by Mo Fanning
I point at the screen where Ginny’s hateful words still stand defiant.
‘Uh-Oh!’ he whistles. ‘The bitch is back.’
Eleven
The day we’re due to go to London, I wake with a dreadful cold. Any sane sole would stay in their bed, but the idea of breaking Andy’s heart puts a duvet day out of reach. We get a taxi to the station and he insists on a fry-up breakfast.
‘It’ll put hairs on your chest,’ he says and I smile weakly.
‘Can I just have tea?’
Someone behind the counter drops what sounds like a stack of plates. My head hammers.
‘At least have a muffin,’ Andy says. ‘I’ll feel guilty stuffing my face if you’ve come over all Karen Carpenter.’
‘Fine,’ I say and slink away to find a table. Near a window. Far from noise. And people.
A woman hovers with her tray, clocks me and quickly changes her mind. What the hell do I look like?
Any puts down our breakfasts. Somehow my muffin has translated into beans on toast.
‘Test me on my lines,’ he says and hands me the script to Biker Boys of Bratislava.
‘Can’t I drink my tea first?’
‘We don’t have time for that. I need to get started now.’
‘Get started?’
‘Well they expect me to be more or less word perfect on this by four.’
‘You’ve had all week. Didn’t it occur to you to start a bit sooner?’
‘I never look at anything until the day of the audition. It’s bad luck. My acting teacher Julia used to tell us to avoid reading scripts before the dress rehearsal.’
‘This would be that old lush who hasn’t worked for almost thirty years.’
‘She suffers from agoraphobia.’
I push my plate away. Andy scoops the beans onto his.
‘They’ll expect you to know your lines,’ I say and he waves me away.
‘You wouldn’t understand. You’re not an actor.’
I let it go. In two years, this is his first real audition. Most other jobs have involved dressing up as woodland animals or bouncing around junior school halls in dungarees and brightly coloured t-shirts performing inner-city community drama.
‘Are you going to eat your toast?’ Andy says.
‘Have you got hollow legs?’ I say and pile it onto his breakfast. Andy has the type of body that most men train long and hard to achieve, yet the only thing he ever does at the gym is laze around the steam room or drink herbal tea while passing judgment on fat women in leggings.
By the time we find our seats on the train, I’m feeling particularly wretched. Until then, I’ve resisted painkillers. A persistent throbbing behind my eyes weakens this resolve.
During my last visit home, Mam gave me a handful of tablets from the doctor, prescribed for lower back pain. Our family believes in sharing medication. I take two.
‘Those better be legal,’ Andy says. ‘The last thing I need is the drug squad on our backs.’
‘They’re painkillers,’ I mutter. ‘I’m hoping they’ll help me sleep.’
‘Charming.’
He pulls out his phone and slips on headphones. So much for learning his lines.
I wake as the train bounces over points on the last stage of the journey into Euston.
‘Welcome back!’ Andy says.
‘Have I slept the whole journey?’ I rub my eyes and stretch. The tablets have done their work, I no longer feel so bad.
‘You snored your head off.’
‘I don’t snore.’
‘You so do. Then there was the undignified dribble.’
‘You are so full of shit.’
Andy reaches up for his bag and packs away the script that still looks suspiciously untouched.
‘You’re really cutting it fine with that,’ I say, but he doesn’t look concerned.
‘I’ll wing it. They never ask you to do the actual script. They expect you to give them the essence of the character.’
‘So why send you the script in the first place?’
‘I’m up for the part of Tony Connors, a British backpacker making his way around Europe with friends, I end up stopping at this dodgy hotel in Slovakia where I eat my best mate’s head. Seriously, that’s it. What else do I need to know?’
‘And how are you going to convey a sub-human zombie.’
‘Darling, I’ve studied you for the past three hours. It’ll be a walk in the park.’
Although we’re in London for one night, I’ve packed for a month and struggle to lug my bag up a stationary escalator, across the station concourse and out into the open air. We make our way across the fume-filled bus yard, through the litter-strewn gardens, and take our lives into our hands to cross a busy road.
The hotel room is tiny and looks out onto a back yard where office staff gather to smoke behind overflowing bins. It’s blisteringly hot and lacking in air, so I throw open the window.
‘It’s hardly the Ritz,’ Andy says. ‘Even the shower gel is attached to the wall.’
My tablets have worn off and with relapse in the air, I throw myself on the bed. Andy repairs to the bathroom and I must have fallen asleep again, for when I wake he’s left for his audition. I feel guilty at not having wished him luck.
Propped up in bed, I flick through the hotel television channels, but nothing grabs me. I miss the Internet badly. Sharon and Andy might be right when they accuse me of addiction.
My mobile rings and although the number is withheld, I answer.
‘Is this Lisa Doyle?’
‘Who’s speaking?’
‘This is Bernie Lynch. Remember me?’
The name sounds sort of familiar.
‘From school,’ she continues. ‘The chubby one from school. We used to try and dodge out of cross country together.’
I stay silent.
‘Surely you remember.’
She speaks with a strong Irish accent. Although I came from Irish stock, my own accent is very much unlike that of my mother. Strangers know at once I hail from deepest and darkest Birmingham. How did this stranger get my number? I ought to come right out and ask, but that might sound rude.
‘Sister Avis said she’d spoken to you,’ the woman on the other end of the line sounds less sure of herself. ‘I thought you’d be expecting my call.’
‘Sister Avis,’ I say. ‘Of course. So erm ... how are things with you these days?’
Might as well pretend I remember. Clearly I played a significant role in her school days. It’ll come back to me eventually. Those tablets must have caused temporary amnesia.
‘I’m grand,’ she says. ‘What about you?’
‘Can’t complain … so … what exactly can I do for you?’
‘I know the plan was that I should write to you, but time waits for nobody and so I thought I’d be the early bird and get in first.’
‘Right ...’
‘Ian Tyler,’ she says. ‘You were friends at school. Didn’t you go out with him?’
‘Not exactly …’
‘You were certainly close from what he says.’
‘We were ten, Bernie. I was just as close to my imaginary friend Gisela.’
Does Bernie even know Ian sent me email?
‘Did you have one those too? Mine was called Danny and used to drink all the milk out the fridge. My Mammy was forever cursing. Anyway back to Ian. You’ll have heard he’s in a bit of trouble?’
Bernie takes my silence as confirmation.
‘The long and short of it is he’s spending six months at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Bit of a misunderstanding as it turns out. They reckoned he had a gun, but it was just a toy that belonged to his kids. She must have forgotten to pack it in
the rush.’
When Sister Avis called the week before, there was no mention of anyone being in prison. Let alone guns.
‘Do you want to start at the beginning?’ I say and Bernie looks faintly embarrassed.
‘I suppose I thought you already knew all of this,’ she says. ‘It was in all the papers.’
‘It never made it up to Manchester.’
‘No,’ she says with a shake of the head. ‘I suppose you’ve enough street crime of your own, what with all the drive-by shootings. This would have been small fry.’
Bernie launches into a lengthy story about how Ian married a girl called Jenny who worked in a bank. They had two kids and he held down two jobs. There had been unkind whispers that he wasn’t entirely faithful and that this Jenny resented being left alone for hours on end.
‘Although, he was only doing what he thought was the right thing,’ Bernie says. It’s clear she’s a member of Ian Tyler’s fan club.
‘This is going to sound awful rude,’ I say. ‘But I don’t honestly get what all of this has to do with me,’ I say.
‘He needs friends, Lisa.’ Bernie leaves a space for the words to sink in. ‘Ian needs a friend to write to. He needs a friend to listen to him. God knows he’s had enough bad friends already in his life.’
‘But why me?’
‘You were one of the few people he remembers from school. One of the very few people as it happens.’
‘What exactly do you think I can do to help out?’
‘They sent him to Pentonville. He started off up in Manchester, but they had to move him after he got in with the wrong sort.’
‘Pentonville near London?’
‘The very same. That’s where I live now. Like you, I’ve escaped the old stomping ground.’
‘I’m actually in London right now,’ I say before my brain kicks in.
‘That’s grand. How about we meet up for a coffee?’
I try to think of a plausible excuse, but spoofing a nun is never easy, even one you went to school with.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Euston Hilton.’
‘You’re only two stops away from me on the Northern Line. What d’you say to having a chin wag today?’
‘I’m supposed to be meeting a friend later.’
‘Later sounds to be hours away. I’ll only take an hour of your time. Just enough for a coffee and a muffin.’ She laughs. ‘I’ve a terrible addiction to muffins, but I suppose there are worse things to have as a sin.’
‘Fine,’ I say in a voice that lacks colour. ‘I’ll be ready in half an hour.’
I shower and do what I can to make myself look less like an Ebola sufferer. Bernie might be a nun, but she’s still someone from my past and I don’t want her to think I’ve let myself go. You never know who she might tell.
A phone call from reception tells me she’s downstairs. I’ve decided on a conservative sweater and jeans, dressed up with a fancy scarf. The sort of thing a respectable married woman might wear, but one with flair.
A noisy coach party of Japanese tourists packs the hotel lobby. You’d imagine a nun would stick out, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Thinking she might have decided to wait in the street, I shuffle through the crowd to the doors and down the shallow steps. I fish out my phone and page through the list of recent callers when someone taps me on the shoulder.
‘Lisa Doyle?’
I’d half expected a refugee from the Sound of Music, but Bernie turns out to be an elegant woman, dressed in black, with an asymmetrical bob.
She laughs and gathers me in a hug.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she says. ‘Where’s the penguin suit?’
She’s right, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.
‘The Blessed Lady Mary Sisterhood is a progressive movement. We believe in spreading His word by blending in with the community rather than standing apart from it.’
‘Is that Armani.’ I try not to sound shocked.
‘It is. I got it in the sale though. Had to fight off some screaming harpie. She soon backed down when I showed her my cross. The Good Lord has his uses.’
Bernie oozes natural charisma. Is this really the unremarkable little girl who blended into backgrounds at school?
‘Lets get that coffee?’ I say.
‘Sod that!’ She rolls up her sleeve to look at her watch. ‘Coffee is a morning beverage. I’m in the mood for a drop of the hard stuff. I know a great little place not a stone’s throw from here. Great craic. Are you up for it?’
I’m too surprised to do anything but agree.
Bernie leads the way along Euston Road and down a small side street. When we reach what looks like someone’s front door, she rings the bell and a small grill is pulled aside.
‘Bernie, where have you been?’ A man exclaims, before throwing open the door and gathering her up in an embrace. They dance around on the street, laughing and jabbering away ten to the dozen, like old friends reunited.
‘Lisa, this is my brother Patrick,’ Bernie says. ‘Don’t suppose you remember him? He was three years ahead of us at school.’
Patrick holds out a hand in greeting.
‘Sure, but this can’t be one of your classmates,’ he says. ‘She’s not nearly old enough.’
‘Don’t be taken in by this little display,’ Bernie huffs. ‘He’s a mournful sod as a rule.’
‘Come on in, the pair of you,’ Patrick says. ‘Leave the cold out there.’
We go through to a back room, where a dozen old men sit at small round wooden tables, chatting, playing cards, drinking and listening to what my mother calls ‘fiddle-de-dee’ music. The curtains are drawn and candles dribble wax. It reminds me of childhood trips to Dublin. Dad would drag us all into Whelans where my sisters and I would each get a bottle of red lemonade and be told to go play in the family room with a box of Legos.
‘Sit yourself down,’ Patrick says and puts down three glasses and a whole bottle of whiskey.
Bernie pours generous measures.
It might help shift my cold, I decide. Kill or cure.
‘So what brings you down this way, sis?’ Patrick asks after lighting a cigarette.
‘Are you allowed to smoke in here?’ I say and they both laugh, giving me the sort of look usually reserved for simpletons.
He offers the box around and I shake my head, but Bernie takes one and lights up, inhaling deeply.
‘My sweet Lord, but that is good.’
She glances at me.
‘I gave up for New Year. Worst two hours of my fecking life.’
She turns back to her brother.
‘You wanted to know what I’m doing down here,’ she says.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve left the order?’
‘Of course not,’ she mocks outrage. ‘I’m here doing good work.’
They both dissolve into laughter, causing me to question how dedicated Sister Bernie is to the way of the Lord and just how progressive a movement the Blessed Lady Mary Sisterhood is. So far, there’s been barely a sign to suggest she’s anything other than the average Irish expat living it up in London town.
‘I’m working for someone who strayed off the path a good time back and now wants to get back on it,’ Bernie says and Patrick leans in to whisper.
Bernie throws back her head and roars with laughter.
‘You cheeky sod,’ she says. ‘Lisa, will you ever listen to this one. He wanted to know if you’re the poor soul I’m out to help.’
I smile, though it feels wrong. Everything is telling me that agreeing to meet a nun for coffee was a bad move. I could be in my hotel bed, dosed up on cold cure remedies and dreaming of Daniel Craig licking my legs. Instead I’m in some dingy drinking den being force-f
ed whiskey.
Bernie picks up the bottle and pours another slug into her glass before topping up mine, even though I’ve barely touched a drop.
‘So who is this lost sheep you’re after helping?’ Patrick persists and she wags a finger.
‘You know I’m not allowed to talk about my work.’
‘I’m your brother. Not just anyone.’
She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath. Like she’s playing hard to get, but then a smile lights up her face.
‘Well alright then, but you’re not after repeating this to anyone?’ Patrick nods and I feel obliged to do the same.
Discretion isn’t needed. Two large whiskeys have gifted Bernie with the voice of a foghorn. People in nearby streets could most likely hear the woeful tale of Ian Tyler.
Mam was always one for telling stories and Bernie delivers her tale in much the same way. First you have the preamble. A teasing line or two to whet the appetite. She explains how Ian was always a bit of a character at school. And then tells everyone about how I’d ‘dated’ him at what she called a tender and impressionable age. Soon enough, she has the whole room hanging off her every word.
‘The poor fella was working two jobs. Every night he fried chicken for drunks coming out of the pubs. One night they made him stay late to clean up, something about the health inspectors coming down. What could he do? If they shut the place down, he’s be out of a job.’
I allow myself a big sip of whiskey, and cough as it hits the back of my throat. As the heat subsides, the music changes to a string-driven lament with some wheezy bint wailing. If only the wind could get up outside and the electricity fail, we’d have the perfect setting for Bernie’s story.
‘Poor Jenny was on her own all the time, but she didn’t mind. She saw he was doing what he could to keep the kids in clean shoes. And if he wasn’t cleaning up the chicken shop, he was serving drinks at the golf club. They also used to make him stay late.’
