Life's What You Make It

by Sian O'Gorman

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ I said.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Jessica. ‘Jennifer-Louise must be…’

  But Betty had started up again. ‘As you may know, she and Graham are living above the shop at the moment, in the little bijou pied-á-terre, but, of course, Jennifer-Louise is going to have to be careful and reduce her hours working with me in Nouveau You and all her other commitments. And she has so many! Such a busy girl and so very much in demand. Which brings me to my little visit to you this morning. Obviously, due to her condition, my Jennifer-Louise has not been able to organise the midsummer festival. It’s only three weeks away, and she’s been so beset with anxiety and feeling unwell, the poor girl, she hasn’t been able to pull anything together.’

  Was she asking me? Did she think that I would…? No, surely not.

  ‘Now, it’s such a lovely occasion,’ went on Betty. ‘Just a gathering of the villagers and an adorable recital from the children from the local ballet school. Everyone said what a wonderful job Jennifer-Louise did last year. No one minded the rain or the fact that a member of the tin whistle orchestra from St Joseph’s primary went missing a moment before they were about to start “Hot Cross Buns”… which, entre nous, wasn’t a bad thing, I can tell you, as one of my migraines began to rumble. Jennifer-Louise was so looking forward to repeating her success this year, but as a leading member of the Sandycove Village Council, it falls to me to find someone to fill Jennifer-Louise’s large shoes. Not, of course, that she has large feet. She’s on the dainty side, a petite size five… four and a half in sandals, just like me. Anyway, we need someone who doesn’t have a great deal going on, and we… well, I thought of you.’

  Wait a minute. She was asking me to take over the organising of this festival in three weeks.

  ‘I don’t think…’ I began. ‘I am meant to be… I can’t…’

  I tried to protest, but Betty held up a hand as her strident tones beat my vocal cords into submission. ‘All you have to do is make a few phone calls,’ she said. ‘It’s so simple. And it’s not like you have any other commitments? Your mother said you were hoping to rest as much as possible.’ She smiled again. ‘So, yes? I can tell the Sandycove Village Council that everything is a-go?’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, defeated.

  ‘That’s super,’ said Betty, handing over a file. ‘Voila! The dossier. Now, ladies, I’d better return to the shop. We have a wedding party coming in, and you know how much my expertise and light touch is valued when it comes to anxious brides and flustered MOBs. I’ll close the door on my way out. Ciao-ciao!’

  Jessica and I looked at each other.

  ‘What just happened?’ I asked.

  Jessica laughed. ‘It won’t be too much work,’ she said. ‘Last year’s was pretty simple, actually. Just the tin whistle orchestra from school and the ballet group. My two were in it. Both go to Miss Rachel’s ballet school. Frankie loves it more than Ellie-Mae. It was quite a struggle getting Damien to allow Frankie to do ballet. We had a lot of tears.’ She paused. ‘From Frankie,’ she said, hastily, ‘but eventually Damien relented. Says he can do it for another year and then we’ll see.’

  ‘Why didn’t he want him to do ballet?’

  ‘He’s a little traditional,’ explained Jessica. ‘Men are men, that kind of thing. Thinks if he brings his plate from the table to the kitchen counter, then he is amazing.’ She gave a laugh. ‘He’s a hard worker,’ she said. ‘Likes to provide. He just needs a little softening up sometimes. But he’d charm the birds off the trees, that’s what Mam says. I think he looks like a Disney prince.’

  But then, before Jessica said anything more, a customer waved to her and she dashed across the floor.

  ‘Morning!’ I heard her say. ‘The puffed sleeves? Oh yes, so beautiful. One hundred per cent silk… I know! The colour! You sit there on the chaise longue and I will bring them over to you!’

  So, I thought, my time here in Sandycove was going to be slightly busier than I had planned. I flicked through the dossier, realising it was less dossier and really just one sheet of A4 with a few scribbled phone numbers. But I was, after all, a PA and could pull things together at a moment’s notice. Again, the tentacles of village life were pulling me in. At this rate I would never leave.

  Bronagh and I sat on a bench eating an ice cream from a van on Dún Laoghaire pier. The setting sun bathed the world in a pink glow, seagulls circled ahead hoping for flotsam from the chip van. People walked past us, in the middle of their evening constitutional, soaking up every last ray, like a squirrel might eat too many nuts before hibernation.

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ I said.

  ‘It’s very nice.’ Bronagh nibbled at the flake in her ice cream. ‘I feel like I’m on holiday.’

  ‘So do I,’ I agreed. ‘Even though I am technically meant to be on holiday which isn’t a holiday but still feels like a holiday.’

  ‘You lost me at holiday,’ she said.

  ‘Did you ever think that you’d stay in Sandycove?’ I asked. ‘Was that always your plan?’

  ‘I thought I’d be in New York or Berlin,’ she replied. ‘That was the idea. But I realised that I liked living here too much.’

  ‘I was the opposite,’ I said. ‘I always thought I’d stay. But I was the one who left.’

  ‘Proves you can’t ever make plans,’ she said. ‘You never know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘Which brings me to the midsummer festival… you sure you don’t mind helping me organise it?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘If it is just a case of a few phone calls, then of course I can. But do you think we could have fireworks? You know how much I love fireworks.’

  ‘I’ll make a few calls.’ I’d already booked the church car park, the lighting rig, the stage and seating. The rest Bronagh and I were going to split between us.

  ‘I can’t believe I am going to be responsible for inflicting that infernal tin whistle orchestra on the village,’ Bronagh went on. ‘For months after last year’s festival, all I could hear was high-pitched, tuneless renditions of old Irish songs. The whole village had collective hearing loss for about a week afterwards.’

  ‘Mum says Henry is in the Sandycove Ukulele Orchestra. What do you think? Should we ask them?’

  ‘Why not? They have to be better than the tin whistle orchestra.’

  ‘And apparently last year there was Miss Rachel’s ballet school.’

  ‘I think the word “ballet” is used very loosely,’ said Bronagh. ‘But, like the tin whistle orchestra, if there’s children involved, then quality control is abandoned.’

  ‘They could be Midsummer Night’s Dream fairies,’ I said, starting to enjoy myself. ‘What else?’

  ‘A bonfire?’ suggested Bronagh.

  ‘And food… and fireworks… and… a DJ… we need to dance.’ The thought of the whole village dancing together in some outdoor rave (admittedly, a very sedate rave) suddenly sounded very appealing.

  ‘I love it,’ said Bronagh.

  ‘And food trucks,’ I said. ‘I mean, we don’t want everyone getting too drunk, we need it to be civilised. So, we could start with the children’s events and then segue into a very nice, grown-up disco…’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘We’ll make lists and we’ll tick things off and report back.’

  We began walking home. It was nearly 9 p.m. and there was that slow slide into night, the light clinging on for as long as possible. Behind us on the street, we heard the honking of a car horn. I looked around. It was Henry.

  ‘Girls, would you like a lift?’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s all…’ I said, just as Bronagh said, ‘That would be lovely.’ She was already opening the door of the Morris Minor.

  ‘Thank you, Henry,’ I said, scrambling into the back of the car. ‘This is my friend, Bronagh Kelly.’

  ‘Bronagh, a privilege,’ he said, crunching the car into first gear.

  ‘These are my favourite cars in the
world,’ Bronagh replied. ‘I hate new cars.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Henry. ‘All that shiny metal and awful bars and the fact that you have to be bigger than everything else on the road. Give me something small and nippy and as old as me, and I am as happy as a clam. I brought this to France last year, was convinced it was going to break down, but not a single problem.’ He patted the steering wheel. ‘He’s a great little guy is Pierre.’

  Bronagh laughed. ‘I love Pierre too.’

  We drove along the seafront and down to the harbour where Bronagh’s cottage was and dropped her off. Henry then drove back to Mum’s house.

  ‘Thank you, Henry,’ I said, at the car door.

  ‘Not a problem,’ he replied. ‘Tell your mother that I’ll be round first thing in the morning.’

  It felt like being driven around and dropped off by a parent – someone’s dad – as Henry gave the horn another honk – softer this time – and off he went, into the night.

  10

  Roberto: Have decided I can’t watch television without you. Sewing Bee isn’t the same on my own.

  Me: But you always talk over everything we watch.

  Roberto: So?

  Me: So, it means I don’t really get to watch it.

  Roberto: But I have no one to talk about it to. It’s like all the pleasure has been removed if I can’t give a running commentary.

  Me: I only like TV with you as well.

  Roberto: Am taping everything so we have a televisual cache for when you get home.

  Me: Can’t wait.

  Roberto: Off to Oxfam for bargains tomorrow.

  The first week in the shop flew by and I was starting to get the hang of things and wasn’t as scared when customers came in, although I still left the heavy lifting to Jessica. She and I spent most the time talking, and I made sure I was there early enough in the morning so we could have a cup of tea together before opening time. More than anything, I was loving my walks to work – it slightly beat my daily commute in London – where I was serenaded all the way by birds. I hadn’t noticed birds for years. Obviously, I knew they existed but hearing them singing while I walked to work was a soundscape of such utter loveliness that I listened intently to them all the way.

  And there was also the sight of the sea every day, that great expanse of shifting colour and light, the endless roll of the waves, the shimmering turquoise, the patches of grey, the sun rising over the bay. The air, the incredible air, filled with ozone and oxygen, my lungs clearing themselves out for the first time in years. I’d spent enough time being cooped up in offices, sitting behind a desk, breathing the stale carbon dioxide expelled by other office workers, being squashed on the Tube, eating three meals a day at my desk.

  By Friday, I was making big plans. I was going to start running, I thought. Just a little bit, before going to Nell’s. But I really wanted to move and get out into the fresh air and hear those birds and run down by the sea and feel the salty air on my face.

  Later on Friday, a girl came into the shop. She was around seventeen or eighteen, dressed in black jeans and a checked man’s shirt, with a blue wash in the ends of her long hair. Her skin was pale and slightly spotty. She smiled shyly. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m…’

  ‘Cara?’ I held out my hand. ‘I’m Olivia. Lovely to meet you.’

  ‘You too,’ she said. ‘Your mum said to pop in and say hello when I was picking up my pay.’

  ‘I’ll get it!’ called Jessica, nipping into the back office.

  ‘Aren’t you doing your exams at the moment?’ I asked. ‘How long have you got to go?’

  ‘We’ve done one week, and then another two,’ said Cara, looking even paler at the thought.

  ‘Are you doing okay? Are you sleeping?’

  Cara pulled on her hair. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘But I keep telling myself it will be over at some point and then I can go back to being generally anxious, as opposed to specifically anxious. It’s like the exams absorb everything, it’s like there’s no life or world beyond them.’ She gave a half-smile. ‘It will be nice to remember all the other awful things as well.’

  Jessica came back with a small brown envelope and put her arm around Cara’s shoulders. ‘Cara’s our resident brainbox,’ she told me. ‘She’s off to college in New York to do something about Russia.’

  ‘I’m not going, though,’ Cara said, quickly. ‘I’m staying in Dublin. If I get the results.’

  ‘You can’t miss out on New York!’ said Jessica. ‘What I’d give to be eighteen again and have a chance to go to New York! What’s the course called again?’

  ‘Russian Literature, Life and Thought,’ said Cara, squirming. ‘And… well, it looks like a good course and you can’t do it anywhere else, except… I want to stay in Dublin.’

  ‘Cara got a full scholarship,’ Jessica said. ‘Everything’s paid for.’

  ‘Not flights, though,’ said Cara.

  ‘No… but you can get great deals these days,’ replied Jessica. ‘She had to write an essay about herself. Nell made her bring it in to show us. It was so beautiful. It was about Cara and her nan – Shirley. Made me cry, but everything does these days.’ She smiled at Cara, who looked away, embarrassed.

  Obviously, going to New York, even with a full scholarship, was going to be expensive, I thought.

  ‘I shouldn’t have applied,’ Cara said to me. ‘It was stupid. I only did it because my English teacher told me I should and I got a bit carried away. She said the course was ideal as it’s the only one which places the Russian novel in its cultural and political context…’

  ‘That’s Cara’s passion,’ explained Jessica. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Cara nodded, brightening up a little. ‘I had to write about the importance of Russian literature on twentieth-century civilisation.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin!’ said Jessica. ‘What did you write about again?’

  ‘How Russian literary heroines shaped an idea of powerful women which directly impacted on film and even fashion, politics,’ replied Cara. ‘They had an influence that went beyond the parameters of the pages of their worlds and I gave real-world examples of this direct influence.’

  Jessica and I looked at each other, impressed.

  How incredibly lucky Cara was to have a passion, I thought. Anyone with something – anything – that made them excited was fortunate. And for some reason, I thought of Seasalt, my little company. Passion should always be taken seriously, and self-doubt or lack of self-belief shouldn’t ever be allowed to jimmy itself in or you might lose it forever.

  ‘I’d better go and keep revising,’ said Cara. ‘And I’ve got a waitressing event on tomorrow night, so I’ll get more work done tonight.’ She turned to me. ‘See you, Olivia. Hope you have a good time at home.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, ‘and good luck with the exams.’

  ‘See you, Cara,’ said Jessica, giving her a hug. ‘Give my love to Shirley.’

  ‘Will do.’ Cara slung her heavy school bag over her shoulder and gave us a wave as she left the shop.

  Jessica looked at the clock. ‘Six p.m.!’ she said. ‘I’d better go! Damien will be here.’

  On cue, a large black Range Rover pulled up outside, like it had all week, and within moments, Jessica was pulling on her jacket and slipping her handbag across her shoulder.

  ‘See you, Olivia!’ she called, breaking into a run.

  At closing, as I was locking the front door of the shop, I stood up and lost my balance, staggering backwards and hitting an immovable object. A human immovable object. And then – still stunned – stepped backwards onto a dog, who emitted a yowl so loud that you could have heard it in Dún Laoghaire.

  ‘Oh my God! I’m so sorry!’ As my eyes focused, I realised that the person was Dr Butler. ‘I didn’t see you and I…’

  We both turned to look at the dog – the little Yorkie – who was lying, motionless, on the pavement, his tiny body a scrap of fur. Dead. And I had killed him.

 
‘I’m so sorry,’ I gushed. ‘I don’t know what to say. He’s so tiny. Like a kind of scruffy mouse. I mean…’ Now I was victim-blaming the dog. It was his fault for being small?

  But Dr Butler actually smiled. ‘My little friend Pablo is a fan of amateur dramatics,’ he said. ‘He likes a bit of limelight.’ He looked down at Pablo. ‘Come on, little guy,’ he said, ‘that’s enough of that. Up you get. Stop your ham acting.’

  Pablo lifted his head, fixing one eye on his owner.

  ‘Come on,’ said Dr Butler, sternly. ‘Very good, round of applause. Standing ovation. Now, no more drama.’

  With that, Pablo jumped up and gazed around him nonchalantly, as though nothing at all had happened and he was back to being a normal dog.

  ‘I’ve had him since he was a puppy,’ explained Dr Butler. ‘He was like this from the very beginning. Always acting the maggot. And the amount of times I’ve stepped on him. He’s too small, that’s his problem. Or I’m too tall. Whichever it is.’ He straightened up his tweed jacket, which I noticed was a little frayed at the cuffs, the kind of coat that had been well-worn and well-loved.

  ‘And I’m too clumsy,’ I said, thinking how much friendlier he was today. Perhaps Dr Butler was shy and took his time with people?

  ‘No, he’s too small… he’s the size of my shoe,’ he said. ‘I should have got a bigger dog, one that wouldn’t be in peril of being squashed all the time. Except I love him.’ He smiled at me and I found myself smiling back.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Butler… I mean, not thank you, but thank you for not minding me stepping on your dog… I mean…’ I was babbling and being an idiot and I wasn’t quite sure why. But Dr Butler was looking at me with those brown eyes. ‘Well, thank you…’ I said again. ‘For… you know…’

  He smiled. ‘You’re welcome… and thank you for… you know…’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I smiled back.

  ‘Any by the way, I’m Will… not Dr Butler. I mean, I am, but I don’t know why people call me that.’