Once, Twice, Three Times an Aisling

by Emer McLysaght

  Mammy and Constance bid their nervous hellos to Skippy and he launches right in.

  ‘So, an eco farm. But just how eco is it, really? How can we be sure it’s not just another Hackett’s Recycling con waiting to happen?’

  Ron Hackett was shamed from a height last year when it emerged that not one bit of the ‘recycling’ he was charging the residents of BGB, Knock and beyond to collect was going anywhere near a recycling plant. He was dumping it illegally in a sandpit off the Garbally Road. And it later emerged he’d robbed the green bins on night-time crime sprees across two counties. The last thing BGB needs is another environmental scandal. Miriam had warned that with a light story Skippy sometimes likes to go for the unexpected jugular, but right out the gate seems a bit much. And him just flirting with them thirty seconds ago.

  ‘Well, we, eh, we …’ Mammy blusters for a second and I feel a sense of rising panic. I will her to pivot instead to her key talking points of solar-powered chick-hatching stations and Foraging Fridays, which they’re hoping will bring in school groups and I’m hoping won’t have someone in hospital after eating a dodgy mushroom. Bernard ‘The Bog’ Shefflin is coming in to do the foraging and he basically lives in a hedge so fingers crossed it will be fine.

  My phone goes. It’s a text from Majella. She said she was going to hide in the toilets at school and listen in while marking spelling tests. ‘The louser. I’m boycotting Skippy Brennan from now on.’

  That will be hard going. Shem Moran is devoted to Skippy.

  Mammy trails off, but before Skippy can go again, Constance pipes up. ‘Well, you see, eh, Skippy.’ She says ‘Skippy’ like it’s the name of something hawked up by an alpaca. ‘You see, we’ve done our research. We’ve consulted with farms all over Ireland and all over the world, in fact, and we’re confident of our standards. Local farmer Muuursh Kelly will tell you just how rigorous we are.’

  Go Constance!

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Skippy patronises. ‘But what’s this I have in front of me about imported wood for playground fixtures? An overpowering and unpleasant smell?’

  Where is he getting this from? This is an ambush! I glare over at Miriam and she shrugs her shoulders apologetically.

  ‘He’s in one of his moods,’ she whispers. ‘The County Chronicle got a tip-off that he’s been getting Botox and really went to town on him this morning. How the hunter becomes the hunted.’

  ‘That smell –’ Constance has gone full honk and Skippy cuts her off.

  ‘Mrs Swinford, if we could keep the voices to a dull roar, please?’

  Mammy pipes up. Her head had sunk so low I was afraid she had slipped off the chair and under the desk in fright and mortification. ‘That smell,’ Mammy repeats slowly and calmly, ‘was from Engers’ pig farm two kilometres away. We get it whenever the wind blows just so and it’s been coming and going since long before our eco farm was even a glint of an idea.’ She’s right. Many’s the line of perfectly good washing has been ruined by the stench. ‘The wood for the playground came from a sustainable forest in Wicklow and those alpacas belonged to Murt Kelly. Now, have you another question for us, Skippy, or can we tell you about the cabbage samosas?’

  Through the glass I can see Skippy holding his hands up and he laughs on air. ‘Okay, okay. Just doing my job, holding people to account. The fourth estate never sleeps.’

  My God, he thinks he’s on Channel 4 news. It’s far from Channel 4 Solas FM was reared.

  ‘Okay then, these yurts, tell me about them. Why would I sleep in one and not, say, a lovely hotel?’

  By the time Skippy has to take a break for the death notices, Mammy and Constance have covered the yurts, the nature trails, the farm shop and the hen-party packages. Skippy had some questions about the compostable willy straws, and Miriam Timoney nearly choked on her tea when Constance called them ‘startlingly realistic’ and Skippy cut her off and threw to an ad break. I can see the three of them chatting through the window as one of the four death-notice broadcasts of the day goes out.

  ‘Solas FM has been informed of the following deaths. Terrence Foley, The Hastings, Knocknamanagh. Reposing at his home from this evening until 10 a.m. tomorrow. Removal to St Brigid’s Church …’

  ‘They used to read them out live, the death notices.’ Miriam places a cup of tea in front of me with two Good Biscuits on the saucer beside it. I suppose it’s all about the glamorous biscuits in the world of radio and showbiz. ‘They pre-record them now, after … the incident.’

  She’s only dying to tell me, and I’m dying to hear it, of course. I lean forward and give her an encouraging nod.

  ‘Poor Susan was in there in the studio reading her death notices live, doing her best sad voice when …’ Miriam clutches at her craw. ‘Someone here in the office said, “Can anyone else hear that?” And sure enough, there was a song playing over her. Soundtracking her, almost. Live on the radio. While she read funeral arrangements.’

  ‘Was it supposed to be there?’

  ‘Jesus, no. Some clod was in the other studio getting songs ready for his show and he was somehow broadcasting at the same time as Susan.’

  ‘What was the song?’

  Miriam looks at me, tragedy in her eyes. ‘Chris Rea. “I Can Hear Your Heartbeat”.’

  James is disbelieving when I relay the story to him that evening as we drive towards Knock. Rumour has it they’ve finally changed the film at the cinema and I’ve two share bags of Maltesers from Filan’s in my handbag.

  ‘Hang on. So they read out who’s dead. On the radio?’

  ‘Yes, James.’ I’m exasperated. He keeps focusing on that rather than the catastrophe of the song and that Susan had just announced that Jill Noonan had died ‘suddenly of a heart attack in her home’ when Chris Rea started warbling.

  ‘And then just anyone can go to the funeral? Because it’s announced, live, on the radio?’

  ‘Well, it’s not live. Not any more.’ Was he even listening to my story?

  ‘But it went well anyway? I’m sorry I didn’t get to listen. I was battling three very loud power drills and an architect with a very particular opinion about an archway.’

  ‘It did, in the end. Skippy went hard on them at first but they knew their stuff. It will be great for booking, I think. John …’

  I falter over his name a bit and James looks over at me and squeezes my knee. ‘It’s okay, Aisling. You can say his name. I don’t mind.’

  Now that we’re a proper couple I’m trying to be more sensitive around John and our past together, and I still haven’t told James about John doing the website for Mammy. Here goes.

  ‘John has been helping with the website and is monitoring the bookings for the time being, just to make sure it all goes smoothly. There are two groups booked in for March and April already, and loads of emails asking about the Santa experience.’

  James doesn’t skip a beat but his voice changes ever so slightly. ‘Brilliant! And how was work today?’

  It was busy. Mad busy. By the time I got back from the radio station Carol was already behind on some catering orders for tomorrow, and for some reason the electricity bill hadn’t gone out of the account. But I just want to relax and enjoy the evening. ‘Grand. Actually, if we stick on Solas we might catch Mammy and Constance on Playback. It’s ninety-seven-point-six.’

  James flicks on the radio and twists the knob to tune it in, but we’re just approaching Knock so we might not catch it after all. The news is still on as James slows down to look for a parking space. We’re not the only ones who heard about the new film.

  ‘And finally, on Solas Showbiz, could we be welcoming a Hollywood celebrity into our midst to celebrate a very important birthday? A source has told the County Chronicle that –’

  James brakes suddenly and exclaims, ‘There’s one!’ And my bag falls forward, packets of Maltesers spilling into the footwell in front of me. I catch it before I lose the two tubes of Fruit Pastilles as well.

  15

  The flights
to Tenerife kept going up and up, even after I cleared my cookies twice. Well, I didn’t clear them, Mammy did. When she first brought it up, I thought she was talking about the Viscounts I hoovered up the other night when she wasn’t looking.

  ‘No, love, it basically tells your computer to forget all the times you’ve been checking the Ryanair website,’ she explained patiently. It’s amazing what she’s picking up on the computer course. ‘They’ll keep increasing the price if they know you’re looking, the feckers.’

  I hope Michael O’Leary dies screaming, I honestly do. It’s now costing €230 a head just to get from Ireland to Tenerife. I’m terrified to tell the women so I’ve decided to absorb the increase myself. Between the thirty-two travelling from Ireland it’s costing me just under €5,000, but honestly, it’s a small price to pay not to listen to Aunt Shirley and co. giving out yards and I don’t want anything negative getting back to Majella. I swear Fionnuala would have me done for false advertising anyway. She’s so tight she used to keep her own stash of brand-name toilet roll under the bed and leave Maj and Mairead with the one-ply when they all lived together. It was practically see through.

  I settle into James’s couch and bite the bullet. ‘Ladies, our flights and rooms are finally booked!’ I type into the WhatsApp group. Aeroplane emoji. Cocktail emoji. Flamenco dancer emoji. ‘I think I’ve managed to accommodate all your travel requests but just PM me if you have any more. Except you, Aunt Shirley!’ Frazzled face emoji. ‘Can anyone who still hasn’t paid their deposit pop it into my account? Thanks!’ Smiley face. ‘Next up: the itinerary! I’m thinking “casual dinner” Wednesday night, “activity” Thursday, “mad night” Thursday night, “activity 2” Friday, “optional dinner” Friday night and “leaving” Saturday? Sound good? LOL.’ Smiley emoji.

  I slump back in my seat, turn my phone face down and brace myself for the reaction. I had to leave the predominantly Spanish group Pablo’s relatives added me to, which is always awkward, so I set my alarm for 3 a.m. and did it then. Truth be told, I was still awake. In fact, I’ve barely slept the past three weeks with the stress of organising this hen and getting everything booked and confirmed in Tenerife. I’m a bit panicky about using my credit card at the best of times – it normally only comes out for emergencies or when I’m abroad – and for some reason I kept putting off booking the flights. It’s my own fault it’s costing me an arm, a leg and a head, and that’s before I had to add on my two extra suitcases for all the props. I really shot myself in the foot ordering those light-up shot glasses you hang around your neck. Two AAA batteries in each one – the weight of them! But Maj loved Roisin Rice’s so I couldn’t not get them, or the hairband zogabongs, the forty-eight T-shirts or the inflatable shamrocks. You only get one hen.

  The Paradise Aqua debited the money from my account mere seconds after I made the booking but I haven’t seen sight nor sound of a receipt in my inbox yet. I’m sure Flo isn’t trying to scam me though. She called me ‘poppet’ twice on the phone. And besides, I have a bloodhound nose for scams.

  James kept asking me if I was sick when I couldn’t finish my fillet steak last night but, sure, I couldn’t admit I was stressing about the whole thing. I had to pretend my period was coming. He didn’t say another word, only disappeared and came back with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food twenty minutes later. I had to take a picture and put it straight up on Facebook. The boy done good.

  I take a deep breath and flip over the phone. Forty-two WhatsApp notifications. Mother of God.

  ‘Are we wearing the Tenerifian get-ups to the casual dinner or the mad night?’ Dearbhla, a Moran cousin, wants to know. ‘When are we wearing the T-shirts?’

  ‘Put me down for everything but the optional dinner,’ Danielle says. ‘I think I’ll do a bit of sightseeing.’ By herself on a Friday night in a place where she knows no one? She really is a strange fish.

  ‘Is the activity costing extra? I hadn’t budgeted for extras.’ Two guesses who that is.

  Then there’s a lot of toing and froing in Spanish between Juana, Maria and Pablo’s assorted relatives. I’m not too up on my Español – I did German, full sure we’d all be speaking it by 2005 – but the word abuela keeps popping up and I get the distinct impression Pablo’s granny is a bit of a weapon.

  ‘Sounds fab, hun, I’m bringing my kit so I can do our make-up and lashes xxx.’ It’s a small gesture from Sharon, but I immediately feel tears pricking my eyes. Everything has been so stressful lately, it doesn’t take much to set me off. I’m starting to feel bad for the amount of times I’ve chastised Pablo for bursting into tears at the drop of a hat.

  ‘What’s the activity, Ais?’ Denise Kelly wants to know. I didn’t make it to her hen due to a clash with my great-aunt’s ninetieth birthday party, but apparently they did archery, a cookery class, zip-lining and a make-up masterclass over two days. It was all anyone could talk about. Dee Ruane ended up having to leave early due to exhaustion.

  ‘I’ve a few ideas lined up.’ Smiley-face emoji.

  ‘Can I get a double room, Aisling?’ This is the first I’ve heard from Majella’s cousin Bernadette. I had her in the No Hassle column in my notebook but I’ll be moving her to Low Hassle now for this. If she wants her own room, who am I going to put in with Ellen? She and Teresa fell out last weekend over one of them underpaying for a Westlife comeback concert ticket and now they’re not speaking. It’s thrown my sleeping plan into chaos. ‘Also, would you mind if I brought my new boyfriend?’

  At 3 a.m. I’m still wide awake while James snores softly behind me, one arm casually flung over my waist, his breath warm on the back of my neck. I’m so tired I even eyed his drowsy Sudafed in the bathroom press but I couldn’t bring myself to take one. Next thing you know I’d be buying poppers and yippers behind the chipper in Knock. It’s a slippery slope.

  I was complaining to Sharon when she was giving me a head massage on Saturday that I was having trouble switching off and she said to write out a list of my worries, stick it in a drawer and come back to it the next day. She swore blind it works for her and she gets her full nine hours every night.

  Holding up James’s arm, I slither out of bed and fumble around in the dark until I find my negligee on the floor. There’s absolutely no heat in it but he looked so hopeful when he gave it to me, and the quality was so good, that I just kicked my Harry Potter pyjamas – €12, Penneys – into my overnight bag and threw it on.

  I grab a hoodie off the chair in the corner and tiptoe out to the living room, lifting a sheet of paper and a hard A4 folder from James’s desk, and sink onto the couch, pen poised over the accusingly white page. I stare at it. It gets bigger and wider before my eyes. Where do I start? I look around the room and feel the panic slowly rising in me. What if the Paradise Aqua doesn’t have another double room free for Bernadette and this lad she met last weekend at a wedding? I don’t know if I have it in me to tell her he can’t come. What kind of hen has a man on it – apart from maybe a Gay Best Friend, but Sadhbh tells me that’s an offensive stereotype, and anyway I’m probably too late to make friends with Brendan Courtney? What if Sharon’s make-up weighs more than 20kg? And, worst of all, what if Majella doesn’t have a good time because her cousins are fighting and her grandmother-in-law is as mad as a box of frogs? I’m the only bridesmaid, the chief bridesmaid. It’s all on me.

  ‘Ais?’ James is standing in the doorway rubbing his eyes. ‘What are you doing? It’s nearly four.’

  ‘Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Are you … drawing something?’

  I look down at the paper and realise I’ve been scribbling on it. Not my usual name and address or the classic ‘this is a nice pen’ but the full-on scratchings of a mad woman.

  ‘Just talking the pen for a walk,’ I say with a smile before getting up. ‘Now, I’d better call it a night.’

  16

  When Sadhbh suggested me and Maj come up to Dublin for a pre-Christmas girly night to see the new house and drink win
e I couldn’t say yes fast enough. She’s hardly ever in Ireland these days, and as much as it’s been nice spending every spare minute with James, I’m looking forward to a couple of days’ break from the holdy-in knickers and the being nice to each other all the time. And, to tell the truth, I need a break from worrying in the wee small hours.

  I grab a Going Out Top as I’m leaving the house, just in case, and then drive over to BallyGoBrunch to make sure Carol is all set for the rest of the weekend. I feel bad leaving her but I helped her with loads of prep this morning and she assures me she’s got it all under control. I don’t know how she does it. I don’t do half as much as her and I feel like I’m drowning half the time. But she’s said that she’s worked hard all her life and she thrives on it. I suppose after the end of her marriage to bully boy Marty Boland she’s thrilled to strive for something without him taking all the credit. Either way, she sends me off with a flick of a tea-towel, so I get back into the car and ring Majella’s phone and hang up – our long-time money-saving code for ‘get your arse outside’. Before we had mobile phones, we used to do it on the house phones as teenagers to signal that that had just been a particularly riveting episode of Home and Away. It used to drive Daddy spare, although the evening the Summer Bay stalker was revealed and the phone gave two rings to indicate that it had been a stunning episode, he sighed before declaring Maj was ‘dead right’.