* * *
Georgina McGregor thought the absolute world of her son, Dougie. Blessed with a shock of blonde hair, the journalist made it her business to show off her pride and joy to every last person she met. Whether it was her local butcher or florist, the new-born baby was paraded in front of them as if he were the second Messiah.
In truth, since her beloved husband passed away just a month after Dougie’s arrival, Mrs McGregor was heartbroken. The only thing that kept her from following in her late partner’s footsteps was her devotion to her darling son. In him, she could see the man whom she had married when she was just nineteen years old: his eyes; his hair; his smile; his spirit. In him, her husband lived. As such, there were very few who denied her such extreme bragging rights; after her loss, her excessive love for the wee child was only natural.
As the years passed, their co-dependent relationship became a little Greek. When Dougie reached the age of thirteen and his body started to shapeshift, the teenager should have been allocated his own bedroom, seeing as their large house in the leafy suburbs of Glasgow boasted not two but three—and all en suite, at that. Instead, the unlikely couple continued to share a bed, just as they had done since Mrs McGregor first brought him home all those years ago.
One afternoon, Dougie’s school was forced to close down on account of an infestation of deadly false widow spiders (somewhat ironic, seeing as what was soon about to transpire). And so, he found himself unexpectedly home alone, kicking stones.
Sprawled across the bed, he started rifling through a collection of his mother’s magazines and soon fell upon a fashion catalogue. Even though he wasn’t holding out too much hope that the latest trends for plus-sized women were going to be too entertaining, he decided to flick through its pages nonetheless—that was the level of his boredom!
As he reached the final section, little did he expect to stumble across a whole anthology of scantily-clad women who were happily modelling the latest underwear, bikinis, and negligée, without a care in the world! Suddenly, he started to experience feelings that were completely new to him—and they weren’t entirely unpleasant either, he concluded.
Rather promptly, he followed the example of the ladies who smiled up at him from the pages of the magazine and removed the majority of his clothes. Without being overly analytical about the situation, the teenager started to explore his body with the same amount of zeal that the Spanish explored the New World.
But before he could properly alight at his final destination, as it were, he heard the sound of his mother’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. With the speed in which scurvy spread in one of Columbus’ ships, the lad threw on his clothes. Just as he returned the unsoiled magazine to its rightful place, his mother walked in, thankfully none the wiser. Dougie sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed as he stuttered through his account of the dramatic turn of events at school earlier in the day.
“I have a proposal, Mummy,” Dougie mentioned the following morning over breakfast. “What would you think about amending our living arrangements?”
While she’d feared this conversation for some time, nonetheless, Mrs McGregor’s heart sank at the suggestion. As sure as eggs were eggs, she was adamant that moving rooms was the first step in her son’s plans to abandon her to a life of loneliness. Ill-prepared to lose her one true love for the second time, she decided to take action.
Finding inspiration in her beastly editor, Mr Hamish, a dictatorial slave driver who had achieved absolute control in the office by stripping his staff of any self-confidence and self-worth, Mrs McGregor stopped showering her only child with praise and affection. Instead, she started a campaign of terror—criticising and jeering him at every opportune moment.
“You’re putting on weight!”
“If we’d money, I’d send you for elocution lessons!”
“Remind me to get you some new soap; the other stuff I bought you clearly doesn’t work!”
Knowing that Dougie had something of a sensitive disposition, just like his deceased father, Mrs McGregor was delighted to see that those barbed comments had the desired effect and cut straight through him. One day, he was the captain of the debating team as well as showing much promise as a footballer and athlete; the next, he was an awkward loner, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. He waved goodbye to his independence and, instead, resigned himself to the fact that the only thing to which he could look forward was his extremely dysfunctional relationship with his now tyrannical and sharp-tongued mother.
If someone ever told Dougie that it would be the world’s fifth oldest person—a nun, at that!—who would ultimately assist him in cutting those toxic apron strings while on a spring break to Tunisia, he would have laughed in their face.
Except, when the chance meeting took place, the now fifty-two-year-old had completely forgotten how to do such a thing.
* * *
Mehdi, the young and sweet-natured tour guide, stood at the top of the bus beside Firas, the remarkably gruff driver. Even though there were only three passengers present—Sister Agatha, Mrs McGregor, and her son, Dougie—he had been, rather unnecessarily, making use of a microphone throughout the entire expedition so far. (It later emerged that a group of twenty Americans had cancelled last minute due to a bout of salmonella, and seeing as Mehdi had gone to great lengths to borrow the equipment on account of the unusually high number, he was determined to make use of the nifty device.)
“We are soon approaching our first stop,” Mehdi informed the trio, almost leaving them deaf in the process. “The beautiful Amphitheatre of El Djem.”
“Will ye ever put away that stupid microphone once and for all, ye fool!” Mrs McGregor, at the end of her tether, roared—embarrassing not just Mehdi but also her son, and not for the last time during their holiday.
Sister Agatha, on the other hand, was unbothered by the sound of Mehdi’s little toy as Sister Imelda's violent snoring had given her years of experience in how to deal with such grating noise pollution. Armed with thick cotton buds in each ear, she happily nodded and smiled, and as she spotted their first—and rather magnificent—port of call in the distance, she congratulated herself for having the wisdom to take this splendid tour. (She also made a mental note to thank Tayri for residing in such a spellbinding country—before sending her skywards, of course.)
Just before they stepped off the bus, Sister Agatha spotted Mrs McGregor surreptitiously remove a bottle of water from her son’s bag. She concealed it under her jacket, which she then left on her seat.
“Righ’, let’s see wha’ all the fuss is abou’,” she squawked as she hobbled past her son and out the door. “Old Jim—is that what you said the amphitheatre was called, Mehdi?”
Sister Agatha instinctively took a dislike to her new travel companion and could sense that there was trouble brewing ahead.
As the group walked towards the stunning, ancient site, the supercentenarian was most responsive to the stifling heat. It was an experience she had rarely enjoyed before, having spent her entire life in Ireland—the land of not just a thousand welcomes but also a million raindrops. Mrs McGregor, on the other hand, was not so enamoured with the warm weather and dramatically fanned herself with a sheet of paper she had torn from some magazine. It became increasingly apparent to Sister Agatha that her Scottish counterpart not only possessed a delicate constitution but also had little interest in keeping any such grievances to herself.
“Jesus H. Christ, the heat! An’ it’s only March!”
Built by the Romans, and often incorrectly described as a colosseum, the Amphitheatre of El Djem was, according to Mehdi, the third biggest in the world, and possibly the last one built in the Empire. While it may have been put together in the third century, the site was still immaculately preserved, leaving Sister Agatha completely captivated. She couldn’t help thinking how truly talented God’s children were. (Of course, sometimes, He got it wrong, with the taxing Mrs McGregor being one such example.)
As the group made its way
up onto one of the upper tiers, Sister Agatha looked down towards the basement area where, in the cells, the gladiators and wild animals were housed before combat. She could almost imagine the crowd of thirty-five thousand spectators salivating at the mouth as the bloody battle unfolded all those moons ago. While she hadn’t properly worked out the exact method by which her first victim would meet her grisly end, she thought employing the services of creatures as brutal as lions, wolves or wild boars would be unnecessary—and, logistically, a nightmare to coordinate.
It turned out that it was a modern-day duel taking place right beside Sister Agatha that was now demanding most of her attention. It appeared that Dougie had forgotten to bring his mother’s bottle of water with him, and now the claws were out.
“D'ya want me to die from dehydration or somethin'?” she demanded to know while swatting him rather forcibly on his bare leg with her walking stick.
Sister Agatha wasn’t sure what Dougie’s answer was, but she was leaning towards a yes.
Despite what she had seen on the bus earlier, Sister Agatha had no desire to become embroiled in a family dispute. She decided to keep her own counsel even when the excursion, which she was thoroughly enjoying, came to an abrupt end.
“There’s always one who ruins everythin’, amn’t I righ’, Sister?” Mrs McGregor barked.
“Indeed,” the one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old replied rather tartly.
As they were frog-marched back to the bus, Sister Agatha became particularly peeved that she still hadn’t gotten an opportunity to make use of the disposable camera she’d picked up along the way—it wasn’t every day you got to travel the length and breadth of the world, and she was determined to document as much as possible.
Before they made their way onto the vehicle, Dougie turned to Sister Agatha and mouthed an apology, which she reciprocated with a friendly, reassuring wink. Having worked her way through numerous, poker-faced Mother Superiors over the years, she knew only too well what it was like to be at the receiving end of such unfair vilification.
On board, unsurprisingly, Dougie was unable to find the water, leading to an endless stream of apologies and a few I-promise-to-be-more-careful-in-the-future’s. Rather beatifically, his mother accepted his remorsefulness on the assurance that such carelessness wouldn’t happen again.
“The patience of a saint, tha’ is wha’ I have!” she humbly acknowledged.
Once on the road again, she discreetly reached for the missing bottle from under her jacket and guzzled its contents whole, a sight seen only by Sister Agatha.
While Mrs McGregor wasn't on the assassin’s original hit-list of four, if the browbeater kept up those shifty shenanigans, she soon would be.
* * *
When Dougie had reached the age of eighteen, Mrs McGregor finally conceded that it was time for her son to have a room of his own, safe in the knowledge that five years of oppression had provided the most satisfactory results. Her now lumbering son was going nowhere: that much she knew.
While the damage done was almost irreversible at that stage, Dougie’s new quarters somewhat lightened his heavy heart. Not only did he paper the four walls with posters and pictures from the Star Wars films—a series he worshipped more than any other thing in the entire world—he also kitted out his bed with Princess Leah bed linen, and placed a host of memorabilia on a shelf above the pillow. On the first night in his new abode, the sleep he enjoyed was, by and far, his best yet.
But his dreams soon turned into a nightmare when he woke up to find his own, real-life Darth Vader furiously tearing down all his prized images of Jabba the Hut and friends.
“They’re a fire hazard!” his mother screamed in a scene that could have fitted nicely into a sequel of Mommy Dearest.
Dougie leapt out of the bed and, showing extraordinary restraint, he calmly begged his mother to stop; after all, some of the things that she was destroying were worth a week’s wage!
“Mummy, please be careful,” he desperately pleaded. “Actually, why don’t you go downstairs and get some breakfast—I’ll take the rest of these things down?”
But his pleas fell on deaf ears.
“Get into the bath this second. Your aunt is expectin’ ye at nine o‘clock—her roses are in dire need of a good prunin’!”
And so, admitting defeat, the young man trudged into the bathroom and readied himself for a day navigating his way through his aunt’s overgrown garden.
As the water flowed from the taps, he wished he had a real lightsaber, and not the plastic ones he could hear his mother smashing; how he would put it to good use! He removed his (Star Wars-inspired) pyjamas, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and completely submerged himself under the water.
When he surfaced again, his mother towered over him.
“Scoot over, I’ve worked up a righ’ sweat after all tha’ redecoratin’.”
And for the next twenty minutes, Dougie and his mother sat in the bath together, without a single word being spoken.
* * *
Sister Agatha was getting some pleasant shut-eye when Mehdi asked if anyone was a fan of Star Wars—though without the assistance of a microphone this time, thanks to a certain Narky Knickers. Even if she were awake, Sister Agatha wouldn't have understood the cultural reference, or, she probably would have misinterpreted it as some long-running feud between a couple of Hollywood celebrities, similar to the fisticuffs that existed between Bette Davis and Joan Crawford, say. (The present Mother Superior was a die-hard fan of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, a film that she insisted the sisters watch repeatedly during Cinema Sunday.) Dougie, on the other hand, was wide-awake and even more so upon hearing mention of his favourite film. His loud and animated ‘Yes!’ irritated his mother and woke Sister Agatha.
“Well then, you're in for a surprise,” Mehdi continued.
Not wanting to appear rude, Dougie decided not to reveal to his host that he was well aware that the next stop on the itinerary was Matmata. In fact, all the sci-fi fanatic was living for was the visit there. The unique village comprised of a charming cluster of cave-dwelling homes, and their distinctiveness was a source of inspiration for filmmaker George Lucas—so much so that Matmata featured in two of Star Wars blockbusters. Months earlier, when his mother had suggested forsaking their annual trip to the Costa del Sol and making a trek to Tunisia instead, he couldn’t believe his ears! At that moment, all those decades of relentless cruelty faded away.
Seeing how excited her new friend seemed, a broad smile crossed Sister Agatha's face. If anyone deserved a little happiness, it was that poor lad. When the bus turned into the car park, Dougie was set to explode! He double checked that he had his camera (as well as his mother’s water) and rushed towards the bus door.
It wasn’t just Dougie who was relishing the moment, although it was for another, more sinister reason. When Mrs McGregor had treated herself to a haircut the winter previously, she had fallen upon a travel feature in a magazine that documented the breathtaking beauty of Tunisia. It also made a point of highlighting that any Star Wars fan would be in their element on account of the delightful Matmata. Knowing that her son lived for the films, she concocted a little plan: it wasn’t just her recently coloured hair that had a streak, after all.
“Me angina is playin' up on me again,” Mrs McGregor shouted at Mehdi at the top of her voice.
Dougie stopped cold.
“Carry on to the hotel, will ye, or else you'll be bringin’ me to the hospital!”
A confused Firas looked at Mehdi, who in turn looked towards Mrs McGregor’s crestfallen son to get his thoughts on the matter. Dougie had always been convinced that the morning in which his mother destroyed his Star Wars collectibles could never be matched in terms of heartache, but he was wrong. Reluctantly, he nodded to Firas to continue to the hotel, as ordered.
Mrs McGregor, who didn’t know where her angina was even if it had been giving her trouble, sat back, delighted at how perfectly her plan had played out.
&n
bsp; As the bus sped off, Sister Agatha thought about that other man in her life who used to be at the behest of a similarly oppressive monster. While she had been unable to save Pádraig then, she was adamant that history wouldn’t repeat itself now.
The gang was booked into an exotic and dazzling boutique hotel called the Sahara Star and, much to Sister Agatha’s delight, it was the complete antithesis of the meagre digs she was so accustomed to back at home. With over a hundred rooms and five suites to call its own, the establishment was, according to the manager who welcomed them on arrival, “a haven of luxurious decor and elegant furnishings, bathed in softly filtered light”—a description the Navan nun didn’t quite follow, but she had a suspicion that should this dashing man recite the telephone book, it would have sounded only glorious, such was the beauty of his mellifluous voice.
As he ushered them through the premises (the reception area alone was akin to a museum, according to its eldest guest), the manager babbled on—albeit poetically—about the pride which the establishment took in its “refined hospitality” and “sensuous ambiance”. All the spellbound nun could think about was her desire to send a postcard to the convent at home, detailing the elegance of her new surroundings. How envious they would all be! (Although, she suspected that such emotions would inevitably turn to anger when they realised that it was they who were footing the bill.)
A batch of porters then escorted the party to the second floor where their bedrooms awaited.
“See you at dinner, Sister,” Dougie muttered, almost inaudibly—which was hardly surprising, she thought, seeing as his ogre of a mother had long since stolen his voice.
She bade her aggrieved friend and the others goodbye and entered her new quarters. Before she even stepped over the threshold, Sister Agatha gasped in amazement, convinced that Doctor McManus had killed her after all and that she had now arrived in heaven, such was the room’s magnificence. In fact, she was so bowled over, the old gal couldn’t even muster the words to properly thank the member of staff who had accompanied her.
Sister Agatha Page 7
