by John Newman
“Oooh,” said Emma. “You mean slaves, like Sally says?”
Aunt M. laughed and pulled over the car outside Mrs. Lemon’s shop. Sally was already waiting. She works in Mrs. Lemon’s shop now every Saturday, but today she popped in to help out because she won’t be able to on Saturday. At first she worked for free until she had paid off Mrs. Lemon for all the stationery she had stolen, but now she gets paid. But she says she would work for free and that Mrs. Lemon is her best old-person friend. Today she had Spiff bars for us all.
“Not for me, thanks,” said Aunt M. “I want to fit into that wedding dress!”
“One Spiff bar won’t kill you,” joked Sally. “You’re beginning to look like a lollipop! A big round head and a body like a stick.”
“Well, thanks very much, Sally. I suppose you’d prefer me to look as fat as my mother?”
“Are you calling our granny fat?” asked Emma. “How dare you!”
“She’s my mother and I will call her what I like,” answered Aunt M. “I’ll probably end up looking like her anyway. Most people end up looking like their mothers.”
“I won’t end up looking like Mammy,” I said.
Everyone went a bit quiet in the car when I said that. Then Aunt M. said, “Well, you’re already like Poppy in other ways. You’re a bit ditzy, like she was.”
“And you read other people’s diaries,” put in Sally quickly.
I was going to tell her that it wasn’t Mammy who did that, it was Aunt M., but my phone beeped and it was a joke from Orla.
Hi. Hav u heard dis 1? Why is a marriage like a 3-ring circus? It has an engagement ring, wedding ring, and suffering.
I had to read it out loud, of course, and they all laughed. But I didn’t get it. Anyway, we were at the dress shop then, so everybody forgot about it and we piled out of the car, all excited.
Dad was busy in the kitchen when we all arrived back at the house.
Aunt M. went through to the sunroom at the back to inspect the garden. “The garden looks smashing — but do you think you have planted enough marigolds, Paul?” she called out.
She had a point — our garden was absolutely covered in marigolds, waving their funny orange heads in the wind. We had planted them in honor of Aunt M. for the wedding.
“Damn things sprout like weeds!” answered Dad. “Just like yourself, Marigold.”
“Thanks for that, Paul,” Aunt M. laughed. “Sally probably would have planted lollipops in my honor if she had had her way.”
“Now, girls,” said Dad to me and Emma, “there’s going to be quite a crowd dropping in looking for dinner tonight, so we’d better get cooking. Your fiancé is out with Conor in the shed making a racket,” he told Aunt M.
Months ago Nicholas and Aunt M. had asked our family if they could use our back garden for their wedding reception, because it was so big and beautiful and they could not afford the hotel.
I thought they were crazy. “Our garden used to be beautiful,” I had said to Aunt M., “when Mammy looked after it. Now it’s just a big dog’s toilet.”
“The grass is up to your waist,” Sally added.
“And the bushes are all overgrown and the flowerbeds are probably full of weeds,” Conor said.
“Yes. All that is true,” Dad agreed. “But, you know, it could be fixed up if we all worked together. We have three months, after all.”
“What if it rains on the wedding day?” Sally put in.
“Oh, we thought about that,” said Aunt M. “We could put up a tent. Your garden is big enough.”
So that’s how we ended up having the wedding reception in our garden and it’s getting very exciting. It’s only two days away. The tent is going up tomorrow.
It was very hard work. Dad did the disgusting bit and cleared up all the dog poop. “That dog is a world champ when it comes to pooing!” he said as he dropped another smelly bag of it into the trash.
Then we had to get going on the lawn —“Hay field, more like!” complained Sally as we chopped away with these big slash hooks Dad rented for the day. Then when it was short enough to cut, we found that the lawn mower had been sitting out in the rain all winter and was rusted away to bits.
“Oh, to hell with it!” said Dad, and threw it in the big Dumpster that he’d rented.
Then — and this is the best bit — Dad bought a riding mower! It’s brilliant. You just sit up on it and drive it up and down the garden like a racing driver. We had terrible fights over whose turn it was to cut the grass, until Sally made out a roster so we all get our turn without fighting. Rosters work. . . . Well, most of the time.
“It’s ridiculous,” said Granny. “Your yard is not that big! Poppy used to cut the lawn with a push mower!”
“You should try it yourself, Gran,” said Sally. “It’s great fun.”
“Oh, I’m much too old for that kind of thing,” said Granny, blushing a bit.
“Oh, go on!” urged Grandad, who had already had a go. “You know you want to. Don’t worry, it’s very strong. You won’t break it.”
“Go on, Granny,” I said.
“Well, if I must,” sighed Granny, as if she was doing it just for us. She drove it once around the garden and nearly crashed into a tree.
“Ride ’em, cowboy!” shouted Conor.
It was a good day.
Cleaning the shed out was not a good day.
“Why don’t you clear out the shed once and for all, and you can set up your drum kit and have your band practices in there without disturbing all the neighbors,” Dad told Conor. “I don’t know how often I’ve said it to you!”
Conor’s lips went tight, and he seemed to be bracing himself to do it. He took a few steps toward the shed . . . and then suddenly he turned and ran back into the house and he was crying.
“What’s wrong with the boy?” asked Dad in a fed-up kind of voice. “I only told him to clear the shed.” He really didn’t know what was up. He must have forgotten.
“Do you not remember what’s in there, Dad?” said Sally quietly.
Dad stood still for a minute, thinking. “Oh, God,” he said. “How could I have forgotten about that? The poor boy.” Then he followed Conor into the house, and he was gone for a while.
Sally said, “Leave them to it, Mimi.” So we carried on weeding without another word.
Dad came out first. Conor was behind him, but he stopped at the back door and just stood there, watching. He wasn’t crying anymore but his eyes were all red. Dad looked really upset but very determined as he strode quickly across to the shed. Sally stood up to follow him, but she took only one step and then stopped.
Dad took a deep breath and pulled open the door of the shed. Through his legs I could see the crumpled-up bike, and suddenly there was this big lump in my throat and my eyes were stinging. Sally was crying softly behind me. Dad stood there for a long time, just looking at the bike. His body looked as tight as a wire, and shivers kept running through him. He had his back to us, so I couldn’t see his face. I was glad about that.
Then he made this awful moaning sound that had all the sadness in the world in it, and he bent down and picked up Mammy’s crushed bike and carried it quickly down the side passage and out through the front garden and flung it as hard as he could into the Dumpster. Then he walked back into the yard and stopped and looked at us for a long minute.
“It’s gone now,” he said in a cracked kind of voice, and his eyes were all red and his face all broken-looking. Then he went slowly back into the house, and when he passed Conor he gave his arm a little squeeze.
I thought I might go after him, but Sally just said, “Give him a minute.” So we carried on weeding in silence, and after a bit Conor walked over to the shed and started pulling other stuff out.
After that day it was better in our house.
“Today we are cooking a popular Italian dish called spaghetti alla puttanesca!” declared Dad, kissing his fingers with his lips. “Open the Idiot Book to page nineteen, Mimi.”
The Idiot Cook
book was sent to Dad by Aunt L., and it has saved our family from starvation and poisoning.
“It’s great,” said Emma, poring over the page. “Even a total idiot couldn’t go wrong!”
“Thank you, Emma,” said Dad. “That makes me feel so good! For that you can chop up the chilies. Make three times as much as it says in the book — we’re going to be feeding the hungry hordes tonight.”
“That’s six chilies, Uncle Paul,” she said. “That’s going to be hot!”
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” Dad said with a grin.
I made the spaghetti. The book said 500g of spaghetti and in brackets it read, “For Idiots: 500g is one whole packet.” So I had to use three packets, which meant we needed our biggest saucepan.
It was fun cooking with Dad and Emma. Emma really enjoyed the Idiot Book. “Hey, idiot!” she called out. “Is your spaghetti all sticking together?”
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“Then put a few drops of olive oil in the water and stir some more. Idiot!”
It seemed a long time ago now that the only food that Dad could make was frozen pizza! (And he couldn’t even make that properly.) Now he can even use the washing machine without ruining all the clothes. Aunt B. showed him how to do it right after all of Conor’s soccer team’s jerseys came out pink.
“My life is ruined!” wailed Conor. “They’ll kill me. I can never play football again. I can never show my face again!”
Aunt B. had to sort that out, too. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Conor,” she said in her gruff voice. “I’ll dye them red and everyone will be happy. I bet most of your team follow Manchester United or Liverpool anyway, and red is good enough for them.” So it all turned out all right.
But Conor isn’t the only one who doesn’t like pink. “I don’t think Sally was too happy with the pink bridesmaid dresses today,” said Emma as she stirred the chilies and the garlic in the pan.
Just then the doorbell rang. It was Uncle Horace, who had come to give us our lesson. He was right on time as usual.
Ms. Hardy told Dad that I needed extra help with math because I missed out a lot last year. (Ms. Hardy is still my teacher because Ms. Addle is having another baby. Already. Can you believe that?) So Uncle Horace has said he’ll teach me (and Emma, because she’s useless at math), if Dad will teach Emmett some chords on the guitar.
“It’s a fair swap,” said Uncle Horace. “I will shape these young ladies into two of the finest mathematicians this country has ever known, and you can turn my son into a pop star.”
So now every Thursday, at half-past five exactly, Uncle Horace arrives with Emma, shakes my hand so hard that my fingers nearly fall off, and then sets about shaping my mind.
“Today we are learning about the most important thing in the world. Money,” started Uncle Horace. He had his hands behind his back and was pacing up and down in front of the window.
Outside, Emma and I could see Aunt M. and Nicholas sitting in the yard, their heads nearly touching.
“Money is what makes the world go round.” Uncle Horace likes making speeches. “Your Aunt Marigold and young Nicholas wouldn’t agree with me right now, but they’ll learn soon enough. Love won’t pay the bills!”
Emma nudged me. In the yard, Nicholas and Aunt M. had started kissing. She giggled.
“Are you listening to a word I’m saying, Emma?” asked Uncle Horace.
“Of course I am!” replied Emma.
“Then tell me this. What makes the world go round?”
“Love!” answered Emma with a grin.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Uncle Horace. “You tell her what makes the world go round, Mimi — surely you’ve been listening.”
“Love,” I said in a dreamy way.
“I give up,” said Uncle Horace. “This blooming wedding is turning everyone’s brains to mush. We’ll have a double lesson instead next week when things return to normal. Now run off, you two scoundrels, and buy yourselves an ice cream or some such tooth rot!”
“Thanks, Uncle Horace,” I said, pushing back my chair.
“We’ve no money,” said Emma.
“So what?” laughed Uncle Horace. “You can pay with love!” and he let out a great big guffaw and walked out of the room. But as he was going out of the door he flicked a two-euro coin over his head, and Emma and I nearly broke the table trying to catch it.
At recess Orla had another wedding joke, of course. “This little girl was attending her first wedding —” she started.
“It will be my first wedding too,” I interrupted her.
“Mine too. I can’t wait,” said Orla.
Aunt M. and Nicholas said that Conor and Sally and I can each ask one friend to the wedding because we did such a great job on the yard. Conor is asking his friend from when he was about two, Roger. Sally is asking Tara Sinclair, but she has to promise not to wear black. Sally wanted me to ask Sarah Sinclair so that the two sisters would be there together, but there’s no way I’d do that! Sarah and I get on OK now, but she’s not exactly my best friend (actually I think she’s a little bit afraid of me). Anyway, I’m asking Orla, of course, because she is my best friend!
“So, the little girl says to her mother, ‘Why is the bride wearing white?’” Orla continued with her joke. “‘That’s because white is the color of happiness and joy,’ explained her mother. ‘Then why is the groom wearing black?’ asked the girl.”
I waited for the next line, but that was it. That was the joke.
“You don’t get it, do you,” said Orla.
“No. Why does the groom wear black?”
“Oh, Mimi!” groaned Orla, and pretended to pull out her hair. “It isn’t that hard to understand! Black is the opposite of white, and so . . .”
But I wasn’t listening to her. I was wondering how they were getting on at home.
Not so well, actually. When I got home the tent was up and men were carrying in chairs from a truck parked outside, and Grandad and Nicholas and Dad were hanging the strings of colored lights all around the garden, but inside the tent Aunt M. and Granny were screaming at each other.
“I wouldn’t go in there, Mimi,” warned Grandad. He was holding the ladder.
“It’s World War Three in there, Mimi,” added Nicholas from the top of the ladder.
“It’s still not too late to change your mind, Nicholas!” joked Dad.
Inside the tent Aunt M. was screaming, “It’s my wedding and I’ll decide where people sit, and Great Aunt Violet can sit on top of a Christmas tree for all I care!”
“I’m just saying —” Granny was talking in her “reasonable” voice, which always made Aunt M. hit the roof.
“I know what you’re saying, and I don’t give two hoots!” roared Aunt M.
“They say every bride turns into her mother, Nicholas,” teased Dad, handing him up a red bulb.
“It sounds as if Marigold already has!” answered Nicholas ruefully.
I decided to go into the house. George was sitting in the kitchen, eating a jam sandwich. George is Nicholas’s brother, and he’s the best man. Which is a big laugh because George is only sixteen. He isn’t even a man. He’s a long skinny string bean with hair down past his shoulders. Granny says he’s a hippie.
“Hey, man,” he said when he saw me. “Want a jam sandwich?”
I looked at the counter. It was covered in crumbs and lumps of butter and blobs of jam. George is also the biggest slob in the world. “No, thanks,” I said, and took a yogurt out of the fridge.
“Cool,” said George. Everything is “cool” with George. Granny says the roof could fall in and George would be “cool.” “Anyway, I can’t talk now, I’m writing my speech.” There was a crumpled piece of paper on the counter in among the mess, all scratched-out words and with a streak of jam across it, and George was scratching his head with the chewed-up end of a pen.
“OK, cool,” I said and took my yogurt into the sitting room to watch Southsiders.
After a little while Au
nt M. came in and plonked herself down on the sofa beside me. “Your granny!” she said, but she seemed to have calmed down a bit.
“Is it all sorted out now, Aunt M.?” I asked, one eye still on the telly.
“No, it’s not,” sighed Aunt M., “but I suppose it will work out on the day. I just hope the good weather keeps up for tomorrow.”
“My mammy’s in charge of the weather. Dad says it will be fine because she’s very reliable.”
Aunt M. laughed at that and gave me a little squeeze. “Did you meet the best man?” she asked. It was really hard to follow what was going on in Southsiders with all Aunt M.’s interruptions. “Nicholas used to be like him when I first met him. A total slob. Your granny thinks he still is!”
“Sally fancies him,” I said.
“Who? My Nicholas?”
“No, not your Nicholas,” I said. “George!”
“And how do you know that exactly, Miss Mimi?” Aunt M. started poking me in the side with her finger. “Did Sally tell you that?”
“Well . . . not really.”
Aunt M. was kneeling on the couch attacking me now, and I couldn’t stop laughing. “You read it in her diary, didn’t you? Admit it, you little nosy spy! Admit it or die a death by a thousand tickles.” We both fell onto the floor then, and between fits of nearly getting sick from laughing I could hear the closing music from Southsiders.
In the evening, while it was still bright, Dad and I took Sparkler for her walk. Everyone else had gone home. We walked along quietly, but it was a nice peaceful silence. Then Dad said, “You know that I am going back to work full-time after half-term.”
I did know that, but I didn’t like to think about it. I didn’t like to talk about it either. “Mammy was killed during half-term,” I said at last.
“Yes,” said Dad. “It doesn’t seem like almost a year ago, does it?”
I thought about that. Sometimes it feels as if it happened yesterday, and other times it feels like a hundred years ago. “I wish she was here for the wedding,” I said.
“So do I,” said Dad, “but we’ll have a good day anyway, won’t we?” and he put his arm around my shoulder.
