Make Yourself at Home

by Ciara Geraghty

  The judge had been, quite frankly, judgemental.

  And nosy.

  ‘Why do you do it?’ she had asked, leaning across the bench and eyeing Marianne as one might a curious animal in a zoo.

  ‘I only do it when I’m stressed,’ Marianne had said.

  ‘Next time, you might consider yoga,’ Judge Henderson said, straightening before announcing the sentence.

  While she had been let off with a fine, Marianne was positive Judge Henderson would not display the same leniency the next time.

  So there could not be a next time.

  Marianne twitched with want.

  She walked down the main street in Rush and stopped outside the newsagent’s. The scene of the original crime. She pressed her face against the window. It was a Centra now. Not as dark as it used to be, tubes of fluorescent light running across the ceiling and making things trickier for the likes of her.

  She had just turned thirteen, that first time. Tall and gawky, awkward and taciturn. Even after eight years in the local primary school, Marianne’s peers continued to find her a source of curiosity and suspicion. She put it down to the contents of her lunchbox, which were often not in keeping with the corned beef and Easi Singles sandwiches of the other girls. There might be a triangle of Camembert in Marianne’s lunchbox, already melting and stinking by the time little break came round. Or a handful of gooseberries picked from the garden, which made the girls screech and yell, ‘Hairy!’ as they gathered to inspect the offending articles in the yard. A mound of couscous, perhaps left over from a party the night before and carefully spooned into Flo and Marianne’s lunchboxes the following morning as she scavenged around the kitchen at Ancaire. Once, Marianne had packed miniature bottles of Peach Snapps, which she had mistaken for fruit juice. That had aroused the attention of Miss Spellman, which had resulted in a flamboyant visit of Rita to the school, which in turn had aroused more curiosity, more suspicion.

  ‘What’s wrong with your mother?’ hissed Clare Hickey that day, a dislikeable child with thin, white pigtails poking out from either side of her head.

  Marianne ignored her. From the back of the classroom, she could smell Rita. A brass band of perfume and powder, lipstick and rouge. The salty damp of Ancaire, seeping from the silk of her red dress that was and unlike anything the other mothers wore. And the inevitable vinegary smell of the wine. Marianne could see Miss Spellman’s nose wrinkle in distaste, the almost imperceptible step back she took.

  Marianne pushed open the door of the Centra, stepped inside. There were no other customers and the woman behind the counter peered into the screen of her phone, scrolling and clicking.

  That day, the one when Marianne was thirteen, had been a Wednesday. She waited for Flo outside school as she always did, declining the usual offers of a lift from Clare Hickey’s mother, who worried about the lack of a footpath along the road to Ancaire, the hairpin bends. Usually, Flo skipped out of school, tucked her hand into Marianne’s and chattered all the way home about Miss Flynn, whom she adored, Aideen O’Reilly, her best friend, a run-down of the game she had played in the yard that day, along with methodology, rules, and stars out of ten. Most games got ten stars out of ten.

  That Wednesday, Flo was last in the line, her usual sanguine disposition much depleted. Marianne knew immediately that it was something to do with their mother. Something she had done. Or neglected to do.

  William was the subject of much less – if any – scrutiny. Perhaps because, while he too forgot items on his daughters’ schedules, he never promised to remember them in the first place.

  ‘She’s a little upset,’ Miss Flynn whispered at Marianne, who felt that the observation was unnecessary. ‘The art class was supposed to …’

  ‘My mother is sick today,’ said Marianne quickly.

  Miss Flynn clapped her hands and beamed as if this was the best news she’d had in ages. ‘See?’ she said to Flo. ‘Mammy is sick. That’s why she couldn’t come in to paint with us.’

  ‘She isn’t sick,’ said Flo, who had not yet mastered the art of making reality more palatable for people.

  ‘Come on, Flo,’ said Marianne, taking Flo’s bag off her shoulders and carrying it. ‘Bruno will be waiting for you at home.’

  They walked through the village. Marianne wondered why her mother couldn’t just keep her big trap shut. Why was she always making grand gestures, then forgetting all about them, and all about the people she had made them to in the first place.

  Flo dragged her feet through the village. Outside the newsagent’s, she came to a complete stop. ‘Mum said she’d buy me a treat.’

  ‘Well, she’s not here,’ said Marianne. ‘Now come on.’

  ‘She said she’d buy me a Loop the Loop.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Flo, I—’

  ‘It’s bad to say bloody.’

  ‘It’s bad to be demanding.’

  ‘She promised. A promise is a promise.’

  Marianne remembered wondering what age she was when she discovered that a promise was not in fact a promise. Younger than Flo, she thought.

  ‘Fine,’ said Marianne, opening the shop door. ‘You wait here.’

  It was easy in the end. To take it. The man behind the counter glanced up as she came in the door but then retreated behind the pages of the Racing Post. Marianne pretended to look at the comics. Then, she shuffled down to the freezer, picked out a Loop the Loop, slipped it up the sleeve of her school coat and crept out the door. The man never even looked up.

  The Loop the Loop made Flo forget about Rita and her no-show. She sucked it noisily and regaled Marianne with the game of What Time Is It, Mister Wolf she had played in the yard at big break. She gave it ten out of ten.

  Marianne pretended to listen and thought about what she had done in the shop and tried to work out how she felt about it. She was surprised to discover that she didn’t feel bad, even though she knew it was a really bad thing to do and it was against the law and she could go to gaol.

  In spite of the knowledge, she found that she felt sort of good. There was something rushing through her body. At the time, she didn’t know what to call it. Later, she identified it as adrenalin. It brought with it a sense of control. A feeling that she was in charge of things. Just for a moment. She found that she liked it.

  Marianne could feel it now. The adrenalin. An impression of control. She reached for a packet of thumb tacks.

  ‘Marianne? Marianne Cross?’

  Marianne whipped around, her pulse beating a drum in her forehead, her neck, her chest. Along her arms, she could feel goose bumps rise. She shivered.

  The sales assistant was a short, stout woman with thin shoulder-length hair, dyed a straw-blond, and thickly painted red fingernails stuck onto the ends of stubby fingers. She was looking at Marianne, her head cocked to one side, with a quizzical sort of a smile on her face.

  ‘It is you, I knew it,’ the woman said, her voice progressing in volume and height. ‘Marianne Cross!’

  While the woman looked familiar, Marianne couldn’t place her.

  ‘It’s Tessa,’ the woman said, almost shrieking now. ‘Tessa McCarthy.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Hello, Tessa.’

  Tessa extended her hand so Marianne had no choice but to approach the counter. She held out her hand, which Tessa shook with enthusiasm before pulling Marianne into a tight hug over the counter, during which Marianne struggled to remain calm.

  The woman released Marianne, then backed away from her, scanning her from head to toe. ‘You haven’t changed a day since school,’ she declared eventually. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘Oh. You know. Fine,’ said Marianne. A vague memory was stirring at the back of Marianne’s head. A pimply girl with a loud mouth who claimed she could make butter in her stomach by drinking a pint of milk and then jumping up and down for five minutes. She never vomited and the other girls never tired of watching the process.

  ‘And … you?’ said Marianne, when it became clear that some response was expe
cted of her. ‘How have you been?

  ‘Ah, you know yourself.’

  Marianne nodded. She had no idea.

  ‘The kids and himself are driving me spare but other than that, all good.’ Tessa laughed then and so did Marianne. She was like a lyrebird, imitating the sounds that Tessa made.

  Tessa leaned against the counter and folded her arms. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Tell us all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, what are you up to? What do you do for a living? I bet you’re something serious. Like, I don’t know, an astrophysicist or something.’

  ‘I’m unemployed.’

  ‘Really?’ said Tessa, her jaw slack with shock and something akin to wonder.

  ‘I was an accountant,’ said Marianne when it became clear that Tessa was expecting more words to be issued. ‘Until I got fired.’

  ‘No. Way,’ said Tessa, draping herself across the counter now, all the better to get the details. ‘Married?’ she asked.

  ‘Separated.’

  ‘Oh, so sad. It’s so hard on the children, isn’t it? When a marriage breaks down.’

  ‘I don’t have any children.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think you’ve produced enough of those to go round, Tessa.’ The shop door opened and there stood Rita in the doorway, her hands on her hips and her hibiscus-purple cape flowing around her body, looking for all the world like a super-hero come to the rescue. Or perhaps that’s just how Marianne saw her in that moment.

  Rita stalked inside. Immediately the shop, which had a jaded deli smell, was filled with her scent, so strong that Marianne could taste it.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Cross,’ said Tessa. ‘You’re looking very … dramatic.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rita. She gripped Marianne’s arm. ‘Come along, Marnie, you don’t want to be late for your hair appointment.’

  ‘I don’t have a—’

  ‘Wash and blow-dry, remember? Hugh’s expecting you,’ Rita insisted, steering Marianne towards the door.

  ‘Did you want to buy those thumbtacks?’ Tessa called after her.

  Rita took the box out of Marianne’s hand, put them on a shelf. ‘I already picked some up,’ she said, smiling brightly at Tessa before gripping Marianne again, bustling her through the door and down the street, stopping only when they reached the Jeep. Rita leaned on it, out of breath. ‘If you’re going to steal something,’ she panted, ‘could you at least take something useful? Like baking powder.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to steal anything,’ said Marianne haughtily.

  ‘Or chocolate,’ Rita went on. ‘There was a lovely selection of Lily O’Brien’s at the back.’

  ‘Why aren’t you at Happy Hair?’ said Marianne.

  ‘I … needed something in the shops,’ said Rita.

  ‘What did you need?’

  ‘Eh, paperclips.’

  ‘You were checking up on me.’

  ‘Well, clearly, it was warranted.’

  ‘I’m going back to Ancaire,’ Marianne said. Her tiredness was like the sea, the way it came in waves, submerged her.

  ‘You have an appointment, remember?’ said Rita.

  ‘I thought you just made that up to get me out of the shop?’

  ‘Well, technically, yes,’ said Rita, reaching up to pull the hood of Marianne’s anorak down. ‘But, dear Lord, have you seen your hair?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Take my word for it. It’s a demolition derby up there.’

  ‘I’m not going to Happy Hair.’ Marianne’s tone was bullish.

  ‘It’s either that or the police station,’ said Rita.

  ‘But I haven’t done anything,’ said Marianne.

  ‘Attempted robbery is a crime, you know,’ said Rita, ‘and I promised Judge Henderson that I’d keep an eye on you so you wouldn’t reoffend.’

  ‘It was a packet of thumbtacks.’

  ‘And this is just a wash and blow-dry,’ said Rita, gripping Marianne’s arm again and marching her down the street. ‘Think of it as an intervention.’

  Chapter 21

  Marianne stopped outside Hugh’s house. ‘I really don’t need—’ she began.

  ‘It’s just in here,’ Rita said, opening the side gate and ushering Marianne through.

  In the back garden there was the log cabin that Hugh had described. It was more modern than Marianne had envisaged, the timber pale and smooth, the words ‘Happy Hair’ engraved in jaunty italics along the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Through the glass, Marianne could see Hugh, sweeping hair from the floor, his kilt swaying to the beat of that Proclaimers song, which he sang loudly, as if he were alone in the shower and not in a small makeshift salon. He picked up the debris with a dustpan and brush and disappeared into a storeroom at the back.

  Rita propelled Marianne through the door. Bartholomew sat at a mirror, studying the form in a glossy hairstyling magazine. He looked like a much tamer version of himself with his hair, wet and limp, hanging around his face. ‘What do you think of this one, Marnie?’ he said, turning the magazine round and pointing to a photograph of a middle-aged man with greying hair in a short back and sides style.

  ‘It’s … neat,’ ventured Marianne.

  ‘Exactly.’ Bartholomew nodded with enthusiasm. ‘I thought, you know, with the interview tomorrow, I should at least look the part.’

  ‘There’s no point going as anybody else,’ declared Shirley, striding over and whipping the magazine out of Bartholomew’s hands. ‘Your quiff is quintessential you. Plus it’s theatrical. And it gives you a bit of height. Otherwise you’re just a short gay man with commitment issues.’

  ‘It must be tiresome, being short,’ said Freddy, puffing his narrow chest out. He sat on a chair at the workstation beside Bartholomew. When he looked up from his iPad – he was taking a survey to see if he was an alcoholic, as far as Marianne could make out – he saw her in the mirror and performed a small wave with his hand.

  Marianne waved back.

  Freddy’s neat helmet of pale grey hair appeared unchanged although he must have acquiesced to a trim because Marianne could see occasional snippets of his hair on the floor around his chair.

  ‘It must be tiresome, accommodating your great height in that closet of yours,’ said Bartholomew smoothly.

  The enormous dome hood of an ancient hairdryer lifted to reveal Ethel, whose hair was very much purple now, although its tone was more raucous than regal. ‘I thought it was you,’ she said, smiling at Marianne. ‘Are you all right, dear? You look a little shook.’

  Marianne did her best to rearrange her face.

  ‘What do you think?’ Ethel asked, reaching to gingerly pat the elevated hair on the top of her head. ‘Is it purple enough?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marianne.

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Ethel. ‘Do you think Stanley will approve?’

  ‘I …’ Marianne faltered. Talking to these people was as exhausting as chewing on a piece of Rita’s homemade toffee.

  ‘For our wedding anniversary dear,’ Ethel explained. ‘Remember? The dinner-dance?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marianne. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Stanley is such an elegant dancer,’ said Ethel, fondly.

  ‘As good as me, Ethel?’ said Bartholomew, leaping out of his chair and waltzing about the room, holding an imaginary partner – much too tightly, Marianne thought – in his arms.

  ‘Even better than you, dear Bartholomew,’ cried Ethel, clapping her hands in appreciation of Bartholomew’s efforts. Ethel patted her hair carefully. ‘And I have a nice purple frock to match. Stanley always said it was a regal colour; made me look like a queen.’

  ‘A proper gentleman,’ said Rita, bending to kiss Ethel’s cheek.

  ‘Precious few of those left,’ said Freddy, looking pointedly at Bartholomew.

  ‘You are rocking that colour,’ Bartholomew, ignoring Freddy, told Ethel. As far as Marianne could tell, he was being genuine.

  Ethel beamed. ‘You su
re this will hold until Sunday evening, Shirley?’ she said.

  ‘You could jitterbug the length of the beach and your hair won’t budge,’ said Shirley, with a degree of pride. ‘Just don’t stand near any naked flames.’ She lowered the hood of the dryer and set it on ‘High’. She leaned down. ‘Don’t come out of there again until I tell you, okay?’ she shouted through the hood. Ethel raised a shaky thumb.

  ‘Ah, you persuaded herself to come,’ said Hugh, coming out of the storeroom. He grinned at Marianne as he leaned on the top of a sweeping brush, which looked like it might snap beneath his bulk.

  ‘It looks like you’re busy,’ said Marianne, edging towards the door.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Hugh. ‘What are you having done?’

  ‘Bagsy not doing it,’ said Shirley. She looked at Marianne’s hair. ‘I don’t think I have the physical endurance to take it on.’ She grinned at Marianne. ‘No offence,’ she added.

  Hugh set the brush against a wall and stood behind Freddy. ‘Do you have enough physical endurance to rebuild Bartholomew’s quiff?’ he asked, removing the towel from Freddy’s shoulders and brushing stray hairs off his neck with a soft-bristled brush. Freddy giggled. ‘That tickles,’ he said, gazing at Hugh through the steamed-up lenses of his glasses.

  ‘Affirmative,’ said Shirley, appearing suddenly in the mirror in front of Bartholomew’s chair. ‘You startled me,’ he said, placing his hand over his heart. ‘For one awful moment, I thought you were Freddy, trying to jump me again.’

  ‘As if,’ spluttered Freddy, his face reddening.

  Rita positioned herself between them; nodded at Freddy’s iPad. ‘Have you totted up your score?’ she asked him.

  Freddy nodded mutinously. ‘I’m intermediate level,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘You’re improving,’ said Rita.

  ‘But last week I scored a “low level of alcohol dependence” rating,’ said Freddy.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Rita, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘Now come along with me. There’s a new charity shop up the road and I fancy a browse.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Freddy, standing up. He knew he was being distracted like a child but could not resist Rita when she subjected him to the brightness of her smile.