by Tara Heavey
‘Come on, ye fuckin’ little bollixes! Would ye ever get the fuckin’ sliotar over the fuckin’ bar? It’s fuckin’ hurlin’ you’re meant to be playing, not fuckin’ table tennis.... Oh! Great fuckin’ hurl! ...’
The half-time whistle blew, and a smattering of applause broke out amongst the spectators. I clapped too – at least, I took my hands out of my pockets and brought them together several times. I couldn’t actually feel them at this stage.
The two teams separated into huddles, psyching themselves up for the second half. I stamped my feet and fantasised about hot chocolate topped with fresh cream and real chocolate shavings.
Then they were off again, with renewed vigour. (‘That’s the ball! Great fuckin’ hurl! He’s a tasty player, all right! Come on, P.J., give ’em hell!’) The game was just beginning to flow again when a skirmish broke out. I didn’t see the incident that caused the row, but, for some reason, D.J. punched P.J. in the gob, causing him to fall backward onto the ground. D.J. then jumped on top of P.J.’s chest and attempted to throttle him. At this point, J.J. took it upon himself to intervene, trying to pull D.J. off P.J.. He got an elbow in the kidneys for his trouble, which made him crumple like an accordion. Then, all of a sudden, there were about ten players in the melée, flailing and kicking and punching. It was great – just like a barroom brawl in a Western.
It took a while for the ref to restore order. He booked five players and sent two of them off. I was about to lead a chant of ‘Who’s the Bastard in the Black’, which was the only proper football song I knew, but I thought better of it (my reputation as a respectable local solicitor, etcetera, etcetera). One of the players sent off was P.J.. He limped forlornly off the pitch, a lone warrior, blood streaming from his mouth, holding one of his teeth tenderly in his left hand. Not to worry, said the man beside me. He still had at least four left.
Jack’s team won. Of course they did. The players walked, limped and crawled off the pitch, covered in varying shades of blood and muck. Even if you had missed the whole match, all you had to do was look at their expressions to tell who had won and who had lost.
An exhilarated Jack called out to me, ‘Are you coming to Power’s?’
I nodded. Why not? A hot toddy was definitely in order.
Half an hour later I was happily ensconced in Power’s pub, a freshly showered Jack sitting beside me. He was practically glowing with fitness after his morning’s exertions. An aura of rude good health surrounded him. Me, I was just glad to have the feeling back in my extremities.
‘I’m afraid I have a confession to make,’ Jack said.
‘What?’ I was immediately on my guard.
‘I brought you here today under false pretences.’
I frowned. ‘Go on.’
He sighed. ‘The mammy wanted me to invite you to Sunday lunch.’
‘Really? Why?’ I was fishing now.
‘She wants to get to know my new girlfriend better.’ His expression was deadly serious.
‘I’d like to meet your new girlfriend too. Let me know when she gets here.’
‘Don’t tease. Will you come for your dinner?’
‘Sure.’
He drained his pint glass and rose to his feet. ‘Come on, then.’
‘What – now?’
‘It’s two o’clock. We don’t want to keep the family waiting.’
The family? Oh, no.
I nearly ran back out of the Powers’ kitchen the second I walked in. Did I happen to mention that Jack was one of seven brothers? Well, they were out in force that afternoon. Along with various wives, girlfriends and partners.
‘This is Paidi, the eldest, his wife Joan and their three lovely children. And this is Mickey Joe and his wife Molly – Molly’s expecting in June. Jimmy and Mags. Gerry and Anne. Little Timmy ...’ Timmy was a mere six foot – the runt of the litter. ‘And you already know Matt.’ I smiled and nodded at all and sundry. Thanks, Jack. Talk about the deep end.... I felt in imminent danger of drowning.
Luckily for me, after a few initial curious glances, ‘the family’ turned their attention back to the food. Johnny stood at the head of the table (which they must have had specially made to accommodate everyone), carving the meat like the father out of The Waltons. He just winked at me. Soon I was ignored completely as everyone lost themselves in the aromas and juices of Bridie’s unsurpassable roast, excellent spuds and flawless gravy – a far cry from my own mother’s burnt offerings. I made a mental note never to cook for Jack.
When everybody had finished, two of the wives/girlfriends automatically got up and cleared away the dirty plates, Bridie doled out generous helpings of home-made trifle from an industrial-sized bowl, and we all tucked in again.
A toddler with a snot-encrusted nose had taken a shine to me. She clung to my leg and stared up at me, finger in nostril. I tried not to let this put me off my dessert.
Her slightly elder brother was also a nosy little blighter. ‘Are you Jack’s girlfriend?’ He gazed up at me solemnly.
My face turned the same colour as the sherry trifle – minus the custard and cream. Although the family were pretending to concentrate on their food, I could sense that every pair of ears in the room was pricked up, dying to hear my answer.
‘No. I’m just his friend.’
‘Then why is he holding your hand under the table?’
‘Danny!’ The child’s mother, clearly horrified, jumped up and dragged her son away from me by the arm. ‘Don’t be bothering our guest. Go out and play with your new bike.’
‘But he was –’
‘Do what you’re told. Scoot!’
The mother shot me a pained, apologetic look as she returned to the table. I, in the meantime, had invented a new shade of puce. The brothers exchanged knowing smirks. Matt audibly sniggered. I made a mental note to kill Jack, if I ever made it out of there alive.
Various women got up again to clear away the dessert bowls and make the tea. I was unsure what was expected of me – being female and all – so I started to get up to bring my bowl to the sink. Several women immediately descended upon me, removed the bowl from my hand and pinned me back down in the chair. It seemed I was getting a special dispensation because I was new. I wondered what Bridie had done before her sons’ partners came along. Had she done everything herself? The idea was horrifyingly plausible: the Irish Supermammy fulfilling her sons’ every need. Yet another generation of Irish men ruined. If Jack expected that kind of treatment from me, he could feck off.
At last the tea had been consumed and it was time to go. I tried not to run. Bridie saw us to the door.
‘That was gorgeous, Bridie. You could open your own restaurant and charge whatever prices you wanted. Thank you for inviting me.’ Sometimes I almost nauseated myself.
But it was the right thing to say. Bridie beamed with pleasure. ‘Oh, not at all. You’re welcome any time. Any friend of Jack’s ...’ She twinkled.
I turned on him as soon as we were out of earshot.
‘You bastard!’
‘What?’ He was all fake innocence.
‘That was a terrible position to put me in. I nearly died when I saw them all sitting there.’
‘But you knew I had a big family.’
This was a valid point, so I decided to ignore it. ‘That’s not the point.’ (What was the point?)
‘Don’t you like my family, then?’
‘Don’t be silly. They seem very nice. You should have given me more warning, that’s all.’
‘But it went really well.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yeah, absolutely. You made a great impression.’
‘Really?’ I was desperate to believe him. Quite pathetic.
‘Yes. They all loved you.’ He reached over and wrapped his massive arms around my waist.
What can I say? I was disarmed.
Chapter Seventeen
I went out with Jack twice during the following week. The chaste kisses on the cheek turned into slightl
y less chaste kisses on the lips. Still no tongues. Still no touchy-feely stuff. My body was a throbbing mass of frustration. It was just that I fancied Jack so much. I wanted to jump his bones every time I saw him. I suppose I should have been glad that he was so respectful, but respect was the last thing I wanted. Aretha Franklin and I would have to agree to differ.
So I decided to let him know what he was missing and go to Dublin for the weekend. Alone. It wasn’t just a tactic; I felt as if I’d been neglecting Hazel and Chris lately, even though they’d only just been down. Hazel had rung a couple of times the week after they’d gone back, leaving desperate messages, begging me to come to Dublin for the weekend. I had shamefully ignored these messages, for two reasons: I needed a break from all their rowing, and I had more important, Jack-shaped fish to fry. But that couldn’t be right. I wasn’t the kind of woman who dumped her girlfriends the second an interesting man came along.
Was I?
It was with some trepidation that I let myself into the flat in Dublin that Friday night. A kindly neighbour had agreed to feed Slinky. Terence wasn’t with me. I couldn’t really visualise him in our tiny apartment; he’d knock everything over with his tail. Mum had generously agreed to have him any time I was in Dublin. My parents had a huge, old-fashioned, suburban garden; Terence was probably digging up bulbs and urinating on rosebushes that very second. I did suspect my mother of an ulterior motive. If she agreed to dog-sit, it meant I had to call in and see her – twice. Not that I resented her ploy. She already had one estranged daughter; I knew she’d never survive another one. She had tried to coax me into staying the night, but I had stubbornly refused. Any sign of clinginess tended to send me packing in the other direction.
So there I was, in the hall of the flat.
‘Anybody home?’ I called out as I sifted through the pile of junk mail beside the telephone. There was no reply, but I could hear strange music emanating from Chris’s room. It sounded like many monks chanting. She was either meditating or engaged in a very strange orgy; you never knew with her. The pungent scent of joss sticks hit me hard in the nostrils as I passed her door. I went into the sitting room.
‘Hello!’
I experienced a very funny feeling in my tummy. Something similar to the sensation of going down in a lift.
‘Hello.’ I couldn’t see myself, but I knew the colour was draining from my cheeks.
‘Long time no see.’
‘How have you been?’
‘Fine.’ There was that stupid word again. Encompassing everything, signifying nothing.
Paul was seated on one of the high stools by the breakfast bar, nursing what looked like a mug of coffee. He seemed comfortable – physically, anyway; he had changed out of his work gear and his jacket lay slung across the couch.
What was he doing here? I searched his face for clues. Inscrutable. All I could think of was the last time we had seen each other – me the cold-hearted bitch, and him the broken man. He didn’t look broken today. He just looked like ... well ... like Paul.
‘How are your parents?’ he asked.
That was good. Neutral topic. Talk about family. ‘Fine. They ask about you all the time.’
‘You haven’t told them that you dumped me, then?’
Gulp!
Again, his facial expression was completely unreadable.
‘No. I haven’t told them.’ My voice came out small. Humble.
Not that it would have made any difference if I had. They would just have gone on about him even more – what a grand, upstanding young man he was, every parent’s dream son-in-law; what was I thinking of, letting him escape, when I wasn’t getting any younger, or for that matter any thinner?
‘How’s your mum?’ I asked. Resume politeness. Ignore awkwardness.
‘Oh – you know. Just the same. Mad as a fruit.’
I nodded sympathetically.
Paul’s mum was a religious lunatic. She went to Mass every day and twice on holy days. You couldn’t move in her house without knocking over a statuette of the Blessed Virgin or a headless Child of Prague. Once a year she went on a two-week sun holiday: Lourdes one year, Fatima the next. (The year before, in Fatima, her rosary beads had turned to solid gold because of all the heavy-duty praying.) She did indulge in the odd long weekend, mind you. Lough Derg or Croagh Patrick. I suspected she flagellated herself when there was no one home, and wore dresses made out of sackcloth – whatever that was.
Paul was an only child (probably the result of the one and only time Mrs O’Toole had had sex). His father had run off with a stripper (I kid you not) when Paul was five years old. You couldn’t blame the poor guy, really. It was rough on Paul, though. He hardly ever mentioned his dad. All I knew was that he lived in England and that they never saw each other.
When he was six years old, Paul had tried to crucify himself in the back garden. He had found a few bits of plywood and some rusty nails left behind by his father. He’d had to be rushed to Accident and Emergency. It was a wonder he was as sane as he was. And no wonder he was so fond of my family. Okay, they were mildly dysfunctional at times, but at least they weren’t completely barking. We were what our middle-aged neighbours called ‘a lovely family’ – husband an executive, wife a homemaker; 2.4 daughters, one a teacher, the other a solicitor; went to Mass every Sunday.... You never know what goes on behind closed doors.
I had made a bad impression the one and only time I had been invited to Paul’s mother’s house for dinner. My first boo-boo had been bringing a bottle of wine with me. Alcohol was strictly forbidden in the O’Toole household (Paul’s mother still thought he was a Pioneer). I had felt like saying something sarcastic about the blood of Christ, but had managed to restrain myself. My next faux pas had been sitting down to dinner without washing my hands first (‘Cleanliness is next to godliness, Elena!’). But, most heinous crime of all, I had started to eat before saying grace. I hadn’t been back to the house since. This arrangement suited all parties – the mother, the son and the unholy girlfriend.
To tell the truth, I’d always been a bit miffed that I hadn’t been able to charm Paul’s mother. My other boyfriends’ parents had all loved me – even when said boyfriends hadn’t. They’d considered me a nice, sensible girl with prospects and good child-bearing hips; a little prim and proper, perhaps, but surely that was a good trait in a prospective daughter-in-law. And I came from a good family, too – whatever that meant.
But that was all in the past, and it was high time I concentrated on the present, which was sitting on a stool and staring at me in a distinctly cool manner. I wasn’t accustomed to being on the receiving end of such a stare from Paul. It was disconcerting; it made him seem like a stranger. I had seen hurt in his eyes before, sure; anger, annoyance, impatience. Love. But never this cold, calculating appraisal.
I took a deep breath. ‘You never returned my calls.’
‘You always rang when you knew I’d be out.’
This was getting worse. Of course, I didn’t blame him. I felt sorry for him, really. I’d moved on to a new and better relationship with Jack. He was all alone.
‘Look, Paul, I know you’re angry with me, but if you’ve come here tonight for a row, I’m not –’
‘I haven’t come for a row.’
‘Then what –’
With her usual impeccable timing, Chris burst through the door. ‘Oh, hi, Lainey. I didn’t hear you come in. Hi, Paul. How long have you been here?’
What? Surely she had let him in?
‘Is Hazel in her room, then?’
Paul and Chris exchanged a funny look.
‘What is it?’
Another funny look. Then Chris said, ‘Haven’t you heard? She said she’d ring and let you know.’
‘Let me know what?’
‘Hazel moved out. She left on Monday.’
‘But why?’ A stupid question in the circumstances, I know, but I’d had quite a shock.
‘We had another row.’ Chris’s tone was flat, mat
ter-of-fact. She started to busy herself around the kitchen.
I sat in silence for a minute or so, absorbing this news.
‘Where’s she gone?’
‘Back to her parents.’
‘I suppose we’d better advertise for a new flatmate.’
‘No need. It’s all sorted. I’ve got somebody already.’ Chris smiled proudly.
‘Oh?’ Surely we should have discussed it first. ‘Anyone I know?’
As if on cue, we all heard the bathroom door opening. And then the footsteps in the hall, growing louder. And then the door slowly opening.
And in walked Iseult.
Oh. My. God.
‘Hello, Elena!’ She beamed.
‘Hello, Iseult!’ I beamed back.
I was going to fucking kill Chris.
I knew that wasn’t fair. How was she supposed to know I hated Iseult? Hadn’t I always pretended – for diplomatic reasons – that I liked her, that I didn’t in fact think she was a shallow, vacuous, vicious carbuncle of a human being? All that had happened here was that my own hypocrisy had come back to slap me hard in the face. Still, I wished Chris had discussed it with me first.
Could this evening possibly get any worse?
Apparently it could. Iseult padded over to Paul, placed her long, elegant, lightly tanned arms about his neck, kissed him on the lips and said, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, darling.’
Darling?
My brain was performing cartwheels at this stage. A billion questions flew about inside my head, threatening to collide into one another. How long has this been going on? What does he see in her? Why does she have to keep stroking his head? Has she met his mother yet? (Obviously not, or she wouldn’t still be with him.) Has he completely lost his senses?
Iseult was going all out to mark her territory. She fluttered around Paul, cooing and touching him. Skinny bitch! Why didn’t she just pee on his shoes and have done with it? Paul, in the meantime, was looking distinctly uncomfortable. He caught my eye on one occasion and quickly looked away. I badly wanted to retreat to my bedroom, but I wasn’t going to give Iseult the satisfaction. I preferred to bite off my nose to spite my face. I resolutely sat down on the couch, turned on the TV and stared mindlessly at the screen.
