‘Aisling?’
It’s Mammy. She must have driven like the clappers. I can hear her crunching over the debris and exclaiming, ‘Oh no,’ over and over again. I meet her behind the counter.
‘What happened?’ she gasps.
‘I don’t know.’
She grabs me by my elbows and pulls me in. ‘The robbing, fecking, bastarding bastards,’ she rages into my hair.
‘I wasn’t robbed, though, Mammy. The safe is still there. Someone just destroyed the place.’
‘Did you ring the guards?’
‘They’re my next call. But we’ll be waiting a while for someone to come, I’d say.’ The closure of the Knock garda station last year gave BGB another string in its bow in terms of amenities. Now, that’s not to say that BGB ever had a garda station of its own – far from it – but at least we had the good Chinese, the handball alley and one-and-a-half beer gardens. (Maguire’s and out the back of Jocksy Cullen’s house. Jocksy’s isn’t a licensed premises, but he’ll throw the place open on a sunny day and sure there’s no law enforcement for miles to shut it down.) Knock only has the one beer garden at Dick’s, but it doubles as a storage area for barrels of liver-fluke dosing, so that’s another check mark for BGB, thank you very much.
I call the guards while Mammy paces around outside. I’ve told her we probably shouldn’t touch anything until they get here. They might want to put on their white overalls and check for fingerprints and semen and whatever else. I’ve seen enough episodes of CSI and How Clean Is Your House? to know the score. There’s semen everywhere. I finish up my call with Garda Staunton – they’ll be with us as soon as they can. They’ve to attend the scene of a ‘suspicious character’ looking in the window of a house out the other end of BGB. What is going on at all? Will we ever be safe to sleep in our beds again?
As I hang up, Carol cycles into the car park. She looks so confused to see me and Mammy standing outside the café.
‘Is everything alright?’
She can already tell that it’s not, though.
‘We’ve had a break-in, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh God. What did they get?’ As she looks around me through the open door, her face changes though. ‘Oh my Lord. What … what happened? It looks like a bomb hit it.’
‘Some kind of vandalism or, or something.’ I don’t know what to call it. Who would do something like this? Who would hate the place so mu–
‘Marty.’ Carol interrupts me, her mouth tight. ‘Could it have been Marty? He was in Belfast last night, or so he says.’ I think back to that first day we opened. Would he be that much of a madman?
‘Your Marty? Marty Boland the butcher? It was hardly him.’ Mammy looks incredulous. ‘I know he’s a bit of a bully but he’s not a criminal.’
Carol looks at her feet, her lip trembling now. She looks like she could sink into a hole in the ground if there was one available.
‘I thought you said he’d been alright since then, Carol?’
‘He’s been awful. Worse than usual. I’m afraid of him. I’m afraid this could have been him.’
‘What do you mean you’re afraid of him, Carol?’ Mammy can’t believe her ears and I feel like getting sick. I’ve grown so fond of this woman I barely know and her shy ways. I feel murderous towards him, the big bullying brute. And I feel so guilty. I pushed her into this.
‘He’s just so angry about me and the job and the sausages doing so well here.’
‘But doesn’t he get all the money for supplying them?’ Mammy demands. ‘He should be delighted his creations are doing so well.’
Carol and I share the quickest of glances as Mammy continues.
‘And forgive me for speaking out of turn, Carol, but he’s as tight as a Cavan clam. Is he not delighted to have you working?’
‘I wouldn’t say he’s delighted. No,’ Carol says quietly. She looks terrified. Damn that man anyway. Damn him to hell. Carol speaks up again. ‘Did you ring Paula, or Noel?’ She looks delighted to be changing the subject.
‘Oh no, I’ll do it now.’ God, I’ll have to tell them there’s no work for a while. I won’t be able to pay them either. For the first time, I wish I was going back to Dublin in the morning. At least at PensionsPlus I was just a cog in a wheel, more or less. I didn’t have all this responsibility weighing on my shoulders. There were no suspicious characters trying to do me harm and life was just easier, wasn’t it? What am I going to do for money? How will I keep the place going? How will I replace everything?
Mammy puts an arm around Carol and says gently, ‘Why don’t you come home with me for a nice strong cuppa? No need to go back to him for the time being. Aisling, will you come too?’
‘I need to get this broken glass boarded up, Mammy. Could William Foley come out and do it, do you think? I can’t get a hold of James Matthews.’
‘Oh, I meant to say, I saw James yesterday evening leaving the Mountrath.’ My ears prick up as Mammy continues. ‘I didn’t stay late at Tessie Daly’s sixty-fifth. The music was fierce loud and I was stuck beside Tessie’s brother Phil. He’s an awful gossip. Did you know Tessie’s cousin the priest is after having an affair–?’
‘Mammy! What were you saying about James Matthews?’
‘Oh, of course, sorry. Well, when I was leaving I saw him leaving too, with Natasia. Isn’t she looking well, I thought to myself? That summer here really did her the world of good.’
Even amid all of the awful mess and heartache behind me in the café, I’m surprised by the drop in my stomach at these words. Sure, why wouldn’t he have a girlfriend?
‘I didn’t know he was doing a line with her,’ Mammy continues. ‘She’s a lovely girl. What a pair they make.’
Of course! Natasia said her boyfriend was based in Ireland. I should have known. Lovely Natasia from Chernobyl and lovely James from England. What a pair indeed. I feel horribly and strangely disappointed but have to push it down to deal with matters at hand.
‘I’ll ring William Foley now and then follow you home. I’ll put a sign up at the gate to say we’re closed for the foreseeable.’
This will be all around town in no time. If the culprit is local, how will we know if they’re in our midst? I don’t think I’ve ever felt so unsafe in BGB.
****
Garda Staunton arrives with a detective and a lad to do the forensics – no white gear or semen light, though – and I go back out to the café to meet them. Did I see anything suspicious? Is there anyone who might have something to prove or a vendetta? Am I in conflict with anyone? The questions swirl around and around in my head. Am I in conflict with anyone? Majella? Marty Boland? I say nothing, though. And then just as the gardaí are preparing to leave and William Foley arrives to make the place sound, I stop Garda Staunton.
‘Now, I’m not pointing a finger or anything.’
‘Go on,’ he says, taking out his notebook once more.
‘But Marty Boland was angry that I got the lease on this place over him.’
‘Mmm hmmm. That’s the butcher beyond in the village – do I have the right man?’
‘Yes. And his wife works at the café with me and I think … I think things aren’t great between them. I think maybe he’s not very nice to her.’
‘Not very nice. Is that code for something? Is there any violence?’
‘Well, no, not that I know of. But he’s a bully. She’s afraid of him.’
‘Well, I can’t arrest someone for being a bully, I’m afraid, Aisling. She knows where we are if she needs us.’
‘I know. But I just thought I’d say something.’ Daddy used to always say to try to give a voice to people who don’t have one. I think it stemmed from a row back in the eighties with the county council over Travellers pitching on the roadside between BGB and Knock. Daddy found himself speaking up for the Travellers’ rights and leading a small gang of BGB locals in a protest to let them stay for as long as they needed. Daddy never liked Marty Boland either. He had a good nose for these things.
<
br /> Just before Garda Staunton sits back into his car to head away, something else springs to mind. ‘Garda, can you tell me anything about this suspicious character looking in the window of a house? The call you were at before this?’ BGB is a hotbed of crime at the moment it seems. I’m glad we have the strong arm of the law putting their resources to the best use.
‘Oh, that was a cardboard cut-out of Daniel O’Donnell that Marie Fleming won in charity bingo last night. She left it in the car and her neighbour thought it was a peeping Tom staring in at her for hours. She accused him of touching himself, but it was just poor Daniel holding his microphone.’
‘Oh. Right.’
****
Back in Mammy’s kitchen, the burning Aga has never been so comforting or the hum of the kettle so soothing. Carol and Mammy have been talking for hours, Carol coming more and more out of her shell as that lovely warm woman I know she can be.
‘I’m afraid to go home to him sometimes. I’ve thought about not going home more and more this past while. I just need the courage to do it,’ Carol confides in Mammy, as the warmth of the kitchen soothes some of the shock of the day.
Mammy has persuaded her to stay for dinner, saying she hopes her pork chops and spuds can live up to Carol’s high standards. Carol responds with a sigh and ‘Anything tastes wonderful if you don’t have to cook it yourself.’ I wonder when was the last time someone made her dinner. My phone is hopping with messages all evening. Concerned locals and friends. Sadhbh and Elaine and Ruby with regular pictures of kittens and heart emojis. Nothing from Majella. I presume she’s heard. I wonder if John knows, although I hear he’s in London scouting for any local lads living over there who might be interested in coming back to play for the county. He’s really taken to the new gig. Hopefully his head isn’t as big as people say. He probably has a WAG by now, with hair extensions and a tan deal on Instagram. The glamour.
After dinner, and high praise indeed for Mammy’s pork chops, Carol seems reluctant to tip off. I don’t blame her. Mammy says she’ll make up Paul’s bed for her, electric blanket and all, but Carol insists on going home, saying there’ll be war if she doesn’t.
‘There’ll always be a bed for you here.’ Mammy grips Carol’s arm firmly. ‘Just so you know.’
Carol looks surprised and then grateful. ‘I’ve been thinking … I’ve been thinking of leaving hi–’ but she doesn’t finish and instead just says, ‘Thank you, Marian.’
After Mammy heads off to bed, I turn on the telly and do a quick flick around to try and take my mind off today’s events. No sooner have I spotted Graham Norton’s gas head than my phone lights up in my lap – it’s Paul on Skype from Melbourne. I hit mute on the remote.
‘Well, Ais,’ he goes when his picture appears on the screen. It’s 11 p.m. here, which means it’s 8 a.m. over there. He’s wearing his Mr Tayto costume. Apparently cheese and onion Taytos have taken Australia by storm following the influx of Irish people in the past decade. They’re the new Marmite. Paul and a few of the other lads are after signing up to a promotions agency – it’s the dream, really. And he says it’s handy enough work, once you don’t mind sweating inside the costume for six hours at a time. They mostly hang around outside cricket matches and shopping centres handing out bags to delighted punters. ‘Mammy texted me about the café. What a load of shite. Do they know who did it?’
‘Not yet. The place is in bits, though, Paul. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘Was it young lads messing?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Is there anything I can do from this end?’
‘I don’t suppose you know anyone selling an industrial-sized freezer?’ I chance. ‘I’ve to replace everything. It’s going to cost a bomb. And it was just getting going.’ My voice starts to wobble.
‘I don’t,’ he says, sitting down on a shady bench. He must be roasting. ‘How’s Mammy?’
‘She’s grand.’
‘Still palling around with Constance?’
‘She is.’ I laugh. And then I remember the Ruane’s brochure I saw in the kitchen the other day. ‘I have an awful feeling she’s downsizing, Paul.’
‘What do you mean?’ he says, leaning forward into his phone while a man and a toddler approach him from the left.
‘I saw a brochure for a new housing estate. I think she went to see it.’
‘In Ballygobbard?’ he says. ‘Where is there room for a housing estate?’ The man taps him on the shoulder and Paul turns around. Then he shakes his head.
‘What was that?’ I go. ‘Someone you know?’
‘No, some father wanting me to keep an eye on his child when he goes into the bookie’s. Happens every time I put on this feckin’ costume. Like, I could be anyone! Now, what were you saying about the new housing estate?’
‘It’s not in BGB, it’s in Rathborris,’ I explain. ‘I also … I saw a document from a property surveyor. It was a valuation for the house and farm.’
‘Jesus,’ he says.
‘I know.’
He sighs. ‘I suppose it makes sense in the long run. Her heart’s not in the farm. That was Daddy’s thing.’
‘I know. But still. Our childhood home. All of Daddy’s things. I don’t know if I’m ready.’
‘Has she said anything?’
‘Not yet. I’ve been up the walls with setting up the café and now this. There hasn’t really been a time. But I’m sure it’s coming.’
‘Keep me posted, will you, Ais? I won’t say anything to her.’
‘Jesus, don’t,’ I exclaim. ‘She’ll be on at me for snooping. You know how she is.’
‘Do you need a lend or anything?’ he says, standing up.
‘Er, you still owe me 200 quid from Christmas, Paul. I haven’t forgotten, you dope.’
‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘Look, I have to find a jacks. I’m bursting. Take her handy.’
And then he’s gone. I’m about to flick off the telly when the camera pans away from where Graham is chatting to Benedict Cumberbatch, who has a head like a melted candle, and goes over to the stage. The lights come up and five familiar figures come into focus – it’s The Peigs! Sadhbh never said. I suppose she knows I’d be on the first flight to London to meet Graham. I have to stay watching it on mute for fear of waking Mammy, but I must admit Don is looking well, holding the guitar and managing to pull off some questionable dance moves. From my limited lip reading I can tell they’re playing ‘Kick the Blarney Stone’, their controversial new single, which Sadhbh was saying is banned in Cork. The drama! And then I see it – at the end of the song, just before the lights go down, Don scratches his head. Jesus, it’s true – Sadhbh has obviously passed on the nits.
Heading upstairs, the house feels like a safe cocoon, keeping me and Mammy protected from whatever is out there in BGB. I let my mind go to the idea of saying goodbye to these walls soon. If Mammy has to sell, what will our lives look like then? I turn Daddy’s card over and over again in my hands and let myself have a great big cry. I could use his €50 now. And one of his awkward hugs, patting my head the way he used to when I was a little girl in messy pigtails and half a field’s worth of sticklebacks attached to my socks. Daddy used to call them sticky-mickeys and would spend an hour trying to get them out of the cat’s fur. What would he think about the house, the farm being sold? It breaks my heart to think of it empty of us. Empty on Christmas morning. Empty on Daddy’s birthday. Empty except for all of our memories.
As I pass the landing window on my way to the bathroom, I pause to pull the curtains, looking out over the fields towards the Moran house, wondering if Majella even cares about what happened to the café. I’ve almost pulled the curtains over all the way when something catches my eye, a flickering that seems to be reflecting off the windows of the Morans’ bungalow. I squint and try to look closer. It’s not reflecting off the windows at all. It’s behind them. I nearly take the roof off with my screams.
‘Fire! Fire! The Morans�
�� house is on fire!’
Chapter 35
I don’t remember coming down the stairs but, before I know it, I’m tearing out the driveway, screaming at Mammy to call the fire brigade. For luck my phone is in my back pocket, and I fumble through my recent calls until I find Majella’s name and stab at it without breaking my stride in the darkness. It’s ten o’clock. What if they’re in the house? What if they’re all having an early night and the thick, black smoke is pouring in through the doorways, engulfing them in their beds like something out of Pompeii? Knowing Shem he probably doesn’t even have smoke alarms, and he almost certainly doesn’t poke them once a week with the sweeping brush like I do to test the batteries.
I’m running full pelt down the lane now, towards the flames that are climbing about 20 feet into the night sky. I was never fast. Not a single community games medal to my name. The house is still a good 200 metres away, but I can hear the crackling and my eyes are already streaming from the acrid smoke. Pick up, Majella! Pick up the fucking phone! It goes to voicemail and I hang up and hit redial, my thighs already burning from the unexpected sprinting. I never had a chance to warm up! It rings out again and I scramble through my contacts, panting, until I find Pablo Tenerife Taxi and say a prayer to literally anyone who’s listening that he picks up.
I can just about make out the Morans’ front gate now and feel the heat from the fire on my face as I continue down the lane. The leylandii hedge is blocking my view, but the whole house must be gone up. It’s massive and loud. Behind me I hear an engine in the distance – Mammy, no doubt. Come on, Pablo, pick up the phone. Then I hear his voice – ‘Hola, you mucker, it’s Pablo.’ Voicemail again. Fuck it anyway!
Suddenly a pair of headlights comes around the corner straight in front of me, and just as I reach the gate, Shane Moran’s silver Subaru screeches to a stop. All four doors fly open and Shane, Shem, Liz and Majella clamber out. They just stand there for a few seconds, mouths open, looking at their family home going up in smoke. Then Liz lets out an almighty scream.
Shem bolts for the driveway with Liz hanging off his right arm.
The Importance of Being Aisling Page 26
