The Importance of Being Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

‘What’s going on, Ais?’ Majella goes, her words bouncing off the walls. ‘Denise will have our tiny cakes gone if we don’t get back out there.’

  ‘I don’t know if I should say anything,’ I say, wringing my hands. I genuinely don’t. But at the same time, I can’t have Maj walking into the lobby and catching Pablo and Sinéad in flagrante. She’d surely keel over.

  ‘You’re going to have to tell me what’s going on, bird,’ she says sternly. ‘I’m getting worried here.’

  ‘It’s about Pablo.’

  ‘What about him?’ She absentmindedly twists the engagement ring. Apparently it belonged to Pablo’s grandmother, but I’m not convinced. He probably got it in a lucky bag, the sleeveen.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I think he’s up to something. With Susie Ó Súilleabháin.’ As soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret it. The colour drains from her face and her bottom lip starts to tremble. Majella is not a crier. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her shed a tear. She laughed at the really sad bit in Titanic because she said it was clear Rose had plenty of room for Jack on that door.

  ‘Why?’ she stammers. ‘Why do you think that, Ais?’

  ‘It’s actually a few different things,’ I start, ‘and it’s been going on for a while.’ I’m about to launch into my evidence: the sighting of himself and Susie outside Maguire’s and then again in Dublin when he said he was at training, and now the two of them cosying up in the garden, but I don’t get a chance.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she roars, eyes wide, and I nearly jump out of my skin. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this.’ She spins around and flings the swingy doors open. I follow her, nearly taking a door to the face, and make a grab for her shoulder but she’s absolutely motoring. I can’t reach her.

  ‘Majella, come back,’ I cry. ‘I have to tell you–’

  We’re back in the restaurant now and the baby-shower gang are nearly within earshot, but she continues marching towards the table oblivious. Then she turns around, hand on hip, and, I swear, she looks me up and down. I see Maeve and the girls swinging around in their seats. Denise has perked up a bit, and sure why wouldn’t she with four mini cheesecakes in front of her.

  ‘I knew this would happen,’ Majella spits at the top of her voice, shaking her head. ‘You can’t just let me be happy, can you, Aisling? You’re jealous. You’re fucking jealous of me.’

  Honestly, I can’t believe Majella said fucking in the hallowed halls of the Ard Rí. They had one of Princess Diana’s outfits on show here in the late nineties as part of a touring royal dress exhibit. Say fucking in the Mountrath all you like, but you have to draw the line somewhere.

  ‘What?’ I stammer, completely taken aback. I’m confused. Why would she think I’m jealous? Her bloody fiancé is doing the dirt on her, and he’s not even trying to hide it. I’m only telling her because I don’t want her to get hurt.

  ‘Oh, don’t play dumb, Aisling,’ she screams, spit flying, face puce. ‘We all know you’re anything but dumb.’ Denise and the others are openly staring at us now, as are the people at the other tables. Well, I say people. It’s women, really. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man having afternoon tea, and God knows I’ve been to enough of them.

  ‘You can’t handle the fact that I’m engaged before you, can you, Aisling?’ she rages while I stand there like a pillock. ‘Can you, Aisling? I got the big promotion in work, and I’m engaged, and now I’m going to be married before you. You didn’t think that would happen in a million years, did you? Did you?’

  By now people are nudging each other and taking out their phones, and I can see Denise’s mam’s mouth is open so wide her false teeth are in danger of falling out into her tiny lemon meringue pie. If I had one wish it would be for the ground to swallow me whole. This scene is up there with stealing a bride’s thunder on her wedding day.

  ‘Majella, please,’ I stage-whisper. ‘Just follow me outside and I can tell you what I mean.’

  ‘No thanks, Aisling,’ she roars back with a sneer. ‘I’m sick of following you.’

  ‘I’m not jealous,’ I hiss. ‘And I’m not making this up.’

  But she’s mad with the rage and doesn’t seem to even hear what I’m saying.

  ‘I’m sorry if it’s driven you berserk, but I’m going to have a big wedding here,’ she points towards the function room, ‘with a sweet cart and free deodorant in the toilet and a band and a DJ. I thought you’d be happy for me, but it looks like I was wrong.’

  ‘I am happy for you,’ I plead. ‘All I want is for you to be happy. I’m trying to protect you! If you would just listen to me for five min–’

  ‘And to think,’ she screams, ‘I was going to ask you to be my chief bridesmaid.’

  Then she snaps up her bag and flies out the front door, bawling.

  Needless to say, the rest of the baby shower was a bit subdued, even when Denise popped the rabbit balloon and we all got a faceful of blue confetti. She was able to muster up a sad little cheer, but she cried on and off until Maeve placated her with a plate of multicoloured macarons while the rest of them took turns throwing daggers at me.

  ‘What the hell did you say to make Majella go berserk?’ Dee hissed from behind a napkin when I sat back down.

  ‘Something I shouldn’t have,’ was all I could reply.

  Chapter 33

  I was going to go back to the café to give Carol and Paula a hand with the clean-up and re-stack the dishwasher properly, but I couldn’t face it in the end. It was gone seven o’clock when Maeve dropped me home, and I found Mammy and Constance Swinford huddled in front of Mammy’s ancient laptop in the kitchen.

  ‘Hiya, lads,’ I say, walking in and flicking on the kettle. If ever there was a time for a cuppa it’s now. I keep thinking back to the row and the force of Majella’s words nearly cuts me in two. Why did I open my big mouth in the first place? I’m not jealous. I just don’t want Maj to get hurt. I should have marched her out to the garden and let her see Pablo and Susie with her own eyes.

  ‘Hullo, Aisling,’ Constance brays, standing up to retrieve her waxed jacket. ‘Marian, I’d better be off. Let’s regroup tomorrow and discuss …’ she glances over at me surreptitiously, ‘everything.’

  Mammy busies herself gathering up sheets of paper, and I notice a Ruane’s Estate Agents brochure sticking out of one of her notebooks. I only catch the first line – ‘Woodlawn Park, Rathborris’ – before she shoves it down briskly. Why is she looking at new houses? A feeling of unease creeps over me.

  ‘Do you know how much energy it takes to boil the kettle?’ Mammy asks out of the blue as Constance pulls the back door closed. ‘Around 18 cents’ worth. I hope you only have enough water in there for a cup.’

  I stare back at her, not knowing quite what to say. Money must be even tighter than I thought if she’s panicking about the cost of making a cup of tea. Surely tea is a human right. By my estimations, we boil the kettle around twenty times a day between the two of us. Probably more now that William Foley is in for his few daily cups. Do I need to cut back? Maybe make tea in the café and bring it home in a flask? Are the two of us going to be huddled around a two-bar heater for warmth this winter? I’ve pumped every penny I have to my name into BallyGoBrunch, but even if business continues to boom, I won’t see an actual profit for another two years. I’m just barely breaking even at the moment.

  ‘Sorry, Mammy,’ I say solemnly, taking the steaming mug into the sitting room, not willing to get into another fight today. Although, on my way past the kitchen table I notice the unmistakable silver foil of a Tunnock’s Tea Cake wrapper. Maybe if she wasn’t trying to impress Constance with fancy biscuits we could afford more cups of tea. As soon as I get comfortable on the couch I google Woodlawn Park, Rathborris, on my phone. ‘A new development of elegant two- and three-bedroom townhouses with every possible amenity, from Matthews Developments,’ the website tells me, with a few sketches of what the houses will look like. They’re bright and modern, and each has a cute l
ittle rectangular garden out the back. They look grand, to be fair to them.

  Later in bed, sleep escapes me, and I start to imagine what life would be like for me and Mammy in Woodlawn Park. And Paul too, I suppose. Although I suspect he’s got himself a girlfriend down in Oz. He’s not on Skype half as much as he used to be. Sure don’t I always look after everything? I just can’t picture it, us without the farm, without the constant wellies beside the door and the spring lambs needing to be fed round the clock and the smell of silage on a warm day. It would be easier in winter, that’s for sure, and only a few miles further away from BallyGoBrunch.

  Then I let my mind go to Majella. We hardly ever fight. Not like this. Unless you count the month we didn’t speak to each other in sixth class because we both wanted to take the same confirmation name: Emma – I still think it’s cool. In the end Miss Maloney insisted there was no Saint Emma, so I took the classic Brigid to keep the peace, and Maj went for the slightly more obscure Lidwina, the patron saint of ice skaters. Ironic, really, since there isn’t an ice rink within 60 miles of BGB. Jesus, I thought that confirmation mass would never end. It was drummed into us that we couldn’t so much as make a peep since the bishop was there, but Majella got a terrible Mass Laugh, and there’s nothing more contagious than a Mass Laugh. The mirth and fear of being caught create a kind of perfect storm of hysteria, and in the end both of us were sitting there staring straight ahead, shaking silently, with tears streaming down our faces. I had to dig my nails into my palm and think about poor Granny Reilly’s coffin being lowered into the grave to try and get back to a state of equilibrium. The bishop knew well what was happening – I’m surprised he let the Holy Spirit near us.

  I decide I’m going to head over to the café early the next morning to catch up on a bit of admin I should have done tonight. I’ve discovered that we’re spending a fortune on cherry tomatoes – the one thing we can’t get locally – and I’m half-thinking of putting a greenhouse out the back and growing my own. Now that I have unlimited access to Swinford manure, the world is my oyster in terms of things I could plant and fertilise. Maybe I’ll look into hemp!

  ****

  At 7 a.m., I measure out exactly one mug of water and flick on the kettle as quietly as I can when my phone buzzes on the table, giving me an awful fright. A picture of Sadhbh and one of the Blue Man Group flashes up on the screen – Jesus, Vegas seems like a lifetime ago now – and I dive for it. She often rings me on the walk from Phibsboro to Flatlay and I feel like it keeps us connected.

  ‘Hey, Ais,’ she says when I answer it. ‘How was yesterday? Did they make you taste baby food?’ Poor Sadhbh is on the baby-shower circuit herself these days, as much as she tries to get out of it.

  ‘It was a feckin’ disaster,’ I say flatly, filling her in about my fight with Majella and all the rest.

  There’s some muffling on the line – it sounds like she’s dropped the phone. I suppose the idea of me and Maj not speaking is a lot to take in before 8 a.m.

  ‘Sorry, Ais, come again?’ she says. ‘I was just, argh.’

  ‘Hello? What’s going on – are you okay?’

  She lets out a strangled moan. ‘Sorry, sorry, I was just … scratching.’

  ‘Scratching what?’

  ‘Mmmng fhhh,’ she says. ‘I think I’ve got mmmfmf.’

  She must be on the Luas or something because she’s whispering into the phone so quietly I can’t hear a word she’s saying.

  ‘You’ll have to speak up, bird,’ I go.

  ‘Head lice! I think I’ve got fucking head lice,’ she hisses.

  Oh my God. I can’t imagine Sadhbh with nits, but this is the price you pay for fraternising with primary teachers. Her lovely grey – or whatever colour it is this week – hair. Now she’ll have to put that manky shampoo on it and let it sit. I don’t envy her – the smell of it would knock you out.

  ‘Which one of them brought them home?’ I ask, buttering my toast. My money is on Mairead. Her school is one of these hippie places with no religion. When they’re not vaccinating their kids, some of the parents claim using nit shampoo is a kind of nit genocide. Cruel on the nits. Would you be well.

  ‘Mairead,’ she says. I knew it. ‘Her whole class has them, little fuckers. There should be a law against white people having dreadlocks if they’re also not going to treat their head lice.’

  Poor Sadhbh. To think she went from living in our lovely Portobello penthouse to … this.

  ‘Oh, but it gets worse, Ais. Don had a couple of days off last week and he came to stay. I FaceTimed him last night, and I swear to God he was scratching. I can’t bring myself to tell him why.’

  ‘Back up, back up,’ I say. ‘Don stayed in your house in Phibsboro? How did the girls take it?’

  ‘Well, Fionnuala went completely mute. Mairead wasn’t much better, but at least she was able to mumble hello. When we got up the next morning there were six more teachers sitting in the kitchen. It was like they multiplied overnight.’

  I stifle a laugh. ‘How did Don take it?’

  ‘Ah, you know him,’ Sadhbh goes. ‘Never any bother. They had him posing for selfies for an hour.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re all one big happy family now,’ I say, reloading the toaster.

  ‘Not a bit,’ she scoffs. ‘In a moment of weakness I used some of Mairead’s Kerrygold last night – only a scrape – and she found out. She must have noticed the indentation of a different knife.’

  There’s more muffling on the line and I can hear her scratching again. I don’t envy her with the nits. They’re a right pain in the arse and a constant threat to teachers – and their housemates.

  ‘So did I hear you right? You told Majella about Pablo and now she’s not talking to you?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s ever going to talk to me again, Sadhbh.’

  ‘Ah no. You just need to explain the situation to her. Make her listen. You two will be fine then.’

  I sigh. If only it were that easy. ‘I’ll let you go, Sadhbh. I have to go over and open up. Those avocados are not going to smash themselves, and more’s the pity.’

  ‘Talk soon, Ais. I’m coming down as soon as I get rid of the lice.’

  ‘Tell Don,’ I call down the phone. ‘He’ll only feckin’ pass them on if he doesn’t know!’

  There’s a gasp behind her as the word ‘lice’ passes through the carriage, and I instantly imagine every person within a three-foot radius of her taking a step back. There’s the ding-ding-ding of the Luas and then Sadhbh faintly snapping, ‘Nits actually only like clean hair so calm down,’ is all I hear before the line goes dead.

  I don’t notice anything out of the ordinary when I pull into the BallyGoBrunch car park, but in hindsight that might have been because I was preoccupied with my future cattle grid. When I get out of the car I can’t miss it – the back and side windows have been completely smashed in. There’s broken glass everywhere. The back door is swinging open, and above it the blue light of the alarm is flashing uselessly.

  Chapter 34

  I walk around the café in a daze, my feet crunching on broken sugar bowls and slipping on spilled juices and drinks. My lovely cushions are all on the floor, sticky and stained. My carefully chosen bits and bobs on the wall seem to have been swiped off in one motion. They all lie in a heap; two of the three flying ducks Sadhbh spotted in Oxfam have their beaks broken. All of my lovely lampshades are slashed. I sink down into a chair, my knees going funny, barely able to think about going into the kitchen and the tiny side office where the safe is. Not that there’d be a fortune in it, but all of the day’s takings. I take out my phone, my hand shaking. I would give anything to be able to ring Daddy. Anything at all. I’d sell my soul to see him pulling in the gateway in his jeep, cap on, meaning business. I scroll down through my contacts, down to the Js. John’s name sits just below James Matthews’s and my finger hovers over it. But he’s not my go-to anymore. Sure, I hardly know him now. I go back up to James’s number and press
the little phone. He’s still around, finishing up bits and pieces upstairs, and he’s started working on the housing development beyond at Rathborris. I’m so shook I don’t have the energy to hold the phone up to my ear, but I can hear it ring as I hold it in my hand, and ring and ring. It goes to voicemail. I scroll again and dial Mammy’s number as I push myself up from the chair and step gingerly behind the counter and into the kitchen.

  Carol’s lovingly labelled pots and jars of herbs and spices have been pushed over and smashed. Tea towels and Paula’s apron have been shoved in the sink. Pots and pans and plates and bowls are scattered and smashed on the ground, and wires going in and out of various devices and machines are slashed and jagged. Even the freezer and hob are bashed in. The damage must be in the thousands of euro, and that’s before you take into consideration all the meat that’s going to go off. I had gotten such a good deal on that whole pig too.

  As I survey the damage, Mammy answers. ‘Hello, pet. You’re up and out early.’

  ‘Mammy. The café. Something’s happened. It’s in bits.’ I burst into tears, nearly upending myself on a smashed jar of homemade ketchup.

  ‘Oh no. Oh, Aisling, love. Oh no. I’ll be right there.’

  The tiny office is a disaster too. My desk planner is ripped and on the floor, and the tiny cactus Majella got me has been flung against the wall. I know Maj won’t answer the phone if I ring her. I try to gather the broken bits of tiny terracotta pot but it’s beyond saving.

  The safe looks miraculously untouched. Although, I would have nearly been more glad if it was gone or blown open or something. At least then this would feel like a robbery. But it feels like … hate. I spin the combination wheel – my birthdate, then Mammy’s, then Daddy’s and then Paul’s, but all with the numbers backwards. I watched a bit on Sky News about how easy it is for people to steal your passwords and PINs, so I’ve about 101 tricks up my sleeve to put them off the scent. Nobody got into this safe anyways. All of the takings are still there.