‘Again?’ said Sheldon.
‘Eh, yes,’ said Marianne.
‘I’d hate to have to go to the toilet as much as you do,’ said Harrison, ‘because then I’d have to wash my hands, like, billions of times.’
In the bathroom, Marianne got to work with the Tippex, whiting out the ‘shun’ of ‘evicshun’ and waiting for it to dry before – painstakingly – copying Sheldon’s bubble writing so he wouldn’t suspect a thing.
‘Thanks, by the way,’ said Shirley the next day when Marianne drove her home after another maths lesson, this one done in the kitchen at Ancaire, quiet after their meeting and still warm from the oven Rita had used earlier to make a controversial batch of macaroons. The controversy arose since the quantity made was not evenly divisible by the number of interested parties.
Marianne shrugged. ‘I like maths.’
‘I’m not talking about maths,’ said Shirley.
‘Oh,’ said Marianne.
‘I’m talking about the boys. You’re lovely to them,’ said Shirley, looking out her window so it sounded like she was talking to herself. ‘Sheldon’s dyslexic and … I saw how you were with him yesterday.’
‘He’s a good kid,’ said Marianne, indicating onto Shirley’s road.
‘Good?’ Shirley said, turning to glare at Marianne.
‘I mean great,’ said Marianne urgently. ‘He’s a great kid.’
Shirley grinned and nodded.
As soon as Marianne pulled up outside Mrs Hegarty’s house, the front door flew open and Sheldon and Harrison appeared, with a worn out Mrs Hegarty behind them. The boys flew down the garden path towards the Jeep, a blur of boyhood in matching football strips, intent on their mother. Shirley looked at Marianne before she opened the door.
‘See you tomorrow?’ she said.
Marianne nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Shirley got out and braced herself before the boys hurled themselves at her, covered her in limbs. George climbed into the front passenger seat and pawed at the window, which was Marianne’s cue to lower it. He leaned his head out and the boys detached themselves from their mother and ran to him, running their small, sticky hands along his head and down his back.
‘I’m going to teach him how to shake hands tomorrow,’ said Harrison.
‘He doesn’t have hands, dope,’ said Sheldon. ‘He has paws.’
‘They’re the same as hands,’ said Harrison, stung. ‘Aren’t they, Marnie?’
Marianne felt herself stiffen in her seat. In the rear-view mirror, she could see Flo, sitting on the cushion Marianne had filched from one of the Queen Anne chairs in the drawing room, so Flo could see out the window. She was small for her age, Flo. Unlike Marianne, who was often mistaken for somebody older on account of her height. Flo was holding a buttercup in her small hand. Holding it under her chin. ‘Do I like butter, Marnie?’ she said, lifting her chin so that Marianne could see the soft yellow glow of the petals reflected on her skin.
‘Aren’t they, Marnie?’
‘Marnie?’
‘You okay, Marianne?’
Shirley leaned through the window, past George, her hand warm on Marianne’s wrist.
Marianne nodded. ‘I’m fine.’ She looked past Shirley to where the boys stood. ‘Yes, they’re exactly the same as hands,’ she called to Harrison, even though her statement could not be regarded as, strictly speaking, true.
‘He’s the image of you when he smiles,’ Marianne told Shirley.
‘God help the little fucker,’ said Shirley, moving back from the Jeep.
She blew Marianne a kiss and tucked the boys on either side of her. Marianne waved back. It felt awkward, the wave. And sort of foolish. But she couldn’t help feeling sort of pleased too. Like she and Shirley might be friends. She could imagine what Shirley would say if she knew what Marianne was thinking.
‘You’re a daft cunt,’ she would have said. ‘No offence.’
Chapter 17
The day of the protest at Shirley’s house started out pretty much the same as all the other days had started out since Marianne had returned to Ancaire.
There was a flurry of activity in the kitchen when Marianne and George returned from the beach. The kitchen counters were covered with slices of bread that Rita was buttering in a frenzied manner.
‘I’m making a picnic lunch,’ she declared, carefully laying circles of hard-boiled egg across a slice of bread, then leaves of lettuce and slices of cheddar cheese. She covered it with another slice of bread, spread with relish, on top of which she placed rings of red onions, peppers and garlic cloves. She topped that with another slice of bread, then squashed the sandwich with her bare hands before cutting it in half, then quarters.
Marianne felt relieved that she and Flo had been spared these monstrosities, since it had been Marianne who made their school lunches.
Rita wiped her hands on the apron she had put on over her clothes. Today, she wore a jade-green boat-neck cashmere jumper with a full skirt that boasted many themes on the colour red. The jumper and skirt met at the waist, which was nipped in with the help of a wide purple belt studded with rhinestones. The whole effect was one of visibility, which Marianne conceded would be beneficial at the protest.
Rita stepped back to admire her work. ‘What do you think?’ she said.
‘Well, if the protest doesn’t yield results, you could always pin the landlord down after lunch and breathe on him,’ said Marianne.
Patrick arrived then, his arms filled with Tupperware. He spilled the boxes across the kitchen table and began to fill them with Rita’s sandwiches. ‘I’ve made flasks of coffee,’ he said. ‘And I’ve got fruit and nuts in case we run out of sandwiches.’
‘What about dessert?’ Rita asked anxiously.
Patrick nodded. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve packed the batch of brownies I made yesterday.’
‘Do you think we’ll have enough?’ said Rita, putting more eggs on to hard boil.
Marianne stood up. ‘You’re going to Swords, not the Arctic Circle.’
‘Are you wearing that?’ asked Rita when she turned round and saw Marianne.
Marianne looked down at herself. She was wearing a navy anorak with fleece lining, which was as practical as it was comfortable. Her tracksuit bottoms were also navy so they matched the anorak. The ends were tucked into two pairs of thick wool socks, which kept her feet warm while the wellington boots kept them dry.
‘Which item of clothing are you referring to?’ asked Marianne.
‘Well … the whole ensemble, really,’ said Rita.
‘Yes, I’m wearing all of it,’ said Marianne, defensive. ‘Why?’
‘No reason,’ Rita said, airily.
Patrick – whose outfit did not warrant any commentary, adverse or otherwise, from Rita – eventually staggered out of the house laden down with the Tupperware tubs. Marianne helped him arrange them inside the Jeep. He walked back towards the house, giving Pearl, who had appeared at the front door, a healthy berth.
‘I suppose I’ll have to fend for myself, shall I?’ she said, her lips thin and bloodless as she surveyed them with even greater disapproval than usual.
‘I told you that you’re more than welcome to join us, Pearl,’ Rita told her. Pearl didn’t dignify the suggestion with a response. ‘There’s a Spanish omelette in the fridge,’ Rita added as she opened the Jeep door. ‘You just need to heat it up in the range for—’
‘I’m perfectly well aware of how long I need to put a tortilla in the range,’ Pearl said.
Patrick returned, this time with the placards. He had swaddled them in bubble wrap, like they were works of art.
‘Thank you, darling boy,’ gushed Rita, catching his face in her hands and kissing his cheek.
Marianne bristled. She felt something butt her thigh. It was George looking at her with his serious golden eyes as if he was wondering what she was thinking.
‘Nothing good, George,’ she said, absently allowing her hand to drop
onto his head. ‘No, don’t lick my … Stop, George, I don’t like it, I told you.’ She wiped her hand on her tracksuit bottoms and felt vindicated in her decision to wear them. Other fabrics were not so absorbent.
George leaped into the Jeep before she could stop him. ‘George, get out,’ she shouted at him. ‘You can’t come today. There’s not enough room.’
‘Ah, let him come,’ said Rita, leaning towards the dog and allowing him to lick her mouth.
‘You know he cleans his testicles with that tongue, don’t you?’ said Marianne.
Rita laughed as if Marianne had said something amusing. ‘He can sit on my knee,’ she said.
When they were settled inside the Jeep, Marianne drove down the avenue. At the gates, she indicated and looked both ways before turning onto the main road. She held her breath at the spot in the road, accelerated past it. Nobody told her to slow down. Nobody said anything. It was like they were all holding their breath.
Chapter 18
Marianne picked up Ethel, followed by Bartholomew and Freddy. She stopped outside Shirley’s house and everyone poured out of the Jeep and stood in a line on the footpath. Shirley walked along the line, like a drill sergeant, inspecting them. She smiled at Ethel, punched Patrick, Bartholomew and Freddy in the arm, patted George, tugged at a lock of Marianne’s hair and kissed Rita on the cheek.
‘Where are little Sheldon and Harrison today?’ Ethel enquired.
‘At school, thank fuck,’ said Shirley.
‘Okay then,’ said Marianne, backing towards the Jeep. ‘So, I’ll come back at … what time do you think you’ll be finished?’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Rita.
‘Aren’t you staying?’ said Ethel.
‘You can’t leave now,’ spluttered Bartholomew, resplendent in a bright blue suit, white shirt and polka-dot tie.
‘He’s right,’ said Freddy. Bartholomew smirked as it dawned on Freddy that he’d just openly agreed with him.
Even George assumed a sort of beseeching expression.
Marianne looked at them. ‘I’m just the driver.’
‘But I packed a lunch for you,’ said Rita.
‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ said Marianne.
‘You have to stay,’ said Shirley. ‘You’re the only one who looks halfway normal.’ She turned to the others, shrugging her shoulders in apology. ‘No offence,’ she told them.
‘I don’t go on protests,’ Marianne said.
‘Oh,’ said Ethel, worried. ‘I thought it was a sit-in? Look, I bought this.’ Out of her shopping-trolley-on-wheels, she pulled a fold-up stool. ‘I was worried about getting a chill in my kidneys from sitting on the ground at this time of the year,’ she explained. ‘Stanley got one once. After a picnic on Hampstead Heath. A terrible bout, he had.’
Rita put her hand on Ethel’s thin arm, squeezed it gently. ‘We’ll be doing a sit-in on the day of the actual eviction,’ she explained. She glanced at Shirley. ‘On the off chance that today’s protest doesn’t yield results.’
‘Yeah,’ said Shirley, drily. ‘Just in case.’
‘Look, regardless of whether it’s a protest or a sit-in, we need you, Marianne,’ declared Rita.
‘Yes,’ said Freddy, ‘your fine voice will swell the timbre of the slogans.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I meant to ask about the slogans.’
‘Well,’ said Rita, thinking, ‘my favourite one is, “We will not be moved”. It works as a chant as well a song.’
‘Oh, I’ve got a song, too,’ piped up Freddy, pushing his glasses up to the top of his nose. ‘I’ve written down the words.’ He handed out flashcards covered in his neat, methodical print. ‘It’s called “Power to the People”.’ He gave one to Marianne with his shy smile. ‘Your mother’s right,’ he whispered to her. ‘We need you.’
Marianne shook her head. ‘I can’t sing.’
‘You can’t? Or you don’t?’ Freddy asked.
‘Both,’ said Marianne.
‘There’re some really nice harmonies in there,’ said Rita, offering Marianne a placard that read, ‘There’s no place like home’.
‘No,’ said Marianne resolutely, ‘I just … I can’t.’
‘I wouldn’t blame you,’ said Shirley. ‘I wouldn’t be seen in public with this lot unless I really had to.’ She looked down the line of them. ‘No offence,’ they roared, in unison.
Ethel stepped forward. ‘I’ll take a placard, Rita,’ she said with great ceremony, her twig-like arm reaching across the space between her and Rita. Marianne watched her grip the handle, her arm shaking with effort.
‘Oh, fine, I’ll stay,’ said Marianne, grabbing the handle before Ethel collapsed under the weight of it. ‘Ethel, maybe you could just chant? I’ll hold your placard.’
‘And sing, don’t forget,’ added Freddy.
‘Give me strength,’ said Marianne under her breath.
The day surprised Marianne by being not as awful as she had feared, even though it involved some of the things she hated doing. Speaking in public. Although it was more shouting than speaking. Slogans weren’t really effective otherwise.
Then there was the singing. She never sang, not in the shower, not in the car, nowhere. She didn’t even hum.
Now here she was, singing at the top of her voice in a front garden in Swords.
It could have been something to do with the song itself – ‘Power to the People’ – which turned out to be quite catchy.
Rita and Shirley sang each line and this was then echoed by Marianne and the others. They got louder and louder as they progressed through the song so that, by the end, Marianne felt herself surrounded by the sound in a way that was sort of … she cringed as she thought of the word she was about to use … uplifting.
It was something to do with the collective nature of the sound. Hearing their voices, rise together, louder and louder. All the different sounds they made. Ethel’s high, quivering voice. Rita’s belter. Patrick’s low and melodious one. Shirley’s surprising sweet tone. Bartholomew’s booming vibrato. Freddy’s timid lilt.
Mostly they were ignored. It was a Thursday morning on one of the myriad of back streets beyond Swords village. Occasionally, people passed. Women wheeling buggies in the main, a few joggers, one speed walker, a couple of dogs, cocking their legs at lampposts.
The passers-by looked up when they heard the chanting – What do we want? Homes for all! When do we want it? NOW – but most of them bowed their heads when they realised it was a protest and hurried past. Some people stopped. They wanted to know what was going on. Of these, some argued that landlords should be allowed sell their own properties whenever they liked. Weren’t they entitled to turn a profit? Hadn’t they taken a risk? Marianne tried to stop Rita shouting ‘Capitalist Pigs’ at them as they marched away.
Some signed the petition that Patrick had typed up and printed out.
Marianne tried to stop Rita kissing and hugging these people.
‘I’m just showing my appreciation,’ Rita said.
‘Try saying “thank you”,’ said Marianne.
By midday, following a glut of people walking past to collect toddlers from various play schools and Montessoris in the locality, they had nearly a hundred signatures on the petition.
Hugh drove by in his bottle-green Jaguar. He had a customer in the back, a fidgety bald man, more bone than brawn, leafing through a sheaf of notes. Hugh stopped the car outside Shirley’s house, rolled down the window and leaned out.
‘I promised to bring this fella to a job interview, otherwise I’d be here with you,’ he called to them. Today, his hair was gathered in a scrunchie at the back of his head. Maybe it was his work hairstyle, Marianne thought. The absence of its frame around his face served to exaggerate his features; his green eyes seemed greener and his orange freckles brighter, and were there more of them today? Or was that just the way the light fell across his face?
‘You have my deepest sympathies,’ Bartholomew shoute
d at the nervous wreck in the back seat, giving him a thumbs-up. The man stared at Bartholomew as if he were a creature from a different planet, then returned to his notes.
‘Don’t forget your Happy Hair appointments tomorrow,’ Hugh told them, releasing the handbrake and indicating. ‘I’ve block booked three hours for you, just after lunch, okay?’
‘Do you have the purple dye for me, Hugh?’ called Ethel.
‘Buckets of it, my love,’ said Hugh, smiling at her. ‘Stanley will think you’re a vision at the dinner dance.’
‘Oh, Hugh,’ giggled Ethel, blushing.
Hugh looked at Marianne. ‘You’re welcome to come too,’ he said.
‘Are you suggesting I need a haircut?’ said Marianne stiffly.
‘Well,’ said Hugh, ‘it could benefit from a wee bit of TLC, to be honest.’
‘Couldn’t we all?’ said Bartholomew, batting his eyelashes in Hugh’s direction.
Freddy rolled his eyes and shook his head.
‘My hair is fine as it is,’ said Marianne, pushing her fringe out of her eyes.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Hugh. ‘I’ll see the rest of you tomorrow.’
He pulled away from the kerb, waved out the window.
The passenger in the back seat looked relieved to see the back of them.
The rain that had threatened earlier began to fall just as Patrick was unpacking the Tupperware boxes from the picnic basket in the back of the Jeep.
‘Yiz can come inside, if you like,’ said Shirley.
‘We could eat in the Jeep if you prefer not to have us traipsing into your home with our mucky feet,’ said Rita.
‘Yes, we don’t want to intrude, my dear,’ said Ethel.
Shirley shook her head. ‘It’s grand. Be nice to have people in the house who don’t pick their noses in plain view, for a change.’
She unlocked the front door and ushered them inside. The hallway was narrow and dark, and led to a cramped kitchen-cum-living room with a white plastic table and three chairs. The cooker was ancient and the fridge was a portable, stand-alone affair. The walls were a dull beige colour, the paint peeling in places. A dehumidifier plugged in and humming in the corner, made little impact on the damp, the smell of which was sour and dense. On the walls near the ceiling, circles of black mould were spreading.
Make Yourself at Home Page 13
