O'Mara's

by Michelle Vernal

  She stood in the doorway of the lounge for a moment. Her mammy had combed the antique markets for the furnishings in here including the gilt framed artworks that lined the walls. The light flooded in through twin floor to ceiling windows in keeping with the era of the house. The original fireplace was nestled between the windows. It was laid, but never used these days thanks to the wonders of central heating. She liked to envisage the visitors of old gathering around that fire in the wintertime as it roared and spat with a glass of something warming and welcoming in their hand.

  Aisling fluffed the cushions on the three-seater sofa identical to the lounger in reception. She straightened the magazines on the coffee table before checking the milk pottles and tea and coffee sachets in the tray on top of the buffet opposite.

  The Earl Grey tea bags needed replenishing, they were always popular and opening the cupboard she took out the box and refilled them. Next in her morning routine was the room freshener. She spritzed each morning walking around the expansive room giving it a couple of bursts. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was in a grassy meadow, but without being afflicted by hay fever!

  A tea cup sat on the coffee table with a ring of red lipstick around the rim and picking it up she took it out to the kitchenette to wash. She’d draped the tea towel over the rail and had decided to pop downstairs to see how the land lay with Mrs Flaherty this morning when the door to Room 1 opened.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Oh, good morning Miss Brennan. I trust you slept well.’ Aisling tried to keep the note of hope from her voice. She could hear Mammy’s voice in her ear, ‘She’s the sort if you give her an inch she’ll take a mile’. Mammy might not be here, but she was right Miss Brennan was a woman who’d sense weakness and exploit it and from the tight-lipped look she was receiving now, it seemed she already had.

  ‘I didn’t as it happens. There was a dreadful carry-on outside my window in the small hours.’

  Aisling silently cursed Mr Fox wishing he could have chosen to raid someone else’s bin last night. ‘I’m so sorry Miss Brennan. That would be our resident fox. He comes a calling from the Iveagh Gardens, they’re behind the wall to the rear of the house. She donned her brightest smile and told herself to rise above Miss Brennan’s pettiness and find something nice to say. She was going to have to dig deep.

  ‘That blue’s such a lovely colour on you.’ It was true actually. The pale blue blouse Una Brennan wore under her cardigan was the same shade as her eyes. She’d have been pretty once, but now her features were pinched. Her face spoke of an internal unhappiness and the harsh line of her tight bun from which a few silver curls escaped did nothing to soften her appearance. ‘Are you on your way to breakfast?’ Aisling didn’t expect an acknowledgement of her compliment.

  ‘I am. I hope it doesn’t take as long as it did yesterday. I think the cook was waiting for the hen to lay the egg. I’ve an appointment at ten o’clock this morning.’

  ‘We do have the continental option available if you’re in a hurry, Miss Brennan.’

  ‘I prefer a cooked breakfast.’ And with that the older woman marched off down the stairs.

  Awkward so-and-so. Aisling would put money on her having been a headmistress or something of the like in her younger days. Her cardigan and skirt ensemble teamed with sensible shoes reminded her of the bad-tempered English teacher she’d had in secondary school. She stole a glance at her own impractical but oh so pretty Walter Steiger shoes as she recalled the awful woman. She used to frisbee the school books across the room to her students. She’d also had a habit of slamming her ruler down on the desk of any pupil who looked like they might be daydreaming about their latest favourite pop star rather than conjugating their verbs. Given Aisling had been smitten with Jon Bon Jovi that year, her desk had gotten a hammering! Now she poked her tongue out at Miss Brennan’s retreating back. Mammy wouldn’t approve but Mammy wasn’t here.

  ͠

  There were a handful of people seated at the tables Aisling saw as she descended the stairs to the basement dining room. They were laid with white cloths and silver cutlery. Mr and Mrs Freeman from Australia with their teenage sons were tucking in to their breakfast. They’d obviously risen bright and early. The family had toured Britain and had tagged on Ireland for the last two weeks of their holiday. The younger of the two brothers had finished high school and this was a last hurrah before he too flew the nest and went off to university, Mrs Freeman had confided in Aisling.

  The boys, who looked alike apart from their haircuts were seated at a separate table to their parents. Aisling watched for a second as they shovelled down their bacon and eggs like they hadn’t seen food since leaving Australia. It made her smile as she remembered Mammy going on about Patrick having hollow legs when he was a teen.

  Her gaze flicked over to the young couple from Cork, the Preston’s. They were seated in the far corner of the room beneath a large black and white print of Grafton Street in the twenties. Upon hearing they were from Cork, Aisling had been tempted to flash them a photo of Marcus. She wanted to ask if they’d seen him, and if so how did he look? It was a crazy thought, but then sometimes where he was concerned she felt as though she had indeed gone crazy.

  She’d managed to reign herself in and had learned that the reason behind the Preston’s visit was down to his being courted by the Dublin branch of the firm he worked at. The company had high hopes of tempting him and his wife to relocate to the Fair City. By the looks of their clean plates they’d enjoyed their breakfast and were savouring a cup of tea before getting on with whatever the day had in store for them.

  The retired and portly Mr Walsh, who’d left Dublin for Liverpool many moons ago was seated at a table near the door to the kitchen. He was buttering his toast and casting about the table. He was missing Mrs Flaherty’s homemade marmalade Aisling guessed, and she ducked on through to the kitchen to spoon some into a dish for him.

  ‘Good morning,’ she greeted Mrs Flaherty. Her cheeks were even pinker than usual thanks to the heat from the frying pan receiving a nod in return. Aisling wasn’t offended, one didn’t disturb Mrs Flaherty when she was near a hot stove. She set about scraping the chunky orange marmalade from the jar into a dish and leaving the cook to her bacon and black pudding, she carried it through.

  ‘Here we go Mr Walsh. I think this is what you were missing.’ She set the dish down.

  ‘Aisling pet, you’re a wonder.’

  ‘Well now if I didn’t know how partial you were to Mrs Flaherty’s marmalade after all the years you’ve been coming to stay, I’d be a poor hostess indeed.’ Mr Walsh had been booking in to his favourite room on the third floor of O’Mara’s for five nights in the first week of September for as long as Aisling could remember. He had a standing order to come back each year to visit his older sister who lived in Rathmines. She’d never married he’d told Aisling once and had never moved from what had been their family home. He refused to stay with her despite her living in the house he’d grown up in because he said she drove him batty!

  ‘Will you join me?’ He gestured to his teapot. Mr Walsh liked her to sit down and share a cuppa with him of a morning. He reckoned her and Bronagh were the only sane people he spoke to once he left O’Mara’s for the day.

  ‘Give me two ticks,’ she smiled. It faltered as she spied Miss Brennan. She’d settled herself as far away from the other guests as she could manage. She wondered what her problem was. What made a person so cantankerous? She was spared from pondering her question by Mr Freeman waving her over.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Freeman what can I do for you?’

  ‘So you really don’t say ‘Top of the Morning to ye’, then?’

  ‘Only in the films, Mr Freeman. Do you say, hmm let me see—strewth?’

  He winked. ‘Fair dinkum, I do.’

  Aisling laughed, ‘Your gas.’

  ‘Gas! I shall add that to my repertoire of Irish sayings.’ His eyes twinkled as he went back to dipping his toast in his egg.

/>   ‘Aisling,’ Mrs Freeman said. ‘We’re going to see Riverdance tonight.’

  It amused Aisling hearing one of her sons groan at the thought of an evening watching Irish dancing. His mother ignored him. ‘We thought we’d have an early dinner before the show. Is there anywhere you recommend?’

  ‘There is actually. I know of a lovely place just around the corner from here where the craic is great.’ She grinned, seeing Mr Freeman sound out the word. ‘It’s called Quinn’s and they serve traditional Irish fare in a cosy setting. The food’s delicious. Would you like me to make a reservation for you?’

  ‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’

  ‘Say five-thirty? Would that give you enough time before the show?’

  ‘What do you think, honey?’

  Mr Freeman nodded. ‘Bang on.’

  It was funny hearing Irishisms in such a broad Australian accent, Aisling thought giving him a thumbs up.

  ‘Five-thirty would be perfect.’

  ‘Five-thirty it is Mrs Freeman. Mr Freeman hoo-roo.’ He roared with laughter. ‘You got me with that one.’

  She left them to get back to their breakfast heading over to clear the Cork couple’s plates. ‘How was everything?’ She asked stacking the two plates. ‘Lovely thank you. Mrs Flaherty’s soda bread is better than my nana’s but don’t tell her I said that,’ Mr Preston chuckled. As she carried the dishes out to the kitchen, she hoped Miss Brennan had overheard his high praise. She stacked the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and then retrieving an extra cup and saucer, went to join Mr Walsh, hearing Mrs Flaherty muttering behind her as she did so.

  As she sat down opposite him, the cook pushed through the swinging door. She wiped her hands on her apron, her button like blue eyes narrowed and her ample bosom heaving as she drew breath. She looked as though she were going into battle, a plump Boudica as she strode fearlessly across the dining room. Her voice rang out loudly as she asked Miss Brennan what she would like this morning.

  Aisling turned her attention to Mr Walsh who set about pouring the tea as he told her all about his mad sister’s refusal to throw anything out. ‘She’s got that much gear piled up in there she could open a junk shop, because most of it is rubbish.’

  Aisling relaxed listening to his banter, she liked his Liverpudlian accent. Mrs Flaherty was more than capable of handling the likes of Una Brennan.

  Chapter 5

  Una eyed Aisling for a moment. Why she felt the need to totter about the place as though she were about to hit the runways of Paris was beyond her. They were in a Dublin guesthouse for goodness sake. An upmarket one, but a guesthouse nevertheless. She turned away and cut a sliver of her white pudding, spearing it with her fork. She could sense that formidable cook hovering and she knew Aisling was wary of her. She’d been a short-tempered old bite but she couldn’t help herself. She put her fork down.

  The pudding was golden and looked crisp to the bite. It was cooked just the way she liked it and the only reason she wasn’t relishing the full Irish breakfast on the plate in front of her was because her stomach was in knots. It had been from the moment she’d packed her bags and left her little terraced house in Ferrybank to board the Waterford to Dublin train. It had only worsened as the train chugged closer to the city and it was this that was making her ill-tempered.

  She’d caught the bus from Heuston Station to St Stephen’s Green and had peered out the window unsure of what to expect. Dublin was the city of her birth. She was born in 1932 the year of the world’s largest Eucharistic Congress. Una’s mam had talked of a live broadcast from Pope Pius X1 all the way from the Vatican City to Phoenix Park at the Sunday mass. Imagine that, she used to say, his voice travelling all the way from Vatican City! She wondered what her mam would have made of the internet had she lived long enough for its invention.

  It had been fifty years since Una had last walked the streets of this city. Back then she’d known them like the back of her hand. From what she could see not much had changed. The layout was still the same, she’d be able to find her way around despite the addition of the big, shiny glass monstrosities, so-called progress. What had changed she’d sensed from the moment she stepped off the train was the atmosphere. There was a buoyancy in people’s steps that hadn’t been here when she was a girl. The faces she passed as her case bumped along behind her weren’t set in a hard, grim line of scraping by. There was a buzz in the air, lots of foreign accents and the foot traffic! Well, it had to be seen to be believed. The streets were alive with activity.

  She watched a double-decker bus pass by. The moss green buses of her youth that had belched their way around the streets with their open platform at the back were long gone. She recalled Leo leaping from that platform as the bus slowed despite the conductor’s warning and he’d held his hand out to her daring her to do the same. She’d put her trust in him and taken a leap of faith.

  Her decision to book into O’Mara’s had been deliberate. She remembered the old guest house from her younger days. She’d walk past it each morning on her way to where she was employed as a secretary for an accountant. What a funny little man Mr Hart had been with his round glasses and habit of reciting passages from James Joyce’s works at random. The work had been straightforward, and it had also afforded her enough money to pay her board to her mother. The small amount left aside went towards her and Leo’s wedding fund.

  The job was dull though, certainly not what she’d imagined herself doing when she was a little girl full of big dreams. This was why as she passed by O’Mara’s with its pretty window baskets and shiny nameplate, she liked to imagine all the glamorous lives led inside the grand old townhouse. The lah-di-dah ladies who’d graced the rooms inside the Georgian manor house wouldn’t have had to scrimp and save for their weddings—the weekly treat, a fish & chip supper at Beshoff’s.

  Oh the stories those brick walls could tell! Now of a pensionable age while not wealthy by any means she was comfortable. She only had herself to look after, and that had meant she’d been able to put aside a tidy amount to ensure she didn’t have to go without in her retirement. It was time she saw the inside O’Mara’s for herself, there was nowhere else she wished to stay in Dublin—certainly not with her sister, Aideen. At the thought of Aideen, her stomach knotted further, and she put her fork down.

  ‘Is everything alright, Miss Brennan?’

  Una was startled she hadn’t seen Mrs Flaherty approach her table once more, she’d been too lost in the past.

  ‘I hope you’re enjoying your white pudding. I buy in only the best from Brady’s. They’re craftsmen when it comes to stuffing their sausage casing.’ The overbearing woman in her silly, frilly white apron challenged Una to disagree with her, her pudgy arms crossed over a ridiculously oversized bosom.

  She didn’t have the energy to be argumentative, not today. ‘It’s perfectly fine, thank you.’ To prove her point, she picked up her fork and popped the pudding in her mouth. She was sure it was more than perfectly fine. She was sure it was sweet and creamy and delicious, but to her it tasted like sawdust. Nevertheless, she chewed resolutely willing Mrs Flaherty to bustle off back to where she’d come from.

  The pantomime obviously satisfied the cook because with a curt, ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’ She waddled off back to the kitchen leaving her to dwell on what lay ahead today once more. There was no window to gaze out of here in the dining room. She supposed it would have once been used not just as the kitchen area, but for service and laundry too. Either way the black and white photographs of bygone days in Dublin lining the walls weren’t proving enough of a distraction.

  Her mind wouldn’t stop pondering how fifty years had passed so quickly. They had though, and Christmas after Christmas had rolled by without her spending it with her family. She’d always assumed she’d patch things up at some point but there had never been a right time. Sometimes it felt like she’d simply closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them found herself transformed into the woman, she was now.
Where had that girl whose future was mapped out as bright and shiny as a new penny vanished too? That girl had taken what she thought lay ahead for granted, hers for the taking. There’d be a handsome husband, children clinging to her skirts and a house with an electric cooker and no outdoor privy! Instead, she was a woman with aches and pains pushing seventy, who if she were to be honest with herself was lonely.

  She’d vowed fifty years ago to never set foot in Dublin again. A promise she’d made in anger and one she hadn’t felt able to shy away from until now.

  Chapter 6

  The dining room began to empty, and Mr Walsh announced to Aisling he needed to get a move on too. Although he confided he’d much prefer to while away his day relaxing in O’Mara’s with herself or the bonny Bronagh to keep him company. Oh yes, he lamented theatrically if his time was his own he’d happily whisk his favourite ladies across to the Green for a quiet meander around the gardens.

  Aisling told him good-naturedly to get on his way and to be sure to pick up some cakes from the not long opened Queen of Tarts on Dame Street. ‘It’s out of your way but it’s a lovely day for a walk, and if their chocolate fudge cake doesn’t sweeten your sister nothing will!’ She sensed beneath all his bluster where his sister was concerned, there was an abiding affection. Why else would he come so religiously each year?

  ‘Chocolate fudge cake you say?’

  ‘The best, chocolate fudge cake.’

  He tapped the side of his nose before doffing his hat. ‘Thanks for the tip pet. I’ll bring you a slice back.’

  Aisling set about helping Mrs Flaherty clear the remaining tables—all the while listening to her mumblings about ‘that wagon of a woman’. She assumed she was referring to Miss Brennan who’d barely touched her breakfast. She knew Mrs Flaherty always took it personally if food was left on a plate. By the time she’d moved on to her familiar monologue on ‘that fecking fox’, Aisling had begun to wipe the tables down. She glanced at the time, the breakfast service had another hour to run. By her count there was only the business man, in Room 7, and the Peterson’s in Room 3 who were yet to make an appearance. She promised Mrs Flaherty as she always did to do something about the fox while fully intending to do nothing. Their bin had been visited regularly of a night time for as long as Aisling could recall. If not by Mr Fox exactly than by his predecessors.