Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1)

by Elizabeth McGivern

  “Oh God, sorry.”

  “I’m screwing with you. No, I don’t masturbate with a giant dildo while listening to ABBA. I hate ABBA. I masterbate with a giant dildo while listening to Nirvana,” she laughed.

  For the rest of her coffee, I sat quietly listening to Elle DeBruyn talk about her life. According to her, growing up in South Africa was a much more liberating experience. Her parents were ‘spirited’ – as she described them – but, to me, they sounded like self-absorbed narcissists; dragging their daughter from one place to the next so they could ‘experience the earth’.

  For the first twelve years of their daughter’s life, they didn’t enrol her in a school and just went where the wind blew them; flitting from one ‘experience’ to the next.

  “Dad was a writer and said the world was his muse,” she explained. “One week we’d be camping in some remote woodland, then he’d crack up about the silence and needed to be back amongst civilisation. Never the same place twice. Mum would be working whatever job she could find in wherever we’d end up. By the time I was twelve she got completely fed up and took me out the door with her. Mum’s sister moved to Ireland in her twenties and offered us a roof over our head.

  “Even then, Mum was getting restless and we still moved about quite a lot. I think she missed the road with Dad, not that she would ever admit it. Never heard from him again and Mum bit the bullet a couple of years back.”

  “You poor thing, I’m sorry. That all sounds quite traumatic.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, it was a happy enough childhood but nothing I’d put my own children through. I never had a base to call ‘home’ and I think that really screwed me up. My husband, Keith, was the only person that could keep me interested long enough for me to stick around longer than six months in one place. I went to school and all that, did alright in that stuff but I was never going to be one for an office. I paint, by the way, people mostly. I think I’m quite good. Sell enough online but thankfully I married a normal nine-to-five guy. We balance each other out. What about you? Who is Mr Repressed?”

  “Mr Repressed is nice. Sorry, I mean Ben. His name is Ben.”

  “Alright,” she winked. “Tell me about Benny then.”

  “Not much to tell, really. We met in university, have been together ever since. Happy marriage, nice kids, nice home. Nothing too traumatic, or interesting when I hear myself describe my life.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Oh God, she remembered.

  “I…I… that’s not something I want to talk about just now," I stuttered, with colour rising in my cheeks.

  “That’s fine. We can just keep things light and talk about the weather or the nice house and nice marriage you have, but remember: you and I are going to be good friends, great friends in fact. Starting from tomorrow.”

  “What’s tomorrow?” I asked, anxiously.

  “Ah, settle petal, you’re going to be fine. Just maybe get rid of the kid for a couple of hours and wear something a bit looser.”

  “Looser?”

  “Yeah, like stuff you can move in.”

  “I don't think I own any exercise stuff. Will jean shorts do?”

  “Is that a serious question? No. You look like my size I'll bring you something.”

  I didn't feel it was necessary to point out to her that her boobs were at least three cup sizes bigger than mine, I hoped she would realise that all by herself. We agreed to meet back at Joseph's for midday. Adam would have school and Arthur could have his nap at my mum’s house.

  Although that meant I would have to go and talk to her. Something I could happily avoid from one Christmas to the next.

  I thought about just sending a text, but she'd probably pretend she didn't get it and I'd have to show up unannounced. Visits with her were stressful enough without the added ‘lost text’ argument.

  If I went now I'd have to leave to pick up Adam at school anyway, so there would be a reason to cut the torturous visit short. Excellent.

  At that moment, Joseph approached the table cautiously.

  “Amy, are you and your friend busy? We can talk another time?”

  “It's ok, Joe, I'm heading out,” said Elle. “I’ll meet this little lady tomorrow. I love this place, you’ll be seeing lots more of me – starting tomorrow, isn't that right, Princess?”

  I smiled, shyly.

  In a flurry of noise and exuberance, Elle and her girls were gone.

  “She's quite a character, are you good friends?” asked Joseph.

  “Not really, I'm just trying to get out to meet people, I suppose.”

  “That’s a good idea, Amy. Just maybe don't let her eclipse you.”

  “Eclipse me?”

  “Yes, you are your own sun. She’s a bright one but you are just as bright.”

  “That’s rather cryptic,” I said with a wary smile.

  “Not really, just an old man trying to butt his nose in. Now, what is our master plan for my beautiful café?”

  I was really hoping to leave without having this conversation. Maybe I was repressed?

  “Well, I've been doing a lot of research and there's a lot of competition out there, Joseph.”

  “Yes, but my coffee is better and so is my food – even if it is prepared by my halfwit son-in-law.”

  “Even so, I have an important question which I probably should have asked before now.”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s the name of this place?”

  His laugh was loud and it made Arthur jump from the other side of the room.

  “Yes, that is an important question. It’s called Joseph’s, my dear.”

  “I guess that’s easy enough to remember then. I’ll write it in my notes.”

  The only problem was I didn’t have a notebook or a pen. He must have seen me looking awkwardly and blushing because he pushed forward the napkin Elle had left on the table and handed me the pen from behind his ear. Again, his smile was nothing but kind but the mortification was getting a bit much.

  “Well, I can work on this again this evening and if I come up with anything I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  “That’s no problem, Amy. You take your time. If we are going to get this right – and I have a feeling we are – it will take time. You can’t rush perfection, am I right?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  I took my leave and decided to head to my mother’s while I was on a roll for having awkward conversations with people I didn’t really want to speak to.

  Chapter 7

  I argued with myself about the visit to my mother’s the whole drive over and before I knew it I was in the driveway. The curtains had already twitched, which meant I’d been spotted.

  There was no escaping her now.

  I dragged a sobbing Arthur – who had fallen asleep in the car and didn’t want to go anywhere but back to sleep – while he hit me over the head with his rubber hammer. We were a sorry sight by the time my mother opened the door.

  “Do my eyes deceive me? Has the prodigal daughter returned?” she said.

  I do admire how she manages to get guilt in right away before I've even got through the front door. It really is a talent.

  “Hi, Mum,” I said, wearily, setting Arthur at her feet so I could kiss her on the cheek.

  “Mum? That's short for something, isn't it? Mother, perhaps? That can't be right. I only have one child and it's been that long since I saw her I've forgotten what she looks like. You may call me: Eloise.”

  “Mum it's been two weeks and during that time I have been on the phone.”

  Her stern eyes burrowed into me making me feel like an errant teenager, caught sneaking in after curfew. If I was going to earn a babysitter I had to change my approach, so I decided on a different tact.

  “Eloise, please forgive the intrusion,” I said. “Might a weary woman come and rest her legs for ten minutes. I don't have much in terms of payment, but please accept this offering of a tiny slave. Their small hands are great for chi
mney sweeping.”

  “You're a terrible daughter, Amy,” she replied.

  “I know, Mum. Now, let me in.”

  Eloise Galbraith was newly retired but an old world battle-axe. If she was being introduced on a reality tv show she would be described by the voiceover as ‘straight talking’. I always felt that was just a nicer way of saying ‘bitch’. This isn't a male/female thing. If my father behaved the same way she did, I'd call him a ‘bitch’ too.

  She loved my children, I suspect more than she loved me, but that's another thread I'm not willing to pull at. She was doting, loving and patient with them. None of these traits made an appearance during my own childhood, nor did they extend to me, now.

  I knew she loved me, I just don’t think she likes me that much.

  “Dad in?” I asked as I tried not to look panicked at the thought of it just being the two of us.

  “Of course, your mother is only interested in her father. Poor old Granny would never do, would she Arthur?”

  “Please don't passive-aggressively talk about me to my child.”

  “For goodness sake, don't be so sensitive. He's in the garage tinkering with something or probably smoking again.”

  My father didn't smoke, my father has never smoked. He once found an empty cigarette packet in the back of his taxi at the end of the night and left them sitting on the bench in the garage, meaning to dispose of them when he finished cleaning out the back of the car.

  My mother found them and has accused him of being a secret smoker for seventeen years now.

  “Don't roll your eyes at me, Amy. You inherited those from me when you came screaming into the world after thirty nine hours of excruciating labour – with forceps – none of this namby-pamby, epidural nonsense in my day. Back then you were a real woman.”

  “Mum I'm thirty two, you're not referring to the dark ages when you talk about ‘the good old days’ of childbirth – it was the eighties – and I had two emergency sections, I hardly took a tablet and sneezed either of them out. Although I have been neglecting my pelvic floor exercises as of late, so if I was ever tempted to go for a third, then I could probably manage it.”

  “I'm doing mine now.”

  “What? Gross. Mum!”

  “What? You'll never find your father straying because of a loose vagina at home.”

  “No, Mum he will be found wandering the roads to get away from the mad woman who keeps talking to him about her vagina – loose or not.”

  “Should I come back later?” my pale-faced father said as he entered the kitchen at the point of me saying ‘vagina’ a little louder than one should in polite conversation.

  James Galbraith was a taxi driver and a saint. Yes, I was biased. During my teenage years, the house was like a battlefield in the never-ending war with my mother. He always played peacekeeper but I couldn't wait until the day I could escape to university and never come back. I still hated coming back now.

  There was no familiar scent that made me nostalgic and took me back to a happy childhood. Even the thought of a bear hug from my saintly father wasn't enough to take me back here more than is absolutely necessary. I don't know how their relationship worked, how could he keep warm at night with a stubborn ice queen as a bedmate. But, if I was honest with myself, the answer was obvious: they loved each other.

  That, and her tight vagina, apparently.

  These two people who were poles apart in every facet of their being had been happily married for over thirty years.

  In the quiet, when she thought I wasn't paying attention, I used to spot her wipe a crumb from his face or gently fix a hair back into place. Any evening I stumbled home after a late night with my friends, pretending not to be drunk, she would be there with folded arms waiting for me, or at least that's what she would tell me she was doing. The only thing is, she wouldn't go to bed when she heard me collapse into mine. She would still sit in a darkened living room and wait until she heard my father's car turn into the drive, then scuttle up the stairs before she heard his keys jingle in the door. Only when she was certain all the family was under the one roof would she go to sleep.

  The next morning it was business as usual: her fussing and complaining about what I was wearing or who I was hanging out with. All glimpses of the protective, loving mother were buried again until it was necessary. Maybe one day I'd talk to her about it all, how I wished she'd just put her guard down once. Today was not that day.

  “Can you take Arthur for a couple of hours tomorrow?” I said to no one in particular.

  “Ah, the penny drops! This is why she's here, James.”

  “I think your mother means, ‘yes we'd love to’. It's been an age since we’ve had him.”

  “I don't need you to answer for me, I’m a grown woman, I know how to answer my own daughter. Yes, we'd love to have him,” she repeated.

  My father sighed and smiled at me, while my mother glared at the traitorous camaraderie between us. It was always the same dynamic here. For as long as I could remember, the two of us would trade knowing looks – and in later years, text messages – warning of her mood if one of us was late home.

  “Are you staying for some food, love? You're wasting away,” Dad asked hopefully.

  “I can't, I have to get back and pick Adam up from school, and I'll ignore that snort of derision, Mother.”

  “What?” she asked with mock innocence. “You're beautiful, just the way you are. A little cushioning looks good on you.”

  “Just put the kettle on and we’ll pretend to be a nice normal family,” I said, through gritted teeth.

  “Normal?” asked Dad. “Pfft, who'd want to be that? If you ever disappoint me like that we’ll cut you off.” He kissed my head as he finished the sentence and went to grab the usual three cups from the cupboard.

  Once the three of us had settled onto the chairs surrounding the kitchen island I waited to hear who had died – the only conversation my parents like to have in my company.

  When I was single it was informing me which of my classmates were getting married, but now that I've reached the grand old age of thirty two, and I have dependents of my own, I now only need to know about who has kicked the bucket. The more tragic the story, the better entertainment it was for my parents, a young mum who died in a freak accident could result in a week's worth of follow-up stories and hypotheses.

  “Have you heard about Jihadi Paddy from up the road?”

  Choking on my tea and hoping against hope that I had misheard my mother, I asked her to repeat the question.

  “Jihadi Paddy,” she said. “Big brute of a fella that lives up the road with the woman who looks like she's been chewing a wasp her whole life – Cathy something, I think.”

  I stared blankly and waited for her to continue.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

  “I'm waiting to hear about the Islamic extremist who is living around the corner.”

  “What? There is? Who?”

  “Jihadi Paddy?”

  “God, no. He's not one of them, he belongs to the born-again lot. He used to be on the beer daily and had a bit of a gambling problem, but I don't think he's planning on blowing anyone up. Well, I don't think so anyway.”

  “I'm genuinely confused as to where this conversation is going, Mum.”

  “Hush then. Well, he was doing one of his shouty sermons in the bandstand in the park on Saturday when your father and I were walking by.”

  “Did he threaten you? Or was he giving out about the freedom us pesky women enjoy in the Western world?” I asked.

  “What? No, for goodness sake Amy he's harmless. Why are you being so awkward? Just shut up and let me tell you the story.”

  “If he's harmless, why are you calling him Jihadi Paddy?”

  “The beard.”

  “The beard?”

  “Yes, Amy, a beard. It's a great big bushy beard and it reminded me of those lot I keep seeing on the news. You know, the ones that do the horrible beheadi
ng videos on the Internet? Anyway, his name is Paddy, it rhymed with ‘Jihadi’ so it stuck. His name is now: ‘Jihadi Paddy’. Can I continue with my story now?”

  “Please, do,” I replied, still not quite sure where this story was going.

  “Well, your father and I were walking in the park on Saturday and Patrick from up the road —”

  “Actually, I think his name is John,” Dad interrupted.

  “Then why have you been letting me call him Paddy this whole time?”

  He shrugged and said: “It rhymed.”

  “Well, now the story doesn't make any sense. Why didn’t you tell me this before, James?”

  “I don't know, it didn't seem important.”

  “It was important, there’s no point in it at all, now. God, you’re infuriating.”

  I never did get to find out what John was shouting at my parents about or why his wife looked like she was eating a wasp, maybe it was because of his beard.

  After an excruciating hour with my parents, I made plans to leave Arthur with them in the morning and ran for the door.

  “Did you know that babies have a natural inbuilt fear of plants?” said Mum.

  “No, I didn't know that.”

  “I saw it on a documentary. It's from when we were monkeys,” she continued.

  “That's nice. Say ‘bye’ to Granny, Arthur.”

  “I'm only bringing it up because that little boy of yours tends to either pee on mine, or try and rip them up from the roots. Why do you think that is?”

  I knew my mother well enough to know there was no right answer, so instead, I went for:

  “Maybe he didn’t evolve from monkeys, ask John up the road.”

  “You’re a terrible daughter, Amy.”

  “I know, Mum.”

  Chapter 8

  The uphill hike towards the school for Adam was never made any easier by Arthur. Some days he wanted to be carried, other days he wanted to walk on his own and stop to inspect every rock or weed that caught his eye. Today was a weed and unending question day.

  “Why do I have a widdler?” he asked.

  “All boys do.”