No Filter

by Orlagh Collins

‘Who?’ he says, grumpy I’ve ignored whatever he’s just said.

  ‘Emerald.’

  ‘Hello Kitty from Friday night?’ he shouts out.

  A couple of recently arrived mammies flash a glance in our direction. ‘Yeah,’ I whisper.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Whatcha mean how?’

  ‘I mean how are you proposing to find her again?’

  ‘Dunno. But would it be cool to bring her?’

  ‘Man, yer my best mate and I love you, but I’m gonna be straight with you here, ’cause I know you’d do the same for me. That broad’s not gonna come to one of our parties, even if you could find her.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘I just know, man,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘And you know it too.’

  I pull a mini baguette out of my backpack and start folding rogue skirts of ham back in.

  ‘I mean, did you even hear her?’ he adds.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask, suddenly standing, but I don’t need an answer. I know exactly what Kenny’s getting at. ‘I asked if I could see her again and she said yes. Well, she said maybe, but –’

  Kenny shoves my shoulder, almost setting me off balance. ‘Maybe?’ He says, sighing. ‘So let me get this straight. She said maybe and you’ve no idea who she is or where she lives?’

  ‘I do know,’ I blurt out but he’s looking at me now like I’ve lost it. ‘She’s staying at her grandma’s place, I think. And it’s just …’ I’m waving my arm behind me now for no logical reason. ‘Back from the beach. That was what she said, wasn’t it?’ I’m not sure what more to say, so I take a bite of my sandwich and watch some kid, not much older than Evie, begging his ma to kick back his ball. She doesn’t look up from her phone.

  ‘There are a thousand houses back up from that beach, pal. Best of luck with your door to door search, yeah,’ Kenny says, with one carrotty eyebrow raised to the sky, but in the briefest moment his scepticism turns to a look of genuine concern, which is disturbing. ‘But listen, if you ever do find her and she’ll give you the time of day,’ he says slowly, ‘sure, bring her along.’ Then he looks in my bag, which is empty apart from a copybook and a bag of Hula Hoops. ‘Eh, where’s mine?’ He’s serious.

  ‘You’re assuming last week’s sambo is a catering contract now?’

  He stands, waving his non-fag holding hand in the air. ‘I’ll have you know, while you’re in your hutch buttering rolls, I’m in the showroom closing deals. I’m making the dough while you’re baking it.’ He leans in and starts pointing. ‘G’wan, give us a bite, will you?’ I break the end of my baguette and hand it to him. ‘Lavish is what you are, Flynn. I’ve always said it. Bell you later, yeah.’

  Facebook Mammy looks up from her phone and Stoner Da spins around from the see-saw to watch him go. All three of us keep watching as Kenny hops back into the car and drives off over the kerb like an off-roader. I guess you could call it charisma.

  I lie back horizontal, staring up at the enormous upside-down sky.

  How am I ever going to find her?

  EMERALD

  Falling off(line)

  Grandma announced this morning that she was having her hair done. With nothing better to do, and spotting the opportunity for a magazine binge, I decided to join her.

  To say I was unprepared for the silence that comes with going offline is an understatement. It’s deafening; like a constant, growing emptiness between me and the rest of the world that I can neither fill nor escape from. Like I wasn’t already cut off over here; now it’s as though I’ve fallen into a strange dimension, orbiting a whole new gravity-defying vortex of nothing. There have been moments where I genuinely don’t know what to do or how to feel. I keep having this sensation, like those sinking bumps before sleep, where I slip into a soft dark void of blackness before I’m jolted roughly back into the world. I can’t say this for sure, but I’d guess it’s up there with near-death experience. (Overdramatic? Me?)

  BUT, on the way home we stopped at a garage to get petrol. I sat in the car examining my split ends, half watching Grandma as she shuffled in to pay, when a small movement in the distance caught my eye. I looked up and there, just inside the shop doorway, stood Liam – he of the bluest eyes – pinning something to a noticeboard, chatting away to a woman with a buggy. I watched his head arch back as he laughed. Even through the glare of the window, I knew it was him.

  I watched him fixing a ridiculous white hat on top of his head and smiling at her warmly. In a stupid, daydreamy way I found myself pretending it was me he was smiling at, and I inhaled and exhaled, relishing the new space in my chest. Seconds later Grandma got into the car beside me and we pulled out of the forecourt. While Grandma bemoaned the increased price per gallon I found myself paying strangely close attention to the route she took home.

  Dad rang this morning. I lied and said I was fine. I had to. I didn’t say happy, even he wouldn’t believe that, but it’s one less thing for him to worry about. All the stress with Mum couldn’t have come at a worse time, but I guess you’ve just got to get on with things when you’re married. My parents move around each other like magnets; the ones with the same charge that is. No matter how much you try and push them together they repel each other and can never actually touch.

  It wasn’t always like this. When I was little, Mum waltzed everywhere. She was fun, if slightly hysterical. She’d chat up strangers: workmen who called to the house, or the waitress in a restaurant who brought our drinks. Everyone fell in love with her. Sometimes we’d dance around their bedroom listening to Fleetwood Mac, Amy Winehouse, Everything But The Girl; all that tragic sing-along-to stuff. Tidying up the CDs was my job. I’d fall on to the bed after her and lace her thick, strawberry-blonde hair around my fingers as she slept.

  She was always unpredictable, a bit like a teenager maybe, but there hasn’t been dancing or door slamming in our house in a long time. I guess all those pills have blunted her performance.

  A box of books arrived from Amazon, along with a dongle thing for my laptop. Magda sent them. Obviously, Dad asked her to. At first I thought he might be trying to justify my exile by painting it as one long reading list opportunity, but this theory was out the window once I looked inside. These are definitely not Dad’s book choices. Still, it was sweet, even if I’ve already read half of them. So now I’m on the couch rereading The Fault in our Stars and Grandma is watching the news. Grandma doesn’t have Sky, like that’s even a surprise. Besides, I’m not interested in TV tonight. I’ve got a plan.

  ‘I’m thinking about looking for a babysitting job?’ I announce my half-formed idea.

  Grandma stops flicking through the channels and twists in her chair to face me. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘To … earn money?’ It seems like a reasonable answer to me. It may not be the real answer of course, but it’s a convincing one I reckon.

  ‘Your dad will look after what you need. And if there’s something in particular you’re after –’

  ‘And it’d be a good way to meet people?’ This bit is actually true.

  ‘Your father would never approve,’ she says.

  ‘Why not? It’s entrepreneurial; that would impress him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Besides, there are thousands of teenagers around here. I can’t imagine anyone is struggling to find a babysitter.’

  Her answers are so frustrating. I don’t understand why she’s so down on the idea. I think about getting up and leaving the room but instead I sit there, seething silently. ‘I’m the only teenager around here with nothing better to do on a Saturday night. That’s got to be a marketable benefit?’

  Unfortunately this comes out a little petulant. Grandma turns up the volume on the news like she’s actually really keen to hear something about falling dairy prices. OK, I get the hint! I pretend to read my book for a while before disappearing up to my room.

  Well, even if Grandma’s not behind it, I’ve decided to press on with my venture. I know Da
d would be cool with it. Besides, I need something to stop myself sliding into an abyss of melodrama and self-pity. I finish cutting out another card from the lid of an old green shoebox and I add it to the pile of little flower cards I made earlier. The Metro place, where Liam works, will be my first drop obviously, but I’ve spied a couple of other shops around here, and I’m nothing if not thorough. I set off to ask Grandma for the home number.

  I only get as far as the landing before I hear her. She’s whispering on the phone, to Dad! I slink down the first flight of stairs to listen.

  ‘She’s got it into her head she wants a job … babysitting,’ she says. ‘I told her you wouldn’t like it …’

  Arghhh! Why is she doing that? I get that she doesn’t want to upset Dad in case the cold war starts over, but I am seventeen in September. I am not a child. I watch her fan out her fringe in the mirror, and consider going down and interrupting them.

  ‘She’d like to meet people.’ She says this suddenly and I notice the tremor in her voice.

  Hang on! Is Grandma trying to persuade Dad?

  ‘It’s not much fun for her being at home with me all the time.’ This bit’s a whisper but I hear it clearly.

  So she is on my side. Dad is clearly in his irritating overprotective mode and I’ve got this the wrong way round.

  ‘Well, think about it, please,’ she adds.

  I listen to her hang up and go back inside. I pretend I didn’t hear a thing and breeze back into the living room, armed and determined. ‘Can I use the home number? I’ve made some small ad cards but my English number might put people off. What d’you think?’

  ‘Could I see them, Emerald?’

  ‘Here!’ I hand her my sample. ‘Flower shape too girly? I could make tweaks?’

  Babysitter available any time

  – Responsible student –

  Please call Emerald on 8560989

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she says, in a drifty sort of way. ‘Why don’t you put up a few and we’ll see what your dad says? I can’t see the harm.’

  I can’t work out what’s going on between Dad and Grandma, but this is definitely progress and I’m taking it.

  LIAM

  Twenty seconds of insane courage

  I’ve worked two extra shifts already this week so it’s as though I’ve hardly left the place. From my deli counter I can see over the whole shop, out beyond the forecourt and on to the main road. There’s nothing much to see right now though. The rain is coming in sideways under the Metro canopy and a poor aul fella is getting himself soaked filling up outside. Some young wan has forgotten her PIN number paying for fags and she’s getting shirty with Lorcan at the till. There’s little trace of grace today. The good news is I managed to wangle Saturday night off so I’m free to go on the lash at Fiona’s party.

  I took Evie for a stroll on the beach when I finished work yesterday and hung around the shelters with her until gone teatime. Course, I could lie and say something about how my baby sister loves to paddle, but I had this now embarrassing optimism that Emerald might turn up, like she had that Friday night. It’s daft I know, but I can’t seem to accept she could just disappear.

  Lorcan is legging around with his clipboard now, ticking off deliveries. I’m thinking about making myself another espresso when I clock him heading towards me. I start shuffling the paper baguette packets.

  ‘Howyra?’ I’m doing a Kenny here. It’s not a question.

  ‘How’s your station there, Liam?’

  ‘Er, grand, I think.’

  ‘Are you up to speed on the rota?’

  ‘Everything’s clean and I’ve loaded up all the sandwich filler tubs that were running low.’ I study him for a minute. ‘That is what you meant?’ I ask. I hate sounding thick but I don’t understand Lorcan’s jabber half the time.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, leaning in to the counter on his elbow, ‘I’ve got the Area Franchise Manager coming in after lunch and Seamus didn’t show up to work today. I’m a man down.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I hope this didn’t sound as smart-arsed as it did in my head.

  ‘You couldn’t do us a favour and help to unpack some of these?’ he says, motioning with his thumb to a row of trollies laden with half soaked deliveries piled up inside the doorway. ‘Now I know you haven’t had the training for that module yet but I’d really appreciate it if you could … muck in?’ He does something funny with his hands as he says this.

  Quickly contemplating what training could possibly be required for unpacking cartons of biscuits, I open my little gate and I roam on to the shop floor, feeling all free-range. ‘I’m on it,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll need this,’ he says, handing me a little Stanley blade and pointing to a cardboard tower of chocolate fingers by the confectionery aisle. I crouch down and start. I reach in and pull all the dusty boxes from the back of the aisle first and put them at the front, the way Mam does with the new milks in the fridge. It doesn’t take long before I’m through them all and on to the Hobnobs. I’ve got a nice little rhythm going when Lorcan swoops back in.

  ‘Hold it! You’ll have to do it all again,’ he says, rifling through the cream crackers I’ve just stacked. ‘I forgot to tell you about the date rotation!’

  ‘It’s cool, man.’

  ‘Liam!’ he practically shouts, ‘the Area Franchise Manager isn’t coming in for a casual chat, you know. We could be on the line here. All of us!’ I notice the pearly beads of perspiration dotted along his hairline.

  ‘I moved all the shortest dates to the front. If that’s what you mean?’

  He stops and mops his brow. ‘You did?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘On all of them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He fixes his hawkish eyes on me and his thin, sweaty face tilts solemnly down. ‘You’re wasted behind that counter, Flynn. D’you know that? Wasted is what you are.’

  I think that was an actual compliment. Out of the corner of my eye I spot the aul fella from outside, leaning up against my coffee counter. I can see him properly now; I’ve served him a few times.

  ‘What can I get you?’ I ask, strolling back into my hutch, wishing I could remember his order. I love doing that; it makes people smile. I guess we all like to feel memorable. What’s more, I might have found one of my first real regulars. His scant wet hair is stuck to his shiny scalp and his eyes twinkle out from under their heavy, fleshy lids. But that’s not what’s mental about this guy; it’s his brows. They’re like whiskers: long, white, wiry whiskers keeping his eyes warm.

  ‘Cappuccino, please, with none of that chocolate dust, mind. And just a tea for myself,’ he says in a gravelly voice that’s much bigger than his tiny frame suggests.

  ‘Gotcha,’ I say, grinning back at him. I stand there, frothing the milk and watching as he counts out sachets of sugar from the silver container I packed to the brim earlier until four packets sit in a neat little stack on the counter beside his car keys. I hand over his drinks. ‘Sweet tooth?’

  ‘That’s herself,’ he says, handing over the exact change before placing cardboard rings around the cups and disappearing back into the shop floor.

  When I get back I find Lorcan has promoted me to the magazine section: piles and piles tied up with plastic cord. I scan the old copies coming out and the new editions going in. I swear it’s all the same; Cara’s turmoil! Kim’s meltdown! Some actress puts on weight! I hope Laura’s not reading this shite.

  A woman taps my shoulder. ‘Sorry, love. Where’s your noticeboard?’ she asks. I point to the shopping baskets by the door.

  ‘Ah here! I walked right past it,’ says the woman as her cheeks flush red. She gives a little laugh before vanishing off and I get back to reading about some star’s ‘surgery hell!’ This guff is properly mean.

  ‘’Scuse me.’ It’s yer woman, shouting over at me again. ‘I forgot to bring some of them tacks,’ she says, looking all flustered now. I walk over and scan the board, which is packed with little white ca
rds advertising everything from lost cats to mobile hairdressing and buggies for sale.

  Then I see it: Donal Flynn, general maintenance and DIY. No job too small!

  I hear the woman’s voice but her words are a blur. I’ve actually lost my tongue. Maybe I’ve swallowed it in the shock of seeing my da’s life’s work reduced to a tiny postcard on the small-ads noticeboard. I read the ad again and the blood rushes from my head to my feet and I wobble unsteadily. I notice only two of the ten little horizontal tags with his mobile number have been torn off. I look to where he’s cut carefully in between the number flaps and I picture his large, gnarled hands struggling with Mam’s good orange scissors. A wave of fury rises up through me and I drop the pile of Grazias. I want to kick them back out of the automatic doors and into the rain.

  ‘It’d be all right to nick a tic-tack yoke off this babysitting one, wouldn’t it?’ says the woman, holding a brass thumbtack high in the air. ‘It had three on it. Look!’ she says, flapping a flower-shaped notice in my face. I’m afraid I might scream something at her when I clock the card she’s holding. I grasp it from her hand and read:

  Please call Emerald on 8560989

  Emerald! I stare at the swirls of loopy handwriting. I’m fixed on the bends and curves of each lovely letter, my ears filling with the unmistakeable click-clacking roar of a heavy roller coaster carriage, groaning, chugging up its track, defying gravity to finally reach the highest point of the Malahide Mega Monster Ride. Suddenly I’m nine years old again, a hundred feet high in the air, surveying all of the Velvet Strand before me. My stomach is doing backflips. It’s real!

  I look up at yer woman. ‘It’s bloody real!’ I cry out, closing my eyes as my carriage whips off down the track at ninety miles per hour. I clutch the card tight to my chest and smile like Charlie Bucket with his golden ticket.

  ‘Lorcan, I’m going on me break!’ I shout, as I run off into the staffroom loos.

  I slam my arse against the door, shutting it behind me. My hands find my phone in the vast plains of my apron pocket. For a split second I doubt whether I can do it. I watched a movie once and this guy was telling his son that twenty seconds of courage could change his life. This suddenly feels unbelievably relevant and I’m digging deep, mining my guts for the mettle this moment requires.