Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4)

by Gerald Hansen

  “It needs putting in!” someone called out. Bridie couldn't see who, it was someone behind her next to the fireplace.

  “Now, Bridie,” Mrs. Mulholland said, “By way of explanation, I rang a few of me friends, told em what ye said, and invited em over. We just want to ensure ye really have the necessary what-have-you to appear before the church. We don't want people to think we're daft eejits. We've the reputation of the parish to consider, the good name of the Moorside and St. Fintan's. I know I already put ye through the ringer, but we've a few more questions to put before ye. Do ye mind?”

  “Naw, auntie, I don't mind. And youse don't scare me,” Bridie said, and now there was an edge to her voice. “I've seen the Virgin Mary, and none of yer questions can make me say I didn't!”

  She looked defiantly all around her. The little girl's lower lip was trembling. Mrs. Dinh put her hands over the girl's ears, her great granddaughter, or second niece, or whoever she was.

  “Perhaps ye should remove that wane,” Mrs. Mulholland suggested. “We don't know what might be said in her presence here.”

  The little girl was removed, told to go to the back garden and play, there was a rocking horse next to the rhubarb patch. There was a pause as the girl fled the room and some commotion as seating arrangements were reorganized, what with the extra seat opening up, and finally all eyes were back to peering at Bridie with distaste and mistrust.

  “Ye understand the sensitivity of the issue, don't ye?” Mrs. Mulholland asked. “We none of us wants to be the laughing stock of dioceses around the world. It's happened before, ye know. Ones desperate for their parishes to be known world wide, and there always some hoax, and always the Blessed Virgin appearing in a field to a group of children, and then it goes all the way up to the Vatican, and finally the Pope declares it was a hoax all along, what do they call it again, Magella? When a Marian apparition is thought by the Pope to be a fake?”

  “Constat de non supernaturalitate!” It was intoned, not said. Some looked at Mrs. Leech with new-found respect.

  “Aye, that. We none of us want none of that.”

  And here Bridie felt the weight of their years and their experience and the march of history and the stories that had gone before—they had been around all of them when mass was said in Latin!—and she understood now, realized the importance of getting the congregation before her on her side, getting them to believe her.

  “Pareidoila!!” barked out Mrs. Stokes suddenly, slamming her plate on a table. The biscuit on the plate and the figurines on the table jumped. Rows of dentures clacked in alarm. Alarmed, all heads turned to her. As quickly as the necks would allow. There was an awkward silence. Had she only said this odd word to one-up Mrs. Leech?

  Bridie cleared her throat. “Does that be an example of speaking in tongues?” she wanted to know.

  “Naw, it's English, ye silly cow! It means seeing faces where there is none! It's a well known psychological trait. People have been doing it for centuries, it's a basic common need, the struggle, the need to find a likeness in everything the eye sees. Like the man in the moon, or a loved one in a cloud. Or ,” here she paused, “the Blessed Virgin in the lard of a chip frying vat!”

  Now Mrs. Dinh took up the thread, “Have ye any clue how many supposed sightings of the Virgin Mary there have been, wee girl? Let's count em off, shall we?”

  “There was the pretzel,”

  “The cheese sandwich,”

  “The lump of melted chocolate,

  “The dental X-ray—”

  “I think ye'll find, love, the X-ray was Her Blessed Son, not Mary Herself.”

  “Are ye sure?”

  “I know about these matters.”

  They plowed on, “The piece of firewood,”

  “The second floor window of the hospital,”

  “The shadow in the laundrette,”

  “The caviar, holding the baby Jesus and all.”

  “That caviar was not a sighting. It was in a gallery. It was meant to be, someone made it as...art. Russian art.”

  Their flashing eyes said all knew what this meant. Blasphemy! Sinful Communist heathens!

  Mrs. O'Bryan said, “The point being, wee girl, ye claiming to have seen the Blessed Virgin in the chip fry vat of the Kebabalicious be's nothing special that the Church hasn't heard before. Skeptical, them priest and bishops and archbishops is gonny be. Just like am are.”

  “Aye, and me.”

  “And me.”

  “And me and all.”

  “Just like we all are.”

  They were all bobbing their heads in unison, eyes flinty and glinting, and daring her to contradict.

  “It's yer job to convince us,” Mrs. Mulholland said kindly.

  “And that the Holy Mother changed yer life for the better somehow,” Mrs. O'Bryan put in.

  Bridie thought as she sat there on the chair. Her bum was terribly sweaty.

  “Showing ye the photo I took won't change yer mind. The only thing I can tell youse is the change she did to me life. Like black and white, night and day, it be's. I've changed. I'm sure me auntie told youse all about me cold sores disappearing, and me gluttony and all. Sure, I had a cucumber sandwich before I came here. And me...me...lust. That be's gone and all.”

  One woman asked, “Speaking of the speaking of tongues, have ye been speaking any? Tongues, I mean.”

  Bridie shook her head.

  “Ye must answer out loud,” Mrs. Mulholland said. As if it were one of those police interrogations!

  “Naw,” Bridie said.

  “Has She given ye instructions?” another woman asked.

  “To live me life in a clean way. Christian. No gluttony, no lust, like.”

  “Naw, specific instructions, we're talking.” Mrs. Dinh said.

  “And,” Mrs. Stokes went on, “She woulda given ye some special secrets and all. She always does to them what She appears before. Signs that She's gonny place on the earth for all to know of Her goodness. And the goodness of the rest of Her family and all.”

  “Naw, She give me none of that. I don't know what youse want me to say. To lie be's a sin, and it seems like youse're urging me to break one of the Ten Holy Commandments to satisfy youse.”

  “Why would we believe ye? Take a look at the state of ye!” someone behind her said. “I can see yer hair's all pinned up like a librarian and all, but look at the rest of ye!”

  “Aye, them boots!”

  “That rock t-shirt!”

  “The shade of yer lipstick! Like a right wee Jezebel, ye look.”

  “And if ye're expecting us to think She's cured ye of yer gluttony...!”

  “How can we be expected to take ye seriously?”

  They were all leaning forward as much as they could without toppling over. Biscuits, tea, rosary beads and prayer books were all forgotten. They wanted to hear her answer.

  Bridie took a deep breath. “I'm sure,” she said quietly, “you've all heard of Mary Magdalene...?”

  There were snorts and nudges and looks of scorn. Mrs. Leech's voice rang out again and all watched her breathlessly as she trembled with righteousness: “Aye, yer woman Mary Magdalene's always being trundled out as an example, and always by people the likes of ye, girls with loose morals and low self esteem, tarts and slappers and I don't know what, to put yer minds at ease about being a tart and always thinking ye'll be allowed to approach the Pearly Gates with a shameless skirt up to yer navel and a pierced I shudder to think what and sail past St. Peter with a wink and a nod and be taken up into the Lord's open arms anyroad. I've something to let ye in on, girl. It be's false advertising, so it is. And ye'll find with these committees ye'll be sat before today, there's none of that going on nowadays. In the Lord's time maybe, aye, though I've me own doubts. I'm of the mind there was some wee typo when the monks was copying the Bible during them Dark Ages. That's what they did back in them days, ye know.”

  “I do know that, aye,” Bridie said stiffly. “I saw it on a history program that was
half religion. I do watch em, ye know.”

  “I'm of the mind Mary Magdalene was a prosecutor, or a projectionist, a proctologist, or some job what began with a P an R and an O, as they didn't have them exact jobs back then, and whatever this job was, the what-have-you, it was written down and turned into 'prostitute' by mistake. They made their copies of the Bible with candlelight back then, and maybe one of them monks had one foot in the grave and bad eyesight to boot, or maybe his writing was difficult to read, and his version was the one chosen by the next monk a hundred years on to copy from, and so on. So, no, I don't believe Mary Magdalene was a prostitute. And I think ye need to have had a straight moral outlook, a life of chastity, temperance, piety, and all that, for us to believe that the Virgin Mary would choose to appear to you. Don't youse agree, girls?”

  There were cheers and chants and the banging of teacups upon tables. Bridie saw Jesus with his Bleeding Heart staring down at her above the sofa. Mary was still looking over his shoulder in the corner. She dropped her head.

  “And if we don't believe ye, what makes ye think the holy men of the church will believe ye?” Mrs. Leech demanded to know.

  Bridie's head was hung in shame.

  “But...I know what I saw,” she said, her voice shuddering as the tears began to flow. And that's all she said. They waited for five minutes or more, but the girl said no more.

  Mrs. Mulholland prized herself from the sofa and placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. She rubbed it for a minute, then said softly to her, “Go on and step into the hall for a wee moment, Bridie, while we have a natter over it. And then we'll have it up for a vote. I've cut up some squares of paper, it's a secret ballot, ye see, and everyone will mark down an X if they think I shouldn't take ye to the Bishop, and a cross if they think I should. We've got to count up the votes, and then we'll call ye back in once wer decision is known. It might take us some while. Have ye a good book or something with ye to pass the time?”

  “I have, aye,” Bridie said, rising from the chair. She rattled her handbag to let them know the book was there. The cider sloshed, and she felt shame arise anew. Perhaps they were right.

  “The Good Book?” Mrs. Leech wanted to know.

  “Naw.”

  “I thought not.” She sniffed. That was one vote not going Bridie's way.

  “Lotto Balls of Shame,” Bridie said.

  Her choice of free time reading seemed telling to some and, especially with the 'balls' in the title, highly suspect to many more.

  Sitting on the bottom stair in her auntie's hallway, Bridie had read a chapter of Moira Flood's book, delved into her handbag and finished the bottle for cider, then there was a ping! from her phone. It was a text from Ailish. Sorry u woznt invited 2 Dimpnas wedding tried to speak 2 her, but she wont c sense dont think will be good anyway 2 many Orange bastards will b there u lucked out spent small fortune on frock and not even a hen do! cheap bitch! xoxoxoooo

  The first half of the bottle of cider had long since stopped working its magic, but now the second half was kicking in. Her head was banging. How much longer would the conclave of churchgoers spend voting? It was already half six! If they voted yes, she and her aunt would have to hustle to make it to the cathedral. Maybe Auntie Bernadette would splurge on a mini-cab to take them there. Both their legs weren't good at walking.

  Bridie ran a finger down the side of the peeling wallpaper, the yellow and orange flowers making her head spin even more. And then she stifled a shriek. Her finger jumped from the wall. The yellow and orange flowers seemed to be...moving! It was that...that...paridoily, or whatever the old woman had called it. The small colored bits in the middle of the flowers, she didn't remember what they were called, but two of them were looking at her like eyes, and the stems formed themselves into a shawl around the eyes. There! A mouth! And there! A nose!

  Bridie whimpered with fear even as the glory and marvel filled her once again. It was the Virgin Mary! Again! And this time her mouth was moving and she was saying words to her! Giving her instructions! Now her ears were special as well! She listened. And listened. And nodded her head.

  “Aye, surely,” she breathed. “Aye, surely I'll do it for Ye!”

  And she was enveloped with an excitement that overwhelmed what she had felt a few days before at the Kebabalicious.

  “Ye can come in now, love!” Bridie barely heard her aunt say. It seemed like she was calling her from another galaxy, another time and place.

  Bridie got up and staggered towards the now-opened door with a sense of adventure. No matter the outcome of their vote, she knew now the new instructions straight from Heaven would get them on her side, all of them, her auntie, Mrs. Dinh, even Mrs. Stokes, Mrs. Leech and Mrs. O'Bryant. Even that wee girl they had sent into the back garden. This time she knew exactly what to tell them. They would have to vote again. And this time it would be a unanimous Aye.

  CHAPTER 30

  Fionnuala's hands were pressed against Dymphna's eyes as she led her daughter into the scullery. The children were all lined up in front of the cooker for the unveiling. Keanu and Beeyonsay were scrabbling about on the sticky linoleum like rats scavenging for crumbs of scraps. The ham hocks were boiling still (they could boil anywhere from two to four hours), and were now joined by one saucepan of baked beans, simmering, and another bubbling and spitting vindaloo curry.

  Fionnuala had sent the three children to the corner shop—again!—with the change from the previous purchase to get tins of beer for Lorcan and their daddy, the big fat Australian ones, she had specified, and a packet of extra spicy vindaloo sauce mix. To quench the kids' babbling protests, she had told them they could buy a packet of Wine Gums and share it between the three of them, but they had to save the red and black ones for her, and she knew how many came in a roll so they better give her all there was.

  She had refined her plan. She didn't trust mere salt, however much she spooned on Lorcan's ham hock, to mask the toxins in the Aquanet, the ether whatever and the sodium what have you and the citrate what not, whichever daft names, too many letters to be remembered or pronounced correctly, or even at all, they had given the chemicals. Fionnuala knew from her many visits to the Indian takeaway around the corner that vindaloo was strong enough to cover up the taste of goat and lamb, so it would certainly cover up the active ingredients of hairspray in Lorcan's serving, especially if she also plied him with alcohol. And she knew her son loved nothing better than a spicy vindaloo after a night's drinking.

  “Ooooh, Mammy! I kyanny wait!” Dymphna managed through breathless gulps, and, indeed, Fionnuala could feel the girl trembling with excitement under her, the jerky rise and fall of her shoulder blades as she and Dymphna took step after step, mother and daughter together as one, towards the cupboard handle where the wedding gown, on a mangled wire coat hanger, hung in all its glory. The Vera Wang-Fionnuala Flood collaboration. It seemed, even, from a wetness Fionnuala suddenly felt gathering on her palms, that Dymphna's eyes were squeezing out tiny tears. Tiny tears of joy. Fionnuala couldn't know that, yes, it was half the excitement of seeing the gown causing these bodily upheavals and tears, and half the stench of the curry—which Dymphna couldn't stand—making her daughter fight the urge to retch.

  Siofra squirmed with delight as she watched them move closer, her little hand clamped atop her mouth to quell the giggles of merriment that threatened to spill out. Beside her, little Seamus clapped and drooled. Padraig was playing a game on his phone, and Lorcan stood clutching a can of beer in his hand and looking at his fingernails. Maureen was sitting at the table, cane at her side, barely able to look on as, hand to her heart, she waited, breathless, and braced herself for the shrieks of horror she was sure would erupt from Dymphna's mouth once Fionnuala's fingers were removed. There were so many violations of taste in the hideous creation, so many fashion sins, that Maureen was sure the poor girl's heart would be broken, the mother-in-law furious, and the wedding put on hold. All down to Fionnuala's 'creativity' at the sewing machine. And what was t
his freakish meal Fionnuala was planning on dishing them out after the 'unveiling'? Beans on toast with ham hock vindaloo? She feared her daughter was finally losing her grip on reality. She had long suspected this day might come.

  Maureen stuck out her cane to guide the little infant girl away from an inedible-looking something on the linoleum. She would have bent down to pick one or the other of them up and out of harm's way, but she would have to configure her bones in so many different and awkward positions, and it would take so long and be so painful, and they both looked like their nappies were jammed full, ready to burst, that she focused on Fionnuala and Dymphna instead.

  Siofra clapped and giggled girlishly as they stood directly in front of the gown. “Show it to her, Mammy!”

  There was an excited pause. Then,

  “Ta dah!” Fionnuala said, like a magician. She removed her hands.

  There was only the sound of bubbling from the cooker.

  And then Dymphna's shriek filled the scullery.

  Her shriek of unbridled joy.

  “Mammy!!! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! It's bloody effin marvelous! Flimmin, flippin brilliant!” Real tears, emotional ones, coursed down her face as she snatched the gown off the hanger and clutched it to her alpine breasts, buried her head in the chiffon sleekness, the glassy sheen of the beads, the sparkly mounds of hearts and crosses and bows. She held the gown up, her discomfort at the stench of the curry fleeing from her senses as they were enveloped by the beauty before her, her eyes shooting over every inch of its marvelousness, the bodice, the jingly arms, the jangly hem, drinking in the magic of it, as Padraig and Lorcan wandered out of the kitchen, disappointed, Siofra jumped up and down with squeals of glee that matched Dymphna's own, Maureen stared, stunned, and Keanu and Beeyonsay burst into tears.

  Dymphna turned the gown this way and that, discovering hidden delights with each inch her eyes feasted upon. “Och, the buckle be's amazing, Mammy! The perfect classy touch! Nobody will be able to detect me new wane slumbering behind it, like! And them wee galaxies of stars ye have here and here. And ye see how them crosses there on the back are shaped into a D? And them bows in the private area like an R? For Dymphna and Rory! Och, Mammy, how can I thank ye?! Sure, it's impossible, so it is. I kyanny thank ye enough! All that hard work ye put into it. For me!”