by Tara Heavey
‘Who else knows?’ she asked, in a strangled tone.
‘Aoife,’ said Emily, ‘the dogs on the street know. Even Harriet here knows.’ She reached out a stockinged foot and rubbed the supine, overweight Harriet, who was passed out under the table, having satisfied herself with lickings of flour and rogue pumpkin seeds. Harriet snorted in her sleep and emitted a silent but violent fart, which rose up and mingled with the scent of the sodabread, somewhere around ceiling level.
Aoife took a glug of her wine, mind ticking furiously, craving the quick fix of revenge. She felt her mother’s eyes on her but didn’t look up. ‘You and Uri seem to be getting on very well lately, Mrs Prendergast.’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘I’d almost say that you’re inseparable.’
Emily’s mother interjected, ‘I’d imagine that when you get to your time in life, Mrs Prendergast, it’s more a question of companionship.’
Mrs Prendergast faced them. ‘Actually, no. It’s all about the sex.’
There was a moment’s silence – then the room exploded into uproar and laughter.
‘Uh-oh. Little pitchers have big ears,’ said Moya, when the general hilarity had died down, inclining her head in the direction of Kathy, who was sitting in the corner, goggle-eyed. She was in a privileged position: a child in the company of adults who had forgotten about her.
‘Kathy,’ said Emily, in a bid to distract, ‘it’s time for you to push your hand into the dough. Remember I told you it would be your special job? It should be ready by now.’
The distraction appeared to work. They peered into their tea-towel-covered bowls. As if by magic, the dough had risen. To Kathy’s disgust, they made her wash her hands again. ‘I already washed them.’
‘But you’ve been licking your fingers.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Yes, you have.’ A chorus.
‘Oh!’
But she did it and the first bowl was set in front of her.
‘Ready?’ said Aoife.
‘Ready!’ shouted Kathy.
‘One, two, three – go!’
Kathy splatted her hand into the dough and laughed as the air escaped and the mixture flattened. ‘That felt funny. I want to do it again.’
She did it to the remaining mixtures, punching the last two with her little fist. ‘Pow!’
The women finished their loaves and dispatched them to the waiting oven.
‘I hope someone’s sober enough to set the timer,’ said Aoife.
They finished their wine as they waited.
It was after eleven by the time all the loaves were baked, including the pièce de résistance – the one in the shape of a wheatsheaf.
‘Come on, Miss,’ said Aoife to Kathy. ‘Your eyes are nearly falling out of your head. Let’s get you home to bed. You have a big day tomorrow.’
They all had. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too hung-over to do the necessary.
‘Plenty of water before you go to sleep tonight, ladies,’ she called, as they were leaving.
‘Who’s minding Liam?’ Emily walked them to the door.
‘Seth.’
‘Really? That’s cosy. Will he be staying over?’
‘He will not. He’ll be bringing Kathy straight home.’
‘Goodnight, then. See you first thing.’ Emily kissed Aoife’s cheek.
‘Goodnight – cheeky pup.’ She smiled.
They stepped outside and pulled their coats tightly around them, Aoife, Kathy and Moya. Aoife knew that her mother was dying to ask her about Seth so she chattered animatedly and aimlessly, not allowing her to get a word in. She was grateful, too, for Kathy’s presence. It meant Moya couldn’t ask her detailed questions.
They were almost home by the time Moya managed to interrupt her daughter: ‘Aoife. Stop talking for one second, will you? I couldn’t be happier for you. I think it’s wonderful news. I really like him.’
Aoife relaxed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
They were home. Seth let them in.
‘How are things?’ said Aoife.
‘Great.’
‘Did Liam behave?’
‘Yes. Asleep only half an hour after his official bedtime.’
‘Not bad. That’s better than I normally do.’
‘Did you have a good time?’
Kathy jumped up and down. ‘I splatted my hand in the dough!’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. It was fun.’
‘That’s great. Now, leave your coat on. We’re going straight home to bed.’
‘Goodnight, Seth. I’m going up myself.’
‘Night, Mrs Madigan.’
She surprised him by embracing him warmly, as one might a future son-in-law.
Seth and Aoife smiled at each other.
‘Night, then,’ he said. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘Thanks for babysitting Liam.’
‘No problem.’
‘Daddy, you can give her a kiss, you know. I won’t mind.’
Seth looked at his daughter in surprise, then at Aoife. She shrugged. He gave her a peck on the cheek. Then, to Aoife’s delight, Kathy did the same, and hugged her ferociously.
Aoife stood in the doorway, watching them as they got into the jeep. She heard Kathy’s voice ringing out in the crisp night air. ‘Daddy?’
‘Yes, Kathy?’
‘What’s sex?’
47
The morning was sacred, as was everything in it. Wreaths of mist rose from the earth. To some, it might have looked like smoke. The landscape was otherworldly. Ethereal. The garden… but somehow not the garden. The apple trees reared out of the mist like giant arthritic hands, the earth beneath them sweetened with windfalls. The mist cleared a patch over the lawn, revealing a fairy ring that had appeared overnight. Aoife laughed. The sound was uncommon.
She was the first. In a while, other figures would emerge through the mist. One by one. Seth. Uri. Emily. Mrs Prendergast. Custodians of the garden all. To dress and decorate her on this her special day.
Seth and Uri were the first to arrive, erecting a hut with wooden walls and a living roof – evergreen boughs that wouldn’t shed.
‘What is it?’
‘A sukkoh. It’s part of the tradition of the Jewish harvest festival. In ancient times, the Jewish farmers would walk out of the village each day to tend their crops. At harvest, they built shelters in the fields to avoid wasting time walking backwards and forwards. That’s where it comes from. Families put them up in their gardens during the festival and eat their meals in them. I thought we could set up a table and chairs and people can have their refreshments in it.’
‘What a great idea.’
One by one the women came. Tables were carried out and covered with cloths – yellow, orange, brown and gold – all the colours of the harvest. Pretty soon they were laden, the first with the wheatsheaf loaf. The shape was a little uneven. Aoife thought she noticed a few of the Mothers’ Union women eyeing it critically, but that might have been her own insecurity. Then they surrounded the loaf with the choicest produce they could find, sunbursts of colour, like a living work of art. It would, thought Aoife, make you feel quite proud. Then there was a table selling surplus vegetables and another for fruit. A big sign was erected above: ‘All profits to be ploughed back into the garden’. Certain parties found this funny.
Then there was the table for non-edibles.
‘Look what they’ve done with my lavender!’ Emily said, beside herself with excitement, and rushed off to grab Rose again. This time she had crawled under the vegetable table and was pulling at the cloth from underneath in a manner designed to bring everything tumbling on top of her.
Lavender toilet water, lavender room spray, dried lavender bags for underwear drawers and liquid lavender soap.
‘We tried to make bars of soap but we couldn’t get them to set.’ Joyce sounded apologetic.
‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Joyce. As far
as I’m concerned, you’ve worked miracles. And the packaging is divine. What lovely little bottles!’
Joyce smiled like the sun coming out. ‘It was no trouble at all.’
‘Well, I’d say you went to a huge amount of trouble.’
‘I enjoyed it. We all did. And we’re just so delighted to be involved.’
The Mothers’ Union had made the same range of products in rose. Aoife was starting to feel seriously excited. She could have kissed every one of those women. Perhaps she would before the day was out.
The corn dollies, courtesy of the Low Babies of St Mary’s, came in a startling array of shapes and sizes. Some had one leg longer than the other. Others were bona fide amputees. One even appeared to have no head. But each was cherished and proudly displayed in Mrs Prendergast’s kitchen, in her sunroom, above the stalls and from the roof of the sukkoh – on either side of a big, colourful sign with the words ‘Bruchim Habaim’ and underneath, ‘Welcome’. The less edible-looking apples also served to decorate its roof, along with artfully placed fig leaves.
But the table that Aoife kept returning to, the table that nobody could keep their eyes off, was the one with all the cakes. It looked fit to topple over, under the weight of so much confectionery: fresh fig filo tart, Greek yogurt and fig cake, rhubarb pie, rhubarb crumble, pomegranate cheesecake, berry brûlée tart, blueberry muffins, blackcurrant bread and butter pudding, alpine strawberry and rose petal shortcakes, fresh berry pavlova, plum and marzipan pastries, cherry and hazelnut strudel, plum tart, plum crumble, pear and polenta cake, Dutch apple cake, French apple tart, chocolate, pear and pecan pie, filo-topped apple pie and spiced apple crumble.
Aoife wanted everyone to leave so she could dive in and scoff the lot. Again, the ladies of the Mothers’ Union had excelled themselves. And that was before you got to the jam table: damson jam, strawberry jam, bramble jam, bramble and apple jam, bramble jelly, quince jelly, redcurrant jelly, crabapple jelly, damson chutney, pickled peach and chilli chutney, and fig and date chutney.
What with all the goodies on display, it was amazing that the garden wasn’t stripped bare. But it was as if nothing had been picked: it gave the impression that you could go on picking fruit and vegetables for ever and never run out. A sense of unlimited abundance.
The gate opened at twelve, which meant it was almost time to organize the teas and coffees and bring out the soup and breads. This was the moment the Mothers’ Union had been waiting for – the moment they got to set foot inside Mrs Prendergast’s kitchen. They gripped each other’s arms and giggled like schoolgirls. Mrs Prendergast had been up half the night scrubbing the place. She regarded them sternly. ‘I’ll thank you to remember,’ she said, ‘that the rest of the house is out of bounds. If you need to use the toilet, there’s a perfectly adequate Portaloo at the far end of the garden.’
‘Oh, chill out, Myrtle.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s what my grandson says to me. Now, let’s get this show on the road.’
Get the show on the road they did. By five to twelve, everything was set up. The soup was hot, the ladle gleamed. The sun had burned off the last of the morning mist. The gate was open. They were ready.
48
The people trickled in at first. Then they formed a steady stream. Before long, a river of bodies was flowing along the pathways of the garden. Aoife hardly had time to register pleasure at the turnout, so engrossed was she in selling leeks, handing out teas and trying to keep track of her son.
‘Has anyone seen Liam?’
‘He’s over there.’
‘Liam!’
He obliged his mother by running over, his face lit up with happiness from within. ‘Yes, Mammy?’
‘Did you just call me “Mammy”?’
‘No.’
‘It’s okay if you did.’
‘Is it?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘It’s just that the other boys in my class call their mummies Mammy.’
‘That’s fine, Liam. You can call me Mammy if you like.’
‘Maybe I’ll call you Mummy at home and Mammy when we’re out. Okay?’ He grinned and ran off to play.
‘Stay where I can see you.’
A young man with a guitar slung across his shoulder approached her. She thought she recognized him from the college. He cleared his throat and stared at a pyramid of onions as he spoke to her. ‘I was looking for the band.’
She beamed at him. ‘You are the band!’
‘What?’
Before he could run away, she was over to his side of the table with her arm around his shoulder. ‘Now, I keep seeing people wandering around with various instruments. It’s about time we got you all together.’
‘What do you mean, I’m the band?’
‘Well, we were hoping it would kind of spring up organically. Look, there’s a man over there with a fiddle. Come with me.’
Aoife gathered up the bemused musicians and found some chairs, which they arranged in a semi-circle on the lawn. They had two guitarists, a traditional flautist, a guy with a set of uillean pipes, a fiddle-player and a Finnish woman with a bodhrán. Once the band members had got over their initial shock, they entered into the spirit of things. The music began, hesitantly at first, as Aoife walked back to the stalls, a very definite swing in her step. She’d secretly brought her tin whistle along. She was itching to play it but didn’t want to come across as the plastic Paddy. Still, they had a Finn with a bodhrán. Maybe later. Right now, she was too busy.
She was back at the soup station, currently manned by Joyce and Emily. Joyce was in her element. ‘The soup’s going down a treat,’ she said.
‘I’m not surprised. I tasted some and it’s beautiful. You were right to roast the parsnips first. Gives a much better flavour.’
Joyce tried to look modest. ‘Oh, you don’t get to my age without learning a trick or two, my dear.’
Aoife turned to Emily. ‘It worked out.’
‘What did?’
‘The musicians.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then why the glum face?’
‘It’s silly, really. It’s just that nobody’s eating my sourdough bread.’
Aoife looked down into the bread baskets. There did seem to be a higher proportion of sourdough left. Admittedly, it was quite forlorn and lumpen. ‘It’s only because sourdough doesn’t rise as much as the other breads and they don’t know what it is. They probably think it’s normal bread gone wrong. It just needs some advertising.’
She wrote a sign in Magic Marker: ‘Get the last of the sourdough bread.’
‘Write that it’s made with genuine rain water,’ said Emily.
‘What?’
‘Aoife.’
She swivelled at the sound of her name. It was Seth. She smiled in relief.
‘I haven’t seen you in ages.’
‘No. It’s going well, isn’t it?’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Hello, Aoife.’ Megan stepped out from behind Seth. ‘Good to see you again. You know, Kathy never stops talking about you and Liam. We’ll have to make time for a proper chat one of these days.’
‘I’d like that.’ What she didn’t like was the knowing way that Megan was looking at her.
‘This is Siobhan, by the way.’
Aha. The other woman.
A voluptuous brunette emerged from Megan’s shadow. She nodded at Aoife.
‘Anyway,’ said Megan, ‘we won’t keep you. It’s clear you’re up to your eyes. Come on, Kathleen.’
Aoife started at the name. She was surprised to see Kathy, whom she hadn’t noticed before, running to her mother’s side and taking her hand. ‘Kathy’s name is Kathleen?’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Megan gave her an odd look.
‘You know, all this time I assumed it was Katherine. I don’t know why.’
‘I suppose Katherine is more usual. No. I n
amed her Kathleen after my grandmother.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway, talk to you soon, I hope.’ Megan threw a furtive look behind her to see where Seth and Siobhan were. They were standing a few yards away, Siobhan listening intently while Seth pointed at the herbaceous border. She leaned into Aoife. ‘You’ve got a good man there, you know. Hang on to him. Unfortunately, he had one too many penises for me. Come on, Kathy! Let’s take a look at this little hut.’
And off they went. Aoife’s eyes followed them up the path towards the sukkoh. It was packed out, all the chairs occupied, people talking and laughing and eating – clearly taking the welcome sign at face value. Her eyes wandered across to the lawn where the musicians were in full flight. A woman she’d never seen before was leading the children in a session of Irish dancing. Liam was the only child doing his one-two-threes backwards. She allowed herself a smile and a moment to relax. If somebody told her this was heaven, she wouldn’t be disappointed.
‘Aoife.’
‘Yes.’
‘The Portaloo’s blocked again.’
Mrs Prendergast was enjoying herself. Of course, she had no intention of admitting this to anyone. She was in the kitchen, wiping breadcrumbs off the counter.
Lance came in. ‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘No, thanks. It’s all in hand.’
‘Can I get you some soup? It’s nearly all gone, you know.’
‘No. It’s all right, darling. I’m not hungry yet.’
‘It’s going well, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t sell the garden to developers, Mum. You did the right thing.’
She stopped what she was doing and looked up at her son. ‘Thank you for saying that, Lance.’
They smiled at each other. Then he came to her, put one long arm about her shoulders and hugged her to him. ‘See you outside.’
‘’Bye, Lance.’
Alone again, she was surprised by the prickling sensation at the back of her eyes. ‘Stupid old woman,’ she said to herself, and resumed her cleaning.
When the kitchen was spotless, she went out to the hall. Imagine her surprise to find Pearl, Mothers’ Unionist, floating down the stairs, her head turning this way and that, oblivious to Mrs Prendergast’s presence.
