by Tara Heavey
Hazel answered, sounding frazzled and bad-tempered.
‘Hello, who is this?’
‘That’s a fine way to answer the phone.’
‘Oh, it’s you.’ She sounded relieved. ‘I thought it was another of Chris’s idiotic friends. I’m not joking, that girl needs to hire her own receptionist.’
‘Don’t tell me you two still haven’t made up.’
‘Oh, we have – sort of. It’s just those morons she surrounds herself with.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear you’re friends again, because I’d like to cordially invite you both down for a weekend in the country.’
‘When?’
‘This weekend.’
‘I can’t, Lainey, I have to –’
‘Don’t tell me you have to work. I don’t want to hear it. You can’t work every weekend of your miserable life.’
‘But I have a huge deal on.’
‘You always have a huge deal on.’
‘But –’
‘I won’t take no for an answer. When’s the last time you went away for the weekend?’
Silence.
‘You see? It’s so long ago, you can’t even remember.’
‘Well ... I suppose if I worked late on Friday night, and came in early on Monday morning, I could just about swing it.’
‘Great. Now do me a favour: give Chris a shout and see if she’s free.’
I heard Hazel putting the receiver down on the hall table, then knocking on what must have been Chris’s bedroom door. The background music (Shakira? surely not) ended abruptly, and I heard Hazel’s low, muffled tones, followed by Chris’s excited squeals. A few seconds later, Hazel picked up the phone again.
‘She says she’d love to come to Ballymuck this weekend.’
‘Brilliant. I can’t wait. Only tell her she’ll get her head kicked in down here if she keeps calling it that.’
‘I’ll warn her. She says she’s sorry she can’t come to the phone, but she’s meditating.’
‘To Shakira?’
‘Don’t go there. Is Paul coming down too?’
‘You haven’t heard, then.’
‘Heard what?’
‘Haven’t you spoken to Paul this week?’
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘He proposed!’
‘Far from it. Didn’t he tell you? We broke up.’
‘No! I don’t believe it. We had lunch together today in the canteen and he didn’t say a word. I even asked him how you were, and he said you were fine.’
‘That’s Paul for you.’
‘I suppose you broke it off.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You’ve always had the upper hand in that relationship.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Oh, please! You’ve so had the upper hand it’s not even funny.’
Had I? It was easy when you didn’t give a toss.
‘So you dumped him, then.’
‘Well – yes.’
‘The poor thing! He must be crushed.’
‘Like you said, he seemed all right.’
‘That’s just Paul being Paul.’
‘I suppose. You will be extra-specially nice to him for a while, won’t you?’
‘Of course. One of us has to be.’
‘Now, that’s not fair. You wouldn’t want me to stay with him out of pity, would you? Keep stringing him along?’
‘Yeah, yeah. You have a point. But – fuck it, anyway: you two were my only successful set-up. Now I’m down to nil again.’
‘I didn’t realise you were keeping score. Never mind. If you’re good, I’ll let you set me up with another dodgy accountant type as soon as I’ve got over this one.’
‘Promise?’
The things I did to pacify my friends.
The dog smelt of old women’s houses. I’d have given him a bath, but I didn’t have the time: it was almost four o’clock, and Hazel and Chris were due to arrive any minute. They were a good three hours late already – something about Hazel having had to go into work that morning.
I looked down at the dog. The dog looked up at me, one ear pointing to the clouds, the other to the ground. He was black, apart from four mismatched white socks, a white bib and half a white face. He looked like he’d got on the wrong side of one of those machines the Corpo uses to draw white lines on the road. There was a bit of sheepdog in there, all right, and goodness knows what else; judging by his matted dreadlocks, he might have been part Rastafarian. I had spent a good part of the afternoon trying to come up with a name for him, using the same tactic I’d used for Slinky the cat, but I wasn’t having much luck finding a name that he’d respond to. I had learned one thing, though, in the short time we’d spent together: he might have been a carnivore, but he had a vegetarian’s soul.
He woofed at the sound of a car coming up the hill. Sure enough, I spotted Chris’s new purple Beetle in the distance. Hazel called it a bubble car, and then commented cruelly, ‘What kind of car would you expect a bubble-head to drive?’
When Hazel got out of the car, I was shocked at her appearance. She was still wearing her work gear and glasses – she used to wear contacts all the time, but she seldom bothered these days. She looked like she could do with a good hairbrushing – and, not meaning to be cruel, a good airbrushing. There was nothing wrong with her features; it was just that her skin was so sickly white that it was practically green, magnifying her dark shadows and blemishes. She’d probably been up all night working again. What I wouldn’t have liked to say to that boss of hers, given half a chance.... Still, there was no guarantee that her unhealthy appearance wasn’t due in part to Chris’s driving/choice of music/conversation on the way down.
‘Your house is so dinky and cute!’ squealed Chris. ‘It’s just like a little doll’s house.’ She caught her breath sharply, and her eyes widened as far as they could go – sure signs that she had just had a wonderful idea. ‘I know! Why don’t you get it thatched? It would be just like one of those perfect country cottages in the fairy tales. And you could paint it pink!’
‘She’ll be asking you if it’s made of gingerbread next,’ said Hazel.
‘I’ll suggest it to Tyrone next time I’m talking to him. Come and see the inside. Here, let me help you with your bags.’
Chris handed me the smallest of her set of Gucci cases and lugged the other two along on either side of her slender frame. She didn’t do travelling light. Hazel, on the other hand, seemed to have brought one Superquinn plastic bag.
‘Come on, Terence. We’re going in.’ Chris appeared to be addressing the dog, who was yelping in pure joy, his tail wagging as if it were about to come right off his body.
I put my arm around Hazel’s shoulder as we walked into the house.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah, fine.’
Didn’t look like it.
We decided to go for an exploratory walk while it was still bright. I begged Chris to put on a pair of wellies, or at least sensible walking shoes, but she insisted on wearing the ultra-pointy-toed boots that she had purchased the previous day in Carl Scarpa. She brought her camera with her, too – a massive, professional-looking contraption that she wore around her neck. Something to do with her latest film project.
Before long, we came across a field of cows. Inevitable, really, but I thought Chris was going to have a fit.
‘Oh, oh, I love cows! I haven’t seen one since I was a kid.’ She started taking photos, from many different angles, of a large cow that was staring at us from behind a hedge. All Hazel and I could do was look on, me in amusement and her in exasperation.
‘Here. Take one of me and the cow.’ Chris thrust the camera at Hazel.
‘No,’ Hazel said flatly, leaving no room for argument.
‘Give it to me.’ I took the camera and Chris lined up beside the hedge, posing prettily. ‘Come on, Terence,’ she called the dog over, ‘you can get in the picture too.’
‘Why do you keep ca
lling him Terence?’
‘Because it’s his name.’
I took several shots, until the cow started mooing like something out of a cartoon, causing Terence – I mean the dog – to dance in circles around Chris’s feet and bark annoyingly.
‘You know,’ said Chris in hushed tones, as if someone might be lurking in the hedgerows, ‘that cow might look innocent, but I once knew a man who was gored to death by a bull.’
‘You knew him after he’d been gored to death, did you?’ asked Hazel.
Chris gave her a dirty look. ‘I knew of him.’
We headed back before long. Chris’s feet were killing her. A red tractor came up the hill towards us; as we moved to the side of the road, to let it pass, Chris had the misfortune to step in a fresh, steaming pile of cow dung.
‘My new boots!’ she squealed.
‘Don’t worry, love,’ shouted one of the men on the tractor as they drove by, ‘it’s great for the hooves!’
Three hours later, we were all three ready to go out for the night.
‘How do I look?’ Chris emerged from the bedroom and gave us an exaggerated twirl.
‘Um ... are you sure you won’t be cold?’
‘I never feel the cold.’
Let me start from the bottom up. Chris was wearing her new boots (which she had cleaned), Burberry tights, cut-off denim shorts, a revealing white T-shirt (no bra), a short indigo denim jacket and, to top off the ensemble, a Burberry baker-boy cap. I glanced at Hazel uncertainly, but she just looked resigned. It’s not that I wasn’t used to Chris’s outlandish outfits; it was just that they didn’t seem so out of place in Dublin. I didn’t think Ballyknock was quite ready for this.
‘What are we waiting for? Let’s go and give those Ballymuck boys a good seeing-to.’
I gulped. ‘Chrissy?’
‘Yessy?’
‘You know how this isn’t a big city like Dublin?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well ... things are a little different down here. It’s not like Temple Bar. I’d really appreciate it if tonight you were a little bit more – how shall I say it – restrained than usual. Do you think you could do that for me?’
‘No problem. You just point out the men you fancy, and I’ll steer clear.’
‘No, Chris, that’s not what I mean. It’s just that they all know me down here. They all know I’m the local solicitor. I can’t really go mad. And you can’t either.’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’
‘I’m not asking you not to have fun. Just – well, could you just tone it down a little?’ I indicated ‘a little’ with my thumb and forefinger.
She regarded me seriously, hands on non-child-bearing hips.
‘Okay, then. Seeing as it’s you.’
‘Thanks, Chris.’ I breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Beside me, head buried in a magazine, Hazel muttered, as if she was talking to herself, ‘You’ll be lucky.’
Chapter Fourteen
I couldn’t get over the number of bodies crammed into Power’s Select Lounge and Bar that Saturday night. Heaving, it was. I realised we might even have trouble getting seats – a problem I hadn’t expected to encounter in Ballyknock.
The pub looked better at night. The dirt was less visible. A session was in full swing somewhere to our right. The musicians appeared to be in a side room, but it was hard to tell, as the entrance was obscured by several very able-bodied farmer types.
We received many a curious stare as we fought our way to the alcohol. I was relieved to see Johnny Power’s friendly face behind the bar; I’d been starting to feel out of my depth. And there were Shem and Tom Delaney of the Rusty Teeth, sitting on the very same stools they’d occupied the first time I’d entered the pub. The thought that they’d been there ever since flitted across my mind. Perhaps they were Superglued to their stools by the seats of their pants. They were permanent fixtures and fittings, like the old photos and Guinness ads on the wall.
Johnny greeted me like an old friend. Any friend of Tyrone’s ...
‘What are ye having, girls?’
‘I’ll get this,’ piped up Chris. ‘Three Cosmos, please.’
‘What was that?’
‘Three Cosmopolitans, please.’
‘We don’t sell magazines here, love. Try the newsagent’s.’
Chris frowned at Johnny. It was hard to know whether he was serious or not. His expression was entirely deadpan.
I whispered into Chris’s ear, ‘I think you should try ordering something else.’
‘Do you know how to do Sex on the Beach?’
‘I do, love. Just give me a minute and I’ll go and get me wellies.’
This time he was joking. Tom Delaney shook with gravelly laughter into his pint. Shem just stared at Chris, open-mouthed, like the little boy in the film when he sees E.T. for the first time.
Chris glanced back uncertainly at me and Hazel, who actually looked like she was starting to enjoy herself.
‘Three Sexes on the Beach, please, Johnny,’ I said. Or was it Sex on the Beaches?
‘Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?’ He grinned at me as he took down the glasses, obviously enjoying this game of ‘Let’s make fun of the city folk’. He saw me glancing around for a seat.
‘Why don’t you join the missus over there? She’s waiting for her pals to arrive.’
As we carried our drinks over to Bridie’s table, Chris whispered to me, ‘This place is very odd.’
I almost didn’t recognise Bridie, resplendent as she was in a spangled top and high heels. She was seated at a small side table, with a dark-haired man.
‘Well, is it yourself, Lainey? Sit down, pet.’ She pulled out a chair for me.
I introduced the girls, and Bridie introduced the man at her side. ‘This is my youngest, Matt.’
Matt nodded by way of greeting and smiled easily at the three of us. Not bad.
‘You’re the vet,’ I said.
‘And you’re the solicitor.’
‘You look very young to be a vet.’ Now, that was a stupid thing to say.
‘And you look too young to be a solicitor.’
‘Thanks.’
My reflexes forced me to check his finger for a wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing one. Still, this didn’t prove anything; he might have lost it up a cow’s arse.
It turned out he was twenty-seven, and two years out of veterinary college. He wasn’t unlike Jack in appearance – the same ocean-coloured eyes – but his colouring was darker: his hair was black and crinkly-looking, and he had that complexion peculiar to some Irish people, where they can have a tan and loads of freckles at the same time. (Although a tan in Ireland in October is impossible without the aid of artificial means or foreign travel.)
Bridie had the same dark colouring – although her hair was somewhat enhanced at this stage. Tonight, her eyes were emphasised by two bright-blue streaks of 70s-inspired eyeshadow.
No sooner had this thought entered my head than Chris said to Bridie, ‘Are you going to an Abba tribute concert later on?’ Under the table, Hazel and I kicked Chris in the right and left leg respectively. Above the table, Matt spluttered into his pint.
‘Ow! What did you kick me for?’ Chris looked dazed and confused.
Luckily, Bridie didn’t get the reference. ‘What a funny thing to say, child! I do like Abba, though. I’m going to see one of those letting-on Abba bands when they come to Kilkenny at Christmas.’
Bridie – the disco queen.
‘Really?’ Chris was wide-eyed. ‘I’d love to go to that.’
‘Well, you should get yourself a ticket and come down for it.’
‘I think I will.’ She looked very excited.
I heard Hazel hiss into her ear, ‘Whatever you do, don’t tell her you were Agnetha in a previous life.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Chris replied sulkily.
Hazel changed the subject, just to be on the safe side. ‘Will we go inside and listen to
the music?’
So we did.
Along the way, Chris whispered to me, ‘Do you think I should tell Bridie that the 70s-revival look is over? I wouldn’t want her to make a fool of herself.’
I looked into her serious, frowning face.
‘I think you should probably just say nothing.’
Chris led the way into the music room. The musicians and their groupies looked at her like the escaped lunatic that she was. Luckily, Bridie and Matt were with us to make the introductions and validate our presence. There was Eamonn, who played the fiddle; George, on the mandolin; Paddy, on drums and the occasional vocal. There were three accordion players, each operating at a different level of expertise. One of them, Dixie, was eighty-two years old, although he looked twenty years younger. He’d had his squeezebox since he was ten. When he played, he moved his mouth around in time to the music, as if he were sucking a toffee. An elegant blonde lady who answered to the name of Diane played the piano; then there was Conor on the bodhrán, and Margaret on the guitar. They very quickly forgot about us and turned their attention back to their reason for being there – and, very possibly, their reason for being: the music.
Without saying a word to each other, the mandolin player and one of the accordionists began to play a reel, at exactly the same moment. How did they know? Possibly they’d been playing together for so long that they knew which tune came next in the set. Perhaps they communicated by eye contact, or body language.
The music gathered momentum, growing in force as the other players joined in, each member involuntarily tapping a foot in time with the music. When the reel was finished they moved seamlessly into a jig, and then into another reel. At one point, Conor went to the bar, and Matt took his seat, picked up the bodhrán and started playing, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. The music leaped, whirled, galloped like a living creature. It acted like a drug or a prayer. Its cycles reminded me of ancient monks chanting: you didn’t understand what they were saying, but you were sure it was something very deep and mystical and involving God in an important way.
At last the set ended, and all the spectators clapped enthusiastically. The players smiled happily at one another, their faces aglow with excitement and exertion. They knew with certainty that they were part of something good.
