by Rosie Orr
Unfortunately Father O’Malley appeared to be more interested in matters corporeal, and she spent the next half hour swatting his clammy hand away from her thigh with one hand while forking up anything on her rapidly cooling plate that didn’t require cutting (which eliminated everything except the peas and a couple of baby carrots) with the other. He was leaning towards her bosom with a gleam in his eye, yellowing forefinger poised to finger her corsage, when a sweating waitress leaned between them in order to remove their empty plates. Anna took the opportunity to turn swiftly to Great Uncle Liam, incontestably the lesser of the two evils, and enquire with urgent concern how his plate had stood up to the pheasant. Delighted at her interest, he began a lengthy illustrated answer involving the shreds of semi-masticated poultry currently trapped between the upper mandibles. Restraining herself from wiping away the gravy that was dribbling down his hoary jowls and onto his wing collar, and keeping an interested smile firmly in place, Anna allowed her thoughts to wander.
The present company might leave something to be desired, but they were the personification of charm compared to bloody Tony. It would be a long time before she forgot the lengths he’d gone to get what he obviously considered to be his revenge, or she forgave the insulting remarks he’d made. Right now she could see he had his arm slung round Tara-Louise’s shoulders, and was recounting an anecdote about the time he’d fought a white shark – ‘teeth big as harpoons and sharp as razors, mate’ –to a small, white-faced pageboy. According to Tony he’d stunned it with a fearless karate chop before finishing it off with the hunting knife strapped to his calf; tossing the corpse casually aside to be devoured by its hungrily lurking shark relatives – ‘cunning as dunny rats, sharks are, mate’.
As the pageboy ran off in tears in search of his mother, Tony roared with laughter and clicked his fingers at a passing waiter for another Fosters.
Anna leant forward anxiously – to see Tina smiling approvingly at Tony, glass raised, little finger crooked.
‘Just what the little shite –’ she swigged at her wine, ‘– pardon me, lad, needs. Told him I’d cut his willy off if he didn’t wait for a pee till after the service. Burst into tears then, too. Eamonn’s nephew – well, you can see the family resemblance, can’t you?’ She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. ‘I simply shudder to think what he’ll be like when he grows up. Talk about lack of spunk. Well, I mean, look at his uncle.’ She darted a venomous look at Eamonn, hunched beside her, leafing through his notes with shaking hands, then turned sharply towards Tara-Louise, causing her hat to slip forward over her eyes at a rakish angle. ‘I wonder – is there any treatment you could suggest, Doctor? Drugs, perhaps? Or electric shocks …?’
Anna missed Tara-Louise’s response as at that moment a hand tapped her shoulder lightly.
‘Anna, just to let yez know.’ Desmond stood beside her chair. He bent down, grinning. ‘Had a word with her ladyship before the bisque. Told her senior management had decided to change crèmes brûlées to Grand de-luxe Chocolate Mousse Grand Marnier …’ He dug her in the ribs, snorting with laughter. ‘Wait for it – oh Mary and Joseph and Jesus, bless us.’ Plucking a shocking pink silk bandanna from the breast pocket of his morning coat he wiped at the tears of mirth that ran down his face ‘… feckin’ Royale.’
‘Desmond! You didn’t!’
‘Feckin’ did.’ He leaned closer. ‘Told the old cow ’tis what Prince Charles and Lady Di had for their nuptial pud. Said t’was a deadly secret vouchsafed to me by Connor, who used to be the Royal Dessert Maker till he got the call from The Grand.’ He mopped at his eyes. ‘I tell yer, thought she was goin’ to wet herself, so I did.’
Anna started to laugh.
‘Gotta go – t’is time to fetch ’em in. Jest thought you’d like to know.’
And he was gone, striding towards the doorway where the two youngest waitresses waited, each holding a silver tray bearing a glittering pyramid of tiny gold pots. As Desmond reached them he struck a match and lit the little bouquet of sparklers he’d positioned at the apex of each pyramid. Then to gasps of delight from the guests and a round of applause that as far as Anna was concerned made all the tribulations of the morning worthwhile, the waitresses solemnly entered the dining room. Followed by Desmond, bowing in dignified acknowledgement of the compliments of the guests, they began to distribute the mousses.
‘… some feckin’ newfangled cream they just brought out that’s s’posed to shrink ’em, but they’re still the size of grapefruit and the spray did more for me itching. Demand to be put back on it, so I did, but when Doctor O’Flynn took a squint up me back passage she discovered …’
Having disposed of his dessert by the simple expedient of lifting the pot to his lips and downing the contents in a single slurp, Great Uncle Liam had abandoned discussion of his plate in favour of a discourse on his Problems with Piles. Anna lifted a spoonful of mousse to her lips, looked at the foaming chocolate bubbles and laid the spoon quickly down again. She was casting about for a polite way of changing the subject (to what? the horror of hernias? the perils of prostate?) when she heard the welcome sound of a spoon being tinkled gently but insistently against crystal. Thank God – the speeches. She looked up. Desmond was standing behind Eamonn’s chair, and imperiously tapping a spoon against an empty wine glass. Gradually silence fell, punctuated now and again by occasional rumbling belches and bursts of flatulence.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Grand Hotel, priceless gem in the glittering diadem that is Irish hospitality, rare orchid among the exotic blooms otherwise known as Irish five-star hotels, and introducing Mousse de Luxe Royale …’ He bowed deeply in Tina’s direction. She responded, causing her hat to tip even further forward. She swore, then recalling herself, adjusted it regally. ‘… queen of majestic desserts. Welcome, on this most splendid of occasions, to the wedding breakfast of Mr and Mrs Samuel M Hardy.’
There was a moment’s silence. Then, led by the IT contingent, there was a burst of applause. It swelled as the relatives joined in; reached a crescendo as Eamonn’s business colleagues and clients followed. Suddenly all the guests (apart from those incapacitated by mental infirmity or alcohol, or in several cases, both) were on their feet, turning towards the bride and groom, clapping and cheering. Sam and Lucy rose, hands tightly clasped, and smiled and waved at their well-wishers, illuminated in the sudden shaft of sunlight that shone through the window behind them and looking for all the world, thought Anna, like the prince and princess in some exquisite fairy tale.
Declan, leaning against the mantelpiece, raised his camera casually. Took a single shot.
Silver tinkled against crystal again. ‘And now,’ Desmond indicated Eamonn with a lordly gesture, ‘pray silence for the Father of the Bride, Mr Eamonn O’Shaughnessy.’
The applause subsided and the guests sat down as the sun went in again. Eamonn, cowering in his chair beside Tina in a haze of cigarette smoke, looked round wildly as an expectant hush descended. ‘Me? … It’s me? Now? … Already? But …’
Wordlessly, Tina reached out a claw and yanked him to his feet. He stood shaking, his notes rattling like autumn leaves in his nerveless hand. After a moment he stubbed out his cigarette, picked up his glass and drained it. Looked at his waiting audience, reached for Lucy’s glass and drained that too, opened his mouth and tried to speak. Failed. Coughed. Tried again.
‘Afternoon. Ladies. Gentlemen. Great pleasure to. Yes.’ He squinted at his notes.
Tina leant towards him, eyes narrowed to glittering slits, hissing. ‘Up! Speak up!’
He jumped, and dropped his notes on the table. ‘Willco.’ He looked up, eyes bulging with terror. ‘Notes gone, so share with you all l’le story about m’daughter Lucy when l’le tiny baby. Mother – m’beautiful lady wife here – went to hairdresser – this in days before Tina wore wig, see … forgot to take baby with her when she left! Thing is, Lucy perf’ly happy all mornin. No crying t’all – not t’all -–till
mother came to c’lect her!’
There was an embarrassed stir among the guests. Puce with rage, Tina scrabbled among the detritus of the wedding breakfast, snatched up his notes and shoved them violently into his hand.
‘’Kay. Try ’gain.’ Eamonn peered at them. ‘Still can’t make it out …’
He held the tattered scraps towards the nearest candle just as Tina thrust it towards him. The edges caught, slowly at first, then flaring suddenly into a brilliant yellow blaze. There was a collective gasp of horror. Shaking his head sorrowfully, Desmond moved forward, picked up Eamonn’s wedding speech by an as yet undamaged corner and dropped the flaming mass into a handy water jug beside the orange roses. Eamonn stood goggling. He was about to subside, shaking, into his chair, ready for whatever the Good Lord saw fit to visit him with next – he should’ve known he’d never get away with his visits to the betting shop on Fridays, or the strip club every Monday when Tina thought he was at Rotary – when he heard hoarse shouts, accompanied by a dull, repetitive thumping. Slowly he raised his aching head and gazed round the dining room. Feck! Great Uncle Liam was banging his empty pudding pot on the table like a baby banging his rattle in his high chair and shouting, ‘Speech! Speech!’ at the top of his voice.
Mary Mother of Joseph. No sorry, Lord, no offence, Jesus, deliver him! If he disappointed Great Uncle Liam, Lucy wouldn’t get the money from the light-up Jesuses! All right, so Lucy wouldn’t care a fig but Tina would make his life even more of a hell! She might even start insisting on her conjugal rights again like she did that time she found that copy of Knave in his briefcase!
The noise was getting louder. Sam and Lucy’s friends had started to join in, and his colleagues were banging on their tables, too.
‘Mr O’Shaughnessy? Eamonn?’ Young husband of Lucy’s – nice boy, could see he made Lucy very happy – was leaning over, grinning, handing him a glass of wine. ‘Go for it, sir!’
Eamonn hesitated. Then he grinned back. Downed the wine, and did as he was bid.
‘’Kay. Lessee. Tell you l’le joke.’ There was a roar of approval from what he now thought of as the crowd. ‘’bout l’le street in Belfast. One side of street, Catholic shops. Other side’s Protestants. On one side’s Catholic cobbler, other side’s Protestant cobbler. Lotta competition between ’em, right? Constantly vyin to outdo each other, get the picture? ’kay. Anyway, one day Catholic cobbler puts up a sign over his shop – great big gold crown, plus “BY APPOINTMENT TO HER MAJESTY” in bleddy great red letters. So the Protestant cobbler comes out.’
The crowd was silent. Rapt.
‘“How come you’re puttin up a sign like that?” he says. Catholic cobbler replies “I had to make her Royal Majesty a pair of shoes.” Not to be outdone, the Protestant cobbler says “Well, I had to make her Royal Majesty two pairs of shoes.” And he goes and gets a ladder and he puts up a sign with an even bigger bleddy crown on.’
Eamonn picked up his glass, took a deep pull and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Looked at his audience. ‘And underneath in bleddy great red letters “BY APPOINTMENT TO THE QUEEN AND COBBLERS TO THE POPE.”’
There was a second’s silence. Then the dining room erupted in a roar of joyful laughter, punctuated by whistles and catcalls and yells demanding more.
Anna looked about her, helpless with mirth. Beside her, Father O’Malley sat motionless, rigid with embarrassment. Tina was scrabbling furiously at her husband’s sleeve, trying to make him sit down. He shook her off. ‘Thank you, thank you. Lessee … this one’s about St Peter. Greets new intake of the recently deceased. Baptists, this time. So St Peter welcomes them, makes ’em feel right at home then takes ’em on a tour of Heaven …’
He was off. At a signal from Desmond, waiters began to circulate once more, filling glasses, offering cigars and chocolates to the enthralled guests. Sam put his arm round his helplessly giggling wife. People were relaxing; IT whizzes were exchanging grins with Eamonn’s business colleagues, elderly relatives were sending ‘isn’t he a caution’ smirks to each other as they listened with guilty pleasure to this new joke. Silver paper chocolate wrappings littered the stained and wrinkled tablecloths; the roses were beginning to droop, the candles burning low. Anna took a sip of wine, enjoying the respite from the attentions of her neighbours. Great Uncle Liam was hanging on to Eamonn’s every word, eager as a child to hear the punchline, Father O’Malley continued to stare straight ahead.
‘“Sure and it’s a grand place, Heaven,” said St Peter to the Baptists as they reached the end of their tour.’ Eamonn solemnly regarded the crowd once more.
‘“Now if you’d like to follow me I’ll be showin’ you to the Baptist quarters down the end of this corridor here.” He beckoned ’em to follow him. They came to an oak door, tall and pointy and studded with cherubs and crucifixes and suchlike in flashy gold leaf. St Peter stopped and put a finger to his lips. “If yez wouldn’t mind bein’ silent as we pass the door.” One of the group, braver than the rest, raised his hand. “If yez don’t mind me askin’, sorr – why would we have to do that, now?” St Peter lowered his voice. “T’is where we keep the Catholics.” He smiled. “And they t’ink they’re the only ones up here.”’
Eventually the uproar died down; Eamonn was only allowed to sit down when he promised to do another turn later, after the cake had been cut. Desmond, scarlet in the face and wheezing with the effort of restraining his mirth, tinkled a teaspoon against the glass again. ‘And now pray silence for –’ he hiccupped, ‘– the groom, Mr Samuel Hardy!’
Applause and cheers greeted Sam as he rose to his feet. Anna looked away as he began to speak. She knew if she looked at him she would cry, not, this time from sadness but from pride, and today of all days she would not embarrass her son. She concentrated hard on the napkin in her lap and her fruitless efforts to turn it back into the immaculate swan it had been at the start of the meal.
‘… my mother.’
Bugger, this was impossible – it looked more like a pregnant budgerigar than a bloody swan. If she could just get this fold here to fit under that bit there …
‘Mum?’
She looked up. Sam was looking straight at her. He was smiling, but his eyes were full of tears. ‘I just want to say …’ He swallowed hard. ‘I just want to thank you for everything, Mum. For always being there. For never letting on how hard it must often have been. For making it possible for me to grow up to be the man my beautiful Lucy chose to marry.’ He raised his glass of champagne to her, then turned to the guests. ‘My Mum, Anna.’
The guests rose to their feet, smiling, and joined him in the toast.
It was a while before she composed herself enough to take in the rest of Sam’s speech. He must have made some jokes, because people were laughing, and at some point he raised his glass briefly to Tina, who was unfortunately too busy castigating a clearly unrepentant Eamonn out of the side of her mouth to respond.
‘I’d like to finish by saying how proud and happy I am to have my father and his fiancée,’ beaming, he turned to Tony and Tara-Louise, ‘here with us today.’
Tony thrust out his chest with a smirk; Tara-Louise winked at Anna. Grinning, Anna raised her glass in a silent toast. As Sam sat down to more cheers and applause she glanced down at her lap. If she just tucked this little flap in here … so, and folded and refolded that fold there under the wing … so … Hey presto! A perfect swan.
Gently she placed it on her side plate, and let it sail away.
At last the speeches were over, and hand in hand, Sam and Lucy approached the centre table and cut the cake, accompanied by Tina issuing orders and getting in the way. As instructed, Declan had taken several photographs from all possible angles, and was about to take the only shot he was personally interested in (of the happy couple by chance exactly mirroring the stance of the tiny bride and groom atop the highest tier) when he saw a dishevelled figure appear at the window in the background of his shot. He clicked the shutter and lowered his camera. Unob
served by the guests, now crowding round the happy couple, the figure was frantically signalling.
At him? No. Must be someone at the table behind him – Declan turned, just in time to see Anna catch sight of the man at the window. Her hand flew to her mouth. Grabbing her bag, she almost ran out of the room.
‘You there, Mr Photographer,’ Tina was waving her tangerine leather pocket book at him, screeching imperiously. Her hat was tilted precariously, her magenta lipstick had been recently been renewed but without the benefit of a mirror and the lime-green brocade was adorned with a large blob of chocolate mousse. ‘I’m about to sample the cake – we simply must have a record for posterity! I think a close-up from the left, yes?’
Without a shred of doubt, lady. A shot like that would probably win him worldwide fame, since it said more than words ever could on the subject of weddings. But first …
He hurried after Anna.
Anna raced out of the hotel, down the steps and round the corner to the row of grimy dining-room windows. She searched about her frantically – there was no sign of the mackintoshed figure she’d glimpsed. Was she going mad? Did she only imagine …? Oh God, maybe it hadn’t been him after all. She’d read somewhere that if you desperately longed to see someone the mind could play strange tricks. Perhaps she’d been hallucinating, what with her overwrought emotions, and the champagne, and – but no! Look! Over there …
A figure emerged from a clump of rhododendron bushes, beckoning madly. It was Jack. He’d come! With a cry she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. ‘Jack! Jack! Oh, I can’t believe it’s you.’ She covered his face with kisses, running her hands through his sodden hair, murmuring endearments.