Then she remembered the school district Christmas party and the hanky-panky by the photocopier, the local small business owner and entrepreneur of some standing in the Protestant community, a member of the Parents-Teachers Organization, who had a daughter about the same age as Catherine McLaughlin. He had been charming and, more importantly, recently-widowed. And with her husband spending long hours away on the road, Mrs. Pilkey was quite looking forward to having a reason to share a Cabernet or two with him.
She found his number and punched it into the phone.
“Hello, Constance Flynn here,” she twittered, removing an imaginary piece of lint from her suit and running her fingers down her left thigh. “Is that you, Mr. Skivvins?”
Her voice tinkled with girlish laughter.
“No worries, all the copies are safely destroyed. The reason I’m ringing is...I think you might be able to help us with a small problem we’ve been having at the school. And I’m certain that adorable daughter of yours Victoria could be a great help as well. How is she doing at How Great Thou Art? Well, I’m sure. She’s so bright and such a sweetheart. This is what I was thinking...”
CHAPTER 21
IN PADDY’S SOBRIETY-deprived mind, Fionnuala was perched on his back as if it were a parapet of Notre Dame and she a gargoyle, hissing him on to betrayal. He plodded over the cracks in the sidewalk with little plants growing out of them. He had spent 28 years of joyless, hungover mornings taking that route past the rubbish dump and around the gasworks, the packing plant yard wall, concrete and festooned with rusty barbed wire, looming. He heard angry chants as he approached the gate and, peering through the corroded railings, he gawped. Hordes of his co-workers were stomping around the tarmac, brandishing signs which read: MACHINES +3 FINGERS -2 and MORE MACHINES = FEWER TOES.
“What do youse want?” hollered Callum, the union rep, through a megaphone.
“Respect and financial security and all wer limbs!” roared the others.
“When do youse want it?”
“Now!”
What Paddy hadn’t expected was the fish and chip van doing a brisk trade in bacon sandwiches off to the side. And the troops of riot police, heads hidden under helmets with visors, see-through shields hanging at their sides, batons clutched in fists. Paddy saw that at the moment they were just keeping an eye on things and that they had parked their vans in the spaces reserved for the handicapped.
He was wondering how to slip past the chanting mobs and into the doors of the factory unnoticed when a convoy of air brakes fizzled behind him. Paddy turned. A fleet of mud-spattered buses roared past him and through the gates. Fury from the lumpen masses laced the air. The riot police thrust themselves to the front of the factory doors as the buses squealed to a halt. The workers banged their signs on the sides, jeers and threats spewing from their throats. The buses deposited hordes of strangers in acid-washed denim, who fled across the tarmac through the tunnel of riot shields and scampered into the front doors, fear on their faces, but also the resolve to bring home a paycheck to feed the mouths of their foreign children. The crowd approached, faces red and stretched with anger, veins bulging in throats as they yelled:
“Scab! Scab! Scab!”
Rocks and half-eaten sandwiches flew through the air. Paddy chose his moment and, head bent, the flesh of his cheeks burning with shame, raced through the blitz, dodging stones and bacon thrown his way. He slipped through the enraged mob and sidled through the factory doors. Roars at his back, the clanking of rocks on the glass, he took a place in the line that wound through the factory floor towards the changing rooms. Tables were set up, the first manned by Fiona, the owner’s niece who had become floor manager three months earlier and, of course, was loathed by all. She was quickly taking down details of the temporary hires. Paddy shuffled towards her, and their eyes met, sharing the shameful knowledge they were two of the very few who had sacrificed loyalty and solidarity for a pay packet.
“’Bout ye, Paddy,” Fiona said. “No need to take down your details, boyo. Clock in as usual, just.”
Paddy nodded, mortified.
At the next table, Fiona’s aunt Lois was handing out hairnets and caps, boots, gloves and overalls.
“I do believe ye’ve got yer own gear,” she said with a smile he wanted to punch off her face.
Paddy shuffled glumly to the men’s changing room and was surprised to see he was alone. The ‘temporary hires’ must all be women. He slipped into his overalls, then dragged himself into the line where the scabs were divided into groups, and Lois’ eldest son—Paddy couldn’t remember his name, but knew he was the one who had just come back from five years of bartending in Australia—gave each huddled group their duties. Paddy hoped he wouldn’t get the mixing and grinding machines again.
“Youse are to go to the fish sorting, youse to cleanup, youse to the mixing and grinding machines....” A translator in a Beatles-cut sharkskin suit with a skinny tie stood to the side with a clipboard, droning on in their foreign tongue. Paddy suspected he was a homosexual. “Musisz pójść do sortowni nyb, musisz posprzatać, Musisz pójść do maszyn mielących i mieszających.” Paddy wondered if he would go mad working in the foreignness.
Then she stepped out of the changing room and joined his group. Even in her hairnet and cap, Paddy recognized her, the lipstick on her yellow teeth and the blood stilettos poking out from her overalls. It was the Pole from the pub. She eyed him with amazement; clearly he was the last person she expected to run into, Paddy being an Irish national.
“We work together?” she asked. “Zajebiście!” How exciting! Had he known what she said, Paddy would no doubt think it more dangerous than exciting.
The poofter pointed to their group. “Musisz pójść do sortowni nyb.” They were assigned the fish sorting; that was something, at least. The group made their way past the air blast chiller spewing forth the cold, their teeth chattering and their limbs trembling to retain a semblance of body heat. The woman grabbed his elbow.
Working in the Fillets-O-Joy warehouse was like working in the mines, only without the lamps. Deep inside the mountainous cavern, the tiny slits of windows let in even fewer sunbeams than the perpetual rainclouds outside. Fish residue stuck to surfaces both horizontal and vertical as far as the eye could see. The whirr of industrial noise competed with the pop music blaring from speakers overhead at a rock-concert level (management thought this good for morale).
The woman pointed to herself as they lined up at adjacent crates overflowing with dead creatures of the sea. “Agnieszka Czerwinska,” she said. “Agnieszka.”
Paddy tried to pronounce it three times while pulling on his rubber gloves, but finally settled on ‘Aggie.’ She giggled and nodded.
He pointed to himself. “Me Paddy.”
Aggie tried this on her lips, plumes of breath pouring from that mouth which still had Paddy wishing for the sudden appearance of a Listerine strip. She nodded and smiled; his name satisfied her.
Next to the crates were huge vats filled with ice into which they were to sort the fish. Paddy fought the urge to spew into the crates teeming with dead fish, their glassy cold eyes pleading up at him to be set back free into the Irish Sea.
Their hands plunged into the scaly depths and grappled the slippery bodies. He grabbed a handful of mackerel from the potpourri of fish and flung them into the Oily Fish vat. She grappled the tails of four jumbo shrimp and tossed them into the Shellfish vat. As he bent, Paddy was somehow aware of her eyes on his meaty backside filling out the seat of his filthy overalls. It met to her obvious approval. as when he faced her she ran a tongue of lust over her weathered lips. Seven plaice flew into the Flat Fish vat.
Aggie turned to Paddy and announced: “Cheer!”
It was not what he was feeling. He stared at her, confused, as he heaved two handfuls of cod into the Round Fish vat.
She pointed up to the iron crossbeams, “Cheer!” It was the last place Paddy expected to find cheer. Then he realized the loudspeakers were roarin
g out Cher’s “Believe.”
“Ah, Cher,” he said, laughing.
Her eyes twinkled with the delight of making him happy. She sidled up to him. Paddy felt her rubber-clad fingers move the length of his thigh. He stared uneasily at the fish slime, blood, scales and oil she had smeared on his overalls. Paddy removed his left rubber glove and pointed to his tarnished wedding ring, but her face brightened.
“No to swietnie!”Aggie said, ecstatic. That’s great!
She moved closer to him. Instead of his marital state being a deterrent, Paddy wondered if the prospect of a threesome with him and Fionnuala was turning the oversexed creature on. He had heard all those foreigners were kinky bastards.
Paddy kept pointing to the ring, and couldn’t understand why she wasn’t getting the message. In fact, with every jab towards the ring on his left hand, the more aroused she seemed. Paddy couldn’t know that Poles wore their wedding ring on the right hand.
While Paddy struggled to remain true to his marriage vows inside the Fillets-O-Joy plant, outside in the quietening parking lot, the riot officers received a call to vacate the factory and make their way to Our Lady Of Perpetual Sorrow, as anarchy was now on the verge of kicking up there.
CHAPTER 22
TWO HOURS EARLIER
Siofra sobbed as she strained to see her mother’s face through the cloud of cigarette smoke. “They kyanny make us do it, can they, Mammy?”
Fionnuala’s horror grew as she struggled with the words to reach the end of the letter from the school.
Due to the recent escalation of incidents regarding child-initiated contact between students from our school and the neighboring How Great Thou Art, your daughter and her class have been invited to participate in a refreshing new cross-community event we hope will become an annual delight: the Fingers Across the Foyle Talent Show. Along with a specially-selected class from neighboring Protestant school How Great Thou Art, your daughter(s) will compete in an individual or group act showcasing a talent of their choice. The Grand Prize is the Togetherness Basket, a wicker basket tied with a bow and brimming with bright Granny Smith apples and plump oranges, symbolizing the mixing of Catholic green and Protestant orange. The Runners-Up will receive two six-packs of Coke and Pepsi. We hope you will show your support and reach your friendly fingers across the River Foyle with us. Participation is mandatory.
Fionnuala turned to Maureen for help.
“What’s this sentence mean, Mammy?”
Maureen inspected it through the fingerprints of her red specs.
“That ye’ve no choice but to join their madness.”
“Naw, Mammy, naw!” Siofra wailed. “I’m not gonny mortify meself for pieces of god-awful flimmin fruit!”
“I’m well aware ye’d rather piss on fruit than eat it, but reel yer tongue in, wane!” Fionnuala snapped, stubbing out her cigarette on a plate. “Yer mammy’s not finished reading the filth.” Her brow furrowed as she suffered through the additional words:
PS: This talent show has been planned with not only the children in mind, but also the parents of both sides, as greater understanding and tolerance for differences in the community can only begin at home. To this end, we will also host a specially-catered mixer for parents of both schools at our teachers lounge next Friday. We hope you decide to come, especially those of you involved in the protest before the school gates the other day. There will be complimentary alcohol and hors d’oeuvres for all.
Fionnuala crinkled the paper with excitement. ‘Complimentary’ was one of the few five syllable words she knew the meaning of. She had to appeal to her mother again, however. “What’s this mean, but, mammy?”
“That means snacks.”
“No need to write it in bloody Foreign!” Fionnuala fumed. She faced the sniveling Siofra. “I was all set to march down to that school and give them a piece of me mind. I know only too well what them egg-headed gacks in charge of yer school be’s up to. Years, it’s been going on, ever since themmuns got rid of the morning prayers. Chipping away at youse, they be’s, forcing youse wanes further and further from the purity of the Catholic church and into some land where religion doesn’t matter a jot, where pervs and heathens and pagan Pakis and nancy boys and bean flickers and Proddy Orange bastards get their say as if they was God-fearing, upright citizens like the rest of us! The mingling of the religions, that’s what themmuns be’s after. Godless, so it be’s. But can ye not wait til after yer mammy has gone to the drinks reception next Friday to voice me protest? The drinks be’s free, ye understand.”
Siofra stomped her foot and roared out of her: “Naw, Mammy, naw! Do it now! I kyanny show meself up dancing on the stage before rows and rows of Pepsi-drinking gacks!”
The screams from the girl were so blood-curling, Maureen feared the neighbors would be calling Child Protective Services. She looked up from her crossword and said to her daughter, “Ye can always attend the drinks reception no matter what ye do down at the school the day, love. And the wee dote did spend all that time and effort making ye that lovely goat? fer yer birthday.”
Siofra sniffled her gratitude to her granny and wiped snot from her nose.
“It be’s a mermaid.”
Fionnuala reconsidered, her left eye twitching.
“Right!” she said finally, reaching for the phone to round up as many of her mates as she could. “I’m not gonny go on me lonesome, but. Fetch Seamus and Keanu down.”
Ten minutes later, having received nothing but a slew of answering machines, Fionnuala strapped Keanu to her back, forced the walking stick into her mother’s hoof, grabbed a hand of both Seamus and Siofra, and stomped out of the house.
When they got to Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, Fionnuala realized why nobody had answered her calls. They were already outside the school, spilling over the sidewalk and blocking the street, rows and rows of haggard housewives in crumpled raincoats and matted hair, arms locked, swaying, and singing out in untrained voices the old chestnut of defiance “We Shall Overcome.” A few were fiddling with rosary beads, though what use those could be Fionnuala couldn’t fathom.
She had no idea the Proddy mothers would be out in force as well, a group of them huddled next to the bakery on the opposite sidewalk and exchanging jibes with a few of the Catholic mothers unfortunate enough to be on the ends of the rows. She could tell they were Protestant by their makeup and upmarket fashion, and wished she had had enough sense to sling the Burberry scarf around her neck before she left the house.
Although there was a smattering of Catholic grannies and, it seemed, great-grannies as well, balancing on their walkers and humming along, the crowd was skewed younger than Fionnuala, and they were turning her stomach as their whiny soft-sell protest droned on. “We Shall Overcome” segued into “Imagine,” a song to Fionnuala like claws on a chalkboard.
She nudged her mother in the ribs and laughed without an ounce of joy, motioning to a woman in a plastic raincap.
“Ye see yer woman over there? Always has her hand in the till, her. And yer woman beside her, works down the post office and laid into me when I was three pence short for a book of stamps. A fresh mouth, so she has, a fresh mouth if ever I’ve heard one. Fresh mouth!” Fionnuala had heard Judge Judy use the American idiom, and was trying it on for size.
Her daughter kept repeating the strange expression, but Maureen couldn’t see anything fresh about the woman’s mouth at all. In fact, the more she inspected it, she saw that even the teeth seemed to be trying to escape from it, and many had succeeded.
“Are ye not meant to be facing the school?” Maureen asked.
But Fionnuala had spied Niamh Cavanaugh with a few of her mates, half-heartedly clapping along and more interested in nattering away than protesting. Niamh especially made Fionnuala’s flesh crawl. She was a volunteer for OsteoCare, a not-for-profit organization of community care whose members volunteered to visit the infirm and aged inflicted with osteoporosis and doled out friendliness and tea and a biscuit. Ursula had joined the
ir ranks when she lived in Derry, so Fionnuala saw them all as holier-than-thou busybodies. Fionnuala had ceased contact with her friend Aileen Harris when she announced she had become not only an OsteoCare provider, but one of their managers. Fionnuala took crab-like steps to hear what they were saying. Mrs. O’Hara was blabbering:
“...there’s a sale on irregular knickers at the B&S down the Richmond Center the day. The moment we’re done here, I’m on me way there. The pair I’ve on me now are fit only for the bin, so they are, one side be’s creeping down the cheek of me bottom, while the other side be’s riding up me crack. A terrible pain, they’re giving me, and ye ought to see the state of em when I tug them off me at the end of a night.”
“Och, I wondered why ye was walking like that,” Niamh said. “Ye know, I think I’ll accompany ye and bag meself a few pairs, and a few for Mrs. Ming and all. I’m to visit her the night.”
“Ye’re her provider for OsteoCare, are ye?”
“Aye, and she was telling me last week about the sorry state of her knickers and all. Poor aul soul has the dosh to buy em, all them sons of hers raking it in from their flash jobs abroad, but she kyanny leave the house, what with her ailment and all. One son be’s a doctor of some sort in London, and must be sending her the dosh every week, like. A lovely new fridge, she has, and one of them flat-screened tellys and all.”
“Ye don’t say?”
Niamh suddenly turned to Fionnuala, who had been inching her head closer and closer to the circle. “Fionnuala! How have ye been keeping?”
“Grand,” Fionnuala snapped.
“And how’s yer Ursula?”
The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3) Page 44
