Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  ‘Oh yeah, good point. I might learn something myself.’ She laughs and then hangs up.

  If I didn’t know she was only messing I’d be worried. But the truth is that Maj always manages to get great results out of the class as well as being one of those teachers who’s not afraid to stick on Puffin Rock for two hours on a Friday afternoon. The kids are mad about her, of course.

  I stand back and look in the full-length mirror Daddy screwed to the back of my bedroom door in my Leaving Cert year. It’s pine, like everything else in the house. Mammy got it collecting SuperValu tokens. I’ll never forget her determination. She got a lamp, too, and a set of non-stick saucepans that are still in their box in the attic. The Good Saucepans, as she calls them. Sure it would be a shame to scratch them. Mammy says she’ll part with them when I have my first home. They never appeared when I moved in with the girls above in Dublin so I think I know what she means.

  ‘Aisling, is that James in the driveway?’ Mammy’s voice is shrill coming up the stairs. I don’t think she’ll ever not be starstruck by James.

  I fly to the window. That’s his jeep alright. What the blazes is he doing here?

  ‘You’ll have to tell him we’re on the way out. If we don’t leave now we’ll have to park on the GAA pitch and I won’t have tyre marks on my conscience!’

  The Blessing of the Graves is a highly attended event. Parking will be at a premium. The mass doesn’t start for half an hour, and even though the New Graveyard is only a ten-minute drive away out the Garbally Road past BallyGoBrunch, Mammy has been pacing the hallway for twenty minutes anyway.

  ‘Coming!’ I roar down to her, as I hear the slam of his jeep door and the crunch of feet on the gravel.

  Mammy gets to the front door before me. It’s usually reserved for Christmas visitors or Una Hatton dropping off her annual jar of gooseberry jam and staying for a quick boast about what Niamh is up to in New York. But James is foreign and obviously used to sailing in front doors. Mammy probably wouldn’t let him in the back anyway, despite his near-constant uniform of work trousers and functional fleeces and the tinsel garlands of Crunchie wrappers decorating the dashboard of the jeep.

  She has the door already open when I arrive at the bottom of the stairs, furiously brushing the cat hair off my shumper, and there’s James in his Good Trousers. His own hair is glistening from a recent shower and I can smell his woody, lawnmowery man scent from where I’m standing.

  ‘Hello, James,’ Mammy booms in her telephone voice.

  ‘Hi,’ I wave gingerly from the bottom of the stairs. He knows it’s Blessing of the Graves day. Sure didn’t he spread the slug pellets across Daddy’s little grave flower bed himself? But I didn’t mean for him to come with us, and I certainly didn’t invite him. I told him I couldn’t stay with him last night because Mammy would be up at the crack of dawn fretting about getting there on time and I’d need to be there to calm her down. We barely have a week left together so I was sorry to miss a night, but needs must. What is he doing here?

  He runs his hand through his hair and looks at his feet awkwardly and then back at me with a shy smile. ‘I thought you might like a lift?’

  ‘Well, isn’t that lovely?’ Mammy turns around and flashes me two raised eyebrows. ‘I can take my own car, sure.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll take you both, Marian.’

  ‘Good lad. I’ll just get my coat.’

  Mammy has insisted James call her ‘Marian’ since they first met. She insists everyone calls her that, though. But instead of ignoring her and going for the ‘Mrs’ and going red like most normal people, James has managed to follow her wishes and not cringe in the slightest. I met my old fourth class teacher, Mrs Keating, in the New Aldi and she told me to call her ‘Fiona’ and I’d sooner have climbed into the freezer with the raspberry roulade.

  I feel deeply confused and a bit panicked. Is James really going to come and stand at the side of Daddy’s grave with us? This is only our second graveyard mass since he died; before we used to all huddle around Granny and Grandad Reilly’s grave, joking with Auntie Sheila and my cousins Doireann and Cillian. It’s different now. His absence is so keenly felt. It’s too intimate for James to be there. But what can I say?

  ‘You must be busy, James. You don’t need to give up your Sunday to go to a mass,’ I say as gently as I can.

  He pauses and then looks me dead in the eye. ‘I’d like to come, if that’s okay?’ Something about the way he says it gets me and I nod.

  ‘Can I get my Good Coat out of the press behind you then?’

  Even after months in BGB he’s still mystified by us calling them ‘presses’ when he insists they’re ‘cupboards’. I don’t slag him about the ‘scones’ business, though, so I have no time for it.

  Mammy comes bustling back into the hall with her handbag. ‘Come on, come on, we’ll be late.’ Her urgency is catching, and James throws open the front door. ‘I’ll just turn the jeep, ready to go.’

  Mammy is about to follow him out when I catch her arm. ‘You don’t mind him coming, Mammy, do you?’

  She tilts her head to the side. ‘Not if you don’t, pet. I just want you to be happy. He’s a lovely boy. Man. He’s a lovely man.’

  She senses my hesitation. ‘Is he still leaving, though, Aisling? Going back to England? I don’t want you getting hurt.’

  I squeeze her arm. ‘I won’t, Mammy, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll keep it up when he goes back, the two of you? Sure it’s only a hop, skip and a jump over the water.’

  I don’t want to be getting her hopes up so I just smile and give her a little shove towards the door. ‘Come on, There’ll be no parking,’ I say, and promptly fall over That Bloody Cat as it streaks in the front door past me, hardly able to believe its luck.

  Between the traffic on the Garbally Road and the battle to get That Bloody Cat back outside so Mammy could set the alarm, there’s an army of GAA minors in their club colours directing cars into neat rows onto the pitch by the time we get there. Mammy is mortified. When we eventually get to Daddy’s grave, Father Fenlon is already making his way to the trestle-table-slash-makeshift-altar in the centre of the graveyard. As well as his good robes, he has on a new flesh-coloured headset microphone, which allows the entire congregation to hear him go ‘for fuck’s sake’ when he stubs his toe on an errant pot of hydrangeas. There’s a shriek of feedback from the PA and The Truck, who’s more used to playing eighties hits on his legendary mobile disco, dives for the sound desk. A titter spreads through the crowd. I catch Mammy’s eye and we both smother a laugh. I’m glad – I was afraid we’d get sad standing here.

  The whole village is indeed out for the mass, or it looks like it anyway, despite the fact that rain is forecast and the sky is slowly turning from a benign shade of white to an ominous grey. To the right is the McGrath family plot. Sinéad McGrath only buried her great-grandmother eight months ago. Angela McGrath died doing what she loved best – cursing at Telly Bingo when her numbers didn’t come up. She was ninety-nine and the oldest living resident of Ballygobbard. Now the honour falls to Pierce Heffernan, who used to run the abattoir in Rathborris. He’s a comparative spring chicken at just ninety-two, but he does smoke twenty Carroll’s a day so we’ll see how long he lasts.

  It’s a warm day and beside me James takes off his jacket and my nostrils are filled with that aftershave scent of his. It’s divine, truth be told. John never got much beyond Lynx Africa. My eyes flick over to his granny’s plot and there he is, head bowed, Megan beside him in a gorgeous floral dress. Fran on his other side, rosary in hand. John looks up and catches my eye and holds it before I have a chance to look away. He smiles and jerks his head towards Father Fenlon, who’s taking full advantage of being cordless and is weaving through the graves at high speed in a not entirely respectful fashion, especially for a priest. I stifle a giggle.

  ‘Aisling,’ Mammy hisses. ‘Your father is barely cold in the grave there.’

  ‘Sorry, Mammy,�
�� I mouth back at her. The time for laughing is obviously over.

  Father Fenlon is now going full throttle through the homily and striding around the graveyard, frightening the daylights out of people who are using the occasion to catch up with pals.

  ‘And now the Our Father, unless there’s something you want to share with us, Terry Crowley?’ Father Fenlon booms, popping out from behind the Crowley family headstone and nearly giving Terry an aneurysm with the fright. Terry, BGB’s one and only taxi driver, shakes his head guiltily and Father Fenlon strides off with two altar boys jogging after him.

  Billy Foran, whose father is Daddy’s neighbour on our left, presses a bag of Werther’s Originals into my hand. ‘Take one and pass them along, Ais,’ he says with a wink, and I dutifully help myself and then hand the bag to Mammy just as the first fat raindrops start to fall.

  ‘… and deliver us from evil. Amen. Ah, feck it anyway,’ Father Fenlon says with a groan as people start reaching for umbrellas.

  Naturally, I have a handy little Totes number in my bag. It wasn’t cheap – €12.99 in Arnotts – but it’s lovely and neat and much better quality than the ones you get in Penneys for a fiver. You’re only throwing your money away with those. I flick it up and James, Mammy and I all huddle awkwardly under it as the heavens open.

  Father Fenlon makes his way back towards the altar, giving instructions about how communion will be doled out and where people should queue. An altar boy is shielding his face and head with a massive umbrella, walking backwards and just asking for trouble. As he heads past the Moran family plot I catch sight of Majella’s head peeping above the top of a massive granite headstone. She’s helping her dad, Shem, wrestle into a raincoat while Pablo struggles with a particularly wriggly Willy. Suddenly Willy bolts and Maj lets go of the arm of the raincoat. Shem’s elbow flies out and shoves the umbrella-wielding altar boy, who falls forward into Father Fenlon, pushing him straight into an open grave two plots over. A gasp echoes around the graveyard and, thanks to the cordless mic, we hear every bump on the way down. I never expected a man of the cloth to have such a colourful vocabulary, but I suppose they’re only human too.

  There’s a stampede to the graveside, led by Shem, who’s understandably mortified. James makes a start to go and help but I instinctively stop him. This is local business. There’s a bit of a tussle as men start pulling off coats and jackets and tying the sleeves together to make a kind of rope while Father Fenlon, voice as clear as day over the PA, effs and blinds from six-feet under.

  Mammy, never one to miss an opportunity to beat the rush, places a hand gently on my forearm. ‘Will we go?’

  We drop Mammy over to Constance’s house in Woodlawn Park. They need to discuss stock for the eco farm petting zoo, and I bet they’ll raise a glass of something to Daddy too. Constance lost her husband years ago, and having a pal in the same boat is a great comfort to Mammy.

  ‘Where to now?’ James asks as we sit outside Constance’s. I’m fully aware that her curtains are probably twitching like a tired eye as she and Mammy sit inside and discuss us so I need to make a decision fast. The tradition is that everyone goes to Maguire’s after the Blessing of the Graves. Mikey Maguire always gets a band in and many glasses are raised to the souls of all the faithful departed. I wasn’t planning on James being there, though. Again, it’s such an intimate thing. Such a local thing. Sure, the whole town loves James, and Sumira Singh might be ready to leave her husband for him, but he’s a blow-in at the end of the day. But I promised Majella I’d be there. She wants to talk about whether it’s okay to explicitly ask for cash-only presents on the wedding invite. It’s a minefield. ‘Maguire’s,’ I tell James. ‘And we should still be quick enough to beat the rush.’

  I’m right and the pub is only half-full when we arrive. I easily nab us a table down the back while James heads for the bar. It’s still bucketing down outside, and the smell of the turf fire fills the air. I check my phone – a text from Majella.

  ‘Daddy had to go in after Father Fenlon. Now they’re both stuck. Sweatin for wine xx’

  ‘We’re lucky we left when we did,’ I say as James passes me my gin. ‘It’s gone from bad to worse.’

  Felipe follows James to the table with a few packets of Taytos and places them in front of me. I look at James with delight. ‘Good man, I’m actually starving.’

  He beams. ‘I know you well enough now to not come back without crisps.’

  ‘How many at the graveyard?’ Felipe has his notepad out, ready to plan for the influx from the mass.

  ‘Loads,’ I tell him. ‘Packed. Father Fenlon fell into a grave so people will be in high spirits.’ Felipe will love that. Father Fenlon isn’t his favourite person since he refused to let Felipe accompany the odd mass with his guitar and some Brazilian hymns. Father Fenlon prefers to stick to ‘Bind Us Together’ and ‘He Is Lord’. Absolute bangers, to be fair.

  ‘Oh, good. Serves him right.’

  I knew it. He’s delighted.

  ‘You two. You’re cute. Cutesy pies. Very nice.’ Felipe wags a finger between me and James and winks at us. My cheeks start to flame immediately, and I steal a glance at James and he’s gone a bit pink too. James raises his glass slightly at him in a ‘thanks very much, now please leave us alone’ gesture and Felipe retreats to the bar.

  James turns to me and raises his glass again. ‘So. I wanted to thank you for allowing me to join your family today. I know I muscled in a bit but …’ He looks upset.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Aisling, I have to leave tomorrow. Go back to England, I mean. The foreman on a job in Bristol has quit and I have to go and oversee it. It’s a bit of a mess.’

  ‘Oh.’ My heart drops. He’s not supposed to be leaving until next weekend. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to a long goodbye, but I also wasn’t expecting this. He’s about to say something else when the pub door flies open and Majella bails in, followed by Pablo, The Truck, Maeve Hennessy, Sinéad McGrath, Dee Ruane, Cyclops, Sharon and half the Knocknamanagh Rangers hurling team as well as some of the BGB Rovers. Everyone has someone buried in the New Graveyard. They’re all soaked to the skin and creasing themselves laughing about the Father Fenlon fiasco while firing orders at Felipe behind the bar. Mikey Maguire passes out towels as Shem Moran walks in to what can only be described as a hero’s welcome after his graveside rescue. Majella and the gang squeeze themselves in beside me and James, the noise and damp pushing away the awkwardness. James catches my eye and gives me a tight smile. I shrug at him and mouth ‘sorry’ but I also feel a bit relieved. He was looking very serious and I’m not sure I’m up for a big sad farewell at this moment.

  The pub door swings open again and John and Megan walk in, shaking off an umbrella and sliding out of their coats. Cyclops gives a shout to John and waves him towards us, while Sharon gives him a dig in the arm and Majella shoots me a sympathetic look. Lads can be so clueless. John and Megan have no choice but to join us and Pablo darts around like a whippet sourcing two extra stools for them.

  ‘John, my friend, here! And Megan!’ he says, placing them right opposite James and me. Great.

  ‘Lovely day for it.’ John smiles as he takes his seat.

  ‘Mighty.’ I smile back, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me.

  Megan immediately moves on to complimenting Sharon’s handbag, which is absolutely tiny and wouldn’t even fit a hairbrush but, sure, Sharon likes her bits. Leave her off.

  John leans forward and puts his elbows on the table, but then changes his mind and leans back again, clearing his throat and running his hands through his hair. He’s feeling awkward too, I can tell. James takes the opportunity to excuse himself to the bathroom.

  ‘Well, Aisling, any plans for the big birthday?’ John asks, nearly too loudly, like he’d been rehearsing it. I’m immediately reminded that not only is it my birthday, but it would have been our nine-year anniversary. John was my seventeenth kiss at my twenty-first, a lifetime ago. ‘T
he big three-oh,’ he continues awkwardly when I say nothing. Majella shoots him a glare and I’m nearly sure she kicks him under the table. I give her a little smile. She’s really taken what I said about not wanting a fuss to heart.

  ‘Oh, when are you thirty, Aisling?’ Megan leans away from Sharon and towards John, her big blue eyes genuinely interested. Rumour has it she’s only just gone twenty-seven.

  ‘Two weeks,’ I tell her as James rounds the corner on his way back from the bathroom. He sits down beside me and gives me a sad look, leaning into my ear to say quietly, ‘I’d better go. Packing to do.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I say, starting to gather my things, feeling such a mixture of emotions I could scream given half the chance, and actually glad of the opportunity to get out of there.

  ‘There’s no need,’ he says, but I’m already pulling on my coat and waving away Majella’s confused stare as James puts on his own coat and starts to say his goodbyes to the surprised faces. I can feel John looking at me and I resist for as long as I can before looking down at him.

  ‘Are you okay?’ He doesn’t actually say it but I can tell that’s what he means with just the raise of his eyebrows. Of all the people to be offering eyebrows of comfort.

  ‘I’m grand,’ I say quietly and wait patiently for James so I can say my own goodbye.

  9

  ‘Did you cry?’

  ‘A bit. Just as he was leaving.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘I bet he did. He was mad about you, you know,’ Majella says matter-of-factly as we scurry through the drizzle from the car towards the entrance. It’s the first time I’ve seen her properly since James’s departure. We huddle into the revolving door, which spits us out into the foyer and nearly hurls Majella into a giant plant pot bookending one of four velour couches, all facing inwards in an intimate square. I squeeze between the arms of the couches and sink myself into one of them. Jesus, it’s very low. I’ll need a medical hoist to get out of it. The nicer the hotel, the more cavernous the chairs, I suppose. And of the two hotels within a thirty-minute radius of BGB, the Ard Rí is definitely on top.