Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married

by Marian Keyes

  I stuck my fingers down my throat and made gagging noises.

  “Stop it,” muttered Daniel.

  “Why are you being mean to me?” I said in surprise. “You never usually are.”

  “Because sometimes you’re childish and horrible.”

  That annoyed and upset me, so as we took off our coats in the tiny hall and left them on the bottom of the banisters, I mimicked “childish and horrible” about fifty times in a stupid voice.

  Daniel looked at me with raised eyebrows but I knew he was trying not to laugh.

  “If you say to me ‘that’s very mature behaviour,’ I’ll hit you,” I warned him.

  “That’s very mature behaviour.”

  So we had a little skirmish. I tried to hit him but he grabbed my wrists and held them tightly. And then he laughed at me while I pushed and twisted against him, trying to get free. But I couldn’t budge, not even an inch, while he looked totally unconcerned and grinned down at me.

  I was disturbed by his macho act. In fact, if it had been anyone other than Daniel, it would have been quite erotic.

  “You big bully.” I knew that would upset him. I was right, he let go immediately. And then, perversely, I felt disappointed.

  We went into the warm kitchen where Mum was messing around with cookies and sugar and pints of milk.

  Dad was in an armchair, snoring quietly, his hair white and wispy and sticking up from his head. I patted it down tenderly. His glasses were all askew, and with a painful twist in my stomach, I realized that he was starting to look old. Not middle-aged or even elderly, but like a little old man.

  “You’ll be grand now when you have a nice warm cup inside you,” Mum said. “Did you get a new skirt, Lucy?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s it from?”

  “It’s not new.”

  “I heard you the first time. Where’s it from?”

  “You won’t know it.”

  “Try me—I’m not the old fuddy-duddy she thinks I am,” she said, smiling at Daniel, shoving platefuls of cookies across the table at him.

  “Kookai,” I said, between gritted teeth.

  “What kind of name for a shop is that, at all?” she asked, pretending to laugh.

  “I told you you wouldn’t know it.”

  “I don’t. And I don’t want to know it. What’s it made of?” She grabbed the fabric.

  “How do I know?” I said, annoyed, trying to pull my skirt back from her claw. “I buy things because I like them, not because of what they’re made from.”

  “I’d say it’s only synthetic,” she said, rubbing it.

  “Stop it.”

  “And the hem—a child could sew that hem better. What did you say you paid for it?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well, how much did you pay for it?”

  I wanted to say that I wasn’t going to tell her, but I knew how childish that would sound.

  “I can’t remember.”

  “I’d say you can remember, all right. But you’re too ashamed to tell me. Much more than it’s worth.”

  I said nothing.

  “You were always hopeless with money, Lucy.”

  Still I said nothing.

  The three of us sat in silence, me sullenly refusing to drink my tea, because she had made it.

  She always brought out the worst in me.

  Daniel broke the tension by going out into the hall and coming back with the cake he had bought for her.

  Naturally she was delighted, and was all over him like a skin disease.

  “You’re so sweet! There was no need for you to do that. Although it’s a sorry state of affairs that my own flesh and blood brings me nothing.”

  “Oh, it’s from the two of us, not just me,” said Daniel quickly.

  “Kiss-up,” I mouthed across the table at him.

  “Oh,” said Mum. “Well, thanks, Lucy. Except you know I’ve given up chocolate for Lent.”

  “But cake isn’t chocolate,” I said weakly.

  “Chocolate cake is chocolate,” she said.

  “You could freeze it to have after Lent is over,” I suggested.

  “It’d never keep.”

  “It would.”

  “Anyway that would be contrary to the whole spirit of Lent.”

  “All right then! Don’t eat it. Daniel and I will.”

  The offending cake sat in the middle of the table; it had suddenly become something frightening, like a bomb. If I hadn’t known better I would have sworn that it was almost pulsating. I knew that it would never be eaten.

  “What have you given up for Lent, Lucy?”

  “Nothing! I have enough misery in my life,” I added cryptically, hoping that she would realize that I was talking about visiting her, “I don’t need to give up anything.”

  And to my surprise she didn’t retaliate. She looked at me, almost…tenderly…for a moment.

  “I’ve made your favourite dinner,” she said.

  “Have you?” I wasn’t even aware that I had a favourite dinner. But just to be mean I said, “Oh great, Mum. I didn’t know you could cook Thai.”

  Mum made a kind of a “let’s humour her” face at Daniel. “What’s she talking about? Cooking ties? You were always a bit peculiar, Lucy, but just to please you we’ll get a few of your father’s old ties from upstairs.”

  I made a face.

  “He won’t be needing them,” Mum added bitterly. “He hasn’t worn a tie since his wedding day.”

  “Not so,” slurred a voice from the corner. “Didn’t I wear a tie to Mattie Burke’s funeral?” Dad had opened his eyes and was looking confusedly around the room.

  “Dad!” I said, delighted, “you’re awake.”

  “Oh, the dead arose and appeared to many,” called Mum sarcastically as Dad struggled to sit up straight.

  “They did not!” said Dad. “That wasn’t Mattie Burke, that was Laurence Molloy. Did I ever tell you about that, Lucy? A great couple of days when Laurence Molloy pretended to be dead so we could have a right good oul’ wake for ourselves. Except Laurence wasn’t too happy when it dawned on him that he had to lie there, stretched out on some hard plank of wood, getting nothing to drink, save the fumes from our breath, so up he jumps out of the coffin and grabs a bottle out of someone’s hand. ‘Gimme that’ he says…”

  “Shut up, Jamsie,” barked my mother. “We have a visitor and I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear stories about your misspent youth.”

  “I wasn’t telling him stories about my misspent youth,” grumbled Dad. “Laurence Molloy’s wake was only a couple of years ago…oh hello, son,” he said, spotting Daniel, “I remember you. You used to come around to play with Christopher Patrick. A big, long, lanky article you were then, stand up so I can see if you’ve got any shorter!”

  Daniel stood up awkwardly, amid much scraping of chairs.

  “Longer, if anything!” declared Dad, “and I wouldn’t have thought it was possible.”

  Daniel gratefully sat down again.

  “Lucy,” said Dad, turning his attention to me, “my darling girl, my little sweetheart, I didn’t know you were coming. Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?” he demanded of my mother.

  “I did tell you.”

  “You did not tell me.”

  “I did tell you.”

  “You most certainly did not tell me!”

  “I di…oh what’s the use. I might as well be talking to the wall.”

  “Lucy,” said Dad, “I’ll go and smarten myself up a bit and I’ll be back before you know it, in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  He shuffled out of the room and I smiled affectionately after him.

  “He’s looking great,” I said.

  “Is he?” said Mum coldly.

  An awkward little pause followed.

  “More tea?” Mum asked Daniel, following the great Irish tradition of filling any conversational gaps by pressing nourishment on people.

  “Thanks.”


  “Another cookie?”

  “No thanks.”

  “A little piece of the cake?”

  “No, really, I’d better not. I must leave room for my dinner.”

  “Go on, you’re a growing lad.”

  “No, honestly.”

  “Are you certain now?”

  “Mum, leave him!” I laughed, remembering what Gus had said about Irish mothers. “So what have you made for our dinner?”

  “Fish fingers, beans and chips.”

  “Er, nice, Mum.”

  True, it had been my favourite dinner well over half a lifetime ago, until I moved up to London and became acquainted with such exotica as tandoori noodles and Peking duck flavoured potato chips.

  “Great,” grinned Daniel. “I love fish fingers, beans and chips.”

  He sounded as though he really meant it.

  “You’d say that no matter what you were being given, wouldn’t you, Dan?” I said. “Even if Mum said ‘Oh Daniel, I thought we’d serve up your testicles in a white wine sauce’ you’d say ‘mmmmh, lovely, Mrs. Sullivan, that sounds delicious.’ Wouldn’t you?”

  I giggled at his horrified expression.

  “Lucy,” he winced, “you really must be more careful.”

  “Sorry,” I laughed. “I forgot I was talking about your most prized possessions. Where would Daniel Watson be without his genitalia? Your life would be over, wouldn’t it?”

  “No, Lucy, that’s not why. Any man would find that suggestion upsetting, not just me.”

  My mother had finally found her voice.

  “Lucy—Carmel—Sullivan!” she gasped, apoplectic with horror. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, Mrs. Sullivan,” said Daniel hastily. “Nothing at all. Nothing, honestly.”

  “Nothing, Daniel? Well that’s not what Karen says.” I winked at him, while Daniel began a frenzied conversation with Mum. How was she? Was she working? What was it like at the dry cleaners?

  Mum’s head jerked from me to Daniel and back again. She was torn between delight at being the centre of Daniel’s attention and the suspicion that she was letting me get away with something totally heinous and unforgivable.

  But her vanity won. Soon she was regaling Daniel with stories of the spoiled rich bastards whom she had to serve in the dry cleaners, how they wanted everything done yesterday, how they never said thanks, how they parked their cars, “big flashy BMXs or BLTs or whatever they are,” so that they blocked the traffic, how critical they were. “In fact only today one of them arrived in—a right young pup—and threw—yes! threw—a shirt at me and shoved it in my face and said ‘What the hell have you done to this?’ Well, Daniel, first and foremost, there was no need to swear at me and I said as much to him and I looked at the shirt and there wasn’t a speck on it…” and so on and so on.

  Daniel had the patience of a saint. I was so glad he had come with me. I simply couldn’t have borne it on my own.

  “…and I said, ‘It’s as white as snow’ and he said ‘Exactly, it was blue when I brought it in’…”

  On and on droned my mother. On and on smiled and nodded Daniel sympathetically. It was wonderful, I barely needed to be there, just the occasional nod or “mmm” was all my mother required from me. All her attention was focused on Daniel.

  Finally, the dry cleaning saga came to an end.

  “…So he says to me ‘See you in court’ and I says to him ‘See you in court yourself’ and he says ‘You’ll be hearing from my solicitor’ and I says ‘Well, I hope he can shout good and loud because I’m nearly deaf in one ear.’”

  “And how are you, Daniel?” asked Mum finally.

  “Fine, Mrs. Sullivan, thanks.”

  “He’s better than fine, aren’t you, Daniel? Tell Mum about your new girlfriend.”

  I was delighted. I knew that that would upset her. She still held out hopes that I might somehow get Daniel to fall for me.

  “Stop, Lucy,” muttered Daniel, looking embarrassed.

  “Oh, don’t be shy, Daniel.” I knew I was being annoying but I was enjoying it tremendously.

  “Anyone we know?” asked Mum, hopefully.

  “Yes,” I said happily.

  “Oh?” She was trying, rather badly, to hide her excitement.

  “Yes, it’s my roommate Karen.”

  “Karen?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Scottish one?”

  “Yes. And they’re mad about each other. Isn’t it great? Well, isn’t it?” I asked again, when she didn’t answer.

  “I always thought she was a bit unladylike…” said Mum and then clapped her hand over her mouth in pretend horror. “Oh, Daniel, can you believe I just said that? I’m so sorry. Sacred Heart of Jesus, how could I be so tactless? Would you ever please forget I said anything, Daniel—it was a long time ago when I saw her.”

  “Consider it forgotten,” said Daniel, smiling slightly. He was so good.

  “Bad and all as Lucy is,” my mother said, in a pretend vague fashion, as if she was just talking to herself, “at least you’d never catch her going out with her bosom on display.”

  “That’s because I haven’t got a bosom to have on display. If I had you can be bloody sure that I’d display it.”

  “Language, Lucy,” she said, hitting me on the arm.

  “Language?” I sputtered. “You think that’s language. I could show you language…”

  I stopped and inwardly cursed Daniel for being there. I couldn’t fight with her properly while we had a visitor. Not that Daniel counted as a visitor, as such, but all the same.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I said and left the room. I got the bottle of whiskey from my bag in the hall and went upstairs. I wanted to talk to Dad alone.

  Chapter 37

  Dad was in his bedroom, sitting on the bed, putting on his shoes.

  “Lucy,” he said. “I was just on my way back down to you.”

  “Let’s just stay here a minute,” I said, hugging him.

  “Grand,” he said. “We’ll have a little chat all on our own.”

  I gave him the bottle of whiskey and he hugged me again. “You’re very, very good to me, Lucy,” he said.

  “How are you, Dad?” I asked, tears in my eyes.

  “Grand, Lucy, grand. Why the tears?”

  “I hate to think of you stuck here, all on your own, with…with her,” I said, nodding toward downstairs.

  “But I’m fine, Lucy, so I am,” he protested, laughing. She’s not the worst. We get along together all right.”

  “I know you’re only saying that so I won’t worry about you,” I sniffed, “but thanks.”

  “Oh, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy,” he said, squeezing my hand, “you mustn’t take it all so seriously. Try and enjoy yourself, because we’ll be dead soon enough.”

  “Oh no,” I wailed and then I really started to cry.

  “Don’t talk about dying. I don’t want you to die. Promise me you won’t die!”

  “Er…well…if it makes you happy, I won’t die, Lucy.”

  “And if you have to die, promise me that we can die at the same time.”

  “I promise.”

  “Oh, Dad, isn’t it awful?”

  “What, love?”

  “Everything. Being alive, loving people, being afraid that they’ll die.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, of course it is.”

  “Where did you ever get such terrible notions from, Lucy?”

  “But…but…from you, Dad.”

  Dad hugged me awkwardly and said that I must have misheard him, that surely he never said anything of the sort and that I was young and had a life to live and that I should try and enjoy it.

  “But why, Dad?” I asked. “You never tried to enjoy your life.”

  “Lucy,” he sighed, “it was different for me. It is different for me—I’m an old man now. You’re a young woman. Young, beautiful, educated—never forget the benefits of an education, Lucy,” he insisted fiercely.


  “I won’t.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “You have all these things going for you; you should be happy.”

  “How can I be?” I pleaded. “And how can you expect me to be? We’re the same, Dad, you and I. We can’t help seeing the futility, the waste, the darkness.”

  “What is it, Lucy?” Dad searched my face for some sort of clue. “Is it a fella, is it? Some youngster is after leading you up the garden path? Is that what it is?”

  “No, Dad,” I laughed even though I was still crying.

  “It’s not that lanky one in the kitchen, is it?”

  “Wha…oh Daniel? No.”

  “He didn’t, er, you know…take liberties with you, Lucy, did he? Because if he did, so help me God, as long as there’s breath in my body, I’ll get your two brothers to knock him into the middle of next week. A kick in the arse and a map of the world, that’s what that fella needs and that’s what that fella will get. He’s a bigger fool than he looks if he thinks he can interfere with the daughter of Jamsie Sullivan and live to tell the tale…”

  “Dad,” I wailed. “Daniel hasn’t done anything.”

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Dad said darkly.

  “He doesn’t look at me any way. You’re imagining things.”

  “Am I? Sure, maybe I am. It wouldn’t be the first time, I suppose.”

  “Dad, this isn’t about a fella at all.”

  “But then why are you so lonesome?”

  “Because I just am, Dad. The same way as you are.”

  “But I’m fine, Lucy, honest to God so I am. Never better.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I sighed, leaning against him. “I know you’re only saying it to make me feel better, but I appreciate it all the same.”

  “But…,” he said, looking a bit bewildered. He looked like he was searching for something to say, but couldn’t think of anything. “Come on,” he said eventually, “till we go down for our chips.”

  Down we went.

  The evening was rather grim, what with my mother and I at loggerheads and Dad staring suspiciously at Daniel, convinced that he had improper intentions toward me.

  Our spirits lifted slightly when dinner was banged down in front of us.

  “A rhapsody in orange,” declared Dad, looking at his plate. “That’s what it is. Orange fish fingers, orange beans and orange chips and, to wash it all down, a glass of the finest Irish malt, which as luck would have it, also happens to be orange!”