‘You’re some woman, Ais,’ Maj says and I just shrug. I’m barely holding it together, truth be told. But I have to.
‘So …’ I say, keen to change the subject. ‘Pablo and you and your folks and Shane all living together. Are you mental or what? Willy won’t like it.’
The Moran family Jack Russell is notoriously territorial; he gnawed a hole in the kitchen door when Derek Hayes came to collect Majella to go to a GAA dinner dance. Maj just laughs and takes a big sup of wine.
‘I know, it’s mad,’ she says. ‘But I think it’s our only option. Pab is working two days a week in Filan’s Garage and three nights in the Ard Rí. He’s renting the flat above the charity shop with three Brazilians – they’re like sardines in it. Two of them in each room. He hasn’t a bob to his name and anything he does have he’s spending on presents for me. He’s talking about going back to Tenerife if he can’t get more work.’
Jesus, when she puts it like that, I suppose there’s no other option. ‘Will they let you … share a room, though?’ I have to ask.
‘Ais, I’m thirty next year!’ she squeaks back at me, topping up our glasses. ‘But yeah, no, I don’t know. I’m hoping that they’ll just be so delighted to have me at home they’ll overlook Pab entirely. Sure he’s only small. We could try converting the garage into a fourth bedroom, but Shane has his PlayStation and virtual-reality shite and car stuff in it so we’ll have no choice. Jesus, I’m dreading asking them, though. I’ll do it now. What do you think?’
‘It’s as good a time as any, I suppose,’ I concede, topping her up again. If they say no at least it might numb the pain.
I actually can’t believe she’s managed to tear herself away from Pablo tonight but he’s working at a wedding beyond in the Ard Rí, slinging drinks and ‘Olé you big mucker’ at anyone who’ll listen. He’s really starting to fit in.
‘Who’s getting married in the Ard Rí?’ Usually I’d be all over it but I’ve been fierce preoccupied. I know Majella will have all the info. She thrives on local gossip – telephone, telegram, tell Majella.
‘Triona Kinsella and Donie McDonnell, wouldn’t you know.’
Wouldn’t you know is right. Even though four of the eight weddings I was at in the past year were on Fridays, anything but a Saturday is still seen as a bit on the cheap side in BGB. Donie McDonnell would peel an orange in his pocket so it’s no surprise he’s taken the Ard Rí up on a Sunday deal and the Sunday before Christmas into the bargain. Although, I was at a wedding on a Tuesday last year and it nearly killed me to put the money in the card. A Tuesday! I don’t think even Donie would be so brazen.
‘I haven’t seen Triona Kinsella in years. What’s she up to?’
‘She’s still cutting hair in Crops and Bobbers in Knock, but Donie was telling me there’s a new beauty place opening where Scissor Sisters used to be in BGB and she’s sent in her CV. She’ll be saving about €2 a month on petrol – he’ll be delighted.’ So that’s what’s happening to Róisín’s old salon.
‘Jesus, that’s very exciting. Although we’ll miss Róisín something fierce. Nobody could do a French plait tighter than her.’
‘I know! We’ll be back level pegging with Knock again and about time too,’ Maj squeals.
The rivalry between Ballygobbard and Knocknamanagh knows no bounds. They’re both typical Irish villages separated by a warren of country roads. Combined, they’d actually have enough in them to make up a decent town: a bank (them), a Chinese (us), a chipper (them), the Scout den (us), the library (them) and a whole clatter of pubs, as well as the requisite schools. But unfortunately each only has a few of these amenities. In my opinion, Knock is a bit more glamorous due to the thriving Brazilian community that arrived a few years ago, but I would never admit it. The Rovers and Rangers inevitably end up in the county final every year and it can get very dramatic with punches being thrown both on and off the pitch in the past. Daddy used to be mad for the drama, being a former centre forward himself.
‘I’ve heard they’re going to be doing nail art and everything.’
‘In Ballygobbard?’ I say, slightly incredulous.
‘Yeah, in BG-feckin-B, Ais! Shove it up your hole, Knock!’ And we both clink glasses.
She stands up and drains the last of the wine. I relieve her of her glass and she’s gone, out the back door into the night. I lock it behind her, leave a key under the bin for Paul and head upstairs to turn on Mammy’s electric blanket.
Chapter 7
We’ve settled for a small tree Paul got in Filan’s. It’s more of a shrub but Eamon Filan had sprayed a bit of fake snow on it and added ten euro to the price so it’s festive enough for us, and beggars can’t be choosers the morning of Christmas Eve. I just couldn’t bear the thought of no tree at all, and Mammy’s suggestion of putting the presents around the spider plant on the hall table was never going to wash. It’s a weird old morning, tinged with the excitement that always hangs in the air on Christmas Eve, no matter how hard to you try to ignore it, but overshadowed by the three of us wafting around the house, intermittently sniffing and sighing, avoiding each other in case it’s too sad. I caught Paul in the front room rubbing his eyes, looking at pictures on the mantelpiece. The four of us on the ferry to Wales – our first holiday abroad and memorable for the fact that Daddy forgot the pegs for the tent and had to go around begging one each off loads of other families in the campsite. He made best friends with a man from Yorkshire who still sends a card every year with a joke about the pegs. This year’s is probably sitting in the unopened pile.
‘Will we go, Mammy?’ We’ve agreed that we need to go and do the Big Shop, no matter what. We’ve done it together every Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember, firing cocktail sausages and stuffing mix and pâté for the Hattons into the trolley. This year neither of us broached the subject until Paul went into the Nice Things press last night and exclaimed that there wasn’t even a Pringle to be had. ‘We can’t have Christmas without Pringles,’ he said in a small voice. He was right. We’re not complete animals. Ordinarily there’d be at least two boxes of Tayto under the (full-sized) tree by now, several pipes of green Pringles in the press, two packets of mince pies on top of the bread bin and three more in the freezer and enough minerals in the shed to put out a fire. Not to mention the few notiony bits I usually pick up from Marks and Sparks before I leave Dublin. It’s the only time of the year I’d do anything even approaching a Big Shop in there. Sure you couldn’t leave three-for-two chicken filo cranberry parcels behind you. And if you can’t have a Prosecco-flavoured kettle chip at Christmas, when can you? I’ve been known to fill an M&S basket with my Christmas bits. I’ve never gone for a trolley, though – I’m not completely mad. Do they even have trolleys at M&S? What would people be putting in them besides cookies the size of your head and turkey and gold leaf sandwiches?
Anyway, I didn’t make the M&S pilgrimage this year. I didn’t have the heart. But sitting down last night without even a Terry’s Chocolate Orange to smash off the kitchen table (3 Points per segment) or a Curly Wurly to fight over (3 Points for a bar, but who’s counting at Christmas, to be fair), I announced that we were off to Aldi in the morning. The ‘new’ Aldi, as everyone calls it. It’s been there for two years but there was such excitement when it opened just outside Knock that nobody’s really gotten over it yet. It’s still the talk of the town when the new catalogue comes out every week. There are families in BGB who are lucky to get pancakes once a year in February and whose only exposure to Asian food is the chicken curry in BGB’s Chinese takeaway but are now the proud owners of a waffle maker and a dumpling steamer, thanks to the new Aldi.
‘Have you the trolley token, Mammy?’ She may be beside herself with grief but there’s no way Mammy would ever go to the supermarket without a trolley token. And she’s dead right – you could be caught without a euro, and some of the trolleys now only take a €2 coin. It’s like Russian roulette. I’ve gifted more trolley tokens to Sadhbh and Elaine than I�
��d like to admit, and I still catch them coming out of Tescos with bags of quinoa and freekah falling out of their arms. I’ll miss the pair of them all the same.
Aldi isn’t as heaving as I feared, and we get a space after circling the car park only three times. Constance Swinford was in front of us in the queue, and as we pull in I spot her climbing out of her Range Rover like she’s abseiling down the Cliffs of Moher. Daddy had a jeep for the farm, all right, but what would you be at bringing a horse of a car like that to Aldi? The spaces are notoriously narrow. Tessie Daly, who volunteers in the charity shop with Mammy, wrote to the council about them after getting stuck between her Ford Focus and a Renault Megane trying to exit the driver’s side. They had to call the driver of the Megane over the speaker in the shop.
‘Showing off,’ Mammy says, as if reading my mind as I stare at Constance. Are all her clothes just different shades of brown, I wonder? Rich people are mad about brown clothes. She’s fierce posh and doesn’t really seem to do much except ride horses and host the odd charity dinner above at Garbally Stud. She’s also heavily involved in Tidy Towns, probably so her swanky friends aren’t traumatised by the state of the hanging baskets and the 1996 Memorial Community Games flower bed when they come through the town. BGB and Knock jointly hosted the Community Games regional finals in 1996 and the pride is still strong. Mammy and Tessie Daly have a debrief on the phone about Constance after every Tidy Towns meeting. There’s a lot of talk about the way she pronounces the ‘mulch’ for the flowerbeds. Mammy’s impression of her is good. ‘Mmmaaalch.’
It’s not too bad inside Aldi either, thank God. We have a list and can always stop off at Filan’s for any extra bits on the way home. Green Pringles, for example – the Aldi ones just won’t do for Christmas. Paul is at home hoovering the whole house. I warned him to do it as we were leaving. The house is always spotless for Christmas and I don’t want Mammy getting down about the state of the floors. If we can get through the next few days with the least amount of upset possible, I’ll be bloody delighted to see the back of the whole thing. For now, though, we need sprouts and at least three packets of ‘just in case’ crackers and everything else in between. I don’t think we’ll have many visitors given the circumstances but you never know, and Una Hatton’s beak is not going to be put out of joint by a half-arsed cracker plate, not on my watch. Paul emitted a strangled gasp when I suggested not getting a turkey. Mammy didn’t order one from Boland’s and, even though they have mounds of them in Aldi, we really don’t need one. We’re going to Auntie Sheila’s for Christmas dinner and it will be just the four … the three of us on St Stephenses Day, we’ve decided. So a chicken will do. Or one of those boned and rolled yokes at the very least.
We’re just rounding into the bakery aisle for some trifle sponges – Mammy has no heed on making a trifle this year, but it’s not Christmas if you don’t buy some to sit in the press – when we run smack into Constance Swinford.
‘Marian,’ she exhales, grasping at Mammy’s sleeve. ‘How. Are. You?’ Each word comes out like a separate honk on a tuba, her Camilla Parker Bowles hair shaking under her frankly ridiculous Crocodile Dundee hat. Why is she even wearing a hat? We’re inside!
‘Ah, sure. It’s … hard enough.’ Tidy Towns is on winter hiatus so this might be the first time Mammy’s seen Constance properly since the funeral. Mammy’s voice shakes as she places her hand in a firm grip over Constance’s, in the way women of a certain age tend to hold onto each other. I shift from one foot to the other, biting my lip and frantically blinking to get rid of the prickling tears. ‘I’m sure, I’m sure.’ Constance is looking straight into Mammy’s face and nodding. Her own husband died about fifteen years ago, so I suppose she knows what it’s like. My eyes flick over to her trolley. About twenty packets of smoked salmon and a box of Weetybrix. Even Constance Swinford isn’t too posh for imitation cereal, I see.
‘Marian,’ she says again, ‘you have my number, don’t you? Do give me a call. I’d love to have you over for tea. We widows have to stick together.’
Mammy does a tiny little gasp. It’s probably the first time someone’s said the W word out loud to her, and it’s quite shocking to hear. But she gathers herself and gives Constance’s hand another squeeze.
‘I will. That would be lovely. Really lovely.’
‘Now, did you hear?’ Constance changes the subject swiftly. ‘They’re finally doing something with that building out near me.’
Some Dublin construction company started a mini apartment block just outside BGB at the height of the boom, but it was never properly finished. I think they were hoping to lure poor tourists down to ‘luxury rentals’ near the bit of a lake over by Garbally and ‘authentic Irish pints’ back in Maguire’s. Authentic Irish Guinness farts more like it. The building has been lying idle for years, though, and regularly features in the rundown from the local council meetings posted on the back of the church newsletter.
‘Oh?’
‘Well, something’s going on with it anyway.’ Constance’s voice booms over the mixed peel. ‘There’s been some activity over the past few days, and there’s talk of them finishing the flower beds out the front too. They contacted me to see if I could provide them with any mmmaaalch.’
Somehow, me and Mammy managed to wait until Constance had moved far enough away towards the tills before completely collapsing with laughter. ‘Mmmaaalch,’ I whispered to her as we bade our goodbyes and Happy Christmases and headed for the roulades. ‘Mmmaaalch.’
‘Shhh,’ Mammy responded furiously, but her shoulders were helplessly shaking.
****
‘Do we have enough, do you think?’ Mammy asks as we unload everything onto the kitchen table, Paul rooting in the bags, emitting sounds of satisfaction as he pulls out a tin of Roses or a frozen pavlova. ‘We’re grand, Mammy,’ I reassure her. Besides, you can run down to Filan’s on Christmas morning and knock on the door if you’re stuck and they’ll give you whatever batteries or rashers you’re looking for, if they have any left. Mammy even got a ham out of them the year That Bloody Cat ate a quarter of the one she’d cooked on Christmas Eve. Daddy had gone a bit soft after three festive brandies in Maguire’s and let her into the kitchen (the cat, not Mammy) and forgot to put her out again. She was discovered the following morning, belly like an enormous turnip and the ham looking like something out of Saving Private Ryan.
‘Mammy?’ I ask cautiously as I load rashers into the fridge. ‘Are we … going to mass this year?’ Paul’s head snaps up to look at me and then at Mammy.
Traditionally, Christmas Eve involved a trip to midnight mass at eight and then a few drinks in Maquire’s before they’d hoosh everyone out at half eleven, Mikey Maguire bellowing at everyone that he still had a My Little Pony Dream Castle to put together. Last year Mad Tom tried to make off with the giant plastic donkey from Maguire’s legendary life-size crib. He was sneaking past Mikey Maguire, only concealing about half of one of the donkey’s ears under his coat, the rest of it dragging behind him, the hooves taking the ankles off people. Mikey has the patience of an absolute saint.
The thought of mass brings a feeling of dread over me. I’d definitely cry when the BGB Singers broke into ‘The Little Drummer Boy’. Daddy’s favourite.
‘I don’t think I will, no, Aisling. You go if you like, pet.’
The relief is almost unbelievable, and I can feel it wash over Paul too. We couldn’t have let Mammy go to mass on her own.
‘We’ll light Daddy’s candle for him and put it in the window, and then we can watch Santy on the news,’ she continues.
Daddy always lit a candle in the window on Christmas Eve, ‘to guide the lost souls home’. The mention of it is too much for me and I hurry from the kitchen, muttering something about having presents to wrap.
****
‘Knock, knock?’
I didn’t even hear John coming in the back door. Or Mammy calling me to let me know he was there. I must have fallen asleep on my bed, phone in
my hand, combing through the job sites.
‘Come in,’ I call, sitting up and raking my hands through my hair.
His dark head pokes around the door and he waggles a small wrapped box at me. ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ he says gently, and I move over on the bed and nod at him to sit down. We always give each other our presents on Christmas Eve. John spends the evening and Christmas Day beyond in Knock, and then everyone’s back together in the pub on Stephenses Day. I ordered John’s present online a month ago and broke my own rule about getting stuff delivered to work to make sure it arrived safely. Some people have packages arriving every second day and the time theft doesn’t bear thinking about. Imagine how much of it they’ve ordered when they’re supposed to be processing calls and what have you. Not that it makes much difference now, I suppose.
Over the past few years John and I have slipped into a routine of getting each other the same old things: jewellery or perfume for me and watches or aftershave for him. You run out of ideas, don’t you? But after getting back together I wanted to make more of an effort and get him something special. Something meaningful. Digging around in the bag of presents at the foot of the bed, I retrieve a rectangular box and wave it at him shyly. ‘You go first.’
He grins and dutifully reads the card before tearing the paper away from the plain brown box.
‘Oooh, what’s this now?’ he teases. Lifting the lid, he gasps. ‘Ah, Ais. Isn’t that just great?’
He lifts it out. A lovely steel and leather hipflask with the number seventeen engraved on the front. He turns it over in his big soft hand. ‘Love, A’ is engraved in smaller writing on the back.
‘For seventeen kisses,’ I offer, although he already knows that. We’re always nudging each other when we see the number seventeen anywhere. Our own special little thing.
‘I love it!’ he exclaims, lashing his arm around my waist and planting a kiss on my lips.
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 6
