“Lorcan!” Siofra sobbed. “Tell granny it's me cake and I don't have to change it if I don't wanny!”
“Of course ye don't have to—”
As he was speaking, he suddenly understood Maureen's concern. His eyes focused correctly, then blinked incomprehensibly. Rising proudly from the bottom layer of the 'cake' were the towers, which reached the top layer and had domed tops. They were the width of a can around, and three cans tall. Together, and with the fleshy pink, these three towers had the misfortune to resemble—
He howled with laughter. And yelled out as pain struck his stomach.
“Do ye like it, Lorcan?” Siofra asked, her tear- and icing-covered face beaming.
“Like it? I fecking love it!”
Maureen threw her hands up in defeat.
“Yaaay!!” Siofra squealed, and in the chair Seamus echoed her from behind the bowl.
“Alright, then,” Maureen said, “Off ye go, wee girl! It'll stay as it is! Good job.”
“Yaaaay!!! Dymphna's sure to love the princess wedding cake and all!”
Siofra squealed with glee again, grabbed Seamus by the hand, and they fled from the scullery.
“Maybe only wer Dymphna, in her younger and wilder days, would want to eat them towers,” Lorcan said.
“Shush, you!” said Maureen, but she was laughing.
“Too bad she and Bridie aren't mates no more. Both of what that fat slag loves together in one...three...pieces!” He whispered in his granny's ear, “Cake and cocks!”
Maureen was scandalized. “Hush, Lorcan!” She said, pressing her hand against his arm, her body shaking with silent laughter. “C'mere, ye're terrible sweaty. And warm and all.”
“Aye, I still feel like shite warmed over. I'm just down to get meself a drink.”
He tugged three beers from the fridge.
“Yer mammy's left ye some special food over there.”
Maureen nodded to a plate covered with tinfoil.
Lorcan shook his head in dread.
“I'm gonny boke again if I eat anything.”
But Maureen had turned her attention to the horror of the cake again, inspecting it from different angles.
“May the Heavenly Father strike me down! I'm filled with that much guilt, Lorcan. It's me own fault, ye see,” she confessed. “I told them, it was Grainne Siofra had over, and that Catherine McLaughlin, ye know the copper's wee girl, and that Proddy girl Victoria Skivvins, and I told them the cake, when there was only them three layers, and not even straight layers, I says it was a wee bit flat, a wee bit boring. Girls, says I, why don't youse jazz it up a bit. Add some towers and such, like a princess castle. They was all for it, clapping their hands and jumping up and down as they do. And it was me what had the idea to open all them tins of vegetables from the larder, empty em out and use em to bake the shape of the towers, as baking pans like. Sure, nobody in this household likes vegetables anyroad, so there was really no waste, except if ye take them wanes in Africa into account. Each tower be's four cans tall, as ye can see. And we had that cupcake pan, so then they made a cupcake for each of the towers to put on top. Marvelous in theory, it was. As ye can see, but, the reality be's something quite different. Something quite startling. I hadn't me glasses on, ye see, when they finally, um...”
“Erected them, did ye want to say?”
“And perhaps that was a poor choice of color for the icing. A bit too much like human flesh. And them blue flowers they've done with the icing. Looks like warts all up and down the sides of em. Can ye imagine what the reaction'll be like on the day? And with all them posh Orange bastards from the groom's side in attendance and all! Och, I'm mortified for wer poor Dymphna, so am are, when ye take the state of her gown into account and all! Aye, Dymphna be's simpleminded enough to love the gown, that's as may be, the rest of us, but, has to look at her stepping down the aisle in that most horrid of creations, and then when we have to step up to the table to receive a slice of that on wer plates. And put it up to wer mouths and eat it. Me stomach's shuddering just thinking about it. Though...I suppose if I squint at it long enough without me glasses on, perhaps there's a wee bit of something...Gaudí about it. That said, lad, though me heart goes out to ye for yer illness, it fills me heart with joy that ye'll be here in Derry for the big day. Quite a wedding this'll be tomorrow.”
“Aye,” Lorcan said, drinking down a beer, “Maybe I'm happy to be here for it after all.”
“Are ye sure ye don't want what yer mammy's made for ye?”
Lorcan pulled aside the tinfoil and looked at more porridge.
“Naw,” he said. “I'll pass. I'm going back up to me room. Me mammy said she's making fish and chips for me dinner. Hopefully me stomach will be able to keep that down when the time comes.”
“Aye, I hope so and all.”
She wanted to ruffle his hair in a show of affection, but it was so slick with grease and old sweat she had to make do with a tiny pat.
“Go you back upstairs and rest yerself, get yerself stronger for the big day tomorrow, lad.”
“Aye, I will.”
Ten minutes later, Maureen was standing at the cooker waiting for the kettle to boil for a much needed cup of tea. Her back was turned to the cake so she didn't have to look at the monstrosity. And she thought back to the very odd thing Siofra had done once the towers had been assembled and riveted on. The girl had pulled an aerosol can of furniture polish out of the cupboard, shaken it, popped off the lid and, humming gaily, made to spray it on the cake! Grainne, Catherine and Victoria were shocked as well. Seamus too.
“Are ye bonkers, girl?” Maureen had yelled, grabbing the can from Siofra's hand. “Are ye soft in the head? Why would ye want to spray that poison on the cake?”
“I'm doing it just like Mammy does,” the girl had said, her lip trembling, eyes telling Maureen she didn't know what all the fuss was about.
“Och, go on away with that, wane! I never heard such foolish, goofy talk in all me days. Why would yer mammy do that?”
“To make it taste better? To make it shine? I dunno, but I seen mammy spray something on the ham hocks yesterday, like. I ran into the scullery to tell her what we was seeing on the telly, but then Daddy called me back.”
“Yer mammy did no such thing! Ye're a bad wee brute, Siofra Flood! I'd smack yer lying face if it weren't for the fact that I can hardly lift me arm over me head!”
“She did! Ask her yerself!”
“I'll do no such thing. It's a blatant lie! It's a sin to lie! Ye'll burn in Hell, Siofra Flood, if ye don't take it back!”
Grainne and Catherine were nodding in agreement, and Seamus as well, but Victoria looked like she was on the fence. They stood in a semi-circle around Siofra, waiting. Reluctantly, Siofra had nodded her head also.
“Alright, Granny. I told a lie.”
Maureen shook her head, smiling, as she spooned sugar into her tea. The wanes of the day! Whatever will they think of next? Then she went to see what was on the telly...if there was anything!...and plan her outfit for the wedding.
CHAPTER 33
Zoë ordered a Hendrick's and tonic. She needed gin for this meeting. With her only son's wedding to Dymphna Flood the next day, she felt that, though a bright spark of excitement burned in one part of her, another part was dying a slow and torturous death. She clicked away at her iPhone and nibbled on a bread stick, or a granary baton, as she called it. The drink came, she squeezed the cucumber slice into it and gulped it down.
“Another,” she said, the ice cubes clinking as she handed the waiter the emptied glass. He hadn't even had the chance to leave the table.
When Dymphna had moved into her house for the second time, Zoë had immediately upped the cleaning woman's visits from two a week to four to rid the house of the odor. She wasn't sure what it was, the fluids of the babies, or the beer-, fag- and whiskey-scented sweat Dymphna seemed to secrete from her armpits. Zoë was alarmed one so young could smell so spent. She had sat Rory down and asked him, babies o
f questionable heritage aside, why he would want to marry Dymphna. He told her that he loved her. He loved her. Rory loved Dymphna. It was as simple as that. Zoë had let Dymphna's slovenly motherhood slide. But now that things were becoming official...
Zoë grabbed the second drink and took her time with this one. Where was that mother of the bride? It was 12:15, and they should have met at twelve.
Zoë had always felt an affinity with the Catholic community. She was delighted her son was marrying someone from the other side of town, from the other religion. She was less enchanted it was Dymphna, especially as there were hordes of Catholic girls to choose from in that town. But in fact, calling her son Rory had been a political decision, and that had been at a time in the past when the city was more divided, more sectarian than it was today. Her mother had been scandalized, choosing such a Catholic name for a child! But Zoë knew even back then that the only way towards the future was to forget the past. She didn't believe the best predictor of future behavior was past behavior, either in people or in business. And it had been this intuition that had made Riddell Enterprises such a success.
She viewed the marriage as yet another example of a high risk/high gain strategy that had helped build that career. The demographic of her customers for her Pence-A-Day lockups, her swanky café and her various other enterprises, such as the card shop and the butcher's, was 88% Protestant. The chip van was another matter; it did most of its trade after last orders at the pubs, and when drink is involved, people don't care what religion they're getting their chips from. And while a pub quiz question like Was Amelia Earhart Catholic or Protestant might have some populaces racing to Google, all Derry, since the opening of the center, now knew the answer as a matter of course. (Clue: Fionnuala never mentioned it on the tour.)
Zoë Riddell's steely business mind viewed this pairing of the two religions, the coming together of the two families who couldn't have been more different, as a chance to double her business opportunities, like a bisexual doubling his chances for a date on a Saturday night.
She took another sip of Hendrick's. Sacrificing her only son for the sake of future profits might appear cold hearted, and though Zoë hadn't risen up the male-dominated ranks of the Derry business world by giggling and playing croquet, she knew that Rory would eventually take over the business and her many enterprises, so she was actually being a loving mother concerned both for her son and his generations after. Or so she told herself. Though how her empire and estate would be divided to those generations in her will was a complicated matter she would have to think about for a long, long time.
She dealt with percentages often, and she was 97% sure Keanu wasn't her son's—the unsightly child had red hair, for the love of God!—Beeyonsay she was more certain about; she gave the girl a 52% chance of being a Riddell. These percentages went a long way to explaining her ambivalence about their upbringing, for example, why she hadn't bought Dymphna a stroller that could comfortably hold two. But a new stroller would be on the way, and an Aston Martin Silver Cross, at that, as Zoë was 95% sure this third one, whatever it might be called, was Rory's. Surely he had been vigilant with the girl, making sure she didn't stray? There was, of course, the two weeks the Flood family, Dymphna included, had been working on the cruise ship, but according to Dymphna, the hours were so long she barely had time to drink, let alone socialize with strange men. Zoë chose to believe her.
So though she didn't trust Beeyonsay's lineage, and totally doubted Keanu's pedigree—they were mutts!—she was sure this new child would be a thoroughbred, as much as it could be with 50% Flood blood in its veins.
Ah, there she was! Zoë waved the Flood woman over to her table. She was surprised there was no sign of that horrid Celine Dion/Titanic tote she always lugged about. Now she was carrying two plastic bags from the Top Yer Trolly instead. Which Zoë considered worse. At least Mrs. Flood seemed to have given up those peculiar old fashioned etiquette mannerisms Zoë had to endure every time they met.
As Fionnuala sat opposite, her eyes lit up at the sight of the bread basket, which brimmed with a selection of bread sticks, some with sesame seeds, some flour dusted; a variety of rolls, poppy kaiser, wholemeal, sourdough pavés, and plain white crusty; and slices, including banana nut, olive and malted wheat; and focaccia, ciabatta, even a naan.
Fionnuala clapped her hands with glee and leaned conspiratorially towards Zoë. “I had a feeling this posh place would have one of them bread baskets. So I came prepared.”
Zoë looked on in horror as the woman reached into her plastic bags and tugged out a jar of strawberry jam, some Nutella, a stick of butter and little cheese triangles.
“No sense letting all this bread go to waste, and, as I understand it, there be's no charge. I just brought these few bits and bobs from home to make it a bit more substantial of a meal, and then all I've to pay for be's me tea!”
She unscrewed a jar and, knife aloft, ran her fingers along the breads, musing.
“Put those things away right now, Mrs. Flood!” Zoë hissed.
And as she fought to tug the knife out of Fionnuala's hand, Zoë was crestfallen, glum, filled with a sense of dread, suddenly feeling the weight of all the years she still had to live with this woman, these people, as part of her family pressing down on her, an endless burden pressing down relentlessly, getting heavier and heavier until the flames of the crematorium freed her and her ashes were scooped into the urn and scattered on some body of water she had yet to choose, buoyant at last. She pressed the knife firmly on the table, helped Fionnuala gather all the condiments into the bag, then cleared her throat.
“I would have thought it understood that I'd be picking up the bill.”
“Ah! In that case...!” Fionnuala grabbed the menu before her, opened it up, then snapped it shut. “Just as I suspected. It's all in flimmin Foreign.”
“No, it's English, Mrs. Flood. Well, now it's English, in any event. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if I ordered for us?”
“Fill yer boots.”
“Fine.” Zoë waved to the waiter, who had been hovering near them since the knife. He minced over to the table. “We'll have two of the gazpacho to start, then perhaps the arugula with Gorgonzola to share, the beef teriyaki crisps with wasabi mayonnaise for appetizer, or would you prefer the baked feta with Romesco and olive tapenade, Mrs. Flood? Then there's the eggplant crostini...Or this muhammara with crudités. Which sounds more delicious?”
“Ye're the boss.”
“The teriyaki, then, and then I'll take the hangar steak tartare with pickled jalapeños and shiitake mushrooms, and how about a filet mignon with Fettuccine Alfredo and asparagus with hollandaise sauce for my, er, friend here. You'd better make it well done. And tiramisu for dessert. I'll have a sparkling water and you, Mrs. Flood? Tea, I believe you said...?”
“Aye. Extra milky, three sugars.”
The waiter left and Fionnuala stared at him go for a moment, disgust on her face, then bent over the table and hissed, afflicted, at Zoë: “I see ye ordered the steak for yerself!”
Zoë breathed deeply and slowly and counted to ten. “They are both steak, Mrs. Flood. Mine is served raw. I didn't think you would...? No, I thought not.”
Fionnuala cast the waiter another glance. “C'mere, how they've found a poofter here in Derry to be the waiter I can't imagine! Arse bandits don't live in this town! Did they ship him in, do ye think?”
“I wouldn't know. But I do believe they're probably spread somewhat evenly throughout the global population in general. There must be some here in Derry. Though, very well hidden, I'd agree with you there.”
“Well, I've never seen one walking down the streets of Derry in me life! Except yer 'man' there...er, here.”
She silenced herself and looked at him with distaste as he placed the drinks on the table.
“Anyroad, ye're gonny love the gown,” Fionnuala said when he was gone. “I outdid meself, if I do say so. Lovely, so it is. And the cake will be, er, the cake is being delivered th
is evening. Maybe it's already at the house, I dunno, but I have me mammy looking out for the van.”
Zoë almost couldn't bring herself to ask, “Have you made many adjustments?” and she awaited the reply with dread.
“Calm yerself down, woman. Naw, just a tug here, a nip there.”
“Are you sure, Mrs. Flood?” Zoë's hand was clamped on her gin. Her eyes searched Fionnuala's face for a sign, a hint, of mischief. “A Vera Wang shouldn't be touched. That gown is a one-off. I don't want to bring up cost, but per inch, that chiffon set me back—”
Fionnuala clucked, irritated. “Och, Dymphna saw the altered frock and was in raptures. I know what me daughter likes, so I do. Ye're gonny love it and all.”
“And I suppose,” Zoë sighed, resigned, “what's done it done. It's too late to change anything now. And...the cake?” She leaned across the table, interest shining in her eyes. “What is that going to look like?”
“Ye'll love it,” Fionnuala said. “Ye've no need to worry yerself. I told ye I would take care of it, and I did. Though somehow there was a misunderstanding with the baker's and it's come out pink instead of that Brookside Moss. It's still grand and lovely, but. And there'll be enough to feed an army, I'm sure.”
“Fine,” Zoë said, though she didn't look exactly that, “Now that's taken care of, we can move on to other things.”
The soup arrived.
“I'll show you which utensil to use.”
“Which...?”
“That spoon there. And I'll warn you now, Mrs. Flood, this soup's meant to be cold.”
Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4) Page 32
