“Well, there’s a reason they call me Santy.”
“Thanks. You shouldn’t have,” I say.
“It’s great to be here.”
“Have you got the grand tour of the village yet?” I ask.
“No.”
“So here we have the church, the school, and the pub.” I point them out all clustered together. “Tour complete, all tips welcome.”
“That’s the pub we’re going to tonight?”
“Yeah, that’s Cassidy’s.”
“It looks like somebody’s house.”
“It is.”
“And your house is this way?”
“Yeah, just around the corner, toward the screaming children on the hill. Billy opened up one of the fields as a kind of temporary ski slope for the kids.”
“Oh my God, amazing.”
“How was your Christmas?” I ask.
“Grand, yeah. I volunteered at the homeless shelter in the morning.”
“Of course you did.”
“I think my mother was angry at me for not being at home when she was there. She had to go into work in the afternoon so it was just me and Kevin from Home Alone keeping each other company.”
“Was your dad working too?”
“I don’t know actually. Dad doesn’t live with us.”
“Oh God. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s completely fine, like. Where’s your mam and Billy?” she asks before I can squeeze in another question.
“Mam is asleep but Billy should be around.”
We cross the cattle grid and Jacob immediately runs nose-first into Xanthe’s crotch.
“Jacob get off her.”
“He is the best doggie.” Xanthe is trying to look at his face but he insists on burying himself between her legs.
“He’s not the worst,” I say. When the snow came, Jacob finally left the tractor cab to sleep in the shed. He has put on the weight he lost when James died and he is looking more like himself.
I take the hamper from Xanthe and put it in the kitchen. I try to assess the house through her eyes. Our kitchen is a dark and dank room, almost as small as the one in her apartment in town. The seashells on the windowsill look like dirty crockery. Some of the handles have fallen off the wooden presses and the linoleum floor is warped and bubbling under her feet.
“Your house is so cute!”
“It’s a tip at the minute,” I say. “Do you want to visit the caravan before or after tea?” I ask.
“Oh before, please. Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah, it’s just . . . I’m really sorry but we’ve run out of toilet roll.” I fling presses open looking for kitchen roll or something I can offer her.
“It’s totally fine,” she says, producing a packet of tissues from her coat pocket. “I can use one of these. Where’s the loo?”
“It’s upstairs. The first door on the left.”
* * *
I hear the toilet flush and breathe a sigh of relief that at least the cistern is working. I drum my fingers on the table, waiting for her to reappear. Then I hear a murmur of voices. I leg it upstairs but it’s too late. Mam is already showing Xanthe into the Tabernacle and she’s walking around, looking at the walls like she’s in the Louvre.
I aim for damage control. “Xanthe, this is my—”
“This room is just incredible.” Xanthe turns around from inspecting a page of Finnegan’s Wake plastered on the wardrobe. “It’s so lovely to meet you, Maeve.”
She’s acting like she is meeting the Pope. Mam clutches the sleeves of her red knitted geansaí and pulls them down over her hands. She seems suspicious of Xanthe as she watches her touch the sacred items of the Tabernacle. It’s an impressive room, especially compared to the rest of our house.
“Gorgeous,” Xanthe whispers, placing Sebastian the skull back in his rightful place.
“Your coat is beautiful.” Mam is looking at Xanthe with a mixture of admiration and envy.
“Thank you very much.” Xanthe smiles. “Debbie tells me that you’re a writer?”
Mam frowns. “Did she?”
“What kind of stuff do you write?” Xanthe tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Mam blinks.
“Sorry, that’s probably an impossible question.”
“I write down the dreams.” Mam rushes to get the stacks of copybooks under her desk.
“Xanthe, I think we better go out to Billy,” I say, but Mam has already given her an Aisling copy to flick through.
“I write down the dreams that come to me,” Mam explains. “Most of them resist narrative form, so sometimes I attempt to record the audio or try to sketch the dimensions or certain images that stand out.”
“You do this every morning?” Xanthe pulls out the chair and sits down at the desk. “Debbie, do you mind if I have that cup of tea?”
I sigh. “Mam, do you want tea?”
Mam bites her lip.
“There’s some earl gray in the hamper I brought,” Xanthe says.
“I might have one of those,” Mam mumbles.
“Great! Me too,” Xanthe says, flicking through the pages of Mam’s journal. “Thanks, Debs.”
* * *
When I come back, Mam has lit some incense and they are talking about tai chi and chakra healing.
“Honestly, Maeve, it will change your life.” Xanthe takes the cup of earl gray from me. “Did you put milk in this?” she asks.
“Are you supposed to?”
“It’s OK, I’ll drink it.”
“No, I have oat milk in the fridge,” I say. “Mam, do you want milk in yours?”
“Yes, please.”
I stomp out of the room and down the stairs to play waitress again.
* * *
An hour later, Mam and Xanthe are still going on about the dreams. Mam has loosened up and is talking freely, sometimes laughing and allowing Xanthe to see the gaps where her teeth should be.
“Honestly, Maeve, I think you’re an inspiration,” Xanthe says, clutching Mam’s hand. “People have such a narrow view of what they consider to be reality. We only ever catch a glimpse of our shared imagination in art or music.”
“Well, people are afraid to be ignorant,” Mam says. “And they are uncomfortable with the thought that when we enter the deepest levels of a dream, we break free of ourselves. Our society is so fettered to the idea of the individual. Real inspiration comes from outside of ourselves, the communal, that which we don’t know, that which can exist only in dreams. Mozart composed directly from dream states. Kafka wrote exclusively at night. Even the molecular structure of DNA was discovered in a dream.” She throws her hands up in the air as if to say, “What more proof do you need?”
“And on that note, I think it’s time to go outside,” I say. “Xanthe hasn’t seen the farm yet.”
“Do you want to come with us?” Xanthe asks Mam.
I shoot Mam a look.
“No, I’m going to do a bit of writing,” Mam says, letting go of Xanthe’s hand. “You’ve inspired me.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Before we leave, Xanthe scribbles down a list of book recommendations, the name of a yoga class, and her phone number on the cover of an Aisling copy.
* * *
“Is Maeve coming to the pub tonight?” she asks, as I show her the way to the caravan.
“Probably not.”
“I could have talked to her for hours.”
“She likes you.”
“Well, I wasn’t expecting her to be so . . .” Xanthe stops walking. “You know that your mother is amazing, right?”
“She is fluent in bullshit.”
“I think she makes a lot of sense.”
“You don’t have to live with her,” I say.
* * *
We open the caravan door to the sight of Billy adding an empty Heineken can to his Christmas tree tower.
“Billy—”
“Sssssshhhh,” he says, raising a hand and pl
acing the can on top of the tower.
He turns around to us. “This must be Santy.”
“Billy.” Xanthe shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Billy looks at me. “She has a solid handshake.”
“Not too much of a squeeze, but firm. And definitely not watery,” Xanthe says.
“Oh, watery is the Judas of handshakes. Never trust one.”
Xanthe’s smile is trembling. I realize she’s nervous. She puts her hands behind her back and walks around, surveying the interior of Billy’s home and pretending not to notice him looking at her.
“Xanthe. I was expecting a blond,” he says.
“I was a fair-haired baby.”
“You share your name with an extraterrestrial mountain range.”
“The Xanthe mountains on Mars, I believe,” she says.
“A woman on Mars. Blessed is she among men.”
“Oh my God,” she squeals, and kneels down, peering into a cardboard box on Billy’s bed. I go over to see what it is. It’s the hedgehog.
“That’s Edward,” Billy says.
“He’s so cute!”
“I’m glad someone thinks so. Debbie wanted to kill him.”
“I did not.”
“He’s breathing quite heavily,” Xanthe says.
“I know.” Billy crouches down beside her. “You’d swear he was smoking forty a day. He got a bash on the snout, so that might have something to do with it.”
“Look at his little feet!”
“Yeah, his feet are a lot longer than you’d expect.” Billy points to the line that separates its spines from its stomach. “These are very strong muscles. Carrying an army of prickles on your back is like wearing a really expensive evening dress. When Edward here needs to move fast, these muscles are able to lift up the dress and he’s able to make a quick escape.”
“David Attenborough over here,” I say.
“How did ye get a piano to fit in here?” Xanthe asks.
“Don’t even get me started.” I sigh. “Half the keys don’t work, it’s out of tune, and no one can play it.”
Xanthe runs her fingers along the keys. Webs of dust collect in her fingers and she brushes them away.
“This girl can play,” Billy says.
“Oh God, no,” she says.
“You can tell by her posture.” Billy nudges me. It’s like he’s taking about the hedgehog again. “When she sits down now her back will be poker straight.”
“No pressure now, Xanthe,” I say.
“I don’t know what to play.”
“Play whatever you like.”
“Don’t play anything sad,” Billy says.
I punch him on the arm. “Play whatever you like.”
The keys of the piano are a dirty cream—the color of cigarette-stained fingernails. Xanthe puts her fingers into position and lets her fingers spell out a melody, bowing her head toward them.
“What’s the name of that?” Billy asks.
“It’s called ‘Dawn.’ It’s from the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack.”
“The Keira Knightley one?” Billy asks.
Xanthe stops playing. “Are you a fan of Keira?”
“Well, she could do with eating a ham sandwich or two.”
Xanthe laughs.
“Billy, you can’t comment about women’s weight like that,” I argue.
He throws his eyes up to heaven, playing a charade for Xanthe. “Keep going there,” he tells her. “You’re a regular Marianne Dashwood.”
“Xanthe is more of a Jane Fairfax,” I say.
“You do not read Austen,” Xanthe stops playing again and stares at Billy.
“It’s his new guilty pleasure,” I say.
“There’s nothing guilty about it,” Billy says. “The woman is a genius.” There’s something about the way Billy is looking at Xanthe, like there’s a light behind his eyes that hasn’t been switched on in a long time.
Twelve Pubs
Xanthe arrives down to the pub wearing a novelty jumper with a Rudolf bobble nose, a tight black leather skirt with sheer tights, and knee-high boots. I’m relieved and disappointed when I see that she is alone. I had psyched myself up to see them together.
“Where’s your fella?” I ask.
“He’s coming down later,” she says, sliding into the snug beside me.
“What are you having?” Billy asks.
“I think I’ll go on the Heineken.”
“My kind of woman,” says Billy. “Shirley! Another pint over here when you’re ready.”
We’re gearing up for a long night ahead. Stephen’s night is the village Christmas jumper party—a fundraiser for the local GAA club. Everyone calls it the Twelve Pubs.
“Are you doing the Twelve Pubs?” Xanthe asks.
“Oh God, no,” Billy says. “Too much exercise.”
Shirley’s pub is on a little island of land that forms a Y-junction. Some people started a tradition of doing a lap of the pub after every pint, treating every lap as if it’s a new pub. Only the hard-core ones do twelve laps but they take it very seriously.
“I might do a lap or two for the craic,” I say. “It’s actually great to do when the kids are still around. They get really into it.”
“Off their heads on fizzy drinks,” Billy says.
“What time does it start?”
Billy turns around and roars across to Shirley. “What time is kickoff, Shirl?”
Shirley comes over and puts down Xanthe’s pint beside Billy. “Seven o’clock.”
“Shirley, this is Xanthe, Debbie’s friend from college.”
“Nice to meet you,” Xanthe says.
“Hi, pet.” Shirley pats her on the head and takes the empties off the table.
Xanthe takes out her phone. I’m guessing she’s making sure he’s down before seven. My heart is thumping already.
* * *
Xanthe is quizzing Billy about milking.
“Do they have names?”
“No, they have numbers though.”
“Can you tell them apart?”
“You get to know them by their tits.”
Xanthe bursts out laughing.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” Billy says. “It’s true.”
“Xanthe’s a vegan,” I inform him.
Billy raises his eyebrows and inhales sharply.
“I’m not against all dairy farming,” she clarifies.
“You have a T-shirt that says, ‘My oat milk frees all the cows from the yard.’”
“I’m not against rural farmers making a living. And your cows seem to have it good,” she says to Billy.
“Bitches have a better life than we do,” Billy grumbles.
* * *
Billy starts playing the generous uncle card, refusing to let us pay for drinks.
“What happened to rounds?” I ask when he tells me to put my money away.
“It’s Christmas,” he says, as though I’m the one who’s been sulking all winter, bitching about how much work has to be done on the farm.
Xanthe and I watch him as he goes on a tour of the pub to shower season’s greetings on everyone.
“He’s like a politician,” I say.
“He’s class.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Debbie, I don’t know how to break this to you, but your uncle is a babe.”
“What? Ew. Stop it. He’s an old man.”
“He’s not that old. And he reads Austen.”
“I made him watch some period-drama movies with me. And he’s old.”
“He’s not that old.”
“La-la-la-la-la, going to block this conversation from my memory.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You have a boyfriend,” I remind her.
She laughs. “I’m allowed to have a boyfriend and fancy other people.”
“Not Billy,” I say. “Seriously, please stop.”
“So . . .” Xanthe searches for a change of subject. “M
aeve didn’t make it down?”
“It’s hard for her to be down the pub this year, with James gone,” I say. “Shirley is James’s mother and well . . . Mam and Shirley don’t really get on.”
“So she’s home alone?”
“Yeah, she likes her own company though.”
Xanthe looks like she’s going to say something, but decides against it.
“How was Christmas?” she asks instead.
“We all survived anyway.”
“That bad?”
“I tried cooking a turkey this year. Well, first, I wanted to do a veggie dinner but Billy was having none of it. And we never have turkey for Christmas.”
“What do ye usually have?”
“Chicken Maryland.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“With what?”
“Boiled potatoes and beans.”
“That sounds grim.”
“I know. Hence why I tried to take the reins this year. Anyway, I don’t know what I did to it but it wasn’t edible. Ended up giving it to Jacob. He was delighted with himself.”
“What did ye have instead?” Xanthe asks.
“Potatoes and beans.”
“Oh God.”
“And a few potato waffles to mix things up.”
“Listen, it’s not Christmas without at least two kinds of potato,” Xanthe says. “How were things on the present front?”
“Surprisingly good. Billy bought me loads of random stuff like bubble bath and perfume. I’m kind of worried about him. He bought himself a pair of alpacas for Christmas too.”
“What?!” Xanthe slaps her hands down on the table.
“Yeah, he got them on DoneDeal from a farm up north. He said they couldn’t deliver them with the snow.” I take out my phone and show her a photo of the pair of them looking straight at the camera like goofball teddy bears with giraffe necks and mad haircuts.
“They’re adorable!”
“We’ve already named them. The one with the Mohawk is Jacksy and Mildred has a bit of a twinkle in her eye there.”
“A boy and a girl for baby alpacas!” Xanthe beams.
“Oh Jesus, I don’t think he thought that far ahead. I still can’t believe he actually bought them. He has gone a bit mad spending money this year.”
“What a legend.”
“How was meeting the in-laws?” I ask.
“Great. They seem lovely. The whole thing is a bit weird though. I put so much time and energy into getting ready for them to judge me. I don’t know. It’s like he’s showing me off as this shiny new thing he found on the side of the road.”
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