The Irish Lottery Series Box Set (1-3)

by Gerald Hansen

  “Ye could've taken me mammy, yer granny Heggarty.”

  “Aye, but then we'd have to cart her up and down the ramps and what have ye day and night, what with her walking stick and all.”

  “And what of them wanes of yers?” Fionnuala eyed Keanu and Beeyonsay, screaming in their stroller that really wasn't made for two, but somehow Dymphna had made them both fit. “What madness brings them here with us?”

  “They be's almost freebies, like extra luggage. I've to pay a nominal fee for the two of them, and I worked extra hours all last week at the chip van to afford to take them along with me. And ye kyanny tell me ye'd pass up a bargain like that.”

  “Ungrateful wee cunt!” Fionnuala seethed into the feathers of her hat. But they took another step closer to the counter and, caught up in the excitement, she brightened as she turned back to her daughter. “We're getting werselves to the captain's table for dinner one night come hell or high water. Let's see if we kyanny get ye a real fiancé and all. This be’s the chance of a lifetime, the swanky ones we’re to be lounging next to during the floor shows. Ye kyanny seriously expect ye'll be satisfied with a Proddy bastard student as a husband for the rest of yer life. Ye know marriage is final, as the Church won't let ye divorce. Ye must think carefully, and I know thinking doesn't be one of yer strengths, so I'll do yer thinking for ye. I'm happy that Rory’s mammy doesn't allow ye outta the house with the engagement ring round yer finger no more. There's sure to be loads of minted aul men on board, desperate for a young, fertile slip of a thing the likes of ye. Religion's to be the second thing ye find out, after how minted he be's. The world be's peopled with pagans and heathens and madmen we don't see the likes of in Derry, make sure he be's a Catholic.”

  “What about Keanu and Beeyonsay? Two wanes from the todger of another fella might put em off, hi.”

  “Och, we'll tell him they be's mines, sure.”

  When Dymphna looked anywhere but at her, Fionnuala muttered, “Or Siofra's.”

  “She be's but nine years of age.”

  “It happens all the time in Africa!” Fionnuala snapped. “I seen a BBC special on it!”

  She turned her attention to counting the gadgets that helped the others shuffle toward the counter: one wheelchair, one walker, two canes and an oxygen tank on wheels. Then she counted all the heads. Only 22 heads more and then it was their turn...! Never had she thought she’d be standing in a line like this. Fionnuala was shocked at a wave of emotion that coursed from whatever organs it was stored in, and a sudden tear that fell from an eye. She leaned in toward her daughter.

  “Och, Dymphna, love, forget yer aul mammy whinging on,” she whispered conspiratorially over the infants' shrieks. She touched her daughter's elbow. “Not a word to a soul, mind, but I'm grateful ye've given me this opportunity. Ye've got me feeling like Lady Astor, rubbing shoulders with them what be's above the hoi-palloi, we're to be, parading in the luxury of olden times, the world bobbing by as we get wer nails done on the seas, dining on plates of fine china. Yer daddy and me could work for years and never be able to afford the likes of a trip like this. Ta, love.” She touched her elbow again, in a different place this time.

  Fionnuala was startled at the look of gratitude that came over Dymphna's face. As if she never received words of gratitude from her mother all the time! In Fionnuala's mind, she dealt them out like sheets of paper towels after a spill.

  “Ta, mammy.”

  Dymphna gave her mother an awkward little hug, and for the second it lasted, Fionnuala whipped her head around to ensure nobody had seen. She felt uncomfortable and moved her body further down the line so Dymphna's hands would have to leave her personal space.

  “Och, here's yer daddy and wer Siofra,” Fionnuala said gratefully, “with the drink and the cheap fags. Looks like yer daddy’s already begun the celebrations.”

  From his bloodshot eyes, Fionnuala suspected Paddy had already guzzled down as they had been making their way back to them.

  “Did ye get me me Tanqueray?”

  “Aye,” Paddy said.

  “Slip a wee bit into me tea here, would ye?”

  She held out the cup, and as Paddy reached into the bag, Fionnuala's fingernails gouged into the flabby flesh of his arm with unbridled glee.

  “Would ye look at that? Themmuns is handing out free credit cards to all the passengers!”

  They peered past the canes to the counter.

  “I think them be’s cabin keys, Mammy,” Dymphna said.

  “Och, would ye wise up, wee girl?” Fionnuala snorted her derision and, in the back of her mind, filed away Paddy’s nod of agreement. She’d get him back for that at a later date. “I’ve been using keys all me life, and I never seen—”

  She stopped as she remembered those times she had used credit cards to gain unauthorized access into places, but she couldn’t believe the cruise company would lower the tone by handing out tools from a criminal’s bags of tricks to their well-heeled passengers. Also lowering the tone, she noticed, was the headless and charred Barbie Siofra clutched in her hand. She nudged the girl.

  “Go you over there and play with that thing away from us,” she said, nodding in the general direction of anywhere else in the port.

  Siofra skipped off. They took little sips of alcohol from the bags and, finally, their turn at the counter arrived. Fionnuala marched up, adjusting the feathers of her hat.

  “We'd like a cabin next to Rod Stewart’s, if one be’s still available, that is. And could ye tell me, are we to take one of them mini-submarines down to see the wreck on Remembrance Day?”

  “What wreck?”

  “Are ye daft in the head? The Titanic!”

  “May I have your passports, please?”

  Fionnuala wanted to smack the look off the woman’s face, but felt Paddy’s hand on her elbow. She handed over the passports in a gesture grand and proud. They were the first in both the Floods’ and Heggartys’ combined family trees to have gotten passports for the purpose of pleasure instead of finding work abroad. The man at the Mountains of Mourne market usually had a choice of UK or Irish, and Fionnuala knew which one she would choose: Irish (not only would she never be caught dead with a UK passport—as if she were really a British subject!—they were fifty pence cheaper and safer for a trip around the world). But all he had been out of the Irish ones. It had rankled Fionnuala, holding a UK passport, but she would toss it after the cruise, in any event. After a family outing to the photo booth at the Top-Yer-Trolley superstore in the city center, they were ready to go.

  “Ah.” The woman at the counter smiled. “I'm happy to tell you that all your criminal checks came back negative, so you are indeed welcome on the Queen of Crabs.”

  Although Fionnuala was startled at this sentence, she wondered how her criminal check could ever come back negative, especially after her troubles with Inspector McLaughlin the year before. She couldn’t know that Dymphna, who had filled out the forms, thought her mother’s name was spelled FINOOLA.

  “C’mere,” Paddy asked, leaning on the counter, male pride making him angered. “Why was we subjected to a criminal check? Is is because of they way we look? Or wer accents?”

  “Because of the nature of the tickets.”

  Fionnuala nodded. “Och, I understand, sure. Because of the luxurious nature of the cruise, mixing as we'll be with the crème de la crème, ye’ve to ferret out the schemers and chancers.”

  The woman stared at her oddly.

  “Something tells me you haven't read the disclaimers in the information pack we sent with the tickets, nor the waivers you signed and faxed back to us.”

  Paddy and Fionnuala looked at Dymphna.

  “Did ye receive that information pack?” Paddy asked.

  Dymphna nodded.

  “Did ye sign and fax the waivers?”

  Another nod.

  “Where in the name of God did ye come across a fax machine?” Fionnuala wanted to know.

  “There be's a wee machine at the Top
-Yer-Trolly next to the organic vegetables,” Dymphna explained. “Two pounds fifty pee a page, it cost me.”

  Fionnuala struggled to think of the layout of the store, but she had never ventured to that corner before. The woman behind the counter sighed deeply and tried her best to smile.

  “The promotion we sent to the media was for a working holiday.”

  There was silence as the Floods struggled to understand this sentence. Keanu and Beeyonsay wailed in the background.

  “Ye mean we're meant to...?” Paddy finally gasped.

  “Yes, work your passage.”

  The woman flipped through some printouts and started to read aloud. They saw her lips move and they heard words exit, but none of them could grasp the full meaning: “....non-compliance...threat of action both criminal and civil...obligated...up to ?10,000 fine...mandatory safety and evacuation training session...10-hour workday...overtime not negotiable...”

  The information was still settling, bit by horrible bit, into the crannies of their brains.

  “Ye're having us on!” Paddy finally roared.

  “Please keep your voice to a civil level, sir.” Her eyes glinted with suspicion. “Do I smell alcohol?”

  Dymphna sidled up to the counter: “Are we at least to be paid for wer services?”

  The woman's smile grew thinner.

  “I should think, given your economic status, entrance to the ship is payment enough. Don't forget, you'll get to see a bit of the world as well.” She paused. “You might be happy to hear you do receive vouchers for food. Provided the tasks you have been assigned are completed in a timely and satisfactory manner.”

  “But...the captain's table...?” Fionnuala asked weakly, her shoulders drooping as the sparkling grottos of her mind dimmed.

  There was a vehement shake of the head over the counter. “Meals will be had in the staff canteen in the hull.”

  “Ye're taking the piss, surely!” Paddy, again.

  “I can assure you I'm not.” She waved the papers with glee that was almost devilish. “It's all in here.”

  “But, the events, the on board activities, the amenities...?”

  “You must, actually, participate in the day of silence on the anniversary of the sinking itself. But as for the shuffleboard and casino and spas and pool and what have you, those are the domain of the paying passengers. You are forbidden entry into the common areas of the ship. Except, of course, when you're working.”

  “Where are we meant to smoke?” Paddy asked.

  Her arms were a sudden fortress around her chest.

  “There is a gangway used for loading cargo that’s left half-open. You will get a bit wet, but it’s a filthy habit you members of the...disadvantaged...seem reluctant to break. There are people—real passengers—waiting to check in behind you. As I've said, you were informed of all of this in the information packet we sent. You have already agreed to the terms of the contract and must board. Shall I give you your assigned duties now? If not, I'm sure you see those police officers over there. They will be happy to escort you to the police station.”

  They looked at each other, knowing they had nothing to go back to in Derry but misery. They all nodded haltingly, still stunned. As Siofra skipped up to the counter, the woman rifled through more papers.

  “You, Ms. Flood, will work in our crèche. I see you have two infants with you, so that’s fitting. You, Mr. Flood, will be working in the galley.”

  Three sets of eyes stared at her.

  “There be's art on the ship?” Paddy finally inquired.

  “The galley is the kitchen,” the woman explained. “A dishwasher, potato peeler or somesuch you'll be. And you, Mrs. Flood, will be a cabin attendant. I suppose the young girl there can tag along with you.”

  Fionnuala fixed her ponytails. It might be work, but it sounded quite posh. Dymphna nudged her. “Mammy, it's housekeeping.”

  Still Fionnuala smiled.

  “A maid.”

  As Fionnuala’s face caved in, tickets and papers were shoved into their hands.

  “Make your way down that corridor over there, no, not that one, the unpainted one. Quickly, if you please. And I’m afraid Rod Stewart isn’t on this cruise.”

  They were shown their hot and airless living quarters next to the boiler room, with light bulbs the wattage of which were more suitable to a surgical theater than a place to rest their heads at night. The only things missing in the room seemed to be the shackles and oars. And a functioning light switch.

  And now, their second day afloat, Fionnuala had cleaned more cabins than she cared to remember, cabins peopled by the overpriviledged and overentitled. Siofra scampered into the next cabin, and Fionnuala struggled to fit her bucket through. The door across the corridor opened, and, as Fionnuala heard Siofra begin the vacuuming inside, a cleaning cart poked out, a plump black woman in its wake. She wore a white cleaning outfit and an expression as if people were peeling durians in her vicinity. Fionnuala had seen her at the safety and evacuation procedures training session, and remembered her because, when the instructor told them they didn't have time for the sensitivity training, she had said, quite loudly, Fionnuala thought, “Thank fuck for that.” She was wearing pink cowboy boots with rhinestones on them, and her left hand scratched her forearm incessantly. Her fingernails fascinated Fionnuala. They were huge, clawlike things painted purple and blue, covered with glitter and stenciled with Gothic lettering. The right index fingernail was pierced, and a little golden ring dangled from it. Her nametag said Aquanetta. Fionnuala nodded a greeting as she passed. Aquanetta grunted.

  “I see their scam roped you in too,” she said. “Working on this shitty ship of fools.”

  Fionnuala stared. The Floods had circled the wagons, not speaking to any of the other employees in the staff quarters, first because they all seemed to be foreign, and second because they were mortified and wanted to keep it in the family. Were there others like them who had been duped? Fionnuala attempted a smile.

  “C'mere a wee moment...” she said shyly.

  “Can't hear you. Speak up,” Aquanetta grunted.

  “...Could ye teach me how to do me nails like themmuns ye've on yer fingers?”

  Aquanetta peered at her.

  “You got a speech imprediment?”

  “It's me accent.”

  “English?”

  “Aye, that's me language.”

  “No, I mean, you from England?”

  “Naw!” Fionnuala spat. “Ireland.”

  Aquanetta shrugged. “Same diff'rence.”

  “I can assure ye it's not.”

  Aquanetta put her hand on her hip and seemed to consider. Finally, she said, “What you want on em?”

  “Och, ye know I’m terrible religious, so something religious, something like...” Fionnuala’s horsey teeth curled into a smile, “like Mary, Mother of God.”

  Aquanetta snorted her scorn.

  “How many fingers you think you got? It gotta be something with ten letters.”

  “M-A-R-Y M-O-T-H—“ Fionnuala was halfway through her second hand before she realized that either she didn't have enough fingers or there were indeed too many letters. “ Or perhaps J-E-S-U-S S-A-V-E-S,” she continued, wondering if she had the appropriate number of fingers.

  “Yeah, that’ll fit. I’ll show you how. Your crib with the rest of us, next to the boiler room?”

  Fionnuala nodded, then looked around the hallway for signs of Yootha or other management staff. The hallway hummed with silence.

  “C'mere another wee moment til I ask yer advice about something,” Fionnuala whispered, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the pelican/dodo. “What do ye think of us lifting this brooch from Room 432? Will that Yootha bitch find us out, do ye think?”

  Aquanetta’s face broke out into what Fionnuala suspected was a rarely-glimpsed grin. She reached her hand into the corresponding pocket of her own apron and tugged out a fistful of bills from a wide array of lands. “Only perk of the job. Just
make sure you don't take too much so’s the passengers notice.”

  “Ye mean...?”

  “No iPads or full bottles of liquor. No whole jewelry boxes. And don’t break into the safes. A little from here, a little from there. Don’t want them setting the pigs after you. I know what I’m talking ‘bout. Got two sons locked up in the penitentry.”

  Fionnuala nodded eagerly.

  “Aye, me and all!” she said; Lorcan and Eoin had been released, but she was too embarrassed to mention this. “What does yers be in for?”

  “Murder and rape. Yours?”

  Fionnuala was again too embarrassed to reveal. She cursed Lorcan and Eoin for committing crimes as pansified as drug dealing and grievous bodily harm, reflecting she should've beaten them more to turn them into harder men.

  “Er...burglary and, um, arson. What does them nails of yers read?”

  Aquanetta proudly shoved her hands out and wriggled her talons under Fionnuala’s eyes. R-I-P D-’ said one hand, K-W-O-N, the other.

  “In mem’rance of my youngest, D’Kwon. Died of an overdose.”

  “Moira, me eldest, be's a bean-flicker,” Fionnuala countered, sure she was trumping the woman in the tragedy stakes.

  “What the fuck that?”

  “Ye know, one of them females what...lays down sinfully with other females. Tempting the wrath of God, if ye get me drift.”

  “A dyke?”

  Fionnuala nodded haltingly, not sure of the vocabulary. Aquanetta's face scrunched with disgust, and Fionnuala knew they had found even more common ground. She shivered slightly, wondering if a friendship were forming. Aquanetta looked at her watch. Fionnuala wondered if she had stolen it.

  “Better get a move on,” Aquanetta said. “Don’t want that Yootha busting my balls. I’ll see you back at the crib and show you how to do your nails. Need to let em grow a bit.”

  And she was gone, the wheels of her cleaning cart squeaking down the hallway. Fionnuala entered the cabin elated but also strangely guilty. She had never encountered a black person before—they didn’t really have them in Derry—and chatting with one had reminded her of how she felt listening to George Michael songs. She would hum along and even shimmy a little at the kitchen sink, but afterwards, knowing his sexual orientation, she always felt unclean afterwards, as if she had enjoyed something she shouldn't have. She slipped the brooch in her apron and reflected that, the next time she and Aquanetta met, she should ask where to hide the items she stole so they didn’t get found during the surprise inspections. Now, each cabin she entered would no longer be a series of horizontal and vertical and curved surfaces that needed scrubbing and sanitizing, but a treasure trove of opportunity.