Make Yourself at Home

by Ciara Geraghty

  Which wasn’t much.

  ‘You got your bra off,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Well done, Marianne.’

  ‘I’m definitely gay,’ said Freddy, studying Marianne’s breasts. ‘Because I feel nothing.’

  ‘Way to make a lady feel special,’ said Marianne.

  ‘What about your hat?’ Shirley asked.

  Marianne grinned as she pulled it off and flung it in the air. It skidded onto the roof of the Jeep.

  It was too late to feel embarrassed.

  Much too late.

  Marianne turned round, moving the placard behind her now so that it shielded her bottom from the world in general and the Get-Well-Sooners in particular. She marched to the front door, opened it. ‘Stand in a line in front of the door,’ she told the others. ‘I’ll lock it from the inside.’

  ‘There’s a Velux window in the boys’ room,’ Shirley told her. ‘You can get out to the roof through that.’

  ‘What am I doing?’ said Marianne, hesitating.

  ‘You’re doing great,’ said Freddy.

  ‘And the camera loves you darling,’ shouted Bartholomew from behind his phone.

  Upstairs, Marianne stood on a chair and poked her placard out through the skylight. She tied the strings attached to the balloons around her wrists and hoisted herself through the narrow opening, panting hard from the exertion.

  The pitch of the roof was steeper than Marianne had imagined. Also higher than it had looked from the safety of the ground. Maybe fifteen metres. With terminal velocity an average of 200km/h, it would take her … she worked out the answer swiftly, although perhaps not as swiftly as she would hit the ground, were she to slip. The mathematical distraction did her no good whatever.

  From below, George’s frantic barking as he sprang up and down on his hind legs, as if trying to reach her. The others looked smaller from up here, all of them peering anxiously at her, issuing warnings and encouragement.

  The chimney stack seemed very far away.

  ‘You can do it, Marianne,’ called Ethel, cupping her hands around her mouth to amplify her voice.

  Marianne held the handle of the placard between her teeth and used the roof tiles for purchase as she crawled on her hands and knees to the ridge. When she got there, she clung to it and closed her eyes, pieced herself together.

  She arranged herself so that her bottom was balanced on the ridge with her legs dangling down either side.

  It was not a comfortable position.

  Marianne used her hands and feet to inch her way along, the handle of the placard now tucked under her arm. The relief that flooded her when she reached the chimney was like a spring tide, deep and vast, and she wrapped her arms tight around the stack, closed her eyes and concentrated on quietening her breath.

  From below, the sound of singing.

  Power to the people.

  The Get-Well-Sooners were singing. Together. Their voices loud and strong and getting louder and stronger as the song progressed. It cheered Marianne enormously to hear them. She thought she might whoop if there was any breath in her body. Soon she was able to open her eyes although she could not bring herself to stand up. Not yet.

  The landlord arrived promptly at two, as he had specified, in a black Range Rover with tinted windows. He emerged from his car with a degree of wariness. He was younger than Marianne had expected. Somewhere in his thirties, carrying an attaché case and wearing a tight black suit. The back doors of the Range Rover opened simultaneously and two enormous men emerged, in matching black suits and white shirts.

  The landlord had brought hired goons.

  Marianne stood up, clung on to the chimney stack with one hand as she raised the placard with the other, the balloons bobbing and swaying around her.

  ‘Power to the People,’ she began and from below, the Get-Well-Sooners took up the refrain.

  ‘What is going on here?’ demanded the landlord.

  ‘I should think it’s perfectly obvious, you brute,’ said Ethel, before bellowing, ‘The people got the power,’ straight into his face.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ said the landlord, taking a step back.

  ‘Leave me and my family alone and there won’t be any,’ said Shirley.

  ‘This is my property,’ said the landlord. ‘I’m entitled to do whatever I like with it.’

  ‘This eviction is illegal and you know it,’ said Bartholomew, now training his phone camera at the man’s face. ‘You refused to give Shirley a lease, you’ve raised the rent several times without any notice and you’re not registered with the Private Residential Tenancies Board. We checked, so don’t bother denying it.’

  ‘You better not be recording me,’ the landlord shouted, making a lunge for Bartholomew’s phone. Bartholomew performed a slick side-step. ‘And may I add,’ Bartholomew went on, ‘the wallpaper in the front room is an absolute disgrace. It positively screeches at that hideous green carpet.’

  George jumped around the hired goons, making dives at their ankles as if he was going to bite them, which of course he would never do. But the goons were not to know that. They shouted as they twitched this way and that, and it was amusing to watch, Marianne had to admit, from her elevated position on the roof.

  A car drove down the road and stopped outside the house. It was Aunt Pearl, looking mutinous, although Marianne hoped that was because she always looked mutinous and not because she had caught sight of Marianne. Not yet. The passenger door opened and Patrick emerged with the chain he used to lock his bicycle against lampposts. Marianne hoped it was long enough to secure her to the chimney stack. She felt precarious. And cold.

  Aunt Pearl drove further up the road to park.

  ‘Patrick,’ Marianne shouted, waving at him. ‘Up here.’

  Patrick didn’t react, adversely or otherwise, when he worked out where Marianne was situated. ‘I’ll come up to you,’ he said, doing his best to make his voice heard above the chanting and the barking and the shouting.

  ‘I’ve locked the door,’ she shouted.

  ‘I’ll get the spare key from Shirley.’

  ‘Be careful of the landlord. That’s him there, in the cheap suit.’

  This attracted the landlord’s attention and he looked up, his eyes widening as he saw her. ‘I’m calling the police unless you get down from there,’ he said. ‘And, for your information, this suit cost a thousand euros.’

  ‘You were robbed,’ said Shirley.

  ‘Go ahead and call the police,’ said Freddy, sheltering behind Bartholomew’s bulk. ‘We’ll film you while you do it,’ he added.

  ‘Get that camera out of my face,’ the landlord shouted at Bartholomew.

  Patrick’s head poked through the skylight. He lifted himself effortlessly through the window, walked along the roof towards her.

  ‘Please be careful,’ said Marianne. ‘Rita would haunt me for ever if anything happened to you.’

  Carefully, he reached around her and secured her to the chimney stack with the chain. ‘Is that comfortable?’ he asked when he was finished and Marianne couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of the question. After a while, Patrick laughed too.

  It was good to hear it.

  A warm feeling expanded in Marianne’s chest. Which was strange, given how cold she was.

  ‘Do you want my jacket?’ asked Patrick.

  Marianne shook her head, her teeth chattering. Patrick leaned over and rubbed her arms vigorously with his hands. His hands were warm. ‘Rita would be proud of you,’ he said softly.

  ‘She’d be proud of you, too,’ said Marianne.

  ‘Marianne Gwendoline Cross, what on earth do you think you’re doing?’ Aunt Pearl, walking into Shirley’s garden, had clocked Marianne’s position and state of undress.

  ‘I’m protesting this illegal eviction,’ shouted down Marianne.

  ‘I fail to see why you can’t do it with your clothes on,’ snapped Aunt Pearl.

  ‘I’m trying to go viral.’

  ‘Go where?’
<
br />   ‘Bartholomew, you explain,’ Marianne roared. She turned to Patrick. ‘You should get down,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m staying,’ he said, settling himself along the ridge in a more permanent position.

  ‘I wish I could hug you but I’m too afraid to let go of the chimney,’ said Marianne.

  ‘You can hug me later,’ said Patrick.

  They started singing ‘We Shall Not Be Moved’.

  People stopped and stared. After a while there was quite a crowd, gathered outside the house, along the footpath, spilling out onto the road, coming up the driveway. Marianne’s voice was hoarse from the slogan-shouting and singing, but she kept it up, buoyed along by Patrick beside her and the others below, with George barking intermittently.

  ‘Marianne? Is that you?’ A familiar voice reached her. Marianne looked down, into the crowd but couldn’t see the source of the voice. Then she saw the buggy. The double buggy. With the babies inside.

  The twins.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Brian could not have looked more incredulous. Marianne couldn’t blame him.

  ‘Hi,’ she called, waving down at him. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Eh, fine,’ he said.

  ‘And the babies? Still colicky?’

  ‘Ah, yes, although not as bad as before.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Marianne.

  One of the twins started to cry and Brian reached down and picked up a soother, which had popped out of the baby’s mouth, put it in his own mouth, sucked vigorously on it, then stuck it back into the child’s mouth. Marianne was certain that this did not conform to the surely exacting hygiene requirements of brand-new human beings.

  The baby kept crying. Brian jiggled the buggy up and down.

  ‘Brian,’ she roared down at him, ‘remember what you said? The other day? About me, selling Ancaire? Buying back our old house?’

  ‘Eh,’ said Brian. ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to do that.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And I want you to know something else too.’

  ‘Okay.’ Brian looked nervous.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.’

  Brian did not look convinced.

  ‘I just want you to know that you were right,’ said Marianne. ‘When you left me. Our relationship was just … it was wrong. I was with you for all the wrong reasons. I was just … I was scared of everything and I thought you were a safe bet.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Brian, slowly. ‘Right.’

  ‘And I think you’ll be fine, you know,’ Marianne went on. ‘With Helen. When the babies stop being colickly.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Brian looked suddenly hopeful.

  Marianne nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’

  Brian was saying something else but Marianne could only see his mouth working. His words were swallowed in a wail of sirens as two police cars scorched down the road, skidding to a halt outside Shirley’s house.

  Both of the babies were crying now.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Brian mouthed, jiggling the buggy harder. She smiled as he turned and walked away, pushing the enormous buggy with his back bent, the babies shrieking.

  The policewomen had loudspeakers and ordered the crowd to get off the road, move away from Shirley’s house. They spoke to the landlord and he pointed at the roof and they looked up and saw Marianne and Patrick. They turned back to the landlord, who was gesticulating wildly. One of the policewomen pointed to his attaché case and he lifted it, used his leg, bent at the knee, as a table on which to place it, open it. He took out a sheaf of papers, rifled through them, his mouth working furiously.

  After a while, he looked up, with a practised and charming smile. The policewoman did not return his smile but spoke briskly, shaking her head as she did. Marianne could see her mouth the words, ‘I’m sorry,’ but she didn’t look sorry.

  A cheer from the Get-Well-Sooners in the garden. Marianne craned her neck. ‘What’s going on?’ she called down.

  More cheering. They couldn’t hear her. She looked at Patrick. ‘Can you make out what’s happening?’

  ‘I’ll go and check,’ he said, moving along the ridge towards the skylight.

  ‘Be careful,’ Marianne said, tightening her grip on the chimney.

  Patrick nodded. ‘I’ll be back.’

  It was maybe the most comforting thing in the world, Marianne thought. To know that he would be back.

  To know that he had her back.

  And she had his.

  They were family, after all.

  ‘Is it yourself, Marianne Cross?’ A roar from below. She swiped the balloons out of her way and peered down. Oh good Christ, it was Hugh, towering over the crowd, which seemed to part for him.

  ‘I hardly recognised you without your hat,’ he shouted.

  She rolled her eyes like Shirley. ‘Funny,’ she said. ‘What’s going on down there?’

  Hugh shrugged. ‘The landlord can’t find the lease agreement.’

  ‘That’s because there isn’t one.’

  ‘Aye, I know,’ said Hugh, with his huge grin.

  ‘Does that mean Shirley can stay?’

  ‘For the moment, I think, yes.’

  ‘For the moment?’

  ‘Yes. For the moment.’

  Marianne whooped. A loud whoop that attracted even more attention. In the street, people were pointing and staring.

  She didn’t care. She raised the placard high and whooped instead.

  For the moment. That wasn’t bad. It was actually pretty all right. In Rita’s world, that was all anyone ever had. The moment. The one happening right now.

  The placard slipped out of her grip and fell off the roof. Hugh caught it in his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she shouted at him.

  ‘I’ve to go back. There’s more blue rinsing to be done at the nursing home,’ he said. ‘Will you be all right?’

  Marianne nodded. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She was pretty sure she would.

  She watched him hug all the Get-Well-Sooners and Patrick and even Aunt Pearl. She watched as he walked out of the garden, headed up the road towards his car, his thick, red hair streaming behind him like a mane.

  She took an almighty breath and shouted, as loud as she could, ‘Hugh.’

  He stopped and turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you still want to go on a date?’ she roared.

  ‘With you?’ he shouted.

  ‘Eh, yes.’

  ‘Okay,’ he roared back.

  ‘Just okay?’ yelled Marianne.

  ‘Better than okay,’ he said. He smiled at her before he got into his car.

  From below, the Get-Well-Sooners cheered and, from the rooftop, Marianne joined in.

  The landlord and his hired goons returned to the Range Rover and roared off in it. The policewomen asked Marianne if she needed assistance getting down and she told them no. She felt they’d done enough. They waved at her and left. The crowd, bored now, dispersed and the Get-Well-Sooners formed an orderly line across the garden and peered up at Marianne.

  Bartholomew and Freddy were holding hands.

  ‘Are you coming down from there?’ asked Shirley.

  ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ said Patrick, moving towards the house.

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’ said Ethel, shivering in her thick wool coat.

  Marianne grinned. ‘It’s like Rita says,’ she said. ‘Nothing like the cold to make you feel alive.’

  And she did.

  Read on for a taste of Rita’s recipes, a Q&A with Ciara, and reading group questions.

  Rita’s Recipes

  Patrick’s Flourless Brownies with Orange and Cardamom

  It may not surprise you to know that I was a reluctant student but every Saturday after my arrival at Ancaire, Rita insisted on teaching me how to bake. She said there wasn’t a problem in the world that couldn’t be eased by stirring a pot of melting chocolate and
butter. Turns out she was right.

  Ingredients

  250g dark chocolate (at least 70% cacao)

  250g butter

  50g cocoa powder

  2tsp orange essence

  200g caster sugar

  3 large free-range eggs, beaten

  120g ground almonds

  8–10 cardamom pods, seeds removed and crushed in a pestle and mortar

  Method

  Preheat the oven to 160°C.

  Use a butter paper to grease an 8” by 8” square tin. Then, line it with parchment paper.

  Melt the chocolate and butter in a heavy-bottomed saucepan slowly.

  Remove from the heat and mix in the orange essence, sugar and cardamom.

  Leave to cool, then add the eggs and ground almonds.

  Transfer the mix to the prepared tin and bake in the oven for 30–35 minutes.

  Allow to cool completely before dividing into squares.

  Aunt Pearl’s Spicy Roast Butternut Squash Soup

  Just because I do not cook does not mean I cannot. Follow these instructions to the letter.

  Ingredients

  1 butternut squash (do not discard the seeds)

  2 leeks

  2 carrots

  2 sticks of celery

  2tbsp butter

  1 red chilli

  1 clove of garlic

  1tsp cumin

  3tbsp of good quality olive oil

  1l hot chicken stock

  To garnish:

  Crème fraîche

  Roasted squash seeds

  Chopped flat-leaf parsley

  Method

  Firstly, prepare your mise en place and if I have to explain what that is, may I suggest you remove yourself from the kitchen before you do yourself an injury.

  Preheat your oven to 200°C.

  Wash, peel, and remove the pith and seeds from the butternut squash, place on a roasting dish with the olive oil, cumin and sea salt, ensuring that each chunk gets a good coating. Roast in the oven for exactly 25 minutes.

  Meanwhile chop the celery, carrots, and leeks, mirepoix style.

  Heat a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan and add the remaining tbsp of olive oil and butter.

  Add the vegetables and sweat slowly, covering them with parchment paper. Secure a lid on the pot. Leave for precisely 30 minutes.