Make Yourself at Home

by Ciara Geraghty

  He climbed into the back seat and wrestled the seat belt around his bulk. He sighed again and waited for someone to ask him what the matter was.

  Marianne indicated and pulled out.

  ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ asked Ethel, obligingly.

  ‘I applied for that usher job at the theatre,’ said Bartholomew, ‘just as you all insisted I should.’

  ‘Go on, dear,’ said Ethel when it became clear that Bartholomew was awaiting a cue.

  ‘And I’ve heard nothing,’ he said. ‘Not. One. Word.’

  ‘You only sent the letter a few days ago,’ Ethel reminded him. ‘They probably haven’t had time to process all the applications yet.’

  Bartholomew groaned. ‘There’ll be thousands, won’t there? What chance do I have?’

  ‘The theatre will be very lucky to get you, dear,’ Ethel insisted, rubbing his back.

  ‘There’re holes in my CV as big as … as … as Donegal …’ He paused there and poked his head around Marianne’s seat. ‘Donegal is big, isn’t it?’

  Marianne nodded, not taking her eyes off the road.

  ‘As big as Donegal on my CV,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘I could hardly put toy-boy alcoholic in there, could I?’ Since Bartholomew was somewhere north of fifty, Marianne didn’t think he quite qualified for the title of ‘toy-boy’.

  ‘And any actual proper job I ever had,’ continued Bartholomew, ‘like on the Caribbean cruise ship, and window dressing in London, and the cocktail bars in Manhattan, I got fired because of my drinking.’

  ‘You don’t drink any more,’ Ethel told him soothingly.

  ‘But I haven’t worked in nearly a year,’ Bartholomew said, his voice high with panic. ‘Rita said I should concentrate on my sobriety, and I did, but I can hardly tell them about that at the interview, can I? And that’s if they call me at all, which, let’s face it, they won’t, will they? Once they read my CV.’

  ‘You’ll make a great usher,’ said Ethel, patting his arm. ‘And Rita can do her breathing exercises with you before the interview. You’ll be magnificent.’

  Bartholomew shook his head. ‘They’re looking for someone calm. And experienced. And bubbly.’

  ‘You’re bubbly,’ said Ethel, after a while. Bartholomew slumped in his seat. Ethel reached across the seat and slipped her tiny hand into his meaty fist. Marianne drove on, towards Rush, where Freddy lived.

  ‘Just here, dear,’ Ethel called out as Marianne drove down the main street in Rush. She pointed a crooked finger at a small shopfront, meticulously maintained, squashed between a closed-down Chinese takeaway and a shabby bookies. The sign above the door spelled ‘Razzle Dazzle’ in gleaming sequins with the words ‘Costume Hire’ in neat lettering below. In the window, a mannequin dressed as Dorothy in a blue and white checked pinafore with white lace trim and sparkling red ruby slippers. Beside her, the Scarecrow: an imaginatively put together series of hessian sacks, tied with twine and spilling straw, held upright by a wooden stake, over which a patchwork smock and pantaloons had been assembled. The Tin Man was a suit of armour, so brightly polished his chest could be used as a shaving mirror.

  Of the Cowardly Lion, there was no sign.

  Marianne was pulling up the handbrake when a long, thin face, a lot of it concealed behind a pair of enormous sunglasses, appeared at her window. She jumped and accidentally pressed down on the horn. The man jumped too.

  They eyed each other warily.

  ‘That’s just Freddy, dear,’ said Ethel from the back.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is,’ added Bartholomew, sourly.

  The man removed the sunglasses, underneath which perched another pair of glasses. A wire-rimmed pair with small round lenses. Now Marianne recognised him as the tall, narrow man of indeterminate age and watery grey eyes she had met at Ancaire. Freddy.

  Marianne rolled down the window. Freddy straightened and stepped away from the Jeep. He was dressed in a long, thin cardigan, the same gruel grey as his thinning hair, over a faded Hairspray T-shirt and a pair of brown slacks, shiny from years of laundering. On his feet, a fashion faux pas the likes of which even Marianne could not countenance: white socks and brown leather sandals.

  ‘Sorry for blaring the horn,’ Marianne said. ‘I didn’t notice you coming.’

  ‘He gets that a lot,’ boomed Bartholomew from the back. Freddy leaned in through the window and glared at him. ‘I’m sorry I can’t say the same about you, you great lump of goose fat.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I lost two pounds at Slimming World this week,’ said Bartholomew.

  ‘Not off your behind, that’s for sure,’ declared Freddy.

  He turned to smile at Marianne. ‘Pardon my French,’ he said. He opened the back door and stepped delicately past Ethel, folding himself in the cramped space between her and Bartholomew.

  ‘Aren’t you going to wave goodbye to your mummy?’ said Bartholomew, pointing at the door of Razzle Dazzle where a tall, thin elderly woman stood erect, with long, fine white hair hanging like a mantilla around her head. She wore a severe black suit, a severely starched white blouse, thick black tights and black court shoes. She stared at them with very little expression on her face.

  ‘You’d better wave, Freddy dear,’ said Ethel. ‘You know she won’t go in until you do.’ Freddy waved. The woman, who did not wave back, stepped backwards and disappeared into the shop.

  Once settled, Freddy petted George’s head, then presented his cheek to Ethel, who kissed him obligingly. He ignored Bartholomew in a blatant and, Marianne suspected, routine way but, when Bartholomew did not rise to this bait, Freddy examined his face and said, in a not unkind tone, ‘Who’s eaten your sticky toffee pudding?’

  Bartholomew shrugged so it was left to Ethel to explain about the job application.

  ‘Well,’ said Freddy, ‘if it helps, you certainly look like an usher so—’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ thundered Bartholomew.

  ‘I just meant, you look … smart,’ said Freddy, flushing.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, trying not to look pleased.

  A gap appeared in the traffic and Marianne wrestled the Jeep into first gear and moved off.

  ‘How many days now?’ asked Ethel.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ said Freddy in a flat voice.

  ‘That’s marvellous,’ Ethel told him, patting his arm.

  ‘It’s just further proof that I don’t need to be in Rita’s Get Well Soon programme,’ said Freddy. ‘I can quite clearly take it or leave it.’

  Nobody responded to that.

  ‘Shirley’s in Swords,’ Ethel told Marianne.

  ‘I can give you directions, if you like,’ piped up Bartholomew.

  ‘Ethel is perfectly capable of giving directions,’ said Freddy, primly. ‘There’s no need for you to mansplain.’

  Bartholomew flushed. ‘I was merely—’

  ‘Turn right here, dear,’ said Ethel, delicately.

  Marianne tried not to dwell on the fact that Brian lived in Swords now, too. With Helen. She gripped the wheel tighter, her skin clammy against it.

  Shirley’s house was a two-storey pebble-dashed terrace, in the middle of a row, with long weeds growing out of the guttering and up through the cracks in the narrow driveway. The garden was a miserable, uninspiring affair, a square of patchy grass, flattened and muddy.

  The front door was wrenched open and Shirley appeared, wearing ripped jeans and a black T-shirt with a woman’s hand on the front, her middle finger raised, the nail painted a bright pink. She scowled at them, then spat a wad of chewed up gum out of her mouth into the drain.

  ‘There she is,’ said Ethel, beaming.

  ‘The little dote,’ said Freddy, waving.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ called Bartholomew, rolling down the window and blowing a kiss.

  Shirley opened her mouth and roared, ‘SHELDON. HARRISON,’ and the two boys barrelled out the door. They skidded to a halt beside the Jeep.

  There mustn’t be s
chool, Marianne thought. Or maybe it was the weekend? Yes, it was. Saturday, she thought. No. Sunday.

  Shirley, who looked more like the boys ferocious older sister, strode to the jeep, unfurled her fists and placed a hand on each of their heads, careful not to disturb their matching blond mohawks.

  ‘Oh, look,’ the smaller boy – Harrison, Marianne thought – said. ‘It’s George. Can we pet him?’ He addressed this question to Marianne, who felt an unexpected lurch of protectiveness towards the dog. ‘Only very gently,’ she found herself saying.

  They ran to the other side of the Jeep, but not before inspecting the road, looking left, then right, then left again. They flung the passenger door open and hauled themselves inside. George moved over to accommodate them, licked their faces. The boys shrieked with delight, which made Ethel, Bartholomew and Freddy laugh out loud, which made Shirley shake her head and glare at Marianne, which prompted Marianne to say, ‘Don’t worry, George doesn’t bite.’

  ‘Unlike me,’ said Shirley, hitching the strap of a schoolbag onto her shoulder. She ordered the boys into the very back seat of the Jeep, behind Ethel, Bartholomew and Freddy, glared at them until they had secured seat belts around their skinny bodies, then marched to the front passenger seat and pointed at George. ‘Out,’ she told him and, without so much as a whimper, the dog vacated his seat and inserted himself between the boys. Sheldon pulled a seat belt around George, and Harrison slung as much of his arm as he could reach around the dog’s neck, stuck his thumb in his mouth and leaned his head against George’s unkempt fur.

  Shirley arranged herself into the passenger seat, snapped on her belt and pulled down the visor to examine her face in the mirror. She found a spot on her chin and squeezed it between two bitten fingernails until it burst. Marianne did her best not to notice. She concentrated on driving.

  ‘You’re off the hook this week, by the way,’ Shirley said, pushing the visor back into place and leaning back against her seat. ‘I’m concentrating on Irish poetry at the moment.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Marianne, when some response appeared to be anticipated.

  Shirley studied Marianne’s face. ‘My leaving cert,’ she said. ‘You promised to help me with maths, remember?’

  ‘Did I?’ Marianne struggled to recall.

  ‘So,’ went on Shirley, ‘I’m just letting you know that I won’t need your help till next week ’cos I’m working on Irish paper one at the moment.’

  ‘I see,’ said Marianne.

  Shirley continued to look at Marianne. ‘You’re not an alcho, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Shirley!’ said Freddy. ‘You can’t just ask a question like that.’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Shirley.

  ‘Children of alcoholics either follow suit or become strict teetotallers,’ said Bartholomew with authority.

  ‘Where’d you get that little gem?’ said Shirley. ‘From an issue of Take a Break?’

  Bartholomew ignored Shirley’s sarcastic tone. He held up a vast fleshy hand. ‘Let’s take a punt on it.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to be gambling,’ Shirley told him. ‘Next thing you know, you’ll be face down in a ditch, without the arse in your trousers. No offence.’

  ‘It’s only gambling if there’s money involved,’ Bartholomew said. ‘Rita said—’

  ‘I say teetotal,’ offered Freddy.

  ‘So do I,’ said Bartholomew, scowling at Freddy to demonstrate his displeasure at agreeing with him.

  ‘Me, too,’ added Shirley.

  They looked at Ethel, who flushed. ‘I really don’t like to make assumpt—’

  ‘You have to say,’ Shirley told her.

  ‘Teetotal,’ said Ethel in a small voice as two small pink circles appeared on her cheeks.

  ‘What’s a teetotal?’ called Harrison from the back.

  ‘It’s someone who totally likes tea,’ said Sheldon with authority. ‘Isn’t it, Mam?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Shirley.

  They all looked at Marianne. She could see them, despite her concentration on the road. When it became apparent that they weren’t going to stop staring until a response was forthcoming, she nodded and said, ‘Yes. Teetotal.’

  ‘Knew it,’ said Bartholomew smugly.

  ‘Know it all,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Good for you, dear,’ said Ethel.

  ‘I’ve never met a teetotaller before,’ said Shirley. When she smiled, she looked very young and very pretty. Marianne was sure Shirley wouldn’t be thrilled to hear either of those things so she said nothing.

  Chapter 10

  Marianne felt weak with exhaustion and relief as she drove up the avenue at Ancaire with everybody intact.

  The Get-Well-Sooners made their way into the drawing room, but of Rita there was no sign.

  Patrick stood at the sink in the kitchen, rinsing a bunch of mucky carrots. He wore his uniform of tight leather trousers and sleeveless T-shirt sporting the name of some death metal band or other. He turned when Marianne entered, smiled his gentle smile.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ she snapped at him.

  ‘I am,’ said Patrick, nodding towards the carrots. ‘These are for dinner tonight.’

  ‘I meant … whatever it is you do in your workshop.’

  ‘I make things,’ said Patrick. He made everything sound so simple. When nothing was simple. Not one bloody thing. The anger Marianne had felt two days ago, when she opened the wardrobe, hadn’t gone away, she realised. It was like a storm at sea, at times coiled and waiting, then whipping her thoughts into a frenzy, showing no sign of blowing itself out.

  ‘Where’s Rita?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s not here,’ said Patrick. He lay the carrots in the wicker vegetable basket, as one might a sleeping infant.

  ‘Well, her clients are,’ said Marianne, making sure Patrick saw her putting the word, ‘clients’ in inverted commas with her fingers.

  ‘Rita has set up the drawing room for them,’ said Patrick, wiping his wet hands on his T-shirt. ‘They’re painting today.’ Patrick moved towards the door, anxious to be gone. Marianne couldn’t blame him.

  ‘Rita never said she was going anywhere,’ she said, hanging the keys of the Jeep on the hook by the door. ‘Where is she?’

  Patrick stopped at the door and shrugged. ‘She said she’d be back later,’ he said.

  Marianne felt exhausted. As if she hadn’t slept at all, with Ancaire like a solid presence all around her so she had to struggle to negotiate her way through it.

  The Get-Well-Sooners took the news of Rita’s absence well, perhaps sensing that Marianne had reached the very outer perimeter of her patience. They arranged themselves behind the easels that Rita had set up for them and set to work.

  Marianne marched with purpose to the door, as if she had someplace to go. She stopped when she reached it, turned round. ‘Will you be okay?’ she asked them. The anger was tamer now. Perhaps she simply lacked the energy to sustain it. Or maybe it was the sight of Freddy and Bartholomew sitting side by side on stools, painting the still life Rita had left for them – a knot of seaweed, a tarnished silver fork, a roll of toilet paper, half a mango and a corset – the tips of their tongues trapped between their front teeth in twin concentration. The silence between them was almost companionable.

  ‘Harrison could do better with his left hand,’ said Shirley, standing behind her easel and slashing at the canvas with her brush.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that bad,’ said Freddy, peering over the rim of his glasses at Shirley’s painting.

  ‘I was talking about yours and Bartholomew’s,’ said Shirley.

  ‘I’m leaving the room now,’ said Marianne.

  ‘I wonder if Rita left any treats?’ Bartholomew wanted to know. ‘I only ask because Ethel’s blood sugar levels could be low by teatime.’

  ‘This little piggy stuffed his face with cream buns,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Don’t make me go over there, Frederick,’ hissed Bartholomew.

&
nbsp; ‘What are you going to do? Sit on me and squash me to death?’

  Ethel smiled at Marianne. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I have everything in hand.’ She gestured around the room and her hand hit off the edge of her easel, which collapsed as easily as a house of cards.

  Shirley picked it up, rearranged it in front of Ethel. ‘Go on,’ she said to Marianne. ‘I’ll sort them out.’

  Marianne made it as far as the landing. ‘Could you summon a taxi for me, Marianne?’ Aunt Pearl called from her bedroom as Marianne walked past her door. ‘I need to go and buy spark plugs for my car.’

  Marianne bristled. She was turning into some sort of a Girl Friday here at Ancaire. Where fully formed adults sat around painting half-eaten pieces of fruit and rolls of toilet paper. Or washing mucky carrots. As if things like stable employment and tax returns and refuse collections didn’t exist. And why couldn’t Aunt Pearl summon a bloody taxi herself? And who the hell said ‘summon’ anyway?

  ‘I don’t believe in the telephone,’ added Aunt Pearl, as if she could read Marianne’s mind and see all the ugly thoughts therein.

  Marianne wouldn’t be surprised if she could.

  Pearl’s face appeared around the bedroom door. ‘I prefer eyeballing people when I speak to them,’ she said.

  Marianne marched back down the stairs. Hanging on the back of the kitchen door was a cork board. Scribbled on a scrap of paper and pinned to it was the number of the local taxi company, Tried and Tested Taxicabs. Marianne rang the number. It rang and rang. To pass the time, Marianne counted down from a thousand in multiples of fifty-nine and a quarter.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ said a jovial voice with a thick Scottish accent.

  ‘Hello?’ said Marianne tentatively.

  ‘Hello,’ said the man.

  Marianne wasn’t sure what to say next.

  ‘Now it’s your turn to speak,’ said the man.

  ‘Is that, eh, Tried and Tested Taxicabs?’ said Marianne.

  ‘It is indeed.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say that, when you answered the phone?’

  ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ said Marianne. ‘You said, “Hello, hello, hello.”’