by Tara Heavey
Paul took a slice of fancy bread and bit into it viciously. After a few chews, he screwed up his face.
‘What the hell is in this bread?’ He inspected it suspiciously. ‘It’s full of green stuff. They’re leaves! Lainey, somebody’s put leaves in the bread.’
‘They’re herbs, Paul. What’s wrong with you tonight? You’re like a bag of cats.’
His face relaxed, and he took my hand under the table. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I get to spend so little time with you nowadays. The last people I want to share you with are this bunch of tossers.’ He squeezed my hand so hard it almost hurt. ‘I’m really going to miss you, Lainey.’
I gulped. ‘I’ll miss you, too.’
He smiled at me, for the first time that night, and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I felt a twinge of something. Regret?
I opted to put it down to indigestion.
Those of us who were having starters finished up. Diarmuid wasn’t having a starter because he was on the Atkins diet. Iseult wasn’t either, because she was a strict vegan. Neasa wasn’t because she was dairy-intolerant, and Mona wasn’t because she was following a detox programme.
‘Camel!’ exclaimed Diarmuid suddenly. I had no idea what he was talking about. The menu was quite unusual, but I hadn’t spotted camel on there. Ostrich and shark, perhaps. (Garçon, je voudrais camel en croute avec petits pois, s’il vous plaît. One hump or two?)
Everybody looked at Diarmuid, who was red-faced and excited.
‘The new aubergine. It’s camel.’
‘Did I miss something?’ whispered Paul.
‘Camel. Of course! Thank you so much for enlightening me, Diarmuid. Now I can shop with confidence,’ Hazel said gaily. ‘More wine, anyone?’ Without waiting for a response, she sloshed wine into her own glass, almost up to the rim – a sure sign, as if we needed one, that she was pissed.
Diarmuid looked pleased. Luckily, he was too thick to realise that he was being made a fool of. But Hazel wasn’t finished with the poor sod yet.
‘Diarmuid, I must tell you what a treat it is to have this opportunity to talk to someone who’s so’ – she pretended to search for the right phrase – ‘in the know. I mean, your hairstyle, for instance; it’s so damn stylish! Where should someone like, say, Paul go to get a lovely do like that?’
I felt Paul stiffen beside me.
‘Oh, do you really like it? Thanks. I got it done in the new hairdresser’s in the Powerscourt shopping centre. Hold on, I think I still have the card....’ Diarmuid started fishing around in what looked like, but couldn’t possibly have been, a handbag.
‘Here!’ He triumphantly thrust a business card across the table at Paul, who was so dumbstruck, he forgot to say thanks.
‘Although, if you ask me,’ Diarmuid added, almost coyly, ‘your hair is really nice the way it is.’
‘I agree,’ said Iseult. ‘I wouldn’t change a thing if I were you.’ She gave Paul a predatory smile and a wink. A wink!
Are you hitting on my boyfriend, Missus? At least have the good manners to wait till I’ve gone to the loo or something. I suppose she couldn’t contain herself. Paul was probably the only straight man she’d met all month.
I glanced at Paul, to gauge his reaction. He didn’t seem to be having any. He was still frozen with embarrassment at Diarmuid’s attentions. His cheeks were the new black.
I had been beginning to feel a little sorry for Iseult. Hazel in vicious mode was too hot for most people to handle, even though I knew from past experience that Iseult could bitch for Ireland. But that wink had extinguished my last glimmer of sympathy. Go get her, Hazel!
I glanced across at Iseult, who was re-applying her lippy between courses, even though she hadn’t actually eaten anything yet. She was peering into a compact mirror, delicately wiping the corners of her mouth with her index finger.
‘Oh, yes,’ she was saying to Diarmuid, ‘scarves must be worn long this season. It’s absolutely essential.’
Essential for what? World peace? Strangling her with?
She was quite good-looking, I thought grudgingly, if you liked that sort of thing. All cheekbones and snooty expression. Kristin Scott Thomas would be a good choice to play the starring role in the movie of her life.
The main courses arrived. Paul just sat staring at his elf-sized portion of rack of lamb. I thought he might cry. He looked piteously at me. I patted his hand and promised that I’d buy him a bag of chips on the way home.
‘Tell me, Lainey,’ said Iseult. Warning – bomb alert! ‘Where did you get that scrumptious cardie?’
‘It’s not mine. It’s Chris’s.’
‘Ah, I see. That explains it. I thought it wasn’t your usual style.’
‘My usual style being?’ It was a challenge.
Iseult gave a high, tinkly laugh. ‘I really couldn’t say.’
The wound was stinging but hardly fatal. I maintained a dignified silence. This was because I couldn’t think of a suitably bitchy response. I decided to store up the insult for future reference.
Paul and I were the only people at the table having dessert, even though he didn’t really like it. He knew the drill: he ordered a dessert, which I helped him pick out, and then I ate at least two-thirds of it. It was a wonderfully guilt-free method of consuming calories. Everyone else ordered their triple skinny lattes or whatever.
As we were finishing up and paying the bill (extortion, according to an outraged Paul), Chris skipped excitedly over to our side of the table. At least someone was enjoying herself.
‘Hey, guys, let’s all go to Manilow’s!’
‘God, no, Chris! Manilow’s is so two weeks ago. Let’s go to Mango’s,’ said Iseult.
I had been to Manilow’s the week before, and it had seemed fine to me. I decided I’d better not admit to this for fear of being branded a social pariah.
‘Are you coming, Lainey?’ asked Chris.
I was about to agree until Paul shot me an urgent, pleading look.
‘Um, maybe I should take Hazel home. She’s a little the worse for wear.’
This was no lie. Hazel was slumped over the table, singing gently to herself.
‘Are you coming out dancing with us, Hazel?’ Chris shouted in her ear.
Hazel slid up and looked blearily at us from beneath her mussed-up hair. She slurred aggressively, ‘I’m not going out anywhere with that bunch of wan–’
‘Okay, Hazel, let’s be having you.’ Not allowing her to finish the sentence – although I think we all got the general gist – Paul hauled Hazel up by the elbow, simultaneously prising the wine glass from her hand and masterfully ignoring her squeaks of protest.
I turned to Chris and hugged her apologetically. ‘You can see she really needs to be brought home to bed. Paul and I will look after her. You go out and enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you in the morning.’
Except that I didn’t see her the next morning, because she spent the night with one of the bisexuals. Come to think of it, I never found out which one.
Chapter Four
My first glimpse of Ballyknock was from the back of a J.J. Kavanagh bus. I was pleasantly surprised. It was a beautiful day. We were experiencing the type of Indian summer we often get in this country as compensation for the lack of an actual summer: a blazing hot day in September, when all the kids are back at school, sitting in sweltering hot classrooms, gazing longingly out of the windows. Even now, this time of year made me want to run out and buy a new geometry set. I was reminded of knees skinned on hot tarmac playgrounds. It was a time of new terms and new starts, almost like a second New Year – a second chance to make resolutions that you might actually stick to. My current New Year’s resolutions had been long forgotten. I vaguely recalled something about losing a stone in weight and breaking it off with Paul.
The bus crawled along Main Street. I remember thinking that every piss-ant little town in Ireland must have a Main Street, consisting of a church, a chipper, a newsagent-cum-family-supermarket and a boutique s
elling half-slips and triple packs of granny knickers. Oh, and six pubs. Ballyknock was no exception. Then there was the solicitor’s office, of course. The bus moved slowly enough for me to have a good look at the new premises. Not bad. Could do with a lick of paint. And then the bus swung over the bridge.
I literally gasped with delight. The old medieval bridge, reinforced with ugly concrete and steel over time to accommodate the passing trucks, straddled a wide blue expanse of river, bordered on either side by grassy green banks. Old mill-houses, some discarded, some still in use, lined the riverbanks at intervals. The scene was completed by a pair of swans, floating regally by as if posing for a portrait. I could get used to this.
The bus stopped outside Power’s pub. Power’s Undertakers were next door. Padraig Power Auctioneers were across the street. Obviously Tyrone’s family were the Kennedys of Ballyknock. I thanked the driver as I got off the bus, heaving my bulging rucksack behind me. He seemed to know every passenger personally, except for me, and they all knew him by name: Thanks, Jimmy; see you next week, please God. I went into Power’s (the pub, not the undertaker’s), as per my instructions from Tyrone, to order a cab.
The bar was almost empty. There was a middle-aged man behind the counter, polishing a pint glass with an ancient-looking tea-towel. Two old lads, wearing matching cloth caps, perched on barstools opposite him. As I entered, they all stopped mid-sentence and stared at me. I thought for one terrible moment that this was one of those country pubs I’d heard of where they didn’t serve women. Get back to that kitchen sink where you belong, Missus.
‘Hello. I’m Elena Malone.’
More blank stares.
‘Tyrone Power sent me.’
The transformation was spontaneous.
‘Ah, you’re Tyrone’s girl. Come in and let’s be having a look at you.’
I advanced slowly and uncertainly, embarrassed by the scrutiny. I felt like I was ten years old again, being inspected by elderly grand-uncles at some gruesome family function.
‘Will you have a drink, love? Tom here is buying.’
‘No, thanks. I’m just looking for a taxi. I have to get to ...’ I fished a screwed-up Post-it out of my pocket. ‘Ard-ske-ha.’ I pronounced the name awkwardly.
‘Go ’way out of that. Sure I’ll drive you there meself.’
‘Do you know where it is, then?’
The three men laughed like drains. The older of the two customers – who, I later found out, was aptly known as Tom Delaney of the Rusty Teeth – erupted into an alarming fit of coughing. His companion – who went by the name of Shem – gave him a thump on the back, and he stopped coughing and re-lit his pipe. Mellow Virginia. Reminded me of my granddad.
‘You could say that, love. Didn’t I grow up there?’ He wiped his right hand on the tea-towel and extended it. ‘I’m John Power, Tyrone’s brother.’
I shook his hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Mr Power.’
‘You may as well call me Johnny. Everybody else does. Besides, every second man in town is Mr Power. You’ll cause terrible confusion.’
More guttural guffaws all round.
‘Will you have a pint of stout, love?’ This was from Tom of the Rusty Teeth, who I could have sworn winked at me, although it might just have been a twitch.
‘What are you thinking of, man?’ demanded Shem. ‘Sure you know these young ones from Dublin drink nothing but those Bacardi Breezers. Terrible stuff. Tastes like donkey’s piss. Isn’t that right, love?’
‘Actually, a glass of Guinness would be lovely.’
The glass of stout was placed ceremoniously before me. I picked it up and, even with my low standards of hygiene, was slightly disgusted at the way the bottom of the glass stuck to the counter. I drank deeply and gratefully, savouring the bitterness and carefully licking the line of white foam off my top lip.
I surveyed my surroundings. The pub also served as a general grocer’s. Side by side with the many bottles behind the bar were packets of cornflakes, shoe polish in black and neutral, and pink butterfly slides for little girls’ hair. I noticed with childish delight the three big jars of bonbons: toffee, lemon and original. I was going to have to get me some of those. But not today. I was the new solicitor in town; I had my reputation to consider. I’d have to send some little kid in to get them for me on the sly. On the wall beside me was an old black-and-white photo of a group of moustachioed men wearing old-fashioned three-piece suits and funny hats. They were standing outside a slightly – but not very – different-looking Power’s pub. Previous generations of Powers, I guessed; one of the men looked spookily like Tyrone. This place was the real thing, all right. I had been in many a fake olde original pub in Dublin; this was the ambience that they had been trying to create.
A settled-looking woman, a pinny tied tightly across her ample hips, had materialised behind the bar. She was sporting a suspiciously dark head of hair for her age. She hummed to herself, swishing a bright-blue feather duster delicately along the bar, and looked at me quizzically from time to time, a half-smile on her face. I could tell she was dying to find out who I was. Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, she nudged the barman.
‘Are you not going to introduce me, Johnny?’
‘Elaine, this is the wife, Bridie Power. Bridie, this is Elaine, Tyrone’s new girl.’
‘Actually, it’s Elena. But you can call me Lainey. Pleased to meet you.’
‘The new solicitor, is it? Well, I never would have guessed. You don’t look one bit like a solicitor – does she, Johnny? God bless us, you’re very young. And you’re going to be living up on top of that hill in Ardskeha all on your own?’
‘Well, I am, yes.’ I was from the city, for God’s sake, land of joyriders, muggers and drive-by shootings; I could surely handle a few months alone in a country cottage.
‘God bless us and save us – a lovely young girl like you.... Are you not married?’
‘No.’
Shem made a sound that I guessed passed for a suggestive laugh in these parts. ‘We won’t have much trouble setting up a laying hen like you.’
‘A what?’
‘A laying hen. A young girl with good earning potential, like a teacher or a nurse. A solicitor, now – that’s like landing the goose with the golden egg.’ The three men shook with laughter and Tom had another coughing fit.
‘I already have a boyfriend, thank you.’ I could feel myself getting ready to mount my high horse.
‘Does he hurl?’ asked Shem.
‘No. He plays soccer, though.’
I might as well have told them that he was a dab hand at needlepoint, judging by the hilarity it caused.
‘Don’t you be minding those oul’ fellas, Elaine, love. What do they know? I’m sure your boyfriend is a fine lad. But, just in case things don’t work out with him, I have seven lovely lads of my own – three of them not married, even though they’re getting on a bit now. I’m sure one of them would do nicely for you.’
I had a flashback of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. When the brothers decide they need wives, they all go into town, kidnap the women of their choice and carry them kicking and screaming back to the homestead.
‘Anyway,’ Bridie continued, ‘we’re keeping you too long. I’m sure you must be keen to settle into your new place. I’ll take over here, Johnny. You give Elaine a lift up to Ardskeha. Just wait till I give her a few bits to help her settle in.’ Bridie disappeared mysteriously through a door at the back of the bar, and emerged a couple of minutes later laden down by a bulging paper bag.
‘Now’ – she plonked it down on the counter – ‘I’ve put in a carton of eggs, freshly laid this morning by our own hens – what you in the city call free-range. And there’s a soda bread I baked this morning – there’s only a few slices gone out of it. And there’s a pot of strawberry jam for you, love.’
‘You’ll enjoy that,’ said Johnny. ‘Bridie’s strawberry jam won first prize at the Mivik show the other week.’
‘It was t
he same batch, too.’ Bridie smiled proudly. ‘Although I suppose you’ll be making your own jam soon enough. There’s plenty of blackberries up around Ardskeha way, and you’ll have your own crab-apple trees in the garden. They make a lovely jelly.’
I smiled politely. Why on earth would anyone bother making jam when they could buy a perfectly good pot of it in the supermarket?
‘And I’ve put in a few teabags and a carton of milk, so as you can make yourself a nice cup of tea in your new place.’
‘Thank you. How much do I owe you?’
Bridie held up her hand. ‘Don’t be insulting me, now, girl. Think of it as a gift to welcome you to Ballyknock. I hope you’ll be very happy here.’
I thanked her profusely and followed Johnny out of the pub door. She called out to me as I left, ‘Don’t be a stranger, now. You know where we are if you need anything.’
I had trouble keeping up with Johnny. He moved surprisingly quickly for a man of his age; I estimated that he was about sixty, but he was lithe and wiry and seemed full of nervous energy. He had lifted the stuffed bag and the rucksack out of my arms as if they were dead leaves. He stopped beside a Peugeot 405 diesel with a 90 KK reg; it was parked high up on the narrow pavement, seemingly oblivious to the double yellow lines. It was danger-red, and the seat-covers were leopard-skin. He opened the passenger door for me with a great flourish, as if I were a movie star and he were my chauffeur helping me into my limousine. I stepped in, over a jumble of receipts, fag packets, Mars bar wrappers and a disembodied doll’s head. There was a faint whiff of something that I was later able to identify as slurry.
Without a discernible glance into his mirrors, Johnny took off at high speed. The engine sounded like a lawnmower. Without indicating or slowing down, he took the first left turn we came to. I double-checked that my seat-belt was properly fastened. The car crawled up a steep hill and the engine roared painfully, as if the machine was about to take off like some old-fashioned, dilapidated fighter plane. I hoped there was a life-jacket under my seat. Can someone please pass the sick-bag?
