by Ilsa Evans
‘ONE!’ I yell loudly.
‘Besides, wouldn’t that be like taking food from the mouth of babes? Even if it is lasagne. Did I mention that it’s my very favourite?’
‘TWO!’
‘You did! You did!’ CJ is just about jumping up and down with delight. ‘And I set an extra place for Sam but now she’s not here so it’s perfect!’
‘Oh, I’ve got a great idea,’ I say sarcastically as I give in to the inevitable. ‘Fergus, why don’t you join us for dinner?’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t –’
‘THREE!’
‘All right, if you insist. But I’m promising that I’ll still be getting your floor done. Even if I have to be here bang, bang, banging away all night to do it.’
FRIDAY
6.30 pm
‘And so when the clothing was all put through the wringer and my dear old mother was hanging it up on our line, well, that was when she discovered the poor wee mouse.’ Fergus pauses to trace the sign of the cross over his monogrammed chest. ‘Nothing could be done, of course. And I refused another one ever after, as well. Ah, now let me see, what animal were we having next?’
‘Was it a fox?’ asks CJ breathlessly.
‘No, no fox,’ laughs Fergus. ‘They’re nothing but thieving vermin, foxes are.’
‘CJ, eat up and give Fergus a chance to do the same.’ I look across at her full plate, which she has hardly touched since we sat down. ‘Come on, otherwise you’re going to be the last one at the table again.’
‘Oh, Mummy, I’m only listening.’
‘Your mum’s right, lass,’ says Fergus agreeably. ‘And it’s been distracting I’ve been, as well. Didn’t my dear old mother always say that that was my greatest fault? So now we’ll both eat and I’ll be telling you the rest when we’re finished. How’s that?’
‘But I hate lasagne anyway,’ replies CJ confidingly.
‘So a deal it must be. You eat your meal and I’ll be telling you the rest after. All right?’
‘Okay,’ says CJ, beaming at him as she starts loading her fork with lasagne.
I can see where his dear old mother was coming from though. He has done nothing but talk, talk, talk since we sat down. First it was praise for the meal and then, when he tried to draw Ben out of his shell, he managed to elicit the information that the boy hoped to become a vet one day. That was all it took, and he was off and racing. We have heard the history of each animal that he and his three brothers and four sisters have owned up till the time of the mouse. And that really wasn’t a suitable story for the dinner table. CJ has been listening earnestly to every syllable that has dripped from his lips. I suppose it’s like one of her Golden Book fairytales has come to life and is sitting at the table with her, eating lasagne. Ben, on the other hand, has stared dumbfounded at Fergus with the occasional glance at me to see my reaction. And I – well, I am actually having fun. There is no doubt that Fergus is a true character. And a very amusing one to boot.
I watch Fergus take a forkful of lasagne up to his mouth, his pinkie sticking out at an angle. I wonder why he frequents an establishment like Maggie’s? Surely there’s a girl out there who would appreciate his unique character and colourful dress sense. I can’t think of anyone offhand, but I’m sure there must be at least one out there. Or perhaps he has a sexual deviation that can only be met by a specialist? I put my head on one side musingly and examine him, wondering what it could possibly be. Fergus swallows his lasagne and looks up, catching my eye. He grins and I quickly transfer my concentration back to my food.
‘So, let me see.’ Fergus, who obviously can’t stay silent for very long at all, lays his fork down beside his plate. ‘What animal were we having next? Ah, I think it must have been the time of the rabbits.’
‘My brother’s got rabbits,’ says CJ proudly.
‘Have you now?’ Fergus asks Ben and gets a cursory nod in response. ‘Well then, you’ll be knowing how it was then. We had two of the wee critters and, of course, they were both lasses so that was fine. Or so we thought until one morning when our Tara went out to the hutch and there were no longer two rabbits there at all.’
‘Why?’ breathes CJ. ‘What happened to them?’
‘Well, that is there were two. But not just two.’
‘How come?’
‘They had babies, of course,’ says Ben knowledgeably.
‘To be sure. Two of the skinniest, pinkiest, most hairless wee scraps of flesh you could ever have laid your eyes on. But weren’t we in raptures? And we fed them, and showered them with love and were quite the experts in looking after them – except for just one thing.’ Fergus pauses and looks at his rapt audience questioningly. ‘And would either of you be knowing what that was?’
‘What?’ asks CJ, who has given up any semblance of eating her meal and, in fact, has both elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, gazing at Fergus.
‘And would you be knowing?’ Fergus turns to Ben.
‘Um.’ Ben bites his lip as he concentrates, obviously keen on getting this right. ‘You took them away from the mother?’
‘No, we knew better than that. But you’re on the right track.’
‘Um. Then where was the father?’
‘That’s it! You are a bright one, lad.’ Fergus looks at Ben admiringly. ‘You’ll go far as a vet because it’s clear you’d be having the knack.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Ben goes bright red and I have no doubt that, if he was so inclined, he’d be shuffling his feet and saying ‘aw, shucks’. I also know that he is beaming with pleasure inside where nobody can see. Except perhaps me. It looks like Fergus has made another conquest.
‘But why is that bad?’ asks CJ impatiently.
‘Because, little lass, animals aren’t like humans. And daddy rabbits shouldn’t be left around their wee babies. To be sure, they become all aggressive and nasty and, sooner or later, the mother rabbit isn’t there to protect her young.’
‘So what happened?’ asks Ben.
‘The bugger ate them.’
‘Yeew,’ shrieks CJ.
‘What?’ I cry, with my forkful of salad halfway to my mouth.
‘Knew it,’ says Ben sagely.
‘Well, that is, he didn’t eat all of them. Just a wee bit of each, sufficient that we –’
‘Enough!’ I say quickly as I put down my fork. ‘I think that’s quite enough, thanks, Fergus. Apart from the fact that CJ’s going to have nightmares, you’ve put me off my food. And, believe me, that’s not usually very easy.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ cries Fergus. ‘Aren’t I a thoughtless fool? My dear old mother always said so and she’s been proven right. Again!’
‘I’m not hungry any more, Mummy.’ CJ pushes her plate away with relief.
‘What did you do then?’ asks Ben, who has actually finished his meal anyway, apart from the salad, and doesn’t seem the least concerned by the dietary habits of the male rabbit. ‘Did you breed them again?’
‘No, we did not,’ answers Fergus. ‘And perhaps I’d better ask your mother’s permission to be telling the rest of the story.’
‘Please, Mum?’ pleads CJ. ‘Please? I promise I won’t hab nightmares, I promise.’
‘Go on, Mum,’ Ben adds. ‘He’s told us most of it anyway, so why don’t you just let him finish it off?’
‘Well, I don’t know.’ I get up stiffly and start clearing the table. ‘Is the rest of the story as revolting, Fergus? Or worse?’
‘No, no it’s not,’ says Fergus earnestly. ‘And the bits that are, I’ll be softening up for the consumption of children. You have my word.’
‘Oh, all right then. But no more buggers either.’ I take the pile of plates out to the sink, dump them and return for the rest of the story.
‘Goody! Thanks, Mummy.’
‘Go on, then. Tell us the rest.’
‘Well, there we were, all seven of us in our hand-me-down rags, bleating and whimpering and crushed by the murderous actions of that beast. So we t
ook the bits of little rabbit and we buried them up by our mother’s potato patch where the ground was all moist and made for easy digging. And our Patrick, who was very good with his hands, fashioned two little wooden crosses for the wee graves. And our Tara made wee little shrouds. And we had a service for them. And we took to cursing that old rabbit and said we would never forgive him for doing what he did, and that we would never be feeding him again. So our old dad, who wasn’t the most patient man to be sure, said that if we wouldn’t be feeding the rabbit, would we be wanting him dead then? And we said yes.’
‘So would I,’ states CJ emphatically. ‘Nasty old bugger.’
‘CJ!’ I say, shocked. ‘If I hear that word out of your mouth ever again, you’ll be eating soap! Thanks, Fergus.’
‘Oh, I am sorry!’ Fergus slaps his hand to his head and looks at me apologetically. ‘So sorry. I am a thoughtless fool, to be sure.’
‘Go on,’ says Ben impatiently.
‘Ben, shouldn’t you be going to Jeff ’s by now?’
‘When he’s finished,’ says Ben, without looking at me. ‘C’mon, what did your old dad do then?’
‘Well, let me see.’ Fergus smiles at me sheepishly before returning to his audience. ‘My old dad grabbed that rabbit by the ears and then took his old axe down –’
‘Fergus,’ I interrupt, ‘I thought you said this bit wasn’t revolting.’
‘It’s not,’ says Fergus insistently. ‘Haven’t I been giving you my word? And I won’t be going back on that, to be sure! No, it’s not like he used the blade side of the axe, not at all, that would have made a god-almighty mess. No, he just used the blunt edge and bopped that old rabbit fair on the head, clean as a whistle.’
‘Good,’ says CJ emphatically. ‘Wish he had used the blade bit.’
‘What about the mother rabbit?’ asks Ben. ‘Did you get her another mate?’
‘Ah, no.’ Fergus pauses to take a mouthful of water. ‘Because, after her man had been done for, wasn’t she bopped on the head as well?’
‘Why?’ I ask angrily. ‘What did she ever do to you lot?’
‘Well, we were reasoning that she was letting the old fellow eat her babies, so wasn’t she deserving to die as well? So our dad bopped her after he did the other.’
‘That’s terrible,’ I comment with disgust. ‘She loses her babies, and then she gets blamed for it. She was the victim here and she gets the chop. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Mum, don’t take it to heart,’ says Ben disparagingly. ‘She did deserve some of the blame.’
‘Absolute rubbish. That’s like saying that if your father up and ate you, then I share the blame. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Mummy! Gross!’
‘Anyway,’ says Ben, ignoring me, ‘what happened then? Did you bury them near the babies?’
‘Fergus,’ I say warningly, ‘don’t make it revolting.’
‘Did you?’ asks CJ imploringly. ‘Did you at least put the mummy rabbit with her little wee babies?’
‘Oh, no,’ says Fergus cheerfully. ‘Our mother skinned and boiled the pair of them and we were having rabbit stew that very night. And didn’t each of us seven kids get ourselves a lucky rabbit paw? With one to spare as well. Ah, but nobody made rabbit stew like my dear old mother. My mouth is all for watering at the very thought. Though your lasagne comes very close, I must say. Mmm, hmm. And so that was the end of the rabbits.’ He pauses to trace the sign of the cross on his chest and doesn’t seem to notice that his audience has gone very quiet. ‘And now let me see, what animal were we having next?’
FRIDAY
8.03 pm
I have waited till now to pour myself my first drink for the evening because I simply hate it when a guest turns up and you already feel half-sozzled. So it’s with perfect timing that the doorbell rings as soon as I finish pouring myself a scotch and coke. I put the glass down and go to answer the door. As I pass the bathroom, Fergus looks up from where he is kneeling on the half-floor he has installed thus far, and gives me a huge grin.
‘Still tasting that lasagne! De-licious!’
‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ I reply – for at least the fifth time since we finished eating. I grimace and shake my head to myself as soon as I pass out of sight. Personally, every time I think of lasagne from now on, I shall see a big pot of boiling rabbit stew instead. I try to put Fergus, and his rabbits, out of my mind for now and open the front door for Terry.
‘Hi! Took your time – it’s getting rather chilly out here.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised. You should try getting dressed if you want to stay warm.’ I look at Terry’s outfit with my eyebrows raised. She is wearing a pair of black bike shorts with a broad red stripe down each side and a matching crop top that leaves very little to the imagination. Whoever designed this outfit probably had fantasies about someone like Terry wearing it – talk about statuesque. Bitch.
‘You’re just jealous. Anyway, I was late because I went jogging with Barbara. From the library, you know. I’m getting in shape for my tennis final tomorrow afternoon. And I couldn’t be bothered getting changed.’ She flips her blonde ponytail over her shoulder with a swift movement of her head, grins and then brandishes a bottle of champagne in the air. ‘But look! I brought champagne!’
‘Have you at least showered?’
‘No, why – do I smell?’ Terry lifts one arm up and has a whiff. ‘I’m fine. C’mon, let me in. I need a drink.’
‘Do you mean to tell me Barbara’s trying to lose weight?’ I ask curiously, because as long as I’ve known her Barbara has always been on the large side, and very anti-diets.
‘No, I think it’s more that she wants to get fit too,’ replies Terry as she loses patience and pushes past me into the house. ‘C’mon, let’s crack open the champagne.’
‘I’m not really in a champagne mood, Terry,’ I say, because I haven’t been able to even think about champagne since it let me down so badly on Tuesday night. ‘But come up to the kitchen and I’ll open it for you – but I’ll stick to scotch and coke.’
‘You not in a champagne mood?’ Terry stops and turns to give me one of her searching looks. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing! I feel like a scotch, that’s all.’
‘Bullshit. There’s more to it.’ Terry peers at me and suddenly her eyes widen. ‘You overindulged in champagne some time this week and that’s why you can’t face it!’
‘All right, so what if I did? Now come on, let’s go down to the kitchen.’
‘Hang on, there’s more.’ Terry puts her fingers up to her temples and begins to chant in what she obviously fancies is a mystical tone, ‘Hmm, hmm . . . I can feel it in the air . . . it’s coming closer, and closer –’
‘Terry!’ I interject, because it has suddenly dawned on me that all sounds of construction have ceased from the bathroom, which happens to be just next to us.
‘Hmm . . . hmm . . . it’s almost there – a palpable sense of . . . of . . .’
‘Terry!’ I say as I attempt to usher her on past the bathroom.
‘Of . . . of . . . Oh. My. God! Look at you!’Terry is looking and now she points at me accusingly. ‘You’ve had sex! Don’t deny it – it’s written all over your face!’
‘Terry!’
‘You have! Why, you dirty little thing, you.’
‘Terry!’ I gesture frantically with my head towards the open bathroom door.
‘What? Do you need to have a shower to wash away the grimy residue of your lust?’
‘No,’ I hiss as I grab her arm and propel her towards the door. ‘Look! Meet Fergus, who’s fixing the bathroom floor for me.’
‘Why hel-lo,’ says Fergus, not at all embarrassed by being so neatly caught listening in. He looks at Terry’s outfit with raised eyebrows and genuine appreciation before giving her a super super-wattage smile.
‘Hello to you too,’ replies Terry as she straightens her back, a practice which she knows perfectly well does wonders for he
r figure – and the size of her chest.
‘The name’s Fergus O’Connor. At your service, to be sure.’ Fergus wipes his rather grubby hand on one lemon trouser-leg and offers it to Terry. She doesn’t hesitate to introduce herself and grasp his hand, and even I can tell that the handshake is held for a little bit too long. They grin at each other. I might as well not be there.
‘So glad you’ve both met now. C’mon, Terry –’
‘So you’re a floor layer. Are you any good at it?’
‘Ah, well it’s my best that I’ll be always trying, to be sure,’ replies Fergus modestly, ‘and usually my best is quite good enough.’
‘And so how’s it going at the moment?’
‘Surely it’s better and better by the minute.’
‘I must say I do like your overalls,’ says Terry with a girlish little giggle that sets my teeth on edge. Then she proceeds to lean casually against the doorjamb as if she is settling in for a while. Fergus grins at her.
‘Well, excuse me,’ I say sarcastically and head down to the kitchen for my scotch and coke. I have a feeling I’m going to need it. Hell’s bells, talk about adolescents. I wait by the sink for a few minutes, thinking that Terry will soon join me, but when she doesn’t make her entrance, I grab my scotch and head into the lounge-room. At least I can have something to eat there while I enjoy my own company. I have laid out a platter of dip, crackers and cheese, a bowl of chips, and a bowl of pretzels on the coffee table so I flop down on the couch and help myself to a selection from each. First that damn Fergus stuffs up my day with his delays, then he hijacks my meal, and then he flirts with my best friend! This is his second visit here and he never flirted like that with me! So what’s wrong with me? And he’ll probably fill Maggie in on Terry’s little psychic flash as well. I hope he’s not expecting a tip, to be sure.
‘Mummy! Mu-mee!’
I groan as I put down my scotch, hoist myself out of the couch and head down to CJ’s room. As I turn into the passage I can see Terry still leaning nonchalantly in the bathroom doorway, now flirting back for all she is worth. I know that woman’s body language.
