by Tara Heavey
There was a short break for drinks, and then Paddy, the drummer, was called upon to sing. He delivered a stirring rendition of ‘Red-Haired Mary’. Everyone who knew the words – which meant everyone except me, Chris and Hazel – sang along with the chorus. I badly wanted to know the words.
‘Jack, you go next,’ Paddy shouted towards the doorway when he’d finished.
‘Yes, come on, Jackie,’ several voices chorused.
My head swung towards the door. Jack was filling the doorway with his gigantic presence – he was what the locals called ‘a hardy root’. Fancy Jack Power being here tonight, in Power’s pub, of all places.
A feeling that might well have been glee swelled dangerously in my chest and threatened to escape from my throat in the form of a girlish giggle. I managed to quell it in the nick of time and transform it into a pleasant smile.
Look at me, I silently urged the massive figure in the doorway. Look at me. I’m here. Waiting for you.
You know how you can feel it when somebody is staring intently at you? You turn to look, although you don’t know why; and there they are, staring. Jack’s head turned slowly towards me, and we had one of those eye-locking movie moments. So I hadn’t been imagining it, after all. It had been such a long time since I had experienced a frisson like this. It felt lovely. We seemed to stay like that for an age. I thought surely everyone in the room must have noticed, but they were too busy shouting out their requests. I tore my eyes away and stared at the floor. An empty pack of cigarettes and a discarded crisp packet.
‘“Some Say the Divil is Dead”!’
‘“Me Mother She was Orange”!’
‘“Ride On”!’
‘“The Men Behind the Wire”!’
‘I know what I’ll sing. May I?’ Jack gestured to Margaret, who handed him her guitar. He pulled up a stool, sat down decisively and fiddled around with the instrument, tuning it to his satisfaction.
And then he started to sing Paul Brady’s ‘The Island’. You could have heard a cigarette butt drop. Every time he sang the line about making love to the sound of the ocean, he looked right at me. I swear to God!
(Where was the nearest ocean, anyway? Now probably wasn’t a good time to ask.)
When he’d finished his song and the applause had died down, he squeezed onto the bench beside me. We didn’t say anything, our thighs were touching.
‘Mattie, you’re next.’
Matt shook his head modestly.
‘Come on, boy. Give us an oul’ tune.’
All eyes were on Matt as the room fell silent once again. He half-closed his eyes and seemed to be focusing on a place many miles away. Then he started to sing ‘Danny Boy’. I’d always hated that song – I’d associated it with the start of boxing matches. Until now.
In a voice of almost unbearable sweetness, Matt brought his audience on an unforgettable trip from glen to glen and down the mountainside. I must have heard the song hundreds of times; how come I had never once noticed the poignancy of the lyrics? Maybe it took a talent like Matt’s to bring them to life. As the song drew to a close, I furtively wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. I suspected I wasn’t the only one.
There were several moments of silence, followed by a cacophony of whoops, claps and cheers. Jack leaned over and whispered into my left ear, ‘Talented little shit, isn’t he?’
I turned and looked at him in surprise. Did I detect a trace of bitterness?
‘You’re not exactly devoid of talent yourself, you know.’
It was true. He was good – only not as good as Matt.
‘Do all your family sing, then?’
‘Yeah. Either that or play an instrument.’
I was struck by an exciting idea. They could be Ballyknock’s answer to the Corrs, or the Nolan Sisters – only with good-looking boys instead of good-looking girls. I could be their manager! (The Power Brothers. Haven’t you heard of them? They’re huge in Turkey, you know.)
More drinks were bought all round, and somebody offered me a cigarette.
‘No, thanks, I don’t smoke,’ I said without missing a beat. Now why had I said that?
Who was I kidding? I knew exactly why. I’d said it because Jack didn’t smoke. He was the healthy, outdoorsy type. I had employed a similar tactic with Paul in the early days; it had lasted three months. The snag here was that Hazel was sitting to my right.
‘Can I have a fag, Lainey?’ she said.
‘What are you asking me for? You know I don’t smoke.’ I shot her an urgent look.
‘How come you’ve got a full pack of Marlboro Lights in your handbag, then?’
I whipped my head around to see if Jack was listening. Luckily, he was conversing with his number one fan – his mother.
‘Give me a break, please, Hazel.’
‘Why should I? It’s obvious now why you dumped poor old Paul.’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She arched an eyebrow at me. ‘Do I look stupid?’
Unfortunately for me, that was the last thing she was. Damn! Why did I have to invite her down this weekend, anyway?
‘I’ll buy you a Black Russian if you keep your mouth shut.’
‘Two Black Russians.’
‘Done. That’s what I love about you accountants. You’re so easily bribed.’
‘Just one of our many sterling qualities.’
I reluctantly tore myself away from the heat of Jack Power’s thigh and went to the bar. Chris was serving. How had that happened? She had removed her Burberry cap and had haphazardly inserted about ten of the pink, little-girl hair-slides that were sold behind the bar into her wispy blonde strands. I hoped she’d paid for them. She was chatting enthusiastically to Shem, who was now wearing a Burberry baker-boy cap.
‘Lainey!’ she exclaimed, her face animated. ‘Look at Shem. He has a Burberry coat!’ She leant right across the bar, her feet no longer touching the floor, and opened Shem’s overcoat to reveal the brown tartan lining.
‘I bought it thirty year ago on a trip to London.’
And hadn’t washed it since.
‘Isn’t he very stylish?’
‘Oh, very.’ I was sure Burberry would be using him in their next ad campaign. His was exactly the kind of image they were trying to convey.
‘Did you want a drink?’
‘Two Black Russians, please.’
‘Are they both for Hazel?’
Now, how did she know that?
‘How did you know that?’
‘I’m psychic, aren’t I?’
Psychotic, more like.
‘I’d better make them both doubles, so.’
I didn’t argue as she turned and started rattling various bottles. Shem watched, captivated; no doubt he was delighted with all the attention he was receiving from this young thing. He turned to me and grinned toothlessly.
‘She pulls a grand pint, so she does.’
‘That’s not all she’s good at pulling.’
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’
Tom of the Rusty Teeth had disappeared. I checked the floor under his stool, half-expecting to see him lying there in a pool of beer, but there was no sign of him.
‘Two Black Russians.’ Chris clinked the drinks down in front of me with a flourish.
‘Don’t you mean two outrageously camp Russians?’
The drinks were a sight to behold. The glasses were frosted, and each contained at least five cocktail umbrellas and a cocktail stick heavily laden with bits of orange and lemon and maraschino cherries. I paid Chris, anticipating my return to Jack’s thigh.
‘Are you coming back over, or what?’ I asked her.
‘Yeah, I’ll come with you. See you later, Shem.’
Shem looked disappointed as Chris ducked under the counter and followed me into the music room.
The session was in full swing again, the room even more packed than before. I stood uncertainly in the doorway, a drink in either hand. I needn�
��t have worried. Jack looked up and smiled, as if he’d been expecting me. He patted a tiny space on the bench to his right. I’d never get my backside in there. I fought my way towards the gap and plonked the drinks in front of my blackmailer.
‘Two Del-Boy specials, Madam.’
Hazel didn’t hear me. A red-faced man in his fifties was telling her how many head of cattle he owned. I turned my attention to manoeuvring myself back into my seat.
‘You can sit on my knee if you like,’ Jack said. It was a silly, flirtatious thing to say, but it still made me blush. Why didn’t he ever blush? I wanted him to blush.
‘You’re okay.’ I squeezed in – just about. I do think he could have made the effort to scooch up a little more. We were so close now that I was conscious of his every breath.
Nothing was said for the next while as everyone was carried along on the waves of the music. Only Chris and Bridie continued to natter. At one point, I heard Chris recommend sparkly blue nail-polish to Bridie, on the basis that it would exactly match her eyeshadow. She also thought it would be the perfect shade to wear to the Abba tribute concert. Bridie seemed delighted with the suggestion.
At one point, Johnny Power came in to collect empty glasses. He took one look at the piano stool, which happened to be empty just then, sat down on it and began to play. He stayed for three and a half songs. The empties piled up and there was no one serving behind the bar, but nobody seemed to care.
I wasn’t a bad pianist, you know – even if I said so myself. My mother – after she had got over her initial disappointment that I wasn’t going to be the next Jayne Torville – had sent me to piano lessons from an early age. Tatiana had been sent to trumpet lessons, for some strange reason. I had always been convinced that all that huffing and puffing accounted for her extraordinary chest development. All I’d got for my trouble was nimble fingers – handy if I ever decided to move over to the other side of the law and become a pickpocket, but otherwise entirely useless.
I had always quite enjoyed my piano lessons. My teacher was great – ever so slightly bonkers; unbeknownst to Mum, she rewarded me with sweets every time I did well. What I hadn’t enjoyed was being dragged up, like a hapless heroine from a Jane Austen novel, to perform at family gatherings – a fate worse than death, to a teenager. These experiences had put me off playing for years. But tonight, I could feel my fingers itching to tinkle the ivories for the first time in ages. Maybe later on, after a few more drinks....
The set ended, to another raucous round of applause.
‘Someone give us a song!’
‘Me, me! I want to sing next.’
I froze. I felt Hazel freeze beside me. We exchanged a look of abject horror as Chris got up and pushed back the tables to clear a space for herself – a very bad sign. She stood excitedly within a circle of curious locals.
‘Join in if you know the words.’
And then she launched into her version of Kylie’s ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head’, complete with dance moves from the video. Chris was one of those rare people who really do dance as if no one is watching.
I couldn’t look. I covered my eyes with both my hands. Okay, so she could just about hold a tune; but, my God, I’d never live this one down. I could feel Jack shaking with silent laughter beside me. About a minute into the number, I ventured to peek out between my fingers. I had to see the audience’s reaction for myself. I glanced around at the incredulous expressions. Some of the men did look genuinely fascinated, but I suspected this was due to Christiana’s short shorts and bra-less state more than to her musical prowess.
And then something very strange occurred. Someone started to clap. Judging from the direction of the sound, it may have been Bridie. I felt Jack join in beside me. The clapping spread like a Mexican wave. And then came the next chorus.
‘La la la, la la la la la ...’
This time it was definitely Bridie, singing along in her wavery old-lady voice.
‘La la la, la la la la la ...’
It was Matt. I took my hands away from my face and looked around the room.
‘La la la, la la la la la ...’
Johnny Power.
‘La la la, la la la la la ...’
Tom Delaney of the Rusty Teeth.
Then they were all singing. I could scarcely believe my eyes, or my ears. I had to hand it to her: the chick was a hit.
Eventually the night had to draw to a close. It was three in the morning, after all. For the first time in my life I had been in a lock-in, and I hadn’t even noticed. The local garda sergeant, sitting congenially up at the bar, didn’t seem to have noticed either.
Jack and I turned awkwardly to each other. I think I might have been more awkward than he was. I met his gaze with some difficulty.
He smiled at me. ‘How long are your friends staying with you?’
‘The rest of the weekend.’
‘Is it okay if I call you during the week?’
Does the Pope shit in the woods? ‘Yeah. Fine.’
‘Talk to you then.’
‘Okay. Bye.’
A swift kiss on the cheek (his lips, my cheek), and then he was gone. Just like that.
I decided I’d better go retrieve my guests.
Hazel was pissed. But it was nice pissed, not aggressive like at my going-away. She sat dozing happily in the corner of the music room – all the musicians had long since departed – a half-smile playing about her lips. The Black Russians had done the trick.
‘Come on. Let’s get you home to bed.’ I tugged at her gently. She protested slightly before allowing herself to be shepherded towards the exit.
Now where was Chris? I asked Shem, who was up on his barstool, chatting to the sergeant.
‘She left half an hour ago with young Mattie Power.’
He looked disgusted. Must have thought he was in with a chance.
Chapter Fifteen
Chris still hadn’t shown up at eleven o’clock the next morning. I wasn’t especially worried. I was working on my infamous mixed-grill special, the only ‘meal’ I could actually cook without screwing up. I was even wearing a pinny, which my mother had bought me in the vain hope that it would turn me into a cordon bleu chef by some strange feat of osmosis. She should have known better; we come from a long and illustrious line of bad cooks.
Hazel had just joined me. She was curled up on the couch reading yesterday’s Times. She looked up suddenly and stared at the wall above the fireplace.
‘Who is that old biddy? She keeps staring at me. It’s giving me the creeps.’
I explained about Mary Power.
‘Well, if I were you,’ said Hazel, ‘I’d stick her in a drawer. I don’t know how you can bear it. Especially when you’re on your own here at night.’
I didn’t tell her that I sometimes chatted to the picture when I got lonely, and that I found it strangely comforting. Neither was I going to admit that I sometimes asked Mary a question before I went to bed and that, when I woke up the next morning, hey presto, I had the answer – waiting for me on my pillow, as it were. (Miraculously, this included legal advice.)
Hazel was wearing the most extraordinary pair of pyjamas. They were pink and fleecy, and the legs didn’t stop at the ankles but encased her whole feet, like a giant baby-gro. I was on the verge of asking her where on earth she’d come across this item when the relative silence of the morning was disturbed by the sound of a car coming up the hill.
I looked out of the window, and my heart performed a little somersault as I recognised Jack’s jeep. What was he doing here? He wasn’t meant to contact me until next week. I started to panic as I visualised the state I was in. But – hold on ...
The jeep pulled up outside the house. That wasn’t Jack in the driver’s seat; it was Matt. And out of the passenger door jumped Chris, still resplendent in last night’s outfit.
‘Bye, Matt! Thanks for a lovely night!’ Chris waved merrily at him and ran up to the front door of the cottage. Matt grinned back at her
and then gave me a wave as he spotted me peeking out of the window at him. Damn! Busted! How embarrassing – for me, that was; he didn’t look the least bit fazed. Not an ounce of shame between the two of them! I would have been mortified.
I let Chris in. She bounded into the house, causing the dog, who had been fast asleep in his corner, to leap to his four furry paws and bark frenetically. The peace of the morning had now been officially shattered.
‘Did you have a good time, then?’ Was that bitterness or sarcasm in Hazel’s tone? Either one was wasted on Chris. She slumped down on the couch beside Hazel, arms and legs splayed, and stretched luxuriantly like Slinky the cat.
‘I,’ she said, pausing for dramatic effect, ‘have just had the night of my life.’
‘Really?’ I was suddenly extremely interested. I threw down my spatula and sat on the arm of the couch beside Chris. ‘Tell us more.’
‘Omigod. How can I possibly begin to describe the experience?’
‘Try!’
She sat up abruptly, hands placed neatly between Burberry knees. ‘Well. First of all, girls, did you know that he’s the seventh son of a seventh son?’
‘No!’
‘Don’t tell me you believe in that old baloney,’ said Hazel dismissively – although, if you ask me, she looked pretty interested in spite of herself.
Chris ignored the remark. ‘He has healing hands!’ The triumphant statement hung suspended in the air. Hazel and I exchanged confused looks.
‘What’s that got to do with last night?’
‘Well ...’ She lowered her voice, drawing us in. ‘He knows just what to do with his hands and exactly when to do it. I’m telling you, girls, no nook or cranny was left untouched. Every time I thought of what I wanted him to do – he just did it. It was like he could read my mind.’
I was enthralled. Hazel looked as if she might start drooling at any second.
‘And as for his tongue! Every crevice licked to perfection.’ Chris slumped back into the couch like a Victorian damsel swooning. ‘I’ve never known a man to do such things with his tongue. Not ever. And I’ve been with quite a few men, as you know.’
