by Elle Casey
“Oooh, good idea,” I say, wondering what it is exactly that Irish eat for snackage. I head in that direction.
“Watch out for the toad eyeballs,” Erin calls out across the room.
My hand pauses, hovering over a plate of round brown things. “Them are some mighty big toads,” I say under my breath.
“Stop it, Erin,” says her mom. “We don’t eat a toad’s eyeballs. Where’re you gettin’ that from?”
I move left, stopping in front of the next dish.
“Might want to pass on the ground goat’s udder dip,” Erin says.
Her mother’s voice goes up really high. “For Jaysus’s sake, Erin. What’s got into you? Are ye drunk?”
Uncle Miley raises his class. “Cheers, love. Get me another, would you please?”
I take a cucumber slice and turn around, biting into it with gusto and then holding up the remaining half at my friend.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Enjoy your leprechaun nipples.”
Aunty Ger smacks her leg as she gets up to refill her husband’s beer. “You’re such a tease. Just like your dad.” The stockings she’s wearing under her brown dress make a swishing sound as she moves.
I take a high-backed wooden chair, sitting just between the men and the women, my back to the fireplace. “So … who wants to tell me Erin’s most embarrassing story from her childhood?” I crunch away on my leprechaun nipple, ready to be regaled with tales from her dark past.
Erin is always such a mystery; she never wants to share stories about her family, friends, or home country. Now’s my chance to get the goods on her. Of course I plan to use every bit of it against her in the future, because that’s just the kind of friend I am. I cross my legs and grin at the family, one member at a time.
Erin closes her eyes and tips her head back to rest on the seat behind her. “Kill me now.”
Uncle Miley is the first to bite. He wiggles his ample bum to the edge of the seat and leans towards the center of the group. “Well, I suppose there was that time when she opened up a kissin’ booth on the corner, just down the road.” He gestures with his chin. “Made herself quite a tidy sum before she was shut down by the coppers. Bloody bastards.” He grimaces and takes a long pull from his fresh beer.
I grin. “It was probably great for earning gas money.”
They all laugh as Uncle Miley responds. “Oh, they don’t let six-year-olds drive in Ireland. Too many drunks on the road.”
I snort, looking at my friend. “Six? You were six? Running a kissing booth?”
She’s still leaning her head back on the couch but her eyes are open. “What can I say? I was an entrepreneur from a very young age.” Her voice is monotone, but I can tell she’s battling not to be proud of herself.
“And you can’t forget the time she swindled twenty quid out of those poor lads in the playground,” says Aunt Ger.
“At the church, no less,” adds Mum, giggling until her cheeks are pink. “We had a heck of a time convincing Father Michael that she wasn’t the devil’s spawn, didn’t we, love?”
“Aye, we did,” agrees Dad, nodding his head, appearing lost in a bittersweet memory.
Erin picks her head up. “I was providing a service for which I was paid. I take offense to the term swindled.”
I lean forward, resting my elbow on my knee and my chin in my hand. “Oh, this has got to be good. Tell me, Erin. What service did you provide?” If she says blow jobs, I’m going to piss my pants. It’s a done deal. I will. Explode my bladder. On this chair.
Her lower jaw juts out a little. “I was providing matchmaker services, if you must know. And I was very successful at it.”
“Oh, do tell,” says Aunt Ger, clearly loving this part of the story.
“No.” Her chin goes up. “It’s not important. I paid everyone back.” Her voice lowers and she mutters the rest. “Even though the bastards got what they paid for. I’m the one who was swindled if you want to know the truth.”
Uncle Miley points out into the air distractedly. “Didn’t ye set up some sort o’ kissing game? A bit like kick the can but with a twist?” He looks at his brother. “Isn’t that right?”
Erin’s father looks up at his daughter, a very slight smile transforming his face as he joins in the fun. “I believe she called it Kissy Tag.”
“I’m sensing a theme here,” I say, pretending to be serious.
“Ah, right,” says Aunt Ger, “ye had to run around and catch a boy and then he had to kiss ye.”
“But how did she get paid?” I ask, like I’m a reporter gathering my facts. “What were the services?”
“Can I pay you all to keep your traps shut?” Erin asks the group.
They all answer together as one voice: “No!”
“Here’s where the genius part comes in,” says Uncle Miley, smacking his lips after a long pull from his beer. “See, she claimed to have supernatural powers. And if the girls slid her a few shillings, she’d use her powers to slow the boys down.” He looks at her and grins, ignoring her rolling eyeballs. “And she used half the money from the girl to pay the boy in question to run slower. On the sly, though. The girls were never the wiser.”
Aunt Ger joins in. “Aaaand she’d wave her magic wand around in the air and shout out what she called Celtic charms…”
I finish for them. “…So the boys would get caught and get a kiss and a quid, and all they had to do was run around a little.” I nod in respect. “Not bad.”
“Everybody was happy,” Erin says, pouting. “Everyone but the bloody priest. Probably just jealous he wasn’t getting any.”
Her mother smacks her leg. “Erin Ignatia Margaret O’Neill! The cheek!”
I nod, respect for my friend reaching new levels. “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what, dear?” asks Aunty Ger.
“How she’s so successful with the pub.” I take in the attentive expressions around me. “She brought it up from nothing and turned it into a great commercial success. It’s the most popular Irish bar in the city.”
“Can we talk about something else?” Erin says, a little too loudly. It cuts off my train of thought.
“How about we talk about the match-making tradition?” says Uncle Miley. “Ye girls’ll be gettin’ to Lisdoonvarna just in time, eh? Gonna look up old Henry O’Henry, are ye?”
I frown. “Who’s Henry O’Henry?”
“He’s a matchmaker,” explains Erin, “who comes from a long line of matchmakers.”
“Seriously?” I look around at everyone, trying to figure out if I’m being mocked somehow. Maybe this is part of Erin’s past too.
“Oh, yeah,” says Aunty Ger, levering herself up off the couch to go over to the appetizers. “You can look it up on The Google if ye like.” She pops one of those round balls in her mouth.
I stare in fascination as she chews. Is it crunching? Is that a crunch I hear? Do eyeballs crunch?
“It’s not Theeee Google, Aunty Ger,” says Erin. “It’s just Goooogle.”
“Well it’s a silly name, whichever it is, isn’t it?” She swallows her mouthful. “Mmm, delicious toad testicles, Una. You’ve outdone yourself.” She winks at me as she grabs another from the bowl.
“Toad eyeballs, Aunty Ger. Eyeballs. Not testicles.” Erin drops her chin to her chest. “Why, oh why, did I decide to fly into Dublin?” She looks up at the ceiling. “God? Are you there? It’s me. Erin.”
“So, what’s the deal with this matchmaker guy?” I ask. “Is it like a real business?”
“Oh, absolutely it is,” says Erin’s father. “Founded on hundreds of years of tradition.”
Erin takes over the explanation. “Years ago, after the harvest, farmers would come into town looking for a bride. They’re too busy at other times of the year or locked in with the weather to manage it. So the matchmakers would have a book of willing gals and a book of willing lads and put them together.”
“And that worked?” This is fascinating to me. I’m on the edge of m
y seat. Ireland is so different from home.
“Of course,” says Uncle Miley. “Why wouldn’t it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It just seems … too difficult to do with just a couple books of names.”
Erin takes over again. “The matchmaker knows everyone. He talks to them. Gets into their lives, their heads. He can see, because he has a special talent, who’s a good match for who. They’ve put together hundreds of families.”
“Check it on the Internet,” says Aunty Ger. “The Google can tell you everything you want to know about the whole process.”
Erin rolls her eyes again.
“And what’s that got to do with the festival?” I ask. Erin told me we would be arriving in town during a matchmaking festival, but I had no idea what she was really talking about. I’m not sure I understand now either.
“Well, ye know, it got all commercial like these things tend to do in this modern age,” says Uncle Miley.
Erin’s dad is grumbling about something, but I can’t tell what it is with his accent.
Erin sighs loudly and gives him a glare.
Uncle Miley explains further. “And now, yeah, the farmers they come, but so do all the other single lads and lasses and they all have a big party, going from pub to pub, all looking for love.” He sighs. “If I were single again, it’s where I’d be goin’.”
Aunty Ger throws a toad testicle at her husband’s head. “Watch it there, Casanova. I’ve got ears on over here.”
Uncle Miley ducks as the ball bounces off his shoulder and lands in Erin’s dad’s pint glass.
We all watch as it sinks to the bottom and then floats up to the top.
“Huh. Whatddya know?” says Aunt Ger. “Toad testicles float.”
I have to hold my legs together with all my might to keep from pissing my pants.
CHAPTER FIVE
ERIN
WINDING THE SNAKING SHOWER HEAD back between my legs, I try to regain my balance. How did I ever live like this? This thought crosses my mind not for the first time over the weekend. There is no shower to speak of in the family bathroom, just a stubborn shower head that insists on twisting its coiled hose round to drench you, no matter at what angle you stand. I say ‘family’ bathroom, but really it’s just for me; Mum and Dad have what was known as an ensuite when they bought the house way back when. They’ve had a power-shower recently installed, but the ensuite was always off limits to me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” I scream in frustration.
“You okay in there?” It’s Ridlee at the door.
“No.” I sound like a petulant child.
She comes in and stops to take in the ridiculous sight of me, shower head coiled around my legs and water spraying my eyes, desperately trying not to lose my balance and hit my head on the side of the pink porcelain bath. I have already put the shampoo in and now it’s stinging my eyes.
“Turn it off Rid, please.” I feel her lean in and then the water goes icy cold. “Arggghhhhhhh! Ridleeeee! What the fuck?”
I try to cover my face with my hands, dropping the shower head. It snaps and weaves like a live wire, sending freezing cold water everywhere. Frantically, Ridlee twists the tap back in the other direction until she manages to shut the water off.
“Oops.” She doesn’t dare laugh, but I can see that it’s costing her not to.
I have a mega ice-cream headache. “What the hell, Ridlee? Did you do that on purpose?” I reach for something to wipe my eyes.
“No, I swear I didn’t.” Ridlee passes me a minuscule facecloth.
“Cheers,” I say, standing in the bath, starkers, dripping with freezing cold water and sarcasm.
Opening my eyes, I find my friend looking much better than she has all weekend. She hadn’t faired well with the corned crubeens and tripe that Mum had prepared for our first meal, ‘to give Ridlee a taste of traditional Irish fare.’ It was the first time that crubeens had been served at our table, though I did suffer tripe as a kid on more than one occasion.
“Everything but the grunt,” declared my father tucking into one of his crubeens.
Mum passed a plate to Ridlee with a huge grin on her face.
It was obvious that my friend, whose idea of adventurous cuisine is a new type of salad dressing, was trying hard to hide her horror when presented with a full set of pig’s trotters and a good portion of its stomach. She gamely picked up her knife and fork as Mum and Dad watched her out of the corners of their eyes, and taking the tiniest bite of tripe, enthused, “Yummy, Mrs. O’Neill. Go raibh maith agat.”
Mum almost burst with joy. “Tá fáilte romhat, Ridlee. You’re very welcome indeed.”
“Ridlee, darlin’, you are welcome in this house anytime,” boomed my father.
I told her that she didn’t really have to eat it, but she’s going through a phase where she’s determined to experience everything. Unfortunately, Ridlee then spent last night dry-retching into one of my mum’s old saucepans. It was not a pretty sight. Uncle Miley says that she must have had a bad pint.
So, that being what it is, I don’t want to be too hard on her over the shower head — she’s been through enough.
“So what’s the plan, Stan?” asks my once again enthusiastic globe trotter.
“The immediate plan is that I finish my shower.” I’m still a little disgruntled, and my mood doesn’t get any better when I look Ridlee up and down. Yet again, she is immaculately turned out, this time in sexy jeans, knee high boots, pullover, and a tweed blazer. Her hair and makeup are, as always, perfect.
“Hey! No fair. When did you have a shower?” I whine.
Ridlee smooths her cashmere pullover and picks off an invisible piece of lint. “Oh, your mom told me to use the power-shower. It works really well. You should try it.”
“Humph, bit late now,” I retort looking round the bathroom in dismay. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, there aren’t even any towels in here. Ridlee, could you get me one from the airing cupboard?”
My friend stares at me blankly, as though I’ve just spoken to her in Elvish or something.
“The hot press?” Still, nothing. I heave out a sigh, “The closet in the hall where the linen and towels are kept.”
“Ohhh, the linen closet. Why didn’t you just say so? Sure.” She winks at me before disappearing out into the hall.
I stand in the bath shivering. Looking down at my bush, I realize it’s beginning to encroach on my tattoo, just above my bikini line. The tattoo is of an American road sign shaped as an arrow, with the words One Way written on it. I’m sure you can guess which way it points. I had wanted to get one saying Downtown instead, but Ridlee thought it was too obvious.
I reach for my ladyshave razor and began to tidy myself up a bit when two raps come at the door. I don’t know why Ridlee’s knocking now. “Yeah, yeah, come in already.” I look up to make sure she has my towel.
Uncle Miley walks into the bathroom and looks right at me and my ladyshave.
I scream.
He screams.
Then he turns and rushes out of the room, but not before getting an eyeful of my tattoo.
“Great!” I swear as my whole body blushes. Uncle Miley just saw me shaving my minge. “Ew, yuck, nasty!” I shiver involuntarily.
“S’up?” asks Ridlee, reappearing with a towel.
“Nothing, it’s too horrible to explain.”
Ridlee looks at my nether region. “Girl, you’ve got some hedge trimmin’ to do. There may be some hotties waiting for us in county whatyamaycallit, so you’d better get busy.”
“Yeah, got it. And it’s County Clare. Lisdoonvarna, to be exact. And, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. It’ll just be a very big band of mucksavages lookin’ for sex.”
I re-rig the shower and attempt to wash the shampoo out of my hair finally. “Will ye tell Mum that we don’t have time for breakfast, Rid? We need to get going and collect the car from the car rental place. I’ll be down in ten.”
Thirty minutes l
ater I enter the kitchen to a chorus of laughter. Uncle Miley is hiding behind a cup of tea he’s holding to his lips. My da is finishing a story, and my best friend is sitting up all alert, like a Jack Russell about to get a treat.
“Well, the handlebars of this cyclist’s bike have attached themselves to Erin’s passenger wing-mirror. The driving instructor, the feckin gobshite, is gobsmacked and can say nothing, so Erin has to decide what she should do, and quickly. She’s worried that if she stops the car the cyclist will be hurt, so instead she swerves a couple of times tryin’ to dislodge him.”
“Get outta here!” exclaims Ridlee.
“I kid ye not,” my dad continues, delighted to have a captive audience. “The first swerve does nothing, so she goes again. The fella’s on one of those racing bikes, all hunkered down, so his face is level with the driving instructor’s. They eyeball each other, equally panicked. Erin swerves again. Again, no joy — he’s a tenacious bugger. The third swerve proves successful, and he’s freed. Erin glances in the rear-view mirror to make sure he’s okay and then goes full welly on the accelerator, getting through the traffic lights just before they turn red.” Peals of laughter fill the air. I’ve heard this retold many times; it’s one of dad’s favourites. It was bloody scary at the time; I thought I was going to kill the guy.
“What did the driving instructor say?” asks Ridlee.
“That’s the funniest bit.” Dad sits up straighter and puts his mug of tea down. “The instructor said nothing that day. Not a word. And the next time Erin saw him for her lesson, he told her that he had looked it up and couldn’t find any rule of the road that she had violated. They never spoke of it again.” More laughter. I smile at my dad. He looks younger when he’s laughing.
He finally looks up to where I’m standing in the doorway. “There ye are, Pet,” he says warmly. “Ridlee was just telling us that ye’re off to hire a car.”
I know he’s disappointed that we’re leaving so soon. Mum jumps up to refill the teapot in the hope that yet another cup of tea will keep us riveted to the kitchen table a while longer at least.
“Yeah, sorry.” I ram my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and shift from one foot to the other. “Stuff to do, ye know?” I hate doing this to them—arriving home out of the blue like this and then disappearing after a day or two. Mum and Dad were both hoping that it might be a longer visit, but I just can’t afford to leave the bar for any longer than necessary right now. Guilt tugs at my conscience— yet again.