor ready rubbed tobacco. The scent of old barber shops and burnt toast that had curled from his pipe was that of her dad. Her mam had commandeered his chair of late because it was the softest one in the house. She said it didn’t hurt her bones like the others with their springy cushions. Bronagh struggled to understand what she meant by her bones hurting but the fact her mam’s face was pale and drawn with lines of pain etched around her eyes was plain for anyone to see.
Hilary, Bronagh’s elder and only sibling had made her promise she’d go and see Doctor Burke today. It was high time she got to the bottom of why she’d been having these spells where her body ached all over and she didn’t have the energy to get out of bed. It had all begun with a nasty chill she’d picked up which she’d not been able to shake and Bronagh had chewed her fingernails down worrying about the dizziness her mam was suffering along with all her other symptoms. She was terrified she’d collapse and bang her head while she was at work. It wasn’t like any chill Bronagh had ever had.
Bronagh had to enlist Hilary’s help in convincing Mam to go the doctor that first time too, no easy task given Myrna was a woman who didn’t believe in bothering important people like Doctor Burke over the likes of aches and pains. She needed to rest that was all, she’d croak each time Bronagh broached the topic of her going, but she’d listened to Hilary. As it happened Doctor Burke had said more or less the same thing. Her illness was viral so there was no need for antibiotics and with an ‘I told you so’ Myrna had taken to her bed.
She’d seemed to get better to Bronagh’s relief but then a month later she’d gone to the shops and returned home completely exhausted. The butchers and corner shop were only at the end of the road. No more than a ten minute walk each way including stopping to chat to the neighbours out and about doing the same thing. It was more than the virus she’d had leaving her feeling washed out because she’d not been out of bed for the five days following. This was so unlike
her mam, who prided herself on keeping busy and running a tight ship at home, Bronagh had taken it upon herself to telephone Hilary once more.
She’d regretted making the call the moment she’d heard her sister’s haughty hello down the line. She’d pictured her standing in the hallway of her big house in Tramore. She’d be beside the telephone table where she always had a vase of fresh flowers, twirling the cord of the telephone in that way of hers.
Hilary was a very self-important housewife who’d married a solicitor. Her husband George had been working for a Dublin firm when she met him. He was staid with his dull suits and short back and sides when all the other fellas were beginning to wear their hair a touch too long, but he had good prospects. Good prospects mattered to Hilary who’d always imagined herself somewhere fancier than the two bedroomed terrace where she’d grown up, where Bronagh still lived with her mam. She and George had married and moved to his hometown of Tramore by the seaside in County Waterford not long after and he’d opened a practice there. Hilary was a lady of leisure these days, or at least she was between the hours of eight thirty and three o’clock now her two children, Declan and Erin, were both at school. She had a cleaning woman who came once a week and a man who did the garden. What her sister did with herself all day was a mystery to Bronagh.
There’d never been much love lost between the pair of them who were as different as night and day. Myrna would shake her head and wonder how two girls who were made by the same Mammy and Daddy could be so different. Bronagh hadn’t a clue; it was just the way it was and a fat lot of good Hilary had been when she’d said she was worried about their mam, too. The conversation had played out as she’d expected and she’d been annoyed at herself for hoping this time might be different.
The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2 Page 45
