I drive around the back of the house and notice Marty’s red ‘Boland’s Fine Victuallers’ van isn’t there. Balls anyway. Although, I still don’t know what I’m going to say so maybe it’s for the best. God forgive me, but the only ace I have up my sleeve is my dead father. Can I really use that to manipulate the situation? On one hand, I think I deserve to go straight to hell for even considering it, but on the other, I think Daddy might be up for it. If only he was here to tell me himself.
I take a deep breath and hop out of the Micra. The smell in the air hits me immediately – it’s an intoxicating mix of garlic and basil and all the mad herbs Elaine used to have in little pots on the windowsill of our apartment kitchen. I didn’t know what any of it was, but I said nothing and just gave them the occasional drop of water. She was atrocious at minding them, and I’ve got a good knack for keeping plants alive, whether they’re legal or not.
The smell is heady, and a pleasant change from the aroma of slurry that usually hangs around BGB. But there’s not a soul to be seen. I’m just about to rap on the back door when I hear a sound from one of the whitewashed outbuildings that frame the back yard. Unlike our home place, the whole setup is very orderly and neat, but I suppose it would be when you don’t have cows and sheep wandering through the place every other day. There’s the sound again – it’s a low whirring, like machinery. Not farm machinery, smaller than that. Following it, I tip over to the largest of the buildings and notice that the delicious smell gets stronger too. My stomach growls in appreciation.
I follow my nose around the side of the building, where I discover a wide-open window – and the source of that smell. I hate to be snooping but, at the same time, I can’t help myself. With my back against the wall, and feeling like Nancy Drew or Jessica Fletcher or one of those, I sidle down the narrow gap between the wall and the hedge until I’m close enough to peep inside. That’s where I see Carol Boland standing in the middle of an industrial-looking stainless-steel kitchen. She’s wearing a hairnet and an apron and in front of her is a whirring food mixer and about twenty little bowls. I watch her for a minute, adding this and that to the mixing bowl and smelling whatever’s inside. Behind her on the hob is a pan of sizzling sausages. I’m nearly weak with the smell of them.
Suddenly, my stomach rumbles loudly and she looks up. I duck, but I don’t think I was quick enough. I’m sure she’s seen me.
‘Is there someone there?’ she calls out, squinting towards the window.
‘Eh, hiya, Mrs Boland,’ I shout up from the ground below it. ‘I’m looking for Marty if he’s around?’
I hear her walk across the kitchen towards the door, so I head back around the front. You know, like a normal person.
She looks confused for a second and then places me. ‘Aisling? Seamus and Marian’s girl?’ she says softly, and the door swings open. Even hearing Daddy’s name hits me right in the stomach. I nod at her, though, and smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted a word with Marty. Just a quick one. Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just followed the smell …’
‘How are you, love? How is your mammy?’ She steps outside the building and pulls the door firmly shut behind her before pulling off her hairnet and blue rubber gloves and stuffing them in her apron pocket. She looks different outside mass, without her good coat and handbag. Taller, somehow. ‘Marty’s not here, I’m afraid. He had to do down to Tipperary to pick up some rabbits.’ More rabbits. Sharon will be thrilled. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
‘Actually, maybe you can, Mrs Boland.’
‘You’ll come in for a cup of tea, so. Come on.’
She leads me across the yard and into the kitchen, which is warm and cosy and smells like freshly baked brown bread. Displayed proudly on the wall across from the table is Marty’s award for the sausages, blown up to epic proportions and sitting in a thick gold frame. I notice two spotlights trained on it from the ceiling, on the off-chance you could miss it.
‘The smell of that bread is something else,’ I say, inhaling deeply, leaning back against the kitchen counter. A cluster of pictures hang on the wall opposite me – Mrs Boland and Marty wearing seventies gear on their wedding day, an aerial shot of the house just like the one we have of ours at home, and a yellowing snap of a woman and a young girl standing under a banner that reads National Ploughing Championship 1964. The woman is holding a big plate of sausages with a huge first-prize rosette stuck to it. I squint – the little girl looks familiar.
‘Is this … you, Mrs Boland?’
‘It is,’ she replies. ‘I’m seven there. And that’s my Granny Nellie. She raised and slaughtered her own prize Landrace pigs.’ Then she moves so she’s suddenly between me and the picture. In her hands is a steaming apple tart.
‘The bread needs another half an hour in the oven but you’ll surely have a slice of this?’ She smiles, leading me to the table where she’s put a bowl of freshly whipped cream. I take a bite of the piece of tart she’s put in front of me. Jesus, it’s heaven. She’s put something fancy in it – maybe cinnamon? – and it’s warm and sweet and maybe one of the nicest tarts I’ve ever tasted. No soggy bottom either.
‘Marty is fairly proud of his sausages, isn’t he?’ I say, cocking my head up at the award and accepting a cup of tea. ‘Are the rumours true? Is he the only one who knows this secret family recipe? He must be sitting on a goldmine.’
She just smiles and smooths the folds in her apron. ‘So what has you looking for him?’
I’m just about to tell her when I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching and a red van flies past the kitchen window.
Mrs Boland immediately stiffens and looks at her watch. ‘Is it three o’clock already? I’m sorry, Aisling, but I’m going to have to–’
She’s interrupted by the kitchen door opening abruptly.
‘I was wondering who owned the Micra.’ Marty Boland fills the doorway and, across from me, Mrs Boland shrinks by about half. ‘What can I do for you, Aisling?’
‘Well, Marty,’ I say brightly. ‘How are you?’ He says nothing, just stares back at me. ‘Eh … eh … I just wanted a chat about that commercial unit on the Garbally Road.’
He smiles and leans against the door frame. ‘Ah yes, my new sausage-making facility. What about it?’
Mrs Boland gets up and starts clearing away our cups and plates and forks silently. I’m momentarily thrown by the words ‘sausage-making facility’, but steel myself and respond.
‘I actually viewed it a few weeks ago, and I was hoping to lease it myself. To open a café, you see. Bring people into the village …’ I can’t help babbling because he hasn’t taken his eyes off me once. I swear he hasn’t even blinked since he walked in.
He cuts me off. ‘Bring people into the village? Sure, that building is two miles outside!’
‘Oh yeah, I know, but I’d be bringing people closer to the village. They might come in to the shop and buy some of your … ham.’
‘Ham?’ He guffaws. ‘Sausages are what people come to Marty Boland for, Aisling.’
‘Oh yeah, I know, I was–’
‘I see you’re friendly with that young woman from the new beauty salon beside me,’ he continues. ‘Did you know she’s been banging and hammering away in there for months? It’s noise pollution. She’s lucky I haven’t called the guards.’
‘I think she–’
He cuts me off again. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, these sausages aren’t going to make themselves.’ Then he takes a massive keyring out of his coat packet and rattles it at me. ‘I’m working on a new recipe, you see. Handed down through the generations. All very top secret.’ And with that he turns around and stalks out of the kitchen. Then I hear the back door bang shut.
I’m reeling. He’s so confident that he has it. My lovely unit. Turned into a sausage factory. I have to get that lease. I just have to. I involuntarily let out a low whistle and smile over at Mrs Boland, who’s wiping crumbs off the counter into her hand. �
��He’s some man for the sausages,’ is all I can muster. How does she put up with him? And how am I going to get him to give me that lease?
She smiles back at me weakly. ‘Will you bring home some tart for your mother?’
****
I’m on my way home, half an apple tart wrapped in tinfoil on the passenger seat beside me, when it hits me. Instead of turning down Main Street, I take a sharp right and head out the Garbally Road. When I get to the unit, I immediately spot James Matthews up a ladder doing something with a downpipe on the side of the building. His arse … it really is nice. I suddenly wish I’d worn something other than leggings and a fleece. If Sadhbh could see me – all her good work has been undone since I moved home. But it’s hard to stay on top of the latest trends when you live so far away from the shops. I can’t even remember the last time Majella tagged me in one of Colette Green’s #ootd posts, which are a masterclass in how to match a nude belt to nude shoes.
I stride across the car park until I get to the base of his ladder. ‘Well, James,’ I call up to him
‘Hello,’ he says with a smile. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you today. Do you have an appointment with someone from Ruane’s?’
‘I was actually hoping to speak to you,’ I explain. ‘Just for a minute.’
‘Oh, right,’ he says warily, coming down the ladder. ‘You’d better step into my office so.’
His office, it turns out, is the front of his jeep, and I’m surprised at how messy it is – there are empty San Pellegrino cans (he’s a fan of aranciata – notions) and Snickers wrappers and scrunched-up crisp packets everywhere.
‘Sorry about all the rubbish,’ he says. ‘Hotel living. So what can I do for you, Aisling?’
I take a deep breath. ‘So I suppose you’ve heard that Marty Boland has beat me to the lease,’ I begin. ‘Well, I was going to ask–’
‘Hold on, hold on,’ he says, holding up his hands. ‘The commercial unit has been leased? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. I was under the impression that you were taking it.’
‘Yeah, so was I,’ I go. ‘But I called about officially signing and Dee told me her dad has let it to someone else. It’s Marty Boland, the butcher.’
‘I’m so sorry about that, Aisling. They haven’t said a word to me. Can I assume Trevor Ruane and Marty Boland are mates?’
‘Oh, they would be, yes. Very pally. They probably did this deal on the golf course. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you is that Marty is planning on turning the unit into a sort of sausage factory. He told me himself not an hour ago. But when I was doing my business plan for the café I looked into zoning laws, and I was under the impression that this premises,’ I gesture over at the building, ‘is zoned for retail use.’
‘That’s right.’ James Matthews nods emphatically, running a hand through his brown curls.
‘And a factory would be considered industrial, wouldn’t it?’
‘It definitely would.’
‘So, legally, Marty Boland can’t expand his sausage empire here, can he?’
‘No, he can’t.’ He’s starting to smile now, and my heart is beating out of my chest.
‘But I could open a café?’
‘Yes, you would be legally permitted to open a café here.’
There’s so much adrenaline coursing through my veins I can’t actually stay still in the seat.
‘Can we shake on it now before you change your mind?’ I say, my arm outstretched. ‘This is your office, isn’t it?’
He bursts out laughing and I notice his eyes are very twinkly. ‘Are you sure this is your first foray into business? You seem very well-versed in the art of negotiation.’
I just shrug. ‘Speaking of which, if you accept €300 a month for the lease I’ll pay you six months up front. Deal?’
He laughs again. ‘Jesus, you drive a hard bargain. I’ll have Ruane’s call you when the paperwork is ready for your signature.’ Then we shake on it, and even though I couldn’t be happier, I can’t help wondering who’s going to break the news to Marty Boland.
Chapter 28
The auction ended up being so stressful I got a nosebleed all over my catalogue. Thank God I never leave the house without a tissue up my sleeve. You never know when your nose will let you down. There were about 150 of us jammed into the foyer of this country estate, and I swear I was the only one not wearing a silk cravat or a tweed hat with a pheasant feather stuck in it. The only stroke of luck was that all the kitchen equipment was lumped together in one lot. If I’d had to bid on each piece individually I think I would have been stretchered out of there.
Most of the excitement seemed to be around a picture of a man petting a springer spaniel. I’m no art expert, so I can’t pretend to understand why this particular painting was so important. It’s not like the dog was doing anything gas like playing poker. If I was going to be spending four figures on a painting I’d at least want it to have been done by one of the famous Renaissance lads. But each to their own, and I suppose it would look nice in a pub or something.
Once the dog painting was gone, the crowd thinned out a fair bit. Pablo had come through for me something powerful with intel from the chef at the Ard Rí, who said to pay no more than €5,000 for the kitchen equipment. Majella’s cousin manages a restaurant in Galway, and I had plagued her for advice too over the course of three Skype calls. I must send her a thank-you card, now that I’m going to be in the business too. It’s a very classy move, a thank-you card. And James double checked the measurements for me and assured me there was space for everything I’ve been told I need. He’s installed a kitchen or two in his time.
There were only three of us interested when the kitchen lot came around, and the first lad dropped out when it went over €1,000. A chancer if ever I saw one. The other one hung in a bit longer, but I could see him going pale when it got to €4,200. I was sweating profusely myself at that stage, but I didn’t let on. In the end I got the whole shebang for €4,800 and convinced them to throw in free delivery too. Delighted is not the word.
Majella texted me earlier to see if I’d meet her for an early pint in Maguire’s and the timing couldn’t be better – I’m mad to celebrate. But there’s something I need to do first, so I hop in the Micra and point it for Rathborris. It only takes about forty minutes to get to Bolands’, and again, when I get out of the car, I’m met with the most mouth-watering smell. It’s 2 p.m. so I know the coast will be clear. I’m about to walk over to the house when I turn around and head for the big outbuilding instead. One gentle knock is all it takes – I can hear the key turning in the lock and it inches open.
‘Aisling, hello,’ Mrs Boland says gently through the crack. ‘Marty’s in the shop – he won’t be home till after five.’
‘It’s actually you I was hoping to talk to, Mrs Boland.’ I can hear the sausages sizzling away on the pan behind her. The smell today is different – there’s less garlic and more … I think it’s sage? That furry leaf that’s in stuffing. Whatever it is, I’m practically drooling.
‘Oh. Right,’ she says. ‘I’m actually just in the middle of something here, you see …’
‘Honestly, it will only take a minute.’
She sighs gently. ‘You go on over and let yourself into the house so. I won’t be long.’
The kitchen is pristine, save for a tempting-looking carrot cake sitting out on the counter. I recognise it immediately by the cream-cheese icing. I remember the first time Elaine tried to introduce me to the concept of carrot cake – I thought it was an April Fool’s joke. But then I tasted it. Let’s just say I ended up eating enough for it to qualify as one of my five-a-day. Hard to believe she eventually had me eating courgette cake, which is not half as manky as it sounds.
‘Would you like a slice?’
Mrs Boland suddenly appears behind me, pushing her glasses up her nose. She’s very light on her feet considering how many cakes she must eat.
‘Jesus, it looks gorgeous,’ I blurt out. ‘Did you make it
yourself, Mrs Boland?’
‘I did,’ she says softly. ‘And, please, it’s Carol. The secret is a pinch of allspice in the batter.’ Then she smiles. ‘But don’t tell anyone.’
She cuts two generous slices and we sit down at the shiny kitchen table. It’s no exaggeration to say that my first mouthful is a religious experience. It’s so moist, and don’t get me started on the flaked almonds in the icing. I can’t believe this woman isn’t sweeping the boards at ICA baking competitions.
‘It was your cooking I wanted to talk to you about, actually.’ She furrows her brow, and I take a deep breath and decide to just motor on in case himself comes back early and we end up in a brawl about the lease. ‘If I get my little café off the ground, would you be interested in looking after the food? I don’t want anything fancy, just good home-cooking. I think you’d be faboo in the kitchen, Carol. I’ll be focusing on the business side of things, but I need someone who can put together the men–’
She interrupts me. ‘You got the lease so?’ She looks a bit terrified as I nod, but she continues, ‘Marty mustn’t have heard yet. Otherwise I’d know all about it.’ God he must be an awful trial to live with.
‘I … I did get it. I did a deal with the developer. I hope it doesn’t cause any hassle for you, but it’s such a lovely space – I think the café will be the best thing for it. And I’d love to have you on board, if you fancied it?’
She looks a bit taken aback. ‘What makes you think I can cook? I’m just a housewife,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about cooking for a café.’
I say nothing and just glance up at the massive gilt-framed Superior Sausages Award above my head. She follows my gaze and her hand flies to her mouth.
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 21
