Jenny Q, Unravelled!

by Pauline McLynn

  Mum comes sleepily down the stairs, followed by Dad, and I cringe that anyone might think they’ve been up to anything in their room. It’s not such a stretch of the imagination to think such a thing, what with them recently producing a new baby and all. So, it probably looks a bit racy and that makes me boil with embarrassment. The fact is they are both so tired from waking with Harry during the night since he arrived that they sleep whenever they have an opportunity.

  Well, sometimes Dad plays golf in the house too. He got a Wii game for Christmas and he’s obsessed with it. All we hear from the TV room when he’s in there is him shouting ‘fore’, which is mad, because that’s what you do on an actual golf course if you’ve hit a ball the wrong way and need to warn people ahead to duck. We told him there’s no need to do it when it’s a virtual game, but he says if he’s ever rich enough to take up the real thing, he’ll need to get used to shouting ‘fore’, because he’s not very good at golf.

  I’m glad the Guitars are leaving, because Mum getting up now means a feed for the baby and that means her buzooms will be out and there’s only so much of my mum that I want those older guys seeing! Or me for that matter – I’d prefer not to have to behold her breastage if poss.

  Gypsy trots up to the crowd as if to say goodbye. She’s now wearing a sequinned dicky bow and everyone tells her she’s gorgeous. I really can’t figure out how she has everyone wrapped around her hairy paws, because she’s not in any way cute. Uggs says she’s a happy, smiling dog and that’s why everyone loves her. I think she’s a two-faced, yappedy scrap of fur, but I’ll admit she looks quite nice in the dicky bow – I know, I know, I must be going soft in my old (teen)age.

  Some of the Guitars are out on the road as the next lot of revellers arrive to party chez nous. It’s Gran’s poker pals. Now the reason for Gypsy’s bow tie is obvs. The oldies are all dressed up for a James Bond themed night. Happily, it’s not as sore a sight as their Sound of Music night – put it this way, nuns in veils will never look the same to me again, and I wasn’t even so taken with them in the first place. However, as Dixie points out, they could do The Rocky Horror Picture Show and that would be the end of everyone who caught sight of it and give new meaning to the term HORROR, because they’d all be running around in women’s lingerie, be they men or women = v v gruesome. The very thought of this stirs the Kit Kat within me, in a dodgy way.

  The wrinklies are, frankly, a mad bunch. Most of them hobble in or have walking sticks to help them along, but Francie Dolan is in a mobility scooter that he calls the Beast. There should be a driving test to use one of those things, because Francie is downright dangerous in his. Tonight he’s got a white toy cat on his lap, like one of the Bond villains.

  ‘Blofeld,’ Uggs tells me, because he is part nerd and a big fan of James Bond.

  ‘Your head is full of miscellaneous† nonsense,’ I say, which is both a good and a bad thing.

  He nods. ‘Yup, it’s a busy place.’ He’s clearly taken it as a compliment.

  Connie’s‡ Cackling Cronies proceed to MORTIFY me by fluffing up my hair and sending it rampantly rampant.

  ‘I haven’t seen such a lovely head of curly red hair in ages,’ says Mimsy Farrell.

  I silently beg the floor to split in two and swallow me (and her!). Gran’s pals are a social liability.

  Now, the law of embarrassment states that one mortification will lead to another and they will multiply in awfulness as they meet each other, and so it is that Stevie Lee Bolton has just appeared, guitar in hand. He’s grinning all over his gorge face.

  ‘It is lovely hair, Jen,’ he says and I think I might faint. He has done me another kindness and it’s nearly too much for my overwrought self.

  I want to scream, ‘I am not a redhead or ginger,’ for all the world to know, but I’m also giddy that I got a compliment from a totes hot guy and therefore I have temporarily lost the ability to speak in anything but a gurgle. I go, ‘GUH,’ at Steve and, when he’s gone, Dixie chuckles and says, ‘J’amaze – smooth, Jengirl.’б

  I give her a dig in the ribs.

  Of course they’re not quite done with making a SHOW of me, because one of Gran’s cronies says, ‘And you’re such a tiny little cutie too.’

  I am not a tall thirteen-year-old but I’m not freakishly small either, so I boil some more.

  ‘I think “petite” is the word you’re looking for,’ Uggs says.

  He is being my saviour, of course, but the oldies just chuckle and go, ‘AW,’ and that simply adds to all the embarrassment. Uggs is scarlet (natch). At least SLB wasn’t around for that bit, which is scant mercy, but a mercy none the less.

  The poker group moves on to Harry’s crib and they loom over him, the poor mite. It strikes me that the world has to be a v scary place for a small, new baby, because everyone leans over into your personal space and makes noises and stupid faces, and we must all look HUGE and lunatic as a result.§ Harry is still asleep, so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the madsers by even looking at them, which would (surely) lead to him crying with fright and breaking all of our hearts.

  Then Gran herds them into her flat, telling them all to watch out for Gypsy: ‘She’s a card shark.’

  Eh, no, Gran, she’s a dog …

  NUTS!

  Mum’s The Word

  Mum is still in her pyjamas. She doesn’t get out of them much these days. And she looks worn out, shrunken. She’s still got a bumpy-out tummy where Harry used to live, but her face is carved-looking with sharp angles that weren’t there before. It’s sort of like an invasion of bodysnatchers has happened and what we’ve been left with is a shell that’s still Mum, but Mum Lite. She’ll bounce back, I’m sure – it’s just strange that she’s so quiet and tired all the time.* And her eyes look sparkly yet hollow, like she’s ecstatic and the opposite all at once.

  Dad takes charge of getting supper ready, which is better than Gran doing it but it may still be an experiment that none of us is ready for – it all depends on what takes his fancy in the fridge or freezer. He has a way of putting things together that is unexpected, or ‘eclectic’ as he calls it.

  I love words and try to learn new ones all the time, so ‘eclectic’ got written in my notebook of good ones – it simply means mixing things up, really, but it sounds great, as well as being unusual for everyday conversation.†

  Dad works with words because he’s in advertising, but he often uses them to persuade people to buy a product they don’t want or need, so there’s an element of jiggery-pokery there if you ask me. And if I’m plain cross with him, I tell him he works on ‘the Dark Side’, but he merely brushes it off, saying he’s putting bread on the table, food in our mouths, clothes on our backs, a roof over our heads, et cetera, et cetera. He really can go on and on (and on) with examples of all he does for us when it suits him.

  Dermot got on his high horse about that once during a heated clan row and said, ‘You feel the end justifies the means?’ and Dad coolly said, ‘In this instance, yes.’ And Dermot muttered, ‘I was only doing my job,’ in a makey-uppy voice, because he says this is the excuse anyone gives when they’re in trouble and have done something bad and don’t want to take the blame for it. Harsh, but that’s a Quinn Family Barney for you: it’s v v rough-and-tumble and not for the faint-hearted.

  If Dad knows he’s about to introduce a word into my vocabulary, he’ll raise his eyes as if to say, ‘Here’s a new one for you.’ Other times when I look puzzled or plain ask out loud, ‘What does that mean?’ he goes, ‘Look it up,’ and I do. For example, he called me a ‘refusenik’ once and I was thrilled (even just for the way it sounds) and, although it has a historical reason for existi
ng,‡ it really does do exactly what it says in the word.

  I also like to say ‘je refuse’б to whoever asks me to do something I don’t intend to do = all variations of refusing are v handy.

  Tonight Dad announces we will have Pasta à la Doug (which is his name). Anything ‘à la Doug’ will be an adventure in cuisine. I’m beginning to worry about what might be lurking in the fridge.

  ‘Fusion cuisine,’ Dad adds, and this does nothing to calm me. It’s just another way of saying ‘eclectic’ as far as I’m concerned and means only that he’s going to MAKE some food elements mix whether they like it or not, whether we like it or not.

  All right, to be fair, it’ll be edible (which is more than most of Gran’s concoctions), but it might not be ideal as a taste sensation. I really have to learn to cook properly and not just rely on my pizza and salad combo. Mind you, Dad does a mean cheese-and-onion omelette that I adore, so here’s hoping he can’t find any pasta and goes back to his classic, signature dish.§

  Then Harry, who has been attached to our mum’s chest, falls asleep and his little head falls back. Mum is clearly also snoozing and doesn’t notice. There is nothing to stop it and suddenly a spurt of boob milk shoots across the kitchen. It is horribly awesome. I am MORTO and so relieved that there are none but family members here to see this oh-so-natural-and-utterly-embarrassing incident.

  Dad thinks it’s hilair and laughs gustily.**

  Dermot catches my eye. ‘Jen, a word,’ he says.

  Uh-oh.

  Mad Men

  I’m racking my addled and worried brain as I follow my brother to our front room.* I can’t think of what it is that I’ve done wrong (this time) and so I’m reluctant to trail Dermot, but I can’t think of a good reason to thwart him with.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he says.

  EEP, this must be a BIG transgression.†

  ‘I’ve been talking with the guys and we’re all agreed that we’d like you to handle the fan mail we’ve been getting.’

  ‘WHAT?’ I squeak, louder than any squeak has any right to be.

  Then a strange burbling starts to come out of me and whatever language it’s in it’s not English: ‘Blempremfembem.’

  ‘Great, so you’ll do it?’

  I nod vigorously and sort of hurt my neck. My head is buzzing and my mouth goes dry. On the plus side, it stops me burbling, but I don’t think my heart is beating any more. Ah well, swings and roundabouts, as they say.

  OK, let me explain what a big deal this is. Teen Factor X is the show on TV for teenagers to show themselves off. It’s not just for singers, it’s for people with all sorts of different talents. And it’s amazing to see the diverse talents that Irish teenagers have, and what they are prepared to do to be on TV. Uggs confessed that he nearly entered him and Gypsy, so that Pudsey dog that won Britain’s Got Talent has a lot to answer for. Gypsy does nothing but bark and run around like a hairy eejit and I don’t see how Uggs could ever harness that into an act. Embarrassingly, I had thought that I might try out too, but it was a pants idea‡ and I prefer not to think about it now EVER.

  The heats for this year’s TFX were held before Christmas to ramp up the tension and excitement ahead of the competitive live shows. Ten Guitars got through. Now, with all the acts selected, there’ll be a series of three live shows with more and more contestants going home as it all progresses.

  And I am now secretary to Ten Guitars! I think I might like to bump the title up to Executive Secretary, or Executive Personal Assistant, or some such, but I’m way too excited to decide on that now.

  ‘We’ll need our own Facebook page and all that,’ he says. ‘Think you could do that too?’

  If I’m not careful, I may explode with delight or delirium. I try to calm my breathing down and seem all on top of things.

  ‘Where and when do I start?’ I ask.

  ‘Now, I guess. Up to you how you go about it all. We have a bag of mail waiting for us at the studio, so you can get that when we do our next live TV performance.’

  I was longing to see the studio but didn’t dare hope I would so soon, as there are so many in the group and the numbers of relations and well-wishers going along to the Teen Factor X filming are rationed. Now, I’m ‘official’ … maybe even ‘Access All Areas’? EEEP! I hope I’ll get a laminate that says that?

  My breathing is going wonky again so I’m glad when Dad shouts, ‘Dinner is served,’ and Dermot heads for the kitchen. I sit with my head between my legs till the faintness passes, then stroll nonchalantly to the next room to join the Quinns for whatever ‘à la Doug’ is on offer this evening. Even if it’s OK, I doubt I’ll swallow the barest mouthful.

  I’M IN CHARGE OF THE TEN GUITARS’ FAN MAIL!!! I want to shout it from the rooftop for all to hear. Maybe ring a few bells while I’m at it. This is BIG NEWS – whoop!

  ‘Lasagne à la Doug,’ Dad announces and that’s more good news, because it’ll have been one that Mum made ages ago and froze.

  I can’t get my thoughts to slow down and it seems to be influencing my table manners.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you eat so heartily, Jen,’ Dad says. ‘The smacking sounds are perhaps less necessary.’

  Cripes. I haven’t paid much attention to the meal to be honest, what with the whirl in my head. It reminds me of the time I was waiting for the bus and listening to my iPod simultaneously and I let loose a gust of tummy wind and only afterwards realized the startled looks I got were because I’d made a big bum parp – I couldn’t hear it over Rihanna blasting in my ears.

  I have proved that gusto and relish have a sound, though, and that can’t be too bad a thing, surely?

  ‘Sorry,’ I murmur. ‘It’s delish.’

  ‘A compliment to some mighty fine vittles,’ Dad says in his best cowboy voice.

  ‘How are rehearsals going?’ Mum asks Dermot.

  ‘Good,’ he answers. ‘Although it’s hard to get all ten people to agree on most things. We only did the tryouts for Teen Factor X as a joke, and now that we’re through to the live TV shows, we have to take it seriously. It’s a bit of a leap for some of the lads.’

  ‘As long as you’re enjoying it,’ Mum says.

  ‘Ah, yeah, we are,’ Dermot says. ‘So far.’

  ‘And as long as you’re all agreed to play the same thing at the same time,’ Dad says.

  ‘So far,’ Dermot says again. ‘It’s kind of mad, really. Oh, and Jen is on board now to run the fan club.’

  My heart goes all funny-juddery and my face boils.

  ‘Well, to look after the correspondence,’ I say, trying to play down my excitement in case it makes me look childish – I am a teenager now and have to start getting a cool attitude going.

  ‘An auspicious start to the year,’ Dad says and gives me the ‘look that one up’ eyes.б

  ‘What’s suspicious?’ Mum asks. She’s only half-hearing everything at the moment. We all laugh. She smiles wanly, shrugs and says, ‘The baby ate my brain when he was inside.’

  ‘It’ll grow back,’ Dad tells her.

  Plans

  I bolt to my room as soon as I can and text the Gang my news.

  Dixie is first to reply with: gud opp 4 making dosh

  I don’t quite know what she means about it being good for making money, but I’m prepared to let it slide – it’s not like she’s not going to tell me at some point, and maybe I’d prefer not to know till then.

  Uggs sends: totes gr8! Gud 4 u!

  I’m waiting for a text from Gyp – no joke, she has sent me messages in the past – don’t know how or why, just the way she rolls! No contact, she’s playin
g it casual? Fine: two can play that game …

  I can’t sleep, so I try to make a list of what I’ll need to do as Executive in Charge of Fan Base, which is my latest title … in my head at least …

  I wonder if it’ll be like reading someone’s private mail? I don’t agree with anyone even reading a text unless it’s for them or they’re allowed to read it by the owner of the phone. Privacy is precious and it’s hard to come by in a family, as I know from being a member of an inquisitive one. The Quinns are a nosey bunch. Dixie’s got even more brothers and sisters, more than any of the rest of the Gang, and she says it’s a nightmare even thinking in her house, because there’s always someone who knows what’s going on in your head and uses that as a licence to interfere with your life even more than they might normally do, which is a lot anyhow.

  Of course Dixie is big on privacy since Jason Fielding put her pic on Facebook. To be honest, although it was a strange photo from a ridic angle, it wasn’t anything Oakdale hadn’t seen before. She was always getting in clinches with him at the Youth Club. Still, he has breached some moral law in her head and that’s all that matters to her now. She will bring the pain to him.

  I decide to check out her Facebook page and see that she has changed her status from ‘It’s complicated’ to ‘Single’ as she said she would, and her latest message reads, ‘New Year is New Love Year!’ Oh dear …

  Then I see an awful picture someone has posted of a poor bird stuck to the ground by a piece of discarded chewing gum, saying lots of them are fooled into thinking it’s food and then die like this, stuck and starving and thirsting to death – it confirms my suspicions that chewing gum is not for me. Yes, it can mask a honky breath smell, BUT it only masks it for a while and the honky fink of breath is still there when the gum is gone, just with a bit of old mint added. I share the photo in case there’s truth in it. Wotevs, I don’t trust the stuff any more and the post might save a few creatures?