‘I screamed so loud Tony Timoney swerved and nearly clipped a BMW on the N7!’ She laughs. ‘I can’t believe I’m finally getting a pay rise. Thank fuck! There just might be light at the end of the tunnel.’
‘I think it was the suit, Ais,’ she says as we clink mugs. ‘You were right, it is lucky.’
Just then the back door opens and Pablo pokes his head around. At the sound of the handle the racket from the utility room starts up again, except this time it’s twice as loud. I have to cover my ears with my hands.
‘Hola, Aisling,’ he shouts, slinking over to the table with one eye on the utility-room door, which is rattling on its hinges but seems secure enough – I hope. ‘Please, Majella, my bottle.’
Maj throws the spray bottle over to him, but he fumbles to catch it and it hits him square on the forehead. He curses in Spanish and bends down to retrieve it as I look at Majella and raise an eyebrow.
‘It’s just water,’ she explains. ‘The vet said that giving Willy a few sprays when he starts humping might deter him. It doesn’t hurt or anything – it’s just the negative connotations. Like when you ate so many Crunchies on our school tour to Cadbury’s that you got sick and now you can’t even be in the same room as one.’ She looks over at Pablo, who is as pale as I’ve ever seen him. ‘To be honest, it hasn’t worked yet,’ she adds with a sigh.
He just shrugs. ‘My bottle, it makes me feel safe.’
I turn back to Majella and look at her expectantly. ‘Well, are you going to tell him? About the job? I can’t believe you haven’t blurted it out yet!’
‘Oh, I rang him from the bus,’ she says, looking away quickly. ‘He’s taking me to the Ard Rí for dinner at the weekend to celebrate.’
Pablo stands up and sashays over to her before reefing her out of the chair and twirling her dramatically around the kitchen.
‘I’m so proud, Aisling! Mi amore, the Deputy Head!’ He’s still twirling her while reeling off what I can only assume are sweet-nothings in Spanish. Majella is laughing and squealing while Willy howls away in the utility room.
‘I’ll head off so,’ I say quietly, taking the invitation out of my bag and leaving it on the table. ‘Don’t worry about the suit – I’ll get it off you again.’
‘What’s that, Ais?’ Majella roars above the din, while Pablo nuzzles her neck. ‘You didn’t finish your tea,’ she calls after me, but I’m already gone.
Chapter 26
Just €6,122. That’s all the redundancy money I have left. What in the name of Jesus was I at in Vegas clearing out the mini-bar? That’s where the bulk of it went. Booze and $12 little boxes of Pringles. I’ve been watching my bank balance like a hawk since then. Even buying a stamp kills me. I call Ruane’s and Deirdre answers on the first ring. She promised to text me if anyone else showed an interest in my unit but she can be very flaky. Titch Maguire will testify to that.
‘Oh hi, Aisling,’ she says, ‘I had my hand on the phone. I’m actually waiting for someone from the GAA to call back.’ The GAA! How glamorous.
‘What do the GAA want?’ I’m struggling to keep the excitement out of my voice. Maybe they’re going to open a training academy or something in BGB. That would really put the town on the map – not to mention the potential for me to corner the lucrative all-day breakfast market.
‘They want to buy two acres to the east of the Rangers pitch in Knock,’ she says. ‘Billy Foran is in for a windfall, by the looks of things. He might as well just name his price. If I broker it I’ll be able to go to Marbella for a fortnight.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I’m talking all-inclusive, Aisling. Even drink.’
God forgive me, but I feel a real pang of jealousy. Why doesn’t any of our land touch the Rangers pitch? If Mammy could sell a couple of acres to the GAA she wouldn’t have to worry about money for a while. That would alleviate some of our combined stress.
‘Actually, you’ll think this is funny, Aisling, the GAA man was asking if I know John,’ she goes on. ‘As in your John. Or, I mean, your former John.’
‘Why?’ I’m truly baffled now.
‘Apparently he’s making a serious name for himself up at HQ with the work he’s doing with the county team. There’s talk of them being good enough to get into the semi-finals this year. Maybe even going all the way! Do you know that hasn’t happened since 1984? They’re saying he might be promoted to manager next year. He could be the next Brian Cody.’
I snigger. John wouldn’t be too impressed with that comparison, although fair dues to him all the same. Maybe microchips weren’t his calling after all.
‘I was ringing about my unit, Dee,’ I say, keen to get back to business. Entrepreneur Ais doesn’t have time to waste gossiping, although I must remember to tell Mammy later. This kind of information would be major currency in her circles. Nothing like a sale of land to get tongues wagging. ‘It’s still available, isn’t it? I think I’m ready to sign.’
There are some muffled sounds on the line, and then she tells me she has to go away and double check.
‘Aisling, I’m sooo sorry,’ she says when she comes back a couple of minutes later. ‘Dad – I mean, Trevor looks after all the commercial stuff, as you know, and he took someone to see it this morning. It’s in the system as let. I can’t believe I dropped the ball, but this GAA commission – Ais, I could be flying Aer Lingus. I could be doing priority boarding!’
‘Jesus, Dee!’ I can’t hide my annoyance. This is an absolute disaster. If I don’t have the unit, I can’t open BallyGoBrunch. If I can’t open BallyGoBrunch, my life is over. What the hell am I going to do? I’ve spent the last month planning this. I shouldn’t have waited to sign the lease – I should have just gone for it. What was that quote I posted on Facebook last night? Fear is temporary, regret is forever. Never a truer word spoken. No wonder it got seven Likes.
‘No, sorry, it’s not your fault,’ I add quickly. ‘I should have told you I’d take it at the first viewing. I was waiting for this grant to come in, and I suppose I just waited too bloody long. I don’t suppose you have any other units going at the moment?’ I know it’s a long shot. It’s not like we have anything fancy like an industrial estate, and there’s feck all on the Main Street.
‘Not this side of Knock, I’m afraid,’ she goes. ‘Unless you’d consider the little place to the side of the abattoir in Rathborris?’
‘I can’t imagine the health inspector would be too impressed.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Can you at least tell me who’s leasing it?’
‘I’m not really supposed to give out that kind of information, Aisling. It’s confidential – you know that.’
‘You know me, Dee, I won’t tell a soul.’
‘Daddy would have my guts for garters!’
‘How would he ever know?’
She sighs and I hear her hesitate. ‘You wouldn’t even tell Majella?’
‘Not even Majella. I swear on …’ I let my voice wobble, ‘Daddy’s grave.’ And then I do a long, elaborate sniff. If Daddy is listening, I know he’ll be proud.
‘Oh, Aisling.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s still a bit … raw.’
‘I miss seeing him around the village myself. He was always so cheery.’
‘He was, wasn’t he?’
There’s another pause. ‘Okay then. It says here it’s Marty Boland.’
Of all the fucking fuckers in the village, it has to be him – the bully butcher of Ballygobbard!
****
I knew Sharon would understand. I asked her if she wanted to go for a pint in Maguire’s, but I didn’t expect her to get so dressed up. She’s wearing leather leggings and the shoulders of her top have been strategically cut out. I feel a bit self-conscious in the jeans and jumper I helped Mammy feed some pet lambs in earlier, and the less said about my hair the better. It’s very windy – let’s leave it at that.
‘I know, I’m bulling,’ I admit, passing over her vodka, lime and soda before taking a gulp of m
y West Coast Cooler. ‘What does he want a commercial unit for anyway? He’s hardly moving the shop.’
‘Jesus, that would actually be music to my ears,’ Sharon admits. ‘Although I can’t see it happening. Main Street is a prime location for a butcher.’
‘What am I going to do?’ I wail. ‘What would you do? You’re a businesswoman.’
She thinks for a minute and then slams down her drink with enough force that Felipe the barman looks up from the Racing Post. ‘Aisling, this is your unit,’ she says evenly. ‘Go talk to Boland. Butter him up. Find out what he’s planning on doing with it, and then we can make a plan to either sabotage it or somehow convince him to give up the lease. I have no problem stooping low, hun. I hate that prick. Yesterday he hung a load of rabbit carcasses in his front window. Nobody wants to see that when they’re going for a half-leg wax. He won’t rest until he’s driven all my potential customers away. Speaking of the salon, what do you think of Now Hair This?’
I look at her dubiously.
‘Get Nailed?’
That’s even worse.
‘I’m just going to end up calling it Sharon’s, aren’t I?’ she wails.
I take another gulp of my drink and mull over what she’s said. I’ve known Marty Boland all my life. Maybe he’s not that bad? Mammy used to send me in to get bones off him for Trixie, God rest her soul, and she still goes to him for her chops and mince and the occasional leg of lamb. Maybe he’d understand if I explained to him how much I need to open this café? The bloody farm might depend on BallyGoBrunch being a success, although I try not to think about that.
‘Do you think it will work?’
‘You have to do something,’ she says with a shrug.
I suppose she has a point. I can’t just let it slip through my fingers. I’ve put in too much work as it is. I fire off a text asking Dee to cough up the numbers. It’s the least she can do after making shite of my future.
‘So, when did you hear from Entrepreneur Ireland? This morning?’ Sharon says, getting up to go over to the bar. Her heels must be six inches and she’s striding around like she’s in FitFlops. She must have calves of steel.
‘I actually haven’t heard back yet,’ I admit.
‘Hang on,’ she says, stopping in her tracks and wheeling around to look at me. ‘So you don’t know if you even have enough money to open the café?’
‘I do, I do,’ I say, nodding furiously. ‘My redundancy will be enough to sign the lease and maybe buy a toaster and a kettle but that’s it.’ Just about, but I don’t say that out loud. ‘Did you not read the budget section in my business plan? It was all there in black and white. The headings were pink?’
‘Eh, yeah, of course I did, hun,’ she says, heading for the bar. ‘Same again?’
I nod and check my phone. Dee’s gotten back to me: ‘He’s paying €350 pm. Daddy says he hasn’t actually signed any paperwork yet tho xxx.’
‘Well, shite anyway,’ I say as Sharon returns with my drink. ‘He’s paying €350 a month.’
‘Is that bad? My rent is €550.’
€550 for the entire building seems like nothing compared to rent in Dublin, but it’s high enough for Ballygobbard.
‘You have the flat upstairs too,’ I point out. ‘And you have a prime location on Main Street with all that footfall.’
‘Footfall?’ She laughs. ‘It’s not exactly Grafton Street, hun.’
‘Oh, I know, but you’re near the church. That’s prime real estate in BGB. Anyway, the thing is, Dee told me on the sly that the developer would take €300 for it if I negotiated. She obviously didn’t let on to Marty Boland, though, which makes sense. She’s fairly serious about her commission.’
‘So you can’t pay €350, with an extra tenner thrown in?’
‘No. Well, I could, but it would interfere with my projected profit margins. Honestly, Sharon, I’m starting to think you didn’t read the business plan at all.’
‘What? Hun, no. I did, I definitely did. I just might have nodded off somewhere around page 437. We’ll figure this out.’
Then I remember the other thing that Dee said.
‘Oh, but there’s good news too! Apparently Boland hasn’t actually signed anything yet. Him and Trevor Ruane must have one of those gentleman’s agreements.’
Sharon slaps her thigh and I jump.
‘Aisling, this is deadly! It means you’re still in with a chance. Now you just have to go and convince him to back off.’
‘How the feck am I supposed to do that?’
Chapter 27
I was always jealous that Paul got the big bedroom at the front of the house. Definitive proof that he’s Mammy’s pet, if you ask me. The view from his window goes right out past Majella’s house to the mountains, which are looking like a patchwork quilt this morning. Very picturesque. Except my eyes are trained on Postman Pat’s little green van, which has been parked outside Morans’ for the past twenty feckin’ minutes. God only knows what Shem is trying to convince him to buy. Finally he emerges with a wetsuit slung over his shoulder and boots it down the driveway. I race down the stairs, fly out the back door and I’m standing in the yard in my slippers when he pulls in.
‘Howiya, Aisling,’ he says, ‘come here and don’t make me get out again. My back is in bits.’
Pat Curran has been complaining about his back for as long as I’ve known him. Daddy used to be adamant he made it up so he could sit in the van instead of delivering things into people’s actual letterboxes like his namesake, a proper postman.
He reaches over to the pile of letters on the passenger seat and pulls a single envelope out from under the elastic band. Just the one. I watch it happening in slow motion because I know that if the grant approval doesn’t arrive today, it’s game over for me getting to that auction for the bargain dishwasher and fridge-freezer and what have you. My eyes are glued to it as he goes to pass it out to me through the window, and I can see the name on it as clear as day – but it’s not mine: it’s Daddy’s. My stomach drops and my face must do the same because Pat pipes up, ‘Ah, I’m sorry, Aisling – it’s very hard to get his name off some of these mailing lists. I can give you a form to fill out.’
‘Thanks, Pat, but it’s not actually that,’ I explain, taking the letter and shoving it deep into my hoodie pocket. He’s rooting around behind him and I have to catch myself from telling him the whole story about the café and the lease and my worries about Mammy and the farm. If Pat knows, he won’t be long about spreading it and I don’t want word getting around.
‘Here you go now,’ he says, turning back to face me. ‘Can you sign this for me?’
‘There’s no rush, Pat, I’ll fill out the form another day.’ I have to go and figure out a way to turn my five grand into fifteen. But how?
‘No, this one’s for you Aisling,’ he says, pushing it towards me. ‘It’s a registered letter. You have to sign for it now or I can’t give it to you. Your mammy will have to fill out the other form.’
And there it is right under my nose – a white A4 envelope with the Entrepreneur Ireland logo printed in the top left-hand corner. I can’t believe it. I scrawl my name on Pat’s little device yoke and high-tail it back into the kitchen, where Mammy is eating a boiled egg, a guidebook about Ireland’s Ancient East open beside her. Herself and Constance must be running out of gardens to go and admire. Running out of scones to eat, more like. I tear the envelope open – I would normally be a bit more careful, but I’m not made of stone – and the letter slides out onto the table: my application has been approved and there’s a cheque for €15,000 attached to it with a shiny silver paperclip. It’s a miracle it wasn’t stolen.
‘Yes!’ I roar and punch the air. ‘Finally something has gone right.’
‘You got your grant!’ Mammy says, gesturing for me to pass over the letter, and I do. ‘Good woman yourself! I didn’t doubt you for a second, love.’
‘Thanks, Mammy,’ I say, helping myself to her toast, my hand shaking a littl
e. All the plans can go ahead now. What would I have done if that cheque hadn’t arrived? Quietly tipped myself into the nearest slurry pit, maybe. No use thinking like that, though. I turn to Mammy. ‘I’ll definitely be going to the auction on Friday now if you want to come with me? I’d say it’ll be good for a nose if they’re selling the entire contents of the house. This could be your chance to get on Antiques Roadshow.’
‘I’d love to, pet, but I can’t on Friday. Myself and Constance are going up to Dublin for the day.’
God, maybe they’re not going around gardens at all. Maybe Mammy is going up to see that land-surveyor crowd. She’s been going on recently about cleaning out some of the back sheds. Is she gearing up to sell? I can’t bring myself to ask her, and I suspect she’s shielding me from worrying about it. I can’t bear the thought of her selling off the house and the farm and moving to … where would she move? If I was any use I’d have built a mansion by now with a granny flat attached. Some daughter I am.
‘Do you … do you need me to come?’ I venture, hoping that she might finally tell me what’s going on. Isn’t it she who’s always saying a problem shared is a problem halved?
‘Not at all. Sure don’t you have your auction to go to anyway?’ And she goes back to leafing through her guidebook like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
****
Marty Boland closes the shop at 2 p.m. on Tuesdays, so I decide to swing out to his house and see if I can convince him to give up this lease with Sharon’s words ringing in my ears: ‘Aisling, this is your unit. You have to do something.’ I can see now why most people prefer to toddle into work every morning and punch in and pay their PRSI and get a salary at the end of the month. It’s certainly easier than setting up a business but I must admit I haven’t felt this alive since I earned the Gaisce Gold Award in 2006. Truth be told, there was never this kind of buzz when I worked in pensions.
The Bolands live on the Rathborris Road, about three miles this side of Knock. You can’t see much of the house from the road, and as I turn down the long, curvy driveway, I realise I’ve never been down here before. I don’t even know if they have any kids and I’d only know the wife, Carol, to see her at mass. She’s a tiny little thing, almost folded in on herself. According to Mammy she ‘suffers with her nerves’, which could really mean anything.
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 20
