Meanwhile Gracie is sitting across the table from me wearing a denim mini with torn opaque tights as her little act of rebellion, while to my right, poor old Bernard tries his best to make stilted small talk with Dad. And none of us are getting on well.
Underscoring all this, there’s loud dance music seeping in from the bar in the building next door, like there’s a proper party in full swing there with a live DJ and everything. You can clearly hear Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ throbbing through the walls loud and clear. Unlike the club dining room, which is completely silent apart from the ticking of a grandfather clock and the dull murmur of chat drifting our way from the only other people here; an elderly couple who have to be in their eighties if they’re a day, sitting over by the window. Given their age profile, they’d be right at home on jury service, I find myself thinking.
‘I think we’ll have a little drinkie for everyone to break the ice!’ says Bernard, cheerily grabbing a passing waiter and ordering aperitifs all round.
‘Very nice in here, isn’t it?’ Mum says to no one in particular as I silently bless her for at least making an effort.
‘Except they’re rather slow with the drinkies, I find,’ says Beatrice impatiently. ‘I’m absolutely gagging for a good stiff G&T. What’s your tipple?’
‘I don’t drink, I’m afraid,’ says Mum. ‘A nice strong cuppa tea would do me grand.’
Another long pause and this time I can actually see Gracie itching to bop along to Beyonce with the party crowd next door.
‘Oh, I know! I must tell you about the show we saw at the theatre last night,’ Desmond pipes up, breaking the silence.
‘What show was that?’ I ask him politely.
‘We went to see DruidShakespeare. Absolutely wonderful, wasn’t it, Bea?’
‘Completely breathtaking,’ Beatrice nods, helping herself to a G&T from the tray our waiter brings and immediately knocking back a huge gulpful. ‘Have you seen it?’ she asks Mum.
‘Oh … erm … I’m afraid not, no,’ says Mum awkwardly.
‘Well you really ought to. It’s a combination of Richard II, Henry IV parts one and two, and then just when you think it can’t get better, Henry V. All in a single day! Can you imagine?’
‘Sounds like it’s an absolute must see,’ says Bernard enthusiastically.
‘How long does it go on for?’ asks Gracie.
‘Six and a half hours with two intervals,’ says Desmond. ‘But to be perfectly honest, I came out just wishing it had been longer.’
‘We really must try to get tickets, sausage,’ says Bernard and all I can do is hope none of the Pritchards caught Gracie mouthing over the table, ‘sooner you than me’.
‘Are you a regular theatregoer?’ Desmond asks Dad.
‘Ehh, not really, no. Last show I saw was Brendan O’Carroll doing For the Love of Mrs Brown at the 3 Arena. Now that was a great night out, wasn’t it, love?’
‘Ahh now that was magic,’ says Mum, suddenly lighting up. ‘But then we love Mrs Brown!’
‘Sure who doesn’t?’ Dad grins.
But instead of this leading on to easy, relaxed conversation, there’s mystified silence from the Pritchards.
‘I’m told it’s about a man who dresses up as a Dublin matriarch,’ Bernard explains helpfully.
‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry,’ says Beatrice. ‘But I’m afraid we don’t own a TV.’
A shocked look on Mum’s face and then more silence, apart from the discreet ticking of the clock in the background and the thuf thuf muffled noise of the party seeping in from next door.
We order and, as ever, the menu is like a flashback to the eighties. Melon balls, lasagne and what sounds like nothing more than a slice of Viennetta for dessert. By then though, Beatrice is already onto her third G&T and if she’d actually set out tonight with the sole intention of mortifying the Taylor family, then frankly she couldn’t be doing a better job. Starting with Dad then working her way on to Gracie and myself, knocking us all down one-by-one like pins in a bowling alley.
‘So tell me all about yourself, Jack,’ she says to Dad, as our main course is served.
‘Call me Jacko, love, everyone else does.’
‘Jacko, then. So what is it you do for a living?’
Embarrassed looks from Mum and I to each other.
‘I’m actually in between jobs right now,’ says Dad after a pause. ‘So I’m working freelance at the minute.’
‘Doing what exactly?’ Beatrice persists.
‘Bit of painting and decorating. Tell you what, I’d do a nice job on this place if they ever wanted,’ he adds, taking in the peeling paint on the dining room ceiling.
‘And what did you do before that?’ Beatrice prods.
More awkward silence.
‘I was working for an alarm installation company.’
‘Isn’t that a rather good job? Why did you leave?’
‘Because I was made redundant,’ says Dad, getting red in the face now, though I can’t tell if that’s because he’s embarrassed or because the collar and tie are choking him.
Then it’s Gracie’s turn.
‘And what about you,’ Beatrice says, turning to her. ‘What do you do?’
‘I work in a call centre,’ says Gracie.
‘Oh, really? And I assume at your age that you’re some sort of a manager there? Or perhaps an executive?’
‘No, I’m a customer service representative,’ says Gracie, ‘which basically means I answer the phones.’
‘Oh,’ says Beatrice, distinctly unimpressed and fast losing interest. ‘And is that what you always wanted to do?’
‘Well put it this way,’ says Gracie, a slight edge creeping into her voice now, ‘you never hear kids in playgrounds saying “when I grow up, I want to work in a call centre”, now do you?’
‘Does it at least pay well?’ asks Desmond.
‘I’m twenty-five years of age and I still live at home,’ is Gracie’s terse reply, as she shoves her dessert plate as far away from her as possible. ‘So what do you think?’
Meanwhile I’m sitting across the table from her, willing her to tell them that she’s only doing this job till she saves up enough to move to Canada, where she’s hoping to work as a graphic designer, basically her dream job. I want her to say that she’s even got her visa and accommodation in Toronto sorted out and that all she needs now is cash, but it’s too late. Beatrice has already dismissed her and moved on.
‘And neither of your daughters went to college?’ she says to Mum this time. ‘I must say, I really do find that mystifying. But then the Pritchard family place a very high premium on education and always have.’
‘Lucky that you can afford it then,’ says Dad, as a throbbing vein starts to bulge out of his forehead. Which with him, is never a good sign. Last time it happened was when he was hauled up for a tax audit. ‘Not all of us have that luxury, just so you know.’
Dinner goes from bad to bowel-witheringly mortifying. Edited highlights include Desmond and Beatrice talking at length about their upcoming summer walking tour of the ancient Roman ruins at Cerro da Vila, while Mum chats about the great deal she got on Groupon for a week’s holiday in Sneem, County Kerry.
‘The weather will probably be shite,’ shrugs Dad.
‘But at least we speak the language,’ says Mum. ‘And the food won’t be a problem.’
‘And it’s cheap. And I can still keep up with the League.’
In the midst of stiff competition, though, the award for the single worst moment of the whole miserable evening has to go to Bernard himself.
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you all a lovely bit of news,’ Mum says to the table at large as coffee is being served.
‘And what’s that?’ asks Beatrice, waving for the waiter to come and refill her glass.
‘You know how my ladies from the local amateur musical society are all coming to the wedding? Well, they were wondering if they could sing a bit of a medley at the afters?’
�
�That’s a fantastic idea!’ I smile. ‘Of course they can sing. We’d be thrilled to have them perform, wouldn’t we, Bernard?’
Now at this point, in the interests of diplomacy, all my husband-to-be has to do is smile brightly and come out with something along the lines of, ‘yes, that sounds wonderful, thank you!’
That’s all that’s needed here, that’s all it would take. That little.
Instead though, Bernard looks worried, bites his lip, then after a pause says, ‘and may I ask what it is that they’re proposing to sing?’
‘Oh you’ll love this,’ Mum beams proudly, ‘a fifteen- minute medley of ABBA’s greatest hits including “Dancing Queen”, Tess’s very favourite song. They’ve been rehearsing it specially and everything. Now isn’t that a lovely surprise?’
I give Mum a peck on the cheek, thank her and only then become aware that Bernard is saying absolutely nothing. Just fiddling with his cufflinks and looking uncomfortable.
‘Bernard?’ I prompt. ‘Isn’t that thoughtful of Mum’s pals?’
‘Oh, sausage,’ he says, looking guiltily at me. ‘Is that really the kind of function we want?’
More silence and this time it’s my turn to look dumbfounded.
‘And what’s wrong with a bit of ABBA at a wedding?’ Dad says, loyally sticking up for Mum.
‘Well obviously nothing, per se,’ says Bernard, as if he’s not even aware that he’s on the brink of causing offence. ‘But perhaps it’s just not quite suitable, that’s my concern. After all, we’re hoping that this will be a classy affair. Lots of my colleagues from the faculty will be there, you know, and we don’t want to create the wrong impression, now do we, sausage?’
‘You’re saying there’s something wrong with ABBA?’ Dad insists, with just the tiniest hint of aggression in his voice now.
‘No, I’m merely suggesting that this mightn’t be the most appropriate venue for an amateur musical group to perform. That’s all.’
‘So a wedding isn’t an appropriate venue? Where is then, according to you? A funeral parlour?’
‘Well now you’re just being facetious,’ says Bernard, sounding a bit pompous, which is a side of him that I’ve never seen before and which is starting to set off alarm bells in my head.
‘Just because my family never went to college,’ says Dad on the defensive now, ‘doesn’t mean we don’t know how to enjoy ourselves, now does it?’
‘I’m afraid to say that last comment can only indicate a rather large chip on your shoulder,’ is Bernard’s cool reply.
‘And your last comment can only indicate that you’re acting like a patronising git.’
By the time coffee is being cleared away I’ve given up. Can’t take any more of this; can’t and won’t. So I excuse myself from the table, slip downstairs to the ladies and am just splashing cold water on my face to relieve the tension when Gracie bursts in.
‘Jesus, Tess,’ she says immediately coming straight over to me where I’m standing over the sink. ‘For the love of God, just tell me what you see in that insensitive, up-his-own-arse gobshite. Just tell me that much and then I’ll keep my mouth shut for the rest of this miserable night.’
I freeze. And I try to fumble around my head for all the standard phrases I normally use whenever she’s having a pop at Bernard. That he’s lovely and gentle and warm-hearted, etc.
But right now, I can’t. Nothing will come to me.
I haven’t a single word to say in his defence.
*
The only good thing that can be said about the whole dismal evening is that it winds up early, about 10 p.m., with me cross and upset at Bernard and him utterly unable to understand why.
He bundles the Pritchards into a taxi and I do the same with Mum and Dad, with everyone still bristling. Gracie stays by my side so when the parents have been safely dispatched, there’s just her, Bernard and me left on the pavement as both taxis zoom off.
‘Bernard, did you really have to?’ I say to him, not caring that we’ve got Gracie as an audience, with her arms folded and her face tight as she stands supportively beside me.
‘Did I really have to what?’ he asks, genuinely not having a clue.
‘You really offended Mum and Dad back there! She’s gone home very upset, you know.’
‘Sausage, you know what? You’re tired and emotional …’
‘No, I’m not!’
‘And I really don’t think the side of the road is an apt place for this conversation. Let’s get you a taxi and get you home safely, then we’ll talk in the morning when you’re feeling a little more like yourself again.’
He flags down a cab, which obediently pulls up on the kerb beside us. Then Gracie interrupts.
‘Sod this anyway,’ she says. ‘I’m going for a late drink. You coming, Tess?’
‘Goodness, that’s certainly not a good idea,’ Bernard says to me, gripping me by the elbow. ‘Now, Tess, I really think you ought to do as I suggest and take the cab home. There’s a good girl.’
‘Actually I am going for a drink,’ I tell him firmly, shoving off his grip. ‘And I think you should too, Bernard. We need to talk.’
‘Then let’s talk tomorrow, when you’re feeling quite alright again—’
‘No, let’s talk now. Right now, in fact. Because this won’t wait a moment longer.’
‘Tess, it’s late and you’re tired and emotional. Do be sensible and just come home.’
I can’t think of anything smart enough to retort, so instead I just glare at him as a gang of women who look like they’re in the middle of a hen night bash past us, singing the chorus from ‘You’ve Got the Love’ by Florence and the Machine.
‘Sausage,’ says Bernard, just a tad threateningly. ‘If you’re not going to get into this taxi now, then I most certainly will.’
‘Fine, then be my guest.’
‘Fine, then I’ll call you in the morning.’
‘Good luck trying to get me to answer the phone,’ I say, aware of how childish and petulant it sounds, but at this point, beyond caring.
It hardly seems to matter though. Because for such a big man, Bernard can move pretty niftily when there’s a row he wants to get away from. In one quick move he’s into the taxi and zooming away, leaving me on the pavement silently gnashing my teeth.
‘If you ask me, it’s the eighth wonder of the world,’ says Gracie dryly, ‘how a catch like him wasn’t snapped up years ago.’
She links my arm supportively and leads me into the bar next door to the Royal Celtic Club that was belting out all that music earlier on. I’m still too shell-shocked to even question where we’re going, so I just follow where I’m led.
‘Make a sentence out of the following words,’ she says as the doorman waves us inside. ‘Alcohol. We need. Right now.’
Turns out it’s a basement bar that’s packed to the brim with wall-to-wall Saturday night revellers, all having a laugh and kicking the night off in style. In other words, the perfect antidote to the stiff, formal, damp-smelling club next door, and basically the kind of place that the Pritchards would run screaming from. Plus the average age in here is about thirty, so immediately I feel the hard knot of tension that’s been inside me all evening start to lift. This, I think, is exactly what I need to expunge from my memory the last two hours of my life.
‘You do realise that your fiancé just used the phrase, “there’s a good girl” to you?’ says Gracie as we wedge our way up to the bar. ‘And you call yourself a card-carrying feminist?’
‘Don’t remind me,’ I groan, slumping against the bar with my head in my hands. Just then, two girls beside us get up from barstools to leave, so we nab the free seats while we can.
‘You know something?’ I say to her as she’s ordering drinks for us both. ‘All I wanted tonight was for everyone to get along. So was that too much to ask? Was I aiming too high?’
‘Look,’ she says evenly, ‘I’m sure the Pritchards are lovely people. And as soon as I get a vodka and tonic int
o me, I’m sure I’ll probably admit that there’s no harm in Bernard either, for all that he’s the most boring fart I ever met. But Jaysus, Tess, you just don’t fit in with them, any more than Bernard does with us. So what will it take for you to see that he’s not the one for you?’
Our drinks arrive but I stay silent. Mainly because Gracie has a point and I know it. Of course I know that Bernard and I are a bit of a mis-match, that’s been obvious from day one.
‘It’s a mis-match that works though,’ I say, knocking back a massive mouthful of the vodka before muttering deep into the glass. ‘At least, I used to think so. Sort of. Most of the time.’
‘Couple more where these came from,’ says Gracie, waving her drink under my nose, ‘and you’ll be singing a very different tune, babes. Because right now, you know what you’re starting to sound like?’
‘What?’ I say dully.
‘Like someone who’s really trying to convince herself more than anyone else.’
*
It’s well past eleven now and this bar is actually turning out to be quite the hot spot. A fortieth birthday party is in full swing over at another table and there’s about a dozen guys wearing t-shirts that read, ‘Happy Birthday, Kevin!’ who all seem to be having a rare old night of it. They’re laughing and singing along to the music and it’s hard not to get swept up in all of that infectious fun.
Mind you, it could also be the fact that I’m now on to my third vodka that’s making me chillax so much, or was it my fourth? I still can’t bring myself to dwell on the earlier part of the night, so in this lovely boozy haze, I’m parking it for now. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll think about that tomorrow.
Gracie, in the meantime, has scored. Well, admittedly I’m a bit woozy so I mightn’t be the best judge, but at least I think she has. She’s still sitting on the barstool beside me but for the last half hour has been chatting away to a performance artist called Elaine, who seems in absolutely no rush to get away.
All She Ever Wished For Page 22
